The ex-detective motions to the toolbox and dolly. ‘Right with the surgery?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You wish we had more time.’
‘Six weeks’d be nice.’
‘Come on. Let’s run it through again.’
Sutton shakes his head. The day before was rehearsal. Long one. ‘Go eat.’
The men embrace. If they meet again the world will be different.
‘Here’s luck.’
‘Backatcha.’
Someone whines to miss the hug and the carpenter smiles at a Bering Sea hybrid now writhing in Pintara. He is petulant with attention deficit, makes a pretence of itch or fire.
‘Hey, Bobby.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Don’t forget to feed him.’
16
Karen lies in the arms of a literal dream. It terminates her: lets her go, dumps her, tells her she’s not right for the position. The shock propels her but it’s a wide old river and she collapses at the line, a distance runner dazed, not sure which side of the tape she finished up on.
A person watching would think her still asleep.
—
In the dream she was on the boat. Up top, her father at the tiller. Mum was below where Karen lies now, Mum reading and drinking wine, clearing her throat from time to time. Karen in the sun, on her stomach, listening to music and doing the crossword. But not really the crossword.
Her parents are decent / epitome of decent. Her brother they adopt when Karen is six. She tantrums about it. Permanently. A want of grace, an absence of love for the baby. Years of gallant attempts that do not fill the hole.
Her father asks her, What are you doing?
The Karen in the dream is a teenage Karen. Skinny, introverted, peevish when disturbed by adult forces. Good at school, good at sport. She wears a tropical sarong and under that a conservative one-piece. No sibling on the boat.
—Love?
The dream-Karen hears her father’s question through earphones. Exasperation.
—Codex Two. I’m breaking it.
—But you don’t have the cipher.
—I’m meant to have it. I’m meant to work it out.
Her mother calls from below; apparently everything is hearable. Karen’s sarong has gone, scattered to the wind. What’s a cipher?
—It’s a word that makes the puzzle work.
—Work?
—Yes, God. A cryptogram is just a machine for generating numbers.
—And how many ciphers have you tried?
—172.
—Wow!
—Good lord, darling.
—Now 288. Now 741. Now 1,080.
—Slow down! You’ll hurt yourself!
—Now 4,087. Now 11,646. Now—
—Carla!
Scene change: they’re making her tidy her room, penance for her mania. Her room is a windowless office in which dozens of boxes stand stacked to the ceiling. Manila files copulating, reproducing, doing it with exponential passion, geometric progression.
—Who are you.
The basic question: Karen looks around at the man who asks. Retirement age, crinkled, thick of brow and shoulder. Karen’s one-piece has become a two-piece, skimpy and red. She says to him, I’m the solving agent.
—The solvent?
—Yeah. That.
—How many files in this room?
She looks around doubtfully, attempting a count. They’re up to their ankles in paper and when she looks back at Holden he’s wearing a balaclava.
—Too many to count.
—Do better.
—172. Now 741. Now 1,080. Now 4,087. Now 11,646. Now—
—Kill the case, Carla.
—That’s not my name.
—Yes it is. You changed it and your parents died of shame.
—No, the highway did that.
—Kill the case before the case kills you.
Naked now: embarrassing when you’re a teenager, caught at the office without your clothes on. She squawks and gropes for her greatcoat as the files exsanguinate, bleed to pure paper, a river that breaks the banks and passes ankles, knees, waist.
—The tide of men is paperwork.
—What?
—You heard.
—The tide of men…God, this would be easier if I were a bloke.
—Of course.
—You admit it?
—Sure. But the crime doesn’t care.
They start to drown and Holden is about to say what he knows but then the vision loses power, shuts down like a room in total blackout. Karen sinks in the direction of consciousness and takes the dream down with her. Some dreams are sex—leave you lying dazed and puzzled, confused as to what it signified, what the fuck it was you saw.
Yeah, the tide of men is paperwork but this isn’t her first drowning. At Sleepwalkers she searched the waves for bodies, for evidence that a harbourmaster informed the seekers about tides. About breaks, landings, tyre tracks in dust, evidence Faulkner was assigned to Beowulf, proof that a Daimler was lifted from East Balmain. Holden is right, the crime is pure / it has no stake or prejudice. The sin is a saint, Zen, total in itself, it doesn’t even notice you wear a skirt.
Four in the morning, there or thereabouts. Suicide hour. Karen revolves in the narrow berth, resenting the dream for waking her, wanting the claustrophobia called sleep to come and smother her again. She presses against its hull, desperate for point of entry, but sleep for her is a mean sphere, a deadlit metal disco ball that does not let her dance.
An aria of laughter, lilting and heterosexual. What’s it doing here? Originates from adjacent vessel, Roar Magnetism, forty-seven feet of old neighbour from way back. The articulate giggle of a man, a woman, and everyone is detective beyond a certain span, everyone an analyst: that couple is drinking champagne. The low growl of his excitement, the note of high scandal in hers; she’s preparing to give herself to someone she isn’t supposed to. Glass on glass / they toast the contract. Chuckles, adultery, the guy is just about home.
Koestler. High-end klepto. Then somebody stole something that was high-end from him. Ever driven one? Christ, mate—handles like a Sherman. Well, Faulks, maybe it does and maybe it doesn’t. Rex Herring: the tide of men is paperwork and there wasn’t none.
What sort of man does it. Thieves precious art then hoards it for himself. This thing of loveliness / for my eyes only. Incest: Detective Millar wants to run around the block and think about it. Question, Answer. Problem: all her shoes are at Five Dock. Nine pairs, eighteen articles, top-of-the-line but trapped at various stages of wear and tear. She cannot bear to part with them, even the oldies that have blown a gasket. Companions from the road, the miles invested and the rivals left behind. She wouldn’t give them up for anything. For Liam in a kidnap situation—that’s it. She certainly wouldn’t exchange them for Nebuchadnezzar’s shopping list, a whalebone cameo from the house of Japan. No way / fuck that. A silver grenadier with inlaid timepiece?
Man in uniform that might be alright. Naval, all in white, all-American, fit and young and anonymous. Karen slips her hand towards the place at her centre, the particular button it takes an expert touch to touch. She probably shouldn’t: it’ll only wake her up, and it’s the other direction she really wants to go. Oh well, too late for second guesses—the officer is already in the sleeping bag with her. Fighter pilot, actually…God, it would be easier if she was a bloke; knock one out and five minutes later you’re dead to the world. Tinny bastards. And that five minutes? They reckon it’s the closest thing to sane you ever fucking get…
Karen’s hand arrives at the spot and goes freezing cold: there’s someone in the room with her and it isn’t Maverick. She makes herself breathe and squint through tiny eyes, absorbing the ink stain in the galley. Starboard side, gigantic, probably thinks she’s still asleep.
He stands, unfolds, the wingspan of a condor. Karen’s swallow is dry. How bloody long was he just sitting there like that.
‘Rawse?’
He crosses the space to her sleeping bag. Her straitjacket: his hand is like a bird-eating spider that takes her jaw and levers it up.
A nasty sting / her proper sleep, his hypodermic kiss.
15
Logan Perceval.
Such a courtly title. He doesn’t think in such terms, not explicitly, but when he hears the name in full a medieval image flares tiny inside him, a momentary match inside a big night forest.
Arise, Sir Logan. Go forth and joust.
—
When young he glimpsed a tapestry pressed behind museum glass. School excursion. He wasn’t supposed to be there—no one signed his permission form, gave him the money. Mrs Provis took him anyway.
The men depicted brothers. You could tell. Not jousting; they were on foot in heavy armour, fighting each other with swords. But nearby their beautiful horses were standing up on two legs, hugging one another. Hugging. The horses were sad / it was obvious. So too the lesson.
One for a different life than this. He was nineteen, just Craig Perceval from Sunshine Coast chapter when they made him bash Logan Denny. Now he sits in the bus shelter, waiting in the cold pre-dawn. He never knew Sydney got so cold. He watches his breath become steam in the chilblain air / it’s proof he’s real.
—
In his heart he still feels gentle. When alone, or when he goes south to see his daughter. He asked if he could move down there / the Melbourne chapter wanted him. Slane said no.
Maybe in a year or two, when he’s on a few more radars. When exposure has turned him from asset to liability. When his worth has dropped and he’s handed back his sharp. Then he can go down south, be with Emma.
—
Tired, and not just this morning. They rang him at two and told him where to be. Now it’s almost five. Crazy dreams / he couldn’t get back to sleep.
—
A car is coming. No headlights yet / he can tell from the sound. Dozing in his army disposal jacket, hood drawn, Logan playing the game he played when young.
Wanted to be a mechanic. V8? At least. Running smooth, something Euro or high-end from Honda.
They hardly ever ride bikes anymore.
—
Perceval, Logan. He’s twenty-three and used to it now. Answers without thinking, well trained, doesn’t miss his other handle / barely thinks of it. The only one who calls him Craig these days is mum, and she lives in Logan City.
Funny coincidence.
—
He thinks about Logan Denny. Maybe Logan Denny was previously Steve Denny, or Justin Denny, and inherited Logan in precisely the same way. Maybe there have been many Logans, hundreds of them joined in a necklace of blood kinship, a chain reaching back in violence through time, back to 1100 or something.
Logan closes his eyes and thinks of the ancestor, the very first knight of that name to put it up as prize.
—
The vehicle that crests the hill is a dark-green Land Rover. Logan nods. English counts as Euro. Doesn’t it? It rolls to a hard stop, the metal coach that will take him to the ball. He opens the door and climbs in the back, gets hit in the head with new-car smell.
‘Mr Krakatoa.’
‘Hey, Vesp.’
‘You know Dick Mountain?’
Hard eyes from the bloke in the passenger seat. They give each other the brief and single nod, the one that says I acknowledge your basic existence but that is fucken it.
—
Insulated by his hood and many layers. Later he’ll feel naked, ushered out of the cave with fists bunched, fast blood coursing. Always feels hyper-seen when working.
Dick Mountain, fucken hell. They must have called him in for the day, it must be something serious. The bloke is a legend, charges appearance fees.
And Vespa, well, he’s no mug either.
—
Logan does not ask where they are going. Doesn’t do that sort of thing. That’s why they rate him. That and the violence. You do not choose your gifts in life / your gifts are chosen for you.
But one day all his gold will be spent. He’ll go down south, have a different name. One that only Emma uses.
Dad, soon, a year or two. When he’s on a few more radars and has ceased to be an asset. When they find a better weapon / when he’s given back his sharp.
14
He drives the city at its quietest hour, speaking softly to Bloke beneath leavening skies. Rain arrives and alights, marches halfway through its pattern before making the realisation. A quiet cough, an apology to hostess and subtle repair to sea.
‘It noticed the forecast,’ says Electro-Magnetic Rawson, rolling on the smell of an oily rag. He seeks a servo that will also sell flowers and eventually they strike marigolds, his confident selection of the two best bunches. His waver at counter, headlong tumble into dietary blue: flavoured milk, sausage roll, Better throw in that pastie. The Big Ship and his mighty shame, returning to cabin with crumb-confetti on his shirt. The Bloke who observes him is the soul of reproach.
The dog is told to keep his shirt on and they push along to Surry, its bitumen freshened by the coming of rain / the grace of its retreat. Winter feels spring and all the old shit new, Rawson gliding between connector buses with a savant’s appreciation, a carpet grub wonder for the way they bend and move.
He hits hazard lights next to the hospital for choppers. In its shadow stand geese, early-bird commuters, sensible waiters for the little green man. They get nearly wiped out by a streetcleaner truck, a stumblebum vehicle oblivious to lights / a spewer of cryptic mist. Beyond its fog in neon green stands dread name Oceanic.
Rawson gives his passenger the STAY and floats towards the glass, towards a series of deathless specials daubed in crude immortal whitewash. To source the greasy spoon its equal would require international travel, a trafficking of self to Kentish Town or Bethnal Green. I’ll give the lamb’s fry a razz, says the voice of Peter Mitchell—a troubling weight of change received from crisp but modest note.
—
Rolling up Oxford, Bloke slavers like a bastard. His Alaskan eye beams with anticipation, the goods wrapped tight by the driver’s dancing feet. Butcher’s paper. The other eye is Siberian, a marble of dark glass in which is plotted bloody vengeance / the affront of the delay. When the famished Pintara comes to rest inside of Paddo, the detective worsens the vendetta with unnecessary yawns. He sets the tucker on the nature strip and gets a sense of what he’s messed with, the gutsing of the offal with a pride-inspired haste.
Bloke knows about the Sheldon house. Regards its quiet grandeur as appropriate, roughly, to the majesty of his person. At the door he pushes past Michele’s attempt-to-hug, proceeds directly into kitchen. You lads look ravenous, says Susan’s mother.
Bobby Cobra on the threshold says, Do not be taken in. That hungry-gutted beast requires nothing to preserve him. As for myself, well, that coffee smells terrifick. He wipes his feet and remembers the flowers, ducks back and returns having merged both sets.
She fixes his go-juice and he asks about Susan, Bloke luxuriating in the yard as Michele sighs reply. I won’t lie to you, Michael—she’s doing it tough. I suppose we had to expect it. Bonecrusher nods and his face is long. Just a handful of weeks since he and Suzie sat here, raving their way through an inadvertent breakfast. She had said of the future, There is no such thing. Maybe she intended the past.
‘He likes it here.’
‘Yes,’ she answers, gazing at the wolf. He rolls in the grass / he bites the leaves. ‘I’ll take him for a walk.’
Rawson detects a hairline crack in some unnamed deep-down organ. An itch like Special Operations, the moments inside missions when you scratch with things you’ve missed. ‘Only if you feel like it. Jamie ran him hard last night.’
‘Oh, I’m sure. But he’s so full of life. Look at him wriggle, Mr Rambunctious.’
‘Jem appreciates the babysit…God, that’s bonzer coffee.’
‘Won’t you stay and read the paper? I’ve cooked all this bacon.’
‘Stop it.’
‘I’m serious, woman—there’s two and a half in Melbourne just like-ya.’
13
‘We fucked up. Didn’t we.’
‘Quiet.’
Quiet is not Eric’s specialty. He shifts in his seat, a spasm of discomfort that can only be a prelude to chat. ‘We should call it in, get instructions. Maybe get hold of Gary.’
Nuts Finnegan exhales sadly. He’s a southpaw, so the jab he gives the kid is pretty educated. It takes Eric on the side of the chin and the kid’s head strikes the glass.
‘What the fuck was that for!’
‘I’m thinking. So shut it.’
Long night. Nuts got the call at eleven, the little Asian faggot telling him to drop everything, drive south to the coast. In Nuts’s case this meant dropping a ladyfriend, her services paid for but not yet rendered. Vexatious. Nuts did as told / grabbed Eric on the way.
—We picking up Vespa?
—He’s busy.
—What about Gary? This is his go, isn’t it.
Yeah, his go / his operation. But Gary couldn’t be found and the Asian said something about time being important. Of the essence. What a fucken homo.
Tears in Eric’s eyes. More rubbing. ‘Why you even bring me?’
‘Because.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Because an extra pair of hands is always…’
‘Handy?’
‘Don’t test me, boy.’
He has been—ever since Vincentia. Now they sit in the eastern fucken suburbs, in a white fucken Hilux that followed the wrong fucken car. Easy to do / it was a fifty-fifty go. Casing the storage joint, two vehicles rolling, they saw the outline of the dog and went the Pintara.
Mistake. No Sutton / they cop Rawson instead.
It hardly helps that the prick then stops at Nuts’s favourite breakfast joint. Hasn’t eaten for hours, would kill for some lamb’s fry. Then the cunt buys exactly that and gives it to the dog! Right there on the grass like he knew, like Nuts was being mocked at.
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