by J. M. Green
There was a piece in Stock and Land on her recent purchase of three large cattle stations, on behalf of an international consortium.
‘Cool Runnings and Patricia Creek stations acquisitions are part of a strategic plan by Taurus Beef Trust, allowing us to continue to export healthy Australian-bred and -produced cattle into the expanding Asian market,’ Ms Coleman said.
Two of the properties, Cool Runnings and Patricia Creek, are large-scale breeding properties situated within commercial proximity of multiple market facilities including feedlots, abattoirs, saleyards, and ports of the Gulf of Carpentaria in northern Queensland.
A third property, Fly Hole Station, stocked with sixty-five thousand Brahman, is a quality finishing property located near Mount Isa, Queensland.
‘The superb pastures Fly Hole provides improved our fattening base,’ Ms Coleman said.
‘The three properties, and the purchase of the ships, provide a continuous, efficient, and reliable supply of young cattle to live-export markets in key trading nations.’
Some articles were flattering, highlighting her charity work. Others were less so. Verity Savage of The Australian Financial Chronicle wrote, ‘Ms Coleman, 63, best known as a disastrously unsuccessful nut farmer, bought the properties last September.’
The last line took the vanilla-fucking-slice:
Youngest daughter of Sir Gideon Coleman, Allyson is known to keep influential company. She co-owns a horse with Victorian Justice Minister, Marcus Pugh.
Melbourne to Ouyen by car, without stopping, was more than a five-hour journey. If the British hitman had left the city this morning, he’d arrive in Woolburn around two in the afternoon. People needed to eat and relieve themselves, so more likely, he’d arrive around three. But that was fine, because I would be otherwise occupied; I had to see a woman about a stolen bull.
It was one in the afternoon when I left Ouyen for Dougal Park, the Redbridge stud farm. A pleasant three-and-a-half-hour drive down along the western side of The Grampians. I’d be there, if all went well, by late afternoon. Instead of the most direct route, via Woolburn, I detoured through Sea Lake, adding thirty minutes to my travel time. I figured it was worth it. Since people were looking for me in Woolburn.
I stopped at a service station on the outskirts of Sea Lake to fill the tank.
As I stood at the bowser, pulling the nozzle’s trigger, I thought about Allyson Coleman. She and Pugh co-owned a race horse, she was the only ‘Al’ on my list of likely Als. Could she yank Van Go Daddy, a large and distinctive bull, from his paddock in Meandarra, Queensland, and send him to Pugh’s daughter, whose farm was — I checked the map app on my phone — seventeen hundred kilometres away in Victoria?
Someone called my name. I glanced up. It was Tyler, Kylie’s long-suffering husband. He was getting into his ute and gave me a wave and a sad smile. Poor man, I thought, as I waved back.
Petrol splashed from the tank. I grabbed some paper and wiped the side of the Mazda and my jeans. I had no change of clothes, since I was planning to return to Woolburn the same day. A bell jangled on the shop door when I went to pay, summoning a youth. He asked me how I was, I replied I’d never been better and went to peruse the beverage options in the fridge. Copies of Stock and Land, The Weekly Times, The Age, and The Australian Financial Chronicle were stacked up near the counter. I picked up the Chronicle. Verity Savage had a front-page story about tax avoidance by major Australian companies.
‘Petrol, the Chronicle, and this can of Coke.’ I needed sugar and caffeine and denial.
He noted the petrol stain on my jeans, and suggested I take care when next I light a smoke. I laughed. Accidental self-immolation was not even in my top five most likely deaths.
Back on the highway for a while, then a detour through Birchip, population six hundred and sixty-two, going slow and checking the road behind me. The statue of a bull in the main drag was a highlight of this particular scenic route.
Out on the open road again, I put on my speed-dealer sunglasses and found a radio station playing classic soul. Sam Cooke and I passed a pleasant half-hour, crooning and cruising through a landscape of dry scrub under a clear sky. A warm northerly carried the familiar acrid smoke from a distant burn-off. All being well, I’d hit Warracknabeal in twenty minutes.
Brophy would love this: the quality of the light, these colours. I pictured us relaxing in some quiet rural shack around here. He’d be sceptical at first after all the unenthusiastic things I’d said over the years about growing up in this part of the world, but I’d win him over.
A large furry roadkill blocked half the road ahead. I swerved to avoid it and checked my mirror. A small white car was coming up fast. Not unusual, I told myself, the locals were impatient, and kids were outright reckless. Tourists could be a problem — stopping in the middle of the road to photograph sheep, driving on the wrong side. I decelerated and kept to the left of the lane, inviting it to pass me.
The car came close, slowed and kept a ten-metre gap. No one in the passenger seat. The driver a dark blur behind the tinted glass.
What fuckery was this?
I thought about stopping. Bad plan. Middle of nowhere, between towns, no one but sheep to witness whatever this was. What to do? Get to Warrack’ as quickly as possible. No, that town was still a long way off. I crested a hill, the white car kept pace. On the other side, there were two vehicles coming up the other way. I waved at them, but the first, an old falcon just sped by. Behind it, a ute with a roll of hay tootled up the incline. I waved frantically. The old bloke at the wheel, elbow on the open window, just lifted a finger off the steering wheel and carried on. Once it passed, I whacked the Mazda into third, hit the accelerator, and gunned it. The white car took a moment to respond, a second later it had matched my speed.
All of a sudden the white car was right beside me, driving in the oncoming lane. Without warning, the driver swung the wheel left. I slammed down on the brakes, a centimetre between the cars. I slowed, panicked, trying to think. The white car slowed in front of me, moved to the left lane. I went right, accelerated, and sped by as it swung out at me again. No collision — a whisker in it. The white car swapped lanes once more, and came up fast.
Ahead, an old sign post pointed to a possible left turn.
I braked at the very last moment and took the turn doing fifty, back tyres skidding on the bitumen. Dust clouds billowed up behind me, and no white car appeared through them. I exhaled for what felt like the first time in a while. It wasn’t a road, but a narrow dirt track with shallow channels on either side, close to the fences. I rocketed down the middle, lurching in every dip and crack, engine roaring, steering wheel shaking. I checked the surrounding paddocks for a driveway or a track — anything to escape down — but the fences on both sides continued to infinity. What I did see was a dark mass ballooning, coming across the scrub fast. The burn-off.
I checked the mirror. The white car was coming, flat stick, rebounding off the potholes.
The north wind was pushing the smoke across the paddock, and it started to blanket the road. A blur of dark shapes moved inside the smoke. What the heck was that? Then I knew. A mob of eastern greys were thundering away from the fire.
In a panic, I made a quarter-turn left, then swung the wheel hard to the right and stepped on the brake. Time seemed to slow. The Mazda slid sideways in the sand until a front tyre found purchase. It spun in a 180-degree arc to face back the way I’d come, and then continued skidding sideways down into the ditch. The passenger side of the Mazda slammed into fence posts and the windows cracked. A second later, the white car went past. A second after that, a sickening boom of impact, and the sound of shattering glass.
A moment passed. The Mazda had stalled. I sat, stunned, covered in glass and grit.
The radio was still on: ‘Yeah, nothing can ever change the love we feel for you, Sam.’
I moved my arm, put my foot on th
e clutch, turned the key: it started. I tried to turn the wheel, but the wheels were jammed. I turned it off and unbuckled my seatbelt.
I seized my handbag and climbed out on unsteady legs. I walked twenty metres down the road. The white car was on its side in the opposite channel. The front was smashed in, red smears on bonnet. I watched the car for a moment, no movement inside.
Nearby, a tangle of grey fur was motionless on the track. Blood pooled under it. The rest of the mob had continued to move on to the next paddock, except for a joey. It hung around the body, sniffed the blood-soaked fur, lifted its head, and looked around. Slowly, it moved off, then in a rush, it caught the rest of the mob.
A groan from the white car. The crack of the door opening. I put my hand in my handbag. Through the smoke, I saw the driver door lifted upward. Heart racing, I took out the taser.
26
AN ARM came out from the car, and, putting the hand flat on the car body, tried to push. A howl of pain.
‘You alright?’ I shouted from a distance.
‘Oh yeah, brilliant, completely fine. Proper jammy, me.’ British accent. Of course.
I detected signs of injury, but I wasn’t convinced that he was no longer a threat.
‘Actually, no, to be totally honest with you, my knee’s fucked. Call an ambulance?’
‘No network.’
‘Your car?’
‘Stuffed.’
‘Get me out, will you? The fire’s coming.’
It was true, the fire was on its way. And not far, probably a couple of kilometres away. But it wasn’t here yet. The smoke was well ahead of the fire front, making it seem closer.
‘Show me both hands.’
Two hands came out, shaking with the effort.
‘Alright. I’m going to help you. But you should know, I’ve got the taser. Remember the fun you had with that the last time you came for me? So don’t try anything.’
‘Cross my fucking heart.’
I looked inside the car. He blinked up at me, blood, tears, and red dust on his face. I took his trembling hand and tried to lift him. He shrieked in agony. I stopped.
‘Do it!’ he shouted. ‘Get me out.’
I dropped the taser, took both his hands in mine and pulled again, getting him half way out. One more pull, and he slumped onto the road. He rolled on his back. He was bleeding from a cut on his forearm, near the sword and wings tattoo. He wore cargo shorts, and I could see one knee was purple and twice the usual size. Lower down, a bone pushed at the skin. It was a couple of kilometres back to the main road. In the other direction, the track curved to the left and rose up to a crest a hundred metres away. No farm house nearby. No passing helpful cocky on a tractor.
The man was panting and rocking and holding the knee.
‘Show me some ID.’
He pulled a wallet from his back pocket. I took it from him and pulled out a UK licence.
‘Colin Slade. First-aid kit in that car, Colin?’
‘Hire car. Probably not.’
‘Can you get up, put weight on your good leg?’
He shook his head.
Waves of thick smoke rolled over us. I sat beside him and went through the wallet. Plane ticket — Melbourne to Mildura — plastic cards, four hundred in cash, and a photo of a small child. Tucked behind the photo, a folded piece of paper. A BlackTack invoice.
The wind sent another wave of dark smoke over us, swirling red embers within it.
‘Why aren’t you getting out of here, Hardy?’ Colin Slade said, stunned at my nonchalance.
I shrugged, like I was resigned to death. ‘My car’s stuffed. I’ll never make it out.’
‘You can run.’
‘Outrun this? No. I’d die trying.’ I pointed to my jeans. ‘That’s petrol you can smell. I’m covered in it. When the fire comes, I’ll go up fast. Nice a quick. Can’t say the same for you.’
‘You’re a fucking psycho.’
I shrugged.
‘Fuck this. I’m not burning to death. Hardy, get the Jericho. It’s in the car.’
‘What’s a Jericho?’
‘Semi-automatic pistol.’
‘So you can shoot me?’
He stared at me in disbelief. ‘So you can shoot me.’
I waved the paper at him. ‘You were sent here to kill me.’
‘It’s a job. Nothing personal.’
‘You also do work for Enrique Nunzio and Allyson Coleman, am I right?’
He ignored the question. His only concern seemed to be obsessively watching for the fire. He was probably in shock. I went to the Mazda and found the can of Coke under the seat. I lifted the tab, foam sprayed out.
‘Here.’
He drank half.
‘Alright?’
‘Bit better.’
I went to Slade’s hire car. The Jericho was under the passenger seat. I brought it out and went to sit next to him.
‘How does it work?’
He shifted on his arse, pulled a pained expression, and took the gun from me. He removed the clip and shoved it back. ‘I love this gun,’ he said. ‘Very comfortable. See? Hold it.’
I took it in both hands, no idea what I was doing. It didn’t feel comfortable. It was large and unwieldy. ‘How do you fire it?’ I handed it back.
‘First, rack it. Grab this slide on the top and pull it back.’ He demonstrated, and the top of the pistol shifted back and forward, making a scary click. I had a try. It moved fairly smoothly, and I heard the click.
‘It’s a right-hand pistol. This one is the forty. You’ve got your safety, here, and your slide catch.’
‘Slow down,’ I said.
‘Doesn’t matter. Look. It has a double-action trigger. Pull the trigger, it fires.’ He pulled the trigger. I wasn’t ready. The sharp crack shook me. And the gun kicked back in a way that frightened me.
He took out the clip. ‘Twelve round magazine.’ He slotted it. ‘You try.’
I took out the clip, slotted it, pulled back the slide, and held it in both hands.
‘Straight arms,’ Slade said.
I straightened my arms, aimed into the nearest fence post, placed my finger on the trigger, and pulled. The force of the round leaving travelled through my hands and up my arms. I’m sure I blinked because I had no idea where the bullet went. But my work was done. I put the Jericho down carefully on the road.
‘Look,’ I said. ‘I’ll shoot you, Colin, if it’s what you want. But you know, quid pro quo, I need to know what the deal is with Allyson and Marcus Pugh.’
He sighed. ‘What’s the point?’
‘No point. Just that it seems excessive to kill Joe Phelan and Velvet Stone, and now me, all because of a bull.’
He looked confused.
‘The recording on the phone — it’s just Pugh talking about an auction. Vincent got away.’
He snorted with derision. ‘A fucking bull, that’s a laugh.’
‘What then? Give me something.’
‘Close to fifty million dollars, how’s that for something.’
‘But for what? What’s the bloody deal, Colin?’
His eyes lit up as if he heard an angel singing. Then I heard it, too. The roar and sigh, roar and sigh, of a truck changing gears. Through the haze, I looked towards the crest of the hill, expecting a harvester. The front grill of a Mack motored up and climbed over the hill, two massive trailers, side mirrors a metre out on each side. The horn started blasting to raise the dead as the truck began flying down the hill. The driver was under the mistaken impression that we could get out of the way.
I stood up, waving my arms and shouting stop.
The driver hit the airbrakes, releasing a monster’s bellowing fart, and the whole thing shuddered and lurched to a halt with barely a metre to spare.
I ran to th
e driver. He had the door open and was climbing out. A youngish man, short and thick set. ‘The fuck happened here?’
‘I stacked into the fence. He hit a roo. Broke his leg. Get him to the hospital?’
He spat. ‘I’m on a tight schedule.’
‘Mate, look at him.’
Colin’s face was the colour of wax. ‘Don’t leave us here to burn,’ he pleaded.
‘Shit, you’re not going to burn, not unless the wind changes direction. Fire’s heading west.’
Colin scowled at me. I grinned back at him.
‘Go on,’ I said to the driver. ‘Give us a lift.’
He thought it over. ‘Alright. Suppose I better. Give us a hand.’
He heaved Colin up from under the armpits, while I took his legs. He stepped backwards up the cabin steps, movements awkward from lifting, and hoisted Colin into a space behind the front seats.
Once he was settled, I glanced back to the long trailer. It was jammed with cattle, complaining about the discomfort and the smoke.
‘You coming or what?’ the truck driver said.
‘Just a minute.’ I ran around, picked up my handbag, and, with my back to the truck, I carefully placed the Jericho in it, then I threw the taser in there, too.
‘All set,’ I called and climbed into the cab. From that height the flare of yellow-orange firestorm coming down the paddock towards us was clear.
‘How about that,’ the truck driver said. ‘The fire’s changed directions. It’s coming this way, would have come straight for youse.’
The Wimmera Base Hospital waiting area had hard plastic chairs. The cars had been left to burn, the Mazda and Slade’s hire car — his excess would be eye-watering. I’d made enquiries about getting the Mazda taken to a wrecker as soon as it was safe to enter the fire-affected area. Ben may as well get something for it. The other task on my list was to keep a close eye on Colin Slade. I needed more information from him: names, dates, times, all the details of this cock-eyed caper. I alerted the nurses that he was not to try to slip out the back, like he did in Melbourne after the taser incident. A clock in the waiting room marked the slow, tedious passing of time while Slade had his X-rays, leg set, and whatever else. It was now four-thirty, and I’d spent nearly two hours of bum-numbing tedium watching a TV attached to the wall.