The Real Thing

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘That’s probably why the little prick thought he’d get away with it,’ said Norton.

  ‘Mm.’ Detective Simmiti began to sound more sceptical than his partner.

  ‘It does seem a bit unlikely Les,’ said Detective Mooney. ‘If you ask me, the bloke that tried to shoot you is probably half way to Brisbane by now.’

  ‘Well you might be right Moon. But I still reckon that’s him up there in number eight,’ said Les.

  Detective Mooney looked at his partner for a moment.‘What do you reckon Len? We go and have a look just in case?’

  Detective Simmiti glanced over at the old block of flats, then back at his partner giving his shoulders a slight shrug. ‘I suppose we could go over and have a quick gander — it’ll only take us five minutes. I still reckon it’s a waste of time though.’

  ‘Righto, we’ll go and have a look,’ said Detective Mooney. ‘I’ll just radio the base.’

  ‘Are you gonna get some back-ups?’ asked Norton.

  ‘What? For one skinny junkie?’ winked Detective Mooney. ‘We can’t anyway. Some other team’s just held up the State Bank at Clovelly and a teller got shot in the hand. Every available car’s over there. We were just going over ourselves when we saw you — and, of course, you get top priority Les.’ Detective Mooney radioed in, then they all got out of the car and slowly crossed the street to the block of flats.

  ‘You want to take the front or the back?’ Detective Mooney asked his partner.

  ‘I don’t care,’ replied Detective Simmiti. ‘But I may as well go round the back just in case it is him and he tries to make a bolt for it.’

  ‘Righto. Let’s get it over with then.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ asked Norton.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Detective Simmiti. ‘Just stay down the front. I know you’re willing and all that Les but this is our department, okay?’

  ‘Fair enough,’ shrugged Norton.

  While Norton stood in the dusty gloom of the foyer, Detective Mooney began to climb the stairs, his footsteps scarcely making a sound on the frayed carpet. Detective Simmiti went round the back to cover the fire-escape.

  Jesus, I just hope nothing goes wrong, thought Norton, as he nervously moved in from the foyer a little closer to the stairs. He gazed up through the bannisters towards the sound of Detective Mooney’s footsteps creaking softly across the landing above his head. There’s something about this I just don’t like. He stood grim-faced, apprehensively opening and closing his hands. The hairs on his neck bristled slightly as he heard Fred’s staccato knock on the door. There appeared to be no answer. About ten or fifteen seconds later Detective Mooney knocked again — a little louder this time.

  ‘Open the door! Police here.’

  There was still no answer, and, in the electrifying silence, Norton swore he could hear the steady beating of his heart and the ticking of his wristwatch.

  Norton was about to call out to Detective Mooney when suddenly, like a thunderclap, the gloomy silence was shattered by two muffled explosions followed by a horrifying scream and the sound of someone falling.

  ‘Shit!’

  Norton grabbed the bottom bannister and flung himself up the stairs, his adrenalin racing. The sound of the two shots, apparently coming from inside the flat, still seemed to echo throughout the old building.

  When he reached the top of the stairs Norton propped. Detective Mooney was slumped against the wall, coughing and gagging hideously, clawing at his chest in shocked disbelief. Unexpectedly the door of number eight opened and, like he was watching a slow-motion movie again, Norton saw the kid in the khaki army jacket step out holding a still-smoking revolver in his hand — the same huge gun that had almost claimed Norton’s life earlier. The junkie raised the gun slowly. Norton could distinctly see him smile sardonically and hear the click, as the junkie thumbed back the hammer. Holding the gun with both hands, he placed the muzzle about five centimetres away from Detective Mooney’s forehead.

  ‘Oh Jesus don’t kid,’ pleaded Detective Mooney. But he could hardly get the words out. He coughed with agony and jammed his eyes shut ready for the bullet that was going to blast him into eternity and his brains all over the place.

  Just then Norton roared out at the top of his voice. ‘HEY!’ Wild-eyed the junkie spun round. Norton picked up the flower pot on the landing near his feet and flung it at the smack-freak’s head. He instinctively ducked and it smashed into the wall behind him in a shower of stringy brown leaves and clammy soil. He let out a curse and fired a quick shot off in Norton’s direction which hummed past Norton’s face and slammed into the wall sending plaster and mortar everywhere and ricochetting down the stairs with an angry whine.

  Norton flung himself on the stairs as another deafening explosion sent part of the staircase above him erupting around his head in a blur of ripped-up carpet and great splinters of wood. Christ almighty, he thought, what’s this kid got up there? The Hyde Park bloody cannon? Then there was silence, quickly followed by a flurry of footsteps as the junkie ran back inside the flat and slammed the door behind him. Norton waited a few seconds then picked himself up and in a half crouch moved cautiously across the landing towards Detective Mooney still lying crumpled up with pain against the wall. Above him, the sweet, blue gunpowder smoke swirled around the corridor, caught in the dim light from a small, dirt-caked window over their heads.

  ‘Moon? You okay?’whispered Norton.

  ‘Oh . . . Jesus Les. I don’t know,’ was Fred’s painful, strangled reply. Detective Mooney’s face was ashen. He feebly clutched at his chest, the blood bubbling up through his fingers. Although the first shot had missed him, the second had torn through his chest, shattering his shoulder blade and ricochetting off the wall into the back of his thigh.

  Norton looked down with both sorrow and anger at his old football mate, and placed Fred’s hands a little more firmly on the hole in his chest. ‘Hang on Moon,’ he said, as softly as he could. ‘You’re gonna be all right mate.’ Then blinding rage overtook Norton.

  He stood up and, with one tremendous kick, smashed the door in determined to get his hands on the callous, gun-crazy animal inside. As the door burst off its hinges he heard a voice call out, then one loud explosion followed by two smaller ones and a short, gasping scream.

  Detective Simmiti was standing in the courtyard at the rear of the flats trying to figure out which fire-escape was connected to which flat. He wasn’t taking it all too seriously, still convinced Norton was imagining things, even having a slight chuckle to himself as the thought of Mr Malouf’s description of the youth crossed his mind. Nevertheless, he gave his service revolver, sitting snugly in its holster at his waist, a quick check.

  He was glancing up at the fire-escapes rusty iron steps littered with garbage tins and flower boxes when the sound of two gunshots sent every nerve in his body jangling. ‘Jesus Christ!’ he said out aloud, whipping the .38 out of its holster and thumbing off the ‘safety’. He had run towards the stairs leading up to where he thought number eight was, and started to climb them when he heard the sound of a door crash open and a garbage tin going over. He stepped back for a better view and saw the youth in the khaki jacket standing on the landing about ten metres above him. In his hand was the unmistakable shape of a gun.

  Detective Simmiti dropped to a half crouch and centred his own weapon on the youth’s chest. ‘Police here!’ he shouted. ‘Drop your weapon!’

  The crazed junkie glared down defiantly then fired a shot which hummed over Detective Simmiti’s head and smashed into the concrete yard behind him. The junkie was about to pull the trigger again when the detective fired two quick shots. The first bullet tore through the side of the junkie’s neck, the second slammed into the middle of his chest, angled off bone and tore into his heart. He had time to let out a strangled scream, then crashed down among the pot plants and garbage tins. He was dead before he hit the landing.

  Norton burst through the doorway and stood momentarily in the gloom
of the dingy flat. The light steered him towards the open kitchen door. He got to the landing just in time to see the junkie’s nerves give a last twitch. One look at the dark red, almost black, blood bubbling out from deep inside him told Les it was all over. Below him he could see Detective Simmiti with the smoking revolver still aimed up in his direction. ‘Don’t shoot Len, it’s me—Les.’

  Detective Simmiti lowered his gun and came running up the stairs. He took one, quick, pitiless look at the dead junkie then back at Les.

  ‘Fred’s been shot,’ said Norton. ‘He’s out in the hallway.’

  Detective Simmiti let out an oath, gritted his teeth and followed Norton through the dimly lit flat to where Detective Mooney was propped up against the wall. His eyes were clenched tightly and the grimaces of pain spread across his face every time he tried to breathe. Strangely enough, despite all the noise and the gunshots no one had come out of any of the other flats to investigate.

  At the sound of footsteps Detective Mooney looked up. ‘Sorry . . . Len,’ he said apologetically, almost in a whisper. ‘I should have been . . . more careful.’

  ‘Don’t try to talk Fred,’ replied Detective Simmiti, kneeling by his side and placing his hand softly on his good shoulder. ‘You’re going to be all right mate. I promise you.’

  ‘It’s not his fault,’ said Norton. ‘He never had a chance. The rotten little cunt fired straight through the door.’

  Norton gave Detective Simmiti a brief rundown on what had happened, at the same time removing Detective Mooney’s hand from the hole in his chest and replacing it with his own. Fred winced as Norton was forced to increase the pressure to stem the flow of blood.

  ‘Len, you’d better get the paramedics as quick as you can. I’ll keep an eye on Fred.’

  ‘Good on you Les.’ Detective Simmiti rose to his feet and stared down grimly at Detective Mooney. ‘You’re going to be all right Fred,’ he repeated. ‘I promise you.’ Then he turned and sped off down the stairs.

  Norton looked at Detective Mooney and noticed the flickering in his eyes. Christ, he thought to himself, he’s starting to go into a coma I’ve got to try and keep him awake.

  ‘Come on Moon,’ he said gruffly, raising his voice. ‘Don’t start going to sleep on me. I’m holding you together, the least you can do is talk to me, you ignorant prick.’

  ‘Oh Jesus Les,’ replied Detective Mooney feebly. ‘I don’t . . . feel real . . . good.’

  ‘Yeah? Well if you don’t feel real good, there’s a bloke out on the landing ain’t feeling anything at all. Not now anyway.’ Norton told Detective Mooney what had happened to the gunman, which made Fred feel a tiny bit better.

  ‘Anyway I don’t know what you’re whingeing about Moon. There’s hardly anything wrong with you. The kid only had a little .22 pistol.’ He didn’t tell Detective Mooney there was an ex-army .44 revolver lying next to the junkie’s body out on the landing.

  ‘A .22? Shit. I . . . feel like I’ve been . . . hit with an anti-tank rocket.’ Detective Mooney gave a couple of coughs and small rivulet of blood appeared in one corner of his mouth. ‘I . . . think I’ve been . . . hit in the leg . . . too Les.’

  ‘Where? Give us a look.’ Norton ran his hand up the blood-sodden left leg of Detective Mooney’s trousers till he found the hole. Blood was still seeping through and he could feel the torn flesh underneath. ‘Well I’ll be buggered, you have, too,’ he said forcing a laugh. ‘I felt the warmth and I thought you’d just pissed yourself. Anyway, give us your hand Moon you can hold this one yourself. I can’t do every bloody thing.’ Norton took Fred’s hand and placed it over the leg wound, then bent Fred’s knee up against his chest and, with the weight of his own body, pinned Fred’s hand against the wound, effectively stopping most of the bleeding. With his free hand he undid Detective Mooney’s tie and shirt to examine the wound in his chest. It was a dreadful, jagged hole but due to the constant, although painful, pressure from Norton’s hand the bleeding had slowed considerably. He took a clean handkerchief from Fred’s top pocket, folded it and placed it over the wound.

  ‘I owe you one Les,’ said Detective Mooney. ‘A big one. You . . . know . . . that, don’t you?’

  ‘What are you going on about now Moon, you fuckin’ idiot.’

  ‘You . . . saved my life Les. That kid was just about to pull the trigger . . . when you threw that flower pot.’

  ‘Ah I dunno. Maybe. But if I did Moon, do us a favour, will you?’

  ‘Sure. . . Les. What?’

  ‘Just don’t tell anybody. I’ve hardly got any friends around Bondi as it is now.’

  Detective Mooney gave another painful little cough as he tried not to laugh. ‘You’re all . . . tact . . . aren’t you Les?’

  ‘Yeah yeah. What ever you say Moon.’ Norton started to laugh. ‘What were you saying earlier, something about your first day in the D’s nearly being my last day in Bondi? Well have a look at you now you dope. You didn’t even have a chance to get a bribe. Who’s going to pick up all your slings now? Simmo I suppose. That’s if you make it. You know what I might get them to put on your gravestone Moon? Not a bad bloke Detective Fred Mooney, but that bent he coudn’t hang his picture straight on a wall.’

  Norton kept up an incessant line of patter — mostly insults about Fred being a shonky copper and his past performances on the football field — while he waited for the ambulance to arrive. Every now and again he’d lightly slap Fred’s face if he looked like closing his eyes for any length of time. Then suddenly he stopped talking, screwed up his face and turned an ear towards the open door behind him.

  ‘Hey Moon,’ he said curiously. ‘Can you hear what I hear?’

  Detective Mooney blinked for a second or two then looked at Les. ‘Is . . . that a . . . baby?’

  From inside the dead junkie’s flat came the unmistakable, gurgling, happy squeals of a baby at play.

  ‘Hold on to this for a sec Moon, while I just see what’s going on in there.’ Norton took Detective Mooney’s hand and place it on the hanky covering the wound in his chest, then got up and entered the flat.

  It was dark, dingy and heavily curtained inside. Norton found a light switch on the wall and turned it on. When he did the horrifying sight that unfolded before his eyes sent a shiver up his spine and almost made him sick.

  The faint light shining from a fly-specked paper lamp shade hanging from the flaking ceiling revealed a sparsely furnished room with the same sort of threadbare carpet as in the hallway and foyer. A cheap, sliding-glass cabinet covered in empty bottles, magazines and other odds and ends was pushed up against one wall where several faded rock posters compensated for the patches of missing wallpaper. A second-hand stereo and an old black and white TV were against the opposite wall faced by a tattered, cloth lounge, the rips being covered by a dirty, red, cotton batik. It was what was on the lounge that made Norton’s skin crawl.

  A young woman, no more than twenty, her lank, dark hair pinned loosely behind her head with a rubber-band was sprawled along the lounge; a grimy T-shirt covered her torso and her cheap cotton skirt had risen up over her knees to show she was wearing no underwear. One arm was resting across her breasts the other dangled loosely over the edge of the lounge. A length of thin rubber tube was wrapped round her arm just above the elbow, and a thin rivulet of blood ran towards her fingertips which, even in death, seemed to be groping towards the bent spoon and matchbox lying on the floor.

  Just in front of the dead mother, a little baby, its blonde hair as fine as a peach’s, wearing a nappy and a ‘Life-Be-In-It’ singlet was playing and gurgling happily, completely oblivious to the death and degradation around it. It was clapping its tiny hands together. In one hand was the filthy hypodermic syringe, the mother’s blood still stained on the needle. The baby laughed and clapped its little hands together again; the spike missed its chubby, pink fingers by a centimetre.

  Norton’s face paled slightly in horror and apprehension. He let out an oath, reached down and tore the
needle from the baby’s hand, flinging it against the far wall in disgust. The baby, its tiny face a picture of mystified innocence, looked up at Norton and blinked. Norton reached down again and scooped the baby up in his huge arms.

  Norton took another look at the mother sprawled dead on the lounge and looked across at the kitchen where what he imagined was the father lay dead in a pool of blood on the landing. ‘Come on mate,’ he said softly to the baby. ‘Let’s get you out of here.’

  Detective Mooney had his eyes closed and his head resting back against the wall when Norton sat back down beside him.

  ‘Hey Moon, have a look at this,’ he said, replacing Detective Mooney’s hand on the blood-soaked hanky with his own. ‘I’ve brought you a present.’

  The young detective looked at the baby gurgling contentedly away in Norton’s arms and smiled tiredly. ‘Jesus . . . what’ve you got . . . there Les?’

  ‘It’s a baby,’ replied Norton. ‘What’d you think it was, you goose? A bowl of bloody goldfish?’ The smile on his face faded. ‘The poor little bugger’s an orphan now though.’ He told Detective Mooney about the sickening sight he’d uncovered in the flat.

  Detective Mooney closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. ‘Good stuff . . . that . . . heroin. Isn’t it, Les?’

  ‘Yeah. Just great,’ replied the big redheaded Queenslander, spitting contemptuously through the open door of the flat.

  They made quite an unusual sight, Norton with a baby in one arm and blood all over both of them when Detective Simmiti came thundering up the stairs followed by the two paramedics, another detective and two concerned young policewomen.

  The paramedics gave Detective Mooney a quick 100 milligrams of pethidine, applied two pressure bandages, stuck an IV infusion in his arm then eased him on to a stretcher. Norton handed the baby to one of the policewomen making them both go a bit clucky. Their cluckiness soon disappeared when Norton showed them the scene in the lounge-room.

  ‘Les,’ said Detective Simmiti, ‘this is Detective Ray Mattes from Waverley.’ Norton nodded to a tall, grim young cop, dressed pretty casually like himself. ‘Will you give him a statement while I ride up to the hospital with Fred? I’ll see you back at the station in about half an hour.’