Crooked House

by Peter Menadue

Baldy headed off in the other direction, while his colossal accomplice lumbered along the path towards me, Godzilla with a gun.

  I wish I could claim that, primal juices pumping, I leapt out and engaged him in fierce combat. Instead, I slipped behind a tree, too scared to fight and too scared to run.

  My mobile phone beeped. Fuck-a-duck. I desperately dragged it out of my jacket pocket and stabbed at the buttons until it shut up.

  Anxiously, I looked up. The approaching behemoth was still a good distance away and didn’t seem to have heard.

  He drew level and scanned the trees. Surely the whole universe could hear my rasping breath.

  Just as I was about to make a run for it, he turned and jogged towards the Carillon. Relief washed through me.

  When he was at least fifty metres away, I headed back through the darkness towards the road. Half-way there, I tripped over a fallen branch, pitched forward and blacked out.

  I woke with my face buried in cut grass, the smell filling my nostrils. Painfully, I glanced around and saw nobody. I staggered to my feet and lurched towards the road, reaching it about seventy metres from where my car jumped the curb.

  I’d hoped that, by now, a police car or ambulance would have arrived. Instead, I only saw the goons’ land-cruiser, parked on the embankment. Obviously, nobody else saw me go off the road. Great.

  Then a miracle occurred. While trying to decide which way to run next, a taxi floated around the corner with its "vacant" light on. Was I hallucinating? I closed my eyes and looked again. I wasn’t. Who said there’s never a taxi when you need one?

  I broke from the trees and dashed into the middle of the road, waving at the taxi.

  The driver slowed and tried to swerve around me. I crabbed across the road and cut him off. He screeched to a stop a metre in front of me.

  I dashed around to the front passenger door and yanked it open. The ceiling light came on.

  Bending to get in, I ricked my neck again. A supernova exploded behind my eyes.

  The driver said, in a thick West Indian accent: "What de fuck deh ya think ya doin’ mun?"

  Painfully, I looked at him. He was in his mid-twenties, very handsome, with close-cropped hair and strong dark features. His expression hovered between fear and anger. It said he had a crap job and didn’t want it to get any crappier, and any fare I paid him wouldn't be enough.

  I wondered how a West Indian ended up driving a taxi in Canberra. Maybe he was a diplomat, moonlighting for a few extra dollars. He wouldn’t be the first. But that was a little mystery I could resolve later, if at all.

  I felt the wound on my forehead. It was tender and sticky. I glanced down. Lots of claret on my shirt. Must look like a resident of Elm Street.

  I said: "Sorry. I’ve had an accident."

  "I can sees that mun. Where deh hell’s your car?" His accent stretched words out and glued them together. I had to concentrate hard.

  "Down the embankment."

  "Fuck. An’ nobody call de umbulance?"

  "No. The bastard who hit me took off."

  "OK. An youse not gonna bled all over ma fine taxi, is ya?"

  I touched my wounds again. "No, I think it’s stopped."

  He sighed. "OK. Where ya wanta go?"

  Anywhere, as long as we left straight away. "Just start driving. I’ll tell you when I make up my mind."

  He shot me a glance. "Ya sure mun?"

  "Yeah, I’m sure."

  "Then shut deh door."

  I slammed it shut, killing the ceiling light. As he drove off, I looked around anxiously, in case the goons returned. However, we slipped past the land-cruiser without them reappearing.

  The driver glanced across at me. "Shit mun, ya looks bad."

  "I’ll live."

  "How comes ya went off deh road?"

  I remembered Alan Casey’s excuse after his crash. "A kangaroo."

  "Kungaroo? Here? In deh muddle of Canberra."

  "Yeah. It looked lost."

  "Musta bin very fuckin’ lost, mun. Ya should go to deh hospital."

  Though I obviously needed medical attention, the goons would probably head for my townhouse, where Anne was waiting. I had to reach her first.

  I told the driver how to get to my place and promised that, if he drove fast, I’d give him an extra fifty bucks.

  He gave me another strange look, and nodded. "It’s a deel, mun."

  Christ. This truly was a miracle: I’d been rescued by a taxi-driver who could speak English and knew his way around Canberra.

  Thankfully, like most taxi drivers, he drove like a lunatic, heading up Anslie Crescent like it was the straight at Silverstone. When we reached the town-house, I was so relieved that, in a moment of rare generosity, I tossed him two fifties. "Keep the change."

  "OK, thanks, mun. Ya should see a doc."

  "Don’t worry. Next on my list."

  As I got out of the taxi, I realised that he’d saved my life, but I didn’t know his name. I glanced at his ID, displayed on the dashboard. Just a licence number. "Thanks, mate. What’s your name?"

  He looked a bit surprised. "Trevor, Trevor Angyl, with a ‘Y’."

  Angyl. Get out of it! "You’re kidding, right?"

  He frowned. "No, course not."

  Fuck, now I was insulting my rescuer. "Well, thanks man."

  Enough chatting. I dashed towards my front door, rummaging for my keys, and couldn’t find them. I punched the doorbell.

  While waiting, I desperately considered my next move. I could call the cops, but couldn’t tell them anything they’d believe. Probably charge me with making a public mischief, or something like that.

  If I was in a western movie I’d have barricaded the door and hunkered down with a shotgun that my loyal wife stood waiting to reload. But it wasn’t. I wasn’t Gary Cooper and Anne wasn’t a Maureen O’Hara. Somehow, I had to persuade her to go and stay with her sister. How?

  About twenty seconds later, Anne opened the door. When she saw my battered face, her eyes widened and jaw dropped. "My God, Paul. What’s happened? You alright?"

  "Yeah. I’m OK."

  "You look terrible. You’ve got to see a doctor - now. My God, what happened?"

  I didn’t want to tell the truth, because it wouldn't sound like the truth at all. It would just sound crazy. Yet, I had no choice. This really was a life or death situation.

  I took a deep breath and plunged forward. "I had a car crash."

  "Really? Why?"

  "Ah, another car ran me off the road."

  Her jaw dropped again. "What?"

  "Another car ran me off the road."

  "You mean, deliberately?"

  "Yes. The two guys in the car were trying to kill me."

  She suddenly realised she’d never really known me at all, because I was a deranged fantasist. Her brow furrowed. "You sure? Maybe it was just an accident?"

  Desperately, I raised my voice. "It wasn’t an accident. After I crashed, they came after me with guns - big fucking guns."

  She looked bewildered. "Why would they do that?"

  "Because, like I said, they wanted to kill me."

  "Why would they want to do that?"

  "It’s hard to explain. I think it has something to do with my finding Yvonne Clarke’s body."

  "How?"

  That was hard to explain without telling her a lot of stuff I’d withheld. It also would have taken all night.

  I said: "I’m not really sure."

  "Look Paul. You’ve just had a nasty knock on the head - and maybe these problems you’re having in bed are affecting you - so maybe …"

  The goons would probably arrive very soon. I grabbed her shoulders and shook her desperately. "Listen. You’ve got to believe me. You’ve got to. They’re probably heading here right now. We’re both in great danger. Believe me, great danger. I want you to pack some clothes and go and stay with your sister."

  She looked upset. "Do what?"

  "Go and stay with your sister. It’s the safest place.
"

  She pursed her lips and frowned. "Look Paul. I think you should get some medical treatment. Then we can have a talk."

  She obviously thought the treatment should involve a straight-jacket and a rubber room. I couldn’t blame her.

  I said: "No. No. No. You’ve got to go to your sister’s house. We’re in terrible danger."

  Her face darkened with suspicion and her tone grew hard. "You know what, Paul, I think you just want to get rid of me. That’s it, isn’t it? Well, you don’t have to make up wild stories about people wanting to kill you. Just tell me to go, and I’ll go."

  This was obviously my week to get falsely accused of just about everything. "No. I don’t want you to go. I mean, you’ve got to go because we’re in danger - great danger. But believe me, I still love you and I don’t want you to go."

  The only thing clear about that statement was its lack of clarity.

  She shook her head angrily. "Bullshit. I don’t know what’s going on, Paul. You’ve been acting very strangely lately. But one thing’s sure: I’ve had enough. Understand? Enough. I can’t put up with your mood swings and your lies any more. I’m leaving you, understand? I’m leaving you."

  She probably expected me to be upset. Instead, I smiled with relief. "So you’ll go and stay with your sister?"

  My satisfaction annoyed her even more. She grimaced. "Yes, and I won’t be coming back, understand? Never. Just wait here. I’m just going to get some of my stuff. I won’t be long."

  "Hurry. Hurry."

  "Don’t worry," she snapped. "I want to get out of here as soon as possible."

  She turned and strode upstairs. I waited at the front door, ageing rapidly.

  Anne took her own sweet time packing her stuff. Almost fifteen minutes passed before she stomped down the stairs lugging a heavy leather suitcase.

  I stepped forward: "You need help with that?"

  She scowled and brushed past me. "I’ll pick up the rest of my stuff later. Let’s go in my car. I’ll drop you off at a hospital."

  She clumped over to her Holden Astra. I pranced after her, keeping a look-out for the goons.

  She heaved her suitcase onto the back seat and got behind the wheel. As I sat next to her, my neck got another painful jolt. Fuck.

  She slowly reversed out onto the road, then glanced at me unsympathetically. "Which hospital do you want to go to?"

  "What about Canberra Hospital? It’s on the way."

  "Good."

  She silently drove across the lake and past Parliament House, then down Adelaide Avenue and Yarra Glen Road. Painfully, I kept glancing around, in case the land-cruiser was following us. I didn’t see it.

  Eventually, Anne pulled up in front of the casualty department of Canberra Hospital.

  "Thanks." I unbuckled my seatbelt. "I’ll give you a call in the morning."

  "Don’t you dare," she snapped.

  "Look Anne, I know …"

  "Shut up. I’m not interested in your excuses, OK? This is it. We’re through. Finished. I won’t be coming back to you. Now, you’d better go and get yourself fixed up. You look fucking awful. And while you’re at it, I suggest you see a psychiatrist."

  As I got out of the car, I reflected that, though I’d ruined a lot of relationships in my time, this was the first one I’d ruined with honesty. I wouldn’t make that mistake again. From now on, I’d stick to lying.

  I closed the car door and Anne sped off, leaving behind a whiff of burnt rubber. It smelt like a bouquet of rotting flowers.

  Quite frankly, I wasn’t too worried about losing Anne. When things calmed down, I’d sweet-talk her into returning. I’d power up my charm and watch her melt. She’d be helpless.

  My biggest concern was surviving the hit-men. They had my full attention because I’d never get them to love me.

  As I strolled through the casualty department towards the reception desk, I saw myself in a mirror. Not a pretty sight. A fierce red gash bisected my forehead. Streamers of dried blood ran down my face. My jaw was heavily bruised and shirt spattered with blood.

  About half-a-dozen walking wounded sat in the reception area, several with nastier injuries than me. I hoped that didn’t mean they’d get preferential treatment.

  At the reception desk, a young nurse looked at me blandly. She’d obviously seen worse - a lot worse.

  I said: "Hello. I need to see a doctor."

  "I can see that. What happened?"

  "Car accident."

  "Alright, fill out this form and take a seat. A doctor will see you as soon as possible."

  "How soon will that be?"

  She looked annoyed. "When he’s available."

  I sat and waited for half-an-hour, with a splitting headache, before a female nurse took me into a small room with a bed. Sitting on a stool was a doctor in a white coat, pulling on surgical gloves. He was tall and handsome with a shock of dark hair; he looked exhausted, which wasn’t a good sign. He obviously needed to prescribe himself more uppers.

  He said: "Hi. I’m Dr McGrath. What happened to you?"

  "Car accident. Went off the road and hit a tree."

  "Any particular reason?"

  No point telling him that a couple of thugs tried to kill me. If I did, he’d just keep me distracted until someone arrived with a straightjacket.

  I said: "Momentary inattention."

  He leaned close and asked me to take some deep breaths. As I did, he prodded my chest, but was really smelling for alcohol.

  I said: "Don’t worry. I haven’t been drinking. I wasn’t pissed when I crashed."

  He looked a little guilty. "Good. Who brought you here?"

  "My girlfriend."

  "Is she still around?"

  "No, she just left me."

  "At the hospital?"

  "No, for good."

  He looked at me curiously. "You’re having a bad night, aren’t you?"

  "Fucking disgraceful."

  He delicately touched the wound on my forehead. I winced.

  He said: "Ugly. I’ll have to do some needlework. Where else do you hurt?"

  "My neck’s pretty sore…"

  "Probably whiplash."

  "…and it feels like there’s an axe stuck in my forehead."

  He stood upright. "Alright. Take off your clothes so I can examine you."

  I stripped down to my underpants and noticed a diagonal purplish welt across my chest, from the seatbelt. I sat on the bed while he spent twenty minutes poking and prodding. I manfully tried to hide my pain until he squeezed my neck; I squealed like a pig and almost fainted.

  Eventually, he stood back. "Do you get much exercise?"

  "Only hoisting beer glasses. What’s that got to do with the accident?"

  "Nothing. I just think you should look after yourself better."

  I glanced down at the muffin roll hanging over my underpants and realised that, tonight, it almost got me killed.

  He said: "Alright, I’d better patch you up. Then we’ll get some x-rays."

  "What for?"

  "You’ve had a nasty knock on the head. We’d better make sure nothing’s come loose. Then we’ll find you a bed so you can spend the rest of the night here."

  "Do I have to stay here?"

  "I’d prefer it. I want to keep you under observation for a while."

  "OK."

  On his instructions, the nurse went away and got me some painkillers that I gulped down. I soon felt a lot better. Then the doctor spent twenty minutes cleaning and stitching the wound on my forehead. Finally, he put a large strip of plaster over it and gave me a tetanus shot.

  He said: "Alright then, now we’ll get some x-rays."

  "Thanks Doc."

  The nurse put me in a surgical gown and lay me on a trolley, which she pushed down a succession of long corridors.

  The trolley-ride was my first chance to really ponder the night’s events, which had been passing strange. Two thugs I’d never seen before tried to kill or, at least, kidnap me. That attempt was
obviously connected in some way with the deaths of Yvonne and Joanna. How? Maybe the thugs - like Richard Reston - thought Joanna gave me something important and wanted to get their hands on it. Or maybe not.

  In the X-ray Department, a technician slid the trolley under a big machine and told me to keep still while a lot of lights flashed.

  Then the nurse wheeled the trolley into a nearby hospital room with a single bed. She helped me get between the sheets. The painkillers knocked me out fast.

  I dreamt that I was at a funeral. Anne lay in an open coffin, pale-faced, with bruised plum lips, looked peaceful for once. Filing past, misty-eyed, I impulsively bent down to kiss her on the forehead.

  Her eyes flashed open and she grabbed me around the neck. "You did this, you bastard. This is your fault." With superhuman strength, she dragged me into the coffin. The lid closed behind me. I plunged into darkness screaming "I love you", "I love you", "I love you".

  The next morning, I woke in misery. My head and neck ached, and my attempt to become the first middle-aged white guy to run under ten seconds for the hundred metres had almost destroyed both hamstrings. Deciding where I hurt the most was like choosing Elton John’s worst album.

  I pushed the "attention" button on the bed-head. A few minutes later, Dr McGrath hovered over me, looking even more tired, a malpractice suit waiting to happen. A thin, attractive nurse stood next to him.

  My smile turned to a wince. "You still here?"

  "Don’t worry. I’m going home soon. How do you feel this morning?"

  "Horrible. You shouldn’t have saved my life. I need more pain-killers."

  "OK." The doctor glanced at the nurse, who went away. "Now, you’ll be pleased to know the X-rays are good news. I was most concerned about your neck. But, while there is some soft tissue damage, there are no fractures."

  "So I can go?"

  "Yes. I’ll give you a prescription for painkillers and you can go. Of course, if you have any new symptoms, come back immediately."

  He wrote out a prescription, gave it to me and left. The nurse returned and gave me some more painkillers, before showing me into an en-suite bathroom where I showered and changed back into my blood-spattered clothes. Though I looked like a hobo, my vanity was in remission, for the moment anyway.

  I caught a lift to the ground floor and wandered towards the main entrance. As I did, I realised the goons chasing me might have guessed I’d seek treatment at a hospital. Shit. What if they turned up and fucked with my health?