by Berry, Tony
‘It’s me, Fokisi,’ he grunted.
‘It’s open. Top floor.’
He heard the whirr of a motorised lock and the click of a latch. He pushed the heavy metal door and stepped into a spotlessly clean white-tiled foyer bereft of any furnishing or decoration other than a huge modern artwork on the facing wall. The unframed canvas was totally black apart from two small squares of dark red in the top left and bottom right corners. Fokisi glanced at the small board fixed alongside informing anyone who cared that the work was titled Contrast and Conflict in Love, Anger and Passion.
‘Whatever,’ he said as he walked towards the lift. ‘Wankers.’
His upward journey ended in a minuscule foyer. Natalie was waiting for him two steps away, holding open the door of her apartment. He paused and took a quick intake of air. She was wrapped from neck to ankle in a deep turquoise garment; he hadn’t a clue as to whether it was a gown, caftan or robe but he saw enough to note it was somewhat lacking in zips or buttons and was only partly closed by a fabric belt loosely knotted at the waist. It was the first time he had seen her in anything other than the severe clothes she favoured for work. Only the killer high heels were a constant; in a colour to match her robe.
‘Something wrong?’
‘You’re not wearing black,’ he stuttered.
‘How very observant of you,’ she smiled. ‘Is that all you noticed?’
He ignored the question, thankful that the colour of his skin masked his blushes of embarrassment. He squeezed past her into a room as sterile as an operating theatre and more minimalist in its decor than the downstairs lobby but several times larger. The furniture was chrome and glass or white leather. Not even a television screen or stereo player, unless they were hidden behind the wall of cupboards ‒ all in white gloss – that had not a single handle or knob to mar their flush profile.
‘Wow, I could fit my entire place in here.’
‘My breathing space,’ she said. She spread her arms wide, her gown falling open wide enough at neck and knee to expose cleavage and thighs. Fokisi thought of that scene in Titanic. Her head was tilted back, eyes half closed, breathing deeply inwards.
‘It’s where I exhale and expand and respire. Where I—’
‘Sort of like a gym, eh?’
She seemed to deflate in front of him. Her arms dropped to her sides and her whole body went as limp as a flat balloon.
‘No!’ she snapped at him. ‘Nothing like a gym.’
She clicked her thumb and middle finger in the direction of an enormous long white leather lounge.
‘Sit,’ she ordered, ‘and tell me what’s been going on with those bloody Sri Lankans.’
Fokisi obeyed and felt himself sink into the plush cushioning of the seat. He wondered if it had been tested to bear 130kg Tongans. And what would happen if the rest of the rugby pack joined him? He grinned at the thought.
‘Something funny?’
He recognised a reprimand; it was her business voice, the one she used when she was ordering him around at work; and when she wanted him to do other things – quickly. Her “needy” moments. He was back on familiar territory.
‘Just a thought,’ he muttered.
She sashayed over to him and ran a hand over his head, her body swaying in front of him.
‘My dear tiger, I don’t pay you to think,’ she crooned. ‘Now, the Sri Lankans …?’
Fokisi kept his eyes focused down towards the floor of timber lengths polished to almost mirror brilliance. His voice was a deep monotone as he recited details of the movements of Dayani and her friends, expanding his report with what he had gleaned from newscasts of the massacre at the airport.
‘Three men dead,’ he commented in a tone of mild disapproval. He shook his head in disbelief. He was an enforcer, a standover man, not a killer. Things were getting out of hand.
‘Nothing to do with us,’ Natalie snapped back. ‘They were hired help.’
‘Does that make it any better? They were people.’
She stopped swaying. He sensed her body go rigid. He had stepped over the line and expressed an opinion. His deeply religious island culture had for once come to the fore.
The silence was total. He waited. Her hand made another soothing circle of his head before she swung it away and back again in a wide arc. Her open palm struck with full force hard over his left ear. There was a buzzing and a ringing in his head, a pain shot up somewhere at the back of his eyes.
‘I told you, no thinking; no comments. Remember Fazal, he tried thinking, too.’
Fokisi needed little reminding. Everyone in the organisation knew what had happened to Fazal, and why.
‘Sorry Nat,’ he muttered, his eyes still downcast. ‘I just—’
‘Just nothing. Do what you’re paid to do and we’ll get along fine. You might even get a little bonus.’
Her body started swaying again; her hand went back to stroking the top of his head. He felt his body stirring. Her sharp business voice returned.
‘Now, tell me what Bromo Perkins has been up to,’ she said. ‘And if you’re a good boy, I might even listen to any ideas you have for stopping his annoying interference.’
Fokisi maintained his downward focus as he reeled off details of Bromo’s recent movements, confirming the man’s presence during the fracas at the airport but deciding to avoid any speculation about the reason for his absence overseas. He finished his resumé with details of Bromo’s arrival at Liz Shapcott’s home in a car containing the four Sri Lankans.
‘They didn’t stop, and he’s still there,’ he finished.
‘And the Sri Lankans? Where are they?’
‘We don’t know.’
‘Still?’
‘Sorry, Nat, but we keep losing them.’
Her hand stopped moving on his head. He felt her tense, go still.
‘I’m sure we’ll track ’em down soon,’ he said.
He waited. She let out a long, slow breath and her hand resumed stroking his head. He relaxed.
‘I know you will,’ she said. ‘And when you do we will make sure they bother us no more.’
Fokisi gave an involuntary shudder. Such a small woman and he such a big brute of a man; yet she scared the hell out of him. He could fight with the best of them, take the punches and bruises; often the last man standing, he had battled on through the battering of cyclones, ripped his way through opposing scrums, bloodied but never beaten. And when he did his occasional stints as a nightclub door jockey no drunken lout had ever been game enough to take him on. But Natalie Cordoza was something else. She was ice-cold menace; emotion-free and ruthless. And he despised himself for being at her beck and call.
Fokisi held his silence as Natalie stepped away from him and began pacing the room, her gown loose and flowing behind her. She marched to and fro several times before stopping in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows that formed an entire wall of the apartment. She stood looking out over the rooftops of Richmond and to the distant cluster of tower blocks that defined the city’s business heart.
Rain lashed the windows and puddled on the terrace beyond, where half a dozen ornamental trees arched over from the force of a buffeting wind. Fokisi sat still and silent, watching her, studying the outline of her body, sharpened by the effect of her high heels. Suddenly she spun round, one finger pointing at him.
‘Perkins is the answer,’ she said. ‘We’ve seen him talking to the police and we know he’s also being used by the Sri Lankans. Take him out and we’ll be fine. The police have nothing against us – they think Tamsyn was a date-rape victim – and the Sri Lankans will be sent home the moment they step out of line.’
Fokisi risked a comment.
‘That didn’t seem to stop them wiping out your people at the airport,’ he reminded her.
She responded with a glare – a visual reprimand.
‘Yeah, well, they seem to have gotten away with that.’
‘Unless we dob them in.’
She strode across the
room, clasped a hand either side of his face and planted a kiss firmly on his forehead.
‘Brilliant. Simple,’ she said. ‘You drop a hint to one of your copper mates when you’re doing bouncer duties down at the Cat’s Whiskers. Put the word out and they’ll catch bloody Bromo Perkins in the same net as the Sri Lankans. It involves him completely. No way he can talk himself out that.’
‘Except by spilling the griff on what he knows about the diamonds,’ suggested Fokisi. ‘And us.’
The big Tongan voiced his opinion almost without thinking. He grabbed the chance to make the most of the new-found freedom Natalie appeared to have given him to speak his mind. For once his personal fears conquered those he had of her. He was well aware the Sri Lankans weren’t the only ones who could be deported if police inquiries went too deep. There was no way he was going to let the police think he knew something about the airport killings. Or the diamonds.
‘Perhaps an anonymous call to Crime Stoppers would be best,’ he offered. At least that wouldn’t involve him directly. He shuffled uneasily on his seat, awaiting her response. She was over by the window again, staring out, arms folded in front of her. Suddenly she spun round, facing him, her robe now hardly gathered at her waist.
‘Right, do it,’ she said, her voice abrupt and sharp.
She walked briskly towards a glass-topped table, high heels click-clacking on the wooden floor. She tugged at the cord of her robe as she went. Fokisi watched it slipping off her shoulders. She grabbed it at the collar before it touched the floor and deftly swung it up and around – a Spanish matador couldn’t have done it better – and let it spread over the table top. Natalie leaned back against the table, arms stretched behind her, gripping its edge. It was the first time Fokisi had seen her naked. Strangely it made him feel awkward, at a loss. This was not how she usually played it.
‘Stop staring and get on with it,’ she said, her voice still with its sharp Gillard-like edge to it but lower and throaty.
She braced her arms and pushed down on the table edge. With a slight leap she raised herself to a sitting position on top of her gown. She lay back, legs spread and bent at the knees.
‘Don’t hang about like that,’ she rasped. ‘There’s work to be done.’
She turned her head and watched Fokisi walk slowly over to the table.
‘Come on, come on,’ she murmured. ‘Eat me, Tiger; eat me.’ Her eyes glazed over. ‘Then get the hell out of here.’
THIRTY
NO historian leading a tour of Richmond’s historic back streets could have done a better job than CJ after he deposited Bromo outside Liz Shapcott’s home. He steered the Commodore sedately on a tortuous route through lanes and alleys, many of which not so long ago formed the network followed by the night carts on their trek to empty the city’s backyard cesspits. They roamed among the haphazard mix of houses, factories, shops and warehouses that had become a nightmare for city planners trying to comply with regulations while satisfying the demands of residents and developers.
Twice they crossed the busy main drag of Burnley Street with its nose-to-tail stream of belching semi-trailers. They ventured briefly into Swan Street and were forced to crawl along behind a tram trundling out to the distant suburbs. CJ made frequent glances up at the rear view mirror. The light was fading fast. Rain clouds were forming. He could feel the tension in the car; Dayani, Duptha and Rani were also on high alert, checking vehicles and people to left and right.
Eventually CJ turned into Lyndhurst Street. He drove slowly down its entire length. His companions noted every vehicle and person as he squeezed the car between others parked on both sides of the road. At the junction with Bridge Road he turned left. After a 50-metre crawl he filtered left at Church Street and did yet another left-and turn one block up the hill at Abinger Street and coasted down to its junction with Lyndhurst Street, loomed over by the soaring silos and the bulky granite block of the old chocolate factory. They had come full circle. He turned right and cruised to the far end of the street, close to the recently created children’s park with its collection of climbing frames and swings.
‘All is clear,’ Duptha murmured from the back seat.
CJ did a three-point turn and faced the car back down the way they had come. Dayani peered at the wing mirror and back over her shoulder.
‘Yes, there is no one around,’ she confirmed.
They coasted forward, back down the hill, the road framing the grand floodlit portico of the town hall down at the far end on Bridge Road. With a final check of his mirror, CJ swung the wheel and gunned the car up a short, sharp slope alongside a drab two-storey block of flats turned sideways on to the road. If awards were made for such desecrations it would have won hands down as the most nondescript block of flats in the whole of Richmond. Metal staircases led to the upper floors where the apartment windows looked out on to neighbouring brick walls; rooms without views. The gardens would go into terminal shock if they sighted a lawnmower or pruning shears. The driveway was a mess of wind-blown paper, junked bottles and discarded fast-food containers.
CJ brought the car to a brief stop. Rani and Duptha jumped out and manhandled open a sliding shutter hiding a large parking bay extending the entire depth of the apartment above. CJ let the car roll forward and cut the engine. There was a clatter of metal against metal as the shutter was rolled back over the entrance. For a whole minute no one moved, no one spoke. Dayani broke the silence with a whisper.
‘Okay, lights on.’
A switch clicked. A neon tube hanging by two chains stuttered into life and threw a pale light over the garage. A sturdy wooden workbench took up half of one wall. Alongside were several stacks of plastic storage boxes, lidded and labelled. Dayani stood by the car, holding the front door open. She pointed at the rear seats and then at Duptha and Rani.
‘Clear all that stuff out and pack it away. Make sure there’s nothing left in the car. We’ll burn it all later.’
CJ keyed open a door in the far corner of the garage and held it open for Dayani. Her attention was still on the other two. Her instructions were crisp and brief.
‘When you are finished, bring the other gear upstairs.’
She turned to CJ.
‘We will go and cook some food; I think we all need to eat. After that there is much to be done. And quickly. Because the police haven’t got on to us that’s no guarantee our enemies will be so slow in tracking us down.’
She squeezed past CJ into the dreary concrete corridor beyond and led the way up the external metal staircase to the flat above. It was little more than one room with a kitchen sink and four-ring electric cooker in one corner and a boarded-off alcove masquerading as a minuscule bedroom in another. Behind the entrance door was a tiled cubicle hiding a shower, toilet and washbasin. Grimy slatted blinds hung drunkenly over the single window. Two battered and stained armchairs provided the only seating. There was no pretence at decoration or comfort. The apartment screamed “itinerants only” and had long lost any semblance of warmth or welcome.
When Gervase Morales had sent her a message confirming he had found them “a desirable residence in a convenient location” Dayani had had a good idea of what to expect. She hadn’t been disappointed. This was as anonymous as they were likely to be.
By the time Duptha and Rani arrived, Dayani and CJ had two pans simmering on the stove. A spice-laden aroma gradually overcame the underlying mustiness of damp and neglect. A cheap rice cooker was plugged into an extension lead trailing out of the bedroom. The only other outlets were already full of power boards and adaptors charging computers, phones and other devices.
Dayani ladled food into bowls and handed them around. She took one of the armchairs; Duptha was in the other. Rani and CJ sat on the floor, their backs against the wall, legs crossed. For several minutes the only sound was the click of cutlery against china and the occasional slow breath of contentment. It was Rani who eventually broke the silence.
‘That was good,’ he said. He wiped a chunk of
bread around an empty bowl. He let his head droop; his shoulders slumped forward. ‘Now all I need is good long sleep.’
‘Forget it,’ said Dayani.
CJ dug an elbow into Rani’s ribs. Rani sat upright with a jolt, the startled look on his face turning quickly into a smile.
‘Ha, just joking. Twenty winks would be nice if we can’t manage forty.’
‘We have no time for sleep,’ said Dayani. ‘It is now up to us to finish things here. It is quite obvious my friend Mr Bromo is far too exposed. They were waiting for him at the airport and we cannot rely on him to bring these people to justice. We can no longer simply sit back and protect him and hope he’ll provide the police with the information they need. That plan’s not working.’
Duptha shaped his right hand into a fist with two fingers pointing forward, pistol-like. He fired his imaginary weapon.
‘Bang, bang. Whoosh!’ he spat out. ‘All over. We go home.’
‘No guns!’ snapped Dayani. ‘We won’t be going anywhere if we start shooting. We’re not in Sri Lanka now. This is not the Tiger Elem we’re fighting.’
Duptha extended bent arms, palms upward, as if holding a bolt of cloth, his voice and expression exuding frustration.
‘You have a better idea? These scum are worse than the Tigers. We must eliminate them. Go in, shoot, kill run; we can do it.’
‘And after?’ asked CJ, his voice quiet, calm.
Duptha feigned puzzlement.
‘After? There is no after for them,’ he said. ‘All gone.’
‘All?’ said Dayani. ‘I think not. Maybe some innocent people killed as well. But their base will remain and we will be hunted down, unable to leave the country, unable to continue our fight. It is not the answer, and I think you know it.’
Duptha nodded, resigned. He stood up and took his bowl to the sink and rinsed it out. The simple domestic rite helped calm him down; but still, deep within, there rumbled the urge – like a nascent volcano – to act swiftly and violently. They had come this far, tracked down the Australian cell of this evil trade, and its people had to be obliterated. He respected Dayani and her leadership; they had been through so much together. But he was beginning to doubt her reasoning; they were a strike force that hit and ran, not some anaemic middle-ground manipulators who looked for soft solutions.