Foolishly, the ballhead has left his treasured fold-up deckchair unoccupied, across the fire from him, facing the bivouac. Hurriedly fetching a plate from a nearby pile, Wallace plonks himself into the seat, sighing theatrically, placing the shotgun within easy reach beside him.
The ballhead, the distant drone of one for whom the seventies featured too much strong acid: ‘Must you, man? I’ve been working on my feet all morning.’
Wallace, apathetic: ‘So? Do yu think I was lying down while I went on that wild goose chase’a yaws?’
The ballhead, sighing defeat, looking back to his cooking: ‘More than likely. No sign of life down there, then?’
Wallace, delightedly mordant: ‘Wellllllll, there was a few taniwhas … and a few elfs … oh, and sum dwarfs as well! But noooooo, there weren’t any …’ Wallace’s sentence, his train of thought, explodes cleaner than a seed in a joint as he watches the ballhead glance upwards, face draining like a plug’s been pulled …
… horrified eyes resting on a spot above Wallace’s head …
… mouth working at nothing.
The fork with which he’s been stirring falls to the dirt as the ballhead rocks to his backside reflexively, hands reaching for the air.
Wallace, alarmed: ‘What the …’
Something hard enough to stun jabs the rear of his skull, but before Wallace can leap to his feet, or even turn around, a low growl stills him. ‘This is a gun, muvafucker. A big one. One move from yu and it goes orf.’
Pathetically united of a sudden, Wallace’s eyes ask the ballhead a question, to which the man nods dumbly. Then, of its own accord, Wallace’s right hand eases toward the shotgun at his feet …
‘Yes. That wooda bin my next move too! Doan think it, just do it … and let me watch yaw boyfriend spend the next five minnits scraping yaw brains orf his face.’
As if burned, Wallace’s hand leaps into his lap.
Disappointed: ‘Oh, man, yaw no fun at all. That’s yaw last chance, by the way. Now stand up … Slooooowly … Good boy. Hands in tha air … Higher. Now turn round, just as slow.’
Wallace, choked: ‘I doan wanna see yaw face, bro. Please doan make me look …’
This time the blow’s hard enough to drop him yelping to one knee. A strong hand drags him back up by the hair and something hard and cold is thrust into his ear, tilting his head.
Macabrely level: ‘Now look what yu made me do: break my word. I doan much like cunts ’u make me break my word. Yu gonna disrespect me again, boy?’
Snivelling: ‘N–, no, sir.’
‘Turn round.’
If anything the sight of the ‘man’ only aggravates Wallace’s horror. Tall and strong, old jeans and brush-cotton shirt, sleeves rolled down. Dark sack-cloth hooding him to shoulder level, headsman-style, the lenses of black shades lining the hood’s eye slits.
This complete lack of identity lends the being an inhuman air, scaring Wallace as atavistically as a five-year-old’s closet demon. Though Wallace hasn’t the composure to articulate as much, only the figure’s accent and hand colour attest to its Maoriness.
Its chilling weapon Wallace acknowledges obliquely: a rifle, perhaps a 30.06 calibre, bolt-action, the barrel sawn to eight inches, stock shaped into a pistol-grip.
It, calm: ‘On yaw knees.’
Though — according to Wallace’s favoured execution fantasy — this development is dire, defying the creature is an option he doesn’t consider, slumping to the ground without thought, gulping.
‘Get up ’ere an’ join ’im, bawl’ead.’
Wallace barely senses the ballhead crawl into position beside him.
‘I want yaw ’ands ’igher.’
Any higher now and they’ll both strain ligaments.
‘All right, Maori boy.’ The sudden warmth in the thing’s gravelly voice is so discordant with the setting that for a desperate instant Wallace wonders if he isn’t dreaming. ‘I want yu t’ watch sumthing real close.’ Easing three inches of barrel between Wallace’s teeth, with its left hand it takes a big hunting knife from it’s waistband. The ballhead whimpers softly as its tip is used to indicate a spot on his throat. ‘Yu watching, Maori boy?’
Wallace, turning his head, gagging around the metal: ‘Uh-huh.’
Breezy: ‘This ’ere’s the carotid artery. This ’ere, is the jug-ya-la vein.’ The ballhead’s eyes close tight to block X rays. ‘Shood I choose to shave one’a them, ’e’ll lose enuf blood t’ kill ’im in about … mmmmmm … fawdy-odd seconds, I s’pose. An’ yu an’ me, Maori boy … haha … well, our clothes’ll be in need of a real good wash!’
Without warning the knife slides across two inches of skin, blood welling in its tracks, falling in a steady curtain.
Panting like a natal exercise, the ballhead’s efforts to remain still attain a pulse of their own.
Continuing the lesson: ‘Now that’s just a scratch. But if I were t’ cut ’im one inch furva …’
Smoothly, it shifts the knife to Wallace’s throat, the ballhead sagging like a popped sex-doll, chin ground into his collarbone, attempting to staunch the flow without hands, gun-barrel kissing his cheek unerringly.
At the steel’s wet touch the ice-water in Wallace threatens to swamp him. Breath enters his lungs in low grunts.
Low, tender: ‘I wanna noe where the resta yaw friends are, Maori boy. An’ I wanna noe eg-zakly what they armed wif. Faw every wrong arn-sa I’ll open yu anuva inch. At a guess yu’ll be allowed, sayyyyy, three fuck-ups. And ’member: there’s two’a yu’s, and that’s one cunt maw than I need.’
Wallace, instantly: ‘Theresnooneelse!’
A pain so sharp Wallace barely feels it.
‘I fuckin’ promise, bro! Just us!’
Far more insistent is the sudden sensation of wetness, flowing down his neck, trickling inside his shirt, tickling his nipple, his stomach.
Hissing: ‘Doan. Please stop, bro. Ah fuck, I doan wanna die like this! It’s just us two, I swear to fuckin’ god!’
The rushing in Wallace’s ears builds until, with a dull thud, he finds himself staring at the forest canopy above him, arms still outstretched.
It, apparently peeved: ‘Shit, nigga. Why didin’ yu jus’ say so?’ Louder: ‘Yeah, it’s jus’ this pair’a pussies, chief. No maw muscle.’
Again, it hauls Wallace up by his hair, steps back a few paces. ‘Botha yu’s use yaw right ’and t’ stop that bleeding … befaw we got a accident on our ’ands.’
Clapping palms over wounds, for a moment Wallace’s gaze finds the ballhead’s; they cling like orphans in a holocaust.
Another figure appears at the edge of the clearing, speaks quietly: ‘Yu shaw it’s jus’ them?’
Similarly dressed, head disguised likewise, this second apparition is much taller than its accomplice: were he free to rationalise, Wallace may have put its height at six foot seven. Lean, its shirt nevertheless juts around a neat pot stomach, and underneath its shirt cuff a big, square dressing can be seen taped across a wound on the back of its brown hand.
Gunman: ‘As shore as can be wifout bleeding one’a them prop’ly. If that’s what yu want …?’
A few seconds later: ‘Not yet.’ — Wallace groans loud relief — ‘Get ’em in the shelter.’
Gunman: ‘Yu ’eard the man. Get in yaw fuckin’ kennel.’
With Gunman following hard, they scramble to obey, slumping to cringing positions near the pile of supplies at the bivouac’s rear. Even with its flapping door thrown across the roof, the bivouac remains shadowy.
Shorter folk might stand erect in the high shelter, but these reavers, especially when the second enters, a small army pack in its hands, are forced to stoop. Awkwardness, though, divests them of no authority whatsoever.
Number Two, crouched like a spring, looks both captives over for long seconds. At last, sneering darkly: ‘So yaw Hemi’s pet bawl’ead, are yu?’
The ballhead, stammering, avoiding eye contact tangibly: ‘Uhhhh … it … I guess you co
uld phrase it that way.’
Wallace can’t cork a yelp as Number Two explodes, snatching the ballhead in two hands, hurling him to his back in a far corner. Yelling: ‘Yu think yu in a piz-i-shin t’ be a smart cunt?’ He drops a vicious knee at the ballhead’s midsection — ‘Uuuuuggggghhhhh!’ — holds him still by the hair, and hits him hard in the face with a short right.
Hits him again, smashing his glasses free.
Again.
Shrieking; gulping.
Again.
Smearing blood from the ballhead’s nose, from a cut eye, across his face in a grisly stain.
Again.
Gunman, crooning, picking Wallace’s nostril with the barrel of his weapon: ‘Make a move, beau. Just faw me.’
Manhandling him back to Wallace’s side, Number Two rams the ballhead’s face into the ground, one, two, three times …
… stops as suddenly as he started.
The ballhead, huddling into himself: ‘Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck …’
Looming over him, for a second Number Two’s right arm dangles inches from Wallace’s face, and the prospect sees that his exertions have dislodged part of the tape holding the dressing across the rear of his hand, letting it flap almost free …
And Wallace learns that the hand isn’t wounded at all; rather that the function of the dressing was to cover a four-inch tattoo — a scorpion, sting held high, done in green, black and red.
Realisation dehydrates Wallace like a blow-torch. He snaps his face away from the hand, screwing his eyes shut.
Number Two, panting, seeming not to notice his tattoo’s conspicuousness, rapping Gunman on the shoulder: ‘Let’s get it done befaw I kill this smart cunt.’ From the backpack he hands Gunman a roll of industrial-strength duct tape. Louder: ‘Let’s go gard’ning, bawl’ead. Yu first.’
A brutalised puppy, the ballhead crawls from the shelter on all fours, whimpering, blood soiling the groundsheet beneath him in a steady patter.
When Scorp trails after him, Wallace almost faints from gratitude, utterly tractable as Gunman spins him about, using the tape to reduce his fingers to mere flippers, binding his wrists behind his back, his feet at the ankles, linking both appendages in a hog-tie. Cutting smaller strips to act as blindfold, gag, a cover for the neck wound.
Departs without word.
10
Sunday, 12 March, 11.28am
When Steve and Barry arrive at our position in thick bush along the plantation’s westerly reach, their prisoner’s not in the best of spirits.
Ron, rounding on Barry as Barry unmasks, laying down a strange shotgun: ‘You fucking, psycho sonofabitch! When I said make it look genuine that wasn’t a licence to beat me to a bloody pulp! You complete cunt!’ His voice saws through damaged sinus; adds weight to his epitome of victimhood. ‘My nose feels broken, I almost choked on a god-damn tooth, and when I told you I had a spare pair of glasses out here, I guessed you might trash the ones I was wearing, but not while they were still on my fucking face!’ Turning to Steve: ‘And you! You sick, black motherfucker! You didn’t say shit about using the fucking knife! I swear to Christ I thought I was deader than disco!’
Barry, smiling disbelief: ‘Can you believe this old fuck? We go to the trouble of putting his beatnik arse in a nice safe place and he kicks up a song and dance about it! What did ya want us to do? Paddle ya bottie and send ya to bed with no play-lunch?’
Steve, placing his hood in one of four hiking packs: ‘Look, Ron, perhaps we went a little furva than yu were expecting, and we might’ve bin able to simulate the violence wif less force, but yaw fear? Man, unless yu moonlight as De Niro, that ’ad t’ be authentic. And it was. Yaw reactions to us did maw to convince Wallace of yaw surprise than a hundred mock punches could ever’ve done.’
Me, though shocked at the comparative condition of the poised hippie who had furtively met us this morning, guided us in: ‘Ron, dude, we’re sorry it had to go down like that, but you’ll thank us in a day or two.’
Barry: ‘You’re not fucking wrong. When that piece of shit rings Hemi with the bad news, the first thing Hemi asks him’ll be how you reacted to the raid. He’ll be hoping it was buddies of yours who pulled it ’cause that’ll present his best chance of recovering the gear. And when the prospect cunt tells him how both of ya’s had your throats partially slit in a hunt for info you would have passed on anyway, and then you got the living shit bashed out of ya, Hemi’ll exonerate you instantly. Reluctantly, but instantly.’
Ron, morose, but calming slowly: ‘Yeah, well, I fucking hope so, man. Like I said this morning, I phoned my missus, got her and the young fella to piss right off out of it for a while, but if that black fuck suspects me for one second, the three of us’ll be living outta suitcases till the next Hendrix gig.’
Steve: ‘Just make sure, when yu pretend to work yaw way outta the bonds sometime tomorrow morning, that Wallace is the one to phone Hemi. Cause if it’s yu, ’e woan believe a word that comes outta yaw mouth; yu’ve got too much to gain from double-crossing ’im. That prospect, ’e’s got nothing to gain from it. ’E was chosen faw ’is greenness. Vegas is ’is universe, and Hemi its centre. Wif the shit in the fan, ’is only ’ope is to convince Hemi of the truth as ’e sees it, and Hemi knows this. ’E’ll yell like a motherfucker, and cut up ugly as, but ’e’ll swallow everything Wallace tells ’im.’
Ron, nodding eventually: ‘Yeah, that’s true. That’s why Wallace’ll insist on being the one to break Hemi the news. He’s failed; he’s got no choice but to start atoning ASAP.’
Mick: ‘How did the tattoo gambit go? Don’t tell me Steve’s artwork was for nothing.’
Barry, grinning: ‘It worked sweet as. The tape was barely touching the skin anyway, and I managed to pull the dressing half off while I was fucking Ron over — sorry, man. Then I waved the fucker in Wallace’s face. I looked at him from the corner of my shades and fuck, you should have seen the pussy crumple. I thought he’d been scared before that! This Scorp must be one hard hombre.’
Steve: ‘’E is. That’s why ’e’s a nationwide Rabble legend when ’e’s never been outta Wellington. ’E’s certifiable, suspected in the shootings of two pigs, and fuck noes ’ow many real people. Even ’is chapter leader, Donk, ’ardly tells Scorp what t’ do. There’s a photo of ’im up on the wall round the Vegas pad, that’s ’ow I knew ’bout the tat, ’ow I knew Wallace’d know. ’E’ll be sitting in there right now shittin’ kidneys wondering what Scorp might do when ’e realises the cover’s ’alf orf.’
Barry unbuttons his shirt, slips out of it, removes the bundled T-shirt we’d taped to his stomach. The heavy caking of dirt and dark foundation with which we’d layered his hands from forearm down, is beginning to show sweat streaks. Starting on his boot-laces: ‘I’m glad Scorp’s beer gut’s no bigger than it is: I felt I should be playing Santa Claus, not some Maori hitman.’ He takes the wooden blocks from inside his boots. ‘And if he’d been any taller I’d’ve needed fucking stitches in my heels right now. Ouch.’
Me: ‘Bloody nice touch, I must say. The biggest variable now is what Hemi’ll do when he hears it was Scorp who ripped him.’
Steve: ‘There’s a few directions ’e might jump, and all of them take ’im furva from any of us. At first glance, yu’d guess ’e’d phone Donk and check if Scorp’s alibied or not. But t’ do that he’s gonna ’af t’ tell Donk what’s ’appened to ’is gear, and ’e’s still got a few weeks to play wif otherwise. ’E’ll even have t’ consider the possibility that Donk sent Scorp on the mission. If somehow ’e can quietly verify that Scorp can’t’ve bin ’ere, ’e’ll start t’ suspect every cunt around ’im, and the paranoia’ll ’ave ’im loose-cannoning all ova the fuckin’ shop.’
Ron, to Steve: ‘You’re positive there’s no chance of Hemi persuading this Donk that the best option for them both is to pool resources and try to lay hands on the culprits?’
Steve: ‘Snap out of it, man. I told yu on the phone a hundred times, th
e type of arrangement Donk ’ad wif Hemi includes no clauses. To Donk, the statement ’e’ll issue by topping Hemi’ll be worth as much as the pot anyway. If yu didin’ believe me when I reassured yu of this, yu wouldn’t’ve thrown in wif us. Yaw in the clear, bro. Chill the fuck out.’
Ron, almost to himself: ‘So the worst-case scenario from here is that Hemi concludes it was me who fucked him, starts hunting me, while the entire Rabble hunt him, and I have to lie low till they find the fucker and deal to him; maybe even head across to Aussie and hop on the treadmill awhile.’
Me: ‘That’s about the sum of it. What’ll you do after you “bust” free tomorrow?’
‘Well, the “bust” itself shouldn’t be a problem. I keep my scaling knife under a corner of the groundsheet in the bivvy, so as long as I’m not hog-tied — something Wallace’ll never know — you can do to me what you did to him and I’ll escape it authentically.’
Mick: ‘Yeah, on that, wouldn’t this Scorp dude just ice them? Hemi might smell a rat there.’
Steve, waving this off: ‘Na, no way. Scorp’s got nothing against them personally. As far as “he” noes, they can’t ID ’im t’ no cunt. And ’e got what ’e came faw. From what I’ve ’eard, ’e may be a psycho, but ’e’s a cold one: he doan go racking up life sentences just faw the hell of it.’
Ron, beginning to mellow to the flavours of freedom and revenge: ‘Yeah, it all seems groovy enough. So I’ll seal and bury my share of the reefer somewhere out here today, then “break” free tomorrow morning, giving you cats plenty of time to split the scene. While fuckhead’s up on the ridge breaking it gently to the endangered papa bear, I’ll assemble my vitals in my pack. Lately I’ve been conscious of erasing what evidence might point back to me should the fuzz wind up out here, so I know exactly what I need to pack out, and I can have it ready to go in three minutes flat. Last, in case Hemi orders Wallace to detain me, I’ll fetch Possumbane — my .22 rifle — from where I keep it beyond Wallace’s reach. You lot, of course, will have taken his weapon with you. Then it’s a simple matter of awaiting my “sidekick’s” return and bidding the little cunt adios.’
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