8 Hours to Die

by JR Carroll

  ‘He wasn’t really my mate,’ Sammy said. ‘I’d only just met him.’

  ‘People come and go in this life,’ Cornstalk said.

  Sammy thought that was an unusual thing for someone to say. But Corny had said it as if he meant it, as if it meant something to him.

  Sammy went to the bar for another round. When he turned, glasses in his hands, Corny was right there behind him.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, accepting the schooner. ‘Here’s how.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Sammy said. ‘Here’s how.’

  Couple hours later, Sammy was on his way. Cornstalk said, ‘Come to a party Friday night. Meet some people. Let your hair down.’

  ‘OK,’ Sammy said.

  Cornstalk gave him an address in Bondi.

  As he was leaving, Sammy said, ‘What’s your real name, anyway?’

  ‘I told you. Corny. Short for Cornstalk.’

  ‘Cornstalk’s not a name,’ Sammy said.

  Corny shrugged. ‘Good as any other.’

  Outside the pub, the roughnuts had dispersed. Sammy hadn’t thought about them once. He was feeling fine with a few schooners under his belt and a wad of cash in his back pocket.

  *

  Corny’s place turned out to be a flat about three or four blocks back from the main Bondi strip. It was up on a hill. When Sammy got there, about eight, the party was in full swing. Present were about a dozen or so men, gang members by the look of them, and a number of women who were scantily clad and who drank vodka and bourbon from the bottle. One of these wore a long white T-shirt with a big picture of a tongue on it. She had nothing underneath, not even panties. You could see her pussy through the fabric. Her name was Elvira. Cornstalk introduced Sammy to her, and to a guy named Stav. He was American, by the sound of him. Cornstalk put a cold can of VB in Sammy’s hand and told him he was on his own from now on. In the laundry, as Sammy discovered, a trough and several car fridges were packed with cans of beer in crushed ice. And there were pre-mix cans and spirit bottles everywhere.

  Soon enough Sammy could smell marijuana. The music was hard rock, none of which Sammy recognised. The volume was through the roof.

  Sammy was smashed by about 2am. He had a long chat with Stav, who informed him he was Canadian, not American. Stav was a tall, lanky guy with incredibly pale blue eyes that just grabbed you. He’d drunk a lot, at least as much as Sammy, but the alcohol seemed to have no effect.

  While he listened to Stav, Sammy’s eyes went in and out of focus. The last thing he remembered was wandering into a bedroom and being told ‘fuck off’ by a naked man who was busy screwing Elvira, still in her oversized T-shirt. All Sammy could see was a fat, hairy arse pumping furiously.

  In the morning he woke up on the floor in the lounge room with a rug over him. He felt like shit. The stink of dope and alcohol filled the room. There was a half-naked man, arms covered with tatts, snoring on a couch. Bottles and cans were strewn everywhere.

  It was early, the start of a glorious Bondi day. Sammy staggered downstairs and threw up in the shrubbery. Then he crawled into his car and went to sleep in the back seat.

  Some party, he thought, his eyes closing.

  32

  Downstairs, Cornstalk drove the sledgehammer into the splintering door with a relentless ferocity. The power of each blow seemed to build on the last as bits of timber broke from the door, and then he and Christo finished the job by putting their shoulders to it.

  That was when they saw the heavy-duty upended table that jammed the door shut.

  And the woman, standing in front of them with a gun in her two hands, pointing it at them.

  Christo’s gun.

  Her hands were shaking. Cornstalk smiled at her.

  ‘Evening, ma’am. Sorry about your door.’

  He strode into the room, climbing over the table, and grabbed the weapon from her. She didn’t try to resist; nor did she seem capable of firing it. Just stood there wide eyed, a plaster of Paris face.

  Cornstalk handed the .45 to Christo, standing behind him. ‘Yours, I believe.’ Then he slapped Amy’s face—a stinging blow. Her long, blonde hair flew in a fan, and she came to life with a short, sharp scream.

  He grabbed her by the arm and marched her up the stairs.

  While he was gone, Christo pushed the upside-down table out of the way, back into the kitchen area.

  Cornstalk and Amy entered the bedroom—where Stav was sitting astride Tim Fontaine, shotgun resting on the man’s nose. Stav wore a satisfied expression.

  ‘Secure?’ Cornstalk said.

  ‘Nailed down.’

  Christo arrived, a gun in each hand.

  ‘Watch her,’ Cornstalk told him, pushing Amy to one side.

  He grabbed the extinguisher and waded into the flames, spraying foam all over the bed, which was a roaring blaze. When that was under control he put out a few more spots, around the window, a bedside table and the wall where one of the Molotovs had exploded.

  ‘No need to take us all out, you crazy Canuck!’

  He tossed the extinguisher.

  ‘Pissant little fire,’ Stav said.

  ‘Not the fire does you in,’ Cornstalk said. ‘It’s the smoke. Noxious gases.’

  ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’

  Acrid fumes wafted through the room, along with the stink of burnt fuel.

  ‘All right, smartarse, get off him.’

  Stav got to his feet. Cornstalk took hold of Tim’s shirt with both hands and hauled him up, set him against the wall.

  ‘That’s better. Now we can see eye to eye. Yours don’t look so hot.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Tim breathed—a hoarse whisper. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘So many questions,’ Cornstalk said. ‘Well, here’s my business card.’

  He slugged Tim in the unprotected gut with a mighty punch. Tim doubled over. Cornstalk lifted his head by his hair, gave him another one, same magnitude.

  Tim was trying to drop, but Cornstalk wouldn’t let him.

  ‘Listen here, big-time lawyer—stand up and take it like a man.’

  Tim was sick, dribbling bile, bordering on losing consciousness. It was a level of pain he’d never felt before. Put Clive Dane, his schoolyard nemesis, to shame.

  Clive Dane. Weird, the thoughts that come to mind in a crisis.

  ‘Never had much time for lawyers,’ Cornstalk was telling him. ‘They talk big, promise the world, and at the end of the day, all they deliver is their fuckin’ bill.’

  Christo was getting twitchy with his two guns. He wanted to shoot the lawyer, now. See how it felt to shoot a man dead. But Cornstalk had other ideas. He’d have his fun first.

  ‘What do lawyers and ducks have in common?’ he was saying to Tim.

  Tim grimaced. When he tried to straighten, the stabbing pain in his chest and guts strove for an even greater intensity.

  ‘Don’t know? I’ll tell you. They can both shove their bills up their arse.’

  Both Stav and Christo laughed. They hadn’t heard that one before.

  But Tim had. At a lawyers’ convention, no less. It wasn’t funny then, either.

  Tim made an effort to dredge up what was left of his depleted reserves.

  ‘You don’t know me,’ he said, a string of bile swinging on his lower lip. ‘And I’ve never seen you before. So … what’s this all about?’

  ‘You’ll find out soon,’ Stav said.

  ‘He will, right enough,’ Cornstalk said. ‘But not till we’re good and ready.’

  ‘Let’s do him now,’ Christo said. ‘Come on!’

  Cornstalk gave Christo a sideways look. He was impatient for his revenge, still pissed because he’d surrendered his weapon. Christo could be a drama queen sometimes, but he was capable of coming up trumps on his day.

  When he caught that look, Christo shut up.

  ‘Let’s go in the other room,’ Cornstalk said. ‘I’ve had it with this fuckin’ smoke and shit.’

  They all moved next door.

/>   First thing Cornstalk noticed was the half-empty wine bottle and two glasses on the floor.

  ‘Well, well,’ he said, picking it up. ‘Hill of Grace. Only the best, right, counsellor?’

  He tipped it up and took a mouthful.

  ‘Very nice. But I’m a spirits man myself. Got anything good?’

  ‘Downstairs,’ Tim said. ‘Kitchen cupboard.’

  Cornstalk sent Stav to get it.

  When the Canuck came back he was holding an unopened bottle of Glenmorangie The Original, single malt.

  ‘Now you’re talking,’ Cornstalk said, grabbing the bottle from Stav. ‘Ten-year-old.’

  He cracked the seal, took the first slug—a generous one.

  ‘More like it,’ he said, and passed the bottle back to Stav. ‘Some vanilla notes in there, burnt coffee.’

  In a short space of time the bottle was half empty. None of it came Tim’s way.

  ‘I’d like to offer you some of this premium liquor,’ Cornstalk said. ‘But you got that filthy vomit on your mouth.’

  When he’d had his fill, Cornstalk turned to Tim, lifted his chin so he could eyeball him.

  He breathed whisky all over Tim’s face.

  ‘Now we get to the business part of proceedings,’ he said. ‘Remember what I told you before?’

  Tim shook his head. Christo’s .45 dug into his temple—it hurt.

  Cornstalk smiled. ‘Sure you do. You remember. When you told me the cops were on their way.’

  Tim swallowed. He was still shaking his head, feigning ignorance.

  ‘No use pretending. This is the real world. You got to deal with the consequences of your actions, reap what you sow. What’d I say, Tim?’

  Again, a shake of the head. ‘Don’t know what you’re on about.’

  Cornstalk slapped his face. He looked at Amy, that same sick, half-drunk smile on his face.

  Dread filled Tim’s heart.

  Stav had his arm around Amy’s neck. He released her on Cornstalk’s signal, pushed her onto the bed.

  ‘No!’ she said. ‘No, no, no!’

  ‘I gave fair warning,’ Cornstalk told Tim while he unbuckled his pants, ‘that if you continued to play hard to get, my boys and I would all bang your woman, and make you watch. Remember now?’

  ‘No!’ Tim said. ‘Don’t!’

  ‘Yes. And I’m first cab off the rank.’ He grabbed Amy’s legs, pulled off her shoes and tossed them. Then he ripped open her jeans.

  She shrieked and slashed his face with her long, manicured nails.

  Cornstalk touched his cheek—the fingertips came away bloody. ‘Bitch,’ he said.

  ‘Leave her alone, you animal,’ Tim said. ‘Do what you must to me, but for Christ’s sake leave her out of it!’

  ‘No can do,’ Cornstalk told him. ‘She’s in it up to her tits.’ To Christo, he said: ‘If he moves, or breathes, does anything at all—spread his brains.’

  ‘You bet,’ Christo told him.

  Cornstalk set about slapping Amy into submission. When she’d run out of strength, or will, or both, he pulled off her jeans and knickers. Amy crossed her legs, howling nonstop; Cornstalk slapped her around some more and forced her legs apart. Then he lowered his pants and gave Tim a deeply satisfied look.

  ‘This is what you call the spoils of war,’ he said.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Tim said.

  ‘For what?’ Cornstalk said.

  ‘I don’t know why you’re doing this, who’s paying you, but … I’ve got some cash on the premises. It’s yours if you just leave her alone.’

  Cornstalk smirked. ‘You think I’m dumb enough to fall for that bullshit?’

  ‘It’s not bullshit. It’s a client’s money. He pays in cash.’

  Cornstalk glanced at Stav, who wore a doubtful expression. ‘Man after my own heart. Just out of interest—how much of this cash are we talking about?’

  ‘About … fifty grand.’

  ‘And where is this fifty grand?’ Cornstalk said.

  ‘I’ll tell you what. I’ll give you this fifty, plus another fifty on Monday, in cash. One hundred grand, just to leave her alone. Do we have a deal?’

  Cornstalk thought about it for a moment. ‘Where is this cash?’ he repeated.

  ‘In the car. I’ll go and get it right now.’

  ‘You’ll do nothing of the sort,’ Cornstalk said. ‘We’ll get to that in due course. First things first.’

  Tim shut his eyes. That pistol was gouging a hole in his head. Tim knew he only had to twitch and the little box-chested bastard would blow him into the next life.

  Cornstalk went to work amid Amy’s cries and whimpers. He held her by the wrists, pinning them.

  ‘Get off me! Get off!’ she shouted.

  When Cornstalk ignored her, she spat in his face; when Cornstalk released one of her wrists to wipe it off, she took a swipe at him.

  Cornstalk responded with a backhander across her cheek. That stilled her. Whenever she tried—ineffectually—to close her legs, he just pushed them open again, and carried on. When her howls became too annoying, he clamped a hand over her mouth.

  ‘Relax, baby … Go with the flow.’

  Stav looked on, rapt, one hand on his crotch. ‘Stick it to her good, man! Stick it to her!’

  Bitter tears streamed down Tim’s face. He realised that, even if by some miracle they survived this night, he would never be able to look her in the eye again.

  His wife had been raped right in front of him, and he’d done nothing to stop it.

  They could not come back from here. This was the last nail, if one was needed.

  *

  Soon as Cornstalk climbed off the bed, pulling up his pants, Amy curled into a foetal position, both arms jammed between her legs.

  Not for long.

  Stav made his move, all over her like a giant spider, slapping her backside, turning her over.

  It was too much to bear. Tim thought dimly, If I have to die now, so be it …

  ‘OK … Be nice, sweetie … Won’t be long now …’

  Tim braced himself, preparing to leap at the Canadian.

  The gun dug deeper into his temple.

  ‘Go on, arsehole—just gimme a reason! Please!’

  No use—he wouldn’t have got one metre.

  Amy struggled vainly against the rapist’s weight, the screams choking in her throat.

  Tim shut his eyes.

  His body went slack.

  The Canadian had his way. He didn’t spend long at it.

  He gave Amy’s backside another slap before dismounting, zipping up.

  ‘Get some, buddy,’ he told Christo. ‘She is hot.’

  Christo handed his gun to Cornstalk, who assumed guard duty, and approached the sobbing wreck spreadeagled on the bed.

  Something inside told him he wasn’t equal to the task.

  33

  Sammy was in the back seat of Cornstalk’s car, a flashy red Commodore SS. Corny was at the wheel, Stav alongside him. Stav was trying to find something reasonable on the radio.

  They were on their way to Byron Bay.

  It was going to be a long drive. The day was hot, and there were many kilometres to go. In the back next to Sammy was a car fridge full of beer. Travellers. They were all necking stubbies. When Corny and Stav finished theirs, they’d pass the empties over to Sammy, he’d put them back in the Esky and hand them fresh ones.

  Sammy didn’t know why they were going to Byron Bay. Corny had just told him to be ready early; they were going on a road trip.

  Nearly a year had passed since the truck heist. Nothing had ever happened about it. Corny was right: they were in the clear. The murder of the man known as Dingo was in the unsolved basket.

  Sammy was now a fully patched-in member of Cornstalk’s gang, the Black Mamba Motorcycle Club. He had a denim jacket with the patches and insignias on it, but no motorcycle. Didn’t seem to matter. Cornstalk rode his once in a while; Stav was about the same. Some of the other members were re
al bikers. There were only about a dozen in the whole gang.

  Cornstalk had told him that he’d been thrown out of the Hells Angels. He didn’t say why. Stav, too, was an ex-Angel. Sammy wondered how bad you had to be to get yourself kicked out of the fucking Hells Angels.

  Both Cornstalk and Stav were smart; a lot smarter than Sammy. Stav had even read books, and sometimes talked about things that made no sense. Sammy had never read a book in his life, not even in prison.

  After a couple hours on the road, Cornstalk told him they were actually going to a place called Bangalow, not far from Byron.

  ‘Going to see an old mate,’ he said. ‘Or I should say, an ex-mate.’

  ‘What’s he done?’ Sammy said.

  ‘He’s fucked up,’ Corny said. ‘We had a deal. He reneged on it. Cost me a quarter mill.’

  The ex-mate in question was a guy named Troy Baker, another biker. Sammy’s world was full of them. Sammy had a feeling Baker wasn’t going to be pleased to see his old comrades-in-arms. He didn’t know the half of it.

  When they arrived, late in the afternoon, no one was home. The ramshackle house was in the bush, on a dirt road. There was a decommissioned bus on a vacant block next door that looked like someone’s home; two or three other flimsy houses along the street. Two little hippie urchins played in the dust. They were maybe five years old and already had dreadlocks.

  Cornstalk parked out front of Baker’s place. They got out, had a stretch. It was still a gorgeous summer day. Insects buzzed in the hot air.

  They knocked, tried the door. No go. Stav pushed open a window, forcing the lock, and climbed in. In a few seconds they were all inside.

  ‘May as well make ourselves comfortable,’ Cornstalk said. He opened the fridge. There was plenty of beer. ‘Looks like he was expecting us.’

  Stav laughed. They each popped a VB and sat down to wait for however long it took for Troy Baker to come home. Sammy had no idea what was going to happen. It had not been discussed, but he knew the day would not end well.

  After about an hour, a car pulled up outside. After some delay, an ordinary-looking man wearing a T-shirt and cargo shorts appeared. He was carrying plastic supermarket shopping bags. He had thinning hair, with a Chinese-style goatee and a large gut.