by Peter Plenge
It was said that only the young men of the Aboriginal race of Australia went walkabout as a rite of passage, but this wasn’t entirely true; it was not only the domain of the young, the older Aborigines often disappeared into the bush during the summer months, returning to the Northern towns of Queensland during the winter for warmth and ale. They could often be seen lying in the doorways of these towns, completely drunk; a source of considerable embarrassment to the townsfolk, whose opinion of these indigenous people hadn’t changed much in the few hundred years since they, the newcomers, had arrived. And so it was the case with Dennis Tanami, a man of seventy years, and known as a shaman or medicine man to the Aborigines of the North. Every year he would wander the outback during the summer, eating the natural foods that could sustain a human life indefinitely. He would spend days on end in a hypnotic state, conversing with his God, and many sought him out for his mystic preaching and healing powers.
On this particular morning, he found himself sitting on a small ridge watching the derelict drover’s hut where he had camped on many occasions previously. This time, however, there was something different about the ramshackle building. He had arrived the previous night, and as he approached he had felt that the building was different. At fifty meters there was a slight heat emanating from it, although there was no visible sign of life. His instinct told him there was something living in the building. The strange thing was if it was people why had they gone to so much trouble to hide themselves? No white people could get to this isolated spot without a vehicle, and yet there was no sign of life; so he watched and waited.
It wasn’t long before his hunch proved right; the back door opened, and Richard Sykes appeared at the entrance. He looked around intently, was satisfied there was no one within the area, and lit a cigarette. Sykes would not have seen Dennis, even if he had known he was there, but Dennis saw him all right, and from the ridge could pick out his features with the clarity of the shaman.
Dennis knew by instinct that this white fella was a bad man, and wondered what he was doing so far from the town he obviously inhabited He wondered how many more of them were inside, and what they were doing. Dennis watched Sykes throw his butt to the ground and go back inside. He watched a bit longer, but nothing else moved. Well, whatever was happening, it wasn’t his business and these type of men carried guns, so he collected his things, deciding it was none of his business, and wandered back into the bush thinking it was time to head for one of the coastal towns and find some grog.
Chapter 36
Macrossan Street, Port Douglas, Queensland
Charlie Allington was walking along the boardwalk that ran the length of Macrossan Street, deep in thought. It had been several weeks since his daughter and Mike had so suddenly vanished, and the mystery had deepened and darkened since the Private Investigator he had hired had reported back that Mike Tobin had boarded a London flight immediately after they both disappeared. Furthermore, the description of the person he was with fitted that of one of the men Charlie had met on the jetty looking for Mike. One thing was sure, Jane had not gone with him and there was no record or suggestion she had left the country, but that was the sum total of what the PI had found.
Jane was somewhere on the vast Australian continent, alive or dead. Charlie could only hope it was the former, but where to start looking? It would be just as hard if he followed Mike to the UK for answers, where to look for him? The local constabulary really weren’t interested, as far as they were concerned it was a lover’s tiff, simple as that, and if Charlie’s daughter wanted to start afresh she could lose herself forever in Australia.
Charlie was oblivious to his surroundings when he walked right into another person coming in the opposite direction sending him flying into the road adjacent to the boardwalk. Dennis Tanami looked up from the tarmac rather pitifully; it wouldn’t be the first time he had been assaulted by a white man. Charlie was beside himself, what an idiot; he could have sent this Aborigine into the path of a car. “Mate, mate, I’m so sorry,” Charlie said as he bent down to help Dennis to his feet.
Dennis muttered some thing totally unintelligible and brushed himself down. Charlie helped him to his feet and felt even worse when he realised the man was an aborigine.
“Listen mate,” said Charlie “How about a beer, it’s the least I can do.”
Dennis mumbled something, and sat down in one of the chairs outside a bar. Charlie took the gesture as a yes and disappeared inside, kind of hoping the black man might have gone when he returned, much to his shame. Charlie returned with the beers and Dennis nodded, which Charlie took as a sign of approval.
Holding the glass with two hands Dennis downed the pint in one go and looked at Charlie. OK thought Charlie, he’s going to milk this one and I’m paying, what the hell I just might join him. So Charlie knocked his pint back, and took the glasses back for a refill. Dennis almost smiled. Charlie tried making small talk but all he got back was grunts, although he did get Dennis’s name. Halfway through the third pint, Dennis looked at Charlie with his deep black eyes for several seconds, making Charlie feel decidedly uncomfortable, and then he spoke:
“Man, I can see in your soul you’re a troubled man, there’s a big black void where there should be light.”
This didn’t make Charlie feel any easier with Dennis, but what the hell; he was feeling over confident with the alcohol.
“Your right Dennis, so you want to hear my story?” he enquired of the shaman. Dennis nodded and looked at his now empty glass. Charlie did the honours, fetching the fourth beer, and then he began.
Once he started, it was like a great weight was lifting from him. He told Dennis the whole story, from the chance meeting with Mike to the disappearance of his daughter. He was more lucid than the beer should have allowed and when he finished, he looked at the Aborigine not quite sure what, if any, reaction he would get.
“Fetch me a pencil and paper,” the shaman said glancing at his empty glass. Charlie duly obliged on both counts and the shaman began to draw. It is said that when people see a ghost the hairs on the back of their neck stand on end, and as the shaman drew so did Charlie’s. The alcoholic haze vanished as Charlie watched the face of Richard Sykes, the thug from London, materialise on the paper in front of him. When Charlie found his tongue and was able to talk, he stupidly but sincerely asked if this was what Dennis had seen in his soul. Dennis laughed.
“No man, not in your soul, in a derelict drover’s hut outback.”
Charlie was gathering his thoughts quickly now.
“Would you take me there?” asked Charlie, his throat as dry as the desert even after all the beer. “Sure man,” said Dennis confidently, pushing his empty glass Charlie’s way.
The next morning, Charlie was to be found in the boatyard, having taken Dennis home with him - not entirely for charitable reasons, he didn’t want him out of his sight. He had spent the night rationalising the situation, and had concluded the coincidence was just too much; for whatever reason the thug from London had Jane captive out there in the bush, so drastic action was needed, and if he was wrong, well sod it.
He and two of his friends, Pete Fulcher and Den Lawrence had convened in Pete’s shed. They had all been mates for a long time, and both Pete and Den were well aware of Charlie’s plight. Charlie had rang both at five am and they were more than happy to meet and help.
“That should do it” Pete said.
“That’ll bring a house down,” Den laughed
“That’s what it’s going to do,” Charlie said very seriously.
The two men had, since Charlie had filled them in, spent the preceding hours making and then welding onto Pete’s already considerably robust land cruiser, the biggest kangaroo bar they could fit on the front. Dennis sat in the corner watching the goings on, whilst the two men threw him regular suspicious glances. He might be the saviour of Charlie’s daughter, but he was still an Aborigine and not to be trusted.
At last they were ready to roll out of town, headi
ng for the drover’s hut. Charlie had estimated as best he could from Dennis that it was probably four hundred klicks North West. The last item to be loaded was a jerry can, full of high octane fuel which Pete used for his speedboat; Dennis looked on, slightly worried, suspecting it would not be full on the homeward journey.
Charlie had a plan of action- as far as he was concerned, Jane was a captive in the hut and if she wasn’t it didn’t matter one hoot what happened to the hood from London, he had it coming either way. Charlie had therefore decided to storm the building, hardly with the finesse of the SAS but nevertheless just as effectively. He had got Dennis to draw a layout of the building and ascertained there were two sleeping rooms, a living room, and a kitchen which led to the rear door where Dennis had spotted Sykes.
Charlie’s plan was to drive the land cruiser right through the back door in the middle of the night. They didn’t know how many people were in the building, but were confident they could overcome a small army, what with the shock the occupants would get. Pete and Charlie had a baseball bat each, and Den was holding a Browning Hi-Power semi-automatic pistol. Pete made a mental note to ask him what the hell he was doing with it, after the forthcoming adventure.
The four men left Port Douglas, headed South to Cairns, then due West through the forty mile scrub until the road ran out, and then into the vast red desert they called the bush. Dennis navigated by a succession of hand movements and grunts, and no one else spoke. Eventually, after some five hours driving, Dennis signalled to pull over. Charlie looked quizzically at Dennis. “White man’s hut over that ridge,” said Dennis. He pointed to the small ridge he had camped on the night he saw Sykes.
“So why stop here?” Pete Fulcher asked gruffly, “We’re probably two miles away.”
“Wind in East, blow dust from car towards hut, they see us,” the shaman said. Pete shut up.
The three men decided to park up and walk to the ridge. Dennis had done enough walking recently and curled up on the rear seat. There was just about enough cover on the walk to the ridge, in the unlikely event anyone came along.
“Unbelievable,” hissed Charlie as they lay flat on the ridge looking at the ram shackle hut below.
“Not a sign of life,” Den commented, “Do you reckon they’re still in there?”
“They’ve got to be,” Charlie said, with as much conviction as he could muster.
“Only one way to find out,” was Pete’s reply.
For a few more moments, the men lay there watching and hoping for a sign of life. There was none, which was disappointing. They worked out the angle of trajectory that Pete would drive the van into the back of the place. It was a bit chancy, as the building was so old they feared they might bring the whole structure down, burying Charlie’s daughter in the process. However, this was a calculated risk as there had to be a large element of surprise to obtain the advantage over an unknown quarry. With that they returned to the land cruiser and waited for nightfall.
“Time to go” said Charlie. It was three am on an inky black night. Pete and Den had dozed lightly. Dennis had snored so loudly it was more likely to have warned the occupants of the cabin of their presence rather than any dust cloud, Charlie was bright eyed.
“Everyone ready” he asked. Just nods returned his question. “Right then, Dennis, wait here, back in a bit.”
Dennis didn’t need telling twice, this land, was his home, and whatever the outcome he could disappear as easily as he had materialised. Pete fired up the motor and cautiously drove the wagon around the ridge until they could just make out the silhouette of the hut. He pulled up and Charlie and Den quietly got out and made their way to either side of the building. They had agreed that if the roof came down on the cruiser there was a possibility they could all be trapped in the motor, and would be sitting ducks, so Charlie would take the left hand side and Den the right, a standard pincer movement in a game of paintball, and hopefully Pete would come in through the middle.
Charlie and Den were in position, and Pete gunned the throttle. By the time he hit the door there were two hundred horses screaming under the bonnet, the noise as he made contact was deafening- it sounded like a plane had hit the place. Wood and rubble flew every where, and Charlie realised they should have all worn goggles and face masks- this really was gung ho.
Charlie and Den were in the building simultaneously, and Pete was clear of the Toyota and right with them. The first person they came across was Dave Penny’s brother Jason, who was on the sofa in the sitting room dozing. Whether he was an innocent traveller or a vicious kidnapper made no difference to Charlie Allington; he hit him with such force from the baseball bat that his left eye popped its socket and his nose split clean in two. Pete was already in the right hand side bedroom, and Richard Sykes, who had had a few seconds longer to realise what was happening, was wiping the dust from his eyes whilst cocking the twelve bore he kept by his side in readiness for such an occasion, all to no avail. The baseball bat found the side of his head, breaking the jaw bone and leaving the right ear hanging by a thread. Den was into the second bedroom a second after that, pistol armed and ready; he saw a young woman hunched up in the corner and she looked terrified.
“You Jane?” he asked, like he was a seasoned professional. Jane nodded.
Den asked a remarkably sensible question next: “How many people are here?”
“Two men and me,” said Jane almost in a whisper, and then, rather stupidly, Den said, “Wait here.” He ran out, saw Charlie, and realised that both the men Jane had said were in the hut had been dealt with.
“Charlie, she’s through there,” he shouted and pointed. Charlie was into the room in an instant and saw the daughter he lived for curled up in the corner looking like she was twelve years old again and had just had the worst nightmare ever. She got up, crossed the floor, and flung her arms around Charlie, where she stayed for what seemed several minutes. Eventually, she released her vice-like grip and the tears flowed,
There was a hint of light in the East heralding the beginning of the best day of Charlie Allington’s life, but it wasn’t quite over yet. Charlie didn’t want his daughter to see the mess they had made of the two kidnappers, and tried to usher her quickly through the remains of the living room. However, Jane was regaining her composure and stopped to look at Jason Penny, whose detached eye had been forced back into its socket, although it would never work again, and with great purpose spat in his face. Then she and her father walked out to the cruiser where Dennis, who had watched the events, was sitting in the rear seat.
“If it wasn’t for this guy, we would never have found you,” Charlie said, pointing at Dennis. Jane put her arms around Dennis and kissed him on the cheek.
“Thank you,” was all she could say. Dennis almost looked embarrassed.
“Stay here with Dennis,” Charlie told Jane, “I’ll go back and talk with the others. We have to decide what we do with do those two bastards and we never spoke about how we would deal with them if we got you out, it all happened so quickly.”
“Make it hard, Dad,” was Jane’s surprising reply. Charlie went to the rear of the motor and collected the can of fuel before making his way back to the shack; Dennis looked worried at this turn of events. Charlie walked into the remains of the building, and as both men saw the can of fuel he was carrying, they suddenly became very scared.
“Where’s the motor you came in?” Charlie barked.
“In the far outbuilding,” Sykes stammered.
Pete and Den wondered what was coming next. They hadn’t bargained to be part of a murder- they thought Charlie was going to douse them both, before setting them on fire. However, Charlie marched out of the hut taking the can with him, and found the old Toyota the men had purchased back in Cairns. He poured most of the fuel inside, and the remainder over the roof and bonnet, struck a match and threw it into the car. The high octane fuel didn’t need a second chance to do what it was made for, and several seconds later the car was a fireball. Charlie made his way b
ack into the hut.
“Well, Den, Pete, what do you reckon we do with these two Poms?” he asked.
“Take them back with us and hand them over to the Federal Police” was Pete’s suggestion.
“Leave them here to rot” was Den’s.
Charlie thought for a moment, and then delivered his verdict.
“Right, we take them away from here, dump them in the bush and let them take their chances. If, and it’s a great big if, they make it out of here, what can they say they’ve been doing out here, and if they die out here and they’re found before their bodies are eaten, the authorities will assume there just a couple of idiot Poms got themselves lost and got what they deserved. How can they say any different?”
Den looked at Pete, both men nodded.
Pete said, “Agreed, Charlie; Den and me will take them into the bush right now. You, Dennis and Jane wait here, an hour’s drive will be enough to confuse them, so they lose all bearings, then we kick them out and they’re on their own.”
Den and Pete roughly bundled the men into the cruiser and disappeared into the dawn. When they were out of sight, Jane spoke.
“Dad, have you got a cell phone?”
“Sure honey,” replied Charlie “Why?”
“I need to call Mike,” came the reply.
A few hours later Den and Pete returned having deposited their cargo in the middle of nowhere but kindly having left them a gallon of engine oil for when their thirst became unbearable.
Chapter 37
The exercise yard, Parkhurst Prison
Mike Tobin was in a state of shock. He had to think mighty fast- his girl was free, so there was no need to follow this through now. Jesus, he realised, he had already got half a million pounds, which they couldn’t get back. But how could he get out of here without the others? The gates were shut behind him, and then there was Jock Wallace; he’d got himself into this mess but Mike couldn’t abandon him, that was not Mike, and that was not the code of the SAS.