The three convicts drained their glasses quickly and demanded more. The taste was awful and Redmond longed for real beer, but as time, and five more schooners, went by, he came to appreciate the drink. Now, in a dark corner of the almost empty tavern, they sat and waited.
The only negative thought in Redmond’s mind was his irritation with Lockwood. His constant pleading with the big convict to forget all thoughts of Cross drove Redmond to distraction. He no longer mentioned the Captain’s name, but it burned brightly in his mind each time he closed his eyes. Aye, I’ll forget Cross. When I’m dead!
He was still also smarting from the altercation with Lockwood on the way to the tavern. Lockwood had left them in the park to find a hiding place, returning quickly and leading them away. They crossed Elizabeth Street, trying not to run. Redmond was pleased to see many of the men who lived here were also tall. Though not as big as he, they made him feel less conspicuous. Turning left into a lane, Lockwood led them down tiny alleys between the enormous buildings. It seemed dark and dangerous and Redmond kept glancing up to catch small glimpses of blue sky.
A cough from ahead stopped them in their tracks. An old man was sitting on a step reading a newspaper. He let the paper hang from one hand when he saw the three convicts and Redmond was of a mind to pass him by. But then he saw the picture on the page. It was an accurate drawing of himself before the haircut. The old man looked hard at Redmond and then down at the newspaper. His eyes told Redmond he had been recognised. As the old man hastened to pull himself to his feet, Redmond moved toward him.
“I didn’t see nothin’, mister,” said the old man, fumbling for the door handle behind him.
Redmond grabbed the man’s face and smashed his head with great force into the nearest wall. He died before the big convict released his body.
Lockwood looked at the body and then at Redmond. “God Almighty, Rufus! There was no need to kill the poor bastard, he was...”
Redmond erupted. “Shut yer poxy mouth. Killin’ didn’t bother you this mornin’, skewering them crewmen like you was born to it.”
“That was to escape,” protested Lockwood.
“Then what’s this? I ain’t takin’ no risks. He knows me, so he dies. An’ that’s that.”
Lockwood gave up. He helped Redmond and Hand stuff the body into a nearby metal container and then walked off. “The tavern’s down here.”
Draining his glass, Redmond ordered Hand to fetch another round. There was still plenty of the paper money left and a good deal of coin. His thoughts drifted to Cross and a frown came over his face. “Where’ll Cross go now he’s escaped?” he asked.
Lockwood looked up from his drink. Redmond’s look challenged him to make another smart comment. But the younger convict was feeling the effects of the beer and stewed seriously over the question. “If you were a ship’s Captain and you escaped from a prison on land,” he said slowly, “where would you go?”
Hand returned with the beers and Redmond took one. He raised it to his lips, but the answer to Lockwood’s question rapped him on the side of his head. “Aye,” he said, his eyes opening wide, “Aye!”
DECKER
Harold Aaron Decker had been hanging out all morning for Karen Jamison’s call. He was in a wonderful mood as he studied a mock up of tomorrow’s tentative newspaper headline on his computer:
PM DENIES TERRORIST LINK TO SYDNEY CARNAGE
News days like this came along once in a lifetime, and he was in the thick of it. His newspapers, cable network, television and radio stations were all on full alert, recording every detail of the disasters, shootings and escapes. And the police fuck-ups were icing on the cake. The Premier was squirming, as was the Police Minister and Police Commissioner. None of them could even go to the bathroom without a microphone being pushed into an orifice for a comment. Beautiful.
The trump card was Karen. Sam Tyler had told Decker she was with one of the wanted guys. That was good. The fact she was there when the guy freed his mates was better. Much better.
He glanced at Karen’s file on his desk. She was just thirty, single and had been with the Express for nine years. Outstanding journalist, awards etc. etc. Big deal, thought Decker, turning to her picture. Good looks, except for the nose, and a great body. He remembered her from the party. She saw through him that night. She intrigued him, but a better offer had come along and he forgot all about her. This particular encounter promised to be much more memorable.
Harry Decker considered himself a lucky man. He also considered himself to be the man who made that luck. It had taken him twenty-five years to build his father’s modest stable of provincial newspapers into an empire; Decker International spanned five continents and sixty countries, a gigantic media octopus.
But beneath it all, Decker remained a newspaper man; ink in his veins and all that crap. These days a big story meant world interest and world interest meant US interest and that meant cash. His fledgling US TV network needed something to put it on the map and this unlikely event in Decker’s hometown of Sydney could be the provider. He thanked his stars he had cancelled his New York flight to enjoy a few days on the harbour. He thanked Sam Tyler for sending Karen out to cover the story. And most of all he thanked the time zone. In the States the next few hours were prime time.
“Hello, Mr Decker,” said Karen.
Decker grinned. “From all accounts you’ve had quite a busy morning with your criminal friends.”
“They’re not criminals,” she said sharply.
Interesting, thought Decker. At that moment his assistant, Valerie, poked her head into his office, and seeing he was busy, was about to leave. Decker signalled her to come in and listen, switching the call to conference. “It’s Karen Jamison,” he mouthed silently.
“OK,” he said to Karen. “Now tell me what’s happening. Sam Tyler filled me in earlier about the guy who is with you. Now the Police Commissioner tells me you were there for the jail break.”
“That’s right,” said Karen. Decker could hear the excitement in her voice. “Is this phone safe?”
Decker resisted the urge to laugh. The telephone was probably the safest in the country. “Yes.”
Karen took a deep breath. “The leader of the group, a man called Blaney, is pretending to have kidnapped me, to cover the fact I am helping him. He, and his men, I suppose, believe they have travelled here from the seventeen hundreds and...”
“What?” exclaimed Decker.
“I know, I know,” said Karen. “Let me finish. I agree, they’re all nuts. Blaney says they were carrying convicts from England on a ship called the Marlin and after going through the storm off the coast they arrived this morning in Sydney. The convicts escaped, causing the disaster on the harbour, and I believe some disturbance in the city.”
“An understatement,” said Decker, liking the story. There was a potential for more ‘disturbances’. “Go on.”
“That’s about it, really. Blaney now wants to get his men out to sea.”
Decker looked at Valerie and raised his eyebrows. She shrugged. “You’ve lost me. Why does he want to do that?”
“Because he believes a second sailing ship is waiting for him offshore.”
“Fuck me with a broomstick!” Decker felt like a man who had won first prize in the lottery with his last dollar. “Another ship!”
Karen sighed. “Look, who knows for sure. Blaney believes it, I know that. He says the Marlin was in the company of another ship carrying female convicts. He thinks that if he can intercept it before it gets into the harbour, they can turn round and go back into the storm and return home.”
Perhaps there is a God after all, thought Decker. It was beautiful. His mind skipped ahead. “They want a boat to get them out there,” he said. “That’s why you called me.”
“That’s right,” said Karen. “I read yesterday that you were staying in town for a few days for a cruise and...”
Decker laughed. “Oh, very good. Very good,” he said. “And I suppose you
didn’t know the Newshound is moored in Lavender Bay?”
“Yes, I did know that, as a matter of fact,” said Karen, humour in her voice. A number of pictures of Decker and the boat had appeared in his newspapers.
Decker was silent while he thought. The possibilities were enormous, but he could blow them if he did not focus. “What do you expect to happen, knowing these people like you do?”
Karen had obviously considered this question before. She answered immediately. “If they can use your boat they will go out and transfer to the ship – if it is there. If it exists! Either way, they’re stuffed. Where can they go? Realistically, the authorities will catch up with them and they will have to surrender.”
“And you will go with them?”
“You bet!” exclaimed Karen. “This is one story I’ll be covering to the bitter end.”
An unfortunate choice of words, thought Decker, but probably accurate. “You’ve got the boat – on one condition.”
“Fantastic!” said Karen, then hesitantly, “what is it?”
Decker became serious. “You will tell no one how you came to be aboard. I’ll cover for you. But if you ever breathe a word of this conversation, your career is finished and I’ll give you legal nightmares you can’t even dream about.”
“Understood.”
She’s a cool one, thought Decker approvingly. “Good. There is a road off Lavender Street called Lavender Crescent. It takes you down by the viaduct. In the centre of the bay is a small wharf. My man will meet you there. I assume you are close?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Fine,” said Karen.
“OK, nail that story!” Decker switched off the phone and sat back in his chair, a smile working against the usual gravity of his face.
Valerie was staring at him. She had been his assistant for eighteen months, a record. She was in her early twenties, very attractive and very businesslike. During her first week Decker had leaned over her and placed a hand on her shoulder. She had calmly turned round and told him, “Touch me again without my permission and you are dead meat.”
Decker was impressed. She had proved highly efficient and he’d never touched her again, though he often thought about the words “without my permission.”
“What’s up?” he asked.
“I can’t believe you’re helping her!” she said, incredulous. “Have you any idea of the damage this could do to you and the business? You could go to prison.”
Decker snorted. “Be serious, Val. I’m one of the wealthiest men in the country. And this is Sydney.”
She saw his point, but still she frowned. “But how can you help those boat people escape?”
“No, no,” protested Decker with a grin. “I don’t remember saying anything about helping them to escape. I have no idea that Karen is going to steal the Newshound, but when I find out I will consider it my duty to inform the authorities.”
Valerie looked at him oddly. Decker loved being able to surprise her. He punched the intercom. “Get me Tom McInnes at Channel Eight, then Alec on the boat.”
The call came through quickly. “Tom, I’ve got a job for you. Drop everything else.”
McInnes knew his boss well enough to respond, “Go ahead.”
“I want six camera crews, one on North Head, one on South Head, the others at Middle Head, Bradleys Head, Point Piper and Vaucluse Point. They’ll be filming the Newshound as it goes down the harbour. I also want two helicopters with cameras in the air at all times, starting immediately, following the boat.” Decker paused to think. “Hire choppers if you need to, whatever it costs. Got all that?”
“Yes.”
“Call me when it’s done.” He hung up.
“Shit!” gasped Valerie, drawing the word out.
Decker laughed. He was pleased she realised what he was doing. “Karen is right,” he said, “this really is one hell of a story!”
REDMOND
Rufus Redmond belched loudly, enjoying the full, wholesome vibration in his ears. The sound went unnoticed in the busy tavern, lost amid the dreadful racket spilling from a number of flashing boxes around the room. Lockwood said it was possibly music, yet to Redmond it sounded more like a noisy death with lots of pain. He laughed to himself as he drained another glass and beer spilled down his shirt. “How many’s that then?” he demanded.
Hand’s bleary eyes squinted in concentration. “Don’t rightly know, Rufus. More’n ten, I’ll be bound!”
Much more, thought Redmond. Must have been ten when Lockwood gave up and turned that sickly pale colour. He had yet to throw up, but by the look of him it was only a matter of time. But ten schooners was back when they heard the tinny voice say how Cross and his cronies escaped with the woman. Typical of the bastard, getting away by clutching a woman’s skirts!
Redmond looked at the other customers in the tavern, quite a crowd now. They guzzled their drinks, these rich men with their big bellies protruding over their belts, taking no notice of the three convicts as they talked and watched the picture boxes mounted on the wall. Just as well, thought Redmond belligerently, he’d have to sort them out.
Fiddling awkwardly with the confounded zip on his trousers, Redmond cursed as he tried to free himself. After a few moments, he succeeded and began to relieve himself on the floor beneath the table, his wide face breaking into an ecstatic smile. The sound of splashing water reminded him of the sea. The sea reminded him of the Marlin and the Marlin reminded him of Cross. He scowled. The plaguey swine would not be getting drunk in some ale house and waiting to be captured. He’d be heading for the sea.
“Damn yer eyes, Cross!” he cursed. Then, louder, “I’m a sailor, ain’t I?”
“Aye,” agreed Hand, nodding at length.
“An’ if’n I’s a sailor, I should be at sea! What say you lads?” Redmond banged on the table with his free hand.
Hand nodded vigorously and Lockwood lifted his head from the table and lowered it gingerly again without speaking.
Redmond saw his speech had attracted attention. As he drank his voice always became louder. He stared down the customers looking his way and began another beer. Sod ’em!
Realising his bladder was empty, Redmond shook himself off and tugged on the zip. “Aarrgh!” he bellowed, as the teeth dug sharply into the tender skin of his penis. He leapt to his feet in agony, sending the table tumbling over. Lockwood slumped to the floor and Hand had to jump back sharply to keep his balance.
Redmond gingerly freed his wounded appendage and adjusted his trousers just as the barman hurried over to investigate. Seeing the mess on the floor, the barman became incensed. “Jesus Christ, you disgusting bast...”
The words were cut short by Lockwood, who vomited copiously over the barman’s shoes and trousers. Further protest was stifled by a right uppercut from Redmond. The barman was unconscious before he landed in the filth.
“We’s leavin’,” announced Redmond.
Hand followed, laughing, while Redmond dragged Lockwood to his feet. The big convict propelled his companions toward the door through a sea of stunned faces. They instinctively made a path for the fugitives, but suddenly, a man loomed up in front of them. “That’s the bloke from the ship!”
Redmond sobered rapidly, sensing the new atmosphere as the tavern customers decided whether they had the numbers and the will to take the trio. It was time to take drastic action. He pulled a gun from his belt, pushed it into the face of the man blocking his way and fired.
The bullet drilled a neat hole under the man’s left eye, but the exit was not as tidy. The people behind the man were showered with blood and brains. The man staggered back on his feet and collapsed. The rest of the customers dived for cover or froze, leaving the way clear. Redmond considered his bullet well spent.
When they reached the door, Redmond turned back and waved the gun. “The first man outside gets the same!”
He guided them into the alley they had used to reach the tavern
and stopped only when the street was out of sight. Lockwood was limp in his hands, so he slapped the younger convict hard. “Sober up or I’ll leave you here,” he threatened.
Lockwood released a watery belch and then stood up on his own, though he was still unsteady. “I’ll keep up, Rufus.”
“Good. Now, where the devil are we?”
“Follow the alley, then turn right. That’s if you want to find the water,” slurred Lockwood. “Walk fast and don’t run or we’re sure to give ourselves away.”
Redmond saw the sense of these words and led them off. The bright sunshine made his head ache, but it was a small price to pay if they could get away.
They emerged on Pitt Street and Lockwood pointed to the great bridge down the street in the distance. The footpaths were packed with people and though Redmond attracted glances, there was some safety in the crowd. The three men calmed down after a while. There had been no outcry behind them and they were getting closer to the harbour.
At Circular Quay there were even more people. Redmond cursed as he paced the wharves. Large wooden boats were everywhere, but there was not a sail in sight.
Two uniformed men appeared ahead, so Redmond led his companions into one of the wharf buildings and breathed a sigh of relief when the men passed by.
“Rufus, look!” Hand was pointing across the harbour, beneath the great bridge. There, in a sheltered bay, dozens of tiny sailing boats danced in the sunlight. “But how does we gets there?”
“I’ll find out,” volunteered Lockwood. The walk had done him good. He strolled to a gate on the wharf and talked to the man sitting there. He pointed and the man nodded and then did some pointing of his own, this time back along the wharf.
Lockwood rejoined them. “It’s called McMahons Point. We can catch a ferryboat from one of these wharves!”
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