“Yeah, well I wouldn’t lend him any money if I were you,” said Large. “He doesn’t pay his debts. This whole mess only started because of that prick not paying up.”
Ricky came across the room, bringing the knife down in a double-handed axe-swing between Large’s legs, slicing into the mattress. “I’m going to cut you into little pieces, old man, feed you to the fucking pigs.”
“Take it easy,” said Mick. “First Large is going to give us the money. If he does that, well maybe he survives, maybe we just chop up rubber-man, here. You know me, Large. It’s just business. I always liked you and we got on pretty well, but I have been told loud and clear that you are my mess to clean up. We can’t let you get away with fucking the Chiefs, killing our people, and ripping us off. The world doesn’t work that way, mate. It would send the wrong message.”
“I don’t have any money. I sank it all into this place.”
“That would be a pity if it were true, because then I would have no reason to stop Ricky from chopping into you. But I don’t think it is true, Large, it’s not the way you operate. You always have contingency plans, and I’m sure you’ve got a bundle of money stashed away here somewhere. And whatever that is, now it’s ours.”
John watched the other men carefully. They obviously knew each other, and Mick obviously knew what he was doing with the gun. John was a bit surprised that he was still alive at this stage; he didn’t have anything to bargain with, and even without the big suppressor on the gun, there was little chance that a shot would be heard over the music and the waves. He wasn’t too worried about the cane knife. It was sharp but it was long and unwieldy, requiring a big swing. No, the .45 was the problem.
“What money there is, is outside in the ceiling of the veranda,” said Large. “Go on. Take it and piss off, the lot of you.”
“Where? Show us.” Mick twitched the gun in the direction of the door. “You too rubber man.”
John followed Waters out the door and onto the veranda. “It’s up there,” Waters said, pointing at a recessed light in the ceiling. “Couple of zip-lock bags. US dollars. You can reach it if you take the light bulb out.”
Ricky put the cane knife on one of the armchairs and dragged the chair across to the middle of the veranda beneath the light.
“Hang on a sec, Ricky,” said Mick. “Anyone on the beach can see us out here.”
“There’s no one there, and if there was, so what? We’re just changing a light bulb.”
“Alright.” Mick moved to a position next to the door where he could see along the beach and cover the veranda with his gun. “You two over against the end wall where I can shoot you if I have to.”
Waters and John moved to the end of the veranda.
“In the corner,” said Mick.
John and Waters shuffled back further. John could sense the tension in Waters as Ricky climbed onto the chair. Standing with a foot on each of the wide timber arms, he reached up to unscrew the light bulb.
“It’s a bayonet fitting,” said Waters. “You have to push it a bit then twist.”
“Okay, got it.” Ricky removed the bulb and tossed it underarm to Waters, who was caught off guard and fumbled the hot bulb. John caught it just before it hit the veranda floor and put it down on the other chair. “Good reflexes,” said Ricky. He reached up again, pushing his arm past the light fitting. “Which side is it? Hang on here it is ... Got it. Oww, what… Fuck. Oh fuck—” He screamed and pulled his hand out of the hole. It was followed by a dozen large yellow wasps that began attacking his head.
He fell off the chair and tumbled down the steps onto the beach. Mick turned, watching Ricky screaming and waving at the wasps. This was what Waters was waiting for. He lunged for the second armchair, sliding his hand into a slit in the side of the seat cushion. The gun John had been expecting to find inside the room was in the cushion. Ricky was still shouting and batting at the wasps with his hands as he stumbled towards the water.
Mick swore and turned back to the veranda, firing the .45. The gun kicked back in his hand, but neither John nor Waters were where they had been, and the rounds buried themselves harmlessly in the wall of the bure. John was on the floor reaching for the cane knife, as Waters fired through the cushion cover. Mick slumped down onto the decking, a big red wound in the centre of his chest. Waters pulled the gun out and swung it towards John, but stumbled on his wounded leg, firing wildly. John threw the cane knife in a scything horizontal arc, and went for Mick’s gun. Waters ducked and lurched off the veranda, stumbling on the stairs, firing and missing as he went.
John twisted the .45 out of Mick’s hand and rolled behind the armchair. All he could hear now was the music from the bar and the hiss and thump of the waves. There were two more shots from the beach. He stayed still, listening. Then he heard Waters crashing through the undergrowth, making his way up the hill behind the beach. There was a path there that led over the headland to the village.
John wiped the gun clean and put it back in Mick’s lifeless hand. He retrieved his knife and left the bure. On the way down the beach he checked to see if anyone had responded to the shots. There was no one there, and the music was still thumping away. Ricky was face down at the edge of the water with a hole in the back of his head. His blood had turned the moonlit water black. John checked his GPS watch and waded out through the stained water. He would swim out to one of the skiffs moored in the lagoon and wait there till it was time to set out for the rendezvous point. He was going to have plenty of time to think tonight.
The Next John Lawrence Novel
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Acknowledgments
Thanks to all those who helped with encouragement and advice along the way, especially my father for reading a book of fiction for the first time in many years, and my mother who doesn’t read anymore but was sure it was very good anyway. Thanks also to my wife and daughters, and (in no particular order), Ian Davidson, James Renwick, Matthew Stephens, Fiona and Rénald Navilly, Ashleigh King, Paul Bennett, Chris Searson and Emma Renwick. Many thanks to Kylie Mason for helping a first time author.
About the Author
Andrew Christie lives and writes in Sydney’s inner west.
This is his first novel.
A Painting the Bridge Book
paintingthebridge.com
This edition published 2016
This is a work of fiction. While it takes inspiration from real events and places, there is no connection between any real individuals or businesses and the fictional ones in this book.
Copyright © Andrew Christie 2014
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
ISBN: 978-0-9925747-1-0
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