Too Easy

by J. M. Green

  Buster reduced his speed and lowered the window, anxiously checking each letterbox. I was glad of the fresh air. If my hands were free, I’d grab that cheap apple-scented air freshener that dangled from the rear-vision mirror and throw it out the window. He slammed on the brakes, checked his phone, sighed, made a call. ‘Yeah, I fucking am … It’s not here. But you said … Calm down? You fucking calm down … Fuck you, too.’

  He drove on and stopped at a cream-brick place. A letterbox mounted on the fence said L. Tacchini. The not-so-secret hideout. In the middle of the driveway was a rusted kitchen chair, and a broken chest of drawers, particleboard festering in the elements.

  Buster drove onto the lawn. I struggled when the door opened, but he dragged me out by my feet without fuss. A meaty arm lugged me upwards. My view as he carried me to the house was of several barking dogs in a miserable fenced-off side-yard. And the sun melting into the orange-mauve horizon.

  He dropped me on the concrete porch and knocked.

  The screen door flung open. A man stood, grinning at the sight of me. Trim, but small, he had a lot of forehead, and dark hair sprouted from his ears. No battle jacket for him, not the leather cut-off with the insignia of the Corpse Flowers. This killer was all for mingling with the normal folk, in the grey, zip-up jacket with a couple of biros in the sleeve pocket.

  ‘Turk. Lookee here.’

  He nodded with gratification. ‘Round the back,’ he said. ‘That way.’

  Buster grunted and shifted me to his shoulder in a firefighter’s lift. We followed the Turk as he waddled down a path beside the house, cluttered with white Styrofoam boxes with weeds growing out of them and rusting white goods. Behind the house was an American-style barn — not a tin shed, but a sturdy wooden building. Over the door was a sign: DUE TO THE RISING COST OF AMMO THERE WILL BE NO WARNING SHOT.

  Security cameras, high windows, with bars on them. In my agrarian childhood, with all the visits to other people’s farms, I’d never seen a shed like it.

  The Turk turned a key in the lock, reached in and flicked a switch. A row of lights blinked. This workspace would be a mechanic’s dream; it was spacious, and well-equipped. Except it looked like a teenager’s bedroom, an unholy jumble of junk. Three motorbikes, rested on their stands. Piles of sacks, stacks of crates, boxes scattered everywhere.

  A nasty smell hung in the air — a mix of sump oil, mould, urine. And some other rotten substance.

  Benches piled with open packaging. Tools, takeaway pizza boxes, newspapers, buckets, books, a stack of speakers. Dirty mugs and plates and glasses. Gym equipment lay in odd places, weights here, a pulley there. A tread mill was covered in boxes labelled Power Fitness Blaster and Killer Abs Twister. There was even a cappuccino machine, but it was broken and dirty. A double door, big enough for a tractor to pass through, was at the other end of the barn near a freezer and a pile of plumbing supplies: sinks, toilets, tapware.

  ‘Dump her there.’

  ‘There’ was a vinyl-covered kitchen stool.

  Buster let me slide from his grip onto the stool, and I steadied myself upright. I took in the welding equipment, the block-and-tackle that dangled above me.

  ‘Off you fuck,’ he said to Buster.

  ‘I got me patch, right? I’m in now, right?’

  ‘Gorman handles that shit, mate, talk to him. Now piss off.’

  Buster left and the Turk locked the barn door. Then he pulled out a phone and tapped. Soft music played somewhere. He adjusted the volume. A Human League dirge surrounded us from the speakers mounted on the wall. So, I thought, the torture begins.

  35

  THE TURK walked about picking up, inspecting, and rejecting items as he went. From a pile of junk and sundry mechanical spare parts, he picked up a chain. ‘Are you au fait with the laws of physics?’ The Turk juggled the weight of the chain between his hands. ‘For every action there is a reaction. Consequences.’

  I wasn’t well versed in the laws of physics. But I was au fait with other subjects. The facts before me — being kidnapped, imprisoned — meant I was about to be terminated. But some part of me considered this preposterous. It was inconceivable that criminal bikie gangs would kill a nobody like me. Let alone risk the investigation, the scrutiny that would surely follow.

  But this man didn’t care about being investigated.

  I didn’t speak, in case he put a gag on me, but I had a few thoughts on the way he was wielding the chain. So far, I was holding up well. I breathed in shallow puffs. I hadn’t screamed at him to turn off the Human League. I was saving my energy.

  He came close and held up his fist. I flinched, and he sniggered. ‘Bit jumpy. I was only going to show you me watch.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Let’s see.’

  The sleeve pulled back and jangled a chunky monstrosity. ‘Eighteen-carat pink gold.’

  ‘It’s very nice.’

  ‘Cartier. Got it in the States. Worth ten grand.’

  It was ugly and a stupid waste of money. What kind of psychopath tells you how much their watch is worth? He grinned in my face. He had what romance books called a generous mouth, gaps between his teeth. Flossing should have been a breeze, but he had bits of meat in there. That foul maw had halitosis that could strip paint.

  ‘You blithely enter a bikie’s house.’ He grinned, as though he was in fact delighted that I had.

  Blithely? The man had an interesting turn of phrase; a well-read psychopath. I turned away to avoid his breath, noted the discarded boxes near my feet, Detroit Ammunition Company, 9mm cartridges. A gun must be somewhere around here. More than one.

  ‘What did you think would happen?’

  ‘It’s all an innocent mistake. I was selling Avon. Got the address wrong,’ I said.

  The Turk chortled. ‘Josie tells a different story.’

  Enright. She’d set me up.

  ‘We’re violent people. Didn’t you know that? We trade in genuine harm.’

  ‘I … you do? Okay. Sorry to bother you. I’ll just go now.’

  ‘What’s the problem? You like violence, don’t you? On TV?’

  ‘Sometimes I do.’

  ‘Of course you do. Everyone does. But real life is different. You act like violence doesn’t exist.’ He was getting annoyed. ‘Here’s a news flash. This country’s built on it. Violence gets the job done, gets the juices flowing. We love to hurt cunts.’

  He tossed the chain away, took off the jacket, unbuttoned his cuffs, and rolled up his sleeves. Forearm muscles like undersea cable. The man found the time to work out. And to read. Pina Coladas? Walking in the rain? Look out, ladies.

  ‘We lost a great man, recently.’

  This caught me off-guard. ‘Who?’

  ‘Ricky-fucking-Peck. Sick cunt, full of ideas, loved life. A true Corpse Flower.’

  ‘Yes. His funeral was on TV, lots of people. He was a popular man.’

  ‘He was. Sent off with full honours.’ He opened a drawer and rummaged through the contents. He returned with a police-issue extendable baton and extended it.

  ‘Now.’ He tapped the palm of his hand with the baton. ‘The jacks say it was an accident. But I don’t believe it. I’ll tell you why. That house, where Ricky died, that was a hydroponic set up. Full of dope, right? The man loved life, but for some reason he gets pissed and takes a bath in a house full of hippy lettuce?’

  ‘That sounds … unlikely.’

  ‘Good answer.’ He pointed at me ‘Now, what I want to know is, who killed him.’

  ‘Please don’t hurt me. I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Why would I?’

  He ran the baton over his chin stubble. ‘Because of your interest in Mortimer. Guess who didn’t go to the funeral?’

  ‘Um … Mortimer?’

  ‘Give the girl a lollypop.’ Tap, tap, tap. ‘Ricky gets done, Mortimer runs off the next day. It might
be a coincidence. But I need to know. You’re his mate, you know he’s connected.’

  ‘I’ve never even met Mortimer!’

  ‘You told Josie Enright he owes you money. So you’re cosy.’

  ‘I lied to her.’ I couldn’t have been more stupid in my approach to Enright.

  ‘Who killed Ricky?’ This time, he whipped the baton into his hand.

  ‘I don’t know! He was drunk, maybe it was an accident. More accidents happen —’

  The crack, like lightning across my cheek, knocked me off the stool. My bound hands and feet couldn’t cushion my fall, I landed hard on my shoulder.

  ‘Ricky never got drunk,’ he said. ‘No accident.’

  ‘No way,’ I said, gasping, trying to get up. ‘He was murdered.’

  ‘By?’

  I struggled to my knees. ‘By that bastard Mortimer.’

  ‘Well done. And where is he now?’

  ‘I don’t know, and I wish I’d never heard of him. Please, can I go home? Please?’

  ‘Nah, not yet.’

  He took hold of the cable-tie at my wrists and dragged me to the wall. There was a chain attached to a bracket about a metre off the ground. He dragged my arms back, hooked the chain through my wrists. I had to kneel to relieve the pull of my weight on my arms. The floor around me was smeared with brown stains.

  The Turk snapped a padlock over the chain and tossed the key on the bench. He touched his phone and the Human League stopped.

  ‘Got a few things to take care of. Take it easy, and I’ll see you in a bit.’

  To my surprise and relief, he headed for the door. He hit the light on the way out, and I was in total darkness. The bolt slid shut outside.

  I shifted, trying to get the pressure off my wrists. I found if I twisted my body to the side, my shoulder against the wall, I could let my weight fall. It was an improvement. My head dropped forward to rest on a wall bracket that jutted beside me. I tried to breathe, to think, but I was filled with too much angry static to think. One thing was clear — I was doomed.

  At least the Human League had ceased. The place was quiet.

  Then somewhere in the darkness, I heard a low groan.

  36

  ‘WHO’S THERE?’ I hissed.

  I heard panting, then another pitiful, agonised groan.

  ‘Jeff Vanderhoek?’

  ‘Yes?’ His voice was thin, an exhale.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘You have to get out. He’ll be back. He always comes back.’

  ‘I’m stuck, locked in,’ I said. ‘The key’s on the bench. Can you get to it?’

  ‘I can’t get anywhere.’

  I took that in. ‘This is bad.’

  Hollow laughter. ‘You think?’

  Then the fear receded and I went low, into deep despair. Dead soon. Last thoughts turned to Brophy: that had been good. It had been a fine thing to know that man.

  ‘Jeff? Peter Brophy told me you saved his life.’

  Nothing but rasping groans.

  ‘He ODd and you called the ambulance.’

  Soft murmuring now. ‘Peter. Yeah. Peter. We hit up in the park, on the grass, drifting off. I seen his lips go blue. A lady’s walking her dog and I go ring the ambos or he’ll die.’

  I realised I was crying; tears were streaming down my face at any rate.

  ‘Woman on the phone talked me through it. Mouth-to-mouth, till the ambos got there.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The outside bolt slid back.

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ Vanderhoek said.

  The door swung open and the lights blinked on. The Turk was standing in the doorway holding my handbag. ‘Your phone’s been ringing. Every time I answer, it’s some ching-chong voice.’

  I didn’t know what to say.

  ‘A messy bitch, aren’t you? I found a fucking apple core in here. Who the fuck puts an old apple core in their handbag?’

  ‘I couldn’t find a bin.’

  He laughed, a mouth so wide I could shove a softball in there.

  With the lights on, I scanned the room for Jeff. A pile of canvas drop-sheets was shoved into a space behind the row of motorbikes. It moved.

  Karen Carpenter’s sad singing started to echo through the shed. He held up my phone and winked at me, listened until it rang out. ‘No ID. Who could it be?’

  Not Brophy then. Maybe Phuong. It started up again.

  ‘Persistent fucker,’ he said, swiping the screen. ‘Stella Hardy’s boyfriend speaking.’

  A pause then he frowned. ‘Wrong number, mate. Can’t understand you.’ He shook his head. ‘That’s a pity — I was going to have a bit of fun. Put out the idea that you and I had run off together.’ He tossed the phone over his shoulder.

  ‘They use mobiles to track people. They’ll track that call, see it was answered here.’

  He upended a milk crate, spilling its contents on the floor, and straddled it. ‘Who’s going to do that? The jacks? I own half of them.’

  The detritus from the crate: a wallet, a broad-blade knife in a leather sheath, some keys, a stubby Phillips-head screwdriver, a packet of Tic Tacs, a paperback. I tilted my head, trying to see the title. ‘Is that yours?’ I asked, nodding at the book.

  He picked up the knife and pulled it from the sheath. ‘This? A good one, isn’t it? A Bowie knife from the States. There are more regulations in Texas on carrying one of these knives than there are on carrying guns. So that’s a fun place. No doubt about it.’

  I’d meant the book, but I let it go.

  ‘You read shit about gun laws,’ the Turk was saying. ‘Some journalist having a go. Reckons guns are bad. But journalists are worse. Someone’s lost their kid and they shove a camera in their face.’

  He went back to my bag and started to pull things out. ‘Old receipts, about ten fucking ballpoint pens, and some lip balm. Why do chicks always have lip balm?’ His face close to mine, liquor on his breath.

  ‘We don’t like chapped lips, it’s not a mystery.’

  ‘Got your phone, and some nail clippers, in here.’

  I stared at a patch of dried blood at my feet, my eye followed the long smear to the drop-sheets covering Jeff. The movement had stopped for now.

  ‘So much rubbish.’

  What was he looking for? There was nothing … Wait, did I still have Ricky Peck’s letters? Why did I leave them in there? Because I was an idiot.

  I heard myself blabbering. ‘Yes, it’s all rubbish, debris, litter basically. Mouldy, rotting biological matter. Probably toxic, probably noxious, poisonous …’

  ‘Look what I found.’ He held up the letters, acted shocked. ‘Uh oh, these aren’t yours, are they?’

  ‘I don’t know how they —’

  ‘You opened them. You always open other people’s mail?’

  ‘I was going to give them —’

  ‘Shut up.’ He went to the bench, opened up a box in one furious rip, and went through it. He stopped and lifted his head. I heard it, too, the low whimpering. I glanced at the tarp. The thing was shaking, and then it seemed to fold in on itself.

  ‘Jeffy. Forgot all about you, mate.’ The Turk rubbed his nose, sniffed. Scratched the back of his neck, seemed to be trying to make up his mind. ‘Yeah. Rightio.’

  He opened a draw and took out a pistol, pulled the slide, released it. He went to the bundle of tarp on the floor and kicked the sheet away, exposing Vanderhoek’s bloodied face, bruised torso. ‘Do it,’ Vanderhoek said.

  ‘Check this out,’ The Turk said to me.

  He dropped to one knee and put the gun under Vanderhoek’s chin. ‘This is for Thailand.’

  I shut my eyes. The blast rang in my ears. I couldn’t breathe, forgot how. I opened my eyes, and stared resolutely ahead.

  The Turk tossed the pistol on th
e bench. ‘Only nine mil, makes a decent mess but.’

  He resumed his rummaging in the box. He held up what looked like an old-fashioned tin of hairspray. In the other hand was a nozzle of some kind. It wasn’t hairspray; it was a butane blowtorch. He tested the firing mechanism on the nozzle. Then he unscrewed the cap on the can and slotted the nozzle over the opening. It hissed, until he twisted the thing and it clicked into place. He adjusted a regulator knob on the back of the nozzle, and I heard more hissing. He pulled the trigger mechanism like a gun and a blue flame jetted out.

  ‘Oh dear.’ I heard myself say.

  He adjusted the flame as he came towards me.

  ‘Ricky was a serious man. He wasn’t your average criminal. He had ambition. We were going to go big. He was strategic, crunched the numbers. Big numbers. Data sets.’

  ‘Um. I suppose so.’

  ‘That’s what he said. Supply and demand. Simple economics.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ I nodded to the blowtorch.

  He brought the torch to my knee until the denim was smoking.

  I breathed hard through clenched teeth, as the tears ran down my face. ‘Please, stop.’

  ‘What’s that? Does it hurt?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay, have a rest, we got all night.’ He moved the flame to the side.

  Deep breaths now, a reprieve. Didn’t last long. He directed the heat to the other knee.

  Shallow panting as I counted down in my head. It felt like a long time before he turned the flame away. ‘There, holes in your jeans. Now you’re cool.’ He waited for me to recover myself. ‘Brings a whole new meaning to the term “fashion victim”, doesn’t it?’ he said, chuckling.

  I started sobbing.

  He frowned and cocked his head. A car coming up the drive. It stopped, right outside the barn. Doors slammed. A man’s low voice, then a woman swearing. I recognised that deep voice, that unique style of cursing. Philomena Enright.