by Peter Klein
‘Yep, that’s what you’re doing, Matt, isn’t it? Denying you have any troubles.’
‘I’ve got no troubles!’
He screeched it out hysterically, and even though I’d been expecting it, it reverberated around in the confines of the van. Then I saw his arm lift higher than before; he’d hacked the seat into an upholsterer’s nightmare and the next thrust of the knife wouldn’t be for the seat, it would be struck at me.
I swerved into the telephone pole doing sixty, and when I hit it, it sent shards of broken glass and sheered metal against the terrified pedestrians I’d just managed to avoid. Maxine screamed as we collided and I watched the disappearing soles of Matt’s runners as he was flung head first through the windscreen. Shows what happens when you don’t wear your seatbelt.
I didn’t want to hurt my old bus, but it was the only way. I crashed it right into the laneway next to the Tavern nightclub and did a ‘proper job’, as Chas would have said. I’d aimed the van for the middle of the pole and we’d come off second best, embedding ourselves into the pylon with a force I thought would make my seatbelt snap. I yelled out to Maxine, asking if she was all right, and she stammered out a shaken okay, so I told her stay put till the police came. I got out my door; had to kick it open as it was jammed. We were surrounded by shocked onlookers who now started to gather around the crashed van and offer help. I heard somebody say they’d called an ambulance and another said they’d called the police. There were dozens of people pressing forward around the van and another group staring down the laneway towards where Matt must have landed. I stood up on the kickboard and looked over past the telephone pole. Could just make out the shape of a body lying on the cobblestones in the laneway. I had to get to him, but I just couldn’t get past the throng of people circling us.
I looked up and down wildly through the crowd and saw two big guys who could only be bouncers come running up from the Tavern. Thank god one of them was Tiny. He’s hard to miss; the big sinewy frame standing head and shoulders above everyone else.
‘Punter, is that you?’ he yelled out, elbowing his way in and surveying my wrecked kombi. ‘Ya silly bastard, what’ve ya done? You all right? Are you hurt?’
Suddenly I saw Matt get up and stagger a couple of steps before he stood, staring at me. Then he turned and ran up the alley.
‘Tiny, quick!’ I yelled, pointing. ‘It’s Matt; it’s the strapper killer.’
Tiny waded through the crowd just like he must do on the packed dance floors of the clubs he bounces. I was glad to follow in his wake. He announced his intentions clearly enough: ‘Comin’ through!’ then he did just that, bulldozed his way using his hip and shoulders to force a passage. If you were in his way, well, it was probably like an elephant parting the branches of a tree as it walks through. I followed him around to the passenger side of the car, where we finally got into the laneway.
‘Where is he?’ said Tiny.
‘He got thrown through the window,’ I said, pointing to the shattered windscreen, ‘but I saw him get up and run off.’
‘Let’s get after him.’
We set off up the laneway at a sprint. Matt couldn’t have been far in front of us and he’d taken a knock, he’d be shaken, and possibly injured from the crash. The laneway continued for a short distance then turned a sharp dog-leg right before looping back out to the main road. We ran past a derelict hunched against a doorway, his empty bottle lying on the ground next to him. We paid him just enough attention to make sure it wasn’t Matt, then took off again. It was hard work keeping pace with the big fella’s strides. He loped ahead of me, taking two steps to my one. When we reached the end of the laneway and came out at Collins Street, both of us stopped.
‘See him?’ said Tiny.
There were lots of people on the street. All I could see were seemingly endless groups of young men and woman drifting along the pavement and across the roads. But he couldn’t have got far. He only had about ten seconds’ head start. I checked the footpath back towards King Street. No sign of him. The other side of the road had more of the same: it seemed like they’d cloned twenty thousand young men and woman and let them all roam around clubland like zombies on a Friday night. The men, all with the ‘trendy scruffy hairstyle’, their long-sleeved shirts fashionably untucked, and wide-toed shoes. The women in impossibly short skirts and high heels; no wonder they staggered between venues. A darting shadow caught my eye in a landscape where nothing else hurried. Fifty metres away, a furtive shape was running between people. He paused for a moment outside a shop window and looked back our way. I nudged Tiny and pointed discreetly.
‘There he is,’ I said.
We took off after him again and closed the gap. He seemed to be limping, no doubt as a result of the crash. It was even more crowded on this block and we found ourselves dodging lines of drunken nightclub patrons spread out like grazing cows and blocking our way. In the end we gave up on the footpath and ran down the side of the road, weaving between cars. We chased him into the entrance of yet another laneway and a few strides into that, we’d just about collared him.
‘Stop, Matt!’ I yelled at him.
A group of girls were walking ahead of us, oblivious of our presence. They turned around as I called out, startled. Matt pounced on one of them. She screamed and tried to fight him off, but he succeeded in grabbing her around the neck and then wheeled her around to face us. He was panting from the run, as we were, and he held his knife unsteadily at the girl’s throat, gasping for breath.
‘Stop, or I’ll kill her! You know I’ll do it, Punter.’
‘Put the knife down, Matt,’ said Tiny. ‘Let her go, she’s got nothing to do with this.’
‘Shut up and stay where you are, all of you.’
We stood still, the other girls falling in behind us as Matt backed away, holding the knife to his victim’s throat. As he limped backwards, another group of clubbers headed down the far side of the laneway towards us.
‘Run!’ I said to the group of girls behind me. ‘Go and call the police.’
They didn’t need telling twice and took off in a clatter of high heels over the cobblestones. Matt looked wild-eyed at the girls fleeing from us, but kept backing back up the alley with his hostage. We kept following, stepping slowly after him.
‘I told you to stay!’ he barked at us, like an angry owner to a disobedient dog.
‘It’s not gonna happen, Matt. Just give it up now,’ I said.
The group of clubbers had almost come up behind where Matt was: a pack of six or seven noisy young guys all swigging from beer bottles. A couple were carrying cardboard cartons on their shoulders; the night’s additional grog supply, no doubt. They were barely managing to keep a rein on their testosterone levels; you could see it in their aggressive swagger and hear it in their slurred conversation. Every second word was the ‘F’ word, every sentence a threat against the nightclub they’d just been evicted from. When they reached us, it seemed they’d decided we were the perfect scapegoats for them to vent their frustrations on. Matt spun around when he heard them advancing. The girl, sensing her chance, broke free and ran back past us. There was a stand-off for a moment as the group stood in a semicircle around Matt. Then he held his knife up at them and told them to fuck off.
One of them threw a bottle at him. It missed and smashed loudly against a brick wall. Another was thrown, this time hitting him in the chest and sending up a fountain of foamy beer. Then the bottles rained down on Matt like hailstones on a tin roof. They picked him off without mercy. The bottle that felled him actually came from a guy who smashed it over the back of his head. I saw Matt’s knife clatter to the ground and he followed it down a moment later. Then the rain of bottles was replaced with a frenzy of kicks as they lined up to put the boot in.
Tiny leant towards me, spoke in my ear. ‘Punter, you want me to bust ’em up?’
He didn’t seem overly concerned about the imbalance in the numbers, nor about Matt’s fate. I didn’t say anything, just watched as they la
id into the strapper killer’s head, his ribs, his crotch; wherever they could find an unguarded body part.
‘Punter? There’s seven of ’em,’ said Tiny, ‘They’ll fuckin’ kill him, unless we do something.’
The spate of gruesome strapper murders flashed in front of me. The ‘strapper killer’ headlines which the papers had been running for what had seemed an eternity. I thought about the terror those young girls must have endured when they’d woken up to find him standing over them. And I thought about the night I’d surprised him in Maxine’s apartment. Remembered the fight I’d had with him in the members’ toilets. The near miss when he’d hidden away and ambushed us in my van tonight. Most of all, I remembered Ric’s words as we gazed at the graffiti last Saturday outside the races: ‘Killers keep killing’. I watched one of the mob raise a bottle above his head and take aim at Matt lying on the ground. He was only a youth; could picture him innocently tossing burgers at Maccas during the week. But here, in front of his drunken mates, he was a potential killer. Just like Matt.
‘Oi!’ I yelled out at him. The kid spun around, the bottle still in his hand. ‘You’re right Tiny, let’s break ’em up.’
22
Maxine, Tiny and I spent most of what was left of the night down at the city police station. Detective Wells and his offsider Tony were there and Beering came in about half an hour later. They split us up when we arrived and I went into an interview room with Wells. When Beering got there he joined us as I went over my story once again. I took him through the whole thing and didn’t hold anything back, which included my reasons for driving out to meet Maxine and how it was all over between us.
‘Sorry to hear it didn’t work out, Punter,’ said Beering with empathy. I got another sympathetic hearing shortly after, this time from Wells, when I told him how I’d had to crash my van to try to lose Matt when he’d ambushed us.
‘Is it a write-off?’ he asked.
‘Nah, she’s tougher than that. It’ll be a major job, but it’s only the front end. Good thing the motor’s in the back of a kombi.’
‘That was sharp thinking,’ he said. ‘Not much else you could have done. If you bailed out, he had Maxine. If you tried to tackle him in the van, he’s still got the knife on her. You couldn’t win no matter what. And if you did nothing . . . well, that would have been a one-way drive out to Caulfield racecourse.’
During the interview a policeman came in with news for Wells which he discreetly whispered to him in the doorway. Wells shared it with us anyway as soon as he was told; they’d found the girl who Matt had grabbed in the laneway. She and her friends had reported the attack to police. But of the pack that had laid into Matt there was no sign. They’d vanished into the night; just another drunken mob staggering around in clubland. Good luck to the police if they could find them.
Wells asked me, ‘You say the group came down from the other end of the laneway and Matt spun around when he heard them, and then the girl escaped?’
‘Uh-huh. She ran past me and Tiny. I guess she found her friends and they took off.’
‘And then a fight started between Matt and the group?’
‘Words were exchanged, he waved his knife around at them and then it was on.’
‘They just about beat him to a pulp. Would have, if you and Tiny hadn’t broken it up.’
I thought of Tiny, wading into battle like some giant warrior. He may well have been, too, if he’d been born a few centuries earlier. Could picture him, long sword in one arm, mace in the other. He had no medieval weapons tonight, but his huge fists had chopped a swathe through that pack of hoons just like a knight in battle. He’d decked three of them and thrown another against a wall before they realised they were out of their league. The others had turned and fled when they saw there was a demon amongst them.
‘I don’t think I contributed much to that,’ I said.
‘Even so, you two probably saved his life. He’s at the hospital under police guard until we get the doctor’s all-clear to interview him.’
I answered some more questions for another half hour or so and then I was allowed to go. Beering offered to call me a taxi, but I knew Tiny was waiting to run me back, so I thanked him for everything and said goodnight. Outside, Tiny was sitting at a table sharing a coffee with Maxine in a near-empty squad room. I walked over and joined them, nodding at Maxine. She had a couple of elastoplast bandages on the side of her face and another on her chin. Appeared to be minor cuts and scrapes, nothing serious.
‘Sorry about the sudden stop,’ I said. ‘Only way I could think of to lose him. You all right?’
She nodded back. ‘It would have helped if your van had airbags,’ she said, clutching her ribs.
‘Doubt they were invented in my old bus’s day. Still, the seatbelts saved us.’
‘The police told me what happened to Matt.’
‘Bastard got what he deserved,’ said Tiny cheerfully. ‘A bloody good kicking. And more importantly, he’s been caught.’
Maxine went silent on us and I couldn’t read her mood. Didn’t know if she was glad or sad. She held her cup in both hands under her chin and gazed straight ahead at the wall.
‘So I guess it’s all over, then,’ I said clumsily.
She shot me a look. Not my best choice of words.
‘With Matt, I mean.’ And us, too, you idiot.
‘Yeah, I guess it’s over,’ she said.
Tiny stood up. ‘Can we give you a lift home?’ he said to Maxine.
‘Um, no thanks. I’m waiting on one now.’
We saw her lift arrive a moment later. He walked up to the front counter as Tiny and I were going out. Maxine followed behind us when she saw him. She acted a little sheepish when he bounded over and gave her an exaggerated, over-affectionate hug and a kiss on the cheek. Definitely didn’t want me around seeing that sort of thing. She must have thought she’d be well rid of me by now and here I was, still hanging around getting in her way. She shot me a guilty look and tried to keep it civil.
‘Um, Punter, this is Rodney.’
He surveyed me coolly, obviously knew I was the ex. Looked me over like I was the vanquished bull elephant, beaten by the young up-and-comer. Winner takes all, so forth. No effort by either of us to offer a handshake.
‘Mmm, you were both very fortunate to get out of that situation,’ he said in his wanky lawyer’s voice. I could just imagine him, both thumbs in his lapels as he swaggered up and down the courtroom telling the jury that the accused was indeed fortunate to be represented by he, Rodney Ellis QC. The arrogant prick; I so wanted to hit him.
‘Fortunate, is that what you’d you call it?’ I said aggressively.
Tiny could sniff out potential conflict like smoke at a barbeque. He put his giant paw around my arm, stepped between me and Ellis and excused us both. ‘We’re just leavin’,’ he said. I stared back at the two of them as Tiny marched me out the door. Maxine stood there returning my stare. A neutral, whatever-will-be-will-be sort of look that seemed to acknowledge our parting. Ellis placed a possessive arm around her shoulders and saw me off with a snooty glare as if defying me to take it further. Yeah, good luck to you, mate; I’ll bet you evens you’ll be traded in within three months for a new model.
When we got outside Tiny said, ‘Mate, I’m sorry about back there, but I could feel a blue comin’ on and a cop shop’s not the place to start throwing punches.’
‘I wasn’t going to start anything.’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘That’s a first for me, being evicted from a police station.’
‘I’ll give you the same advice I give to all the young drunks I throw out at the clubs.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Forget about her, she’s not worth worrying about.’
Tiny was right. She was Rodney Ellis’ trouble now.
When Tiny dropped me off at my flat it was nearly dawn. Outside I noticed there was a bike leaning up against the side of the letterboxes. Silly place to leave it; wo
uld get stolen for sure around here without a lock and chain. I ignored it and went upstairs and hit the sack. Slept the sleep of the dead, and was woken up later that morning by a pitiful-sounding Che, who was sitting on my pillow and meowing so loudly it was a wonder the RSPCA hadn’t come to the rescue. I stumbled out of bed and fixed him his breakfast. Then I washed my face and went downstairs to get the papers. Outside, the first thing I noticed was the stupid bike from last night still leaning against the letterboxes. It deserved to get stolen, being left like that. I figured it must belong to someone visiting one of the other apartments. None of my business.
But I made it my business. I had to wheel the bike forward anyway so that I could get my papers out. As I did, the pannikins on the rear pack rack brushed against the letterbox, showing the outline of something stored inside. I felt a little guilty but at the same time curious, so I undid the buckle and folded back the flap to take a peek. Inside there was a white plastic shopping bag with an item of clothing in it. I nearly dropped it straight back into the pannikin, except that I felt the garment’s texture through the plastic. Smooth and lightweight, and I could see it was brightly coloured. I shook the bag’s contents out and two items fell on top of the bike’s pack rack. When I saw what they were, I jumped a step backwards like I’d discovered a big huntsman spider. It was a jockey’s cap and vest coloured with red and white horizontal bands. The strapper killer’s silks.
Kate dropped around to my place on Monday night after work. She’d just finished a story about the strapper killings which would appear in tomorrow morning’s paper. We talked about that for a while, then she said, ‘I owe you an apology. About Maxine.’
I shook my head. ‘You don’t have to say a thing.’
‘No, I blurted it out like the nightly news and that was wrong of me.’
‘It sure made the news,’ I said, thinking about the photo of Maxine kissing Ellis in the paper.
I offered her a glass of chilled dry white and we sat at the kitchen table sharing a drink. Che, as usual, wasted no time in jumping up on her lap and demanding a cuddle. She stroked his ears playfully as we spoke.