Strange Ink

by Gary Kemble

  A bell rang when he pushed the door open. There was a low counter, panelled in fake wood, with a mock granite top. Behind that, a doorway that presumably led through to the studio out the back. Harry could hear a tattoo machine buzzing.

  The walls were covered with designs: grinning skulls, naked babes, dragons and arcane scrollwork. A man pushed through the plastic strips. He was in his forties, arms covered in tattoos blotchy with age.

  Harry felt self-conscious in his shirt and tie, but he imagined he’d feel self-conscious no matter what he was wearing. The man looked him up and down, seemed to decide Harry wasn’t here for a tatt.

  ‘Yeah?’

  Harry cleared his throat. ‘Hi, I’m a reporter with the Chermside Chronicle. I’m looking for a guy called Rabs. I understand he used to work here a while back.’

  The guy stared at him for a couple of seconds before turning to the doorway.

  ‘Hey, Pablo! Got a guy here lookin’ for Rabs.’

  The buzzing stopped.

  ‘Oh yeah? Send him through.’

  The guy at the counter held a hand out, gesturing towards the curtain. Harry walked around the counter, trying to see through the strips. He could see people back there, but not who or how many.

  Harry had a vision of walking through there and seeing Cardinal’s henchmen waiting for him: Heathy running his fingers through his bedraggled blond hair, and Crow with his thumbs hooked in his belt, arms framing his sizeable gut. Ah, Harry, we’ve been waiting for you. He pushed through, ready to run, conscious of the counter guy following him through. He remembered the fight at the Shelter Bar, wishing he had some of Rob’s SAS training.

  There were four chairs out the back, but only one of them was being used. Like West End Tattoo, the space here was a strange mix of hair salon, dentist’s surgery and mechanic’s shop. Like West End there were pieces of art all over the walls, only here there were also a couple of calendars with bare-breasted women leering out. At the back of the room there was another doorway. This one was closed. There were no locks on it so presumably it led to another room, rather than outside.

  The guy in the chair had his shirt off. With his big beard and hairy chest he reminded Harry of a bear. Most of his skin was covered in tattoos. The tattooist was younger than Harry expected. Scrawny-looking, with a goatee and crazy hair. Harry thought the man was going to stop his work while he talked, but he changed the needle in the machine and carried on.

  ‘Rabs, hey?’ the tattooist said. ‘And what would a nice-looking guy like you want with Rabs?’

  ‘I’m a reporter with the Chermside Chronicle,’ Harry said. ‘Sorry, Harry. Harry Hendrick.’ Harry held out his hand.

  The tattoo machine buzzed away. Ink mixed with blood. Pablo wiped it away with a paper towel scrunched up into a ball in his hand. He ignored Harry’s hand. The guy in the chair seemed not to have noticed Harry at all. Harry dropped his hand.

  ‘I’m working on a story about Brisbane tattooists. I hear Rabs was a bit of a legend.’

  ‘The Chermside Chronicle, hey? Stones Corner seems a bit out of your patch.’

  ‘Well, the scope is a bit bigger than Chermside.’

  ‘Got a lot of tattoo fans up there?’

  Now Pablo did look up. His eyes were pale blue, and they seemed to stare right through Harry, right through the lie. Harry looked away. The tattooist looked back down at his work.

  ‘It’s just funny, you coming here and asking about Rabs,’ he said. He turned to the trolley and dipped the needle into a small pot of ink, ran the machine, then turned it off again with the foot pedal. ‘Because I hear tell of some prick who’s been stealing old Rabsy’s designs. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?’

  Harry had a split-second to consider his options. Telling the truth wasn’t one of them. Even trying to tell part of the truth would lead down a rabbit warren from which no sane person would think Harry was telling the truth.

  Harry shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Pablo said.

  Outside, a Harley burst into life. Harry jumped.

  ‘As it happens, Harry Hendrick, I do know where Rabs is. And I’m happy to give you the address.’

  ***

  The light was failing by the time Harry was shown into his room. Mack at West End Tattoo had warned him that Rabs was not the sort of bloke who bore fucking with, but the Rabs Harry was looking at was barely a man at all.

  His head lolled to one side, drool staining the pillow under his head. White hair stood up in tufts. Tattoos peeked out from under his grey pyjamas. His hands rested on top of the blue blanket, letters on his knuckles proclaiming STAY and TRUE.

  Harry was so transfixed he didn’t see the woman sitting beside his bed until she stood up. She was in her sixties. Dressed smartly. A weak smile touched her face when Harry entered the room.

  ‘Hello. You must be Harry. Pablo told me you were coming.’ A Scottish accent.

  ‘Hi.’

  Harry crept in. A nurse squeaked past outside. Somewhere further down the ward, someone broke into a hacking cough.

  ‘I’m Liz. Rabs’ wife.’ She took his hand and led him to a chair by Rabs’ bed.

  ‘Please, sit. So what is this you’re working on?’

  Harry felt awful, but lied anyway. ‘I’m doing some research on tattooing. Brisbane tattooists. I asked around. Rabs was a legend, or so I’m told.’

  Liz smiled. ‘Yes, he had his good days. Won a few competitions.’

  Thunder boomed in the distance.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Harry said. ‘But Pablo didn’t really explain. What happened?’

  ‘It was a few years ago now. . . 2008. We were doing some early Christmas shopping. Rabs hated it. Hated the shops. But I always made him come at Christmas-time. Presents for the kids – even though they’re all grown up these days.

  ‘We were at Indooroopilly, you know, the big shopping centre there. We’d finished and Rabs was pushing the trolley out into the car park. It was really busy. Cars everywhere. If we’d parked somewhere else. . .’

  She was finding it hard to hold it together.

  ‘Someone was waiting a couple of storeys up, the police said. Our level sort of jutted out, so they were right above us. They put a besser brick in a shopping bag. Dropped it.’

  She pressed a hand against her mouth. ‘Police found cigarette butts up there. Another brick. Presumably in case the first one missed.

  ‘It didn’t miss. Doctors said he was lucky not to be killed. Some days, I’m not sure about that.’

  She patted his hand.

  ‘Did they catch who did it?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. Security footage wasn’t much help. Because it was outside. The lighting wasn’t very good. He was big. Big gut. Jeans, denim vest. Police said it was to do with some feud between rival bikie gangs.’

  Harry nodded. He held up his notebook. ‘Sorry, do you mind?’

  She waved it away. Harry scribbled some notes.

  ‘And what do you think?’

  ‘This isn’t just about tattooists, is it?’

  Harry wanted to remove his shirt, or roll up his sleeves and show her the tattoos. He suppressed the urge. Yeah, she looked harmless. She looked like someone who had been well and truly fucked over. But it would be just as hard for her to accept the provenance of the tattoos as it would anyone other than Jess, and possibly Sandy. He shook his head.

  ‘Are you interviewing me?’ Liz asked.

  ‘We can call this background. It means that I won’t attribute anything to you. In fact, I won’t publish any of this stuff unless I can get it confirmed by at least two other sources. And, of course, I won’t name you when I’m seeking that confirmation,’ he said.

  She looked at him warily.

  ‘To be honest, Liz. I don’t know if I’ve got a story. There are just pieces of information at the moment. Possibly unrelated. But I’ve got a feeling there’s something in it.’

  She nodded, looked do
wn at her hands, entwined in her lap.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I don’t think it was to do with any rivalry between the clubs. Rabs was never directly involved with the clubs. We hung out with a lot of bikies, and the shop was owned – is still owned – by the Dreadnorts.

  ‘We would have known if there was something going on. If the boss had known that someone was out to get Rabs, he would have told him.’

  She reached up and held Rabs’ hand. It was almost pitch black outside now, a storm rolling in and blocking out the last vestiges of sunset. Wind rattled the window.

  ‘The other thing is, why attack Rabs? He was good, sure. But you’ve seen what bikies do when they want to close down a tattoo parlour. They firebomb it. Or they bust in and trash it, give the tattooists a bit of a rough-up. Happens all the time.

  ‘This was just Rabs.’

  Other than the subtle rise and fall of his chest, Rabs hadn’t moved. He couldn’t move. Harry wondered if the tattooist was taking all this in, desperately trying to speak. If he could talk through his tattoos, what would he say?

  ‘So, what do you think happened?’

  ‘Rabs knew something. Someone didn’t want it coming out.’

  ‘Do you have any idea what it was about?’

  Liz shrugged. ‘Drugs, presumably. I warned Rabs about it. They used to cut drugs out in that back room at Stones Corner. Rabs said they always made sure it was after hours.

  ‘That would explain why the cops didn’t chase it. As far as they were concerned, anyone connected with the Dreadnorts, in any way, deserved what they got.

  ‘I called the police every week after it happened. Every week. Got the run-around. Eventually they told me, point-blank: “Forget about it, love. It’s over.” Pricks.’

  She squeezed Rabs’ hand again. In her eyes was a glimmer of hope that one day he might squeeze back.

  ‘Oh, and there was that guy, the one who went missing. Got Rabs to do a lot of tattoos on him. Rabs got home quite late one night, said that this guy had come in just as he was packing up. Rabs did the job anyway.

  ‘A couple of days later, the guy disappeared, and then this happened.’

  ‘Do you remember his name?’

  She rolled her eyes to the ceiling, trying to remember.

  ‘Yeah, it was that army guy. Rob someone.’

  CHAPTER 28

  Sweat dripped down the back of Rob’s neck. Cars churned up the thick night air. He felt sick. He felt dirty. Kyla stood in front of him, holding his hands. In the light from the streetlamp she looked yellow, dead already. ‘This is stupid,’ she said.

  ‘It’s not.’

  ‘That place is where they hang out,’ she said.

  He didn’t need to look. He had seen Stones Corner Tattoo a thousand times. It looked the same tonight as it always did.

  ‘Can you see any Harleys?’

  ‘Jesus, Rob! He wants to kill us! Ahmed is dead. We’re next.’

  ‘Rabs is in there. Rabs is okay.’

  ‘But he can’t protect you from the Dreadnorts, okay?’

  ‘It’s not all of them. It’s not like the whole club wants to hand me over.’

  Kyla shook her head. Hair stuck to her sweaty face. Rob went to push it away but she swatted his hand.

  ‘Don’t,’ she said.

  ‘I have to do this.’

  ‘Rob. Your mate at the paper has done the dirty on us. You know what I had to do to get some of that information?’

  Rob couldn’t look her in the eye. She hadn’t told him everything, and he didn’t want to know.

  ‘Ahmed is dead. With all his tattoos, he’s dead. Having another one on your body won’t make a difference. We have to get the fuck out of here.’

  A semi-trailer hit the air brakes coming down to the roundabout. Rob jumped and reached for the gun tucked into the holster at the small of his back.

  ‘And we will. But first I have to do this.’

  She shook her head. ‘I can’t believe you believe that shit.’

  ‘You let Ahmed tattoo you as well.’

  ‘Well, why the fuck not? But it didn’t save him from that shottie, you know?’

  Rob squeezed Kyla’s hands. ‘It’ll only take an hour or so. I’ll get the names first. Leave it at that, if I have to.’

  ‘Rob. Listen to me. Please. If we can get down to New South Wales we can fight from there. Cardinal hasn’t won. He just thinks he has. But he’s got this place locked up tight.’

  ‘I know. But. . . I don’t think we’re going to make it. And I want an insurance policy.’

  ‘Well, I’m not waiting here for you. I’m a sitting duck.’

  He pulled her close. She smelt of sweat and dirt. She smelt wonderful.

  ‘I love you,’ he said.

  Kyla pushed away from him. ‘Just. . . just be safe, okay?’

  It was what she’d always said before he went away. Not be careful, because she knew that in his line of work he couldn’t be careful. In fact, in Afghanistan, being careful was a good way of getting killed. But be safe. Do everything you can to not get yourself killed.

  She turned and walked back towards the bus station. Rob took one last look at her and headed for the tattoo parlour.

  There was no-one on the front desk at this time of night. But he could hear someone shuffling around out the back.

  ‘Rabs?’

  ‘Is that who I think it is?’

  When Rob first met Rabs, at Dooley’s over in the Valley, he almost got into a fight with him because he couldn’t understand his thick Glaswegian accent.

  ‘Yeah. Rob.’

  The giant Scotsman pushed through the beaded curtains. He reminded Rob of Billy Connolly, but twice the size, and of course covered in tattoos. A naked woman, anchors, names, dragons, cards, dice and skulls intertwined up his arms. Rob held out his hand, but Rabs engulfed him in a big, sweaty bear hug.

  ‘You fuckin’ mad bastard. You’re not safe around here, you know.’

  ‘Don’t you start. I’ve just copped an earful from Kyla.’

  He pushed Rob away and looked over his shoulder. ‘Smart woman. Those fuckers have put a mark on your head.’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ Rob said. ‘We’re going to make ourselves scarce. Just need to get one more tattoo.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be worried about tattoos, Robby. I’d be worried about getting the fuck outta Dodge.’

  ‘Just one more. It’s important.’

  Rabs dragged him out the back. There was no-one else out there.

  ‘I was just packing up, but I suppose I can squeeze one more in,’ Rabs said. He pulled over one of the rolling trolleys, started getting inks set up. ‘What are you after? A butterfly? A nice Celtic band, perhaps.’

  ‘Hardy-fucking-har-har, you Scots cunt.’

  Rob pulled his shirt over his head. Rabs’ eyes flicked to the holster, but he didn’t say anything. Rob knew Rabs had seen plenty of guns, and he knew to keep his mouth shut. Rob explained what he wanted, and wrote down the names. To his credit, Rabs just nodded and got his gear ready.

  Rabs took a needle out of its sterile wrapping, slotted it into the machine. Fired it up with the foot pedal. The needle flashed in and out, point blurring. Rob climbed onto the chair, leant over. Rabs grabbed a razor and gave the area a quick once-over, then swabbed with alcohol.

  ‘Time’s short,’ Rabs said. ‘I think I might draw this one right on, if that’s okay with you.’

  ‘Sure – just no giant penises.’

  ‘Aw, you’re no fun.’

  Rob recognised the pain but it didn’t bother him anymore. After Ahmed’s crazy bamboo-shoot technique, this was bliss. Ahmed. He zoned out for a while, trying not to think.

  Rabs worked steadily on the tattoo. Then he asked, ‘So when did they get him?’

  ‘Tonight,’ Rob replied. ‘We tried phoning him. He didn’t answer. Went over there and the wife was screaming over his body.’

  ‘Shit. After all they went through.’

  ‘Ye
p. I bet they thought, after the Fajar Baru, things couldn’t get any worse.’

  Rob drifted off, the buzz lulling him into a trance. As the ink went into his skin, he felt the memories moving down into a box in his brain. Like his dossier. A hole in the darkness. Cardinal would pay. Crow and Heathy would pay. One way or another.

  ‘How’d they do it?’

  Rob jerked, realised he’d been asleep. There hadn’t been much chance to do much of that over the past couple of days. But he felt safe with Rabs.

  ‘Shotgun.’

  Rabs went back to work. Rob felt a dull ache in his lower back. If he had to sit here like this much longer, with his hip twisted towards Rabs, it would get really sore. He wished he had some of his painkillers, but he’d binned his stockpile at home after the incident at the bar. The damn things almost got him killed.

  Outside, traffic droned past. And then something that was distinct from the sound of normal traffic. The big, heavy blast of a Harley. No, two.

  ‘Steady,’ Rabs said. ‘Could be friendly.’

  ‘Yeah. Right.’

  Rabs switched off the machine.

  ‘Over there. In the cupboard,’ Rabs said.

  Rob opened the cupboard. It was full of old tattoo magazines and books. He quickly lifted stacks of them and put them on the bench, then slipped himself inside. The cupboard smelt of mildew and old paper. He pulled the gun out of its holster, left the door open a crack.

  The Harleys pulled up out the back. Engines cut off. From where he was hiding, he could see the doorway at the back of the studio. Heavy footsteps. He could imagine their heavy biker boots. The security gate at the back of the studio clanged open. They were inside.

  Rabs’ door opened and two men pushed through into the studio. Heathy and Crow. Rob cursed under his breath.

  Heathy brandished an axe handle. Crow didn’t appear to be armed, but he probably had a knife or something on him.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Rabs said. Rob was amazed at how calm he sounded. ‘I was just cleaning up.’

  Rabs stepped to one side, towards the chair Rob had just been leaning on. Rob saw his shirt hanging over the back. Fuck.