Drainland (Tunnel Island Book 1)

by Iain Ryan

  “I’m looking for my boyfriend, Will Holding. He does Ray’s books, hasn’t been home in a couple of days and he stays here every now and then.”

  The man seemed to take this in, but the eyes stayed focused on her. “Wait here,” he said.

  He closed the door.

  Minutes passed.

  The door reopened.

  “Ray’s out the back,” said the man. “He wants a chat.”

  The inside of the house looked like something out of a magazine. A marble atrium at the front, flanked on either side by white rooms full of white furniture. The guard led her down along the soft carpets to a kitchen and then out through a neat green courtyard. Ray sat by himself in a small pool house. He had a newspaper laid out on the table beside him, a lit cigarette in the ashtray. He barely glanced at her as she came up.

  “You know, Will told me he was dating a copper,” he said, eyes still on the newspaper. “But I had you pegged as some butch prison warden type, all tits and hips, that sort of thing. Figured he might go in for something like that after looking at rows of numbers all day. I’ve met blokes like that.”

  “Have you seen him?”

  Herbert took a longer look at her.

  “Sit down.” He took a drag on his smoke and replaced it. “I did hear you were looking for him. Got a call this morning. I’m looking for him too, you know. That cheeky bastard was due here yesterday and he didn’t bloody show up.”

  “I don’t know what’s happening. Have you spoken to him?”

  “Nah. I thought he might have been down at one of the clubs, like he’d messed up the appointment. He’s done that one before, but no one’s seen him. Has he ever done anything like this, love?”

  “No. He’s organised. Too organised almost.”

  “Yeah,” said Ray. “Ain’t that the truth.”

  “No one would hurt Will would they? I mean, no one—”

  “Nah, nah, no way. The boys are only interested in bumping off each other, you know that. I’m not sure the Angels would even really know who he is, not to look at.” Ray took a moment to stare at the pool. “But you know, if it’s been a coupla days, you know who might have him?”

  “Who?”

  “Your lot. Maybe he’s been pinched for something? Has he been doing something I should know about?”

  She could see that the idea didn’t please Ray. His brow folded. He kept his gaze on the water. He reached back for his smoke.

  “No. That’s not who he is.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. I’ll make some calls,” he said.

  “You want me to do something?”

  “Don’t do anything, love. Don’t call anyone. Don’t visit. I’ll give you a bell tonight. We’ll take it from there.”

  Herbert stood up and went to the pool fence. The meeting was over.

  “Bobby will show you back out. Bobby?”

  “Thanks.”

  As she walked away, Herbert added, “You know, if you get pinched, you call me, okay?”

  Romano kept walking.

  Back in the car, her chest pounded like a heart attack. The sun blazed overhead.

  The drugs helped. She rolled a joint and washed it down with more vodka and another pill. As the day wore on, the fidgets sent her to the bathroom for more uppers. She knew this was a mistake, but made it anyhow. The coke rocketed through her. She came to think that the answer must be in the apartment somewhere. Another quick bump put it all in motion.

  If you get pinched.

  What was the last thing Will had touched?

  She tore the apartment open, emptied drawers and bags and closets. She took out her police notepad and made a list:

  What was he wearing?

  What was he carrying?

  Where could he be? What was the travel radius?

  She paced and notated. She drugged and drank.

  Where?

  Why?

  Another line.

  All plans went to garbage.

  The clock ticked over.

  The stories turned themselves inside out. They crossed over. No starts or finishes. As the sun started to set on another day without him, Romano felt the world slipping. She tore her notebook to pieces and burnt the pages in the sink. She went to the bathroom and ripped back the shower screen to double-check for rats and blood. When it was done she screamed herself hoarse in the bathroom mirror.

  The phone rang.

  It rang again and she picked it up:

  “Hello?”

  “It’s a friend,” said Ray Herbert. “Shut up. Don’t speak.”

  “What is—”

  “Will’s in the lockup. Hold on.”

  The line made a chirping sound, some sort of transfer. A new voice, more formal:

  “Ms Romano. Can you drive?”

  “What? I don’t—”

  “I’ll send someone. Don’t talk to anyone before they get there. Don’t take another call.”

  The line went dead.

  Romano felt herself focus and unfocus. She scanned the room, zoned in on every piece of furniture, every decoration. She could hear a noise, like an insect, in the kitchen with her. She looked down at her hands and found the phone, her fingers wrapped tightly around the receiver. The dial tone played. She smashed the handset on the edge of the kitchen bench and the plastic casing opened up. Inside were a dozen tiny insects. She sorted through the debris, and found what looked like a transmitter, a round black dot with wires.

  Romano poured another drink and sat with the rubble.

  Someone knocked on the apartment door.

  She ignored it. She sorted the rubble.

  They knocked a second time.

  She took the drink and the transmitter and looked through the peephole. Two men in suits. Behind them, three uniformed police. They had paperwork and shotguns.

  They knocked again, held up the warrants.

  “What?” she yelled.

  “Come on, Romano,” said a voice. “This is it.”

  Too late, Ray.

  They put her in an interview room she knew well. Grey walls. Stark fluorescence overhead. The familiar hum. She was coming down. The DTs rattled through. This was a bad place to start.

  After a time, two plainclothes Detectives came. One of them, not much older than her, had ginger hair. He squinted. The other Detective was a salty old prick Romano recognised from Vice. They started the interview, bad-cop-bad-cop from the get-go.

  The man from Vice: “How the mighty have fallen huh? You’re straight-up fucked on this one, Laura. Straight. Up.”

  Ginger nodded along before adding, “Well? Okay then, try this. Laura, your boyfriend has really landed you in it. He’s not much, is he, this bloke of yours? Will”—and he checked his paperwork—“Holding? You may as well roll over on this one, because this…this right here, the three of us together, this is a courtesy visit. That’s how fucked you are. You’re almost not worth talking about.”

  Romano sat there. She tried not to listen.

  Ginger pulled a Dictaphone out of his jacket. “Oh, and we have this as well. Just so you know.”

  Click.

  The tiny shrill speaker sounded. It took Romano a moment to recognise her own voice.

  That’s it, that’s it, that’s…oh, Will just fucking do it—

  He snapped the recording off.

  Both of them smiled.

  The Vice man said, “That’s not even the juicy part. What the fuck didn’t you do up there in that flat of yours? Possession, consorting, improper access…on top of whatever we can prove you knew about Will’s little caper with the Riders. He’s talking a blue streak next door, by the way. And that’s all before we get into any of the disciplinary stuff. Who knows what those rat fucks will dig up on you? Endangerment, tampering, Christ knows. It’s a shit storm, Laura. A real shit storm, and you’re in under it now.”

  “No umbrella,” said Ginger.

  Romano saw the older one wince at that.

  Click.

  Yeah,
fuck me, fuck…

  They spent another while listening. When it was done, the detective took the tape from the machine and laid it on the table for Romano to look at. They knew a lot about her to take this route. She had to be careful.

  “So let’s finish this up,” said Ginger. “I guess we can talk about who hears this. We can start there anyhow.”

  The older one leaned in, “What we want to know is—”

  “Lawyer,” said Romano.

  “How much do you—”

  “Lawyer, fuckwit.”

  “And at what point did you—”

  “Lawyer.”

  Eyes averted.

  “Oh come on, you’ll—”

  “Lawyer,” she said until they walked out.

  She rang Ray Herbert and he put his guy on. The lawyer asked a few quick questions, the usual. “It’s pretty bad,” he said. “Will’s caught in it even worse than any of us knew. It’s not strictly about Ray and the club. He had something else going on but we can talk about that later.”

  “They’re saying he put me in it.”

  “Maybe. I don’t doubt it. From what I hear he’s made some rash decisions lately that aren’t particularly smart. We’re trying to get his counsel on the phone.”

  “So he’s got his own people?”

  “His father hired someone. But you just hang tight. You know the drill. You’ll be out sometime tomorrow with a bit of luck.”

  The shakes got the better of her during the night. She woke beside the basin, and the whole room spun. Sweats then chills, hot then cold, and both came on so fast they flickered and surged into one long sensation. At some point, she lifted her head and saw the tiles beside her flecked with bile and blood.

  This was how people went into cardiac arrest.

  This was how you died in custody.

  This was how it felt.

  Death’s door.

  The lights came on, and a guard took one look inside the cell and said, “Fucking hell, Romano. Okay, up we get.”

  “Sorry. I ergh…”

  “Okay, let me get you up.”

  The guard helped her to the sink. This wasn’t how they usually were. This was the special treatment. Romano ran the tap, washed her face and mouth. As she wiped at her eyes, she said, “Do you know me or something?”

  The guard didn’t answer.

  She looked at him in the mirror.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I was on the gate at Taradale. Second week of the job. I still think about it.”

  “Right. I don’t think that’ll count for much now.”

  “It should,” said the guard.

  “You know why I’m here?”

  He shook his head.

  “Me, neither,” she said.

  She looked at this new version of herself: blonde hair with stains in it, skin bruised and red eyes locked into a dead stare.

  They took her back upstairs and put her in the staff lunchroom. The guard stood inside with her, between her and the kitchen drawers. Romano went to the window and waited. An overcast morning. Rain overnight.

  She heard voices at the door.

  A man appeared. He wore a tailored black suit, crisp glasses and hair. He went to the room’s kitchenette and worked the coffee machine on the bench.

  “Ms Romano?” he said. “Do you want a coffee?”

  “Black,” she said. “Thanks.”

  The door opened a second time and Romano caught a glimpse of the corridor: the District Inspector, the ginger detective—his face flushed—and a stranger, a tall man in a suit but not like the one making coffee. This guy was sloppier. The tall man said something sharp and quick over his shoulder as he came in, then sat at the kitchen table and took a short, dour glance at Romano before opening his phone. He scanned the phone’s little screen and said, “You may as well sit. We’re going to be a while. You”—he turned to the guard—“you can wait outside.”

  The other suit brought two coffees over, then followed the guard out. When it was just the two of them, the man sipped his drink and screwed up his face. He held the mug up and looked at it: S.S.D.D. printed in red letters on the side.

  “Same Shit. Different Day,” said Romano.

  “I feel like I should have known that. Okay, Laura Romano, my name is Matthew Dyer. I’m with the Federal Police. Now, your lawyer is on his way over here and he’s one of Ray Herbert’s blokes, I hear. In the meantime, I want to have a chat with you because…I’ve read your file. I’ve been keeping an eye on you and this mess you’ve gotten yourself into. I figured we should have a talk.”

  Romano took a sip of her coffee and put it back down. The guy had detective training, but he was trying to shake it off. It was in his voice. He was choosing his words carefully, trying not to appear too careful.

  She didn’t speak.

  “You’re so much better than this,” he said. “You know it. I know it. My people know it. The only people who don’t know it are those dickheads outside. This…is just a blip for you.”

  “Oh yeah?” said Romano, unable to stop herself.

  “Look, you fucked up, clean and simple. And the charges they’re going to roll out against you are nothing to sneeze at. But…personally, I don’t see much point putting you in the clink. It won’t be much of a stretch anyhow, you know that. They know it, too. You’ve probably done the math. This whole thing”—he dropped his voice—“I don’t know what it is. I’ve never been sure what these local blokes wanted out of all this. Your boyfriend and this other bird he’s been carrying on with, they’re already cooperating, but my people have had a look at what he’s willing to turn over and it’s fuck-all in the bigger scheme of things.”

  “Other…I…” She felt cold.

  Dyer coughed, then said, “Look, this is—”

  “Shut up. Shut your mouth.”

  “Listen—”

  “What do you want? And don’t bullshit me.”

  “What I want is none of your business,” he said. “But if this whole performance of yours, this little downward trajectory you’re riding—” He spun his hand in the air like a spiral. “If the last twenty-four hours have hammered anything home, there might be something I can do for you. If you were starting to think that now might be a good time to stop feeling sorry for yourself and start acting like a police officer, I can help you. Otherwise, I’m due across town.”

  Romano could feel another bout of the shakes coming on. She gripped the coffee. She could feel Dyer watching every nanosecond of it. “I’m not sure a deal that I can’t see the other end of is what I need right now. Do you?”

  Dyer shrugged. “Your boyfriend gave you up. You’ve been with this shithead how long? Four years? Five? Now he’s running around with someone else, and on top of that he’s going to send you to prison just to shave time off his own stint. His former employer, a fucking ex-bikie…I take it you’ve seen Ray’s file, right? He’s the one coming over to bail you out. So you know what I think? Better the devil you don’t know in this situation you’ve got yourself in.”

  Romano felt a flush of anger. Her skin burned.

  “I’ll tell you what,” said Dyer. “I’m going to leave you my details.” He stood up, took a business card from his wallet, and handed it to her. As she read it, he went to the sink and washed out the S.S.D.D. mug, and placed it on the rack. When he was done, he waited, arms folded, staring.

  Romano put the card down on the table.

  Dyer nodded to himself. He went to the door.

  “Okay,” she said.

  “Yeah? What do you mean?”

  Romano flicked the card across the surface of the table. “You know what I mean,” she said. “Whatever gets me out of this shit. But I won’t rat on Herbert.”

  He sat back down. “That’s fine. I’m not interested in Herbert. Bikies are small time.”

  “What is it then?”

  “What do you know about Tunnel Island?” he said.

  Part III

  The Pit

  4


  Friday, July 2, 2004

  He ran and the wind whipped sand against his ankles. A dark blue sky overhead, smudged together with the ocean on the horizon. The beach stretched sixty kilometres, all the way to Drainland and the Mission. After a time, he stopped and stripped down to his underwear and walked into the sea. The surf churned, but it was calmer out past the trough. Out in the slow water, Jim Harris looked up and down the shore. He had the place to himself, the last man on Earth. He let himself float there like a dead body in the water.

  That evening, the storm seemed to bring the night on early. Harris didn’t like it. He stood by the windows of the surf club kitchen and stared out.

  “The weather’s changing,” he said.

  Dev took a look. “It’s blowing in from the south.”

  “It’s getting worse every year.”

  They both hated winter. A colder, wetter version of it didn’t appeal to either of them.

  Dev ran a hand through his long, greying hair. “I know,” he said.

  They both heard the door open and close. Tony arrived at the servery window, a damp cigarette hanging from his lips. He took a lighter from his pocket and sparked it. “What are you two looking at?”

  “Come on,” said Dev. “Not inside, mate.”

  “Fuck off. I can’t bloody well smoke out in that, can I? Jesus, Dev, if you told me you were getting dressed up for tonight, I would have put in some effort myself.”

  Dev wore jeans—black, torn at the knees—and a thin grey cardigan. He only wore closed shoes in the cold season. Tony got his smoke going. “I didn’t know you even owned a pair of trousers, let alone a bloody jumper.”

  “I wish I didn’t need to.”

  The two men could banter about anything. It wore Harris out. He went to the storage closet in the hall and started sorting the chairs for the meeting.

  “Could be a quiet one,” said Tony, after a time.

  “I guess,” said Harris.

  “We’ve got a new one coming,” said Dev. “Court ordered. Someone from the mainland, gave me a call the other day. From Melbourne, apparently.”