by JR Carroll
Teddy went into the lounge. Elaine stared at him. He dropped into a chair, took a swig from the can and said, ‘What’s new, kid?’
Looking at Elaine’s slightly open mouth he could see the chipped front tooth. He’d better fix her up for that—if she’d let him.
Elaine said, ‘What have you done?’ She was looking at his shirt, his face and hands. Blood everywhere—but not his, apparently. Elaine looked alarmed, which pleased Teddy—she was concerned about him.
He smiled. ‘Some punk jumped me just now. I busted his buns.’
Elaine sat up straight. ‘What do you mean? Who was it? Where, Teddy?’
Shit, Teddy thought. That’s an improvement too. She’s called me by me name. Things’re looking up. ‘I dunno. Just some fuckin’ kid. Biker. Came at me with a fuckin’ iron bar in the car park at the Sylvania.’ He took a big mouthful.
‘What did you do to him?’ Elaine said. It seemed a funny tone of voice to Teddy, no emotion in it at all.
Teddy said, ‘I took the iron bar off him and then gave him a free slab in the mouth.’ Teddy laughed. ‘Tell you what, that’s the only guy ever got smashed by a slab and never even drank it! Ha ha!’ He finished off his can and said, ‘Hope he’s rich. He’s gonna need a plastic surgeon to put that face back. Got me one on the shoulder, though. Shit it hurts.’ He massaged the place. Looking at Elaine, he saw that all the colour had drained from her face. She looked terrible, quite faint. Strange.
‘Don’t worry about it, hon,’ he said. ‘I’m okay. Takes more than a punk like that to bring down an old warhorse like me. Eh?’ He went to the kitchen and got himself another can. Teddy was hyped up and could see himself getting through quite a chunk of that slab tonight. Then while he was bent over at the fridge, pulling the can free, he heard Elaine rush out the front door, slamming it.
‘Where the fuck are you going?’ he shouted. But she’d gone.
Teddy opened the door. Elaine was getting into her car.
‘Elaine?’
She backed it out into the street, grazing the gatepost, and took off fast. Teddy stood watching her go, a frown on his thick brow. Fucking women! What was all that about? Wasn’t he even supposed to stick up for himself these days? He shut the door and went back to his seat, drinking. ‘Only guy ever got smashed by a slab and never even drank it!’ he said. ‘Ha ha fuckin’ ha!’
By one-thirty Teddy had got through ten cans on top of what he’d had at the Sylvania. He was tired. Crushed empties rolled around the floor at his feet.
‘One more,’ he mumbled. He got it, stood in the doorway. This one he practically tipped straight down his throat. Bed called. He put the empty on the table, went to the toilet, took a long time to relieve himself, one arm propped on the wall, then crashed face-down on the bed. In a few minutes he levered himself up again and stripped off, slinging his bloodstained clothes anywhere. Then he crawled into the bed on all fours, not bothering to pull the blankets up, and went straight to sleep with the light still on.
He woke up screaming. He didn’t know why. Elaine was there. Unspeakable pain split his body. He saw her hands withdraw. Teddy’s eyes bulged, screams choked in his throat. He coughed, wheezed—stared at Elaine. Then at the big butcher’s knife sticking out of his chest. Teddy couldn’t move. He touched the wooden handle. The pain was unendurable and he took his fingers away. Teddy stared at the ceiling. Only now did he understand. Oh shit. The pain was like dry ice, a terrible cold heat, burning, blazing, destroying him …
‘Why?’ he breathed.
He heard Elaine leave the room. Heard the front door open. Teddy lay still. He could feel life leaving him. His eyes began to glaze. His head fuzzed. He clenched his hands, fighting death. Pain dragged him under; Teddy, frantic, touched the handle again—a mistake. He swooned, head floating, seemed to roll and spin. He clutched the sheet with both hands to keep from falling off the bed. The pain had no beginning, no end, no shape: it roared through him, killing his flesh.
Elaine drove away, past the dark Magna with the man in it. She didn’t see it, however. Second time she’s done that since Teddy got home, Dennis thought. What’s happening? It’s after two-thirty am—who goes driving at this hour? And the way she ran to that car … He looked at the house. The porch light was on and he could see that the woman had left the front door slightly ajar in her great haste. And what was that muffled sort of sound he’d heard a minute ago? Something told him he ought to go inside, take a look. Now was the time. It seemed clear from his observations that only two people lived here, so Teddy should be alone. Dennis pulled his unlined leather gloves on, checked the Walther, put it in the inside pocket of his leather jacket and got out.
Scanning both ends of the sleeping street he hurried to the porch and pushed the door open, one hand on the gun-butt. He couldn’t hear anything. He stepped inside and closed the door properly. Got his bearings. Most of the lights were on, which was odd. He stood still, listening. A weak cry that sounded like a child whimpering in its sleep issued from a bedroom. He went in there and saw Teddy.
Shit.
Dennis advanced on the bed. Teddy moaned, glazed eyes staring. The knife stuck straight up out of him. The sheet beneath him was bloodsoaked, the dark stain slowly spreading.
Dennis wet his lips and said, ‘Teddy?’
Teddy moaned. Wheezed.
‘Teddy. Can you hear me?’ He got right in Teddy’s line of sight. There were smears on Teddy’s face that looked like blood too.
Teddy blinked and tried to readjust his vision. ‘Aagh …’
‘Teddy. Do you recognise me?’
Teddy: ‘… Help me …’
‘I will help you, Teddy. I promise. But first you must help me. Understand?’
‘… Hm.’ A nod.
‘You remember me?’
Another nod. ‘Gatz.’ Then: ‘Help me.’
‘I said I would, and I will. Teddy, tell me the name of your partner, the man you did the Pyrenees job with.’
Teddy stared at Dennis with terrified eyes, eyes that had glimpsed the Great Unknown.
‘Graham … Thorn … Thor’burn …’
‘Graham Thornburn?’
A nod.
‘His address, Teddy. You have to tell me that too.’
‘Doan know … Travel agen’ …’
‘Where is it? The travel agent’s?’
‘… Blackburn … Swinga … Swingalon’ Tour’ …’
‘All right, good. Now there’s just one more thing, Teddy. Then I promise I’ll help you. The shotguns—do you still have them?’
Teddy licked his lips. ‘… Car.’
‘Thank you, Teddy.’
He reached for the pillow on the other side of the bed and placed it over Teddy’s face. Teddy bucked. Dennis lay an arm across the pillow and pushed down hard. Even so the strangled cries came through. Dennis put all his weight on the pillow and felt Teddy’s whole body fighting him with everything left in it. A hand grasped Dennis, his leather sleeve, and he saw KILL emblazoned on the wrist. The knife vibrated in Teddy’s chest; he arched up, kicked his legs, choked, fought, flayed arms. It seemed to take a long time, but then finally he relaxed and lay still. Dennis removed the pillow. Eyes and mouth gaped, a shocking rictus forged in hell that made Dennis flinch. He replaced the pillow and breathed out deeply, ran a hand through his hair. Then he got up.
Looking for Teddy’s car keys, he noticed two bundles of cash on the floor, where Teddy had thrown his clothes. Obviously they had fallen out of a pocket. He picked the bundles up, flicked through them and estimated the amount to be ten thousand. Was this Teddy’s share of the money they’d stolen from Dennis? Had to be, he thought. But why would Teddy carry bundles of cash around in his pockets for what, four days? Surely he’d have secured it somewhere by now. Maybe it’s from somewhere else, Dennis thought, another heist. Maybe it’s not mine. It is now.
He found Teddy’s keys on the kitchen sink, went out the back, around the side of the house to the VK and open
ed the boot. There was the travel bag. He looked around, feeling suddenly panicked—he’d been there too long already. Unzipping the bag, he broke open both guns, took the fully loaded one, zipped the bag and quietly brought down the boot lid. He hesitated, then rushed back inside and put the keys where he’d found them. His heart pumped fast, too fast. Hurrying down the driveway and into the street with the shotgun at his side he thought he heard an approaching siren—a police siren. Yep. He got into the Magna, turned it around and headed down the backstreets, through Preston and then Northcote, then on to the motel in Parkville.
TWENTY-TWO
There was not much chance of sleep that night. He tried, lying naked in the sheets, but couldn’t stop seeing Teddy’s face fixing its dead look on him. Teddy begging, as Dennis himself had done on the hotel floor, gun-barrels rattling between his teeth. Thornburn had shown mercy all right, planning an even more terrible fate. Dennis had learned things about himself during that ordeal, most of which would join the expanding body of secrets within him, to which no living person would ever be witness. But there was something else, too, a salutary gain perhaps; more than anything else, he had discovered that he wanted to live.
He switched the lamp on, sat up in bed. Reached for his smokes. Remembered the money, and counted it—twelve grand. Someone still owed him five. But Teddy had paid in full.
His eyes snapped open at seven fifty-five. He knew that immediately. Getting up he smelled the full ashtray on the bedstand with disgust, then turned the TV on, finding a news program on ‘Good Morning Australia’. He watched for five minutes, but there was no report on Teddy Van Vliet. Maybe he’d missed it.
He showered, dressed and was on the road by eight-fifteen. He’d already looked up the phone book and found the address of Swingalong Tours. It would be the best part of a half-hour drive from here, across town through heavy traffic until he hit the Eastern Freeway at the Chandler Highway turn-off. Then it was plain sailing.
Parked opposite and down from the travel agent’s, he waited and watched. A young woman arrived and stood at the door, then another one joined her. They chatted, looked at their watches. Dennis didn’t need to look at his. It was eight forty-five. He lit up his first cigarette for the day, on an empty stomach. It didn’t taste good and he put it out after two drags. Then he saw a burgundy Tarago van pull up several shops away, and a man get out. The man was Graham Thornburn. A cold thrill made Dennis shiver. Graham spoke briefly to the girls, unlocked the door, then they all went in, Graham last. He was smiling.
Dennis was prepared for a long wait, all day, if necessary. It didn’t matter to him. He noted down the registration number of the Tarago, then decided it was time to get something inside him. Graham wasn’t going anywhere for a while. He found a pastry shop, bought two sausage rolls and coffee in a paper cup and took them back to the car. When he’d finished, he got out again, found a newsagent and got a paper, flicking through it in the shop. On page 7 there was an item about a man named Teddy Van Vliet, 50, who had been stabbed to death during a domestic dispute in West Heidelberg. Police were interviewing the dead man’s girlfriend, Elaine Frew, aged 24. What followed puzzled Dennis. Police were apparently connecting the killing of Mr Van Vliet with the death of Ms Frew’s brother Shawn, aged 20, whose severely battered body had earlier been found in the car park of the Sylvania Hotel, in Campbellfield. Police appealed for witnesses to that killing, drinkers leaving the hotel who may have noticed a disturbance, to contact Homicide Squad detectives.
Inside his car again Dennis turned on the radio for the news at nine. But there was no mention of Teddy Van Vliet or the Sylvania business. Dennis wondered if the money he’d taken from Teddy’s place had originally been this Shawn Frew’s, that Teddy had killed him for it. But twelve grand was a lot for a 20-year-old to be carrying around. A more likely reason for his death was some kind of argument about the sister, Elaine, who was the link between them. A ‘severely battered body’ certainly sounded like Teddy’s work.
At lunchtime Graham left the premises and went into the pastry shop Dennis had visited, coming out with several white paper bags and small bottles of juice and returning immediately to work. That was the only time he emerged all day, until five-fifteen, when he smilingly waved goodbye to the girls, locked up and got into the Tarago without a second look anywhere. Dennis wondered if he knew about Teddy yet. He didn’t look like a man whose partner in a recent crime had just been knifed—or suffocated—to death. Dennis started his car and prepared to follow Graham, three or four cars back: it would be hard to lose a Tarago. That was a little bonus for him.
He followed Graham along Springvale Road, heading north, then right at Doncaster Road. They were in peak-hour traffic, and sometimes he slipped back further than he liked, momentarily losing Graham, but always the Tarago would appear again. Graham made several turns into residential streets, short cuts, and Dennis had to be careful then due to the absence of cars between them. Graham continued east past Donvale and then into Park Orchards, formerly fruit-growing country but these days an affluent suburb with lots of two-storey homes built on large blocks. Beyond stood the foothills of the Dandenongs.
Graham drove on at regulation speed, so sedately in fact that Dennis began to worry. Was Graham onto him? It was a tough job to tail someone for this long without attracting attention. But then Graham indicated right, turned into a badly-made road, an old one, trundled down it and pulled into the driveway of a house that was shrouded in trees and bushes. It was almost at the end of the street, past which there were just paddocks criss-crossed with the fences of farms. Dennis pulled over. He was seventy or eighty metres back, but Graham would not be able to see him from the driveway because of the thick shrubbery—unless he came out for a look, wondering who had accompanied him all this way. He didn’t, however. Dennis was ready to drop down out of sight if he appeared.
It was now almost six. He was tempted to cruise past the house, case it, but in daylight that seemed risky. He had the man pegged, there was no need for impatience. He had as long as he liked. In the meantime he surveyed the street. It was distinctly semi-rural, without the smart homes of Park Orchards proper, having much older ones instead, some ramshackle, with sagging wire fences and indifferently kept gardens. There were vacant blocks scattered about, too, one adjoining Graham’s place, with a sheep tied to a stake in it. This looked like the type of neighbourhood in which nothing ever happened and no one had much to do with anyone else, a backwater that had so far managed to escape the drawing-boards of ever-vigilant developers. The place was in a time-warp. Couldn’t be better.
Dennis drove back to his motel. It was Friday, so he would see what the weekend brought—at around ten or eleven Saturday night, say. He would arrive earlier, in darkness, and see how the situation shaped up. Eventually an opportunity would present itself. He would have to make sure he was ready when it did.
From his room he phoned the hospital, learning that Brett was still on the critical list but showing signs of progress. The nurse sounded quite heartened, but warned against overconfidence at this stage because of the extent of tissue damage and the ever-present shock to his system wrought by it. But if he continued to gain strength at the present rate there was a chance that he would be taken out of intensive care in a couple of days. Dennis put down the phone in a more optimistic frame of mind, despite the nurse’s reservations. Brett’s chances multiplied with each day that passed, and once they took him off the life-support he would be able to handle things himself. Brett didn’t just have physical strength and resilience, he had intense discipline too, instilled in him through his serious application to karate. If the job was in front of him he would simply focus, and do it. So perhaps Monday would tell the story.
He had missed the TV news, so watched a current affairs show for twenty minutes and then found himself growing too restless to remain boxed in for hours before going to bed. He spread his hands out in front of him—both solid, no hint of a quiver. But his insides were knotted, p
leased at Brett’s progress but anxious too—and then, of course, there was the other matter. Very soon he was going to come face to face with it, and that prospect made him both frightened and excited. At present he held the advantage, and he would have to be careful to use it intelligently. That meant remaining calm, but he found it impossible to control the occasionally rapid beats of his heart. So he went out for air, and to distract himself.
He did not bother going to Swingalong Tours on Saturday, assuming that Graham would work until noon and then go home. Instead he spent the morning reading the papers, soaking up details on the life and times of Teddy Van Vliet, who was described in the Herald–Sun as ‘a small-time crook with a history of violence, who lived as he died’. He was ‘well known to police,’ and a ‘survivor,’ who had outlasted most of his criminal contemporaries but whose luck had finally deserted him. There was a photograph of Teddy, a mug shot, together with a smiling one of the man he had bashed to death with a lawn-edger in 1974, for which he was lucky enough to get just six years on the grounds of diminished responsibility. The Age described him as ‘a relic from a bygone era,’ and a ‘street thug who fed himself on myths of his own creation,’ and who had boasted of having participated in ‘so many major crimes over the years, including the Great Bookie Robbery, that he would have to have been at least a dozen people, Houdini included’. In the end, however, he was ‘a small-time loser whose passing few people would mourn’. Both papers said that Van Vliet’s girlfriend, Elaine Frew, whose brother Van Vliet was strongly suspected of having brutally killed just hours before he himself was stabbed to death in his sleep, had been remanded in custody at an out-of-sessions hearing, charged with her boyfriend’s murder. Poor woman, Dennis thought. Still, any halfway decent lawyer would be able to get her off with a light sentence—if there was such a thing as justice any more.