TimeStorm

by Steve Harrison

  The man did not move a muscle, his stunned face staring back at her like a photograph. He was filthy, barefoot, his clothes torn and covered with dirt and his face and hair matted with God-knew-what. His clothes looked strangely old-fashioned... “Christ!” she exclaimed. He must be one of the men from the burning ship. It was a kilometre from Cremorne Point and he was obviously on the run.

  The man was now looking over her car, back down the road. In the side mirror Karen saw the approaching police car at the top of the hill. She thought frantically. There was a story here. A huge story. She was on the spot for an important arrest, phone camera and recorder at the ready. An exclusive.

  But ... her reporting instincts were taking over and, as usual, she listened to them intently. She had no illusions as to why she was selected for this job instead of the newspaper’s crime reporting superstars, Ted Serio or Erin Flack. Lost kids, DUIs and drunken behaviour at the Cross were Karen’s usual diet on the police beat, and before this all she had to look forward to today was a court case involving a love triangle stabbing among a group of elderly residents of a boarding house.

  No doubt Tyler had called Serio and Flack, too, but they lived in the Inner Western suburbs and were a good half an hour or more away. Karen grinned. Strike One for the B Team.

  She locked eyes with the guy in front of her car. What if he jumped in? He’d probably talk and tell her the whole story. Exclusive would then be too mild a word. It was dangerous – he could be – probably was – a murderer, yet there was something in those brilliant green eyes. Her first boss used to say, “don’t forget, always report the news, don’t make it.”

  Time to forget. The man stood like a kangaroo caught in a headlight as police lights flickered down the street and the siren grew louder. “Get in!” Karen yelled through the window, waving him around to the passenger door. He looked confused for a moment, then he saw what she meant. Hope flickered across his face and Karen instantly knew she had done the right thing. Well, hoped.

  The police car was drawing closer and Karen grew frantic. Her story, now she was committed, was in grave danger. “Get in, you idiot!” she screamed.

  The man finally mobilised himself and went round to the passenger side door. Karen shook her head in disbelief when he tried to prise open the door along the seam with his fingers. This isn’t real, she thought, leaning over to open the door. He was close now and she saw a handsome man beneath the dirt. He smiled boyishly, gratefully, revealing a set of stained teeth, his seriousness vanishing. Karen’s fears for her safety were instantly extinguished. She leaned across to open the door.

  He was caught by surprise when the door swung open and grunted as it whacked against his knees.

  “Hurry up, for Christ’s sake!” said Karen.

  Limping round the door, the man climbed in, rapping his head against the frame. Karen shook her head in frustration, but the police car raced past and she breathed a sigh of relief. Unfortunately, she also breathed in a terrible odour, a mix of sweat, damp and – she shuddered – something rotten. If she chose to be melodramatic, she would call it the smell of death.

  Karen quickly leaned across the man and closed the door, then opened all the windows and stuck her head outside to take a deep breath.

  There was no other traffic on the road, so she made a rapid U-turn and accelerated away. She was almost out of the street when she saw a group of policemen in the rear view mirror run out into the street where she had picked up the man.

  When she reached Military Road, Karen turned to the man. He was rigid in his seat, his face white and gripped by terror, his knuckles also white where his hands gripped the dashboard. She became irritated; she considered herself a good driver.

  “You’re quite safe, you know,” she said sharply.

  Calm down, she told herself. The poor guy’s had a rough morning. She softened. “Didn’t you understand when I told you to get in the car?”

  He did not reply, though Karen could see he was making a great effort to compose himself. Though he would probably still go through the roof if she said ‘boo!’

  Karen sighed. She had not anticipated a language barrier. “I suppose you must be a foreigner.”

  A shadow came across the man’s face and his body stiffened. Karen shivered, sensing for the first time an element of danger in the man. He sat up straight and turned to her coldly. “Good Lord, no, madam,” he said crisply, “I am an Englishman!”

  Karen snorted with laughter and almost drove into the car in front of her.

  REDMOND

  Cocky little bugger! thought Rufus Redmond as he knocked the small old man out of his way. It was a pity the miserable bunch of convicts running after him couldn’t show as much heart. There was no joy in being free when he had to listen to their constant wailing and whining, a pathetic chorus led by that weasel, Mogley. The time was approaching when Redmond might have to silence the little toad for good.

  Not that the rest of them were much better. Only Lockwood and Hand had kept their nerve since coming ashore. The others fretted and trembled at every little thing they saw. Why couldn’t they accept their surroundings and concentrate on escape, he wondered. It was the only thing that mattered.

  Redmond, however, was not oblivious to the city. It was without doubt the strangest place in the world; yet that was all it was. A place. A building is still a building, be it a hundred or a thousand feet tall. And the roarers were not so frightening when their occupants stared back with dread in their eyes. Redmond decided the city feared him far more than he feared the city.

  Ahead of the running group the street opened onto a busy thoroughfare. Many roarers and people were crossing the road at the intersection less than a hundred yards in front of them. Redmond slowed the men while he thought. The few people they had seen since leaving the gun club had posed no threat, but there was no telling what would happen if they ran into a large number of armed settlers or troopers. The result would not be pretty.

  “In ’ere!” announced Redmond, leading the convicts into a narrow alley between two buildings. Half way down he cursed, realising the alley was a dead end. He tried to stop, but the terrified men bunched up behind and pushed him further along. When they finally stopped, Redmond regarded them with open contempt as they coughed and wheezed. Most had not had this much exercise in years. Or ever. Fortunately, he saw there was a door to his right. Releasing the gunsmith Gardner to the others, Redmond walked to the door.

  “This’ll ’ave to do,” he announced, mainly to himself. “We’ll rest ’ere.” There was no point continuing as the convicts were close to collapse.

  Mogley pushed to the front of the men. “Won’t do us no good,” he wheezed. “Too many people’ve seen us. We’s done fer!”

  Redmond turned and moved toward the small convict with murderous intent, but Lockwood jumped between them, much to Mogley’s relief. “That’s it, you little runt!” threatened Redmond. “I’ll rip yer ’ead off ’n ’ave done wi’ it!”

  Lockwood fended the big convict off. “Later, Rufus. T’aint a good idea to stay out here any longer.”

  It took considerable effort for Redmond to calm down. He realised how much he was looking forward to finishing the repulsive sod Mogley. Turning to the door once more, he furiously smashed it open with a single kick.

  A cry of alarm greeted his entry into a small kitchen, but he ignored it to look around the room. The wonderful aroma of frying bacon reminded him of his hunger as he scanned the shelves and benches. Pots and pans were familiar, though many other bits and pieces puzzled him. Redmond looked at the man backed up in a corner of the kitchen. He was short and thin, with an olive complexion and slanted eyes, a meat cleaver gripped in his right hand. “Bugger me!” said Redmond. “A Chinaman!”

  He took a step forward and whacked the man across the head with the side of his hand. The man collapsed as though he had no bones.

  For a moment, Redmond thought the kitchen had no other entrance, but then he saw the doorway, a g
ap covered by shiny paper strips hanging from above. He turned back to Lockwood, who stood waiting at the alley door. “Bring ’em all in an’ block the door.”

  Brushing aside the stiff paper strips, Redmond stepped into a much larger room, this one furnished with a dozen tables, each with four chairs. The wall at the other side had two large windows covered by lace curtains and a door to the street between them. To his right was a long serving table with a variety of foods in metal trays.

  Ten people sat in the room, all of them looking to see what the commotion was all about. Now their curiosity had turned to shock. Redmond grinned, enjoying the attention. He was filthy, his clothes ragged and stiff with dried blood, he carried a shotgun idly in his left hand and two pistols and a knife protruded from his britches. Their reaction was no surprise.

  A second Chinaman stood near the serving table, nervously waving a carving knife. Redmond stared at him and the man quickly dropped the weapon. “What do you want?” he said quickly.

  The threat defused, Redmond was no longer interested in the man and instead walked into the centre of the room. It was bright and airy, a good place to stop and think. The people in the room cowered away from him, some wrinkling their noses, one or two others gagging as he passed them. Redmond sniffed and noticed nothing other than the heady smell of cooking.

  If the frightened group were shocked by Redmond’s appearance, they were stunned when the rest of the convicts pushed into the room. One man, very rich judging by the cut of his handsome suit, made a dash for the door, but Redmond cut him off in a stride. “Goin’ somewheres?”

  The gentleman was obviously unused to be spoken to in such a disrespectful manner, blustered. “You can’t keep me here!”

  Pushing him roughly in the chest, Redmond sent the man tumbling over a table. Only his dignity was hurt, but Redmond had made his point. He had the power of life and death over his prisoners and the feeling intoxicated him. He could do as he pleased.

  “Get behind that bench!” he yelled.

  The eight men and two women wasted no time obeying. They huddled in the narrow passage together, the men instinctively protecting the women. The gunsmith Gardner was shoved in to join them while two convicts dragged the unconscious Chinaman from the kitchen. The convicts fell silent as they entered the room and saw the food, then the women.

  “The back door?” asked Redmond.

  “It’s blocked,” answered Lockwood.

  Satisfied, Redmond went to the main door and turned the key, standing aside as Lockwood reversed a sign hanging against the glass.

  Redmond stood for a few moments, studying the life-like paintings on the walls, while Lockwood joined the convict feeding frenzy at the food bench. The men’s hunger dominated their lust for the moment, but all of them were eyeing the two women and several groping hands were reaching across the bench to them.

  Redmond had to maintain control until he knew they were safe. “Anyone s’much as touches them women afore I says so dies without gettin’ ’is end away!” he warned.

  They continued to stare and make lewd comments, but he had reined them in, at least for the moment. He pushed some men aside and grabbed a handful of sliced beef, cramming as much into his mouth as he could. As he chewed he studied the captives. They all wore expensive clothes, even the two Chinamen, and there was a fair bit of jewellery on display.

  One of the women must have been forty or so, he thought. She wore a suit with men’s trousers. Her face was painted and quite comely. But what amazed him was that she appeared to have all her teeth!

  The other was a young girl, her pretty face painted and powdered, her full lips trembling and her eyes filled with tears. She was slim and dressed in a yellow uniform cut indecently above the knee. She also wore a badge on her left lapel.

  “What’s that say?” he asked, pointing and spraying bits of chewed beef over Lockwood.

  “Gale Travel.”

  “Funny name,” said Redmond. He marvelled at a town that allowed uniformed harlots on the streets.

  Mary’s face appeared in his mind. Had she, like this painted whore, been driven to a life in the gutter? The thought stifled his growing lust and replaced it with an anger he could barely control.

  A gasp rose from some of the men near the kitchen door, giving Redmond something else to think about. He pushed his way through them and could not stop an exclamation escaping from his own lips. A convict had been fiddling with a small object filled with buttons when a large box mounted on the wall suddenly glowed into life. Redmond had hardly noticed it when he came in, but now it was alive and inside there was a tiny man sitting at a desk! He was speaking, but Redmond could not hear him over the excited shouting of the convicts.

  “Shut up!” he screamed, fascinated.

  “...but first over to the newsroom,” said the little man.

  Redmond’s vision lurched and he felt strangely unbalanced as the man disappeared to be replaced by another. What kind of magic was afoot?

  The men were stunned into silence as the man began to speak, his face serious. “News this morning of a major disaster on Sydney Harbour. Shortly after three o’clock a sailing ship caught fire and exploded between Bradleys Head and Garden Island. More than one hundred people are confirmed dead, all male, with more bodies on the way to a temporary morgue at Navy headquarters. Police and navy launches are still searching the waters for further victims.”

  Redmond realised he was talking about the Marlin. Unbelievable, he thought.

  “Unconfirmed reports,” continued the man, “say most of the victims died violently, but no official statement has been made. Commissioner Henderson will give a press conference in one hour, which we will bring to you live.”

  There was uproar again among the convicts as the picture changed instantly to a courtyard. A big roarer trundled into the picture and stopped. The vision kept changing to different angles and Redmond felt nauseous. Uniformed men opened the back doors and men began to jump out. Crewmen from the Marlin!

  “...a related incident,” said a disembodied voice, causing the men to look around the room for its source. Redmond knew it came from the box and listened closely. “...forty-seven men were detained by police in Cremorne a short time ago and have been taken to Central Police Station for questioning. Charges are yet to be...”

  The convicts drowned out the sound again as the first officer came into view. Lieutenant Kite jumped easily from the vehicle and reached back inside. Redmond’s heart leapt as the horror of what was about to happen hit him like a battering ram. Kite helped the sickly old man down from the roarer and practically carried him into a building.

  The man in front of Redmond staggered and cried out in pain as the big convict’s fingers dug deeply into his shoulders. Redmond saw and heard nothing but his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. Cross was alive!

  DAVIDSON

  Without doubt, this was the most incredible day of Mike Davidson’s young life. After only five weeks as a cadet reporter on the Sydney Express, he was bang in the middle of the hottest story of the year, maybe the decade. Or even the century! The newsroom pulsated with activity, reporters thrashing their keyboards, some running in, others running out. One of the older reporters told Davidson a little earlier that the disaster on the harbour could give the newspaper a week or more of headlines, especially if the rumour of mass murder turned out to be true. He said this morning God had smiled on the news media.

  The only person seemingly unaffected by the bustle was Sam Tyler. It was Davidson’s third day with the News Editor, and it was totally unlike Tyler to be so serene. He just sat at his desk with a smug look on his face, idly tapping a pencil against his teeth.

  Davidson could not sit still. The eighteen-year-old had raced to work as soon as he heard the news, certain that Tyler would be at his explosive best, but all he was told was, “Wait.” Jesus! It was frustrating. Davidson fiddled with his pen, twisted in his seat to see what was going on, scratched his head, bit his nails and...


  “For Christ’s sake, stop fidgeting!” Tyler crashed his fist onto the desk, then calmed immediately.

  Davidson flushed and sat rigid, following Tyler’s gaze to the red phone on his desk, one of three in front of him. It was known at the newspaper as ‘The Head Line,’ to be used by a reporter if, in Tyler’s words, “you’ve got a fucking good story!” A fucking good story to Sam Tyler meant multiple murders and mayhem. Preferably involving a politician. All politicians are inherently stupid, Tyler told him, as no one with the slightest bit of intelligence would go into politics. Like someone who can’t handle drink, they can’t handle limelight. It goes to their head and they get into trouble, like night follows day. Newspapers would not exist without them. And if a big story did not involve a politician, you could guarantee they would step into the aftermath and make things worse. Davidson didn’t know if any of that was true, but he was bright enough to smile and nod.

  The phone had rung four times so far this morning. A record. The last call, twenty minutes earlier, was a report of a survivor plucked from the harbour.

  Now Tyler sat and waited, causing Davidson to start when he suddenly spoke. “What’s she up to, eh?” he asked, a sly grin spreading across his leathery face, his nicotine-stained fingers scratching the stubble on his chin. “She lives two minutes from Cremorne, so she must have got there fast. Probably before the cops. We know about those blokes being picked up over there, so at the very least she should have phoned in a report on the arrest from the scene, eh?”

  Davidson knew he might as well not be there. Tyler’s eyes were glazed over as he held a top level discussion with himself. The young cadet was fascinated.

  “So,” continued Tyler, “that means she’s either dead or she’s got something big.”

  Davidson allowed a mental picture of Karen Jamison to float before his eyes, and, as happened when he saw her in the flesh, his face flushed. For someone pushing thirty, she was in bloody good shape. But the main reason he had a soft spot for Karen was because she was so friendly. In a place too busy for most people to say hello, she had actually stopped to ask how he was going. It made a lasting impression on him and from then on he was totally in lust.