Resurrection Bay

by Emma Viskic

  29.

  He bought a charger and returned to the car before remembering that Frankie had the keys. He leaned against it and watched for her loping figure, even though he was half an hour early.

  Have a little cry.

  What were the odds she could make it back sober and functioning? What were the odds he could make it through this nightmare without her? He shivered and checked his watch. Twenty-eight minutes to go. He could stand here, freezing his arse off and worrying, or he could get something done. It was 5.48 – there was a chance he could still catch someone at City Sentry. He texted Frankie and headed down the hill.

  Elle was coming through the reception doors as he got there, handbag over her shoulder, a bright-green hat perched on her head. She looked like a manic elf.

  Her hand flew to her mouth: beetle-green nails today. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Hi, I was wondering if Sean was in. It’s Caleb Zelic from Trust Works.’

  ‘Oh.’ She gave him a pantomime-worthy wink. ‘Of course, Mr Zelic, I’ll just check.’

  He checked to see there was no-one in the open-plan office and slipped Margaret’s photo from his pocket.

  ‘Do you know this woman?’ he said quietly.

  ‘Um, is she on TV? On that hospital show?’

  He paused. An actress. That possibility hadn’t occurred to him.

  ‘Margaret?’ he said. ‘Margaret Petronin?’

  ‘Nah, I think it’s Janelle or something.’ She jerked her head towards a door off the reception area. ‘I’d better …’

  ‘Yeah, thanks.’

  She disappeared and returned a moment later with Sean in tow. She gave Caleb another wink and left.

  ‘Caleb, good to see you again.’ Sean attempted an aren’t-we-good-mates grin. ‘I’m just finishing up on the phone. You OK to wait for a couple of minutes?’

  Caleb went with the script. ‘Sure. Take your time.’

  He settled down to wait on one of the vinyl chairs. The reading material ran to three-year-old copies of Readers’ Digest and City Sentry’s promotional material. Maybe three per cent battery would be enough to check his messages. He flicked through the texts, ignoring the missed calls – no-one who knew him would leave a voice message.

  Friend, business, business, friend, business, business.

  His breath caught.

  Gary.

  It must have come while he was driving to his house. A final message. He paused for a moment, then opened it. A sagging moment of disappointment: there were no words, just photos. Taken from hip-height by the look of the angle. Why had Gary sent them? They were badly framed and lit: four men standing in a semi-circle, cardboard boxes behind them. The next couple of pictures panned across the men’s faces. Grey-face; Petronin; a young man in police blues; the fourth man too shadowed to make out. None of them seemed to realise they were being photographed. He examined the surrounding boxes. Familiar brands on their sides: Benson and Hedges, Winfield Blue, Stuyvesant. Spoils from the warehouse robberies. He flicked through the remaining pictures. More boxes, a couple of blurred figures.

  A gun.

  The fourth man was holding it to the cop’s head.

  A frozen look of terror on the young man’s face.

  Caleb hesitated, then swiped to the next photo. Brain matter clearly visible, a slumped body.

  He lowered the phone. Jesus.

  ‘Senior Constable Anthony Hobbs … killed in the early hours of June the twenty-fourth.’

  And Gary had been there to witness it. Had taken photos of it. And somehow Scott had found out about them. Easy to imagine what had happened then: Scott and his men hustling Gary through his house, holding him down. A matter of seconds to check his phone and see that he’d sent the photos to Caleb. A little longer making sure he hadn’t sent them to anyone else: the ransacked house, the cutting, the broken fingers. A shudder rolled through him.

  He enlarged the photo and examined the man holding the gun; a dark and pixelated blur. It had to be Scott. The evil fucking bastard. Medium height and weight, possibly blond, probably clean-shaven. Or was that darker spot a goatee? Maybe a good photo lab could run it through some whizz-bang software to enhance it. Send the photos to Tedesco? It couldn’t make things worse, might make things better. Two per cent battery, might be enough.

  He typed a quick message and attached the photos. No problem remembering the Hotmail address. He pressed send just as Sean appeared in his office doorway. He stood up, but Sean was looking at something behind him. A gust of air as the foyer door opened. It was a woman with long, honey-coloured hair. A little older than in the photo, but clearly Margaret Petronin. Someone coming through the door behind her – Grey-face.

  ‘Caleb,’ he said, flicking the lock on the door. ‘Nice of you to make things easy for us.’

  He ran. Weaving between the desks, towards the back of the room. A door at the end, maybe another way out. Footsteps pounding behind him. He flung open the door. A kitchenette. Fuck. Get a knife? No, he’d be cornered. Sean was bearing down on him, fists bunched. Back towards the foyer doors. Margaret and Grey-face were guarding them, the glint of steel in the policeman’s hand. A weapon, he needed a weapon. Computer, phone, chair – chair. He grabbed it and hefted it above his head. Heavy. He ran at Grey-face, a scream building in his lungs. The policeman’s eyes widened and he took a step back. Faster, nearly …

  Something heavy slammed into his back. He crashed to the floor, the chair thudding in front of him. Someone kneeling on his back, wrenching his right arm up behind him. No air. Lungs squeezing. Hands going through his pockets, pulling something from it. The weight shifted slightly. He turned his head, sucking in lungfuls of oxygen. Margaret was scrolling through his phone. Hadn’t locked it. Stupid. Stupid.

  ‘The battery just died, but he hadn’t texted them to anyone.’

  She was so easy to read, like someone he’d spent hours watching. Someone from his childhood? No, that wasn’t …

  A fist in his hair, a flash of silver, and the cold touch of steel at his throat. He was going to die. Die like Gary: neck slit, blood spurting. Sean’s bullish voice, Grey-face answering. Arguing. His head was released. Fuck. Fuck. He breathed heavily against the carpet as their voices rose and fell above him. A softer voice, Margaret.

  Grey-face was beside him. ‘… evidence. Stupid.’ He wrenched Caleb’s arm out and anchored it with his knee.

  ‘They broke his fingers. Every one of them.’

  It would be OK. Pain was bearable. Better than a cut throat.

  The woman knelt down. ‘Plenty for a first timer. You are a first timer, aren’t you, Caleb?’ She pushed up his sleeve. ‘Looks like it.’

  Maybe his arm, not his fingers. God. But why? Evidence, Grey-face had said. Did they think he had more evidence against them? Margaret was laying something on the carpet. A spoon. Why would she …? A syringe.

  His insides turned to ice.

  Not questions, just a bloodless way to kill him. He heaved against Sean’s immovable bulk. A band tightened around his arm, blood throbbing. He pulled away. Weight crushing his hand and back. A sharp prick, burning cold sweeping through his blood. And he was released. He struggled to his knees, rubbing desperately at his skin, scratching. Get up. Get help. To his feet. Nausea rolling through him, sending the room spinning.

  The three of them were watching.

  ‘What … think …?’ Grey-face asked. ‘… minutes?’

  ‘About that.’

  Phone. Police, ambulance, someone. Yell until they came. They’d been too late for Gary. A phone on the desk, just there, close. Legs dragging. On the floor now, on all fours. Illness ebbing, leaving him light. The phone, what was the number? His body was liquid, sliding downwards, down onto the carpet. Soft.

  Hands rolled him over.

  ‘Well on the way.’

  Up off the floor; light, like floating. He was going to … there was something important. Margaret was walking just ahead of him. Maggie for short, Kat h
ad said when she’d put Margaret on the list of baby’s names. How did you get Maggie from Margaret? Felt like it should be Marg, like getting Kat from Kathryn. Beautiful Kat. Down the stairwell, the air cool. And he was sitting with his back against a wall. Voices hummed around him, then flitted away. Alone. Warmth travelled through his body, up and out the top of his head. Weightless, like nothing at all.

  Sudden light, cold air caressing his skin.

  Frankie’s face in front of him. ‘Jesus, Cal, what are … been … wrong?’

  Drifting.

  ‘… hurt?’

  No booze on her breath.

  ‘Welldn.’ Tongue not working. ‘Welldone, Fnkie. Proudyou.’

  She grabbed his face and angled it to the light. ‘Oh shit. Shit, no.’

  ‘S’OK.’ The words fell away. Let them go. Let everything go.

  ‘Ambulance.’ Frankie spitting the words. ‘… OD … blue … hurry.’

  Hands shaking him. His head lolled back and smacked against the wall. There was no pain.

  None at all.

  A slap. He opened his eyes. Frankie’s face was wet.

  ‘Cal.’ Something hard rubbing his sternum. ‘Cal. Breathe.’ Another slap.

  It seemed important to her. He concentrated, inhaled slowly.

  ‘Good … and again. Caleb … Caleb …’

  It felt like

  30.

  Awake like a slap in the face. A distant whining. Pain somewhere, everywhere. An unfamiliar face appeared over him. A bald man, wearing a dark-blue uniform.

  What the fuck?

  Something pressed against his face. He felt its shape: an oxygen mask. There were wires trailing from his bare chest. Where was his top? Hadn’t he been wearing one? A red one, and a coat.

  ‘OK there, mate?’ the paramedic asked. A calm face, like a monk.

  He nodded.

  ‘You remember what happened?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘You … gave you … but it …’

  He closed his eyes. Too hard: it had been better back in the stairwell.

  The van doors opening jolted him awake. Frigid air gusted in. Pain in his chest, like thrusting knives. And he remembered: Margaret, Grey-face, Sean. That bastard, Sean. He’d held him down like a fucking schoolgirl and shot him full of smack.

  A brief, arctic blast and they were inside the hospital. Down a corridor and into a curtained cubicle. A doctor appeared and conferred with the paramedics. Around thirty, with tired eyes and stooped shoulders. She checked him over with brisk movements. No eye contact, talking with her head down.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t get that.’

  She spoke again, still looking at the clipboard.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t … I’m having trouble following you. Can you look at me when you speak?’

  She looked up; surprised, irritated. ‘You took heroin?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think so.’

  ‘Anything else? Any dmmmm? Rmmmmm?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Any pain when you breathe?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She nodded absently, kept writing, talking.

  ‘Sorry, what?’

  Her lips compressed. ‘That will be from the CPR. You may have a cracked rib or two, it’s not unusual.’

  CPR? Oh, God. ‘Have you seen my friend, Frankie? She’ll be worried.’

  ‘No.’ Still no eye contact. ‘On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate the pain?’

  ‘She’ll be worried, she won’t know …’

  ‘On a scale of one to ten …’

  ‘Five. It’s a five.’

  She wrote on the chart. ‘I’ll arrange … X-ray … ribs … IV.’ Her hand was on the curtain, but he couldn’t be bothered asking her to repeat anything.

  ‘Can you tell Frankie …’

  She was gone.

  On a scale of one to ten, how would he rate her bedside manner? He stared at the ceiling: a hard, white fluorescent that made his eyes flicker. He should have run straight at Grey-face, he should have pushed past the knife, he should have …

  The curtains parted and a nurse came in, her movements quick and efficient. She was young, no more than twenty-three, with a little frown mark permanently between her eyebrows: the girl who’d always studied hard.

  ‘You’re Caleb?’ A smile, actual eye contact. That was nice. ‘I’m Susan. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Fine. Is someone out there looking for me? Frankie?’

  She wheeled the drip stand to the bed. Head down, talking.

  ‘Can you look at me when you speak?’

  Her face popped briefly into view, then lowered. ‘… important … you don’t …’

  Fuck it. ‘I’m deaf. I need to see your face when you’re talking.’

  ‘Oh.’ A blush rose up her neck. ‘Interpreter? I’ll get one.’ She mimed walking away and speaking on a telephone.

  ‘I don’t need an interpreter. I’m fine as long as you look at me when you speak. Is there a woman looking for me? Tall, with crazy purple and grey hair. She doesn’t know I’m all right. She’ll be worried.’

  ‘I’ll. Keep. An. Eye. Out.’ Miming again. God. ‘A drip. Two. Hours.’ She held up two fingers.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Don’t shoot up. Again. Today. Very dangerous. Understand?’

  ‘I’m not a user.’

  Her eyes went to the soft flesh of his inner elbow: there was a raised mark where the needle had pierced his skin.

  ‘I’ll get. Pmmmm. To. Help. You.’

  ‘Get what?’

  ‘Pam. Phhh. Leets.’

  Maybe it was a name – Pam Fleets. Could be the doctor. Better not be a fucking interpreter.

  ‘Wait.’ She swished through the curtains and returned a moment later, carrying folded pieces of paper. Huh – pamphlets. She placed them in his lap, patted his hand and left.

  Smiling, healthy people featured heavily on the pamphlet covers. Courses with patronising names like ‘Fresh Start’ and ‘New Beginnings’. He used to leave similar things lying around the house for Ant. What an arsehole.

  The curtains opened again and he steeled himself for more earnest do-gooding. It was Frankie. She stopped just inside the cubicle, one hand gripping the curtain. Her eyes were unusually bright, skin pale, as though she was feverish.

  ‘Frankie. You found me.’

  ‘You stupid fucking prick.’ She left.

  She returned an hour later, carrying two large bags from McDonald’s and what looked like a bundle of clothing.

  ‘Thought you might be hungry,’ she said, dumping it all on the bed.

  Still too pale, too twitchy. But definitely sober.

  ‘Cholesterol police will be on to you, bringing that in here.’

  ‘Nah, I got it from the Children’s Hospital.’ She busied herself undoing the bundle of clothing and threw him a T-shirt. ‘Get that on. Don’t want your manly physique sending the nurses wild.’

  It was a strange collection of clothing: two pairs of undies and one sock, no warm jacket, but three T-shirts. An unwelcome insight into her current state of mind. He managed to get two of the T-shirts over his head before realising that threading the drip through the arm hole was going to be beyond his current range of movement.

  Frankie wordlessly helped him to finish the manoeuvre.

  She handed him a paper bag. ‘Eat up before it gets too cold.’

  He ate a couple of fries but they were dry and strangely tasteless. Frankie demolished her food without speaking, balled the wrapper and lobbed it impressively into a bin on the opposite side of the cubicle.

  She caught his look. ‘You like that?’

  ‘Awed.’

  ‘OK, tell me what happened. I’ll try not to yell at you this time.’

  ‘Well, City Sentry is involved.’ He shifted to try and ease the pain in his chest but there didn’t seem to be any comfortable way to breathe.

  ‘Yeah, I sort of worked that one out.’

  ‘Sean k
ept me waiting long enough for Grey-face to get to the office, then jumped me. Margaret Petronin was with him.’

  Her hand paused halfway to her mouth.

  ‘I don’t know if she’s using, or if they’re dealing, but she had smack there, so … They held me down and shot me up.’

  Frankie looked as though she were regretting the fries. She glanced at the packet and lowered it to her lap.

  ‘I couldn’t stop them,’ he said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I tried.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Staff here think I’m a smack-head.’

  ‘Yeah, well, you’re not. Fuck ’em.’

  He gave a choked laugh. ‘Thank you, Sensei, I feel much better now.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Grasshopper.’ She shoved her uneaten fries back into the bag.

  The shakes had gone, but she was still too pale. Should he mention their last conversation? Easier to pretend it had never happened. He opened his mouth, closed it again.

  Frankie’s face tightened. ‘Just ask the damn question.’

  ‘Did you get onto someone who could help you?’

  ‘Yes, I did. Did I have a drink? I think you can see that I didn’t. Am I going to? I don’t fucking know. Maybe I’ll never drink again, maybe one of these days I’ll get some Johnny Red and a big bottle of pills and chug ’em all down. We done? Excellent. Now, should I be worried about you sitting around here? The whole tracking you through prescriptions, et cetera?’

  Johnny Walker and a bottle of pills. That was way too specific a scenario.

  ‘I won’t be here for long,’ he said. ‘A couple of hours for the drip.’ Get her out of here and into some sort of treatment program. Somewhere interstate. Hope Tedesco was straight. Hope everything was nearly over.

  ‘Want to hear some good news?’ he said.

  ‘God. Please.’

  He brought her up to date about Gary’s photos and the warehouse shooting.

  ‘Scott’s in the photos?’

  ‘Maybe – they’re pretty fuzzy. I’ve sent them to Tedesco. Hopefully he’ll be able to get someone to enhance them.’

  ‘You sent them to Tedesco?’ She shook her head. ‘What if he’s working with Scott?’