In response to Walrus’s rhetorical question, the bus’s massive windscreen began spitting glass fragments. Bullets tore into the coach. Many slapped into the upholstered ceiling and bulkhead separating the driver from his passengers. Thwap-thwap-thwap.
Gary hit the floor instinctively, palms over his ears. World War Three had broken out. In bloody Devonport! The artillery assault continued for 15 seconds then suddenly ended. Gary heard a sickening thud. He busted out an adrenalin-fuelled push-up. Is the driver hit? Sure, Walrus had acted like a prize prick. Must’ve been dealing with personal issues or maybe bipolar. But he hadn’t deserved to die in a hail of bullets.
The man’s head was slumped over the steering wheel, diamonds of glass covered his beanie, neck and back. Killed on the job. What a shit way to go.
Walrus groaned and shrugged, sending a shower of glass fragments to the floor. A slow lift of the head. Eyelids stretched wide, mouth a rictus of confusion. Not dead, but mentally buggered for life.
Gary glanced up. There was an empty space at the top of the bus where the windscreen meets the ceiling. Below that, acres of crazed glass. The weapons had been aimed at the top of the windscreen, not the driver. A warning, thank God. He patted Walrus on the shoulder. ‘I’d help you clean up the mess, mate, but I’ve got a ride waiting. You should’ve let me get my bags and none of this shit would’ve happened, hey?’
‘Ungh…’ The driver burst into tears and banged his brow on the steering wheel in a steady rhythm.
Gary slapped the button that opened the door. ‘Get out and let us into the luggage compartment. I’m over playing games. And so are my mates outside. Got it?’
The blue-faced brutes grabbed Gary by the shoulders as he alighted on wonky feet. The driver followed meekly, keys shaking in his gloved hand. He unlocked the luggage compartment, raised its flap and took two steps back. The two escorts flung suitcases onto the footpath with such ease they could’ve been empty; Gary pointed to two big red cases somewhere in the middle of the pack.
‘Let’s go, bro’,’ the smaller of the two men commanded in a strong Kiwi accent. ‘Gotta get youse two outta here fast. We made a ton of noise. Wouldn’t have gone unnoticed.’
Sirens wailed in the distance, drowning out the hysterical Walrus’s sobs.
The bigger man pushed Gary’s head down in the manner of a cop wrangling an arrested villain into a divvy van.
Tracey wore an expression of beastly carelessness as Gary climbed into the back seat of the car.
‘Shit, Tracey. I can’t believe how relaxed you are? Didn’t you see what happened? With all those bullets flying around, I thought it was the Port Arthur massacre all over again. So many loonies in the world these days. Getting hard for normal people like me to live a peaceful life.’
‘Hey, don’t stress, Dylan. I’m gonna call you that from now on, no exceptions. Okay? Gary’s gone. Dead and forgotten. Anyway, what’s a bit of target practice on Commonwealth land? I’ve seen much worse in Kings Cross. Two dead men in your hotel room for instance.’
Newly hatched Dylan Wagner buckled himself in. Yep, time to put Gary into the archives, let him rest there for ever and ever, amen. ‘I guess you’re right. This is a walk in the park by compar—’
The vehicle spun in a vicious 180 degree arc and squealed out of the car park at a speed far above the stipulated 15 kph.
Chapter 3
Big Kyle made the bitumen sizzle en route to Hobart, flashing past other vehicles like they were stuck in reverse. They headed south from Devonport on the Bass Highway, zooming past picturesque hamlets and townships, isolated weatherboard farmhouses spewing smoke from red brick chimneys and tin flues. A small herd of stationary, multicoloured cows caught the corner of Gary’s eye. He nudged Tracey with an elbow. ‘Did ya clock those hippy cows? Or am I hallucinating?’
‘They’re statues. Painted in psychedelic designs for tourists.’
‘How the hell do you know that?’
‘I Googled it, researching Tassie on the ferry.’
‘Smart arse.’
They took a right turn for the Midland Highway at the nondescript township of Perth. Kyle put on the afterburners and the Commodore smoked rubber. The SUV tore up the 180-kilometre arterial road that connects Launceston with the island’s and Australia’s second-oldest capital city, Hobart. One-horse villages and isolated ye-olde-worlde inns whizzed by. A monolithic mountain loomed over farmland, tilled soil dark and fecund, fields ready to harvest. Flowering potato plants, tomatoes, lettuce and who knew what other crops crowded the rows. The island state had enough primary industry pumping to feed half the nation. Here and there unmanned fruit and veggie stalls beckoned customers, who paid their money into buckets. An honour system. Gary wondered how many dishonourable arseholes helped themselves to the goodies without paying. He’d never do that.
Unless he was skint.
Which he never would be again. No way.
Occasionally the double carriageway narrowed to a single until a passing lane presented the opportunity to overtake. Kyle took every one of those opportunities, zooming past crawling log trucks, rental cars driven by white-knuckled tourists, and dawdling Winnebagos. Get out of the way: Gary had a new life to organise.
He could make out sheep in faraway fields. Hundreds of them, maybe a thousand. ‘It’s a good thing those sheep’ve got plenty of wool on ‘em,’ Gary said to Tracey, pointing out the mass of fluffy white pillows against the green hills. ‘They’d be buggered otherwise in this miserable cold.’
Tracey sniffed and gave an empty grin; clearly bored shitless, didn’t give a toss about the sheep. She popped her earbuds back in, bobbed her head in time to whatever she was listening to on her iPhone. They’d both acquired the latest mobiles with the stolen cash – plus iPads, laptops, digital cameras, even electric toothbrushes. Life was looking up for Gary-turned-Dylan. This road trip wasn’t a barrel of laughs, but it beat a long bus ride with whacko Walrus.
Fed up with the scenery, Gary pulled the new 5G mobile out of his designer carry-on bag, donned a pair of noise-cancelling headphones, and tuned into local FM radio. Not much doing. Lame stations with wall-to-wall synth pop. Whatever happened to guitars? Triple j’s signal barely registered, so he switched to his own collection of MP3s and blissed out to some Aussie hip hop. Soaking up Seth Sentry’s syntax in The Waitress Song, he examined the tattoo work on Kyle’s face. It was more intricate than his navigator partner’s. Almost feminine in its exquisite execution. Delicate lines and patterns weaved in a design of Celtic knots and swirls spread across both cheeks, neck and forehead. An odd choice, because the heavy’s rounded features looked more Maori than Scottish.
The smaller escort was called Jerome. Like Kyle, his New Zealand accent was thick as treacle, however his face – what you could make out under the broad black strokes of tribal artwork – hinted at European origins. Unlike Kyle, he spoke in tones indicating a half-decent education, perhaps he’d even finished high school. Eloquent Jerome could string more than four words together in a coherent sentence.
‘You guys orright in the beck?’ Jerome enquired. The Commodore dropped its speed to 60 kph on the approaches to a small settlement. The sign read Campbell Town.
‘If it ain’t warm enough I can crank up the heat. The wivver’s been freaky last cuppla weeks. None a them meteor, meaty… waddaya call them duckheads what predict the wivver, Kyle?’
‘Dunno. Wivver guys?’ Kyle proffered.
‘Whatever. None of them had a clue this cold snap was comin’. They reckon it’s gonna get real cold when winter arrives.’
‘It’s warm enough for me,’ said Tracey. ‘You okay, Dylan?’
‘In the car, yes. Not sure it’ll be so cosy when we get to Hobart.’
‘You’ll find out sooner than that, bro. We’re stoppin’ in Campbell Town for a hot drink and a sneck,’ said Jerome with a sadistic smirk. ‘Everyone has a smoko at Zep’s café. Tradition and that.’
‘I’ll wait in the car, if that
’s okay,’ said Gary. ‘Can one of you guys please bring me a black coffee and a muffin or something?’
‘Fuck off,’ jeered Jerome. ‘We’re not your slaves, mate. Our job’s to deliver you to an address. Period. You want a coffee, get out into the cold like the rest of us. Entitled prick.’
‘Zackly,’ grunted Kyle.
‘But our jackets and woollies are in the boot.’ Gary turned to Tracey and made a pleading face that said come on, back me up here.
‘Better do as they say, Dylan.’ She shrugged, gave a head tilt.
Yeah, thanks for the show of solidarity, Trace.
‘Listen to yer missus.’ Kyle growled. ‘Got a smart hid on her shoulders, that one.’
‘I guess it’s a chance to have a smoke,’ said Gary.
The four crowded around a small table inside the packed café, none ventured to make conversation. The Kiwi escorts gulped down espressos and munched meat pies. In between slurps and chews, Kyle eyed off a petite redhead in a breast-hugging sweater. Gary glanced furtively over the top of his mug as the woman’s busty charms cruised by at eyelevel. Jerome drained his coffee in a second and inhaled the pie, glanced at his mobile. ‘Time to go.’
‘But we’ve barely touched our food.’ Gary pointed at his half-eaten muffin.
‘Don’t care. We’ve sat here long enough.’
Kyle folded arms across his chest, nodded endorsement. ‘Yep. Let’s roll.’
‘But–’
‘Just leave it, Dylan,’ Tracey said. ‘We don’t want to upset our new friends.’
On the footpath, the band of travellers huddled together in a tight circle and puffed madly on cigarettes. Boots stomped out glowing butts, car doors clunked one after another and the entourage set forth on the last leg of its journey.
Gary and Tracey dozed fitfully over the remaining 130 kilometres to Hobart, rousing only when Kyle screeched into a driveway and braked. Gary’s head snapped forward. His eyes sprang open to see Kyle’s picket-fence smile in the rear vision mirror. Annoying tosser.
‘Righto, guys. We’re here. Grab your bags,’ Jerome announced.
‘You sure this is the right address?’ Gary nudged open the car door; moist cold air flooded the interior.
WTF! He was hoping for a luxury home in one of Hobart’s prestigious suburbs, not this vision of dilapidation. The house looked like a destitute old man clinging to a walking stick, about to totter over any minute. A standard weatherboard housing commission dump, flakes of dirty cream paint curling under the eaves, sagging window frames covered in grime. Smoke belched from a cracked, breeze block chimney. ‘I paid for the five-star resettlement package in Sandy Bay. A hundred kay upfront. This is a fucken tip.’
‘Nuffin’ to do wiv us, cock.’ Jerome licked the paper on a rollup cigarette. ‘We’re only the delivery blokes. Don’t striss, though. Glenorchy’s got a shit reputation, but it ain’t so bad. I live here meself.’
Why had he trusted those Lebanese crooks? Shit plastic surgery job. All that pain and he looked like a total Muppet. And now this accommodation fiasco. At least he had Tracey by his side. He rubbed the scar tissue where his earlobe used to be and shot her a frown of frustration.
Gary narrowed his already narrow eyes. ‘Take us to the city. We’ll check into a hotel.’
‘Nope. No detours or other destinations. Orders is orders. You get out here. After that, your call.’
‘C’mon, Dylan.’ Tracey shouldered her door open. ‘There’s nothing we can do about it. Let’s grab the suitcases, get inside out of the cold. We’ll have a look online, book a hotel till we can find a place to rent. Okay?’
‘Sure.’ Gary sighed and wrenched his suitcase out of the boot.
‘Good luck with that,’ said Jerome. ‘There’s fuck all to rent in this town. Housing crisis. Youse’ll probably have to stay at this joint for a month or two. Unless you can afford long-term hotel living. Hotels in Hobart are fucken dear, but.’ Gary sensed the bastard was enjoying every second of their discomfort.
‘Can we have the keys, then?’ Gary held out his hand.
‘Don’t have a set. Your new roomies will have keys for ya, I reckon.’ Jerome pointed to the front door. ‘There they are now.’
Gary gulped. A couple, possibly late-twenties. Torpid expressions teamed with tattered terry towelling gowns. Their feet disappeared into fluffy slippers with soles barely clinging on. She had a mass of straw-coloured hair matted down on one side by cheap product. Or bodily secretions. He was as bald as a Kia’s gear knob. Their skin was in desperate need of a dermatologist’s care. Even at fifteen metres, dank, cheesy odours emanated from their hunched bodies.
A snot-nosed, pigtailed child clutched a battered Barbie doll and clung to her mother’s gown. The three looked malnourished and sickly. Odds on: welfare-dependent, drug-dependent and co-dependent. The child howled like a banshee as the man of the house, who Gary guessed might be Dad, flashed a gummy smile. ‘Get your arses in here, folks. We’ve been waiting for yas.’
Bloody lovely.
Tracey shut the door and sat on the lumpy mattress beside Gary, stroked his hand and nuzzled her cheek into his, stubbly after 48 hours without shaving. He stared out the window into the mid-afternoon sky, grey and sombre following the sunny morning in Devonport. Birch leaves shimmered in the breeze. In the distance, a flock of starlings formed synchronised patterns as if part of one giant organism.
‘I’m not staying in this cesspit. Look at the bloody mould.’ He stood and stabbed a finger at a patina of black fungus creeping along the walls and ceiling. ‘Not fit for human habitation. And the state of that kitchen. Jesus. I used to think my foster parents were pigs, but compared to this…’ He lit a cigarette and drew deeply. ‘Only positive is these ferals allow smoking inside. Shouldn’t with a kid around, but hey. Different gene pool, isn’t it?’
‘I agree,’ said Tracey. ‘We’ll catch something disgusting in this place.’ Raised voices bounced off the walls in the hallway and leaked through the door frame. The child bawled, high-pitched. ‘Listen to that screaming brat. We gotta get outta here.’
‘Damn straight. Those so-called fixers of yours in Sydney turned out to be worse than useless. We’re checking into a hotel.’ Gary quickly scrolled up and down his phone. ‘Here’s a good one.’ Gary pointed at the screen of his mobile. ‘The Happy Traveller, Collins Street. Bang in the middle of town, pubs and restaurants nearby. Those Kiwis were right. It’s not cheap. But it’ll have to do for now.’ He flashed a smile of reassurance. ‘Right. I’m calling a cab.’
Chapter 4
The bar in the Happy Traveller was sterile and characterless, not entirely unexpected in a brand-new hotel. Being part of a chain didn’t present much scope for aesthetic originality. Teams at head office were probably instructed to dream up inoffensive décor for the group’s soulless Traveller hotels scattered across the globe. Boring as hell.
The bar doubled as an eatery serving yellow fried food and wilting salads. No wonder the joint was nearly empty.
‘Let’s get out of here.’ Gary skolled the remains of his pint of Cascade. ‘This place is depressing. I need to be around normal people.’ The beer had fired his enthusiasm. Seeds of positive thoughts poked through the quagmire in his brain but needed to be fertilized to sprout into useful ideas. That could only come with a decent session on the piss at a bar. A proper bar in an old-fashioned pub. He charged the drinks to the room as Tracey drained her chardonnay.
‘Excuse me, mate. Can you recommend a good watering hole?’ Gary asked the bartender.
‘What’s wrong with this one?’ The bloke sounded almost hurt. ‘We’ve got a huge range of drinks, Happy Hour’s about to start.’
‘No offence, but it’s kinda dead in here. And it’s not really a pub, is it? More like a doctor’s waiting room with booze.’
Tracey nudged Gary in the ribs. ‘Don’t wind him up,’ she whispered in his ear. ‘Let’s go see what we can find.’
The bartender smiled. ‘Yea
h, I know what you’re saying. I’ve gotta talk the place up. Part of my job description. You never know when a mystery shopper from HQ’s gonna drop by to see if the workers are doing their jobs properly. As it happens, there’s a cool place round the corner. Pool tables, pokies. Locals and visitors. Downmarket but lively.’
‘Perfect. C’mon, Trace. Let’s find out what’s happening in this town.’
The short walk to the pub took them through Australia’s squalliest intersection. The corner of Macquarie and Harrington, where air masses created a vortex, sucking in wind from all points of the compass. The conditions were perfect to whip up a gale strong enough to blow the fillings out of teeth. Seagulls flapped their wings at full speed to avoid crashing into swaying light poles.
The newcomers were forced to bend like bowing Buddhist monks to negotiate the fifty metres of Harrington Street to the doors of the pub. They dodged flying debris; grit stung their eyes. At the bottom of a short hill, facing the lush green St David’s Park, an oasis awaited. The Welcome Stranger. Welcome indeed.
Tracey snuggled in behind Gary’s oversized puffer jacket. Nearly everyone they passed on the street was wearing one. Black mostly, with an occasional daring red or bright green. Tracey’s was an olive number with rows of tubular ribbing and a turtle neck.
‘I hate these jackets.’ She pulled out a tissue and wiped her eyes. ‘You can’t walk in them without the sleeves rubbing against the sides and squeaking.’
‘Yeah,’ Gary nodded. ‘No chance of sneaking up on someone and surprising them with a puffy on. I read somewhere about their electrical properties.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Serious. When the atmospheric pressure and humidity are just right, they generate a shitload of static electricity. People wearing them can charge light bulbs with their hair.’
Tracey doubled over with laughter. ‘You just made that up!’
‘Got me.’
‘Whatever. I’m gonna buy something more stylish as soon as possible.’
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