Dark Ink

by Gary Kemble

‘N-nothing . . . nothing, Mistress.’

  She sighed. ‘You see what happens when you disappoint me? It takes me to a dark place.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mistress.’

  She pressed her heel harder into his head. His forehead rubbed against the dirty linoleum.

  ‘It makes me want to hurt you.’

  Suddenly, the heel was gone, replaced by her hand, playing with his sweaty hair.

  ‘But I’m trying to be a better person, Johnny. And soon all this – all this pathetic need – will be behind you . . . but for now, I guess I’d better take care of you.

  ‘Get into the lounge room. Now.’

  Johnny felt a massive surge of gratitude. He crawled across the floor, hairs rising on the back of his neck as her heels click-clacked after him.

  CHAPTER 39

  Harry woke up in bed, disorientated. He wasn’t sure what time it was, but his room was filled with golden light. He was in his pyjamas, under the doona, and felt weak but well, as though recovering from the flu. The sheets smelt freshly washed.

  Harry stretched. Something felt different. Everything felt different. So different that at first he couldn’t put his finger on it. His mind felt truly clear for the first time in weeks. He could think. He panicked when Mistress Hel – Lily – came to mind, because he didn’t want to let her back in. But gradually he relaxed and saw her clearly. She wasn’t perfect. Nobody was perfect. But more importantly she was evil, and he was seeing that for the first time.

  The door opened a crack, then fully. Bec poked her head in.

  ‘I thought I heard someone rustling around in here,’ she said, smiling. ‘How are you feeling?’

  At the sight of her, Harry remembered everything. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Bec.’

  She came over to him and held him. She smelt wonderful. ‘Shh. Sandy explained.’

  Harry didn’t know how to respond, so he simply said, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For being here. For believing.’

  Bec frowned. ‘I’m not sure I’m quite there yet. But I care about you. I can see you need help. Do you want a cup of tea?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. No, I want you.’ He held his arms out to her, noticing how weak he felt. He buried his face in her hair and breathed her in.

  ‘What exactly did Sandy tell you?’ Harry said.

  ‘She . . . she said that that woman, the dominatrix, had drugged you . . . with some sort of mind-control substance,’ Bec said. ‘Is that true?’

  Harry considered. ‘Yeah, pretty much. I’m sorry for everything I’ve put you through.’

  With some effort, she pulled away from him. He wiped the tears away from his cheeks.

  * * *

  Harry dozed for a while, but he found that he soon became restless. He sat up, wincing at the pain in his back and ribs. He was remembering everything he’d fucked up recently. But for the first time in weeks he felt energised.

  He got out of bed and pulled on some clothes.

  Sandy looked up from her cup of tea when he emerged from his room, her eyes lined with worry. ‘Hello, love,’ she said.

  Harry strode across the room and gave her a hug, so hard that he squeezed the breath out of her and felt his back scream in anguish. The pain made him feel lightheaded, but also pure.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  She patted his arm. Her eyes were brimming with tears.

  ‘I don’t think I’ll ever be able to pay you back,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, you can,’ Sandy said, pulling away from him. ‘We saved you, but she’s still out there, spinning her web. Harry . . .’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I’m going to take her down.’

  ‘You need to be careful.’

  He sat next to Sandy. She held his hand. He found it hard to look her in the eye.

  ‘What you did . . . last night,’ Harry said. ‘Has that freed the others?’

  Sandy shook her head. ‘Unfortunately, no,’ she said, then reached into the massive shoulder bag by her chair. She pulled out a Dolmio jar filled with brackish water.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘This is the stuff we cut into your wounds last night,’ she said.

  Harry shuddered, remembering the intense agony.

  ‘It needs to go into their wounds too, to free them.’

  ‘But wasn’t that bag the source of her power?’

  Sandy shook her head again. ‘No. When Lily Sweeney made the offering, the Goddess conferred certain powers on her. She still has those powers.’ Sandy picked up the jar. ‘Think of this as a vaccine.’

  ‘So, if I could get Don Clack to . . .’

  ‘Let’s not worry about Don for the moment. Let’s worry about her.’

  ‘What do I need to do?’

  ‘We have to find out what her plan is. Even though you’re not under her spell anymore, she’s still dangerous.’

  Harry nodded. ‘Okay.’

  Bec emerged from the kitchen, drying her hands with a tea towel.

  ‘I want to confront her,’ Harry said.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Sandy said.

  ‘But . . .’ Harry saw the set of Sandy’s chin and the hard look in her eyes, and realised she was right. For now. Instead, he reached for his laptop. He opened ‘Recent Documents’.

  ‘I don’t even remember most of this stuff,’ he said. ‘It could be that I already know what she’s planning.’

  He pulled up everything he knew about Mistress Hel. He pulled up everything he knew about the victims.

  ‘Oh shit,’ Harry said. ‘It’s the fundraiser. At the Ekka. She’s going to . . .’

  Sandy was leaning across the table, staring at him. ‘What? Harry? She’s going to what?’

  ‘I don’t know. She wants revenge. She knows . . . my source . . . shit.’ Harry reeled. He remembered his last conversation with Johnny. The dead tone in his voice. It didn’t seem that unusual at the time.

  He snatched up his phone and dialled Johnny.

  ‘Harry, what . . .’ Sandy started, but Harry held up his hand.

  Johnny didn’t answer. Harry texted: Hey Johnny. Just checking to see if you’re all right. Call me, okay?

  He went to put down his phone, then dialled another number.

  ‘Harry,’ Sandy said, her voice a warning tone.

  ‘I need to do this.’

  The phone rang six times before Mistress Hel picked up.

  ‘Hello?’ she said.

  ‘Lily, it’s Harry. Harry Hendrick.’

  ‘That’s Mistress to you, remember?’

  Harry felt his heart flutter at her voice. In spite of everything. And in spite of everything, he had to bite back the urge to correct himself.

  ‘You’ve been thinking about unimportant things again, Harry,’ Mistress Hel said. ‘That’s only going to end badly.’

  ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘Do we?’

  ‘I know what happened to you.’

  A pause. Harry closed his eyes. In his mind he saw the smile fade on her lips.

  ‘You were raped. As a girl. You went to the police, but one of the rapists was a cop. Right?’

  She laughed but it sounded forced. ‘Oh, Harry. You really need to stop playing detective.’

  ‘Whatever you’re planning – don’t.’

  ‘And what’s the alternative, Mr Hendrick?’

  ‘I know about Marcus Wilson. I think I can take him down, just like I took down Andrew Cardinal last year.’

  Mistress Hel sighed. ‘I’ll see you next week, Harry.’

  ‘Wait! I’m going to interview him, tonight.’ It was a lie. Marcus Wilson had pencilled him in for next week. ‘He thinks it’s about his work on the flood recovery and the fundraiser, but it’s not. It’s about what he did. I’m going to confront him.’

  ‘Okay, Harry. You go do that.’ She laughed again, and this time it sounded real. The line went dead.

  Harry shivered. He stared at the phone for a few moments, mostly so
he didn’t have to meet Sandy’s eyes. When he did look up, she was frowning at him.

  ‘Well?’ Harry said. ‘It’s true. Whatever sort of monster she is, Marcus Wilson and other sickos like him made her.’

  ‘Is it true?’ Bec asked. ‘Can you take Wilson down?’

  ‘Look, before . . . before Lily fucked me over, I was on Wilson’s trail. The only reason he hasn’t gone down before now is because he was a cop.’

  ‘That’s not a trivial reason,’ Bec said.

  ‘No, right? Who would dare try to take out a bent cop? But that’s also his weakness. He’ll be complacent. And all it takes is one small crack, and the dam he’s built will collapse.’

  ‘And then?’ Sandy said. She still looked angry.

  ‘Maybe she won’t go through with it.’

  ‘That’s a big maybe, Harry. And yes, maybe Lily Sweeney is what she is because of those men, but that doesn’t change what she is. And it doesn’t change what she’s done.’

  Bec sat at the table. ‘Can’t we just go to the police?’

  Harry nodded. ‘About Wilson, or Lily?’

  ‘Both?’

  ‘I don’t want to go to the cops about Wilson until I’ve got something solid on him. I’m worried he has mates in the force who will protect him if they can. As for Lily – Mistress Hel – I don’t know.’ Harry thought about his two most recent conversations with Phil. He’d likely be highly skeptical of anything Harry had to tell him, and with good reason. ‘I’m worried that if they take her in before we know what she’s up to, maybe it will happen anyway.’

  CHAPTER 40

  Harry drove through suburbs, out onto the highway then back into more suburbs. The further he got from the highway, the bigger the blocks, the higher the fences. He wondered if he was driving into a trap. He hadn’t told Dave or Sandy or Bec that he suspected Wilson knew Harry was writing a story about his alleged involvement in the paedophile ring that had abused Lily Sweeney and Johnny and countless other kids. He knew they would freak out and interfere, and he knew that their interference would likely put them in danger. And Harry had put too many people in danger. It was enough that they knew he was going to interview Marcus Wilson. In the late afternoon light, kids played in sprinklers, even though it should have been too cold for such games.

  He pulled up outside an eighties-style high-set surrounded by a high brick wall. Night was settling now. There were lights on in the house. The curtains were drawn. A guy walked past with his dog. He didn’t pay Harry any attention.

  Harry climbed out of the car and walked through the front gate, and up the stairs to Wilson’s open front door. Someone was whistling. He tapped on the screen.

  ‘Hello? Marcus?’

  A man rounded the corner, dressed in a tuxedo. Wilson had aged since Harry had seen him on TV during the flood recovery, deep lines gouged into the corners of his eyes and around his mouth. But he looked fit and tanned.

  ‘Hello?’ He squinted.

  ‘It’s Harry. Harry Hendrick. I emailed you a while back . . .’

  ‘About the flood recovery article you’re working on. Yeah, but that’s not until next week and, as you can see . . .’ He gestured to his tux. ‘I’m a little busy this evening.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. I’m so sorry. I lost track of time. I’m actually going away with my girlfriend next week. I was driving past and I thought . . .’

  ‘You thought I wouldn’t turn you down if you rocked up on my doorstep? Right?’

  Harry tried his best to look sheepish. ‘I’ll be quick.’

  Wilson checked his watch. ‘All right. Fifteen minutes?’

  Harry grinned. ‘Perfect.’

  Marcus Wilson pushed open the screen door and grabbed Harry’s hand, pumping it up and down. Judging by his iron grip and the way he filled out his tuxedo, he had been working out.

  He led Harry into a neat but old lounge room. There was a large TV cabinet against one wall, the shelves around the TV filled with books and framed photographs of Wilson with various politicians, sporting identities and a couple of B-grade celebrities. The top of the cabinet was lined with trophies, each one topped with a statue of a man shooting.

  ‘Take a seat,’ Wilson said. ‘I’d offer you a drink but . . .’ He checked the time again.

  Harry sat on the black leather sofa and opened his notebook. ‘That’s okay. I really appreciate this.’

  Wilson perched on the adjacent armchair. ‘No worries. So, just passing, huh? Had a desperate a need to quiz me about the flood recovery?’ The smile dropped off Wilson’s face. ‘Cut the bullshit, Harry,’ he said. ‘We both know exactly why you’re here.’

  Harry held his stare, but it was hard work. He could see why Wilson had been such a good cop.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Well, this certainly makes things easier. You said I had fifteen minutes. Now we can spend fifteen minutes talking about child abuse and paedophiles. Do you mind if I record this?’

  Wilson set his jaw. ‘What do you fucking think? Get to the point and then get out of my house.’

  ‘I had someone come to me with a story of abuse,’ Harry said.

  ‘Oh really?’ Wilson said, his brows knitting with feigned concern.

  ‘A former student of St Therese. Abused for years by staff.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Wilson said, shaking his head. ‘That’s terrible.’

  ‘Yeah. On campus and off.’

  Harry stared at Marcus Wilson. Wilson held his gaze. Harry felt the anger building. He wanted to slam the former cop’s head into the coffee table. Instead, he took a deep breath.

  ‘And he says you were the ringleader, and that the paedophile ring you run is still operating.’

  ‘Care to tell me this joker’s name?’

  ‘What do you fucking think?’

  Wilson’s face hardened. Harry relished the sight.

  ‘I think you’re a naïve idiot,’ Wilson said. ‘I was a cop for more than forty years. In forty years of policing, you make a lot of enemies. They think if they throw enough mud, some of it will stick.’

  Harry nodded. ‘And you’re happy for me to publish that?’

  ‘You publish that,’ Wilson said, his voice barely a whisper, ‘and you will wish you were dead.’

  ‘Well, I was hoping for a standard denial but that will do just as nicely.’ He got up and headed for the door.

  ‘Hang on a minute! Hang on a fucking minute!’

  Harry felt a hand on his shoulder. He shrugged it off. ‘Don’t touch me.’

  ‘You come in here, accuse me of all this shit, and expect to just walk out?’

  Harry reached for the screen door. He saw Wilson moving, felt his arm on his shoulder again.

  ‘Wait, Harry, wait,’ he said, breath almost in Harry’s ear. Then Wilson grabbed Harry’s wrist and jerked it up behind his back, other arm cinched tight around his neck. ‘No, you don’t.’

  Harry sucked in a huge breath and lowered his chin to keep Wilson’s wiry forearm away from his windpipe. Ignoring the pain in the arm behind his back, he lifted a leg and pushed off against the wall beside the front door. Wilson staggered back, but only a couple of steps. He was strong.

  Using the momentum, Harry twisted, eyes wide, looking for something that could help him. The wall unit was too far away. The coffee table just had a couple of magazines on it. The dining room may as well have been the surface of the moon, for all the good it would do him.

  He reached up with his free hand and grabbed at Wilson’s head, tearing at his hair. Wilson grunted, but held on. His forearm pressed against Harry’s windpipe. Wilson was trying to bury his face against Harry’s neck, to protect it, but Harry found his ear, grabbed hold, and pulled as hard as he could.

  ‘Son of a bitch!’

  Harry was ready when the arm across his neck loosened. He dropped, twisted out of the armlock and pushed Wilson away from him. Wilson stumbled and fell backwards into the armchair, then rolled to one side and ran down the hall.

  Harry chased him.
Two bedrooms to the left. Bathroom to the right. Wilson went through a door at the end of the hallway and slammed it shut. Harry heard the lock slide across seconds before his shoulder hit, rattling the door in its frame.

  ‘I’m calling the cops,’ Wilson said.

  ‘Fine,’ Harry said. ‘Call an ambulance, too.’

  Harry took a step back and lifted his leg, slamming his foot into the door next to the lock. And again. And again. On the fourth kick, the door burst open.

  Wilson was on his hands and knees, head in the built-in wardrobe.

  ‘Get out of there!’

  Wilson slumped back against the wall. That was when Harry noticed the pistol pointing at him.

  CHAPTER 41

  Johnny assessed himself in the mirror. Everything had to be just right. He shivered, thinking about how she would be if everything wasn’t just right, and then how she would be if it was. They were nearing the end of the road.

  He ran a hand down the front of his crisp, short-sleeved, blue shirt. He’d tucked it into his dark blue pants. The name tag was real, but the name was fake. He picked up the utility belt off the chair and strapped it on. It was real too, had everything except the gun. Johnny had asked her, wouldn’t he need a gun? She’d just smiled and said no. He’d asked her where she got all the gear from. A shadow had passed across her face, and he’d been suddenly terrified. Then it was gone. She’d patted the side of his face, told him not to worry about such things.

  He cinched the belt tight around his waist, picked up the hat off the bed and set it on his head. A perfect fit. Everything was perfect where she was concerned.

  Somewhere deep down, he felt a quiver of doubt. He thought for a moment about Harry, the first man who’d actually believed him, and wanted to do something about it. But then he remembered how easily Harry had dropped it, how relieved he’d seemed, when Johnny expected him to be angry. As though he’d realised at the same time as Johnny had that there was no point trying to use the law to fight these people, that the law would never really serve justice upon its own. Johnny needed something more primitive, a blunt instrument, to set things right again. Get things back on track.

  Mistress Hel said that completing his task would be worth far more than simple revenge. Far more than sending a message. She said he would be erasing his past. Johnny had tried to argue and for once she’d been willing to accept his doubts. He asked her how it was possible. Ask and the Goddess will deliver to the faithful, she’d replied.