by JR Carroll
All he could hear and feel was the beating of his own heart.
He sat down alongside her. He took one of her hands away from her hair, turned her face towards him.
She was barely recognisable. He had never seen a more terrified person.
‘That’s one down,’ he said. ‘Two to go.’
The attempt at humour didn’t work.
Her tear-stained eyes glared at him, but she didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.
Staring into the lamp-lit gloom he thought about the situation from every possible angle. It all came back to a disgruntled client, and the prime candidate, one who stood out from the pack, the only one capable of putting together a team of killers, was Dale Markleigh. Nothing more dangerous than an old friend who becomes your enemy.
Especially when that old friend is a rogue ex-cop.
He put an arm around Amy, brought her closer. She leaned on his shoulder, her mass of blonde hair untidy, smelling of perfume and tears.
All was silent outside.
He wondered if the guy he’d just fought was dead or alive. The fall was about ten or twelve metres, so there was a chance he’d have broken bones at least. Any luck, he’d be a wheelchair case.
Cold air drifted in through the window. Then, for the first time, he spotted the gun on the floor.
He left Amy and picked it up. Tim knew enough about guns to be able to identify it as a Browning semiautomatic .45, a battered weapon that had probably seen service in the military. Retracting the slide, he saw there was a round in the pipe, ready to go.
He resumed his position next to Amy, the gun in his hand.
‘And what are you going to do with that?’ she said.
‘We’ll see. But it’s better in my hands than his, don’t you agree?’
They sat in silence for what felt like a long time to Tim. He stole a sideways glance at Amy; she had her face in her hands. Now and then came the indecipherable sounds of voices outside as the invaders regrouped and plotted their next move.
Tim’s mind drifted back to where it all started with Amy—at the radio station, then the coffee shop afterwards. The chemistry between them was palpable. Tim couldn’t get her out of his head. Next day he telephoned her at work, to see if she wanted to meet for a drink after her shift.
‘Sounds good to me,’ she said, without hesitation.
They met at Enoteca, a snazzy downtown wine bar. After three glasses, Tim sensed that their future together was as good as sealed.
‘How about we go to a motel?’ Tim said as she sipped her drink.
‘Wow,’ she said. ‘You just come right out with it, don’t you?’
They went to the Best Western—the first of many trysts there. From their earliest moments of intimacy between the sheets, Tim knew this was no brief encounter—it was a life-changing affair. It was a level of sexual excitement he’d never known before.
Three days after that, they were back at the Enoteca, sipping wine.
‘If this keeps up,’ Amy told him as he took her free hand in his, ‘I’m going to fall in love with you. You’ve been warned.’
‘I’m already in love with you,’ Tim said.
It was true. He was totally besotted with her. This was the woman he was meant to spend his life with. He didn’t care what price had to be paid.
They met many times, at the motel, or sometimes for a quick one in the car. Amy had already got rid of her bikie boyfriend. Now it was Tim’s turn to clear the decks.
When his wife finally found out about the affair and confronted him about it, Tim was almost relieved. The waiting was over. All he had to do was ’fess up, and he did.
The fallout was catastrophic. She threw him out of the house that very day. What followed was a bitter, acrimonious separation and divorce. She still hated Tim; could barely speak to him without spitting in his face. Their two teenage sons sided with her, and now had little or nothing to do with their father: their current relationship with Tim was patchy at best. They could be polite for a time, but deep-seated animosity would rise to the surface with little provocation.
He married Amy as soon as the divorce was finalised. He knew he’d completely burned his bridges. The marriage simply had to work, and there was no reason why it wouldn’t. Their commitment to each other was total.
*
Amy emerged from a kind of reverie.
‘Reason with them,’ she said.
Tim couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. Couldn’t find the words to respond.
‘Find out what they want. Give it to them. Maybe they’ll go away,’ she said.
‘Reason with them,’ Tim repeated.
‘Yes.’
‘We know what they want,’ he said. ‘These men … Amy, they haven’t driven all the way from wherever to … steal a bloody television set.’
Amy didn’t say anything for a while. She brushed hair from her eyes and stared dead ahead.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m not thinking straight.’
‘You don’t have anything to be sorry about,’ he said. ‘I’m as scared as you are, sweetheart. It’s just that we have different ways of showing it.’
‘Maybe,’ she said.
‘If I thought I could reason with them, I would,’ he said. ‘But … obviously they’re hell-bent.’
‘Do you think someone’s put them up to it?’
‘I don’t know any of them, so I’d say so.’
‘Who? Who could hate you that much?’
Tim didn’t answer. He’d withheld the barrage of death threats from Dale Markleigh to protect Amy, and if he came clean now, she’d be less than impressed. His noble aim of shielding her from the nastiness in his life would backfire big time. There’d be recriminations, accusations … Why hadn’t he told the police about it, for instance?
He had no good explanation for his actions. Lawyers, especially criminal barristers, live and work in a world of violence, both actual and implied. Killers and armed offenders are not nice people. You wouldn’t last long if you ran to the cops every time someone threatened you.
‘There are one or two possibilities,’ he said quietly.
She turned her face to him. She wore an expectant look, one eyebrow slightly raised, as though to say: What’ve you been hiding from me?
In a courtroom, when the outcome was in the balance, you disclosed information for one of two reasons only: you were obliged to by law, or there was a benefit to your side in doing so. In this case, neither of those applied. Tim had nothing to gain, and a lot to lose, if he told Amy about Dale Markleigh.
He decided to shut up about it.
‘Or three, or four,’ he said. ‘Jesus, Amy, I deal with bad people every day. Some of them aren’t happy with the service. Some will settle for nothing less than acquittal when they’ve shot or robbed someone in the street in front of fifty witnesses. They just plain don’t want to go to jail. And I’ve had a few of those. Mostly blowhards, but who can tell?’
‘I know that,’ she said. ‘I get nut cases on the radio, too. People who think I’m anti-abortion, or pro-abortion, anti-asylum seekers or pro-asylum seekers. I’m someone they can focus on, vent their anger and craziness. We had to hit the dump switch on a guy who started abusing me because I’d said something that offended his religion, some sect, that they should pay taxes like everyone else.’
‘Religious fanatics are the worst,’ he said. ‘And dangerous, too.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Only, I don’t think these three guys are on a mission from God.’
‘Christ, I wish I had a cigarette,’ she said, once more.
‘We can have a drink, at least.’
Tim got up and went downstairs. He came back with two generously filled goblets.
‘Hill of Grace,’ he said, handing her a glass. ‘Really needs to breathe for a couple of hours, but … what the hell. Down the hatch.’
He resumed his position on the floor, took a sip.
‘Grace,’ he said, st
aring at the glass of crimson liquid. ‘That’s what we need right now. A whole hillside of divine grace.’
Amy drank a mouthful, pulled a face. ‘Tastes kind of metallic.’
‘Fear,’ he said.
‘That’s what it is, all right.’
Fear does all manner of different things to different people, Tim thought. For Amy, the wine tastes bad; for me … I feel like I’ve missed the boat, taken a wrong turning somewhere, failed to make the best of my opportunities. Something I’ve done has landed me here.
Regrets.
But there wasn’t anything in particular he could put his finger on, except maybe putting too much time and effort into climbing the greasy pole, accumulating the trappings of wealth and a profile, defending the wrong people, and along the way neglecting Amy, regarding his domestic situation as a mission accomplished, something he came home to some time or other, didn’t matter how late.
He’d been so wrong.
He didn’t doubt now that her affection for him had waned. The marriage, he realised, had atrophied. It was down to Tim, the way he’d laid out his priorities. Now a hollow sensation, a large, expanding bubble, occupied his chest. Because of the way he’d conducted his life, he’d brought these people, whoever they were, to his house. It didn’t matter who they were, who sent them, or why.
It was kismet. In a way, deep down, he felt calm about it. Fear did not make him panic. It made him understand. Everything made sense.
Once you understood a difficult predicament, you were in a position to deal with it. Fear uncluttered his mind, made him see what had to be done.
*
When Christo toppled from the roof, hurtling backwards, he managed to grab the guttering with one hand before crashing into the turf on his left shoulder.
He saw stars for a second, a whole galaxy, then his head cleared and he saw the real stars up above. For a minute he couldn’t move.
When he sat up, pain shot through his shoulder as if a knife had been driven into it. He didn’t scream, but screwed his face into a grimace.
‘You OK?’ Cornstalk said, appearing alongside, squatting on his haunches. Stav showed up on his other side, bottle of Beam in hand.
‘Yeah … busted my shoulder, or dislocated it.’
Cornstalk saw there was blood on Christo’s hand where the flesh had been torn by the guttering.
‘If it’s just dislocated, maybe we can do something about it,’ Stav said. ‘Pop it back into place.’
‘Yeah?’ Christo said. ‘Who’s gonna do that?’
‘Me,’ Stav said, slugging on the bottle. ‘I know a thing or two about first aid.’
‘First I heard,’ Christo said.
‘Fair bit you don’t know about me,’ Stav said.
Christo made an effort to stand up. The pain was intense, much worse than anything he’d felt at the dojo. But he didn’t scream. Only girls screamed.
‘So where’s your gun?’ Cornstalk said.
‘Must’ve dropped it,’ Christo said, sheepish, not looking at Cornstalk.
‘Inside the house, or outside?’
‘Ah—inside, I guess.’
Cornstalk took a few moments to digest this development. ‘Great,’ he said. ‘Well, at least that answers one question. Now we know he’s armed.’
‘He was a lot stronger than I expected,’ Christo said, unable to hide the lameness of his excuse. ‘For a middle-aged lawyer.’
‘Told you he was no soft-cock,’ Cornstalk said. ‘Didn’t I say that? Underestimate the opposition, you’re gonna lose not just the battle but the whole fuckin’ war.’
‘Thought I had him,’ Christo said. ‘But he pulled something out of the bag, right at the end.’
‘A man will do that,’ Cornstalk said. ‘Fighting for his life.’
‘Come here with that shoulder,’ Stav said, passing the bottle to Cornstalk. ‘Stuff your shirt in your mouth.’
‘What for?’ Christo said.
‘Just do it.’ He probed the shoulder joint, not all that gently, causing Christo to wince and clench his face. But he kept silent, on principle. He’d bite off his own tongue rather than scream.
Christo bunched his T-shirt between his teeth just as Stav wrenched the shoulder with a sudden force that sent an electric shock through him.
He spat out the shirt and let go with an almighty shriek that tore open the fabric of the night sky.
‘There,’ Stav told him. ‘You’re good to go, man.’
‘You know what?’ Cornstalk said. ‘I’m losing patience. We’re taking hits, getting nowhere. Need to be more proactive.’
‘I still say, burn the fucker down, they’ll run outside with their hair on fire.’
‘It might come to that,’ Cornstalk said. ‘As a last resort.’
He flashed his torch onto a small, corrugated iron tool shed he’d noticed earlier. It was a way off to the side, next to a wire fence and half-covered with bushes.
‘Let’s take a look in there.’ To Christo he said: ‘Stay here, watch the house. They might try and make a break for it. Or he might get brave, now he’s got your gun.’
He glared at Christo a moment longer than necessary. Christo bit down on the criticism. He had to cop it, but he didn’t have to like it.
‘I didn’t do it deliberately,’ he said.
‘I’d be more than disappointed if you did,’ Cornstalk replied. ‘Worst thing you can do is surrender your weapon to the enemy. That’s the ultimate no-no.’
Go fuck yourself, Christo thought. But he wasn’t game enough to say it. Two good hands, he had a chance against Cornstalk. Just the one … forget it.
Cornstalk shone the torch onto the shed door. There was a padlock that didn’t look up to much.
‘Hold this,’ he said, giving Stav the torch.
He kicked the door three times. The lock mounting snapped and the door crumpled and caved in.
Inside were a lot of cobwebs and stuff that looked as if it had been there a long, long time. An ancient can of Castrol motor oil, other cans and drums of fuel of some sort—kerosene or two-stroke. Rusted saws, chisels and drills. An extension ladder. A sledgehammer.
Cornstalk flashed the beam back on the ladder.
‘We’ll have that,’ he said, hooking his free arm through it. ‘Might come in useful.’ A plan, of sorts, was already formulating in his mind. Tim Fontaine was only one man; they were three. They had to use that advantage. ‘And that sledgehammer.’ Stav picked it up.
There were also two chainsaws, one big, one small. A cross-cut saw. An axe. Coiled rope hanging on a hook.
‘Grab that axe, and the rope,’ he said. ‘Let’s get the fuck out of here. I hate spiders.’
They returned to where Christo sat. ‘All right,’ Cornstalk said. ‘Listen up. Stavvie, let me have that shotgun. See if I can’t make the bastard jump.’
27
Before Stefan was much older, matters at home with Uncle Luc reached crisis point. It had to happen. And it did.
He woke up one night and realised he wasn’t alone in the bed. Uncle Luc’s cologne wafted over him. That was what had roused him.
Luc had his hand inside the back of Stefan’s pajama pants. And now the pants were coming down: slowly, carefully, so Stefan wouldn’t notice in his groggy state.
Then there came another smell, over and above the cologne.
Stefan’s eyes opened wide. He knew immediately what it was—the creamy stuff from the tube in his uncle’s bedroom drawer. The powerful smell of sex. Luc was rubbing it ever so gently on Stefan’s backside. It felt cool and slick on his skin.
Stefan didn’t move.
Next thing, Luc was pressing against him.
Stefan was paralysed with shock, and disbelief.
He clenched his whole body, shut his mind; tried to block it out.
Luc was still pressing hard, more urgently now. The smell of that cream was overwhelming.
A moment later Luc grunted: a hot, sharp explosion of breath on the back o
f Stefan’s neck.
Stefan screamed; jumped out of bed. Then he ran to the toilet. Sat there for a long time, face in his hands, crying. Sobbing, retching, as he never had before.
He had Uncle Luc’s various smells all over him. It was sticky and disgusting. He used half a roll of toilet paper to get rid of it.
A long period elapsed; maybe an hour, maybe longer. He had no idea of time. He was frozen; didn’t want to move, ever. He was staring straight ahead at nothing, thinking nothing, as he sat on the toilet seat.
But he realised he couldn’t sit there indefinitely. Much later, when he crept back to his room, Luc was gone. The bed still carried that potent mix of smells. Right to his last breath, in the last hour of the last day of his life, Stefan would never be able to forget it.
In the morning, neither of them said anything to each other. Luc busied himself in the kitchen as usual, banging pots and pans, whistling his tunes. As if nothing had happened, and everything was normal.
Stefan didn’t feel like breakfast. He had a long, long shower, got dressed and fled the house. He didn’t know where he was going. In the end he finished up at school.
He sat in class all day, in a funk; pratically catatonic. When the teacher asked him a question he didn’t answer, he didn’t even know he’d been spoken to.
At some point in the day he found himself in the principal’s office. There were three others present: Miss Claridge, Cheesedick and another woman he’d never seen before.
She turned out to be a truant officer.
They interrogated Stefan; pushed and prodded him with their dumb questions. He ignored them. He just wanted to get out of the room. Get out of everywhere.
‘Are there any problems at home?’ the truant officer suddenly asked.
Stefan looked up.
The truant officer repeated the question.
He didn’t answer; instead he leaped from his chair and started grabbing things from the principal’s desk and throwing them around—not at anyone in particular, just hurling objects and flinging papers and folders, until they got hold of him and stopped him. He kicked and screamed. They held him down; someone even sat on him.
When they finally let go of him he ran out of the building, out of the school, down the street; he ran as fast as he could, heading nowhere in particular.