Out of the Blue

by JR Carroll

  ‘Shut up! Open yer eyes! Wake up, cunt!’ Teddy yelled. ‘Ya not dead yet!’

  Dennis opened them. The gun had gone from his mouth. His face shook; hot tears streamed, blinded, snot ran; the dim, black-clad shapes still stood over him.

  ‘Got a bit of a fright, old man?’ Graham said. ‘Dear dear.’

  He knelt, stilled Dennis’s face with his soft, gloved hand, a loving hand: ‘No one’s going to help you, sir. You are lost. Like your good wife. Care to join her?’

  ‘Let’s get the dough!’ Teddy shouted—Graham had spent too much time with this shit.

  ‘You get it,’ Graham said coolly. ‘There’s one bag. There’ll be more in the office safe. Right?’ he asked Dennis, whose face he still held.

  Dennis nodded.

  ‘Not locked?’

  He shook his head.

  Teddy put his gun on the bar, got busy, came out with white cloth bags, five or six, stuffed them in Graham’s bag along with the one Dennis had dropped, then produced the tape.

  ‘Sit up, cunt!’ Teddy barked. ‘Get ya legs out in front of ya!’

  Dennis did so. Teddy wound tape around his wrists, ankles, mouth; while he did this Graham bent over his black bag, bringing out something wrapped in cloth.

  ‘I’ll get some grog,’ Teddy said.

  ‘Do that,’ Graham said. Teddy was not looking at Graham. He grabbed a bottle of Johnnie Walker from the top shelf, put it down the front of his pants, grabbed cartons of smokes, too, an afterthought. Then he turned, saw Graham carefully unwrapping an object. Graham had put his gun on the floor.

  ‘What’s this?’ Teddy said.

  ‘This,’ Graham said, ‘is our parting gift. This is our goodbye kiss for Mr Gatz.’

  Teddy saw a hypodermic syringe. It was full of blood. ‘Jesus,’ he breathed. What the fuck … Graham hadn’t told him about this. He looked at Dennis, saw the horror in his wide, tear-soaked eyes.

  Teddy watched.

  Graham advanced, the syringe raised in his right hand. Standing in front of Dennis, he said, ‘You won’t die straight away, old man. That would be too kind. You’ll have a good two years, perhaps longer, to watch yourself slowly waste and rot. Eventually you’ll find it difficult to shake off the common cold, then your skin will erupt and suppurate. You’ll be covered with sores that simply refuse to heal. In the end you’ll be too weak to stand. You’ll spend your last weeks in a wheelchair. Pain will wrack you. You will not recognise yourself in the mirror; friends, if you have any left by then, will shun you. You’ll just … fade away.’

  Graham smiled through his mouth-hole. Teddy gaped.

  Dennis tried to scream through the tape. He struggled, jerking his body pointlessly.

  ‘Come, none of that. No need to demean yourself any further. Take your medicine like a man, sir.’

  Dennis stopped moving. He looked at Graham, eyes and cheeks bulging monstrously. Clutching his cigarette cartons, Teddy actually felt for this poor trussed-up turkey waiting for his blood to be poisoned. His eyes were riveted to the needle. Graham took a step closer, tall and stooping, the black-hooded executioner.

  What Teddy saw then was a roundhouse kick that seemed to come from the air itself. It struck with such swiftness and force that the needle leapt out of Graham’s hand, Graham crumpled, blew air and a spray of spittle, grunted, hit the wall so hard that he bounced straight off it again and dropped, done; bottles rattled and fell in the bar. Teddy saw the needle slide and skitter past him; saw Brett, crouched, poised, blue eyes blazing; dropped his smokes, reached for the gun, Brett now spotting Graham’s gun; Teddy saw the blond man weigh up odds, decide; briefly hesitate, a moment lost, opt for the gun—Teddy too far away to get him with a kick. Teddy grabbed his gun, fumbled, pulled both triggers; Brett, mid-movement, stared at death: CLICK. Teddy, flummoxed, fumbled with the catch, flicked it; Brett now aiming Graham’s gun: Teddy firing first.

  The barrels exploded and Teddy sees sparks, Brett leaps, arms up, gun flung loose, a smashed, spattered form, airborne; flesh torn, wrecked; smoke burns, Brett falls, sprawls, shirt and shoes gone; shots echo, Dennis screams, screams again; the screams are tape-trapped, forced back into his lungs, nostrils flare, blood sprays; his throat fills, chest bursts like a drowned man’s, head swirls with smoke, echo of gun-roar; sees Brett’s pumping blood, leg twitching; the sweet reek of slaughter is the last thing he knows; he sways, then night falls.

  Teddy says, ‘Fuck!’ He looks around, stunned. He is all that remains—the last hard man standing. Smoke curls from his gun, his shoulder throbs from recoil; ‘Fuck!’ he says again. Teddy moves fast, steps past Dennis, looks at Brett, twitching, dark pool spreading under him; grabs the black bag, Graham’s gun too—too many things, not enough hands; he stuffs the guns in, Johnnie Walker too; starts to go. Graham writhes, groans. Teddy looks at him, their eyes meet—

  Graham: ‘Teddy. Help me, Teddy.’

  Teddy does. Slings the bag on his shoulder, lifts Graham, Graham clutching his body, howling; Teddy half-drags him through the lounge, out the door, across the yard, down the dark street; props him on the car, opens the back door, gets him in, Graham coughing, gagging, spewing spit; throws the bag in after him, slams the door, gets behind the wheel, fumbles for wires, hands shaking, saying FUCK FUCK FUCK—COME ON, FUCK YOU! Wires zap, the car fires, he swings it around, mounts the gutter, takes off, rubber burns, the big car rocks, fishtails; Teddy puts his foot down, spinning out at the corner, rights it—FUCK!—ploughs on, heart thumping, sweat pouring down his face. He jerks off the balaclava, sucks air; Graham groaning behind; tries to remember the route as planned, hits a junction, tries to read the signpost, can’t see it properly because he hasn’t got his lights on, feels for the knob, pulls one—the knob comes off in his hand, wipers sweep; tries another one and this time it’s good; he reads TALBOT, makes a left, plants it, wipers clunking; checks mirrors: all clear behind. Teddy replaces the knob, fiddling in the dark; wipers stop. Calmer, he drives, wheel jouncing in his hands: suspension’s shot, bitumen’s rough. Graham writhes, moans; Teddy ignores him. The Marquis roars, makes time; glimmering taillights fade, dust-swirled, then dissolve, enveloped by night and the unseeing stars.

  Dennis opened his eyes. He was on his back. Immediately he smelled cordite and saw the reflection of blue lights rotating on the walls; heard sirens. Someone was cutting the tape around his ankles; other men, dim figures, moved around the room. The tape had already been removed from his wrists and mouth. He moaned, tried to sit up.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Frank Stannard said.

  Dennis looked up at him. ‘Think so … Brett?’

  ‘Still alive,’ Frank said. ‘They’re flying him to Melbourne. He’s on his way now. Just left.’

  Dennis sat still. His head hurt, outside and in. A man he recognised as a local doctor inspected him, felt for breakages.

  ‘Seems okay,’ the doctor said. ‘Knocked around, but nothing appears to be broken.’

  Helped by Frank, Dennis climbed to his feet. It seemed a long way up; his legs buckled and he righted himself. Frank gripped him.

  ‘I’m all right,’ he said. Then, to Frank: ‘Did you get them?’

  ‘Not yet. We will. They can’t get far around here.’

  Dennis didn’t say anything. Other cops picked their way around. Someone was trying to find the light switches. More police cars screamed to a stop outside. Dennis felt the congealing cut on his face, supporting himself slightly on Frank’s arm. Dizziness came and went. He could not focus.

  ‘Got a headache,’ he said.

  ‘Take these,’ the doctor said, and gave him two pills and a glass of water. Dennis swallowed them.

  ‘Thanks.’

  He walked to the place where Brett had lain. Blood streaked the carpet, there was a thick pool of it too, along with articles of Brett’s clothing. He closed his eyes and turned away.

  ‘Was he conscious?’ he said to the doctor.

  ‘No. But there was a pulse.’ Then:
‘He’s lost a lot of blood. Massive wounds.’

  He’s not going to make it, Dennis thought. That’s what he means.

  ‘Which hospital?’

  ‘St Vincent’s, I believe. He’ll get the best attention available, don’t worry.’

  ‘He’d better.’

  Scene-of-crime officers, uniformed men, continued their search of the area. Dennis didn’t know any of them. ‘You may as well come with me, Dennis,’ he heard the doctor say. ‘Back to the surgery for a proper check-up.’

  ‘I’m okay, Doc. Just roughed up.’

  ‘I know. But let’s make sure, shall we? Won’t take long.’

  Dennis worked his neck around, feeling the back of his head. There were lumps on the lumps. Christ, that bastard had hit him. A swelling throbbed on his face too, under his right eye, where the short guy had snotted him early. His stomach felt as if it had been split open where he’d been kicked and his chest hurt where they’d stood on him. He walked outside with the doctor into the cool air. A decent crowd stood back at a respectable distance. The doctor held open the door to his car and Dennis climbed in gingerly, pain stabbing all over his body when he bent over.

  After they’d left the scene, Dennis said, ‘What’s your honest opinion, Doc? Brett.’

  The doctor shook his head. ‘If he survives the flight … you’d have to say a fighting chance at best.’ He looked at Dennis, saw him searching for an answer more definite than that. ‘Be a miracle, mate.’

  ‘He’s tough.’

  ‘You don’t have to convince me. I can’t help him. Sure Brett’s a big boy, but …’ He shook his head again. ‘I don’t care how tough he is, Dennis. The human body wasn’t designed to be blown apart by a shotgun, was it?’

  ‘He saved my life.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘They were going to stick a needle into me. If he hadn’t come back with those fucking rabbits …’

  ‘Rabbits?’

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter.’ They had arrived at the doctor’s surgery, the front section of his home. Limping through the gate, Dennis said, ‘Doc, will you ring St Vincent’s first thing tomorrow and let me know how he is?’

  ‘I’ll do that. I would’ve anyway.’

  ‘Speak with the surgeon.’

  ‘Yes. If it’s possible.’ The doctor opened the front door and said, ‘Don’t build your hopes up, Dennis. Chances are he won’t make it through the night. He could easily be dead already.’

  Teddy got them to Maryborough without mishap, parked the Marquis in a side street, told Graham to wait. Graham sat up in the back seat and watched Teddy disappear into the gloom. Nothing much happening in Maryborough, nothing at all in fact.

  Graham was feeling a little better now. He touched his ribcage delicately, trying to assess how many bones, if any, were broken. His ribs could not take the slightest pressure without a searing pain going right through him.

  Ten minutes later a car pulled up behind the Marquis. As soon as he saw Teddy in it, Graham opened the door and struggled to get out, dragging the travel bag.

  In an instant Teddy was there helping. ‘Quick,’ he said. ‘And quiet.’

  Graham tried not to groan. He hated physical pain more than anything.

  Teddy bundled him into the back of the new car, something medium-sized and luxurious. In a minute they were on their way, sneaking out of town by back roads, coming out at the highway and then motoring noiselessly. Teddy did not speak. He seemed to know exactly what he was doing, which comforted Graham. He lay on his back, staring at the roof.

  ‘Daylesford, right?’ Teddy said in a while.

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘Should hit the turn-off soon. How’re ya doing back there?’

  ‘Wonderfully, thanks.’ Teddy laughed. Graham said, ‘That Goldilocks packs a decent wallop.’

  ‘He doesn’t any more,’ Teddy said.

  ‘I wish he hadn’t come back.’

  ‘He did, and now there’s fuck-all we can do about it. Wishin’ won’t change anything, Graham. What’s done’s done.’

  These self-evident truths washed over Graham, leaving him nothing to reply. They travelled in silence. Eventually Graham felt the car slow, and Teddy said, ‘Daylesford.’

  They were through it in two minutes, and Teddy said, ‘Dead fuckin’ hole.’

  ‘Good,’ Graham said.

  The car picked up speed and they were on their way again.

  Following Graham’s directions, Teddy arrived at a shopping centre in Station Street, Blackburn. It was two-fifty a.m. Propped up in the back Graham said, ‘Here, Teddy’. Teddy stopped outside a travel agency called Swingalong Tours. He let the motor run while they scanned the street—nothing happening in Blackburn either.

  ‘I’ll unlock the place while you get rid of the car,’ Graham said. ‘Just dump it down the road somewhere. Then meet me back here.’

  ‘Right.’

  Teddy found a garage, parked next to a couple of cars waiting to be fixed and switched off the motor. He had a ten-minute walk back to Swingalong Tours, but he didn’t mind. Putting a little distance between them and a hot car wasn’t going to harm their chances. It wouldn’t be discovered until the morning, probably lunchtime with a bit of luck. Teddy locked the car, a nearly new Mazda 929, took off his gloves and strolled briskly back to the Station Street shops.

  He tapped twice on the glass door and Graham let him in. It was a small office with three desks and a row of soft plastic seats for the customers to relax on while they waited to be attended to.

  Graham sprawled on these, trying to locate a posture that hurt least. He wasn’t having much luck. There was no light on in the office, but streetlight slanting through the slimline blinds provided enough. In a minute or two Teddy could see perfectly.

  ‘Any better?’ he asked Graham.

  ‘Well, put it this way, Teddy. I’d rather be me than Goldilocks.’

  Teddy didn’t say anything. He’d thought a lot about Goldilocks on the way down. About how it had felt, and looked, blasting him; about how if he hadn’t fired first Goldilocks would’ve done the same to him. He assumed that Goldilocks was dead now. He tried to think of himself dead instead, blown to bits, but it wouldn’t take.

  Teddy went to the bag, took out the bottle of Johnnie Walker, unscrewed the cap and handed the bottle to Graham.

  ‘Here you go, mate,’ he said. ‘Painkiller.’

  ‘Thanks, Teddy. There are glasses on the sink if you care to get them. Out there.’ He waved vaguely towards a morning tea area, curtained off. Teddy got the glasses and poured two good ones.

  When they’d had a decent swallow each Teddy said, ‘So what happens now?’

  Graham tried to sit up. ‘I suggest—shit!—I suggest we lay low here for a few hours. Then we get separate taxis home and forget about the whole thing. How does that sound?’

  ‘Sounds all right.’ So he was going to spend the night with Graham. Fair enough. He poured more Scotch for them both, then said, ‘Was that really AIDS-infected blood in the syringe?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were going to do that.’ He said this neutrally, not exactly expressing criticism but allowing Graham to read it that way if he chose to.

  ‘No. I’m sorry for keeping you in the dark, Teddy. For some reason people become rather anxious around AIDS-infected needles. I didn’t want to put you off your game.’

  Teddy accepted the explanation without saying anything. He would certainly have been anxious if he’d known about it. Even now he felt a little twinge of fear, remembering the syringe flying through the air. It hadn’t missed Teddy by all that much—about a metre, he thought. Lethal piece of business, that. Teddy didn’t approve of such methods. A traditional crim, he saw nothing wrong with a gun or knife, a brick or whatever came to hand in a situation, but this growing practice of jabbing people with AIDS-infected needles seemed grotesque, cruel beyond measure, like germ warfare. And Graham had really enjoyed himself telling t
he poor guy all about it, too. There was no doubt about Graham: he could surprise. Teddy found himself constantly revising his opinion of the man. Now he wasn’t sure what he thought.

  ‘Thanks for helping me, Teddy,’ Graham said after they’d sat quietly for a while, sipping and reliving the night in their own minds. ‘Sorry to have been a burden.’

  ‘That’s okay.’

  ‘You could have left me for dead.’

  Teddy said, meaning it, ‘Mates back each other. No matter what.’

  ‘Yes, they do,’ Graham said dreamily. ‘They do indeed.’

  ‘You would’ve done the same for me.’

  Graham looked at Teddy, streetlight silhouetting his chunky, hair-coated head. ‘I do believe you’re right. One never knows. I like to think I would have conducted myself honourably and not just—scarpered.’ He sipped, then added, ‘There’s always self-interest, too, isn’t there? I might’ve given you up to the police. Or vice versa.’

  No doubt about it, Teddy thought.

  Teddy looked at his watch. Four-forty. He wasn’t tired at all. They’d got through two-thirds of the bottle and Graham seemed to be moving a little more freely. Teddy made that observation.

  ‘I’m breathing more easily,’ Graham said. ‘I don’t think any ribs are broken. This painkiller seems to be working, Teddy.’

  ‘You should go and see the quack anyway. Get yourself X-rayed.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Teddy could see that Graham was wondering if the quack could make the connection, tie him in with the job. Gatz would tell the cops what Goldilocks had done to him, that Graham had been hurt bad and might go to a doctor. Not many people went to the doctor with a whack to the ribs like that. Perhaps it’d be safer if Graham just rested up for a few days.