by Berry, Tony
‘One for the road,’ she said.
‘You sure?’
She nodded. He topped it up and walked off. Tamsyn took a long sip.
‘Last drink,’ she said. ‘Then I’m going to get a flucking fuffy dog.’
Tamsyn giggled. There were no other laughs this time. People were edging away. The man with the bottle was talking to Natalie and her companions. Voices were muted. Tamsyn felt in her pocket. The pass-key to the office was still there, forgotten in all the final-day formalities because of the spat with Natalie. If there were boxes of flucking fuffy dogs in the storeroom no one would miss just one. She took a deep breath and held herself taut and erect. She felt poised and upright as she wobbled towards the door and out into the street.
Ten minutes later she waved her pass-key over the sensor and pushed open the door into the front office. The glow of streetlights helped her fumble her way down the corridor towards the warehouse section. Here the ceiling was twice the height of the rest of the building. Industrial shelving lined the walls, pallets and cartons stacked high to the roofline. What little light there was came from two grimy skylights.
Tamsyn peered into the gloom. She felt weak and dizzy. Her bravado was fast evaporating. She felt the shadows crowding in on her. Too many cartons, too many boxes. She had no idea which ones contained the toy dogs. Her head was spinning. She wanted to close her eyes, to sit down, to return to the party, go home, feel normal, stop this buzzing in her head, the sickness in her stomach.
She turned to step back into the office area and only briefly felt the pressure from the hands that grabbed her and squeezed all life from her fragile body. The spasms of excruciating pain lasted for mere seconds. Then she knew nothing more.
SIX
BROMO Perkins awoke slowly and reluctantly in the pre-dawn gloom in response to the demands of a bursting bladder. He rolled from his bed and shuffled into the bathroom with eyes half closed. The luminous dial of the radio clock flipped over to 4:48 while he stood gazing blearily into the toilet bowl. Bones clicked as he rolled his sleep-stiffened shoulders. The gentle movement helped him adjust to being upright and semi-conscious at such an early hour. He pressed down on the flush button and realised his bladder was not the sole cause of his wakefulness. His mind had been busy, too, making him suffer a disturbed and fractured sleep. Replays of the day’s events had kept intruding in a jumbled compilation featuring muggers, paper packets, cryptic messages, diamonds and someone called Sigiriya. All that plus a thick head and furry tongue from too much red wine. Bromo had a fleeting thought that maybe he should go back to the meditation classes, learn how to switch off. For a while they had done the trick, then a welter of catastrophes had overruled everything and a good night’s sleep once again became a distant memory.
Bromo hesitated in mid-shuffle on his way back to bed. He gave the cold tap a couple of turns and held his hands in the flow of water then wiped them over his face. His mind was too active for sleep. Suddenly everything clicked. He realised he had been wrong about his attackers – but close. He had tagged them as coming from the sub-continent. Fired that shot in the dark about them going back to Mumbai. Right continent, wrong country. The accents all sounded the same.
He shook his head in disbelief. It was all coming back. How could he have forgotten Sigiriya, the fabled rock fortress of Sri Lanka and all that had happened there? That’s what came of trying to erase all memories of a life he was determined to disown. It was like blacking out unwanted names on documents or rubbing away with an eraser over mistaken annotations. Hold them up to the light and they were still there, faint but readable. Never fully obliterated. He had no choice; his past was ever present.
Bromo went through to the kitchen and briefly contemplated the idea of a comforting mug of hot chocolate overdosed with sugar. But he knew sleep was no longer on the menu. He switched on the coffee machine and trickled a handful of beans into the grinder.
‘Cometh the man, cometh the caffeine,’ he muttered as the beans were transformed into fine powder.
Bromo would have been hard pressed to provide a convincing answer if questioned about how he spent the next hour or so slumped in his capacious old wing-back armchair. He sipped the strong black brew, drifted in and out of sleep, thumbed through a couple of travel guides and gradually allowed his recollections of Sigiriya to filter back into his consciousness.
It was the usual shadowy assignment. Be there without being seen, without tags or titles, certainly without any official links or status. The bureau had briefed him well, created his identity, set up his contacts, booked his flights into Colombo and then cut all ties. As they always did. The message was clear: stuff up and you’re on your own; we don’t know you. It was ever thus.
He recalled the mission as relatively straightforward. A “fuck-me-and-leave-me job”, as the pen pushers in head office described it. The Tamil Tigers were waging their ongoing terror campaign against the Sri Lankan government. Their suicide bombers were causing havoc among innocent civilians. The army was fighting back and making inroads when an outbreak of atrocities that favoured neither cause dashed all hope of resolving this relentless war of nationalism and secessionism. Both sides denied responsibility. Each agreed the rogue element had to be stopped.
Helped by a dark-eyed beauty named Dayani Perera, Bromo wheeled-and-dealed his way around the back streets of Colombo, schmoozed his way into places no local could go and slowly insinuated himself, in arms dealer guise, into the rogue element’s hierarchy. Once the contact was made, it was Dayani who suggested Sigiriya, a mad playboy king’s mountain-top fortress, as the ideal place to demonstrate the efficiency of his hardware.
Bromo never saw the fortress. He faded from the scene and during his stopover in Dubai on the way back to London received a curt and euphemistic message assuring him the Sigiriya meeting had gone according to plan.
“The board is pleased with the outcome,” it said.
Much later Bromo was told Dayani had led a hit-squad that eliminated his would-be customers before they scaled the ladders leading to his proposed mountain-top assignation. Job done; no stuff-up. Until now.
Someone obviously knew not only of his connection to Sigiriya but also where he had resurfaced all these years on, put to grass in partial disgrace; hidden away in an Australian inner-city suburb where he languidly masqueraded as a one-man travel agency. It was information his masters had assured him would remain classified forever. They had failed him before and their promises were being broken again. Maybe not deliberately but someone was accessing data not meant to see the light of day. Bromo fancied he heard skeletons rattling their bones but it was only branches from next door’s tree hitting his window in the wind.
He sipped his coffee and thought of Sigiriya. His early rising meant having to cope with a ’twixt-and-’tween start to the morning. He had his coffee but no paper to accompany it. Bromo waited impatiently for the newsagent’s lank-haired delivery boy to send the Age spinning over the fence with his usual unerring aim. He heard its comforting thump in the courtyard below just as the ABC was launching into the 7:45 news broadcast.
Bromo pulled on daggy tracksuit pants and a faded T-shirt celebrating a Kiri Te Kanawa concert under the stars at Werribee Mansion. He stepped barefoot and gingerly downstairs to retrieve the plastic-wrapped paper. At last, his day could begin.
SEVEN
KEV Grundy had two speeds – slow and extra slow. These days he never rushed anywhere. Everything he did was a study in slow motion. He ambled rather than walked, a gentle rolling gait that belied the fact he had once been a first grade footy player who narrowly missed out on joining the list of one of the senior clubs.
He rolled his shoulders as he looked over the parched surface of Citizens Park, its concrete boundary busy with the daily procession of briskly moving people huddled into anoraks and windcheaters. Most were small, Asian-looking and elderly. Some gathered in groups going slowly through the graceful rhythms of tai-chi. All were relentlessly dedi
cated to ensuring their hearts kept beating for a few more years. Kevin knew many of them by sight, but none by name. They were too busy to stop and chat; too focused on anything but the few metres of ground in front of them. Their clothes always seemed to belie the weather; heavier than needed, especially for anyone on the move. Kevin, in work shorts, woollen checked shirt and a light three-quarter length nylon rain slicker was already feeling warm, despite the early morning chill and spattering of misty rain.
As he made his way towards the sports pavilion Kevin glanced at the cluster of dog people in the centre of the ground. The “dawn patrol”, he called them. As regular as the walkers. They paced to and fro, throwing balls and frisbies, urging their charges to run hither and thither and waiting for that moment when the animal would stop, haunches bent and bowels straining to discharge another mound of shit right in the middle of the playing field. Most owners did the right thing and cleared up the mess and Kevin always made sure the dispensers at either end of the ground were kept supplied with black plastic poo bags. Even so, there were still those who acted as if the steaming mounds were nothing to do with them.
‘Bloody drongos’, was Kevin’s usual muttered response as he shovelled spaniel shit from the goal square or scraped poodle poo off the wicket area. Not part of his job description but he wasn’t going to let anyone fuck up his beloved patch of turf. Today, however, he didn’t really care. The entire oval was about to be fenced off and torn up ready for a much-needed re-turfing.
Again he flexed his shoulders, all part of easing himself into the day ahead. His big-boned body was still reasonably flexible but more and more seemed to need a bit of stretching and bending to get the muscles into work mode. The only help they got these days were his irregular sessions rolling bowls over the rinks hidden away behind the town hall – yet another of the city’s secret treasures facing the threat of development.
Kevin nodded to two younger men in bright dayglow orange safety jackets. They were lounging against a large shipping container newly parked alongside the pavilion as their temporary office, workroom and shed. Polystyrene lunchboxes were piled at their feet.
‘G’day Jim, g’day Greg. Not a bad day. Bloody wind’s dropped thank God.’
The men, barely out of their teens and drafted in on a work-for-the-dole scheme, said nothing. It was too early even for small talk. They pushed forward languidly off their perch, picked up their lunch boxes and stood alongside Kevin as he produced a bunch of keys from his shorts. They watched him fumble with the padlock and chain holding the container’s door. He turned to them.
‘You opened up already?’
‘Come off it, Kev. You’re the only one with a key.’
‘This bloody thing doesn’t need a key. It’s open already.’
‘You must’ve forgotten to lock up.’
‘Bullshit.’
Kevin removed the lock from links of the heavy-duty chain entwined around the door handles. He levered the doors slowly open and took a couple of steps into the cavernous space. His workmates were one pace behind. They stared into the gloom. Spades, rakes, brooms and long metal spikes leaned against the left-hand wall. Rolls of wire netting, drums of oil, sacks of fertiliser and coils of rope were piled opposite. Towards the rear, four scuffed and battered director’s chairs had been folded up and were stacked against a work bench extending almost the width of the narrow “room”. Everything was as they had left it.
Kevin felt a slap on his back. It was Greg, the younger of the two; a bit of a loose cannon but a steady worker when he felt like it.
‘Told you so, Kev. You forgot to lock up. A senior moment. Don’t worry about it; nothing’s missing.’
He moved further in and pulled up one of the chairs. Kevin called after him.
‘Bugger off, Greg.’
He felt cranky. Whether anything was missing wasn’t the point. He was sure he had locked up, remembered testing the padlock. And if he hadn’t, he didn’t want it even hinted at that he might be showing the signs of advancing years. Anyway, he could smell something. A mix of smells.
‘Someone’s been here.’
‘Probably a couple of fuck-buddies,’ offered Jim. ‘Great place for it. Safe, warm, nice big floor to roll about on, no one to—’
Kevin rounded on him.
‘You, too. Shut it.’
Kevin sniffed deeply. His non-smoker’s nostrils detected nicotine. And something sweeter, gentler. Perfume. Scent. Expensive or cheap, he wouldn’t know. A woman’s smell. Fragrant and flowery. He moved past the bench towards the darkened rear of the container, a sniffer dog on the trail, the mingled smell getting stronger with each step.
‘What’s this?’
He pointed into the gloom. Greg and Jim edged alongside, Greg one pace ahead. Kevin tensed. He sensed their caution; it was infectious. It reminded him of a road crash scene where people hung back, wary of what they might find in the mangled wreck ahead of them.
‘Canvas, covers off the wicket,’ said Greg. There was a tremor in his voice. Unconvincing. They all knew he was wrong.
‘They’re in the pavilion,’ growled Kevin.
He was the boss. It was up to him. He stepped forward and bent over the huddled form. One arm stretched out. Some sort of fluffy white toy next to the body. White with splotches of red.
‘Shit!’
‘Kev?’
‘Phone the cops.’
‘What is it?’
‘Just phone the bloody cops!’
Kevin was shouting. Being unreasonable. Doing what wife Bev said he always did when his routine went haywire. She was right, of course. It was not fair on the lad. He’d done nothing. Kevin watched Greg run outside, his mobile phone to one ear. He could hear the urgency in his voice. Jim moved in close and nodded towards the rear of the room.
‘Is he dead?’
‘She.’
‘Oh.’
‘What do we do?’
They turned as one and looked at the shape in the darkness.
‘Nothing,’ said Kevin. ‘It’s way too late. Dead is dead. You don’t need to look.’
He put an arm around Jim’s shoulder and guided him gently out into the daylight. It was good to have someone to hold on to, and feel close to. Bev never offered that.
The police station is conveniently close – a modern concrete and glass block on the far side of the sports ground. The response was rapid and overwhelming: uniforms and plainclothes; sirens; an ambulance; patrol cars; unmarked cars; a photographer; people with jump-suits labelling them as Forensic. A couple of the fitter constables even sprinted across the sports field and arrived ahead of a patrol car that had anything but a clear run through the endless traffic chaos of Church Street.
Two plainclothes police guided Kevin gently away from the container. Detectives, they told him. A constable and a sergeant, they said. Who could tell? Both were wearing jeans, t-shirts and bomber jackets. Runners on their feet. Built for speed and action. Fool the foolhardy. Kevin hardly took it in; didn’t really care what they were. He glanced across to the tubular rail fencing off the sports field. He picked out the yellow vests of Jim and Greg. They’d been separated and were similarly surrounded by men and women in suits and casual wear. He was still in shock.
‘So, you found her?’
Kevin’s head jerked round. The voice startled him; broke into his trance-like state. Was it a question or a statement?
‘Yeah.’
They seemed to want more.
‘How?’
The question from the younger of the policemen fazed him. It wasn’t aggressive or accusatory; simply puzzling. What did he want? How did anyone find a body? You didn’t go looking for it. You stumbled upon it. It was sudden, unexpected.
‘She was there. At the back of the container. Dumped, I suppose. Someone had broken in. I could smell her perfume. Beautiful smell. Her body such a mess.’
Kevin’s voice trailed off. The two detectives shuffled their feet. Gave him time to recover. They mad
e notes on pads held to clipboards. Or maybe they were just going through the motions. Kevin welcomed the break.
‘Did you recognise her?’
This time it was the shorter, older detective who spoke, running his hand through long trailing locks of hair as he did so. Kevin was surprised to find himself going on the defensive. He had nothing to do with this. Just his bad luck that some lowlife had chosen his workplace as a dumping ground.
‘Of course not.’ He barked out the words. ‘Never seen her before.’ He reflected for a moment on what had happened.
‘Didn’t really look all that closely. It was too bloody obvious. She was dead. Horrible.’
There was silence. Pause for thought. More make-believe scribbling on pads and shuffling of feet from the detectives.
‘We have to ask,’ said the younger one.
It was almost an apology. He put a hand on Kevin’s elbow.
‘Perhaps you should see the medics’
He gestured towards the ambulance.
‘Get yourself checked out. Must’ve been a shock.’
‘Yeah, well, nice of you to notice.’
The detectives glared back. Insubordination. Not a good move. Kevin ignored them and moved away. Slowly as ever; ambling over to the ambulance where Jim and Greg were seated on camp stools while a couple of paramedics went through the motions of checking their pulses and blood pressure. It was something to do while they waited to be told emergency services were no longer needed. The patient in the container shed was beyond their help.
‘You okay?’
Kevin felt a gentle touch on his arm. A stocky blonde paramedic, tightly wrapped in belted blue overalls, was alongside. He felt her fingers tighten on his arm, guiding him to a chair, sitting him down next to Greg. He went with the flow, welcomed the soothing touch of her hand on his brow and let her wrap the blood pressure band around his arm. He breathed deeply and closed his eyes as the bulb inflated.
‘What’d’ you tell them?’
Kevin jerked awake. The paramedic had unstrapped his arm and moved away. Greg was standing, leaning over him. He sounded anxious, twitchy.