Black Tide

by Peter Temple

‘Who’s in the house?’ Dave asked.

  ‘Just a woman,’ Gary said. ‘She’s scared. Don’t frighten her. She’s not involved.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Glenda.’

  Dave knocked on the door. ‘Glenda,’ he said loudly. ‘Don’t be afraid. We’re policemen. Nothing to be afraid about.’

  A passage light came on. The door opened. A woman in her forties, fair hair, worn face, pretty face, nightgown clutched at the neck.

  She saw Gary, moved to go to him.

  Dave put up a hand, stopped her. ‘No, Glenda,’ he said. ‘Gary’s fine. Not being hurt. He won’t be hurt. Taking him away for questioning. You’ll be told where he is, given a chance to speak to him. Understand?’

  She didn’t take her eyes off Gary. Said nothing.

  ‘Good,’ Dave said. ‘Now can I ask you to pack Gary’s things? Shoes, socks, underwear, so on.’

  She turned and went inside, still silent.

  ‘Get the vehicle,’ Dave said to me, holding out the keys.

  I went down the track at a brisk pace, back inside five minutes, parked beside the truck, went up the path.

  Dave was leaning against the wall, nylon sportsbag next to him, gunhand casually at his side.

  ‘Time to go, Gary,’ he said.

  Gary got to his feet with difficulty. ‘Shoes,’ he said.

  ‘Later,’ Dave said. ‘Hold the cuffs, Jack.’

  I got a grip on the handcuffs and we walked down the path. Behind us I heard the door open.

  ‘Love you,’ the woman said, voice breaking. ‘Love you always.’

  ‘Love you too,’ said Gary. ‘Always love you.’

  At the vehicle, Gary said, ‘Surrounded. Just the two of you. What a prick, what a prick.’

  ‘I wouldn’t argue with that,’ Dave said. ‘A murderous prick.’

  ‘Didn’t kill Dean. They did, the two men. I shot them.’

  Dave nodded. ‘Talk about it,’ he said. ‘Might swallow that. Depends on how helpful you are.’

  ‘I’ll help.’

  Dave had the back door open. ‘You’d better. What happened to Canetti’s tape?’

  ‘Burned it.’

  ‘What about your father’s money?’ I said. ‘Where’s that?’ I hadn’t thought about the money for days.

  Gary looked at me, quizzical. ‘How do you know about that?’

  I said, ‘I’m his lawyer and I’m here to get his money back.’

  ‘Not even two cops,’ said Gary. ‘One cop and a lawyer. Jesus Christ.’ He thought for a moment. ‘There’s fifty grand or so in the shed. I’ll show you.’

  ‘Got to get that,’ I said to Dave. ‘It’s the reason I got involved in all this shit.’

  Dave looked at his watch. ‘They’ll be here soon.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Two other people. Flying from Canberra. I couldn’t wait for them. Okay, let’s drive down there.’

  To Gary, he said, ‘On the floor. On your face.’ To me, ‘Other kind of cuffs in the glovebox.’

  I found them. ‘Put them on his ankles.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Gary.

  ‘Let’s get these bloody vests off.’

  We took off the windcheaters and the ballistic vests, put the jackets on again.

  ‘Drive, Jack.’

  We drove down to the barns, Dave holding the pistol against Gary’s spine. When we’d stopped, Dave said, ‘Okay, where’s the stuff?’

  ‘Hard to explain,’ Gary said. ‘I’ll have to show you.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ said Dave. ‘Where?’

  ‘Got to move boards. Take me in, I’ll show you where, you can do it.’

  Dave looked at me. ‘We can come back,’ he said, ‘take this place apart at our leisure.’

  I shook my head. ‘No. The woman may know where the money is, nothing here when we come back. I want the money tonight.’

  Dave sighed. ‘Okay.’

  He got out, pulled Gary out of the back seat. I lit the way with the flashlight, went around three steel drums on the concrete driveway, long time since a vehicle went in here, opened a small door in one of a big pair, went in first.

  I shone the flashlight around. It was a huge concrete-floored space, once the storehouse for the battery operation. To my left, three sets of heavy-duty industrial shelves rose to the roof, wide aisles between them. They were still full of supplies, neat stacks of 100-kilo bags of what could be chickenfeed pellets, big cardboard cartons, rows of fifty-litre plastic containers of liquid, some greenish, some water-coloured. Giant rolls of something. One shelf held several dozen cartons of canned dogfood.

  I was right. It was a place that had dogs. Lots of dogs. Once.

  ‘In the office,’ Gary said behind me. ‘Over to the right.’

  In the righthand corner, an office had been created by enclosing the space and giving it a door, a window and a roof, presumably to enable it to be heated.

  We walked across, me in front, Gary shuffling awkwardly barefoot behind me, Dave at the back. At the office, Dave said, ‘Okay, that’s it. Where?’

  ‘Open the door,’ Gary said.

  I opened it, shone the flashlight around: formica-topped metal desk, three plastic chairs, a filing cabinet with a kettle and a toaster on top of it, big old-fashioned bar heater. The walls were panelled in dark-brown imitation wood.

  ‘Push the filing cabinet away,’ Gary said. ‘The panel right behind it comes away. There’s a sportsbag in there.’

  ‘Stand against the window where I can see you, Gary,’ Dave said. ‘Any shit happens, I’m going to shoot you in the groin. Several times. Get the stuff, Jack. Take care. Boobytrap’s not unknown.’

  I went in, put the flashlight on the desk, pointing at the window. The filing cabinet moved easily. Empty. Behind it, I could see that the plastic sealing strip between the panels was loose.

  I got a nail behind it and it came away. I put three fingertips into the gap between panels and pulled the corner one away from the wall, put my hand in.

  A bag, flattened to fit into the space. I pulled it out, with difficulty. A cheap nylon sportsbag, zipped, heavy. On the table, I unzipped it, shone the torch into it.

  Notes in neat bundles held by thick rubberbands. Hundreds and fifties, easily fifty thousand dollars.

  I zipped the bag, came out. ‘Everything’s here,’ I said.

  ‘That’s my man,’ said Dave. ‘Let’s get out of here, wait for them at the gate.’

  But we didn’t have to wait. As I shone the light on it, the small door creaked open and a head came in. A sleek dark head and a pistol.

  ‘Dave? You?’

  ‘Tony,’ Dave said. ‘Come and meet Gary, man who’s going to make it all worthwhile for us.’

  The man came through the door, followed by another man, also in a dark suit, bigger, fleshy face.

  ‘G’day, Dave,’ said the second man. ‘Couldn’t bloody wait, could you?’

  ‘How many people does it take to apprehend one fugitive?’ said Dave, a lightness in his voice. ‘This is Jack Irish, to whom we owe everything.’

  They walked towards us, two businessmen, dark suits, white shirts, one carrying a pistol at his side, the other lighting a cigarette with a plastic lighter.

  When they were a few paces away, Dave said, ‘Well, boys, the end’s in sight.’

  He raised his pistol and shot the man called Tony twice, in the head, in the chest under the collarbone.

  Then he turned and shot Gary, twice, three times, all in the upper chest, swung the weapon in my direction.

  I switched off the flashlight, jumped sideways.

  Pitch dark.

  Dave fired.

  43

  Black. Just the memory of the muzzle flash fading on my retinas.

  In the darkness, I crawled for the huge shelves, crawled carrying a bag and a torch. Not thinking, instinctively trying to get something between me and the gun.

  The guns. The other man would have a gun.

 
He did. The muzzle flash lit the blackness for an instant, the bullet passed well over my head, hit the corrugated-iron wall with a bang.

  I kept going, found the shelf by crawling into an upright head first. Pain, lights in my eyes. I crawled to the right, met no resistance, went left, felt the corner of the shelving with an outstretched hand.

  Got around the corner. Stood up, chest heaving, trying to breathe soundlessly, leaning against the shelf.

  Blackness. Silence.

  ‘Get the doors open, Ray, get the vehicle in here.’

  Dave.

  I put the bag down, found a space for it on the bottom shelf. No use to me dead. Stuck the torch down the front of my shirt. The bulletproof vests. Oh shit.

  Get as far away from the doors as possible. A vehicle was going to come through the doors, light up the whole space.

  Walking carefully, left hand out to feel the shelves, down the space between the shelves and the back wall. How many rows of shelves? Three? Four? Could there be an exit in the back wall? In the short wall?

  Move right to touch the back wall. Walk slowly, feel for a door. Not much time, the other man out the small door by now.

  Noise from the doorway. Bumping, tin being kicked, grunting.

  ‘Fucking bolts won’t come up. Give me a hand here.’ Ray, the fleshy man, wrestling with the big doors. Big doors unwilling to open.

  Moving slowly, feeling the wall.

  Silence.

  Bumped into something, something toppling.

  Glass broke, loud in the silence.

  Two bangs. One bullet low, screaming off the concrete near my feet. One into the wall behind me, flat, tinny smack.

  Silence. More noises. Swearing. Something said. Dave’s voice.

  Outside an engine coming to life with a roar. The small doorway was a light patch in the blackness.

  He was going to ram the recalcitrant doors, push them open.

  Strong smell of something. Paraffin. The glass breaking. I felt ahead in the dark, felt a shelf against the wall. A bottle, big glass bottle, old-fashioned quart bottle. Felt beyond. A row of bottles.

  I took it off the shelf. Screw top. Sniffed. Paraffin.

  ‘Get the drums out of the way.’ The fleshy man’s voice.

  The three steel drums outside the entrance. They had to move them before they could ram the door.

  I took the bottle, went back the way I had come. Faster than I had come. Nothing to bump into, I knew that. Left hand on the wall, back to the corner, to the office.

  I felt for the office wall.

  Turn right. End of office.

  My right foot went into something slippery.

  Tony. His blood. Suddenly a strong smell of blood.

  I knelt, felt, found his head, recoiled. Put my hand back.

  He made a gurgling noise. He was breathing.

  On. Where did he keep it? Jacket pocket, right jacket pocket.

  The suit jacket was open. I felt down his side, wet, down. Pocket, got my hand into it, scrabbling, found it in the outside pocket.

  The plastic lighter.

  I felt around for his pistol. It was in his hand, right hand, when he stuck his head into the doorway. Then he was walking towards us, lighting a cigarette. Where had he put the weapon?

  Bugger this, use the flashlight, they were both outside.

  I groped myself, struggling to get it out.

  Engine revving. Huge bang.

  I stood up and ran, ran into the dark, not caring, managed to run blind to near the shelf against the wall, clutching the bottle, clutching the lighter.

  Felt my way to the shelf. Get the screwtop off. No nonsense about squeezing and turning when they bottled this liquid.

  The left-hand door flew open violently, swung right open, bounced off the inside wall, headlights lighting up the barn.

  Wick? Oh shit, collar, tear it off. No. A neatly folded handkerchief, in my windcheater pocket. I tore a strip off with my teeth.

  I couldn’t get it to go into the neck of the bottle. Big scared fingers couldn’t stuff the cloth in.

  Something, something thin.

  He was reversing, getting ready to smash open the other door.

  In the dim light from the headlights, I saw a nail, a rusty six-inch nail, on the shelf. Grabbed it, clumsy fingers, pushed at the strip of cloth.

  Going in, going in. In. Bit sticking out. Shake bottle, wet bit sticking out.

  Calm came down on me. Detachment. Too much adrenaline, too much sex, too little sleep.

  Perfect calm. Perfect love driveth out fear. Ditto for sensory exhaustion.

  Did this stuff work? I read about it in The Bridge at Spandau. Worked in the Hungarian uprising. That was 1956, however. About as old as this paraffin.

  The vehicle hit the door so hard it came off its hinges, slid across the concrete, sparks, noise, the four-wheel-drive in the barn, the suddenly lit-up barn.

  Coming into the doorway behind it. Dave, arm outstretched, pistol looking for me.

  Dave. The man I’d believed, admired, felt a warmth towards.

  You’re dealing with people, they can’t buy you, they’ll load you up, kill your friend, kill your wife, kill your child, kill you, it’s all the same.

  Dave knew the people he was talking about. He was one of them.

  ‘Hey, Jack,’ he said, not a shout. ‘I’ve made a mistake. We’ll work something out.’

  Lighters never work when you want them to. I’d been a smoker once, I knew that.

  I clicked. How could I doubt? Who needs a Dunhill?

  I touched the blue flame to the wick, ran to the end of the aisle and threw the bottle. Bowled it, like a grenade.

  In the air. Wick burning.

  Dave in front of the vehicle now, pointing the pistol to the left, to the short wall of the barn.

  Ray, the fleshy man, half-out of the four-wheel-drive, no weapon visible.

  Dave seeing me, seeing the flying bottle, arm coming back, no two-handed marksman Dave. Wrong, two-handed marksman, left hand coming up to steady the right hand.

  To kill me.

  Paraffin bomb falling short. No matter, falling at Dave’s feet, big splash of liquid, no shot, Dave stepping back, off balance.

  Nothing.

  Breaking glass, no bang, no fire, just spreading liquid, could be water.

  Nothing. Oh God.

  Total failure.

  Perhaps you need petrol. Yes, that was it. They used petrol. Molotov cocktails rely on petrol.

  Too bad.

  Dave regained his balance, still the two-handed grip, steady, now for the target practice.

  ‘Oh, Jack,’ he said, ‘you silly prick.’

  A voice from the door, a female voice.

  ‘Where’s Gary?’

  Dave turned his head.

  Fleshy-face turned.

  Glenda, in the doorway. Hands at her chest, hand showing, hand in her nightgown.

  Across the space, I saw her eyes move to the bodies. They lay in a huge dark pool. Tony, sprawled, crucified. Gary, barefoot, on his side, a man sleeping.

  ‘Bastards,’ she said. ‘Bastards.’

  She took her hand away from her throat, her hand from her chest, shot the fleshy man somewhere, he fell over, she fired at Dave, three or four times before she hit him, in the middle of his body, walked over to him, he was upright, half-turned, doubled up, pointed the weapon at him at close range, at his neck. Bang, he jumped back a metre, fell over.

  ‘Bastards,’ she said.

  She looked up and saw me and I was terrified.

  ‘I’m Gary’s father’s lawyer,’ I said. Loudly. ‘Came to make sure Gary wasn’t harmed.’

  Pathetic.

  Glenda threw the gun away. Contempt for the gun. It skidded across the concrete, spinning, came to rest.

  ‘Great work,’ she said, sinking onto her haunches on the cold concrete, hands to her face, rolling over like a puppy. ‘Fucking great work.’

  I went outside, walked past Gary, dead
, Tony, dead or dying, sleek dark Tony, Dean Canetti’s friend, Dave’s trusted associate, walked past Glenda, alive, sobbing, past the fleshy man, he might live. Live, die, I didn’t care. Walked past Dave, certainly dead. Didn’t mind that either. Past the four-wheel-drive, out the door, into the cold Tasmanian night.

  The sky had cleared. Sky impossibly clear and clean and deep. Dense with stars, like city lights seen from a high place.

  Last man standing. The Molotov cocktail man.

  I took deep breaths, good, clean Tasmanian air, first lungs to use this air. Numb.

  Who do you call? These dead and dying people were mostly from the government. Or were they? Did it matter? Two of them had tried to kill me.

  ‘Don’t know what to do.’

  Glenda. Behind me. Shoulders down. Killer. Dream love of Gary Connors. The person of last resort. The one you call.

  I pulled myself together. Jesus, Tony might live. Do something.

  I turned, went to Glenda, put an arm around her cold shoulders. She came into my armpit, became small, shaking, uncontrollable shakes.

  I said, ‘Go to the house, love. Ring the emergency police number. Tell them to send a helicopter, tell them where. Then start a fire down here, love, big fire. Something the helicopter can see.’

  ‘Right,’ she said. Sniff. ‘Right.’ She set off at a run up the slope.

  I steeled myself. Went back into the barn, looked straight ahead, collected the sports bag with the money, walked out, got into the four-wheel-drive, drove away.

  Survival of the innocents.

  44

  The drone came to my ears seconds before I saw the source. I was looking north but the aircraft came out of the west, just a dirtspeck against the dirty grey beginning of the day. It came down without hesitation, bumped and lurched on the sheep-paddock strip, slowed, slewed around, taxied to within five metres of where I stood beside the vehicle and turned side-on.

  The door opened and Cam appeared, black poloneck sweater, leather jacket.

  ‘G’day. Wiped that motor?’

  I nodded, picked up the sports bag with the money.

  He looked around, impassively studied the falling-down shed, the rutted road, the bleak and wet landscape. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘seen the attractions of Tassie now. We might go home, have breakfast.’

  Inside the Cessna, the pilot was fiddling with something on the instrument panel. His peaked cap was facing backwards. Crapdusters Australia, it said across the front.