Strange Ink

by Gary Kemble

  ‘Look at me,’ Harry said. He let Rob come forward.

  Jim slumped in the seat, stunned. ‘What the fuck?’ he whispered.

  ‘Rob’s inside me. His spirit.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  The plane climbed through the cerulean sky. A part of Harry wished he was on it. He cleared his throat. Wished he’d brought his water bottle with him.

  ‘Whether you believe that bit or not, I’ve uncovered a lot,’ Harry said. ‘I’ve uncovered a drug-running operation. It’s linked to a prominent developer – Brian Swenson. You’ve probably heard of him.’

  ‘Heard of him? You can’t drive fifty metres without seeing one of his construction sites!’

  ‘Right. There’s more. Dreadnorts MC are involved.’ Harry gestured to the bruises on his face. ‘I had a little run-in with them last night.’

  ‘Shit, mate. You’re lucky to be alive. But a sniper rifle’s not. . .’

  ‘There’s more. Andrew Cardinal.’

  Jim looked over at Harry. ‘What about him?’

  He felt a spring tensioning inside him. Like the hammer being pulled back on a pistol.

  ‘You know he served in Afghanistan?’

  ‘Yeah. Of course.’

  ‘He was using his intel to run a drug-smuggling operation. He was involved in a massacre in Helmand province. And when he decided to go into politics, he tried to sever all links to that massacre.

  ‘Rob. Kyla. Tim Daniels. John Birmingham. Geoff Lane. Ahmed. A local tattooist, Rabs.’

  ‘Holy shit.’

  Jim stared straight ahead, putting the pieces together in his mind. He nodded. ‘Cardinal. Fuck me.’

  ‘I was hoping to write a story on it, uncover Cardinal that way. But I’ve run out of time,’ Harry said. ‘And Cardinal can’t be allowed to become prime minister. He’ll have so much power that I won’t be able to touch him.

  ‘I need a gun. A fucking big one.’

  Jim looked at Harry. Pulled out his phone and dialled. ‘G’day, mate. It’s Jim. . .’

  Harry could hear a big voice on the other end of the line. Jim laughed. ‘Fair ta middlin’. Hey, remember that product you got your hands on? The one you can’t shift?’ More mumbling. ‘I’ve got a fella who’s lookin’ to buy. ASAP.’

  Jim laughed again. ‘Yeah, no worries ya fat bastard. Catch ya.’

  He put his phone away. ‘Done.’

  ‘Can you do something else for me?’

  Jim scratched his head. ‘I don’t do windows or foot rubs. If it’s not one of those, try me.’

  ‘I’m going to email you my story. What I’ve got of it. All my contacts. Everything. If. . . if anything happens to me, I want you to get it out there. I don’t know how. But I need to know that the information doesn’t die with me.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘No worries. Just go get the bastard.’

  CHAPTER 39

  Harry stood sweating outside the Dead Ringers MC clubhouse gates. Midday heat baked off the concrete under his feet and the green aluminium gates in front of him. Someone had hung a plastic Santa’s head off the barbed wire on top. He looked back at his car. The road was lined with mechanics, small manufacturers that had somehow staved off the threat from China, and run-down offices with reflective glass and company names tacked to the windows.

  Researching background for his article, Harry learnt that outlaw motorcycle clubs appealed to former military men. They craved the order, and the danger. Harry shook his head and stabbed a finger at the button on the faded grey intercom, glancing up at the security camera as he did so. Would the person on the other end see his fear?

  There was a buzz. Somewhere, behind the barbed wire fence, a buzzer went off.

  The speaker crackled. ‘Yep?’

  ‘Harry Hendrick. Here to see. . . uh, Chook.’

  A pause. Then the electronic lock on the gate clicked open, and the gate started sliding back on its track. Harry walked through. The clubhouse was a low-set grey besser-block bunker with barred windows. Above the blue double doors a big sign proclaimed Dead Ringers MC, the club’s patch next to it. Around the side of the clubhouse, an old Ford Falcon and three big Harley-Davidsons.

  The door swung wide and Chook stepped out into the sunshine. Harry had seen blurry photos of him online. His hair was thinning and his big bushy beard had streaks of grey through it. The muscle in his tattooed arms had begun to turn to flab, and a pot belly pushed out over his faded jeans. Wraparound shades hid his eyes. He offered a hand.

  ‘Mr Hendrick,’ he said. ‘You look like you had a rough night.’

  Chook crushed Harry’s fingers, pulled him closer.

  ‘Yeah. . . work Christmas party.’

  Chook grinned, showing two gold teeth. There was nothing friendly about the expression. Behind him came a rush of cool air, the sounds of blues and the crack of pool balls. The murmur of conversation. Then Chook pulled the door shut behind him, and brushed past Harry.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s go for a drive.’

  Harry followed him around the side of the building, looking back over his shoulder as they walked. The big gate was still open. Chook climbed into the Falcon and fired it up. A cloud of blue smoke filled the air as maybe six of its eight cylinders roared to life. Someone had attached plastic reindeer antlers above the doors. Heat and the stench of cigarettes engulfed Harry as he pulled the door open and climbed in. The ashtray was overflowing, the back seat covered in old clothes and faded porn magazines.

  The Dead Ringers sergeant-at-arms revved the engine and the whole car shook. If possible, it was even louder in here than outside. If the Ford had a muffler, it wasn’t doing its job. Chook put the car in gear and pulled out of the lot, pausing and looking over his shoulder, making sure the gate closed behind him.

  He drove through the industrial estate.

  ‘Thought you guys liked bikes?’ Harry yelled.

  Chook laughed. ‘Yeah, you got one?’

  Harry shook his head.

  ‘Well, then. Besides, if you’re bugged, or if I’m bugged or if the car’s bugged, they won’t get much out of it.’

  The industrial estate gave way to battered, broken suburbia. Overgrown lawns, faded and flaking paintwork, rusty letterboxes.

  ‘How long have you been sergeant-at-arms?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Coming up on twenty years now. Truth be told, I’m getting out.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. World is moving on. Club needs fresh blood.’

  Chook took the car out onto a main road lined with fast-food outlets and used-car lots.

  ‘So what happened? I heard two Dreadnorts got their arses handed to them.’

  Harry sighed. The car was making his muscles ache again. ‘I may have done the arse-handing.’

  Chook laughed. ‘You silly bastard. You shoulda finished them off. There’s only one language these people understand.’

  ‘Music?’

  ‘Ha!’ Chook threw his head back, slapped the steering wheel. The car veered slightly into the right-hand lane. The driver of the sedan next to them looked like he was going to make something of it, then saw Chook’s battered face, big beard and tattooed arm and thought better of it.

  ‘You don’t have much time. You know that, don’t you? Depending on how those arseholes play this, you could have the whole of Dreadnorts MC after you by this time tomorrow.’

  ‘I wasn’t planning on waiting that long,’ Harry said, checking his watch. He had two hours.

  Chook blew some air through his lips. ‘Well, no love lost between us and them, that’s for sure. You wanna watch yourself.’

  Harry looked out the window, watching the car yards drift past. He thought about Rob and Kyla, trying to flee Brisbane. He thought about the fight with Jess. At least she was out of the picture. Harry could see himself settling the reticle on Andrew Cardinal, breathing out, and squeezing the trigger. Beyond that was nothing. Darkness. Like being buried again.

>   Chook pulled off the main road again and back into suburbia. A more affluent area, McMansions lining the curved streets. Trees. Kids on bikes.

  ‘Thing is, this military hardware is more trouble than it’s worth,’ Chook said, continuing a conversation that must’ve been running in his head. ‘There’s an inquiry going on down in Canberra. The feds are all over us at the moment.

  ‘It’d be better for me to dump the military stuff in a creek somewhere.

  ‘Jim and I go back a ways. I owe him one. But if I sell it to you, and some fucking copper turns up on my doorstep with an M82 in his hands, I’ll break both your legs before I shoot you in the nuts. Witness protection, protective custody – none of that means shit if you cross me. Do you believe me?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Good.’

  Chook guided the car through the estate, pulled up in front of a monstrous beige house with a triple garage. He pulled a remote control out of his pocket, and one of the big white doors opened. He looked over and caught Harry’s expression.

  ‘What? I made some good investments,’ Chook said, grinning.

  The car pulled into the garage. The door came down behind them.

  ‘Don’t mention the gun, okay?’ Chook said. ‘It’s “the product” from now on, right?’

  ‘Your house is bugged too?’ Harry asked.

  Chook shrugged. ‘Better safe than sorry.’

  Chook shut off the engine. Harry’s ears rang.

  On the other side of the garage, a Harley-Davidson stood in pieces. The engine was off, broken down on a white sheet. Behind it, on a tool board, a large Dead Ringers banner.

  ‘Doin’ a bit of work on her,’ Chook said.

  Chook led Harry through a white door at the back of the garage and into the house. He closed and locked the door behind them.

  ‘Reinforced steel,’ he said. ‘Although you wouldn’t know by looking at it.’

  Tiled floor. White walls, with tasteful Christmas decorations adding a splash of colour. Lots of light coming through bi-folding sliding-glass doors at the back of the house. On the other side, a patio area and a pool.

  ‘You’ve done all right for yourself,’ Harry said.

  Chook shrugged. ‘I’ve got a good financial adviser.’

  They passed through the kitchen, all stainless steel and marble, to a living room with a white leather lounge and a massive flat-screen TV. Christmas tree in the corner.

  ‘3D, 4K, internet-ready,’ Chook said, pointing at the TV. ‘Take a seat.’

  Harry sat on the cool leather while Chook pulled the curtains closed.

  ‘Right. Let’s see your cash,’ he said.

  Harry pulled out his wallet, which was bulging with fifties and hundreds. He counted the money. Chook nodded, scooped up the cash, and shoved it in his back pocket.

  ‘Can I have a receipt?’ Harry said.

  ‘Har-har-har. Wait here.’

  At one end of the room was another door, with a deadbolt lock. Harry guessed this door was reinforced steel, too. Chook jangled the keys, found the right one and slotted it in. He disappeared through the doorway. Harry looked around the room as he waited. He couldn’t see any cameras, but he had the feeling of being watched. He leant forward, had a look at the magazines on the coffee table. Australian Ink. Soldier of Fortune. Bacon Busters. Australian Financial Review.

  Chook came back with a large black plastic case. When he turned to lock the door, Harry noticed the money was gone from his back pocket.

  ‘Here we go.’

  Chook laid the case on the coffee table. It didn’t have any markings. He opened it, revealing the M82. It was split into two main parts; three if you counted the magazine.

  ‘You want me to. . . ?’

  But Harry was already there. He assembled the rifle, checked the chamber was empty, then pulled the trigger. He grinned at the clunk of the firing pin coming forward. He’d never heard the noise before. But Rob had heard it countless times. He gently removed the scope and mounted it. For the first time since meeting him, Chook looked a little uneasy.

  ‘Where did you say you learnt about. . . these products?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Harry said.

  Harry hefted the weapon and looked through the sight. He liked the weight, even though he’d never take a shot from a standing position – at least, not without finding something to brace the barrel with. It was overkill for what he wanted, designed to take out armoured cars, but he’d rather have more power than not enough. He remembered Afghanistan, even though he’d never been there before. Finally, things were coming together.

  Harry disassembled the rifle, placed it back in the case. Chook laid a box of ammo on the bench.

  ‘Do you want accessories?’

  Harry nodded, and put the ammo on top of the case.

  ‘Got a few different sorts in there. Kinda like a bag of mixed lollies.’

  He gestured to the guide. Different coloured tips for different types: tracer, armour-piercing, incendiary. Harry nodded.

  ‘Anything else I can do you for?’ Chook asked.

  ‘Don’t suppose you sell, uh, fancy dress?’

  Chook raised his eyebrows.

  CHAPTER 40

  Harry parked his car, climbed out and looked down on the Queen Street Mall, packed with Christmas shoppers. He checked the time – thirty minutes to go – then called Bec, perching on the bonnet of his car while the phone rang. This wouldn’t take long.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Bec?’

  ‘Harry?’ A pause. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m. . . I’m getting there.’

  He could hear noise at her end in the background. Plates, cutlery. He imagined Paul, cleaning up after Sunday lunch. He pushed the thought away.

  ‘Bec. There’s something I need to say to you.’

  ‘Harry, you don’t need to. . .’

  ‘Yeah. I do. Bec, I still love you. Don’t interrupt me because I need to say this. I don’t care if you can’t love me. That doesn’t change the way I feel. I love you. I’ll always love you.’

  ‘Harry. . .’

  ‘Do you remember when we came back from overseas? We were scrounging around, trying to find bits and pieces for our house. We bought that dodgy kettle?’

  ‘Yeah. Of course.’

  ‘That cup of tea. It tasted like shit, but you were right. You said, “This is the life”. And you were right.’

  ‘Oh, Harry. . .’

  ‘I’ve got to go. I’ll. . . I’ll catch you later.’

  He hung up. Stared at his phone. He wanted to call Christine, just to hear her voice one last time. But if he called her, he’d blab. And if he blabbed, she’d talk him out of going through with it.

  There was a note for Jess, in with the documents he’d emailed to Jim.

  Harry slipped the phone into his pocket and got ready.

  ***

  Queen Street Mall was packed with sweaty election campaigners and Christmas shoppers, ducking in and out of the speciality shops, talking with friends, looking at their phones. Harry was dressed in Sunshine Air Conditioning-branded overalls and cap, with a Sunshine Air Conditioning identification card, belonging to Mr Hugh Bird. Chook, at no added charge, had given him a couple of matching stickers to plaster onto the M82’s case

  Harry let himself slip back, allowed Rob take over. This had to be done. There was no alternative.

  The sign on the hoarding outside the shell of the Regent Cinema promised an ‘exciting new residential development’. But the posters were faded, and there were no sounds of work coming from inside. At the bottom of the sign was a small Swenson Constructions logo.

  The crowd thickened as Harry neared the intersection of Queen and Albert Streets – for some reason, despite all the landmarks in Brisbane, the Hungry Jack’s there had become the place for young people to meet. There were two police officers leaning on a low wall, sunglasses hiding their eyes. As the crowd parted, Harry saw protesters, holding banners demanding more righ
ts for asylum seekers. A woman with dreadlocks and a lip piercing thrust a copy of Green Left at him. Harry ignored her.

  He kept walking, waiting to be stopped by the cops. He imagined doing what Dave wanted him to do – handing the whole sorry mess over to the police. If he threw enough mud, some of it might stick. It would only take one or two journalists to get curious, and God knows there were enough at The Australian looking for a chink in Andrew Cardinal’s armour. What a coup! To stop dead the Cardinal juggernaut before election day!

  Harry broke stride, almost stopped. His glance slipped sideways, down Albert Street to King George Square, where the giant Christmas tree stood. In his mind’s eye he turned around, went back to the car. Drove to work and finished the article. Then he remembered sitting in the Vice Chancellor’s office, wondering if he was going to be sued. Rob surfaced again. Rob couldn’t force him to do anything, Harry thought. Not yet anyway. But ignoring him now was like ignoring a powerful itch. It felt better just to give in to it.

  You print that story and it will pan out exactly as Vessel says it would. You’ll be marked a crazy man, you’ll be watched. It’s now or never.

  He started walking again. Slowly at first, then picking up pace. He fished out his phone and dialled. After eight rings it went to messagebank. Challis Architects can’t take your call right now. . . Perfect.

  Up by the casino, a Salvation Army band was playing a festive tune Harry couldn’t quite place even though he’d heard it a thousand times. There was a small table set up nearby, red bunting and signs for the local Labor candidate. Most of the signs featured Andrew Cardinal. A young woman wearing a too-big ALP t-shirt offered him a flyer.

  Harry shook his head, kept walking. There was no way he was going to get away with this. The mission might be a success, but Harry was going down for it. The girl handing out the Green Left would probably remember him, as would the ALP volunteer. His progress up Queen Street was being monitored by numerous security cameras. After the event, it would all be so obvious that something was wrong with this man. People would ask why. And they would never understand, even if Harry tried to explain it to them.