The man smiled and reached into his shirt. For a fleeting moment, Van Heerden thought he was going for a gun. Instead, he brought out a small calico pouch.
“In that case, you better take these,” he said, “for luck.”
Van Heerden opened the pouch, switched on his headband and directed the beam towards the contents. Inside was nothing but leaves, hundreds and hundreds of little blood-red leaves.
“Thanks anyway,” he told old mate, tossing them into the air and watching them flutter down around his head like confetti, “but I won’t be needing any goddam luck.”
***
One-and-a-quarter kilometres later and 348 metres up, Van Heerden looked around the flat moonlit plains surrounding Ayers Rock. He’d made it effortlessly to the top, was hardly breathing heavy, despite the fact that the 138 posts and 400 metres of link rope hundreds of thousands of tourists had used to pull themselves up the steepest section were no longer there. The tonne of chain and half-tonne of posts had been removed less than three weeks after the climb’s official closure, and the euphoric Anangu people had shed tears of joy to see that ugly scar on the most sacred of sacred sites removed.
Van Heerden had read somewhere that the fastest anyone had climbed the rock was 12 minutes and 43 seconds by a bloke called Ian Franzke in 2014. Bah! Back in the day, I could have pissed all over that!
As he awaited his nemesis – that old black sonofabitch was around here somewhere – he opened the main pocket on his toolbelt and made sure the vials of antivenins were still there and had survived the climb intact. Good as gold he thought, Velcro-ing the flap shut again, but for fuck’s sake, hasn’t it got cold up here all of a sudden.
“You’re a bastard, Van Heerden,” came a voice from behind him that made him jump and spin around. There, five metres away – how the hell did he sneak up on me so fast, he wasn’t there a second ago – was a young abo, barely out of his teens by the look of him. He was carrying a beat-up Gladstone bag which he set down beside him.
“You cost me twenty bucks,” he was saying. “I had a bet with Uncle Charlie on the gate that you were all talk, that you wouldn’t have the balls to show up, and here you are. Still, saved me the trouble of looking for you I guess.”
“And who the fuck are you?” Van Heerden demanded to know. “I was expecting an old dude called Billy Gut-Ache or something-or-other, or maybe even a blonde whore, not a fucken kid.”
“My name’s Joe, Joe Guttuk,” he said casually opening up his bag and taking out a small video camera. He turned it on, set it on ‘Low Light’ and placed it gently down on the Rock, its lens pointed towards the giant. “I’m Billy’s grandson. Cassie’s brother.”
Van Heerden caught a glint of utter hatred in Joe’s eyes, then watched as he reached back into the bag and casually extracted a 2-metre long snake which he deposited next to the camera. It raised its head, its tongue tasting the air, then saw Van Heerden and went to slither and slide towards him.
The young guy spoke to it, one finger raised, as if it were a pet dog. “No! Wait! Stay here. You take care of the camera. I’ll take care of the coward.”
Big Ed shone his headlamp at it. Dark tan with an olive-green tinge, yellow belly, broken chevron-like scales, black head, rounded snout. He had seen that snake before. It had scored an entire double-page spread in “The Venomous Snakes of Australia”…
a Fierce Snake, sometimes known as a Taipan on steroids. The reference book claimed that drop for drop, it was the most venomous snake in the world. It also had form; that was the one that had taken his mate Theo out.
“What’s with the snake? Too scared to face me alone” he asked Joe, who just stared and stayed stum.
He stared back, sizing up the young man. Even though he had a 40-kilo weight advantage and probably a 30-centimetre longer reach, he’d learnt from a young age brawling with the boys back in Johannesburg never to underestimate any opponent. Even some of those skinny nigger boys could scrap. The size of the fight in the dog and all that. This kid wasn’t big, but as he stretched, rolled his neck and got ready to rumble, Ed could see that he looked super-fit and deceptively strong. And way too confident. Over-confident maybe?
“And where’s your granddaddy?” he pondered, glancing around casually. “I was kinda hoping he’d be here to hold your hand. You know, so I could kill two birds with the one…”
Ed had a 20-1 record in the cage-fighting arena. The only bout he’d ever lost was when one arsey opponent – a fucking chink of all people – had landed a fluky kick right to his balls and sent him to the canvas curled up in a screaming heap. The way he won most fights was to take the other guy by surprise, then hit them with everything he had and keep going relentlessly till they tapped out or, better still, were knocked out.
He knew that if the Nazis had continued with their lightning-fast blitzkriegs, the German purebreds would have easily won the Second World War. Hit ’em fast. Hit ’em hard. And keep hitting ’em till you’ve won.
This was what he did now, rushing straight at an unsuspecting Joe – who was still pulling his black t-shirt over his head – with a barrage of heavy punches… lefts, rights, crosses and uppercuts.
What the absolute fuck!? Not one of them had landed. The kid had somehow managed to block or dodge them all and landed a few decent ones of his own for good measure. Nailed him square on his nose, which felt like it was broken, clocked him on the ear which was still ringing, and bruised – maybe broke – a few ribs…and he hadn’t even seen the kid let fly. He was just a blur. Kung Fu dude probably, and I’ve destroyed stacks of them… but holy fuck, he’s super quick!
Still, it’d only take one punch to do Joe some serious damage and once he got his hands on the ducking, weaving little asshole, it would be game over. He’d snap his neck like a chook’s – like he’d snapped Cassie’s – and fling him over the edge of the rock.
Speaking of the edge, he was only a few metres away from the curved edge of the Rock now. How have I gotten way over here? What’s happened to my ringcraft? He moved away from the drop as fast as he could, rushing Joe once more, screaming and punching for all his worth for a full 45 seconds, before finally kicking the prick fair in the head. Or rather where his head had been a quarter-of-a-second ago. He’s not only mega-fast, but he seems to know exactly what I’m gunna do, before I even know myself.
As fit as he was, he was fading fast and landing nary a punch, elbow, knee or kick to Joe’s twenty. Only one punch had connected, and that was just a glancing blow to the side of Joe’s head. And that just made the kid angrier. By the time he stepped back to catch his breath, he was bloody, bruised and busted from head to toe. The one and only consolation was that his toolbag full of glass vials was somehow still intact. He’d need that if the kid’s pet decided to get involved. I better end this now and get the hell outta here before it does.
There was only one way out. Ignoring the blood gushing from a forehead gash and seeping down into his eyes he threw his arms up in surrender, cringing from the pain of what was probably a cracked collarbone.
“OK, you win,” he said puffing and panting heavily as he staggered forward, almost falling, “please, mercy…no more…you got me…I’m tapping out.”
He was actually crying now; real tears, blended with blood, were pouring out of his puffy eyes and down his bruised cheeks in pink rivulets. And through these salty crocodile tears he saw that Joe had dropped his guard and had even started to turn his back. The cocky little cunt.
“Please,” he begged, “let me go. I’ll go straight to the cops…tell them I was part of the gang…raped and murdered your sister… you can come with me… whatever, but please… please don’t hit me any…”
He had stumbled forward until he was only a metre away from Joe and was falling to his knees, hands clasped together in prayer, begging for forgiveness. But at the last minute, the pathetic fall became a full-blown, last-ditch lunge as he moved to grab Cassie’s bro in a massive bear hug, to squeeze the bejeezus out of h
im…
“GOT YOU, YOU BASTARD!”
And this time, by second guessing which way Joe would sidestep, he had. No one was more amazed than he was as he crash tackled his opponent onto the rock.
The South African had to be quick though, already the smaller man was trying to writhe out from under him, and he’d come close to kicking and kneeing him in the nuts. Using all his remaining strength, and fighting the pain of his numerous breaks and bruises, Van Heerden got both huge hands around Joe’s neck and started squeezing for all he was worth.
He smiled as he saw the panic in the kid’s eyes, and felt the muscles in the arms trying to fend him off start to weaken. This was the beginning of the end. Joe was making loud choking sounds, and his face was getting even blacker. Another 30 seconds and it would all be over. He was blacking out. What a comeback by the big man! he envisaged the ring announcer wildly screaming.
Ow! Shit, what was that?
It felt like something had bitten him on the back of his left knee! He took his left hand off Joe’s neck and brought it down behind his knee. When he brought it away, it had two drops of blood on it. He spun around and shone his headlight at the Fierce Snake, or rather where it had been last time he saw it. Surprise, surprise, it was no longer there.
For a split second, he started to panic, then relaxed and released his grip on Joe’s neck. He would keep. Ed had a job to do and, as it said in “Venomous Snakes of Australia” at the top of page 31, there wasn’t a second to lose. He ripped into the bag of tricks around his waist. There it was…Fierce Snake antivenom. He’d had a few practice goes, going through the motions, so he knew what he was doing. He ripped open a new syringe, inserted the needle into the vial and extracted half the serum. Then remembered how big the fucker had been and sucked up every last drop. Van Heerden wasn’t big on needles, but was even less keen on dying in agony, so without hesitation he drove the needle into his muscular neck and squeezed down on the plunger.
Joe had come to by now, but he’d finish him off in a minute or two. For now he was happy just to let the serum take its course, counteracting the Fierce Snake’s poison as it pumped throughout his body.
But what was that sharp stabbing pain in his gut all of a sudden? And why was his heart racing, and his lungs aching with every breath, and why did he feel like absolute shit?
Van Heerden sat up, shook his head to try to clear it, and grabbed the empty glass vial to make sure he’d used the right one. Yep, that was the one for Fierce Snake alright. But why wasn’t it working? And why was Joe smiling? The answer to all these questions came as Joe groggily got to his feet, steadied himself, then walked over and brought his right foot up close and personal to Ed’s face. He wiggled his toes so Ed could see the nails on both the big toe and adjacent toe. Both were very long, thick and filed to needle sharp points.
The snake hadn’t bitten him, Joe’s toes had. All too late, he remembered the warning in “The Venomous Snakes of Australia”, at the bottom of page 31:
Caution: Strictly ensure that envenoming has occurred before administering antivenin. Failure to do so, may result in severe Anaphylaxis and even death.
As sick as he was, as sore as he was, and as confused as he was, he was even angrier. He’d been had. This cunt’s dead he thought as he sprang to his feet and rushed at Joe once more.
This time Joe was ready for him, gracefully stepping aside like a matador to let the big bruiser fly past clutching at thin air. Too late Van Heerden, like the Road Runner’s hapless mate – Wylie Coyote – realised that he’d strayed too close to the side again.
One metre too close.
Ian Franzke may have recorded the fastest trip up The Rock, but Eddy Van Heerden had just set the mark for the fastest trip down.
***
Joe placed his right hand on the rock and let it rest there for several minutes, feeling the radiant heat from the day and the steady pulse from deep within the red rock flow into his body. His left hand moved to his bolitj birrahgah, the adornment scars on his chest. Ever since his initiation 12 years ago, when he had spent 60 days crisscrossing its knolls and gullies, flutes and basins, he had felt a special affinity with this sacred place.
As his scars healed, and he learned more of the intriguing secret men’s business, he had also developed an unbreakable bond with the ancestors. He thanked them now for giving him his speed, strength and elusiveness. Finally, he begged their forgiveness, for allowing that monster of a man to dare climb up here and desecrate it with his evil spirit…
…and for littering the desert.
He couldn’t see the rapist-cum-murderer, lying like a bloody, broken action figure far below. The curvature of the rock meant that you couldn’t see the base. But he pictured it in his mind’s eye. And his only regret was that Van Heerden had died so quickly.
That business done, he walked over to where he’d left his video camera. His grandfather held it out to him. Lirru’s smile was never as wide as it had been before Cassie’s death – it never would be again – but he gave a fair facsimile of it now as he proudly patted Joe on the back. “Just one more to go,” he said, turning to face the east. “And this one’s mine.”
Chapter 31
Now you see him...
“G’day, Mike, how’re they hangin’?”
Marr knew who it was, but couldn’t believe he was calling so bloody early.
“Gordo, what the hell are you doing calling at…” he paused to look at his Apple watch, “…at 6am?”
“You got it sweet, mate,” the sergeant pointed out, “it’s just gorn 5.30am here.”
Mike looked across at Ronda who rolled over and went back to sleep. “But it’s Saturday,” he said. “Don’t you ever have a day off? Or sleep?”
In his mind’s eye, the detective could see Gordo roll his eyes and shake his head. “I wish, jellyfish, but it’s just young Davo and me still. I asked Alice if they could send some relief down, but no friggin’ dice. They said they’re a bit stretched themselves and that. Ever since their ace detective swanned orf to the Smoke.”
Mike was momentarily distracted by Ronda kicking the top sheet off to reveal one long, smooth and shapely leg.
“Yeah, well sorry about that mate, out of my contro…
hang on, you still haven’t told me, why are you calling?”
A long pause. McPhee was milking this for all it was worth.
“Just thought you’d be innerested to know one of ya mates bit the dust last night.”
Mike was wide awake now. One of my mates!? “Who?”
Another damn pause. C’mon Gordo! It’s too early for this.
“Big bloke, by the name o’ Eddy Van Heerden.”
Mike gave Ronda a nudge to wake her up. She groaned and pulled the sheet back over her head.
“Van Heerden is at Uluru?” His mention of that name made her sit up and take notice. Mike obliged by hitting the speaker on his phone.
“He was,” McPhee replied. “What part o’ ‘bit the dust’ didn’t ya get?”
“How…?”
“Literally bit the dust, mate,” came the reply, “ ’e fell face-first orf the Rock.”
This was almost too much to take in so early on a Saturday morning after a relatively large Friday night at the other Rocks, in Sydney.
“But the Rock is closed,” Mike said.
He heard Gordo scoff before answering. “Mate, the bloke was over two-metres tall and weighed about the same as old mate Stomann…’cept all muscle. You gunna tell him ’e can’t climb the flamin’ Rock?”
Maybe with my service pistol levelled at him thought Mike.
“But what was he doin’…I mean doing in Uluru in the first place?”
“Spoilin’ for a blue, apparently,” the sarge explained. “Seems he spent the best part o’ the previous day walkin’ ’round, tellin’ every man an’ his dog who’d listen that he’d be out there. People got the feelin’ he was callin’ someone out. Bet ’e wishes ’e hadn’t.”
�
�What,” Mike said, “you think he had a fight with someone before he fell?”
“I’d say several someones, mate, looks like ’e went 12 rounds with Mike Tyson and ’is big brother and ’is cousin. All carryin’ cricket bats.”
“Do you think they might have pushed him off the Rock?”
McPhee thought about that for a moment.
“The 64 thousand dollar question, eh?…Did ’e fall, or was ’e pushed? I’ll leave that up ta the big city Dees. Speakin’ of which, Mike, you were right by the way.”
Mike cast his mind back, trying to remember what he could be right about. He drew a blank.
“Right about what, Gordo?”
“Lirru Guttuk does only have one leg these days. Dave saw ’im and Joe yesterday arvo. ’e was getting’ round on crutches.”
Overkill : Pure Venom Page 18