TimeStorm

by Steve Harrison

  “Let’s just drop this argument, OK?” she said. “I still want to help you. You obviously don’t know your way around Sydney, after all.” She saw him relax and shrug his shoulders, probably relieved.

  “Very well,” said Blaney, “I, too, apologise. I would welcome your assistance, Karen.”

  Karen smiled. The way he said her name gave her a strange thrill. His voice was soft, yet crisp and clear, even though most of what he said was garbage. The first interesting guy I’ve met in a year and he turns out to be a nutjob.

  Suddenly remembering the news, she ran to the television. “Damn! We’ve missed the start.” She switched on the set.

  The sound of the television startled Blaney, who jerked his head like a bird to see where the noise was coming from. “It’s over here,” said Karen. “I forgot you have not seen a TV before.”

  She did not mean to sound sarcastic, but her words were biting. Yet to her relief Blaney was totally oblivious. His eyes were wide open as he stared at the set.

  A helicopter shot of the harbour appeared on the screen, showing the water filled with debris and a multitude of boats floating through the wreckage. The voice over related the morning’s events in a chilling monotone. “...said that eighty-five of the one hundred and fourteen bodies recovered had stab wounds or were mutilated.” The shot changed to a wharf where navy personnel were carrying body bags from a patrol boat.

  A newsreader appeared back at the studio, nervously shuffling papers probably just handed to him. Live television reporting, thought Karen, that’s where the action is.

  Her first encounter with television was several years earlier when she auditioned for a new finance program. But she was too nervous and made a mess of the chance. Karen was only twenty at the time and was going through an aimless period in her career. Fortunately, Sam Tyler had come along and given her a few gentle pushes in the right direction, somehow seeing the potential for a skilled investigative reporter. Her other TV opportunities followed a few years later, when two pay TV networks approached her. It wasn’t meant to be, however. On both occasions she would have had to move immediately, abandoning what turned out to be prize-winning stories on senior New South Wales government ministers. It was a state parliament where one did not have to dig very deep for scandal, she thought happily.

  Newspaper reporting held definite advantages over television, she decided. A TV reporter could be recognised from a mile away, whereas Karen, whose name was reasonably well known, had the chance to use her persuasive powers on people well before they cottoned on to who she was. Also, she was not under pressure to maintain a stunning appearance day after day like some of her friends on the box. Besides, she knew her nose was a drawback. Even Blaney couldn’t take his eyes off it. It was fine for men. They could look as ugly as sin, as long as they had hair. And even that could be fixed. At the top-rating channel there were so many hair transplants it was joked that the station had the highest overheads in the industry. No, you could keep television, thought Karen. Give me the freedom and anonymity to chase a story and ruin my own career in my own way. Like now.

  She glanced at Blaney. He was totally mesmerised as the report droned on. Reporters at the scene, studio talking heads, experts, members of the public; all repeating everything over and over again. Typically, no one knew anything. Spokespeople and unconfirmed reports only revealed the shortcomings of the visual medium. If there was nothing to see except a wide expanse of water with bits of wood bobbing up and down, why bother. Karen’s newspaper colleagues would be ferreting out the real story, trekking through the harbour backstreets for titbits, talking to informers at the naval base, allowing people to assume, never telling them, that they were navy/police/doctors/government officials. All good, clean, honest fun to get at the facts. And all those guys would kill to be where Karen sat now. All she had to do was decide the next move from a myriad of choices all leading to arrest.

  Reporting was in Karen’s blood. First her grandfather, who founded one of the country’s earliest tabloid publications, and then her father, began as reporters. Dad was now semi-retired, editing a small newspaper up the coast. Her mother, long divorced from her father, also wrote a column in the local north shore newspaper detailing the comings and goings of the rich-and-up-themselves of the area. She revelled in the cocktail invitations and dispensed kindly words in her column as rewards, and icy barbs as punishment. It was a life she loved and followed with a stamina even Karen would find hard to match. It was fortunate she was away on the Gold Coast this week. She would have grabbed Blaney and taken him off to meet her friends.

  She took a closer look at the Lieutenant, if indeed he was one, and liked what she saw. In profile he had a firm chin, one of the first qualities she looked for. His nose was strong, but the skin on his face had seen a good deal of weather. It had the ruddy, lightly sandpapered quality common to men who spend too much of their time playing in boats. Warm eyes peeped from under droopy lids; it was the eyes that told her she was safe, even when he got angry. Blaney was a handsome guy, but subtly so. The best kind of handsome.

  Because of her odd working hours, Karen tended to date men in the same profession, and, as usually happened, relationships petered out because they had too much in common. The guy she was seeing at the moment was a little different – he worked for a business magazine – but, let’s face it, he didn’t excite her. Besides, he was called Ralph, a name she could not possibly take seriously. Every time they walked in the park Karen had a cruel urge to throw a stick for him to chase. Their days together were numbered, which, she decided, would be a relief for both of them.

  “We have a new report,” said the newsreader, with unconcealed relief. Karen turned back to the screen. “The men, er, forty-seven of them, picked up in Cremorne earlier by police have been taken to Central Police Station for questioning.”

  The word ‘Live’ flashed irrelevantly on the screen as several police vans were shown pulling up in a carpark. Police converged on the convoy and pulled dirty, scruffy men from the vans. One young man was dressed identically to Blaney. He hopped from a van and helped an older, frail man down from the vehicle.

  “Your crew?”

  “Yes,” said Blaney, transfixed. “Where is this place?”

  “In the city.”

  “I have to...”

  Karen touched his arm. “Shh!” The newsreader appeared on camera with another report.

  “In another, possibly related incident, approximately fifty men were seen running down a street in East Sydney a short time ago, not long after a fatal shooting outside an Oxford Street shooting club. Police have blocked off Oxford Street at the intersection of Crown Street and the whole area bounded by Wentworth Avenue and Campbell Street. Motorists are warned to avoid the area as there will be lengthy hold-ups heading into the city from the east and south.”

  “Police have issued this drawing of the man leading the group. He is dangerous and should be avoided.”

  Blaney flew out of his seat when the picture appeared. “Redmond!”

  He spat the word out with such venom Karen shuddered. The drawing made the man appear like a crazed animal. God knew what he was like in real life. “Your convict?”

  “The very worst! I had prayed he was among the dead, but if fifty of them have escaped, then God help us all! No one will be safe until he has been killed”

  Karen felt distinctly uncomfortable. Wishing people dead did not sit with the rather genteel profile she had built up in her mind of Blaney. The wonderful reporting adventure suddenly turned deadly serious. Crazy or not, Blaney was tied inextricably to a growing number of unpleasant events. Dead bodies were not new to Karen, but until now she had always seen them after the event. She did not know how she could possibly be certain, yet the look in Blaney’s eyes left no doubt he would kill this Redmond character without hesitation.

  “Relax, Chris,” she said hurriedly. She felt light-headed and her heartbeat was racing. “The police will take care of them. Believe me,
they’ll blast the shit out of him.”

  Blaney sat down, his tension released. He leaned forward and ran his hands through horribly greasy hair. Karen had an idea. “When did you last eat?”

  The Lieutenant was caught off guard. “Er, I do not know. Yesterday, perhaps. But there is no time now, I must...”

  “Yes there is. You’re in no state to go out. I’ll make something for you and then you can have a shower while I go out and get you some decent clothes.”

  “Shower?” he asked.

  “Follow me.” Karen took him to the bathroom and demonstrated the plumbing and, as he was English, made a point of showing him the soap. She also explained at length how to use a toothbrush and toothpaste. Blaney expressed amazement at the hot water, but she managed to keep a straight face. She was back in control and it calmed her. “Eat first, then shower,” she said. “I know you are in a hurry, but you haven’t thought things out. You need to plan your next move. Eating and washing will give you time to think. Besides, the way you smell, you are not getting in my car again until you are clean!”

  Blaney protested no more. He devoured the eggs, bacon, beans, tomato and eight slices of toast as though he had not eaten for a week. “We do not get food like this aboard,” he said gratefully, spraying the tablecloth with morsels.

  She couldn’t stand to watch and instead headed for the door. “Straight into the shower after you finish. I’ll be back soon.”

  “Thank you.”

  Outside the house, Karen took a large breath of fresh air. The place would probably have to be fumigated. What would happen? she wondered. Blaney’s story was fantastic, inconceivable, Yet it was in keeping with everything else going on in the city. What if it were true? Karen, please! she said to herself. How many fantastic, inconceivable stories have turned out to be perfectly plausible when the facts were known? Only every single one.

  Regardless, Blaney was different. A fish out of water, sure. But still different. While he ate she decided what do. She would buy him clothes and then let him loose, sticking closely to his side. It would be dangerous and she could find herself in trouble, but she was a reporter and would report. Bugger the consequences and pray the paper would back her up. She had never played it safe, but she had never played it this dangerously either. Certain that she had made the right decision, well, a decision anyway, Karen drove to the shops feeling excitement growing deep inside.

  Lieutenant Christopher Blaney was a gentle, explosive man who could make or break her career. Please make him receptive to psychiatric treatment, pleaded Karen.

  REDMOND

  Pacing the floor of the cafe, Rufus Redmond felt like a trapped animal. Too many people had witnessed their progress through the streets and it was only a matter of time before the local troopers found their hiding place.

  Some of the men sat in front of the picture box like children at a fairground Punch and Judy show, happily gorging themselves. Redmond had to drag himself away from this magic, a task made easier by the sighting of Cross’s image. The big convict ached for his revenge, yet there were more important decisions to be made first.

  He looked to the remaining men, who were taking turns with the women. Their screams had reduced to whimpers some time ago and Redmond was amazed they were still alive. The male hostages had tried to defend them and were now lying in crumpled, bleeding heaps around the floor. Which was why Redmond allowed the men their spoils. They were crazed with lust and even the giant convict would have been wasting his time trying to stop them.

  Noah Lockwood and Silas Hand had stayed alert. Hand leaned against the bench and Lockwood sat on a chair near the main door, idly following Redmond’s progress to and fro.

  Redmond stopped close to him. “Think they knows theys done for?” he asked, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.

  “They expect you to save ’em,” answered Lockwood, smiling.

  “Stupid bastards!” cursed Redmond. “I should’ve ditched ’em back when we run ashore.” He turned to look at the men. Their attention was still preoccupied by the picture box, though Mogley turned to look at the two men suspiciously.

  Redmond ignored him, but spoke quietly. “Listen up, Noah. I wants you t’go outside ’n ’ave a look round. If the coast is clear, me, you ’n Silas can bugger off on our own.”

  “What about them?”

  “Plague can take ’em, for all I cares!” The convicts had done their job by helping him get off the Marlin, but they were no use to Redmond any more. He was sick of the sight of them, with their constant moaning and dependence. A man needed cunning to survive in this big town of glass and stone. Stuck with this lot, they would all be swinging before the sun went down. Only Mogley could adapt to this place, Redmond thought; he would find a way to live in a snake pit. But he could rot with the rest as far as Redmond was concerned. He was damned if he would have anything else to do with the little bastard.

  “Alright, I’ll do it,” said Lockwood, “but I’ll be a marked man in these clothes.”

  “That’s simple t’fix.” Redmond walked to a battered man lying on the floor of roughly Lockwood’s build. He wore a fine grey suit of clothes, the cut of the cloth, even to Redmond’s uneducated eye, quite magnificent. Certainly a man of higher class. A man much like the men responsible for his sentence.

  The man saw Redmond approach through his one good eye; the other was swollen shut next to his broken, bloody nose. He shrank away from Redmond and raised his hands defensively. Redmond frowned at the bloodstains on the clothes and saw the man had pissed himself. “What’s yer name, man?”

  The man stammered in fright. “R...R...Ron Felton.” Red spittle trailed from his mouth.

  “Get them clothes off, R...R...Ron Felton,” mocked Redmond.

  Felton’s good eye opened wide and he looked back at the other battered captives, but no one would catch his eye. He didn’t move.

  Redmond reached out and cupped Felton’s face with his enormous right hand and began to squeeze. Felton struggled, his hands clawing helplessly at the convict’s fingers and making pathetic gurgling noises against Redmond’s palm. When the big convict released his grip, Felton held his face and sobbed.

  “Do it!” screamed Redmond, in a voice that sent a chill through the room. Felton immediately began pulling off his clothes with one arm – the other hung uselessly against his side – stripping to his brightly coloured underwear. Lockwood undressed and tossed his rags at Felton, who gathered them up against his chest.

  “Do I look like a native?” asked Lockwood, tying his shoelaces. The suit was a good fit, though the shoes were a little tight. Redmond was amazed by the transformation. The younger convict looked like a local; a man of expensive tastes, despite the patches of blood and filth on the dark cloth. There was only one small detail to take care of.

  “Try and wash them stains off an’ clean up yer face,” ordered Redmond.

  Lockwood was not happy with this order, but he dutifully went to the kitchen and returned looking presentable. Ignoring the wolf whistles from his fellow convicts, he admired his new appearance in a mirror on the wall. He stepped into the middle of the room, completed an extravagant bow and moved to the door. “I shall be off, then.”

  “In the name of Christ, don’t get lost!” said Redmond, opening the door.

  Lockwood nodded and took a quick look in both directions before hurrying away. Turning back to the convicts, Redmond saw the women had been abandoned and all the men were drawn to the magic box again, laughing and pointing at the pictures. Enjoy yourselves, he thought, it’s the last chance you’ll have.

  CROSS

  Interview Room Four at Central Police Station held little in the way of comfort; a desk, two chairs, four white walls, a door and no windows. High in a corner was a small box with a dark circular reflective surface, similar to a telescope lens. Another tiny box sat conspicuously on the desk, this one with buttons and odd flashing lights.

  Captain William Cross did not care much for the room as he sat
in one of the chairs. He cared even less for the man sitting opposite on the other side of the desk. Detective Sergeant Colin Marsh was a large, coarse man in his forties with an enormous stomach. Cross decided a month on half rations would do the man a world of good.

  This was the second time the Captain had been brought to the room. The first visit, not very long ago, ended quickly when Cross fainted, his headache reaching epic proportions under Marsh’s verbal abuse. A young doctor, who was very kind, prodded and probed Cross with a variety of unusual instruments, telling Marsh he would need to perform brain scans, cardio vasc-something tests and other unfathomable nonsense. But Marsh would have none of it. Cross could have half an hour’s rest and that was that.

  The doctor gave Cross a foul-tasting drink which relieved the pain almost immediately. Yet once back in the interrogation room the headache slowly crept back under Marsh’s barrage of questions. The detective, becoming angrier by the minute, adopted a more threatening stance. He stood and leaned across the desk, his eyes perched close together above his bulbous nose, narrowed and reddened in a malevolent stare. The Captain was too exhausted to care.

  “Give it up, Cross,” growled Marsh. “This convict shit isn’t getting us anywhere. I want the real story, or you and your rabble are going to be charged with more than a hundred counts of murder.”

  Cross summoned enough strength for an irritated response. “I refuse to listen to any more of your ridiculous accusations. I have told you the facts of the matter and I demand to see the Governor!” He was wasting his time. He knew. Marsh’s face continued to darken, which gave the Captain a small measure of amusement. However, there was a danger of pushing the man too far, and the other man in the room, standing by the door like a statue, offered little comfort. Cross was entirely at the mercy of these... minions.

  Slamming a piece of paper down on the desk in front of Cross, Marsh jabbed it with a finger. “This is a statement signed by James Watkins, who claims to be the doctor on your ship. He claims you incited a riot by your treatment of the con...passengers. And when they came on deck early this morning, you ordered the crew to kill them.”