‘You have been a busy little detective,’ said Jack, sipping the hot brew.
‘And the character’s taking shape. He comes from Fitzroy Crossing. Apparently, his father – a Bunuba – was a Jalngangurru, just like Jandamarra.’
‘A what?’
‘A respected elder with magical powers. He was an activist and a spokesman for disenfranchised blackfellas, a key player in persuading the federal government to purchase several large pastoral properties on behalf of the Aboriginal communities in the Kimberley. Young Pigeon grew up on one of those – Leopold Downs, a famous property. It was later renamed Yaranggi.’
‘And?’
‘His mother ran off with another man and went to live in Sydney. She took Billy with her. That’s when things started to go wrong.’
‘In what way?’
‘The usual things. Ghetto living, poverty, alcohol abuse, domestic violence, bad company. The boy was always in trouble. I already checked his record. He did two years in Long Bay for assault.’
‘When was that?’
‘About 2002, I think.’
‘That’s when he met the Wizard,’ said Cassandra, limping into the room. ‘They both got out in late 2004.’
‘And Anna disappeared in January 2005. This could be our Shadow Man,’ observed Jack.
‘Maybe – but we’ll only know for sure when Cassandra sees him.’
‘Yes, but how ...?’
‘He’ll be right here tonight,’ said Andrew, tapping the map with his finger.
‘How do you know?’ asked Jack.
‘I also spoke to a few old copper mates this morning. Apparently, O’Grady’s outfit left Kununurra – there – yesterday and is travelling to Fitzroy Crossing – down here. The word is, there’s a big fight on tonight ...’
‘Pigeon?’
‘Could be, if he’s still with O’Grady. We’ll find out when we get there, won’t we?’
‘But that’s a thousand kilometres away,’ said Jack, studying the map.
‘Relax, Jack,’ said Andrew, ‘this is the Outback. One of my mates will lend us his plane and I’ve got a pilot’s licence. We’ll get there in plenty of time.’
‘Well? What are they up to?’ asked the Wizard.
‘The ex-copper just filed a flight plan to Fitzroy Crossing,’ reported Zac, trying to catch his breath. ‘They’re about to take off.’
‘What?’ bellowed the Wizard, slamming his fist on the table.
‘Don’t worry; we’ve got a plane too – a faster one. We might even get there before them,’ said Zac, looking pleased with himself. ‘Everything’s arranged – come on.’
Halfway around the world, a maid put down the phone and hurried back to the chapel. Reaching the door, she hesitated. The chapel was strictly off limits to all staff. However, the countess’s instructions were explicit: if a phone call came in from Australia – day or night – she was to be informed immediately. The maid pushed open the heavy wooden door and went inside.
‘A phone call for you, Madame,’ she said softly, walking towards the dark figure kneeling in front of the altar. The countess didn’t move. ‘From Australia,’ added the maid, raising her voice a little. Slowly, the countess turned her head.
‘What did you say?’ she whispered, looking at the maid with teary eyes.
‘A phone call from Australia,’ repeated the maid. ‘A Mr Rogan ...
The countess drew in her breath, stood up and hurried out of the chapel.
‘Jack?’ asked the countess, barely able to speak.
‘Yes ... can you hear me?’ The voice sounded distant and distorted. ‘The reception out here isn’t the best I’m afraid, and it’s a bit noisy. I’ve been trying to reach you all morning.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Alice Springs. At the airport with Andrew Simpson. We’re about to take off.’ The countess felt suddenly dizzy, the mention of Alice Springs conjuring up memories too painful to bear. ‘I wanted to give you an update.’
‘Oh God. Is there any news ...?’
‘Not sure yet, but we have a lead ...’
‘What lead?’
‘We may have found the Shadow Man.’
‘After all these years?’
‘Yes.’ Jack’s voice trailed off as the engine noise in the background grew louder. ‘We’ll know more tonight. I’ve got to go. Call you later.’
The countess returned to the chapel and knelt down in front of the altar. Closing her eyes she began to pray, but the prayer sounded hollow.
Instead, pictures of Anna floated into her mind’s eye. Anna as a little girl running through the gardens, her long blonde hair reflecting the sunlight; Anna sitting on her grandfather’s lap, her little hand stroking his beard; Anna standing next to her in the chapel, her eyes wide with wonder. Then the pictures changed. Anna as a young woman – tanned, her hair cut short – pointing to a strange painting on a rock ledge.
‘This is the Rainbow Serpent, Mummy,’ the countess heard her say. ‘I have to save it ... You do understand, don’t you?’
Opening her eyes, the countess expected to see Anna. Instead, all she could see was the candles flickering in the silver candelabra on the altar in front of her.
34
Fitzroy Crossing: O’Grady’s boxing tent, 2 March, 4:30 p.m.
‘I’ll be sorry to see you go, Captain,’ said Jim O’Grady, handing a tent post to Pigeon. ‘You’ve been one of my best lads. Hold this.’
Now in his seventies, but still as strong as a Brahman bull, Jim ‘Fisticuffs’ O’Grady wasn’t known for his compliments. A notorious bare-knuckle boxing champion during the 1950s, he now ran one of the last tent boxing troupes touring outback Australia.
‘It’ll finish where it all began,’ replied Pigeon, lifting up the post. ‘Right here in Fitzroy Crossing. Remember Jock MacDonald, the mad Scotsman?’
‘Braveheart with the handlebar moustache? Wearing a kilt in the ring and nothing else? Hard to forget that fight. Two hours and you beat the crap out of him.’
‘Yea. And Haggis Jock almost killed me. But you patched me up and offered me a job.’
‘Why the sudden departure?’
‘Two years is enough. Anyway, I’ve got some unfinished business ...’
O’Grady nodded. Outback boxing was a fickle game at the best of times. ‘I’ve always wanted to ask you this: where did a kid like you learn to box like that – eh?’
‘In jail ... Now, let’s lift it up. One, two, three ...’
‘It’ll be a big night. Everyone wants to see the local boy with the big reputation ...’
‘Beaten by a new kid on the block, I bet? Well, let them try,’ replied Pigeon, laughing. ‘Don’t worry, Jim, we’ll make a bundle tonight, you’ll see. Farewell present.’
‘Midget! Where the fuck are ya?’ shouted O’Grady, straining under the weight of the tent post. ‘We can’t hold this forever!’
Midget, all of 1.25 metres, came running with the toolbox. ‘Sorry, boss. Everyone wants to know when we’re starting.’
‘Tell ’em the first fight’s at six. Now, fix the pegs, for Christ’s sake. Get a move on!’
By the time the Cessna touched down, it was almost five in the afternoon.
‘Welcome to Fitzroy Crossing,’ announced Andrew, adjusting the throttle.
‘We came all that way in this tiny jalopy for this?’ said Rebecca, climbing stiffly out of her seat, her ears buzzing from hours of monotonous engine noise. ‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Thirty years in the air and still going strong,’ replied Andrew, patting the wing of the small plane. ‘She’s a trusty old girl.’
‘What next?’ asked Jack, helping Cassandra out of the plane.
‘One of my mates left his Land Cruiser here at the airport for us to use. We’ll go straight to the pub, I suppose. O’Grady always uses the same spot: the beer garden at the back. Tradition,’ Andrew said.
‘You’re just like Jack,’ Rebecca cut in, shaking her head, ‘a mate for
everything.’
‘Don’t knock it. We got here, didn’t we?’ said Jack.
‘We did. Eight hours flying across the desert in a hot sardine can.’
‘Think of it as an adventure,’ said Will breezily.
‘Sure. Tagging along with you guys is one big party. I just hope I can survive all the fun, that’s all.’
The converted old Leyland bus, decommissioned from public transport in Sydney thirty years earlier, was O’Grady’s trademark. Impossible to miss with its distinctive signage – ‘O’Grady’s Boxing Troupe’ – painted along its green sides, it served as office, change room and home. The number 3 on the indicator panel at the front and back of the bus stood for the three rounds a challenger had to last, and the destination above the windscreen said ‘Never-Never’. An old caravan and two Land Rovers with boxing gloves painted on the bonnets completed the troupe’s transportation. The famous candy-striped marquee with the boxing ring in the centre could be erected within minutes. A portable diesel generator supplied power to the coloured lights outside, and to the spotlights trained on the ring inside. Boxing tents were only legal in the Northern Territory. However, O’Grady regularly crossed the border into WA or Queensland for an illicit bout or two. The authorities would normally turn a blind eye as long as the situation didn’t get out of hand. Legends deserved concessions.
‘Okay Midget, off you go,’ said O’Grady, opening the door of the bus. ‘We’re starting in ten minutes.’
Donning a bowler hat and dressed in black pants and a red frilly shirt with a polka dot bowtie, Midget went out to drum up business – literally. Beating the drum that hung around his neck, he walked through the crowded beer garden, hyping up the raucous patrons.
‘Look at that crowd,’ said Will, following Andrew to the back of the pub past dozens of excited young men drinking beer.
‘Where are all the women?’ asked Rebecca, trying to keep up.
‘This is for blokes,’ explained Andrew. ‘You’ll see why.’
‘Are you all right?’ asked Jack, guiding Cassandra through the crowd. Looking pale and exhausted, she was limping more than usual.
‘Jack, he’s here,’ she said, squeezing his arm.
‘Pigeon?’
‘No, the Wizard.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘I’m not sure if we should go inside,’ she said, pointing with her stick to the tent.
‘Come on ... we have to. If Pigeon’s really here ...’
‘I know,’ whispered Cassandra, trying to ignore the signals assaulting her intuition from all sides.
‘Did you find them?’ asked the Wizard, leaning out of the car window.
‘They’re all in the tent,’ replied Banjo, grinning. ‘The first fight’s almost over.’
‘Good. Now listen carefully, this is what we’ll do: Banjo, you stay with the cars. Zoran, you take my Barretta. Sladko, you’ve got yours?’
Sladko nodded, patting the bulge under his shirt.
‘You’re not going to be armed?’ asked Zoran.
‘I’ll be armed all right,’ replied the Wizard, clenching his fists. ‘With these. Better than a gun.’
‘You’ve got something up your sleeve, haven’t you?’ asked Sladko, shaking his head. ‘I know you! Do you want to tell us about it?’
‘Wait and see. And remember, Pigeon and Cassandra. We deal with the others later. Let’s go!’
35
O’Grady’s boxing tent, 7:00 p.m.
O’Grady rang the ringside bell, announcing the third and final round of the fight. The crowd cheered – the challenger was doing well. O’Grady knew how to play the crowd. The first couple of bouts usually went the challenger’s way, allowing the local lad to win. By putting a few pennies into the eager punters’ pockets, it loosened their purse strings for later. The real betting only started when the champ came on.
‘This is gross,’ said Rebecca, ‘all that blood.’
The challenger, a tall Aboriginal station-hand, was hammering his opponent. Bleeding from a cut above his eye which had almost closed, the unfortunate loser was trying to stop the barrage by protecting his face with his hands. At last the bell went again, signalling the end of the fight. The excited spectators roared and helped themselves to more beer. Midget, who had exchanged his drum for a leather bag full of cash, was doing the rounds, paying up.
‘Two minutes,’ shouted O’Grady, banging his fist against the door of the bus. ‘Ladieeeees and gentlemen, the moment you’ve all been waiting for! Your very own champion from right here in Fitzroy Crossing ...’
The crowd cheered.
‘He rolls like thunder and moves like lightning, the one and only ... Captain Thunderbolt!’
The bus door opened and the Captain stepped out into the glare. Lowering his head, he looked down at the long shadows reaching across the floor of the open tent like accusing fingers pointing to the ring in the centre.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Jack, turning to Cassandra. ‘Here he comes.’
Wearing a long terry towel robe with a hood, the Captain walked slowly through the parting crowd. Before climbing into the ring, he folded back his hood and took off the robe, exposing a chest rippling with tight muscles.
‘There, now. Look carefully! Is it him?’
‘It is,’ whispered Cassandra.
Jack glanced at Andrew and nodded.
‘Do we have a challenger?’ asked O’Grady. ‘This is your chance, fellas. Fame and wads of cash await anyone who can go three rounds with the champ. Who will it be? Who has the balls and the skill? Is there anyone?’
Three eager young men in the front held up their hands.
‘You first,’ said O’Grady, pointing to a stocky, broad-shouldered lad being pushed forward by his mates. ‘Place your bets, fellas. Midget here will give you good odds.’
The fight was over within seconds. Knocked unconscious by a devastating uppercut, the broad-shouldered lad was lying on the mat.
‘For Christ’s sake, Pigeon, what are you doing?’ hissed O’Grady, glaring at the champ. According to their usual tactics, the bout should have lasted much longer. The challenger should have been encouraged a little, at least for a round or two, before being flattened. To knock him out like that was bad for business; very bad. It scared away other challengers.
‘I don’t give a fuck. I’ll knock the shit out of everyone who wants to have a go tonight,’ replied the champ. ‘This is my home turf!’
Ignoring O’Grady, Pigeon turned away and began to shadow box in the ring.
‘Do we have another challenger?’ asked O’Grady lamely. No one came forward. The two eager young men from before had disappeared into the crowd.
‘What’s wrong with you fellas? Is everyone shitting himself around here? What kind of a town is this?’ taunted O’Grady, trying in vain to whip up the crowd.
‘Here, I’ll give you five to one,’ he shouted, holding up a bundle of hundred dollar notes. ‘You’ll never get odds like that again.’
‘Okay Zoran, this is it. You know what to do,’ said the Wizard, standing behind the crowd just outside the tent. ‘Do it now!’
‘I’ll have a go,’ bellowed the Wizard, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a wad of cash and held up the money. ‘Ten grand says your champ’s a gutless wonder.’
The crowd fell silent. From all sides, curious heads turned in the Wizard’s direction, eager to see where the outrageous challenge had come from.
‘He must be pissed,’ shouted someone in the back.
‘Hey, it’s gramps,’ shouted another, laughing. ‘He’s got a grey ponytail – look.’
‘Let him through,’ shouted O’Grady, his heart skipping a beat. A ten thousand dollar bet had never been placed before. The evening was full of surprises.
The champion in the ring stopped moving and squinted through the open flaps of the tent, the rays of the setting sun momentarily blinding him. Shielding his eyes with his hand, he stared at the dark shape pushing slowly t
owards the ring through the crowd. The voice ... he thought, I know that voice. Lit up from behind, the shape looked ominous and threatening, like an apparition ... The way it moved, the bulk and the outline of the head were all strangely familiar.
‘Hello Pigeon,’ said the shape, coming closer. ‘Ready to fight the living dead?’ asked the Wizard.
Feeling dizzy, the Captain reached for the ropes to steady himself. ‘It can’t be,’ he mumbled, staring at the Wizard in disbelief.
‘Look, he’s shaking,’ shouted someone in the front, pointing to the champ. ‘He’s afraid of grandpa.’
O’Grady turned to the Wizard. ‘Are you sure you want to do this, mate?’ he asked, his conscience momentarily getting the better of him. The Wizard thrust the bundle of notes into his hands.
‘Ten grand – here. A bet’s a bet – right?’ said the Wizard, slapping O’Grady on the back.
Parting the ropes, the Wizard stepped into the ring. The crowd roared.
‘Oh, my God – look,’ said Cassandra, squeezing Jack’s arm so hard, he almost cried out. ‘The Wizard!’
‘Can’t be’ said Jack, looking across.
‘Oh, but it is,’ whispered a voice from behind. Jack could feel something hard pressing into his back. ‘Don’t turn around,’ said Zoran, ‘or I’ll blow your fucking head off.’
‘Nice evening, Cassandra?’ asked Sladko from the other side, pressing the tip of his gun into Andrew’s ribs. ‘Don’t go anywhere, guys. Let’s enjoy the show, shall we?’
‘Don’t do anything stupid,’ whispered Zoran, turning to Will standing next to Jack, ‘or your mate here cops it – understood?’
No one moved.
‘I hope you haven’t forgotten anything I taught you,’ whispered the Wizard, taking off his shirt.
The crowd gasped. The Wizard had the torso of a wrestler: massive shoulders, arms like tree trunks and neck muscles like the anchor chains of a windjammer. But most striking of all was the tattoo on his hairy back – King Solomon’s seal, the macroprosopus and the microprosopus. A pentacle with an old, bearded man on the top, looking at his own reflection mirrored below. God of light and God of reflection, the white Jehovah and the black Jehovah. The compassionate and the avenger.
The Disappearance of Anna Popov: A supernatural suspense thriller (Jack Rogan Mysteries Book 2) Page 16