No Safe Place

by Jenny Spence

  We go through Castlemaine and turn onto the back road. Yet another hobby farm has popped up as the area’s popularity spreads, but there’s still a buffer of bush protecting our land, and when we get there it’s hard to believe we’re only a few kilometres from town. There are still no outside services. My parents and their comrades chose not to connect electricity or phone lines, never dreaming that there would be mainstream alternatives to these things within their lifetimes. Charlie is still mystified at the notion of a wi-fi connection to the Internet, but he has one, solar powered. He also has a mobile phone and a Skype account. For all that, though, coming onto this place is like entering a time warp and for me, it’s also coming home.

  The gate hangs crookedly open, as always, and the track is rougher than ever. We turn off into the first valley and pull up at the communal house, which looks neglected and forlorn, the rusted iron sheets peeling away here and there, the recycled leadlight windows coated with dust. Inside, there are bat droppings all over the table and floor, but nothing’s managed to get into the big tin trunk where we store the mattresses, cushions and lamps.

  “Better do a clean-out,” says Miranda, wrinkling her nose.

  “Yes,” I say, then step outside and look up. The colour is already leaching out of the sky, and I can feel a chill in the air. “We need to get a fire going, too. You start sweeping and I’ll collect some firewood.”

  I sling a hessian bag over my shoulder and go up through the trees behind the house, gathering handily sized pieces of dead wood as I go. When I come back with the first load Miranda’s happily sweeping, humming nursery rhymes to herself, like when she was a little girl. I smile with contentment and set off again further up the ridge.

  From the top I can see smoke from Charlie’s fire. Beyond that, the far-off gently rolling hills are serene and unchanged. The mist is already rising, though it’s only mid-afternoon.

  The phone in my pocket nudges me. A message. Of course, with this cursed thing I’ve probably been out of range since we went through Digger’s Rest, but up here there’s a sweet spot for reception.

  It’s not just one message but several. And they’re all from Lewis.

  “Elly? Call me when you get this. We think we know who the killer is. Elly, the thing about this guy is he doesn’t leave any witnesses. No-one alive has ever seen him. Don’t go anywhere he can find you. Stay away from your house. Elly, you need to go somewhere safe and stay there until we catch him. Call me!”

  “Elly? Where are you? Did you get my message? We think the reason this guy came after you the first time is because you saw his face. Listen, you’re not safe. Call me and let me know where you are . . .”

  I drop the bag of firewood and run down the slope towards the house. It’s like one of those dreams where you try to run but your legs will only move in slow motion. “Don’t go anywhere he can find you.” He took Carlos’s hard drives. Carlos was obsessed with me. Carlos would have known about this place. He probably had maps, pictures, all sorts of stuff.

  It feels like this is never going to end, never. We’ll need to go to Bendigo or further, to Echuca, tonight. I’ve got enough cash for one night in a motel. After that, I’ll send Miranda away somewhere.

  A thin trail of smoke rises from the chimney and the broom lies abandoned by the open door. I leap over it.

  “Miranda! We have to . . .”

  She stands frozen by the fireplace. He’s behind her, one arm around her, almost protectively, the other holding the gun that’s nestled in her hair. They both watch me come in.

  “Mum.” Her voice is husky. “I’m sorry.”

  “Tell me what you want,” I say, terrified. “I’ll do anything if you just let her go.”

  There’s a sliver of ice in my heart. Maybe I somehow caught it from Helena. Through all my emotional turmoil I know one clear logical fact: he is going to kill us both.

  “I want his name,” he says. His voice is ordinary, even pleasant.

  “What?”

  “Someone saw me. In Sydney, in that building. Someone told you I was coming. I need to know who it was.”

  He wants me to give him Steve. That’s why he hasn’t killed us yet. But he’s not as clever as he thinks. If he wants to use Miranda to bargain with me, he shouldn’t have let her see his face. He should have worn a mask, or a balaclava or something, to make me think he would let her go.

  “I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you!” I say. “Just don’t hurt her!”

  He smiles thinly and gives Miranda a little push towards me, at the same time moving around so that he’s between us and the door, the gun pointed steadily at us. In the instant that he’s distracted I slide my hand into my pocket and press a button on my phone.

  “Why did you try to kill me in Sydney?” I ask.

  “Just business, sweetheart,” he sounds bored. “Whatever the agency says.”

  “Did you recognise me, from Melbourne?”

  “Took a minute, but you’d need more than a haircut to fool me. Now, give me that name.”

  “Mohammed. I don’t know his last name.”

  “Are you fucking serious?”

  Miranda stiffens beside me. She’s stopped shaking, which I take as a good sign.

  “Look, I hired this guy from a security company to watch out for me. You had me scared. I’ve got all his details in my phone,” I say, gesturing towards the door.

  “In your car?”

  “No, we’ve got a solar power station up on the ridge.” Will he buy that? “I put it on the charger up there. I’ll go and get it.”

  He hesitates for a second. “We’ll all go,” he says.

  We set off up the slope behind the house in a tight bunch. There’s a narrow track, defined by forty years of meanderings over the land. He makes me and Miranda walk side by side, while he follows close behind.

  The track goes uphill through scrubby eucalyptus forest, mostly regeneration. The spindly trees are no more than one or two metres apart. The ground is stony and covered with dead wood, bush litter and some sparse undergrowth. Miranda and I know this route well because we’ve so often walked it at night, by torchlight. We’ve even walked it by starlight.

  “Why did you kill Carlos?” I ask as we walk.

  “Who?”

  “In West Melbourne.”

  “Oh, fatso.” His tone is sneering. “Didn’t he squeal!”

  I stop and turn. “You piece of shit!”

  He laughs. “Keep walking, sweetheart. Like I said, it was just business.”

  I pretend to stumble on a fallen branch and go down on my knees. As I come up I push Miranda in front of me, so we’re now in single file.

  It’s only taken me a minute or so to think through all the possible ways this can go. Miranda and I have got a tiny chance, a sliver of a chance, if we can split up. Even then, a number of things will need to go our way. Firstly, reaction time: he’ll have to decide which of us to go after. It won’t take long, but it will give me a start. Second, normal psychology will need to work over logic. Logically, he should probably try to catch Miranda; then he could reel me back in. But I’ve been his quarry for a long time, and he thinks I’m heading for a phone that I can use to call for help; so I think he’ll go after me. Third, I’m relying on Brownian paths. I think they’re what got me here in the first place: little twists of fate that change everything. I remember Lewis telling me back in Fawkner Cemetery, aeons ago, that it’s useless trying to shoot someone through trees. Once the bullet is deflected by the first tree it can go anywhere, but it would take a fluke for it to go anywhere near its target. He might be firing at me, but he’s not going to hit me.

  I feel sick as we come to the fork in the track. If Miranda’s not quick enough, she’s dead. We’re both dead.

  I lean forward and speak clearly into Miranda’s ear.

  “Over the water,” I say.

  We reach the fork.

  “Now!” I yell.

  She takes off like a hare on the left-hand path whi
ch leads to Charlie’s house. I run straight up the slope through the densest area of trees. I can hear him behind me.

  I’m ahead of him when I reach the top of the ridge, then I’m flying down the other side, following an invisible path. He’ll think I’m zigzagging to avoid being shot, but there’s more scrub on the hillside here and a lot of erosion. I’m running where the ground is firmest, and if he comes after me in a straight line he’ll find it harder. He might even fall, if I’m lucky.

  He doesn’t fall, but I’m still ahead when the ground levels out and I head into the wilderness of coffee bush. How often have we cursed this coffee bush, an opportunistic native plant that has taken over the areas once cleared by gold miners. The dense, green, feathery fronds are over head-height, and once I’m in it he can see movement, but he can’t see me. Nor can he see the dry creek beds and collapsed rabbit warrens that make progress difficult across this area – if you don’t know the country, which I do.

  When I get to the other side, I think I’m a little bit further ahead. This is the worst bit, because I have to cross another small ridge that’s pretty exposed. I can’t look back, I just have to count on him still being caught up in the coffee bush.

  As I fly across the ridge I feel something whoosh past my ear. Jesus, he’s a good shot, I think, a terrible weakness coming over me. This isn’t going to work.

  Then I’m among scrubby trees again. They’re not as dense here. I have to weave a little, but not too much. I need to draw him along a path that I can see clearly in my mind.

  We’ve reached the old gold mine fields.

  I run on faith and memory. When we were kids, I was the best one at this. Mark and Carol used to whoop with delight as they watched me, but when we got older they’d plead with me not to do it. Some of the mine shafts are obvious, and there are paths made by animals that run beside them; but some of them are hidden in the undergrowth. Their depth varies. A few were filled in, several were abandoned before much digging was done, but there are at least half a dozen that are frighteningly deep. We worked out a route to take in the deepest ones, and we’d time ourselves racing across it. Like a hurdler, I did it by getting my stride length just right, so I could fly straight over the top.

  Am I kidding myself that I still know the way after all these years? Is my memory that good?

  I find myself doing a little shuffle by the Casuarina tree and I feel a tiny bit more confident. Then I’m off.

  He’s not far behind me. I hear cracking noises as more bullets hit trees around me. My path isn’t straight, but if he gets any closer he won’t miss me. I’m more than halfway through now – maybe three more deep shafts to go.

  I’m through to the far side when I hear it. He doesn’t cry out, but there’s a cracking and rustling of breaking branches, and I turn my head in time to see dust billowing and foliage hitting the ground and something surreal: his gun, flying up in a graceful arc and landing on the ground halfway between me and the broken shrub.

  There’s no sign of him.

  I tiptoe forward, trembling, and snatch up the gun. I can see the hole, which is exposed now. I don’t know how deep this one is. There’s a profound silence.

  I should creep over to the edge and peer in, to make sure. But I can’t do it. My nerve has gone, my legs have turned to water. If I go near the mineshaft I’m terrified a hand will come out and snatch my wrist, or my ankle, and drag me in. I slump down where I am, my back against a tree, holding the gun in both hands, pointing it steadily towards the hole and wait, my mind empty.

  After a short time, or maybe it’s hours, I hear the thwack, thwack of a helicopter overhead.

  44

  He didn’t die. They pulled him out with a fractured skull and two broken legs. I wanted to kill him, but I don’t know how I would have dealt with having that on my conscience. However savagely just, it would have brought me down to his level.

  “He’ll wind up in a Victorian prison,” says Lewis. “They’re queuing up with murder charges all over Australia, but we get first dibs. The admissions you recorded on your phone are very helpful, especially the Carlos one.”

  “I’d rather he was further away,” I say.

  “What you’d rather is that he never gets out,” says Lewis.

  “How long will it be?” I ask, picturing myself as an arthritic pensioner, looking over my shoulder once again, sleeping rough.

  “A long time. And anything can happen while he’s inside. A guy like that would have a lot of enemies, so he’ll probably need to be in high security. For his own protection.”

  “Safe in the arms of the law?”

  “In theory. As safe as he can be.”

  “They do make an effort, don’t they? To make sure nothing happens to them?”

  “They do. As with Carl Williams.”

  Everyone knows the story of Carl Williams. He only had contact with two other prisoners, but that was enough. Well, let this bastard take his chances.

  “What about Darkside Inc?” I ask. “Have you found out much about them?”

  “Let’s just say that thanks to Carlos we have insights,” he says. “We now know the organisation exists – it’s not just a rumour. But it’s sort of gone underground. That’s the way it seems to operate. It’s able to disappear, and nobody knows anything.”

  “What about Helena and Gleisman?”

  “We cracked O’Dwyer, and you were right. He would have done anything for Helena, but he was a bit sour when we told him about the rest of the money she got from Talbot’s account. She and Gleisman are banged up, but they seem to be small fish. We still have no idea who the major players are, and they don’t know either. People only know the operator next to them in the chain of command. It’s a very secure model.”

  “And the bank?”

  “Vanished. Beauty of being online. It still exists somewhere, obviously, but it’s invisible again until someone like Carlos stumbles on it.”

  And heaven forbid that that should happen.

  That’s it now, with Lewis. He’s come to see me at the office to give me this last update, and we both know it wasn’t even strictly necessary. But there are no more excuses for us to meet, and I’m not going to see him again.

  We go out into weak sunshine. As usual, he’s parked right in front of the building, next to a big red ‘No Stopping’ sign.

  “Well, thanks for everything,” I say feebly.

  “All part of the service,” he says.

  If he were someone else, maybe a work colleague at the end of a big job, we’d give each other a hug. But he’s a cop, so we don’t do that. Instead he gets into the car and opens the window.

  “Stay out of trouble, Elly. And if you ever need me . . .” He holds up a hand in the universal phone gesture then starts the engine.

  I nod and smile. He drives off quickly, which is good. I wouldn’t want him to see tears in my eyes.

  I can put a clone of him in my fantasies. There’s no harm in that.

  45

  Derek organises a funeral for Carlos. I don’t know what the celebrant makes of it. I stay right out of the arrangements, and the guys from work do everything. Some of them join forces in the eulogy, and there’s a continuous projection on a big screen at the back that’s just lines and lines of code.

  It’s all I can do to distinguish the different programming languages, but I do shed a tear when I recognise a chunk of Perl. Carlos was always wanting to show me his Perl scripts because he was tremendously proud of the elegance of his syntax, and I was always making excuses to avoid it. It wouldn’t have hurt me to indulge him once in a while.

  After the service, a colourless man in a suit buttonholes me.

  “You’re Eleanor Cartwright?”

  “Elly,” I reply.

  “Dennis Crowne. We represent Mr Fitzwilliam. There’s a matter that requires your attention. Could you come to my office tomorrow some time?” He hands me a card. “McCutcheon Crowne, Solicitors”, it reads.

  “I’ve got
some time now,” I say. “Do you want to go and get a coffee somewhere?”

  “I would need to see you in my office,” he says stiffly. “Would two o’clock tomorrow be suitable?”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  I’m mystified. Could Carlos reach out from beyond the grave and make more trouble for me?

  The next day, at two, I present myself at a musty little office in Collins Street, all wood panelling and horsey prints. Hardly Carlos’s style, but he probably never went there.

  Dennis Crowne sits at a heavy varnished desk and burbles on in legalese about trusteeships, estates and legatees. I can’t have been concentrating when he started, because for all my facility with language I can’t make sense of what he’s saying.

  “Wait a minute,” I say. “Sorry. Did Carlos make me an executor of his will?”

  “Certainly not!” He looks a little shocked. “That could represent a conflict.”

  “How come?”

  “It’s not customary for the chief beneficiary to be named as executor. In the event, Mr Fitzwilliam was quite happy for . . .”

  “Chief what?”

  “Sorry, Ms Cartwright.” Finally the penny drops for both of us. “I thought you were aware that you are the chief beneficiary of Mr Fitzwilliam’s estate.”

  There’s a letter addressed to me, kept along with the will.

  Dear Elly,

  Knowing the difference in our lifestyles, which you keep not-so-subtly reminding me of, I’m guessing you’ll be around to read this letter and find out what I’ve decided to do with my not inconsiderable assets.

  Now, before you get on your high horse and start protesting, just consider. I’ve got no family, as you know. I’ve got no close friends. Derek doesn’t need my money. I’m not the type to give it all to charity. All I can do is spend it, as I did in life, in the way that gives me the most pleasure. And what gives me pleasure is the thought that I can help you. Why not? I don’t know anyone more deserving.

  If you really want to get snooty about it you can give it away to the whales or the lost dogs, for all I care. But don’t say I didn’t try!