by Berry, Tony
McIntyre indicated a fold-up director’s chair.
‘Take a seat.’
He moved to the rear of the shack and lifted a tarpaulin to reveal a pile of coloured plastic crates. He hefted an armful of split logs from one of them and extracted a Thermos flask from another.
‘As I said, warmth and food.’
He laid the logs on the fire and unscrewed the lid of the flask.
‘Get this into you for now. We’ll rustle up something more substantial later.’
Bromo cupped the flask’s lid in both hands and sipped at the liquid. It was warm and spicy. A hint of coriander. Threads of meat slipped down his throat. Gourmet-level tucker when he’d been expecting not much more than billy tea. He raised a questioning eyebrow at McIntyre as the man stirred life into the fire’s embers.
‘Thai chicken soup.’
They were on the same wavelength. He needed to keep it that way.
‘Home-made?’
‘Always.’
‘And is this home?’
He waved an all-embracing arm in the direction of the shack. McIntyre shrugged as he unfolded another chair and slumped into it, legs stretched out towards the fire.
‘Sometimes. More like a home away from home.’
‘What’s the story?’
‘I’ll tell you mine if you’ll tell me yours. Then we’ll see if I need to call for help.’
He poured some more soup into Bromo’s cup.
‘People don’t usually go crashing through the forest in the dark with their hands tied behind their backs.’
‘Fair comment. And thanks for coming to the rescue. I was in deep shit until you came along.’
It took him ten minutes to provide an edited but hopefully convincing account of events leading up to his stumbling race through the forest. As Bromo related the final moments, McIntyre sat bolt upright.
‘You mean those two hoons are still out there in the forest? They probably need help.’
‘They can help themselves,’ said Bromo. ‘If they’re alive they can crawl their own way back. If not, it doesn’t matter. Someone might care enough to come looking for them.’
The words came out sharp and abrupt. If there had been a flash of sympathy when the tree came crashing down, it had long since evaporated. The soup and the fire had warmed him and comforted him. But he felt none of that mellow glow that usually accompanied such pleasures. He was taking stock, only now fully realising how close he’d come to death. A cold, calculating anger was rising and circulating where contentment would have flowed.
‘I’ll have to let the rangers know,’ said McIntyre. ‘They’ll find the limo soon enough.’
‘Rangers? What rangers?’
‘Parks and Wildlife Service, better known as Parks Victoria. They manage the place.’
‘What place? Isn’t it about time you told me where we are, who you are?’
McIntyre turned his attention back to the fire, poking at the embers, turning one of the logs, seeing in the glow pictures only he would ever understand.
‘You’re in Bunyip State Forest, all 16,000 or so hectares of it. And we’re about 65 kilometres from downtown Melbourne, which is where I guess you’d much rather be.’
Bromo took a punt.
‘And you’re on the run from what?’
McIntyre threw back his head and let loose a guffaw loud enough to disturb a couple of sleeping birds who fluttered out of their resting place somewhere at the edge of the clearing.
‘The only thing I’m running from is a schizophrenic wife and four hyperactive kids. Do I look like a crook to you?’
‘Never can tell.’
‘Yeah, true.’
‘Crooks come in all shapes and sizes.’
McIntyre nodded in agreement.
‘Good dressers, too, lots of them. Look at that Carlton Crew. Mob of gangsters all dressed by Armani.’
He ran a critical eye over Bromo’s attire.
‘I guess you’re not in that league. More like Target and Dimmeys.’
Bromo acknowledged the man’s perception, but did he have to be so bloody spot-on about his patronage of the city’s main discount stores. He was feeling drowsy, almost drugged. A campfire lethargy brought on by food and fire was creeping through him. A nagging suspicion came with it, roused by that drugged-like sensation. He folded his arms across his chest and sank lower in his chair, letting his eyes droop almost shut as he sneaked a look across at McIntyre, assessing him.
Bromo’s hand went up to his ear. Rubbed at it. The lower lobe was doing that throbbing thing again. He gripped it between thumb and forefinger and squeezed gently, tugging slightly. It hadn’t been this painful for months. Usually it was worst at night when he lay on his side, his ear pressed into the pillow. However, even that had eased; so much so that he’d come at last almost to believe the doctors who had promised him the pain would pass.
What would they know? Their view was purely medical, pragmatic, distant. He’d been wounded. Blood had run. A scar had grown. It would heal. Perhaps even cease to be visible. Rub in some Savlon and all would be well. The doctors knew nothing and said nothing about the deeper damage – the recurring fear that came from recalling the bullet that had made the wound so very long ago. How close it had passed to his skull, the split second twitch of his head that had made the difference between death and life – or between brain damage and an itchy lobe.
Over time he’d come to recognise it as an inbuilt early warning system – a personal radar alerting him to the onset of stress. He rubbed again at his ear and looked again at the man on the other side of the fire.
‘So let’s stop bullshitting around. How do I get out of here?’ he asked. ‘Have you got wheels or am I going to have to play chauffeurs with that limo?’
‘No worries,’ said McIntyre, seemingly undisturbed by Bromo’s sudden bout of brusqueness. He stood languidly and stretched as high as a short man can manage. He gave another stir of the fire and trudged in towards the shack, hitching up his baggy trousers as he went.
‘No wheels here,’ he called back. ‘I backpack in.’
Bromo felt in his pocket for his mobile phone. He pushed the “On” button. The screen glimmered into life long enough for him glimpse the “No-Service Area” symbol and a battery indicator showing almost nil power. The screen faded back to nothing and switched itself off. Deader than the proverbial doornail.
McIntyre emerged from the rear of the shack after another rummage through his plastic crates.
‘We’d better call up the cavalry,’ he said.
Bromo pointed at the crumple bag the man was carrying.
‘If that’s what I think it is, how are you going to get a connection out here?’
McIntyre smiled the knowing smile of a parent coming to the aid of a frustrated child.
‘The marvels of modern technology,’ he said, unzipping the bag and busying himself with a laptop, mobile phone and wireless card.
‘Too many gadgets and buttons,’ grouched Bromo.
‘Only if they don’t work or are left in the hands of fools,’ replied McIntyre. ‘Horses for courses.’
Bromo accepted the reproof. Technology was not his strong suit. If McIntyre thought he could connect them to the outside world, so be it.
‘What’s a swaggie doing with all this gear?’
‘Who said anything about being a swaggie? I’m just a jobbing gardener who lives a few clicks down the road, loves the bush and needs to get away from the wife and kids. For their good as well as his own. It suits the rangers to have me hidden away here keeping an eye on troublemakers like you. Anyway, what’s wrong with being able to keep in touch?’
The wireless headset clipped to McIntyre’s ear was glowing blue with life. He held up a hand to quell Bromo’s chatter and began prowling around the clearing, head bowed, talking, then falling silent, followed by more talk. The rain had eased off. The clouds were breaking up and the moon was flecking the clearing with patches of light in longer b
ursts.
‘You looked like a bloody maniac,’ said Bromo as McIntyre unclipped the headset and settled back into his chair. ‘Stalking around in the moonlight, talking to yourself. Double, double toil and trouble …’
‘At least the magic worked. Help’s on its way.’
‘The park rangers?’
‘Yep. Plus ambulance. And the cops won’t be far behind.’
‘Hmmm. I’d rather not be here when they arrive.’
McIntyre gave an understanding nod of his head.
‘Not surprised,’ he said. ‘There’s going to be some explaining to do. Won’t look good. The limo. Possibly two bodies.’
There was an uneasy silence between them. The implications of what had happened back in the woods was sinking in. McIntyre leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees, his fingers entwined.
‘I don’t want any trouble,’ he said.
‘I can understand that,’ said Bromo.
He wondered if it was a threat or a plea. If he cut and run, would McIntyre point them to him or stall for time, letting him get away. At least for now. He stared at the glowing ash where the burning logs had been. The wind, now down to a light breeze, occasionally whipped up a flickering flame. With nothing to feed upon, the spurts of fire died as quickly as they rose. Bromo found them hypnotic. Not good. He was nodding off. He shook his head roughly from side to side and ran his fingers over his scalp. Time was running out. He pointed at the headset.
‘Any chance of a quick call? Get someone to pick me up.’
McIntyre fingered the gadget, making decisions, mulling over the same questions Bromo had been pondering.
‘It would help,’ said Bromo. ‘Make things easier later. For both of us.’
McIntyre held his look, unblinking. A final assessment.
‘Here.’
He held out the headset.
‘Make your call and then get the hell out of here.’
‘I’d be no good with that bloody thing.’
Bromo grinned as he spoke, partly with relief and partly in acknowledgment of his technical incompetence.
‘I’ll give you the number and you make the call,’ he said. ‘At least you’ll know I’m on the level.’
McIntyre stood up, hands thrust deep in his pockets, prodding the toe of one foot at the rough ground. Bromo sensed uncertainty. He gave Bromo another of his sidelong, judgmental glances. He drew one hand out of his coat, clutching the phone.
‘I’ve got a better idea. I’ll give the missus a call. Get her to pick you up. She’ll be here in five minutes and have you well clear of the area before the rest of them arrive. Play your cards right and she might even drive you all the way into town. She’s good with lame ducks.’
McIntyre turned away, towards the shack, hand up to his ear, head bowed, his voice low. Bromo caught the first few words. Their gentle tone and content surprised him. He’d assumed they’d be curter and strident.
‘Hi babe, it’s me.’
The rest was a silence followed by an urgent low murmuring as McIntyre shuffled around the edge of the shack, his back turned to Bromo. Suddenly he stopped and turned, his hands smoothing his beanie hard down on the crown of his head, almost covering the headset, still faintly glowing blue at his ear.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s go. I’ll point you in the right direction. She’s taking the back way, up Link Road. That’ll avoid the others. I’m guessing they’ll use Snake Creek and head for the picnic ground. There’s a helipad there.’
He almost pulled Bromo from his chair as he grabbed his arm and began guiding him towards a gap in the bushes at the side of the shack. Bromo recognised the flow of confidence in the man’s grip. He knew what he was doing, where he was going. The laid-back refugee from domesticity had been replaced by a man of action, confident and sure of his decisions.
‘Stop!’
The lean, ghostly figure of Carl West thrust itself up and forward from a strand of striplings off to their right. One arm hung limply at his side. The other held a short-barrelled handgun.
‘You’re going nowhere.’
Bromo decided he was right, at least for now. McIntyre looked startled, but seemed less sure as he flashed a puzzled look in Bromo’s direction.
‘Meet Carl West – missing, presumed dead,’ he explained. ‘Armed and possibly dangerous.’
‘Shut up!’ barked West, moving the direction of the gun from one to the other. ‘Cut the crap.’
Bromo and McIntyre stood side by side, almost at attention, two foot soldiers awaiting a parade ground reprimand from the man in charge. To move or speak would inflame the situation. West was a man on the edge, shaken and damaged. Bromo suspected the limp arm was broken, meaning intense pain. He noted West’s bloodied and muddied face where the fallen tree had pummelled him into the rough ground. His head would be pounding with the mother of all headaches. Dirt and soil clung to his once immaculate suit, usually enough on its own to tip him over into a foul mood. Bromo noted the trembling gun hand and decided he’d leave it to West to do the talking. McIntyre had other ideas.
‘If you put that gun down we could fix your arm,’ he said.
His voice was level, even and precise, like someone giving dictation, spelling out each word.
‘Why not move off the track and round into the hut and let us take a look?’
West hesitated. Bromo could sense him mulling over McIntyre’s words, tempted by the offer as spasms of pain creased his face. His gun arm twitched.
‘I’ve got my own fixing to do!’ snarled West.
‘Why stand outside the shelter? I’m sure I’ve got something in there to ease the pain.’
McIntyre maintained his clear monotone. To Bromo, it sounded as if he was speaking to a dim-witted child.
‘Besides, if we move off this track, we can’t make a run for it.’
West stared back at him, considering the options, balancing the lure of pain relief against any other plans he had. He took a step back and to the side, widening the gap between them. He waved his gun arm from his hostages to the shack, indicating their next move.
‘Okay, in you go,’ said West. ‘Slowly, close together. If this thing goes off, you’ll both cop it.’
‘Easy, mate,’ said McIntyre.
He turned his head slightly towards Bromo and gave him a conspiratorial wink. Bromo had no idea why. Being in a confined space with an edgy hoon carrying a lethal weapon was not his idea of a get-out strategy. Somehow McIntyre had become their spokesman and now was not the time to argue. He just wished he’d shut up. That bloody running commentary was getting on his nerves. God knows what it might be doing to West. Yet McIntyre seemed unaware and unable to stop.
‘We’re doing what you want,’ he continued, boringly loud and clear. ‘We’re stepping slowly into the hut.’
An ear-splitting cacophony of rapid gunshots, only seconds apart, bounced around them. A double flash of light flared brilliantly and faded. Dirt and grit sprayed up from the ground. Bromo felt McIntyre push him hard on his upper arm. Deafened and briefly blinded, he tripped and sprawled sideways on the ground, his fall softened by a heap of folded blankets. He felt a weight on his lower legs and could hear someone groaning. There was movement beyond the hut. He closed his eyes and waited. Too many trigger-happy people were appearing out of the moonlight.
‘Stay still while I move him.’
Bromo raised his head and shoulders and saw McIntyre bending over him. He felt relief as McIntyre slowly slid a limp and helpless Carl West sideways off his legs, the light from the oil lamp casting a grotesque shadow play of the action on to the hut’s rear wall. There was another shadow there, too, further along the wall. It seemed safe to move. As he levered himself up and around into a sitting position, his back now pressed against the shack’s wall, Bromo saw the source of the second shadow.
‘Christ,’ he exclaimed. ‘What’s this, McLeod’s Daughters or Annie Get your Gun?’
His eyes travelled up from mud-caked Blun
dstone boots via a three-quarter length denim skirt to an amply-filled plaid work-shirt. Above was a thin angular face, pointed chin, wide brow with tendrils of dark red hair escaping from beneath a broad-brimmed leather hat rammed hard down on her head. The woman, all 5ft-nothing of her, stood legs astride and unsmiling, a double-barrelled 12-bore shotgun held firm in her hands. It was pointed at West.
‘Meet my wife,’ said McIntyre. ‘Marsha.’
The woman nodded briefly in Bromo’s direction.
‘Hi.’
She quickly refocused on West, still supine on the ground with McIntyre standing over him. Bromo noted her unwavering grip on the gun, the tension in her shoulders. This was no time for sudden movement. It was a freeze-frame moment – four people rigidly posed in the shadowy light from the oil lamp.
‘That’s your passenger,’ McIntyre told her, pointing at Bromo.
He held his hand out towards the gun.
‘I’ll take over here. You’d better get going.’
For a while, it was as if he hadn’t spoken. The woman’s finger remained on the trigger, her left arm taut. Bromo imagined sinewy muscles flexed beneath the flapping sleeve of her waterproofed coat, a volcano that had already erupted and was ready to blow again.
‘Marsha.’
McIntyre’s voice was soft and gentle. He edged his hand closer to the gun.
‘Bromo needs to go.’
Suddenly, it was as if the tableau had never been. The woman emerged from whatever trance-like state had been enveloping her.
‘Right,’ she said, her voice brisk and business-like. ‘That’s it then. We’d better be off. Here, Alex, take this.’
She handed the gun to her husband, relaxed her shoulders with a couple of up and down shrugs and hooked two fingers in Bromo’s direction.
‘Okay you, get up off your arse and follow me. We’ve wasted enough time already.’
Bromo knew better than to argue. She was already pushing her way back into the scrub as he scrambled to his feet. McIntyre waved one hand, palm down, in a calming motion.
‘Treat her gently,’ he said.
Bromo had no other intention.