Strange Ink

by Gary Kemble

  CHAPTER 23

  Monday morning traffic droned past as Harry sat at his computer, in a daze, staring at the screen. Saturday felt like a dream. Sunday he’d awoken fresh, after the best night’s sleep he’d had since the first tattoo appeared. He’d somehow slept through a massive thunderstorm. Sitting up in bed, he’d checked his phone. Jess’s number was there. He wanted to text her but resisted the urge, instead calling Sandy to make sure she was okay. He’d decided not to go for a run, opting for a leisurely walk. On his way back home, he noticed the graffiti on the water tower had been painted over.

  ‘Harry!’

  Harry turned towards Miles’s office, glancing over at Christine. She hadn’t looked at him all day. On Sunday he’d tried phoning her, but she hadn’t answered. He felt a stab of unease. Had she told Miles about what had happened? He was genuinely ashamed about how he’d behaved and, although he probably deserved a sexual harassment lecture, he didn’t feel like he could deal with one right now.

  Harry got up and walked into Miles’s office. Miles shut the door, and that was the first sign that something was up. Harry could only recall four occasions in all the years he’d been at the Chronicle that Miles had bothered. One was when the general manager had visited, one was when Miles’s wife had called him at work to tell him about the results of her scan (at one point it looked like she had lung cancer, but the tumour turned out to be benign) and the other two were when he’d had to let staff go.

  ‘Harry. Take a seat.’

  Miles sat down and started rearranging the pens on his desk. He glanced up at his computer screen as though hoping to find answers there, then back at Harry.

  ‘Harry, what’s going on?’

  ‘I. . . What has Christine told you?’

  ‘Christine? She’s being ridiculously loyal. But I heard about what happened on Friday night.’

  ‘I can explain.’

  ‘You’d better, because I’ve had the Brisbane Mail editor on the phone this morning, demanding an apology.’

  Brisbane Mail? Shit.

  ‘I lost my cool. You know Redwood and I go back. We’ve had run-ins. I thought Christine really deserved that award. . . I’m sorry. I’ll call Redwood myself and apologise.’

  Miles nodded. Harry started to rise out of his seat.

  ‘It’s more than that, Harry,’ he said.

  Miles arranged the pens on his blotter, then moved them to the other side.

  ‘I’m concerned that you’ve. . .’ he frowned, but wouldn’t look Harry in the eye, ‘lost your focus.’

  Harry nodded, brain reeling. Trying to find a defence. He needed more time to think, so he let Miles carry on.

  ‘I know that things have been tough for you. I heard you’ve got tattoos?’ And now he did glance up at Harry, then back down at the page.

  Harry nodded. ‘Yeah.’ He didn’t elaborate.

  Miles cleared his throat. ‘I wanted to remind you that I’m here for you. How long have we known each other? I know that we don’t socialise, but I just wanted to tell you that you’re a vital part of the team here. It wouldn’t be the same without you.’

  Harry blinked. It was like he was hearing his eulogy. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He remembered the sound of a spade thunking against stony ground as the man he now remembered as being called Crow dug his grave. The heavy sensation of dirt pressing down on him. What had Kyla gone through? The same? Worse, judging by Jess’s response.

  ‘And I wanted to remind you that we can get you counselling, if you need it,’ he said, then cleared his throat again.

  Shit! Harry thought, remembering the follow-up appointment he’d missed.

  ‘Thanks. Thanks, Miles. And I’m sorry. I know Christine has been doing more than her share. I figured that it would be good for her, you know, bearing more of the load. Toughen her up.’

  He realised how stupid it sounded the moment he said it. ‘And I know it seems like I’ve been doing nothing, but I am actually working on a story.’

  ‘Oh? Really?’ He sounded as though he didn’t believe it.

  ‘Yeah. But I can’t really go into it at the moment.’

  Miles nodded, grabbing onto anything that could be interpreted as a positive in this grim situation.

  ‘And the counselling?’

  ‘I’m seeing someone.’

  Miles nodded frantically, still moving the pens backwards and forwards on his blotter.

  ‘Great! That’s great! Sometimes the best thing you can do is talk to someone, right?’

  Harry nodded. Miles stood. The meeting was over.

  ‘Thanks for your support, Miles. And I really am trying.’

  ‘I know you are, mate. I know you are.’

  Miles watched Harry as he got up and left the office. Christine made a point of not looking at him. He sat down and swung his chair towards her until she looked at him.

  ‘Christine,’ he said. ‘I’m really sorry.’

  She nodded stiffly.

  ‘I feel like a total goose,’ he said. ‘I shudder when I think about Friday night. I know there’s nothing I can do. I just wanted you to know that I’m basically a good guy. I’m just going through a rough patch.’

  ‘Thanks, Harry.’ A tiny smile touched her lips, before she turned back to the computer.

  CHAPTER 24

  Black Hawk 230 lifted off the deck of the HMAS Kanimbla, engines roaring above the soldiers’ heads as they hunkered down in the helicopter’s load bay. In seconds they were half a kilometre over the deep blue ocean. Somewhere out there was Fiji, where Commander Bainimarama was threatening to declare martial law. In case things got out of hand, 1 Squadron was moved in off the coast to facilitate the evacuation of Australian citizens. Rob checked the strap holding him to the deck, looked around at the other guys in the packed load bay.

  Rob shook his head. It didn’t feel right, without Laney and Birmo. Since returning from Afghanistan, much of his time had been spent trying to find out what happened over there. Every avenue he tried, he found brick walls. Until eventually his CO made it clear it would be in his best interests to let it go. But he still woke up at night, sweating, seeing the woman lying spread-eagled on that cold floor. Except in his nightmares she was still alive, begging him to help her. To avenge her.

  He still had her hijab. Kyla thought it was ghoulish, wanted him to throw it out. But he couldn’t part with it, couldn’t let it go.

  And now Laney and Birmo were gone. An IED, as usual. Tore the Bushmaster apart. He was beginning to think they were cursed. That the mission had been cursed. He thought about the crazy guy, the one they’d saved after the Fajar Baru went down all those years ago. Ahmed. Covered head to foot in tattoos. Screaming about blessings and curses. Magic. He sure could use some of that right now.

  The Black Hawk banked, the view from his doorway filled with the seemingly endless Pacific Ocean. He longed to be down there, swimming free. Then the Kanimbla swung into view, looking like a kid’s bathtub toy.

  ‘Okay, here we go,’ he said.

  They wouldn’t actually be fast-roping on this run. This was for the pilot and payload master to work on their signals. All the same, Rob felt his heart rate jack.

  The plan was for Midsy to bring the Black Hawk around, flare the nose to bring the speed down, then level off over the Kanimbla’s deck. Below them, the Kanimbla rushed past, and for the first time Rob got a sense of the speed at which they were travelling. Sailors on the deck below looked up, holding their hands over their eyes to block the sun.

  As the Black Hawk swung over the deck, a heavy thunk sounded over their heads and the engine screamed. Smoke filled the cabin, then was swept away. It all happened in a matter of seconds, and yet Rob saw and felt every detail. The pitch of the engines rose until a metallic crunch silenced them. Over his headphones, someone let out a string of expletives.

  The helicopter spun, the centrifugal force trying to tear Rob and the other soldiers out of the Black Hawk, the quick-release straps holdi
ng them tight. The deck loomed large, in high definition, a large X marking the centre of the landing pad.

  Well, at least he’s on target.

  Smash.

  Darkness.

  Silence.

  Rob tried to draw breath, got sea water instead. Tried to cough it away and then realised where he was. Bubbles drifted around him, out of the Black Hawk’s submerged cabin. It turned on its side and the Kanimbla’s hull presented itself, wrapped in a corona of sunlight. Dark forms writhed in the glow, kicked for the surface.

  He grabbed the release on his harness and pulled himself free, pushed himself out of the Black Hawk’s open doorway. He saw Tim’s outstretched hand and grabbed it. It was limp. Blood bloomed from a gaping wound at the back of Tim’s head. Rob tried for his harness but it was stuck. The button depressed but the straps wouldn’t let go.

  He jammed his boots against the edge of the doorway and pulled with all his strength. Something in his back gave way and new pain blossomed through the darkness. Black spots bloomed at the edges of his vision. His lungs screamed.

  Rob let go. Kicked away. The Black Hawk dropped into the darkness. He pulled the cord on his life jacket. The cylinder hissed but the jacket remained flaccid. He kicked for the surface. Every part of his body throbbed, especially his back. He thought of Kyla, back in Perth, waiting for him, and kicked one last time. His strength gave out. The life jacket finally filled with CO2, and dragged him the rest of the way to the surface.

  * * *

  Harry surged out of sleep, fell off the bed. He writhed on the floor in the half-dark, clutching his back, then curled up in a ball, panting, listening to the crows cawing from the trees. His lungs were fine. His back – that was a different issue.

  He pulled himself to his feet, trying to ignore the pins and needles coursing through his fingers and toes.

  I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay.

  If he kept telling himself that, it might become true. He limped around his bedroom, hands to his head, trying to get a grip.

  Eventually, he’d calmed down enough to recognise the pain of the new tattoo. Above his right hip, on his back. He gingerly pressed a hand against it, and it came away bloody. Not as bad as the poppies, but little lines of blood, printed against his hand. He took himself to the bathroom, found a damp washer, and dabbed it against the tattoo.

  He twisted, sending a new spasm of pain across his back, and caught a glimpse of it in the mirror. A hand, crushing something. A bird? Insect? Underneath, some writing.

  He returned to his bedroom, picked up his iPhone and snapped a photo, as close as he could get without the picture blurring. No, not a bird. A Black Hawk. He shuddered, remembering the moment when the engines screamed. The tattoo was really well done. You could see the tendons on the arm, jutting out as the hand squeezed the life out of the Black Hawk. The rotors resembled insect wings. Light shining off the canopy gave it the look of eyes, seeing their last.

  The writing underneath held names. He recognised one of them. Tim Daniels. The other name was Justin Middleton. It rang a bell.

  He fired up his laptop and googled. The top result was a news article, titled: ‘Chopper pilot blamed for fatal Fiji crash.’

  He scanned the story. Two men had died in the crash – Tim Daniels and the pilot, Justin Middleton. Midsy. Six others were injured.

  A report found no mechanical fault with the Black Hawk, which had to be recovered from two-and-a-half thousand metres. There were, however, faults in the life jackets, which had trouble inflating at depths of five metres or more. Harry closed his eyes, saw deep blue. The sun a pale disc a long way above him.

  The news report quoted SAS soldiers who had been interviewed as part of the inquiry, telling of how they heard the engines screaming just before the accident.

  Later on in the article, an SAS trooper, speaking off the record, said he could not believe that Middleton was responsible for the accident, describing him as the ‘Valentino Rossi of Black Hawk pilots’.

  On a whim, Harry googled ‘Fiji Black Hawk conspiracy’. It threw up the same bunch of news articles and then, further down, a post on an unofficial Australian Defence Force forum. The title of the thread: ‘Silenced for speaking out’, by SASmate.

  ‘I gave evidence to the inquiry, they ignored me. I spoke to the press, and was discharged when someone dobbed me in. To make matters worse, the press misquoted me. I didn’t just say I couldn’t believe Midsy was responsible. I said he wasn’t responsible.’

  The post was followed by a random selection of comments. Some of them backing SASmate, others accusing him of being a conspiracy theorist. SASmate dived into the thread a couple of times to defend himself, but was very coy about what exactly he knew. Harry noted his username, and then moved on.

  He stared through the screen. Names. He closed his eyes, trying to capture the memory before it escaped. Birmo and Laney. Rob thought they were cursed.

  Harry considered.

  Googled ‘Birmingham Lane IED 2008’.

  Another news hit: ‘Defence names Afghan dead’.

  Geoff Lane and John Birmingham were killed in Helmand province when the Bushmaster they were riding in drove over an improvised explosive device. Two other men were injured.

  He scanned down. A defence analyst said although major roads were frequently cleared, it was impossible to make them 100 per cent safe. He said Taliban insurgents often chose parts of the road that International Security Assistance Force troops had no choice but to drive over.

  The tattoos throbbed. He knew that Tim was with Rob when they witnessed the massacre. And now, reading the names on the screen, he remembered the other two as well.

  Get onto the others. Tell them what’s going down.

  They were on the other side of the valley when the massacre happened.

  Harry sat there, fidgeting. I need a run. Outside, the kookaburras were calling. The sun was up but hadn’t reached his place. He checked his watch. Plenty of time.

  He pulled on an old pair of shorts and a singlet, and headed out. He stretched, ignoring the weight of the humid air on his skin. He’d be much hotter soon. He avoided the steep incline of his street, instead heading down a side road. He wound his way through the dark streets, concentrating on the refreshing burn of air in and out of his lungs.

  On one level he was thinking about the tattoos, and Jess, and Christine, and Cardinal. On another level he was watching his surroundings, noticing the little details. A man in green overalls munching on a piece of toast by the window. A mangy old cat, yellow-eyed in the shadows. A possum, inching its way along a powerline. A young guy buzzing past on a black scooter.

  Time to crank this up a notch.

  Harry put on some speed, pumping his arms, relishing the pain. He took a right, heading up the hill, in the shadow of the water tower. His muscles screamed at him to stop, his back throbbed, but he kept up the pace, leaning into the steep incline, still maintaining total awareness of his surroundings. Was this what it was like in Afghanistan? Always watching, always waiting?

  Harry lost himself in the streets, taking turns at random, up and down hills. Past renovated Queenslanders built in underneath and old ones with mossy gates and rusting roofs. Into the sunlight as he rose to the tops of hills, and then down into the shadows again as jacarandas threw their lush green arms over the narrow streets.

  Still Harry pushed himself, tasting blood at the back of his throat. At the top of the hill he turned left, then around into the grassy park, under the boughs of the old fig tree. He stopped at the benches, gasping lungfuls of air, walking around in a circle so he could look out at the city. The run had cleared his mind. In those last few minutes all his concentration was taken up with just blocking out the pain, refusing to give in to the body’s frantic demands to stop.

  Walking, hands on hips, still sucking in great mouthfuls of air, he looked out to the north. Towards Jess. He wanted to call her. It was just as well he’d left his phone at home. Not a good look, calling her up a
fter only meeting her once, panting down the line like a pervert.

  He turned away, walked up the hill, into the narrow alley that led to the water tower. The sun warmed his skin as the sweat dried on his body. It was going to be a hot one today. Around him, morning sounds filled the air. Showers. A coffee machine. Cutlery tinkling on crockery. As he passed the abandoned house he heard a splash as someone dived into their pool for an early morning swim.

  Harry rounded the corner. He’d pretty much caught his breath now, and the only pain he felt was a steady throbbing in his lower spine.

  The water tower looked like a new place. The old temporary fence was gone. In its place was a twelve-foot monster, topped with razor wire and. . . Harry blinked. He couldn’t quite believe it. Inside the ring of razor wire were three strands of plain wire, guided by insulators. Sure enough, on the fence was a sign, featuring a man getting zapped by a lightning bolt. WARNING! ELECTRIFIED FENCE – for those who didn’t get the pictogram.

  The scent of cut grass hung in the air. Harry walked closer. The gate in the fence was secured by a deadbolt. From one of the water tower’s legs, the glass eye of a security camera stared down. All mention of Swenson Constructions was gone.

  As far as Andrew Cardinal was concerned, it was game over.

  Harry stared through the links. On the other side of the tower, he could see Croydon Street. Now that the sun had crept higher, he could even see his car.

  And someone walking away from his front door. Dark suit. Sunglasses. He craned his neck to see who it was, but they disappeared down Ozanne Street.

  ***

  When he got back home he found a small beige envelope, sitting just inside the door. He turned it over. There was no writing, but the envelope bore the familiar SC logo of Swenson Constructions. Harry ripped it open and peered inside. A memory stick. No note.

  Harry slotted it into his Mac, stripping out of his running clothes while he waited for it to boot. He double-clicked on the drive. His breath caught in his throat.