by Berry, Tony
TWENTY-SEVEN
Marsha McIntyre drove with the same assurance and concentration she had shown when shooting Carl West’s legs from beneath him. She backed the truck down the rutted track with hardly a swerve to left or right. Rolls of fencing wire, a bundle of wooden stakes, long-handled spades and other tools packed into the truck’s open tray rattled and clunked behind them. It took her just two smooth turns of the steering wheel and one confident push of the gear stick to move from reverse to forward and set the vehicle in the centre of a narrow bitumen road.
She settled into her seat, hands firm on the steering wheel, her eyes fixed on a winding route brightly lit by the truck’s headlights. Two walls of blackness rose high on either side. Bromo maintained the silence that had existed since leaving the shack. He sensed a brittle fragility about the woman – one that he decided he would be wise not to fracture. A frown creased her brow. Tension lines rimmed her eyes. He was startled when she spoke.
‘We’ll head for Gembrook,’ she said. ‘Then dip down to Pakenham and get on to the freeway. You’ll be home in an hour.’
The voice was raw and croaky, from deep in the throat. Probably a smoker, Bromo reckoned, although his nostrils hadn’t been assailed by any of the nicotine smells they were quick to detect around those who indulged in the evil weed. Her tone was brusque and brisk, not inviting conversation. All her concentration was on the narrow, twisting road.
‘Thanks,’ he said.
He stole a glance to his right. The lines around her eyes and mouth were deeply etched. They seemed long-term and not merely the momentary response to tension. The effect of screwing up her face against sun and wind as much as the wear and tear of mental stresses and strains. Perhaps she was not as forbidding as he had first surmised.
‘Quite a show you put on back there,’ he said with a slight nod towards the rear of the truck.
‘Thank Alex. He guided me in with all that talk.’
She put a hand briefly to her ear, pushing the brim of her hat up to reveal an earpiece that was the twin of the one McIntyre had been wearing.
‘It was as good as a walkie-talkie.’
‘Pretty good bit of sharp-shooting all the same. Scared the hell out of everyone. Takes guts to do that.’
‘You got me on a good day,’ she said.
‘Good for us, bad for Carl West.’
‘Could have gone the other way.’
An odd response, thought Bromo, but she didn’t elaborate. He debated whether it was an invitation to seek an explanation, or a caution to delve no deeper. He couldn’t decide whether she was erecting barriers or moving them aside. He again flicked his eyes sideways as she moved fluidly through the gears, slowing for speed limit signs as they approached a cluster of houses and shops, and taking a left-hand turn on to a wider, smoother road. She seemed calm enough. He decided to push buttons.
‘So, what’s a bad day?’
‘Ghastly. That’s why Alex spends so much time in his shack.’
‘Can I ask why?’
Take it gently Bromo. Take it gently.
‘No harm in asking.’
He noted the hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth and accepted the cue.
‘I’m asking,’ he said, keeping his voice light, almost offhand, gently conversational.
‘Bipolar.’
Marsha turned her head towards him. Her look reminded him of a TV quiz show host who thinks he’s stumped the poor victim up on the podium – quizzical yet challenging. Bet you don’t know the answer to this one, it said. No jackpot for you tonight.
‘Difficult,’ offered Bromo, hinting at some knowledge and understanding. ‘What’s yours – Type 1 or Type 2?’
‘Two. The lesser of the two evils.’
Trendy, too, thought Bromo. The cynic in him rose to the surface as he recalled the phalanx of celebrities using their purported brush with the affliction to explain their frequent anti-social behaviour. His wiser side half choked back the thought before it could be spoken aloud. He sensed he was in kid-glove territory – “handle with care” notices were plastered all over her. Yet he needed this woman to stay focused and willing for another hour or so. Already she’d shown two sides of her character: striding furiously through the bush to blaze away at Carl West; and now coolly gliding her truck down dark back roads. He preferred the second version.
‘Alex is the one who really suffers,’ she said.
The road was flattening out, with fewer bends. They were out of the hill country. Bromo could see the endless stream of headlights from the approaching highway and realised his breathing had at last begun to slow. He slid the fingers of one hand over the wrist of the other, feeling for a pulse. Yes, nice and steady. Situation almost normal. The lights sparkling beyond the paddocks indicated a sort of security, safety in numbers, and a link with familiar territory.
‘Is that why he lives in the woods?’
‘He doesn’t live there!’ Marsha snapped back, defensive.
‘He lives with me and the kids. Other men have a shed. Alex has his shack. It’s his refuge.’
She gave him a resigned sort of shrug.
‘You know, for when things get bad.’
He didn’t know. He had only a vague idea. But he felt he was going to learn a whole lot more. When things had gone pear-shaped between him and Rachel one of them had usually slammed the door and walked out to the streets with nowhere to go. No shed, no shack, although he suspected Rachel often high-tailed it around to one of her many girlfriends where she got maudlin with the help of bottle of chardonnay. The sisterhood at work. Marsha McIntyre was in a different league.
Without thinking, he checked his seat belt fastening and tightened it a notch or two. There could be a roller-coaster ride ahead or a smooth glide down the highway. He felt it could go either way. Their headlights lit up the bright green freeway entrance sign. Marsha applied slow pressure to the brakes and steered them round in a gentle arc. They dovetailed neatly into the freeway behind a monster of a supermarket truck thundering towards the city with a load of the freshest of fresh fruit and vegetables, if the slogan plastered over its rear end was to be believed.
‘So, how bad does it get?’
‘Remember the little girl in the nursery rhyme: when she was good, she was very, very good, but when she was bad, she was horrid? It’s like that. Big highs, deep lows. It’s what I imagine binge-drinking would be like, except I don’t have a choice. They used to call us manic depressives. I guess bipolar sounds better, less scary.’
‘You taking the tablets?’
She threw a sidelong glance at him, wondering was it a genuine question or a smart-arse comment; maybe a weak attempt at humour? He recognised the look but offered no interpretation. Let her work it out. She concentrated on the road and played it deadpan and gave him the benefit of the doubt.
‘I guess you’ve heard; they were part of the problem. Caused even more highs and lows. Sent me right off my tree.’
‘And Alex?’
‘He does his best. He’s tried to help. Been very understanding, very supportive. I’m getting over it. The attacks are fewer and far between.’
‘But still he runs away and hides in the woods.’
Marsha reacted immediately. Her head turned sharply in his direction. He noted the two deep vertical furrows between her brows, scowling at him. A storm warning.
‘That’s our solution!’ she snapped. ‘Have you got a better one?’
She focused back on the road.
‘At least it’s stopped us killing each other.’
‘So why have a loaded shotgun lying around the place?’
The laugh that greeted his question surprised him. Her throaty chuckle bounced around the truck’s cabin.
‘No worries there. You live in the bush, you have a weapon. It’s part of the furniture. When the mood hits, there’s no time to unlock the gun from its cupboard,’ she said. ‘I’m more likely to be at him with a kitchen knife or ripping into him with my bar
e hands.’
There was no hint of humour. Her face was deadpan. She took her right hand off the wheel and rolled up the sleeve of her left arm to just below the elbow. She swapped hands and repeated the performance on the right arm. The movement revealed mottled skin stretched taut over sinewy, muscular flesh. She was on display, making a point. Yes, thought Bromo, why waste time unlocking the gun cupboard.
‘Everything was sweet tonight,’ she added, her voice gently reassuring. ‘Great teamwork all round and totally in control. Pity it can’t always be like that. It felt good. How about you?’
He cast his mind back to the scene in the forest and shuddered. He nodded his head gently, as if in agreement.
‘Sure, just fine,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing like having a madman pointing a gun at your chest while some crazy woman leaps from the bushes blazing away with a 12-bore.’
He felt her glare turned quickly on him.
‘Less of the crazy, if you don’t mind.’
A harder edge had returned to her voice. He noted the swelling of the sinews in her arms as she tightened her grip on the wheel.
‘Sorry. I forgot.’
He held his breath through the silence that followed, eyes closed, hoping, like watching an old movie with the vehicle teetering to and fro on a cliff top. Not wanting it to tumble into the ravine below. Let the heroes be saved. Tonight she was on the side of the good guys.
‘Okay. Apology accepted. Ignorance can’t be helped.’
He let out a long silent breath and opened his eyes, willingly accepting the rebuke. The crash was not to be. She waved a hand at the road ahead.
‘Where to?’
He looked at the overhead signs high on the gantries above the freeway. The roads leading off into the outer suburbs were becoming more frequent. Traffic was streaming thickly along on both sides of them. She needed directions to get into the correct lane. He felt rudderless, not knowing what had happened during his abduction, what had happened to Adriana and Lottie, where the dangers lay, which places were safe.
‘I’m not sure,’ he said.
He could hear the indecision in his voice. It shocked him to realise how much he had changed from those days when decisions were instant, made on the run and, once made, strictly adhered to. Certainty was everything. If you hesitated everyone around you knew it – friends as well as foes. She tapped her fingers on the wheel.
‘I need to know. Keep going like this and we’ll be in the city in 15 minutes.’
Uncertainty was infectious. An antidote was needed.
‘Take the Yarra Boulevard turn-off. It’s the one after this.’
Marsha eased the truck carefully into the left-hand lane, sliding it on to the slip-road and slowing for the curve that took them on to the Boulevard. The truck’s headlights lit up bushes and trees lining the steep slopes bordering the sluggish river meandering slowly to the bay.
‘Familiar territory,’ she said.
The remark encouraged a response, as did the slight smile turning the corner of her mouth upwards. Bromo accepted the invitation.
‘Happy memories?’
‘Used to go parking along here. Down by the boatsheds, along the track by the footy ovals. No traffic around.’
Nothing much had changed. Every time he came along here for a jog or on his bike he was dismayed at the litter left behind by the parkers – their fast-food wrappers, pizza cartons and drink cans. The garbage was their calling card.
‘Pity you didn’t take your rubbish home with you when you’d finished eating.’
They were cruising past the agriculture college, taking the slope under the rail bridge up towards the Swan Street junction. Soon they’d be on Bridge Road and he’d have to decide which way to turn. She seemed less aware of his dilemma, happy to be free of the stress of freeway driving and drifting along on a tide of memories.
‘Didn’t have time for eating,’ she said. A raucous laugh followed. ‘Left a few knickers behind though.’
Bromo choked on an involuntary cough. He tugged at his ear, glad of the dark. It was a welcome shield for the sudden twitching of his facial muscles and the reddening glow of an unbidden blush. He fumbled for a response, thankful he had more to think of than Marsha McIntyre’s discarded underwear.
The lights of Bridge Road were ahead. He saw a tram slowly crossing through the intersection. The darkened bulk of the girls’ college loomed on their right. Lights from apartments glowed through trees on their left. He decided they would turn left and head for Liz Shapcott’s place. He felt the truck slowing. It was even below the ridiculous 40km/h limit imposed on the Boulevard. They were creeping forward.
‘Perhaps we could stop. Recall old times.’
Marsha took one hand off the wheel and rested it on his knee. Her voice was dreamy, vague, the tomboyish raw edges smoothed away. Bromo tried to gauge her look in the darkness. She seemed focused on the distance, on the nearing intersection, yet not seeing. A fixed smile softened her face. The truck had slowed to almost walking pace. She was steering it into the kerb beneath a dark overhang of wattles and elms.
‘No one will see us here.’
She thrust it into neutral and turned off the ignition. Bromo wriggled along the seat, his back hard up against the vehicle’s side. At another time in another place he might well consider what was happening as an offer too good to refuse. Right now, it was too good to accept. There were other priorities. Marsha slid along the seat, away from the steering wheel, her body turned towards him, leaning forward, hands on his thighs, kneading and moving higher.
‘Just like old times.’
He recognised something similar to a trance. Her smile hadn’t changed, as if painted on. She was looking but not seeing.
‘But not with me, Marsha. It was some other bloke.’
His words weren’t registering.
‘Remember, we were always parking. You were good. Quick, but good.’
Bromo rested one hand on hers, staying its movement. He reached behind him with the other, feeling for the door handle. To cut and run was a last resort. But she was leaving him with few options. Perhaps if he played along, kept the dream alive.
‘We were both good, Marsha. We should do it again sometime, but tonight’s not the night.’
His hand found the door catch. It wouldn’t budge. Central locking. The stalker’s delight. The lights of a passing car briefly lit the cabin. Bromo got the fleeting impression Marsha’s eyes were glazed, focused on him but not seeing. Or even seeing someone else. Bugger the dream – it had to be broken. A car went by in the other direction. He turned his head away from the glare of its headlights.
‘Too many people, Marsha. Let’s come back later, when there’s no one around. We’ve got people to see.’
His words slowly registered. She shook her head, as if freeing it of water after a shower. Her smile faded. Bromo felt her grip on his thighs relax. She stretched forward and planted a brief kiss on his lips. Then sat up.
‘Yes, right, let’s get going.’
Bromo thought of hypnotist acts he had seen. It was as if someone had snapped their fingers after a count of ten. No longer was he being driven into the traffic turmoil of Bridge Road with a zombie at the wheel. The efficient, no-nonsense Marsha was back in charge.
‘Turn left at the corner,’ he said. ‘Then left at the lights.’
With any luck they would get to Liz Shapcott’s place before his edgy chauffeur had another urge to park and grab his thigh.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Liz took her time about letting them in. Bromo heard the caution and uncertainty as she answered him on the intercom. Reception was shaky and unclear at the best of times. Voices were rarely distinct. Tonight, his usual “It’s me, Bromo” was not enough. Her doubts and fear were palpable even over such a brittle link. She needed surety. He suggested she posed him a couple of questions few people other than he could answer. The intercom crackled.
‘What hotel did you book me into in Prague?’
<
br /> ‘Metropole.’
She didn’t say whether he was right or wrong.
‘What did I order when we went for lunch down by the river?’
‘Bratwurst and salad.’
Silence.
‘And I had the duck snags.’
The door clicked open.
‘A winner, and I didn’t even have to call a friend,’ murmured Bromo as he ushered Marsha ahead of him through the gates. Liz was waiting on the far side of the courtyard, one hand holding the door open, the other sweeping through her long tresses. A mix of surprise and shock flashed across her face as Bromo and Marsha came into the light.
‘What’s happened? You look a mess. Peter Jardine reckoned you’d been kidnapped.’
‘And it’s great to see you, too, Liz.’
He noted the dark shadows under her eyes that no make-up could hide.
‘Perhaps I could pay you a similar compliment. Not sleeping well?’
‘At least I’m not covered in mud and blood.’
Bromo stopped and held out his arms, looking at the tear in his jacket, then down at the long streaks of dirt down his front, taking in the rip in his trousers and the stain of blood over one knee. He hadn’t realised. The momentum of the past hour or so had given him no time to pause and reflect. Liz turned sharply away and strode indoors, her voice trailing behind her.
‘Surely I’m allowed to get worried. It looks as if Peter was right.’
Bromo looked at Marsha. He gave her rueful smile, an unspoken message seeking understanding and patience for Liz’s outburst. Someone was showing concern for his condition. It might take some getting used to.
‘Perhaps I’d better go and leave you two to it,’ said Marsha.
‘Balls. You need a break. She’ll settle down.’
He extended an arm, protective but untouching, ushering her inside. Liz had proved him correct. She had settled down. She was on the lounge, presenting a look of relaxed calm, hands in her lap, the fingers of one slowly revolving the big tiger-eye ring on the other.
‘So, who’s your friend? Aren’t you going to introduce us?’
He detected an edge to her voice. She’d flicked a switch; gone from aggressively wary to awkwardly hospitable. And it was fooling no one. Marsha took the initiative, extending a hand.