The Bear Pit

by Jon Cleary

  He went back to the parking station and took the car out and drove over the Bridge to the Lower North Shore. He found a parking space in a side street and left the car there. He walked to a small reserve, sat on a seat and watched the happy ones, those without a care in the world (though he knew that was not true of anyone) going into the nearby small restaurants. Darkness slid down, the lights came on round the small reserve and it was time to move.

  The building where the local Meals on Wheels was headquartered was in a nearby street. It was two-storied and single-fronted, with a serving counter in the front shop and a kitchen and storeroom at the back. Above were lock-up offices. Because he was the service’s volunteer handyman as well as a volunteer delivery-man, he had a key to the front door. There was no alarm system, on the presumption that only the lowest shit would break into a volunteer organization. So far the presumption, or delusion, had held.

  He let himself in and closed the door behind him. He turned on no lights but he had brought his torch with him from his tool-box. He went through the shop and the kitchen and into the storeroom at the back. There, behind a stack of jumble, the sort of stuff that accumulates as if by the design of unknowable forces, he had hidden the rifle case. He took it out, checked that the dismantled Tikka, the Schmidt and Bender twilight ‘scope and the five-cartridge clip were still in it. Then he put the stack back in place, switched off his torch and left the building, locking the door after him. When he had hidden the case there, smuggling it in past the other volunteer workers, he had expected it to be there only for a day at the most while he collected his hit fee. Then he would have taken it and the Winchester and gone somewhere out into the bush and buried them. Lynne’s problems would have been solved and they could have got on with their lives, enjoying the happiness that they had both found. That was how it would have been had not the fingerprints on the dusty window-sill of the Sewing Bee given him away.

  Now he had to wait through another night. He had no idea where the Malones lived. He had looked up all the Malones in the phone book: too many of them. He had called all the S. Malones; none of them responded when he asked, “Scobie?” He was not to know that Scobie Malone had an unlisted number, but he guessed that might be the case. The only alternative was to go out to Channel 15 on the Epping Road and wait till the daughter Maureen put in an appearance. He would kill her first, then wait for her father to come out into the open.

  If he died himself in any return fire it would not matter.

  II

  “I’ll drive you out to the studio this morning,” said Malone.

  “There’s no need, Dad—Mum’s not using the Laser—”

  “I want a word with your producer.”

  They were at breakfast: Malone, Lisa, Maureen and Tom. The latter had an assessment test coming up this morning at university and had a folder spread out beside his plate as he slurped muesli into his mouth.

  “Could we have a little less noise down that end?” asked Lisa.

  “Who, me?” Tom looked up; then, as if he had at last caught an echo of what his father had just said: “Why do you want a word with her producer? Are you going to do him? The bastard wants a kick up the bum.”

  “Shut up.” Maureen was in a dark mood; she even appeared to have aged. “Dad, what are you going to say to Justin?”

  “First, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind about exposing you the way he did. Then I’m going to tell him to lay off Mrs. Masson or there’ll be some legal interference, we’ll take out a restraining order against him and the channel—”

  “Da-ad, come on! Why have you got to stick your nose in? Let police public relations do it. Or Police Headquarters. Someone—anyone else. God, I don’t want them thinking I’ve had my daddy come out there to pick on the producer because he got Little Maureen into strife—”

  “Pull your head in,” said her daddy. “I’m going out there, not only because of you, but because Greg Random told me to. He’s my boss, he’s in charge of the strike force. Channel 15 are muddying up the waters, they’ve over-stepped the mark. It’s our job to find John August, not the media’s. And that’s what I’ve been instructed to tell Justin Whatshisname. Now if you don’t like it you can stay at home and I’ll tell them you finished up yesterday and not today.”

  “I think Dad’s right,” said Tom.

  “Mind your own business—”

  “Hey, wait a minute, Mo! I’m not taking sides here, but that bastard made you carry the can. Who do you think the TV viewers will remember putting the boot into Mrs. Masson—you or your mate Justin?” Tom closed the folder beside his plate; the assessment test could wait. “You’re the bunny, the one on camera. When you go looking for another job, the other channels will say, Hey, wait a minute, here’s that trouble-maker—”

  “No, they won’t,” said Lisa. “They’ll think of her as an asset. TV stations aren’t interested in soft-soap interviewers—she’ll have no trouble getting another job. She’s made her name—the wrong way, but there’s no wrong way in television if you get the ratings—”

  “Thanks,” said Maureen, but didn’t attempt to defend her industry. “I still don’t want Dad going out there—”

  Malone could see how upset his daughter was and he made a concession: “Righto, I’ll hold off when I’m talking to Justin about you. But I’m going to put the boot into him if he wants to keep interfering in our chase after Mr. August. You don’t have to be there when I do that.”

  After breakfast, while Malone was getting the Fairlane out of the garage, Lisa walked to the front gate with Maureen.

  “Mo, it’s not the end of the world. Put it down to experience.”

  “Why is it parents always give that sort of advice?” But she wasn’t resentful.

  “Because we’ve been through it. I’ve made blunders, so has Dad. Let’s go out to dinner tonight. We’ll put another dent in his American Express card.”

  “I’ll be in that,” said Tom, wheeling out his bike. “Try him on Ampersand or Level 41.”

  “He’d leave home,” said Lisa and kissed them both.

  Driving out to Channel 15 through a day spoiled only by the traffic, Malone said, “When we nab August, that’s when you’re going to get the big story. Who paid him.”

  “I’m not going to get it. I’ll be out of a job.”

  “We’ll try and hold off till you get a job.”

  “Don’t joke, Dad. I’m not in the mood.”

  So they drove on in silence, turned off the Epping Road and into the side road that led to Channel 15. The studios were set in ten acres that backed on to a reserve of thick bush, where there was a small colony of koalas. A high wire fence separated the parking lot from the reserve, the fence itself partly obscured by a line of oleanders. Malone slowed down at the gates, Maureen waved to the security guard and he motioned them to go on through. Malone headed for a parking space between two top-of-the-range BMWs.

  “Not there, Dad—that’s for executives only.”

  “If I were on my own . . . Okay.”

  He drove on past a line of lesser cars, found a parking space and pulled in. He and Maureen got out.

  In the bushland reserve August raised the Tikka, nodding appreciatively at his luck. Two at once . . .

  III

  August had reconnoitred the area in the darkness of very early morning. He had driven out here and parked the Datsun half a kilometre down the road from Channel 15. The entire bushland reserve was fenced off as protection for the koalas. August remembered Lynne telling him stories of conservationists and animal lovers coming out here to demonstrate against the building of the studios, to protect the koalas against the ravages of game shows and sitcoms and other crimes against nature’s own. A compromise had been reached with Channel 15 paying for the whole reserve to be enclosed and to be responsible for the welfare of the koalas. It appointed a “nature officer” who, when she wasn’t making coffee and running errands for producers, conducted groups of schoolchildren around the reser
ve to observe the koalas at home. The koalas, as disdainful as cats but not as selfish, turned their backs on the kids and clambered higher up the eucalypts.

  He had brought his rifle-case and a pair of wire-cutters from his tool-box. He made an angled cut in the wire, peeled it back and squeezed through; then he pushed the wire back into place so that the cut was not apparent to any jogger who might come trotting by in the morning. He went on into the bush, stumbling in the darkness and sometimes walking head first into a tree. Something scurried away from beneath his feet and above him a bird uttered a cry, as if annoyed at being disturbed. Then he was at the fence looking out on to the parking lot. The board of Channel 15 was notoriously skinflint and after midnight all lights in the lot were turned off. But there was enough moonlight for August to see that he had a 180-degree vision of the parking lot, even allowing for the oleanders on the other side of the fence. He cut a hole in the fence at shoulder height, took out the Tikka and assembled it, affixed the ‘scope and set it down against a tree. Then he sat down against the tree, wrapped his arms across his chest and went to sleep. Lynne used to laugh at his ability to sleep anywhere, any time . . . Once, during the night, she slipped into his mind and, in his sleep, he uttered a long dry sob.

  He woke when a currawong shat on him; the dollop landed right in the middle of the crown of Mr. Milo’s hat. He took off the hat and looked up at the bird; was it some sort of omen? But all his life he had ignored omens; his mother’s religiosity had turned him against any warnings that contradicted reason. He threw the hat away, then turned to find a koala, sitting in the armpit of a eucalypt, staring at him like one of the kids from the Happy Hours. The same look of shrewd innocence that—was it Wombat Rose?—used to show.

  He stood up, awkwardly, as if all his joints had aged during the night. He leaned against the fence and peered out through the wire and, beyond the oleanders, saw the parking lot was already half-full. He looked at his watch: seven-thirty.

  He would have slept on had the currawong not given him a wake-up call.

  He was hungry and thirsty and cursed himself for not having thought to buy some sandwiches and a Coke. He watched the koala chewing on a gum-leaf; then became aware of three others all having breakfast. He grinned, good-naturedly cursed them for their cruel manners, wished for a Meals on Wheels van to go by and turned back to watch the parking lot.

  His eyes were strained by the time the blue Fairlane drove in. For an hour and a half he had stared at every car and truck that came into the lot, the rifle held at the ready. He had begun to wonder if the Malone bitch was coming to work today. He had seen two news vans drive out, but he was sure she was not in either of them. He had begun to fret with frustration and was angry at himself for the weakness.

  Then he saw the Fairlane come in, drive right round the line of parked cars and pull into the space not more than seventy or eighty metres from him. He could not believe his luck when both Malones, father and daughter, stepped out of the car.

  He raised the Tikka, took aim on the daughter, who was nearer to him. Then, as he began the pressure on the trigger, the koala fell out of the tree right beside him.

  IV

  The bullet whanged off the top of the Fairlane and went ricochetting away to embed itself in the BMW of one of the executives. It missed Maureen only by inches and she stood stiffened more by puzzlement than by fear. Then her father yelled, “Down!” and she dropped flat to the ground beside the car. Malone himself dropped down as the second bullet hit the car’s side window.

  “Stay where you are!” he yelled under the car.

  He rose, crouching low, and began to move along the line of cars, taking out his .40 calibre Glock pistol and easing his finger on to the trigger safety catch. He saw the security guard come out of his post at the gates and he yelled at him to take cover; the guard instantly turned and went back into his post, ducking down out of sight. A car came through the gates and, seeing no one on duty, came on down towards the line of cars where Malone was. Taking advantage of the distraction, certain that August (who else could it be?) was not intent on random shooting, he raced, still crouched over, towards the line of cars nearest to the bushland and the wire fence. He had identified from which direction the fire had come, though so far he had not seen the marksman.

  Then through the oleanders he saw the figure on the other side of the wire fence. He was not sure that it was August, but, again, who else could it be? He yelled, “Drop the gun, John!”

  He was answered by a bullet that splintered the windscreen of the car behind which he crouched. He straightened up, took quick aim, fired and dropped down again. He had no real hope of a hit: he was still thirty or forty metres from August and he knew it was only Clint Eastwood who could hit a man at that distance, quick firing with a police pistol.

  He yelled again at August and was answered by another shot. Back across the parking lot Maureen had run across to the entrance to the main building, shouting at those who had come out to see what all the hullabaloo was about; they stared at her, then abruptly scuttled back inside. The man who had just driven his car into the lot had got out and stood looking at Malone as if wondering if this was an action scene from some future telemovie.

  Malone, still crouched behind a car, saw August searching for him through the screen of oleanders. August began to work his way along the fence towards the road, ending up in the angle of the fence and opposite the security gates. He was exposed for a moment beyond two oleanders, but he was too far away for a safe shot from Malone.

  Malone lifted his pistol, held it with both hands, took careful aim. He saw August staring towards him; then abruptly he turned and ran back into the trees. Malone waited a moment, then started running, bent over, towards the gates. He was in reasonable condition for a middle-aged man, but this was a young man’s game. He came to the spot where the fence turned at right angles and ran back down the side road. He paused, took a deep breath, steadied himself, then turned the corner.

  August all at once had lost the urge to kill; the fury ran out of him, turned to despair. He raced down the inside of the fence, came to the opening he had cut, pulled back the wire and slipped through. Then the wire caught on his jacket, held him firmly; it was as if the absent Mr. Milo had put a restraining hand on him. He struggled, heard the jacket rip, slipped through and outside the fence, then turned back and saw Malone only thirty metres away, gun raised and aimed.

  “Drop it, John!”

  August looked down at the Tikka, as if he had forgotten it. There was one cartridge left in the magazine. He stared at the rifle, then he raised it and put the end of the barrel in his mouth.

  “Don’t, John! Don’t make it worse for Lynne!”

  V

  “Why did you stop me?”

  The two of them were seated in a small office that Malone had commandeered from the studio. There were large photos on the walls of actors from the channel’s soap operas, all with smiles a mile wide. A young uniformed officer stood just inside the doorway and Malone was waiting for Greg Random and some of the task force men to arrive. Maureen was in her producer’s office, he suddenly solicitous of her, while they waited for a doctor and a counsellor who had been summoned. Channel 15 had got an exclusive on the arrest of John August, the fugitive hitman, and the producer was trying to persuade Maureen to front the camera and report the item. She was refusing, something that her father, at the moment, did not know, but for which later he would hug her as he had not since she was a child.

  “John, I’ve been with women who had to identify their husbands who’d committed suicide. You wouldn’t have wanted that for Lynne, not with the top of your head blown off.”

  August thought about that for a long moment, then nodded. “I guess not. Is this an interrogation?”

  “No, that’ll be done back at Police Centre, by senior men to me. No, I’m just keeping you company till my boss arrives. You glad it’s all over?”

  Again the long pause: “Yeah, I guess so.”
/>   “Who paid you, John?” The question was almost too casual.

  August smiled, but there was no humour to it. “That’s just it—I haven’t a clue.”

  “Come on, John—”

  “No, true. I don’t know.”

  “Who paid you the money? Was there a middleman?”

  This time there was a little more humour to the smile. “I think he thought of himself as an agent. But I’m not gunna give you his name. Like you said, it’s over.”

  “It isn’t, John. Not till we find who wanted the Premier killed.”

  “Well, don’t expect anything from me. I went into this with my eyes open. I give you someone’s name, you think it’s gunna help me?” He shook his head. “What d’you reckon I’ll get?”

  “Probably life, never to be released. You killed a political leader, John. Every politician from the PM down is going to want you to get the maximum, in case you’ve inspired someone else to have a crack at one of them.”

  August sat quietly for a while, then he said, “I’m sorry I tried to kill you and your daughter. I was just so shitty about what you were doing to Lynne.” He was silent again for a moment, then he said, “Tell Lynne—”

  “Tell her what?” Malone’s voice was kindly.

  “No, I’ll tell her myself.” Then he closed his eyes and the tears ran down his cheeks, not for himself but for her.

  12

  I

  “YOU’RE NOT gunna nail this to anyone,” Clements had said two days after August’s arrest. “We’ve checked bank accounts of everyone. Nothing, no big withdrawals, except for Bev Bigelow buying ten thousand shares in Telstra.”