Dark City Blue: A Tom Bishop Rampage

by Luke Preston

  Alice’s funeral was everything he’d hoped it would be. Her few loved ones had followed her to her final resting place. They had shared stories and laughed about the time she had done this or that, and her mother had even managed to keep it together.

  The ceremony had been beautiful. Perfect, in its away. Or so Bishop had been told by those who attended. When the time came for him to go to his daughter’s funeral, he couldn’t even tie his own shoelace.

  Chapter Forty

  The beating started long before Bishop knew anything about it, and whoever was behind it knew how to dish one out. His bottom lip stung, his eyes were swollen. He had a couple of loose teeth and there was a stabbing pain in his gut. A blow to the side of his head knocked him back to reality.

  At first, everything was in fragments:

  The pool of blood by his feet.

  The stitches in his gut.

  A figure hunched over him, badge on his belt. Blood on his knuckles.

  Bishop’s vision cleared: it was Cooper. Then he copped another blow. A right cross.

  He coughed blood.

  ‘He’s awake,’ Cooper mumbled.

  He stepped out of the light to reveal Rayburn leaning against a bench, looking bored. ‘Not so smart now, are you?’

  Warren, beside him, let out a laugh – sounded like a mule.

  ‘Feeling a little foolish actually,’ Bishop said.

  Cooper mustn’t have liked the tone in his voice, because he planted a nice uppercut into his ribs. Bishop heard at least one snap.

  He was tied to a wooden chair, his arms and legs taped to its arms and legs. He flexed his muscles, trying to test his bonds without being too obvious about it: things looked bleak.

  ‘There’s only ten grand here,’ Dennis said from a corner of the room.

  Rayburn pulled the last of his cigarette into his lungs and flicked the butt. ‘You’ll get the rest.’

  Cooper’s foot found it’s way to Bishop’s stomach. He held it there and, after a little pressure, the wound busted a stitch and blood spattered onto his shoe.

  The pain made Bishop nauseated.

  ‘What the hell did you fix him for?’ Cooper asked.

  Dennis looked up from counting his money. ‘How am I meant to know? He’s a cop. What if I let him die and you want him alive, huh?’

  Cooper shrugged and let up on putting his foot through Bishop’s gut. ‘Making him dead again is no big deal.’

  The door opened. Kirsty poked her head through. ‘I can’t run this shop all by me fuckin’ self now can I?’

  ‘Get the fuck out of here,’ Dennis yelled.

  ‘Wankers,’ she muttered under her breath and disappeared again.

  Dennis shoved the cash into his pocket. ‘I better go.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Cooper said. ‘Go shut that cunt up.’

  Dennis was halfway through the door when he stopped and looked back. He thought about having a go but after half a glance at the men in front of him, the thought didn’t last and he slammed the door behind him.

  Rayburn paced under the fluorescent light; it sucked the colour from his skin and made his eyes look black. ‘You’re not easy to kill.’

  ‘I’ll work on that.’

  Cooper came at Bishop with a right cross. His head snapped back. His mouth filled with blood, he leant forward and spat. A tooth bounced along the concrete floor.

  Bishop smiled.

  ‘You got something to say?’

  Bishop’s eyes meet his. ‘You really think this ends here? By the time this thing is over, I’m tipping some of you aren’t going to make it through this ordeal in one piece.’

  The three of them swapped a glance as if the unarmed, half-beaten old man taped to a chair was something to worry about.

  ‘Just out of curiosity,’ Rayburn asked, ‘How am I going to die?’

  ‘Unpleasantly.’

  ‘We’re just going to put one in your face, nice and simple like. Won’t even make it look like an accident, this time,’ he said.

  Bishop felt sick.

  ‘Look at his face, fuckin’ look at it,’ Cooper said and slapped his hands together.

  ‘Always thought you were better than everyone,’ Rayburn said and eyed Bishop’s broken body up and down. ‘Pity.’ Then lit a cigarette, pulled back and let the smoke dribble from his nostrils. “The Oak Park Apartments. Judge Jenkins. You remember being warned off it?’

  Cooper flexed his knuckles, almost all of them cracked. ‘You should have fuckin’ listened,’ he said.

  ‘You fucked with a lot of pay cheques, hurling Jenkins in.’

  ‘Too clean for a bribe …’

  ‘… And too fucking stupid to listen.’

  ‘Shame about the girl,’ Rayburn said. He leant down to Bishop’s level, spoke quietly. ‘You thought the roads were slippery. Pregnant girl in labour behind the wheel of a car. One thing leads to another, car slides off the road and knocks into a half-dozen trees.’ He stood up and squashed the cigarette under his foot. ‘Nice story if you’re dumb cunt enough to believe it. Who lets a nine-month pregnant bitch drive?’

  ‘And why was she driving your car?’

  Bishop gripped the arms of the wooden chair. Splinters dug under his nails but he didn’t care.

  He’d got her killed.

  Warren’s telephone rang and he took it over in the far corner. Then he turned to Rayburn. ‘We gotta roll.’

  Rayburn put on his suit jacket. ‘Do him quick,’ he told Cooper. ‘Take him to the dog food factory and meet us at the place.’ He cast a parting glance at Bishop. ‘It was always going to end like this.’

  ‘I’ll be seeing you,’ Bishop said.

  ‘Fuckin’ doubt it.’

  Warren followed, closing the door behind them. Leaving Bishop alone with Cooper.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Cooper smoothed out the towel until there wasn’t a crease or a crinkle to be seen. He then searched the room for anything made of glass. Already he’d collected a couple of old beer bottles, a bottle of rum and an unopened bottle of vinegar, all of which he’d put to one side and out of the way. When he was done searching, he placed all the empty bottles in the middle of the towel; as careful as if he were wrapping a baby’s nappy, he brought all four corners together, making a kind of hobo pouch. This he swung around his head, bringing it down on the table hard and fast. When he dragged the pouch from the table and let it hang by his knee, small shards of glass poked through and sparkled in the light.

  ‘I’m not going to lie to you. This won’t be over quick,’ Cooper said.

  He stepped back and swung. The pouch of glass hit Bishop’s face; it was softer than he expected, but the glass tore at his skin, studding his cheek like diamonds.

  ‘I’m going to make you beg,’ he said with a grin as he circled Bishop. ‘Big, tough Tom Bishop begging for mercy. This is going to be fucking fun.’

  Cooper stepped back and swung again. Bishop clenched his teeth, but nothing could prepare him for the searing pain as the pouch dragged across his chest, leaving a trail of twinkling splinters in its wake.

  ‘Beg, motherfucker. Beg like a fucking dog.’

  Another blow struck the back of his head. Bishop clung to the arms of the flimsy chair. A stream of blood rolled down the back of his neck. For a brief moment, its warmth was comforting.

  Cooper swung again.

  Breath held. Fists squeezed. Teeth clenched.

  The chair’s arms creaked.

  Bishop wanted it over. The pain. The blood. The guilt. All of it.

  Cooper swung the bloody pouch over his shoulder.

  Bishop’s wrists fought to break free.

  The pouch came down hard and more glass scraped his skin.

  Bishop hoped his mind would cut out the pain or his body would go numb but with every blow the pain grew worse.

  Cooper wasn’t a fit man and the beating had taken it out of him. He paused to catch his breath, wiped his sweaty face on his forearm.

  ‘Yo
u finished?’ Bishop gasped.

  Cooper laughed, and kept laughing as he made his way over to the bench. He popped the lid off the bottle of vinegar and held it over Bishop’s head. ‘I don’t hear no begging.’

  Bishop looked up. He saw three Coopers and focused on the one in the middle. ‘Do you really think you’re going to?’

  Cooper emptied the bottle over Bishop. His body caught fire: every scratch, every open wound set ablaze. He slumped forward, blood drooling from his mouth.

  He couldn’t take it anymore.

  He mumbled.

  ‘The fuck you say?’ Cooper gloated. He leant in close. ‘You’re going to have to beg louder if you want me to stop.’

  Blood rolled down Bishop’s chin. The words didn’t come easy. He mumbled again and Cooper moved even closer.

  ‘I’m listening.’

  Bishop took a breath. Held it. Then with a yank of his wrist, he ripped the arm of the wooden chair clean off. A long, rusty nail stuck out at one end and he drove it into Cooper’s neck. The tip of the nail scraped his spine. His body convulsed and crashed to the floor with his hand on his neck and his blood pumping through his fingers.

  It took Bishop a couple of moments to catch his breath, and a few more to pull free of the tape. When he tried to stand, the shards of embedded glass tore at his skin. He ran a finger down his neck and felt the tiny bumps of what used to be bottles and jars.

  No backyard doc operates without a healthy dose of the knock-you-outs. Bishop checked all the drawers and found a smorgasbord of uppers, downers, sleepers and don’t-make-any-fucking–planners. Bishop opened a bottle of Brufen. He downed three dry and shifted his attention back to Cooper on the floor. His colour was fading and his leg twitching.

  ‘Call an ambulance,’ Cooper stuttered.

  Bishop dragged a hammer off the bench and stepped toward him.

  Cooper scrambled into the corner of the room and pushed up against the walls until he couldn’t push back any farther. Blood pumped through his fingers, slowly making him an island in a sea of his own blood.

  Bishop’s hands trembled. The hammer tapped against his thigh. ‘You’re going to tell me where you’re meeting Rayburn. And I’m not going to lie to you. This won’t be over quick.’

  *

  Cooper told him what he wanted to know and then he died.

  Bishop found his shirt and leather jacket where he left them. He picked up his .45, tucked it into his waistband.

  He held out his hand. There wasn’t a shake or a tremor in it.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Everything was bright and washed-out and, once his eyes adjusted, Bishop saw that the Holden was gone. Stolen or towed? It didn’t matter. Wherever it went, it still had the body of Mickey Franks in the boot. He took Cooper’s car and headed out past Campbellfield and Thomastown and into the decay that ran along the Hume Highway.

  Broken-down heaps lined the road. Some were stolen and dumped, others were no more than shells that had been stripped for parts. Beyond the edges of the road lay a sea of caravan parks that had grown to make one massive maze of portable homes. If you could see beyond that, and most people couldn’t, your eyes would be treated to a view of the endless desert which, in these last few hours of daylight, looked as if hell was just over the horizon.

  The pain was back. Bishop ate three more painkillers, lit a cigarette and peered through the filthy windscreen. The rusted sign came into view. He eased off the accelerator and turned the car into the entrance of the Happy Times Caravan Park.

  It didn’t take long to get lost among the caravans, most of which sat in ruin with their faded and torn awnings hanging over cracked windows and punched-in fibreglass walls. Every second lot was home to some sort of vehicle in need of wheels and a miracle and, judging by the sporadic numbers spray-painted onto the walls of various caravans, the lot number that Cooper had given him was farther up the path.

  They’d see a car coming, so Bishop pulled over in front of a caravan with flat tires and climbed out. Apart from the odd grubby face here and there, the place appeared deserted.

  Bishop pulled the shotgun out of the back seat and racked it. Spare shells went into his pockets as he moved off the path and between the caravans.

  After fifteen minutes of stepping carefully through broken glass, Bishop found the meter box for Lot 67 and followed the cable to the mid-size caravan with one bedroom, a living room, half a kitchen, half a bathroom and a shitter. Nothing about it stood out.

  Bishop pressed an ear to the wall: the low murmur of a television filtered through. He held his breath, crouched and peered through the dirty window. Rayburn was leaning back on a plastic garden chair, his crew around him: Warren to his left, Mick Evens to his right; next to him was the bouncer from the strip club. At their feet sat a couple of duffel bags that Bishop assumed contained cash amounting to somewhere in the vicinity of fifteen million dollars. Rayburn must have brought in the extra muscle, and was scraping the bottom of the barrel to have called Mick Evens.

  His hands were covered in sweat. He wiped them on his jeans but it didn’t help. He raised the shotgun, taking aim at the closest, the bouncer. He drew a breath, exhaled and pulled the trigger.

  The blast smashed the glass and filled the bouncer’s shoulder with buckshot. He hit the floor. Bishop racked the shotgun. Fired off another quick round.

  Missed.

  The others jumped for cover and returned fire. Smoke filled the caravan. Bishop hit the dirt. Inches above his head, bullets ripped through the wall like tinfoil. His ears rang. The exit holes grew closer. He flattened in the dirt. Bullets cut over his head.

  The onslaught paused. Everyone reloaded. Bishop stumbled to his feet, ran around to the front of the caravan.

  It was three-and-a-half against one, he had to play it safe. He slid into the dirt behind a rusted-out Ford, swung the shotgun over the boot and took aim at the door. For a few moments, all he could hear was the ringing in his ears and the muffled pounding of his heart.

  Then, something else: a lock turning.

  Bishop climbed to his feet, took aim and unleashed blast after blast into the caravan door, sending splinters of wood and plastic flying every which way. He kept firing until the shotgun was empty, then he tossed it and pulled his .45. He followed it toward the destroyed door, used the barrel to swing open what was left. The bouncer fell through onto the dirt. Dead as nails.

  Bishop stepped inside. Gun smoke and dust burnt his throat. It was empty. The rear window open.

  Fuck.

  Bishop stepped over the bouncer and out of the caravan. He saw something in the corner of his eye.

  Too late.

  A bullet slammed into his shoulder and sent him flying to the ground; dust kicked up around him. He levelled the .45 with his good arm and sent three bullets in the opposite direction. All three hit the mark. Mick Evens cracked his skull on a rock when he fell but he was dead long before that.

  Somewhere in the distance, a car roared to life. Bishop peeled himself off the ground and limped onto the path. The car skidded around a corner and came at him. Warren, behind the wheel, floored it.

  Bishop raised the .45. It felt like a brick. He fired off five rounds.

  The first two shattered the windscreen.

  Another buried itself in the passenger-side headrest.

  The fourth hit Warren in the shoulder, and the last buried itself in his neck. But the car kept coming. At the last moment, Bishop jumped out of the way.

  The car rolled aimlessly past. There was no foot on the accelerator, no hands on the wheel. It pulled to the left, flattening what used to be somebody’s flowerbed and came to a stop in the lounge of some poor bastard’s home.

  Bishop climbed to his feet and eyed the .45 in his hand: one round left. But before he could even think about his next move, Rayburn appeared out of nowhere and tackled him to the ground. His weapon bounced out of his hands. He reached for it. Dug his nails into the dirt: too far.

  With each blo
w Rayburn dished out, Bishop saw a flash of white light. His nose broke in a different place than before. His right cheek caved in from three consecutive left hooks and somewhere along the way Bishop’s right eye swelled up and closed over.

  He threw up a punch. Missed. Threw another. It bounced off Rayburn’s chin.

  Bishop’s arms flailed about.

  He needed something.

  Anything.

  Then his hand latched onto the badge on his belt. Rayburn was too busy making mincemeat of his face to notice him unclipping it. Bishop squeezed the badge and swung.

  The tip of it slammed into Rayburn’s cheek. Bishop swung again and hit Rayburn’s temple. And again and again. Eventually Rayburn’s punches slowed until he stopped throwing them altogether. He moaned; it was a God-awful sound. Then, he fell facedown into the dirt and everything went quiet.

  His badge and fist were covered in blood.

  It took even more pain and effort for Bishop to make his way back to the bullet-riddled caravan and climb over the corpse of the bouncer. The duffel bags in the middle of the floor were nothing special, just a pair of generic green bags that could be picked up at most army disposals across the country. The two in front of him looked as if they were only a couple of days old. The folded creases from their packaging were still present but they weren’t as clean as they could've been.

  He pulled back the zips and found the fifteen million dollars in carefully wrapped plastic.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Bishop stumbled out of the caravan with a bag in each hand. His body was failing him and he pushed the pain out of his mind in the same way he did when he was a boy and copping a beating from his old man. It worked, but not as well as he would have liked.

  He shuffled along the dusty path for a few steps before he heard something behind him and stopped. Slowly, he looked over his shoulder and saw Patrick Wilson.

  The bags slipped from his fingers. ‘Pat?’ Then he saw the revolver in Wilson’s hand. ‘Oh, Pat.’