The Scoop

by Terence J. Quinn

  I poured drinks: champagne for her, another beer for me. We sat on a comfy sofa sipping and talking about our time in prison. She had been treated a little better than me. No cavity searches and no dodgy cell mates like I’d had. A nurse had given her a cursory medical examination. ‘At least they didn’t find anything seriously wrong with me,’ she said. Then she asked about The Scoop and I told her I’d track it down the following day, although I didn’t think they’d give her back to me for a while after that.

  ‘They are treating it like a crime scene,’ I explained.

  ‘Oh my God, Jonno, I’ve just remembered, what about Wagga? Do you think he’s all right?’

  She smiled when I told her that I had commissioned the full majesty of the Australian Embassy to look into that very matter.

  ‘So, did you reach your parents?’

  ‘Oh yes, thank God. My mum was beside herself. They’d rung the marina people in Langkawi, were shocked that we hadn’t turned up. When she heard my voice she couldn’t stop crying.’

  ‘What did you tell them?’

  ‘Pretty much what you told the media earlier. Obviously they were devastated to hear about Martin. They simply could not believe it.’

  ‘Did you tell them about, you know . . .’

  ‘What happened on the island? No way! I couldn’t. It would have been too much. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to tell them. My mother would . . .’

  A knock on the door interrupted her; my steak dinner had arrived. We shared it, although I ate most of the fries. After my healthy diet on Rehab Island, my tastebuds were in overdrive. Even Annie seemed to savour every morsel. Eventually I noticed that the New Year countdown clock on the muted television said 11.59 pm. We stood and toasted each other ‘Happy New Year’ and then we kissed. At first, it was rather chaste but then we both seemed to like it. Before long we lay down on the bed beside each other. Her finger traced the outline of the dressing on my wound. We were both nervous: me because I’d dreamed of the moment for so long, and she, well, I guess because of what the pirates had done to her.

  She looked deeply into my eyes and took my hand. ‘Jonno, I am not sure what, if . . .’ I put one finger against her lips and shushed her before turning and putting out the lights.

  We lay in the darkness in a soft, sweet, tender embrace, hardly touching. After some time, it could have been hours, we started gently kissing again, tongue tips touching, teasing. Whispered words and feather-like caresses. It felt more spiritual than sexual. Mystical, magical rather than physical. A dream world of desire. Our bodies scarcely moving. No sweaty pyrotechnics, no gymnastics, no wild, abandoned coupling. Just a slow, languid fusion of minds and souls and skin. Like two shadows merging on a sunlit terrace, our spirits soaring in unison. Then the slow, exquisite release. Charlie be damned, this was the closest I’d ever come to experiencing sheer ecstasy in my whole life.

  72

  I WOKE up late the next morning. The alarm clock said 10.37 am. There was no sign of Annie apart from a dent in the pillow and the ghost of her scent. I stretched in pleasure and yawned extravagantly, feeling rested and complete. I smiled; I missed her already. After another lengthy shower, I wandered down the corridor to her room, past the tray with the microscopic remains of last night’s steak smearing the plate. A maid’s service trolley was parked outside Annie’s room; the door was open and I stuck my head in. The tiny maid, who was carrying a couple of wet towels, looked startled at the sight of the half-naked blond giant in a fluffy gown that was miles too small for him.

  There was no sign of Annie. ‘Where is the lady?’ I asked. The maid frowned and shook her head uncomprehendingly. A funny feeling gripped my stomach. I padded back to my room for my clothes. They still stank. Bloody Hennessy should have provided me with some new stuff, I thought bitterly.

  At the reception desk, a polite man told me in perfect English that Annie had checked out two hours earlier. ‘I think she went with a gentleman from the British embassy,’ he said. ‘Would you happen to be Mr Bligh?’ I nodded. He handed me an envelope. I opened it eagerly, expecting details of where I could meet up with her. Inside was a letter, handwritten on Ritz Carlton letterhead:

  My darling Jonno,

  Please, please don’t think too badly of me. I just feel compelled to go away and sort myself out. Don’t blame yourself. In fact, I want to thank you for last night. You made me feel almost like a whole woman again. And when you told me you loved me, well, it speared my heart. I’ve not stopped crying since. But it has made me afraid that I might never be capable of loving you back in the way that you deserve. I need some time to get better.

  For a time there on the island I didn’t think love was a feeling I’d ever experience again. Now you’ve given me hope and the determination to deal with what’s ahead. Forgive me for leaving you like this but I must confront these issues on my own. I’ve burdened you enough these past few weeks.

  For now, take good care of yourself. And give my love to Wagga. I’ll be in touch when I feel able. One day, we will have that lunch at Omeros on the Beach! Thank you for being my friend and for your care and compassion. You saved my life in more ways than you will ever know.

  Love,

  Annie xx

  PS: Good luck with your new book, can’t wait to read it.

  Ah shit, another ‘Dear Jonno’ letter. First Percy, now this. What the fuck is it about me that the people I love most send me these bloody letters after they’ve gone? Jesus Christ, Annie. Please don’t do this to me. Not now.

  Devastated, I slumped in a chair in the hotel foyer, my newfound happiness having disappeared like a puff of smoke against a grey sky.

  73

  THE FIRST attempt to kill him had come much sooner than BangBang had expected. Just two days after the Crimson Tide had tried to run down that mongrel dog’s sailboat, one of his own men had come at him from behind with a sharp-edged parang. The man, a raw-boned Cambodian, had been sent recently by the Chinese syndicate to replace the crew member BangBang had murdered following the previous aborted raid.

  The moron had made the mistake of attacking with the sun behind him. His instincts already heightened, BangBang had seen his would-be assassin’s shadow growing on the foredeck, complete with upstretched arm. He turned, dropped his kretek, and threw up an arm to block the killer blow. The machete cut deeply into his forearm but he was able to get his other hand around the killer’s scrawny neck and squeeze his windpipe while wrestling him to the deck. BangBang leaned over the man, his rank sweat dripping onto the man’s bony chest.

  ‘Bajingan! Bastard, why do this?’ He released his grip slightly so the man could talk. Hoarsely, spit dribbling out of one corner of his mouth, the crewman told him a paid informer inside the national police had told the syndicate of BangBang’s involvement in the murder of the westerners and, more importantly, of the loss of the blueprints. The police were planning to use the information to ambush the pirates and catch them in the act. The syndicate bosses had promptly aborted the raids and demanded BangBang’s head. Jancuk! Shit! Fuck! He had been stupid. The police were corrupt dogs. He should have realised the Chinese would have had their claws deep into them. BangBang looked at the scarred brown face below him, already turning a deep, mahogany red as his powerful, stubby fingers squeezed the life out of the assassin. Blood from his own wound mingled with the man’s foamy spittle as he died, his sly eyes rolling up to show yellowy whites.

  Now, just a few days later, BangBang was slumming it again: he had fled his bosses’ murderous wrath and was back in the teeming, steaming Jembatan Besi slum. Out on the high seas, he had almost forgotten the stench, the squalor, the sheer mass of heaving humanity that shared the shantytown’s dark alleys and stinking hovels. He wrinkled his nose at the putrid stink of fish drying in the sun, the rotting food, and swarms of flies and mosquitoes and horseflies. He saw rats as big as cats scampering through huge puddles of milky green water. He could barely breathe as he passed the canals of piss and shit that po
oled in the unmade roads. He watched junkies, beggars and conmen rubbing shoulders with social workers and even western tourists who had been brought to the slum by enterprising tour operators. They were taken in bright orange Bajaj vehicles to the cramped, sweltering soybean cake and tofu factories where people were lucky to earn a dollar a day.

  It’s like a big fucking anthill, he decided as he strolled around dressed in shorts, sandals and a Chicago Bulls tank top, his ham-hock arms glistening in the heat. There were masses of street vendors, scavengers and illegal squatters sleeping on benches and in crevices. Then there were the gerobaks – mobile shops on wheels – and the throaty motorbikes and scooters, which were the only vehicles able to navigate the choked corridors and canyons. He passed odong odong, the colourful children’s amusement rides, and minstrels or buskers – pengamen – walking the streets playing music, singing songs and begging for money. There were prostitutes everywhere, of course. He spat in disgust. Most of them were mothers, he knew. Selling their skinny bodies for fifty or sixty cents a fuck just to feed their bastard kids. And the kids were everywhere he looked. Wearing fake football tops, superhero costumes or Disney T-shirts. Playing, fighting, laughing, spitting, cursing, never once stopping to draw breath.

  Often he passed blackened shanties, probably the result of faulty electrical wiring hitched up illegally. This place is the deepest, darkest part of the city, he thought. A noxious sludge of rubble, raw sewage and other human detritus. Perfect for my needs!

  The irony of hiding out so close to the National Police headquarters hadn’t escaped him. It was only about ten kilometres away on the city’s inner ring road. He knew the cops were plotting to find him and put him on a fast track to the firing squad but the sole photograph of him they had given to the media was many years old and grainy. No one in the slum would recognise him; they had no idea of who he was or what he had done. If they did, he knew they’d shop him in a heartbeat. Not to the police, unless there was a significant reward, but to the Chinese mafia, who would undoubtedly pay a year’s wages or more for any snippet of information that would lead them to him.

  But here he felt safe. He had bribed the Pak RW, a sort of headman for the district, to find him a house in the teeming anthill that was Jembatan Besi. As a safety measure he had also threatened to kill the man’s entire family, including grandchildren, if he was tempted to sell him out. Compared to most of the slum-dwellers, BangBang was now living in comparative luxury. He had a small but adequate living area plus a tiny kitchen and bathroom. The floors were roughly tiled and a threadbare rug and thin mattress completed the furnishings. Elsewhere in the slum, two poverty-stricken families might be crammed into the same sapce. It would suffice as a bolthole for him until he worked out what he was going to do next.

  But first he was going to kill the mongrel who had caused him all this grief, the man who had shattered his dreams. Jonno Bligh. He had discovered the dog’s name while looking at a day-old copy of Kompas newspaper in a café. The bangsat writer was all over the front page – Hollywood, Oscars, his battle with pirates. BangBang could not read very well and none of it made much sense to him. But that was okay. Because all that mattered was that the newspaper photograph showed the same yellow-haired man he had seen on the yacht a few days before. And, best of all – he almost hugged himself with glee – the dirty, thieving bastard was pictured outside a swanky hotel right here in Jakarta. Just a few kilometres from where I am standing! BangBang had thought. And now that I know where he is, I will go kill him.

  74

  I WAS lounging about listlessly in my hotel room when Hennessy sent me a text: Police finished with your boat. Some good news at last.

  In between more grill sessions with ‘Inspector Hah’, I arranged for The Scoop to be taken to a boat repair yard on the Jalan Martadinata. She looked a little forlorn when I went to see her the following day. She had been through so much. The scars of the pirate attack were clearly visible including a mosaic of bullet holes in the deck and sails. Nosy police had also made a mess inside; searching for more contraband, I assumed. Lockers and drawers were hanging open and the saloon looked like a winter wonderland with liberal quantities of white fingerprint powder sprinkled everywhere. I didn’t think they’d found any of the loot, otherwise they would have grilled me about it. Mind you, the bent bastards could just have nicked it, I thought. But it was all there – the diamonds, cash and bond certificates. That was a relief.

  Even more relief came when a rather woebegone Wagga popped his head out of a vanity cabinet in the main stateroom toilet where he had obviously been holed up. I am not ashamed to say that it made my heart sing to see the little fella. He looked a bit thin and bedraggled as he clung to me and meowed plaintively, his tiny claws digging into my shirt and scratching my chest.

  ‘Ouch! You must be starving, you little bugger,’ I said and headed for the galley. Thankfully there were still some tins of cat food left and Wagga began purring as he eagerly tucked into it. Bloody Hennessy, I thought. Typical civil servant . . . did not follow through as I asked.

  An hour later I left the boat with a carrier bag containing the treasure, some clothes and other bits and pieces. The superintendent of the yard introduced me to an experienced Indonesian skipper who was looking for work. I took to Supriadi (‘call me Super’) Prakoso immediately. He suited his name: he had a megawatt smile and looked both cheerful and competent. Super told me, in excellent English, that he had been to Sydney many times. After going through his references, I immediately hired him along with his mate to bring The Scoop back to Sydney once the repair work was finished. In addition to his fee, I told him I’d pay a $5000 bonus if he brought Wagga back safely with him. Super whistled when he saw The Scoop. I don’t know whether it was because of the damage or the fact that she still looked so beautiful. Probably both.

  Once I had shown him around and filled him in on the repairs required, we shook hands and I took off across the yard with the carrier bag under my arm. When I got to the end of the pier, I felt – rather than saw – a figure move close to me and put a hand on my shoulder. My wounded shoulder. The hand squeezed down hard and forced me to my knees. The pain was excruciating. I felt the stitches burst. I let go of the carrier bag. Shocked, dazed, I squinted up into the sun, my eyes screwed up in agony. Then I felt something hard and metallic against my face. I could smell oil and burnt gunpowder. A gun. The stocky figure shifted slightly and I saw a face through blurry eyes. Ah shit, I thought. Hooded yellow eyes, pitted skin and a gold tooth. Him! The man I had seen on the prow of the pirate ship shooting at us. The man who still haunted Annie’s dreams. Then the gun drew back before whipping forward and hitting me on the temple. I fell forward onto the hard ground, my cheek grazing the concrete. I heard the man say something guttural and then laugh before cocking the hammer.

  75

  THE NEXT sequence of events passed in a slow-mo blur. One moment the pirate boss was holding the gun to my cheek and about to shoot me, the next he was gone – pfft, in a flash. As if a giant hand had come out of nowhere and swatted him away.

  When I sat up, dazed and confused, I saw both the pirate’s gun and my carrier bag lying on the ground. My new friend Super was looking over the edge of the dock, peering into the oil-glazed water.

  ‘Saw you were in a bit of bother,’ he said, ‘so I ran over and tackled him; I hit him hard and he tumbled into the water.’

  ‘Mate, I’m really grateful. You saved my life. I owe you one. Can you see him?’ I asked anxiously.

  ‘Nope. No sign of him. Did you know him?’

  ‘Sort of. It’s a long story.’

  Super helped me stand up. ‘You’re bleeding,’ he said. I looked down and saw that my shirt was bloody where the bullet wound had reopened. Christ, I had just bought the damned thing.

  ‘I’ll live. Look, mate, thanks again. That took some balls. I won’t forget it.’

  By then, a few of the local workers had come over, including the dock manager, who was on the ph
one to the police. They were all looking into the water, pointing and shaking their heads. Super and I joined them but there was no trace of the pirate boss, nothing to tell us whether he was alive or dead. I fervently hoped the evil bastard had drowned.

  The police and an ambulance arrived and my wound was treated at a nearby medical centre. I was waiting for the doctor to sign me out, when I received a visitor.

  ‘Mr Bligh. You in wars again, hah?’

  He was intrigued to learn my assailant was his prime murder suspect. Inspector Hah immediately made a call to his colleagues, presumably ordering his men to look for a body in the water.

  ‘So Budiman back in Jakarta. Interesting. We will find previous haunts in city and look there.’

  ‘You think he is still alive?’

  ‘I hope for you sake not. He does not like you very much. If not drowned he will again try to kill you.’

  And, on that happy note, he left.

  Over the new few days I tried looking for Annie everywhere. I had even asked Haka Waseso where she was when he visited me in hospital. Of course he knew but would not tell me. Bastard. I told him he should be giving me a frigging medal for handing him the drugs and the pirate blueprints on a plate but he still wouldn’t tell me. Then I had several goes at Hennessy, who I suspected also knew damn well where she was, but his lips remained resolutely sealed. The guy at the British embassy, Wooldridge, wouldn’t even take my calls. In desperation, I’d even tried calling a few hotels asking for a ‘Mrs Greenwood’. The answer was always the same: ‘Sorry, sir, no one staying here with that name.’