The Ottoman Motel

by Christopher Currie

  ‘Man,’ said Pony. ‘You were right about all the paperwork.’ He peered at a blue folder on the floor. ‘Expense reports,’ he said. ‘Cool.’

  Simon couldn’t see anything cool about expense reports, but he had to admit that all the information potentially held in the room was exciting. Surely something here would tell them about his parents, or about the drugs, or about…

  Pony let out a low whistle. He was examining the large bookcase on the opposite wall, the shelves crammed with an odd mix of normal books and coloured ring-binders, the sort Simon had used once for school. Pony ran his fingers along the rows, tilting his head to read each binder. ‘This is crazy.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘It’s…this isn’t the police station. That’s Tommy Parker’s house. But there’s all these reports here.’

  Simon came over and peered at the ring-binders. Some had small, cramped writing on their spines, the others were labelled in a larger, looped hand. Most of the titles were boring, but they all had one thing in common: a date written at the bottom. ‘How do we even know where to start?’

  Pony rubbed his cheek. ‘I dunno.’ He took a binder off the shelf and started flipping through it.

  Simon felt a flutter of panic. ‘What about fingerprints?’

  Pony held up his hand. On the top pad of each finger was a small round band-aid. ‘You think I haven’t done this before? You’ve got so much to learn, Simon Sawyer.’

  Simon shook his head. Pony was the strangest person he’d ever met.

  They spent a few more minutes looking through the bookshelves, not finding anything of interest, until Simon spied something on the very bottom shelf. A folder bound in red leather, standing out from the vinyl covers around it. ‘What’s that?’

  Pony pulled it out with his band-aid fingers. He flipped it open, scanned it. ‘Holy shit!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Holy shit!’ Pony smacked his palm against his forehead.

  ‘What?’ Simon could only make out a plain page of writing. ‘Show me.’

  Pony slowly turned his head. ‘You’re going to want to sit down.’

  They went over to the couch and sat side by side.

  ‘This,’ said Pony dramatically, handing over the leather folder. ‘This is Madaline’s resignation letter.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She quit the police force. Two years ago. Look!’ He pointed at the page. It was a letter, with official police letterhead. It was dated two years before. ‘And look why.’

  Simon scanned the words. Owing to my unprofessional mismanagement in the disappearance of Stephanie Gale, it is with great regret…Simon looked up. ‘It’s because of Audrey and Gin’s mum.’ The thought settled on him.

  Pony tipped his head back. ‘This is wild.’ He was grinning. ‘This is absolutely wild.’ Simon’s head spun. If she wasn’t even still a police officer, then why was she pretending to be? Why hadn’t she been replaced? Why was she in charge of the search for his parents? Who else even knew about it? ‘She’s not going to find my parents, is she?’

  ‘I knew it,’ said Pony. ‘I mean, I knew it, but this is wild. We’ve found this out, you and me. No one else has figured this out.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘We’ve got to find out what happened,’ he said. ‘We’ve got to work out why she quit.’

  Simon stared at the abandoned sandwich on the arm of the chair. He felt the taste of sour mustard and curdled cheese. He felt his stomach giving way. He smelled mothballs and old ink, dust and hand cream. This was the feeling of all hope disintegrating. He lowered his head between his knees, willing away the dark thoughts that were piling up like wet fish flapping on a trawler’s deck. He grabbed his ankles tightly, fighting the heat-fermented bubble of vomit rising at his throat. Just before he was sick, in one clear-eyed moment, he saw the other binder, bigger than the others, hiding under the couch, held together with rubber bands. And the name, printed sideways on its spine. Case File: Stephanie Rhelma Gale.

  Madaline could already feel blisters beginning on her ankles. Her canvas shoes, still wet from yesterday’s rain, rubbed viciously against her skin and she ached to take them off. The last thing she needed was a bloody public disturbance, and usually she would have pleaded with Nat to deal with it himself, but the panic in his voice had convinced her. She’d already bothered Tommy once on his sacred night off: she was on her own. She wiggled her foot deeper into her shoe, pressing down the accelerator, making the pain sharpen her senses. She brushed back her hair as she reversed down the driveway. Her police belt sat on the passenger seat. It looked like a child’s toy. She had put her gun in its holster on the floor below it.

  Another day spent frozen by indecision, trapped by inaction. The sun already so low in the sky, and no more progress on the missing visitors. Going to Gin’s party had been a mistake in so many ways. That ridiculous dress, trying to impress a man she had no right to even talk to. This town was full of traps she’d set for herself. It felt sometimes like she spent most of her time not quite awake, in an uncertain mid-conscious state, isolated and confused in equal measure.

  She was past the pub before she knew it, the broad grey façade of the Ottoman flashing by her window. She slowed the car and U-turned in the middle of the street. Pulled into a parallel space, gathered her belt and stepped from the car. She wished dearly she’d taken the time to change into her uniform. She felt like a cranky mother, roused from the warmth of her home to sort out errant children. Usually it was nothing more serious than that: a taxi service, pretty much, for some local with a skinful in him.

  This time, though, there was no local slumped down on the kerb outside the pub; Madaline heard breaking glass even before she stepped through the door. The place was a mess, upturned tables and glass everywhere. Leaning unsteadily on a wall in the corner was Jack Tarden, using one hand to stanch a clot of blood at his shoulder. Madaline recognised Nat’s broad back bent over a blonde girl who was on the floor, sobbing. Megan, she realised. What the hell had happened?

  A flash of movement at her side and Madaline instinctively sprang out of the way just as a dark shard of glass came at her. She wheeled around, catching her attacker with a swift pointed elbow. Kuiper. He stumbled back and the first thing she noticed was his nose, ringed with red like a child had drawn it. She thought for a moment she’d done it, then realised she had caught him in the chest; the blood on his face was too dark, already dry from an earlier attack. He lunged for her again, but she had whipped out her baton. She raised it quickly to deflect the glass then swung it around before he could react, catching him straight in the armpit, just above his ribs. He fell to the floor with an animal grunt.

  She already had her knee in the small of his back, snapping the handcuffs from her belt and around his wrists in one fluid movement. She ratcheted the cuffs to bite hard. ‘Nat,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Is everyone okay?’

  ‘We’re fine,’ he called back. ‘We’re fine now.’

  Kuiper groaned. ‘Get the fuck off me.’

  Madaline ignored him. ‘Is anybody hurt?’ She scanned the room, noticing only a few old regulars standing by the pool table, unconcerned. Tarden remained motionless against the wall.

  Nat was helping Megan to her feet. ‘We’re all alive,’ he said, ‘that’s the main thing. This one though,’ he nodded his head at Tarden, who stared sheepishly at the floor. ‘This one started it all.’

  ‘Jack?’ said Madaline. ‘You started this?’

  Tarden shrugged.

  ‘What the hell happened?’

  ‘He just came up and punched me,’ wheezed Kuiper.

  ‘Can’t think why.’ Madaline pressed harder with her knee. Kuiper cried out. Fresh blood from his nose soaked into the

  carpet.

  Suddenly, Megan made a break from Nat. He grabbed her quickly.

  Madaline shook her head. ‘What’s going on, Megan?’

  She struggled in Nat’s grip. ‘Lemme go, you cunts!’ she yelled.

  High
as a kite, thought Madaline. ‘Nat, what’s her story?’

  ‘No idea,’ he said. ‘Supposed to be off work tonight. Not that she’ll be coming back to work after this.’ His face was filled with frustration. Madaline knew how hard he worked to keep the place in business, how hard it was to get staff.

  ‘Oh God,’ Megan’s shoulders slumped, and Madaline thought she could almost see the spirit pass out of her. She’d seen it often enough: the moment of realisation. When bravado, adrenaline, whatever it is that’s keeping you from crashing, runs out. When it all comes true.

  ‘What happened, Megan?’ Madaline said. ‘No one’s in trouble. I just want to hear it from you.’

  She shook her head, over and over, tears flowing. ‘So stupid,’ she said, ‘so bloody stupid.’ Nat released his grip, let her wipe her eyes. ‘I let him…he promised me more.’

  ‘Who’s he?’ said Madaline. ‘What did he promise you?’

  ‘Product,’ she choked. Her eyes leaking black claws of mascara.

  ‘What product? Who?’

  ‘Yabbies.’ Tarden spoke up. ‘Crabs. Her boyfriend drives a freeze-truck. Wanted to take hauls back up the coast. Sell them straight to retailers.’

  ‘What?’ Madaline’s mind spun for a moment. ‘Jack, that’s—’ she turned to Megan, ‘is this right?’

  Megan sobbed in a breath and shrugged.

  ‘Nat?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘She goes around with this guy, Cody. Works for a trucking company. Look, I don’t want to get into this. Just want someone to clean up this mess and let me get on with things.’

  ‘It’s true,’ said Megan. Madaline could see her features firm up, see her start to think of damage control.

  ‘Amazing,’ said Kuiper, ‘what lengths people go to for fresh seafood.’

  Even though Madaline couldn’t see his face, she knew it was plastered with a mangled version of his usual irritating grin. It was all bullshit, of course. They were on speed probably, or meth, but unless they were carrying or one of them said something there wasn’t much she could do.

  She moved her knee further up Kuiper’s back and went through his pockets, patting him down. Nothing. ‘Get your kicks, Constable? Not much action for a single lady in a small town.’ She let him stand up, but tightened the cuffs another notch.

  She went over to Tarden, searched him too, came up with nothing. ‘Why’d you start the fight then, Jack?’ she said.

  ‘Just a disagreement,’ he said. ‘A misunderstanding. I’ll—we’ll pay for the damage.’

  A tired, bitter part of Madaline wanted to make a snide remark about lovers’ tiffs, but she held her tongue. She pieced together a night of frustrations and jealousy.

  There were fresh boot-steps at the door. Madaline swung her head around, ready to dissuade whoever it was from entering, then saw it was Ned, strands of hair frazzling from his head, skinny arms sticking out from an old Midnight Oil T-shirt. ‘Jesus,’ he said, taking in the scene. ‘Is everyone okay?’

  ‘Ned,’ she said. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Nat called me. Fight?’ His eyes scanned the room nervously.

  More steps at the door. Tommy huffing into the pub wearing stubbies and a huge short-sleeved shirt. ‘What the hell?’ He drew his hand over his face. ‘Nat,’ he said. ‘You shoulda told me it was a full-on brawl. Woulda dressed up.’ He grinned at Kuiper in cuffs. ‘You been a naughty boy, Roberto?’

  Kuiper piped up. ‘We had a misunderstanding,’ he said. ‘Jack hit me, as friends sometimes do. And the good constable decided to handcuff me.’

  ‘That may have more to do with you trying to attack me,’ said Madaline. She shot Tommy a dirty glare.

  Kuiper said, meekly, ‘Yeah, well.’

  ‘What are we doing, Nat?’ she said. ‘You want any of these idiots charged?’

  ‘Not worth it,’ he said. ‘If they want to reimburse me for the damage and lost custom we’ll call it quits.’

  Madaline felt a deep exhaustion overtake her. She knew—as Kuiper did—that she couldn’t really arrest him if Nat wasn’t pressing charges.

  ‘And you?’ Madaline turned to Megan. ‘Any complaints?’

  The girl shook her head, the gravity of the situation slipping over her face like a mask.

  ‘Perhaps you’d better get back home then.’

  ‘You need to stay somewhere tonight, Megan?’ Ned’s voice

  was calm. He flung on the kick-out lights and the pub filled with harsh yellow.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Megan.

  ‘She can stay here,’ said Nat. ‘Stuff’s here anyway. We can talk everything out tomorrow.’

  Kuiper chuckled. ‘No harm done, really.’

  ‘As for you,’ Madaline said, walking back to Kuiper, turning him roughly around to get to the handcuffs, ‘I can assume you won’t be taking action against Jack for assault, can I? Much in the same way I’m taking no action against you?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Kuiper nodded.

  ‘And I don’t have to tell you what will happen if I catch you doing anything—anything—remotely illegal again, do I.’ Madaline pinched the cuffs in tighter before she released them.

  ‘Fuck you,’ Kuiper yelped. ‘Tight-arsed fucking frustrated bitch!’

  ‘Right.’ Madaline’s eyes narrowed. ‘Tommy, would you mind escorting Mr Kuiper to the lock-up for the rest of the evening?’

  Tommy clucked his tongue. ‘My night off I believe,’ he said. ‘And you seem to have this all wrapped up.’

  Madaline blew out a long breath. ‘Or maybe you’d prefer to stay and help clean up.’

  Tommy shot her a venomous look, but it quickly dissolved. ‘This fucking town,’ he said. ‘Few more years and I’m on pension. You jokers can fight amongst yourselves while I’m out fishing. Finally get a decent night’s sleep.’ Tommy put his hand on Kuiper’s shoulder. ‘Let’s go.’ He gestured to the door like a game-show host.

  ‘And Jack,’ the thought occurred to Madaline, ‘be home tomorrow. I want to interview you both. Properly.’

  Tarden followed Tommy and Kuiper out the door, and Madaline felt a shiver run through her entire body. Like the weight of everything had finally landed.

  Simon hardly felt like he pedalled any of the way back to the hotel. It felt like flying, as he coasted through the darkness, following Pony, tracing his well-worn paths. He could tell Pony was as troubled as he was. Pleased at first, of course, as anyone whose suspicions had been validated would be, but on a deeper level, Simon could see he was worried. The town’s deception was as much a betrayal to him as anyone: Reception was the place that had welcomed him in, that had sheltered him from his past. The drugs were just the tip of the iceberg, it seemed: there were deeper problems: disappearances, cover-ups, even murder.

  Back at Madaline’s house, they had scoured the file on Stephanie’s disappearance, and learned that the case had been plagued by mistakes. Page after page—emails and letters printed, reports logged: a trail of correspondence between Madaline, Tommy, and their superiors. The further they’d read, the less detailed the reports became. Statements they hadn’t taken, evidence they hadn’t collected. By the time detectives from Sydney had made their way to the town, the trail had gone cold, although they had gone through the motions.

  They’d learned, too, that Ned had been a suspect in his wife’s disappearance. For what reason Simon could not imagine, except he was the last person to see her. Even Madaline’s involvement had been brought into question. But when they came down to it, it was nothing more than this: Stephanie Gale got up one morning, presumably went swimming as she did most mornings, and simply did not come back. There were no witnesses—at least none who came forward—no reason, it seemed, for her to disappear from the face of the earth. This was what had begun to nag at Simon’s mind: that something so inexplicable could happen. He wondered if any other police officer could have uncovered the truth. What if his parents had suffered the same fate? A disappearance, for no reason at all. And what about Pony,
whose parents had suffered the most definite of endings?

  Simon and Pony skated their bikes up the path towards Ned’s house. They cycled over the grass and left the bikes at the back door.

  ‘Do you want anything to eat?’ said Pony.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Simon. ‘Sure.’

  Pony led him through the door and into the kitchen, flicking on the lights. The dishes were half done. A tall stack of glasses sat on the kitchen table.

  ‘Thought there’d be dinner up,’ said Pony. He huffed as he opened the fridge. Simon caught a glimpse of plentiful party leftovers, but Pony slammed the door shut. ‘Where is everybody?’ He put his hand into his pocket, and Simon knew he was searching for a stone. ‘Gone to bed, probably.’

  Simon wasn’t convinced of this, and he could see Pony wasn’t either. A deep unease filled his thoughts.

  ‘Well,’ said Pony, ‘I’m having a hot chocolate. Do you want one?’

  Pony filled the kettle and put it on the stove. The gas hissed and the water boiled, but silence settled over the two of them like a flung sheet coming to rest.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ said Simon eventually. He held out his hands flat against the table, palms turned upwards.

  Pony took off his hat and pushed his hands through his hair. ‘We have to tell someone,’ he said. The kettle simmered, rolling upwards towards a boil. He turned away to pour milk into a small saucepan.

  ‘And we still don’t know,’ said Simon, ‘how much Madaline knows about the drugs.’

  ‘She must know about Tarden and Kuiper though,’ said Pony. ‘The files were right there in her house.’

  Simon nodded. In Stephanie’s folder, among all its various documents, they’d found files on Jack Tarden and Robert Kuiper: Kuiper gaoled on fraud charges; Tarden’s story more sinister. Gambling, debt, favours owed to a succession of dangerous criminals. Ending up as an accessory to a botched gangland hit, the wife and daughter of the target killed while the target got away. According to his file, Tarden had not been found guilty of the murders themselves, but was given fifteen years anyway. The two men had met in Long Bay.