Drainland (Tunnel Island Book 1)

by Iain Ryan

  Denny answered.

  He listened and said, “Really? Sure.”

  He put the phone down.

  “Who was that?” said Chandler, from the room over.

  “The big man’s gracing us with his presence tomorrow.”

  “What?” Chandler had been sorting the mail. He now appeared at the door with a handful of envelopes. “Why?”

  “Wants to meet the new girl,” said Denny.

  Romano looked up from the television. “Who are we talking about? Me?”

  “You and O’Shea. The regional inspector,” said Denny.

  “Is he coming here? He better not be fucking coming here. We better clean up,” said Chandler.

  Denny shook his head. He had a tin of beer open and took a sip from it. “I don’t know what O’Shea is doing over here but Senior Constable Romano here is to meet with his team at Sienna Beach, ten-thirty, tomorrow morning.”

  “Bloody hell,” said Chandler.

  “They said bring your bathers,” said Denny.

  Romano looked from Denny to Chandler and back to Denny. “Fuck off,” she said.

  “That’s what they said.”

  “Don’t listen to him,” said Chandler, going back to his work.

  “That’s what they said. If you don’t believe me, call them back. Go on.”

  “Don’t do it,” said Chandler.

  Romano kept her eyes on him. Denny performed what she assumed was a shrug, though it was hard to tell with his gym shoulders engulfing his neck.

  She turned back to the TV.

  After a while, Denny said, “I fucking hate Peter Ustinov,” throwing his empty beer can towards the bin. There was a sharp ping of aluminium on the marble as he missed.

  Chandler’s voice drifted in. “Pick it up, dickhead.”

  6

  Saturday, July 17, 2004

  On Saturday, the rain slowed. A low ceiling of grey cloud turned the day humid and damp. Romano sat at the picnic table by the beach and cursed the sweat pooling in her uniform. All this despite a complete lack of sun. It made no sense. It was the dead of winter back home. Here, it was as if the heat operated within its own season.

  At exactly eleven o'clock, a black SUV wound its way down the short bitumen road to the campground car park. The place was empty. The SUV crawled across the park and came to rest at an angle, across several vacant spaces. A small woman stepped from the SUV. She wore plain clothes and held a leather folder. “Constable Romano?” Her voice fell flat in the morning drizzle.

  Romano stood.

  The woman turned back to the occupants of the car and spoke with them, then came over. “The Inspector is over here for a quick dip on his way to meetings on the mainland. Did you get our message about dressing for the water?”

  “I wear my uniform when I'm at work,” said Romano.

  The woman’s eyes widened a little. “Not today. Don't get into this with him.” She glanced back at the SUV. “I packed a spare set of swimmers. I figured you for about a size eight, from your file.”

  Romano stared at the woman. Behind her, two men appeared from the SUV: a short stubby thug in a uniform followed by an older man, balding with a beard. He was wrapped in a white terrycloth bathrobe. As they approached, the uniformed one smirked at Romano, but the older man kept to a grim expression, barely acknowledging her. “I’ll see ya out there, Constable,” he said in a thick Irish brogue, and kept walking.

  “I’ll get that swimsuit for you,” said the woman.

  Romano tried the bathers on in the camp toilets, finding them tight. They had a robe for her as well, a small concession. She did not check the mirror. Instead, she carefully folded her uniform into a pile, placed her holster and sidearm on top, and carried it all down to the beach. The inspector was already out in the surf. She could see him bobbing in the distance. The other two stood watch on the shore. Romano dumped her clothes at their feet—“Don’t touch any of this,” she said—and took off her robe.

  Without letting herself hesitate, Romano walked down the sand and into the ocean. The first lick of the winter sea water was brutal and sharp, but after diving under and swimming a while, Romano found herself at a level temperature. O’Shea seemed to expect this. As she came up beside him, he stared out at the dim horizon and said, “It’s not as bad once ya in, is it? Not that you’d be particularly averse to the cold, I figure.”

  “No sir,” said Romano. “Is this as cold as it gets?”

  He ignored it. “I usually like to swim by myself. I find it clears the mind. But we need to have a talk, you and I. I don't trust ya, ya see, because I don't trust anyone, so that’s why you and I…that’s why we’re sharing this wee moment together, out here. ”

  “Well, if—”

  “Ah. Now ya just stay right there and listen. Ya got yourself into some strife down south, I hear, and funnily enough, that’s the sort of thing that recommends ya for a job in this shite mess. I can imagine ya have some inkling of where ya are, but I want to take this opportunity to tell ya straight to ya face. Ya in purgatory now. Never mind what anyone else is telling ya. That’s where ya are. Ya young enough still, and if ya keep your eyes open and mouth shut for the next five, ten years maybe, ya might wind up in a nice regional posting or get to keep your pension. But make no mistake, ya don’t want to go tipping the apple cart over here, lassie. I’m ya boss and I'm tellin’ ya to ya face, just keep things as they are.”

  “That shouldn’t be too difficult, sir.”

  “Ya, that may be so. But…ya know, that’s why we have a place like this. Ya do know why we have a place like this, don’t ya?”

  Romano shook her head.

  “To have a fookin’ place like this, that’s why. We don't want to try and change it into something else now.” He swam closer. “Come, look in from here. See, this,” he said and he pointed down to the south of the island. “That’s Arthurton, that’s where the tunnel comes out. It’s the start of everything. Arthurton is a bit of a self-cleaning oven, if ya like, but if it does come apart, the whole place is fooked in a heartbeat. We had a wee problem down there once, had to stop people coming across for a bit, and the money dried up quick smart. The locals were screaming.” He moved his hand halfway up the island’s east coast. “That's Petersen. Then Hinze and that pinprick there, on the cape, that’s Domino. It’s officially Do-mean-oh but that’s where the Doomriders do their thing. From what I hear, ya know a thing or two about bikies?”

  “A thing or two,” said Romano.

  “Good. Then ya know to leave them be. They’re into the usual over here. They own a lot of the strip clubs and the like, have other bits and pieces spread about. Then we’ve got The Strip here, that's where things get multicultural. The Italians did all this back in the day, and they own the three main joints; The Chateau Agri, The Gold Point Hotel, and Little Venice. The Chinese, the fookin Chans, own The Sands and a pub around the way. Then a couple of fat cats own The Bond Mirage over the hill. And all these people, all these different colors and creeds, they have all found a way to get along. They live here, they do their business and no one gets hurt…unless someone steps out of line and, ya trust me on this, I'll know about it before ya do. All ya need to do is not fook this up. That's it. Ya fill in your days however ya like, just don't fook this up.”

  “Where’s the bad end of town?”

  “Down south. Self-cleaning, like I said with Arthurton.”

  “And the indigenous population?”

  “Fook no. They all pissed off to the south island years ago. You won't see too many Abos over here, a couple down in Drainland—that’s one of the camps down on the other side there—but for the most part, they keep to themselves.” He splashed a handful of seawater onto his face. “Okay, that’s that. So let me just say it, I'll be watching ya, from that wee island over there and from all over. Ya just keep ya head straight, Constable, and there won't be any trouble. Just try and fit in. Ya in paradise now, fooking paradise.” O’Shea gave a small wheezing laugh a
nd dived under. He was a strong swimmer and by the time Romano made it back in, the entire crew were halfway back up the beach. They’d left her uniform and firearm behind in the sand.

  Back at the station, Denny and Chandler sat in their usual spot. They’d ironed their uniforms and given the whole building a cosmetic wipe and tidy, but it still looked the same. As Romano came past, Denny spotted her wet hair and said, “I bloody told you.” Romano flipped him the bird and kept walking. Halfway along the hallway to her office, she remembered something and doubled back.

  “Hey, the Inspector mentioned something about living in the bay, some wee island off the coast or some shit. Either of you know what he’s on about?”

  Chandler skated his chair across the floor to the opposing wall. There, above a wide pile of unordered paperwork and the house collection of used magazines, someone had pinned a small laminated map to the paintwork. Chandler extracted a ruler from the pile and tapped it against the wall.

  “You see, Romano, we have this thing called a map of the island.”

  She went to it and looked.

  “The good Inspector would never stoop to living here on Tunnel itself, on this outpost of sin and corruption,” he said.

  “He’s above it,” added Denny.

  “Instead, he—like a lot of fine rich people—opts to live really close to the sin and corruption instead.” Chandler moved the ruler up to a small atoll about an inch off the north coast of Tunnel. “It doesn't even have a name, that’s how exclusive it is.”

  “Really?” said Romano.

  “Uh-huh,” said Chandler.

  “What does everyone else call it then?”

  “Bridge,” said Denny.

  “Jesus,” said Romano. She leaned close to the map, trying to make out every detail. She scanned down the coastlines and picked up the spelling and shape of the places O’Shea had mentioned. They had the underwater tunnel marked as a red dotted line leading into Arthurton. “Does living here ever stop feeling weird?”

  “Oh yeah, sure,” said Chandler. “That's when you know you’re completely fucked.”

  Denny laughed. “I feel fine,” he said.

  7

  Wednesday, August 4 to Thursday, August 5, 2004

  Harris looked down past the phone in his hand at the timber deck beneath his feet. The breeze pushed debris around: the bark husk of a nearby gum, leaves, and possum shit. For Don. Fucking O’Shea. It echoed in his head. For Don. It was a complicated lie, one of O’Shea’s specialties. No one did anything for Donald Marr. No one needed to. Don made a career out of looking after himself. It was almost all he did. O’Shea knew that. O’Shea was prodding. For Don really meant For Silvie, his daughter. Harris had known her once.

  Every ghost, every mistake. No distractions.

  It wasn’t much of a retirement. It wasn’t long.

  He went to the hotel and ran down the Marr girl’s room. Her boyfriend was back from the mainland; Thomas Bachelard, that was the name they gave him at the desk. Bachelard sounded familiar. He phoned it over to Dev. “Reach out to the Gold Point people, see if you can get me sound on room 405. Yeah, fourth floor.” Sienna Plaza was up the road. A room on the same floor gave him visual access. He set up the camera and tripod. He scoped the viewfinder and watched. For a whole day, Sophie Marr and Thomas Bachelard didn’t do much more than eat and fuck with the blinds open. They had an eight-ball of coke in there, weren’t super careful with it. Every now and then Bachelard worked on a laptop. When he did that, Sophie Marr paced back and forth with the television on.

  As night broke, they headed out. Harris picked them up an hour later, up in the Gold Point’s high roller’s room. They weren’t up to much. They sat at the bar looking for all the world like young honeymooners. Sophie’s arm draped over Bachelard’s shoulder. His head coming in close to hers every minute or two. It made Harris sick.

  Early that morning, not long before dawn, Harris got sound. The Gold Point had every room rigged for it. A handful of people knew. People had died for that secret. He listed in to 405:

  A woman’s voice, Sophie Marr: “From one end of the island to the other. All the way to Drainland. All the way back. I…It’s been happening for years. No one gives a fuck.” She paused, then: “You can’t. Someone will find it.”

  “This?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll write it in Canto,” said Bachelard. “You know anyone who can read Cantonese?”

  She laughed. “No.”

  “Okay, then.”

  On the second day, a Thursday, Harris followed them down to Arthurton. There was a primary school down there. They had an appointment, by the look of it. The principal met them out in the car park, took them through to a building out behind the main one. Harris waited it out. He jumped the school fence and took a chance look through a window: records, row after row of school records.

  He kept following them. From the school, they drove out into the suburbs on the outskirts of Arthurton. Bachelard looked to be interviewing people. Harris watched each stop from the car. On the last one, Harris got in nice and close. The boyfriend sat across the dining room table from an old woman. There were tea and biscuits out on the doilies. The old woman started crying. Sophie Marr reached out for her hand.

  Later, back in the Gold Point, Harris sat in his post and listened to the wiretap. They washed the day down with cocaine and beer and didn’t talk much. Not a fucking peep about what they’d heard down in Arthurton. Harris opened his notebook and wrote, paranoid or smart. He looked at that for a moment and added: tired.

  The following day, it rained hard. Bachelard spent the day on the phone, notebook in hand. He used his mobile so Harris could only hear one side of it. Sounded like money talk. Bachelard was running down something on the Catholic Church. That didn’t scan. Tunnel hadn’t had an active church in years. The Protestants knew a rigged market when they saw one. The Catholics and the Seventh Dayers didn’t gel with the other rackets, and while Hillsong was talking to the Chans, Harris couldn’t see that working either. But Bachelard was talking recent money, very recent: transactions dated in the last couple of months.

  Meanwhile, Sophie came and went. Harris saw her up close that night, as he followed her. She brushed past him in the convenience store up on Point Burgess. She had her sister Silvie’s nape. Sophie’s hair was tucked behind her ear like it was Silvie’s hair and Silvie’s ear. The physical contact worked on him like a trigger.

  Silvie was good.

  She was measured. She was strict.

  She never undressed, she never worked on the clients that way. She just wore her suit and swung the whip, and when it was over she would kiss you on the mouth.

  He saw the track marks on Silvie about a month before she disappeared. The dotted discolouration in her hands. That was how bad it had gotten. He was with Lean then, the madam, Silvie’s boss. It was a relationship of sorts. A real train wreck. Nearly killed him. Nearly killed them both. Lean used to watch through a two-way mirror sometimes.

  “She’s strong,” Lean would say. “You like that, don’t you?”

  Harris told her, “The kid’s using.”

  Lean reached out.

  Silvie refused any kind of help. She chose to vanish.

  She was dead within the year.

  So many doubts.

  Lean could be cruel. She ran The Theodor Club like a sociopath. Had to, she said. He never felt entirely right about what happened with Silvie. There was something unsaid, unknown. His gut was sure of it. And over time, he found he couldn’t trust Lean, either. That was when it really unravelled with them. Lean always played the angles, even in love.

  Lean was a type of corruption.

  She was still around.

  Sophie took her groceries off the clerk and walked out. Harris stayed in line. He watched her walk off into the dark, trailing a plume of smoke, like it was any other night on the island.

  On Sunday, they brought people up to the room and interviewed them. Harris re
cognised some of the faces: rent boys, hookers, junkies, ex-croupiers. All perps or victims at one point or another. These introductions were Sophie’s doing. These were her people. Harris snapped pictures until they started drawing the blinds. Bachelard played music and did the interviews in the bathroom. The tap was a bust, except for a fragment:

  Sophie saying, “They call him The Fox, over here. What does he want? There’s always a fucking deal with them. Always. Be careful. You gotta be careful with him. You shouldn’t go.”

  “What? I shouldn’t meet with him?” says Bachelard.

  Harris looked at them through the telephoto. Bachelard checked his watch and stared out into the landscape. Harris focused hard on Bachelard’s face.

  “What are you playing at?” said Harris.

  His phone vibrated in his pocket. He checked it. O’Shea, as if summoned.

  He answered.

  “Anything?” said O’Shea.

  “Yeah, they’re doing something. I’m still not entirely sure what.”

  “The Agriolis are ropable. They want it shut down, ASAP.”

  “Interesting,” said Harris.

  “What is so fookin’ interesting about that?” said O’Shea.

  “Leave it with me.”

  “No, wha—”

  Harris snapped the phone shut.

  Harris followed her up along the boulevard and around the point to Robinson Beach. Sophie parked by the surf club and got out, walked the path down to the rocks, and then scaled the rocks down to the beach. Harris stepped out of the car. It was a cold morning. The wind had a harsh chill in it. It was early and grey, no one around. He walked after her.

  Down on the sand, Sophie stood there with her arms wrapped around herself. If she heard him approach, she didn’t show it. She stayed fixed on the ocean in front. The ocean foamed and roared.