Strange Ink

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Strange Ink Page 27

by Gary Kemble


  A helicopter thundered overhead. Harry looked up, shielding his eyes with his free hand. Harry had no idea what it was, but Rob did. Eurocopter Tiger with a 30mm cannon on the nose and a bunch of missiles, depending on how it was configured. Whatever it had, it would be bad news if they got wind of what Harry was up to.

  At the end of the mall Victoria Bridge carried traffic over the river. Harry got his first sight of the Cultural Centre. The wind picked up, stirring the hot air, carrying the smell of mud and decay. He turned left, following George Street, parallel to the river.

  Past the Land Administration Building, another sandstone relic of Queensland’s colonial past. And then, right next to it, a bland concrete-and-glass office block, a remnant of the building boom in the ’70s.

  Harry welcomed the cold blast of air-conditioning as he strode through the automatic doors. There was a guard on duty, but Harry ignored him and headed straight for the lifts. Only people who weren’t meant to be there asked permission. The guard didn’t even look up from his book. Harry thumbed the lift button.

  As he waited, he dropped down deep inside himself, preparing for the mission. Harry had done a story on the Challis brothers earlier that year. Chermside boys who’d started their own architectural firm, and then made it big (by Chermside standards) and moved into an office with river views. Harry had interviewed them there, and marvelled at the views of the Cultural Centre across the river.

  The elevator arrived. Harry pressed the number ten, and the doors closed. Plenty of elevation. Great field of fire. Old locks. No visible security systems. Staff unlikely to be working weekends. Another plus: the glass windows facing the hallway had blinds.

  The lift doors opened. Harry looked up and down the hallway to make sure it was clear, then moved to the office door. He pulled the lock picks out of his pocket. The lock was easy. Not easy for Harry, but easy for Rob. He knew how to pick a lock, although there’d been scant use for such skills in Afghanistan, where a boot or a shotgun would do the job just fine.

  Harry shut the door behind him, closed the blinds on the windows that looked out to the hallway. The office was small. Two desks, dominated by high-end Macs with big screens. Every inch of wall space was occupied by bookcases or printouts of technical drawings. On the far side of the room: the window. Harry set his case down and walked over. He opened the blinds to the outside.

  The brown mass of the river stretched out below. On its other side, the blocky structure of the Performing Arts Centre. Harry saw people gathering at the side doors, where Cardinal would make his entrance. There was already a large crowd. Young people, families, children running around, red balloons bobbing along behind them. Possible collateral damage.

  The thought sparked a vision of a woman lying on a bloody concrete floor. Her legs were spread. Her robes pulled up over her head.

  Harry hefted a huge computer monitor off the desk, and set it on the floor. He dragged the desk and a chair over to the window. It was inevitable that the police would discover that this room was where the shot came from. But depending on the security systems in the building, that discovery may not be made until Monday morning. And by then it would all be over anyway.

  Harry opened the case, assembled the M82. He checked that the mag was full. If Harry missed on the first shot, he could potentially still get Cardinal. The politician would be covered with security personnel, but from this range the rounds would easily penetrate a human shield.

  Human shield? Innocent lives.

  Harry suppressed the thought.

  The windows didn’t open, which meant that he’d have to cut a hole.

  From his pocket he pulled out the glass cutter, also courtesy of Sunshine Air Conditioning, scratched a small circle on the window, then tapped the glass until it fell to the abandoned courtyard below. He put the cutter away, and lowered the blind halfway.

  He sat on the chair, pulled the stock of the big gun to his shoulder, looked through the reticle. About four hundred metres. He looked at the people down below. How their clothing moved. How the balloons bobbed. A slight breeze came in off the river; nothing to get worried about. The M82 was good up to fifteen hundred metres. This should be a piece of piss.

  Except for the civs everywhere. And the fact that Harry wasn’t Rob. True, Rob was occupying his body, but it wasn’t the same. That didn’t make him Rob, or Rob him.

  Harry pulled out his iPhone, opened his web browser. Streamed ABC News 24.

  ‘And as you can see, the crowd is gathering here at the Cultural Centre in Brisbane, waiting for Andrew Cardinal’s arrival. There’s a real sense of occasion. . .’

  Harry scanned the crowd through his scope and found the reporter doing her piece to camera. Picked out Cardinal’s security detail. Six that he could see; there would be more out of sight. And more still would arrive with Cardinal. The gunship thundered overhead.

  He checked the time on the phone. He scratched his arms through the shirt sleeves. His tattoos were itching. He reached around, rubbing the skin on his back. It flared like fire at his touch.

  On the screen of his phone, footage of Andrew Cardinal’s motorcade approaching. Harry grabbed the M82 and lifted the stock to his shoulder, keeping his finger outside the trigger guard for now.

  ‘. . . and you can see that people are actually lining the streets now to get a look at the man who is very likely to be Australia’s next prime minister. . .’

  The scope was so good he could see their faces. People smiling, laughing. There were no protesters here. Probably their application to gather at Southbank had been refused, so they’d been relegated to the mall. Was he really going to end this? Could he really pull the trigger?

  Harry’s back burned intensely now. He saw screaming refugees engulfed by a giant wave. He saw a hijab, blowing between two rows of poppies. He saw a lone ant, walking in circles across a dirt floor.

  Push it away. No time to fuck around now.

  ‘. . . this is amazing. I’ve never seen anything like this. . .’

  The motorcade stopped outside the Cultural Centre. Security climbed out first, scanning the crowd. The gunship hovered over Southbank. Shit. If it stayed there, he was in trouble. They’d be onto him in no time.

  Andrew Cardinal climbed out of the car, followed by wife and kids. Waved to the crowd. The roar was so loud Harry heard it through the window, as well as on the video stream. Through the reticle he saw Cardinal’s head, bobbing forward as he shook hands with well-wishers.

  Harry began his breathing cycle. He pushed away the intense pain in his back. It was happening to someone else. It was happening to Rob. He saw Rob lying on his front, Rabs bent over him. Outlining an avenging angel.

  It didn’t matter now.

  ‘. . . the crowd’s engulfed him. They’re literally mobbing him now. . .’

  Shit!

  He couldn’t get a clear shot. Police moved in, trying to get Cardinal clear and move the people back. Andrew Cardinal was loving it. His family stood aside, letting the people have their moment with the next prime minister.

  Through the reticle, Harry saw Andrew Cardinal’s head bob up. Then someone moved in front of him. Harry waited.

  You’ll get the shot. Just wait.

  When Cardinal moved towards the Cultural Centre doors, he’d be clear of the crowd. He’d turn and. . . bam.

  As predicted, Cardinal stepped away from the crowd. Turned. Offered one final wave.

  Now.

  Harry blinked the sweat out of his eyes. It took all the strength he could muster to resist the urge to curl his finger. The finger tightened slightly. Halfway. A little more. An intense itching sensation, in the centre of his brain. And all he had to do was. . .

  ‘No!’

  Harry pushed the gun away. The heavy stock clunked against the desk.

  Rob surged; Harry lost control. His impulse was to return to the gun and fire every round in the magazine until it clicked empty, regardless of the target, regardless of how many innocents were killed in
the process.

  Instead, Harry tipped the other desk over, ripped books off the shelf, tore the drawings off the walls. On one side of the wall was a framed Wallabies jersey. Harry grabbed it and threw it at the window. Already weakened, the glass shattered, shards tumbling to the street below.

  Harry punched the wall, ignoring the burst of pain up his arm. He kicked the bookshelf, sending design manuals tumbling across the floor. He came out of the fugue panting, leaning on the desk, looking at the gun as though he’d never seen it before. Outside, the gunship hovered, facing the office building. Had they seen the glass?

  Harry disassembled the rifle, slotting the components back into the case quickly as the chopper buzzed across the river. His hand pulsed painfully. He ignored it, grabbing the case. The room was a disaster zone but there was nothing he could do about it. He ran for the elevator, pushed the button, then thought better of it and continued to the stairs. As he pushed through the door, he heard the lift pinging on his floor. He imagined the security guard, poking his nose in. How long before he figured out which office it was?

  Halfway down the stairwell, Harry’s phone started ringing. He glanced at the screen. Fred. He’d call him back.

  He took the steps three at a time, his shoulder hitting the concrete wall at each landing. He stopped at the ground floor, panting. Then decided to take the stairs down to the car park.

  In the basement, Harry shrugged out of the overalls and shoved them in the bin. He pulled the Sunshine Air Conditioning stickers off the case and put them in the bin also. Then he walked towards the fire exit door, case banging against his leg. Pushed through out onto George Street, then back towards Queen Street Mall.

  Dazed, Harry looked at the teenagers gathered outside Hungry Jack’s. Teenagers. Without a care in the world. He spotted some cops, but they were watching the teenagers, bored. The case suddenly felt incredibly heavy. Harry forced himself to continue until he was out of sight of the police, then found a spare bench and sat down, breathing heavily.

  His phone rang again. Fred.

  ‘Fred. I can’t. . .’

  ‘It’s not Fred. It’s Bill.’

  ‘Bill?’

  Harry felt sweat prickling his scalp.

  ‘Harry, you’d better get over here.’

  ‘Why? What’s happened?’

  ‘It’s Fred. . .’

  Harry felt the world drop away. His peripheral vision disappeared. He felt as though he were staring down a long, dark tunnel.

  ‘He’s been attacked.’

  ‘What? Where?’

  ‘The ambos just arrived. Get over here.’

  CHAPTER 41

  Two paramedics wheeled Fred out on a gurney. For a moment Harry thought the white sheet was pulled over his face, and heavy dread settled on his chest. He saw the front page in his mind: WWII vet dies in home invasion.

  Then the stretcher turned on the driveway and Harry realised the sheet was tucked up under Fred’s chin, the old man’s face so white it was barely indistinguishable.

  Harry ran for the stretcher.

  ‘How is he? What happened?’

  The paramedics kept wheeling him towards the ambulance. ‘It’s his heart,’ one of them said, dark glasses shielding his eyes from the afternoon sun. ‘He’s going to be okay. You his son?’

  ‘No, just a friend.’

  The other paramedic looked doubtfully at Harry’s notebook, clutched in one hand. He didn’t even remember grabbing it. Then the medico saw the look on Harry’s face and his expression softened.

  ‘Some mongrels roughed him up,’ he said, shaking his head.

  Harry looked up and saw Bill waiting at the top of the stairs. The screen door, the special ‘burglar-proof’ screen door, was hanging off its hinges.

  ‘Was he hurt?’

  ‘Bill reckons Fred gave as good as he got. But the fright. His heart gave out. Cops are meant to be here, when they can get their arses into gear.’

  Harry looked down at Fred. The old man’s chest rose and fell, his lungs rattled. Harry held his hand. It felt cool to the touch.

  ‘You sure he’s going to be okay?’ Harry asked.

  The paramedic with the sunglasses shrugged. ‘As sure as we can be with someone his age. We’re taking him to the Royal, if you want to catch him later.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Harry walked up the garden. The anger was building again.

  ‘Come in,’ Bill said.

  The first thing Harry noticed were the photos, because that was what he looked at every time he visited Fred. Two of them had fallen over. A few of the other knickknacks, like June’s ballerina figurine, had fallen over too, and there were books strewn on the floor. Paperbacks, and a Reader’s Digest.

  ‘There were two guys,’ Bill said. ‘Filthy bikies.’

  Harry stopped, staring at the TV, which had been tipped over.

  ‘Bikies?’

  He turned to Bill. His hands were shaking.

  ‘Yeah. I came over to talk to him about the tower. I saw the two Harleys out front. Heard shouting from upstairs.’

  Harry’s eyes fell to the knife lying in the middle of the lounge-room floor. It was black with blood. There were smears on the carpet. Drops on the linoleum, leading to the front door.

  Bill saw Harry’s expression. ‘That’s not Fred’s blood,’ he said.

  Suddenly, it all became too much for Bill and he dropped into one of the chairs around the dining table. Harry was sweating. He wanted to scream.

  ‘They must’ve jimmied open the screen because when I got up here it was hanging like that. The whole thing’s bent out of kilter,’ Bill said.

  ‘I heard one of them curse. When I got inside, there were two of them. Fred was over by the sideboard there, with that thing in his hand. . .’ He gestured at the knife in the lounge room. ‘White as a sheet. One of them – long greasy hair – was clutching his side, trying to staunch the flow of blood. The other one was moving in. Big fat bastard. Limping, he was.’

  Harry nodded. He didn’t need any further description. He knew who they were. He knew why they were here.

  ‘I just yelled out. Screamed like a crazy man. Grabbed a frying pan. . .’

  Harry noticed it on the dining table.

  ‘. . . and just screamed at them. Fred collapsed. And they bolted. Fucking cowards.’

  Bill shook his head. Harry walked over to the knife. He could feel Rob back there in his mind. The tattoos on his body were warm. Chook was right. These people only understood one thing.

  Harry dropped to his haunches. What he’d first taken for a knife was actually a bayonet. Now he saw it properly, he wondered how he could have mistaken it for anything else.

  ‘I saw him use that, in North Africa,’ Bill said. Harry stared at the blood. He felt his own blood pulsing behind his eyes. Closed his eyes and saw a woman, spread-eagle on a cold concrete floor. Smelled the blood and the piss and he shit. Smelled the fear.

  ‘You think you can leave it behind,’ Bill said. ‘The violence. The death. But part of it always comes back with you.’

  Bill knelt beside Harry. ‘He’s never spoken about it. Not even to me. We were near El Alamein. Total chaos. We both ran out of ammo and suddenly we had a Kraut tank crew in our foxhole.

  ‘Don’t know who was more surprised, us or them. Fred didn’t hesitate. And when I saw him going for it, I hooked in too. It wasn’t pretty.’

  Harry couldn’t talk. He nodded. Took a deep breath. ‘If the cops find this, he’s going to be in the shit.’

  Bill stared at him. ‘If the cops find what?’ He picked up the bayonet, took it down the hallway. Harry heard the bathroom sink filling up. Harry went to the kitchen, got a rag and mopped up the spots of blood.

  When Bill returned, his face was wet. Harry washed out the rag and threw it in the bin.

  ‘Good thing the cops are taking so long,’ Harry said. ‘Did you hear what they were saying? The bikies?’

  Bill put his hands on his hips. ‘Well, F
red was telling them to get the fuck out of his house. And they. . . You know already, don’t you?’

  Harry nodded. ‘Yeah, but I need to hear you say it.’

  ‘They were looking for you. “Where’s Hendrick? Where’s Hendrick?” Over and over again. What the fuck are you in for, Harry?’

  ‘Trust me. You don’t want to know.’

  CHAPTER 42

  The building site was just under a kilometre from the Dreadnorts’ clubhouse. The place was meant to be for a new hotel with speciality shops underneath, before the global financial crisis sank it. Now it was just a concrete skeleton, surrounded by a collapsing temporary fence, scaffolding and broken streamers of faded caution tape.

  Harry parked at the back of a run-down row of shops. He was barely there, operating on automatic while Rob looked after the finer points. Harry was exhausted, and he felt bad leaving Bill behind waiting for the cops. But Rob still had work to do. He got out, grabbed his knapsack, pulled the case out of the boot and walked towards the building site. He kept an eye out for watchers in his peripheral vision, but only stopped to check properly once he was standing in the shadow of one of the graffiti-scarred concrete pylons.

  He scanned the surroundings. Cars passed by on the main road but there was a screen of bushes between the road and the building site. The stench of urine rose up from somewhere further back in the gloom, mixing with the more appetising aroma of roast chicken, coming from the shops over the way. Satisfied no-one was watching, he moved towards the back of the building site. The ground was covered in litter: beer bottles, chip and lolly packets, a bong fashioned out of a plastic orange-juice bottle, a used condom.

  He found the disused scaffolding he’d spied from the road. Harry hefted the case, pushed it onto the lowest level. Then jumped and pulled himself up, his muscles bulging as he clambered onto the platform. It was a feat he would not have been able to accomplish a few weeks earlier. Rob had given him strength, and knowledge. That was the upside. The downside. . .

  He picked up the case, pushed the thought away. Visualised Crow lying on the side of the road, shivering. Heathy, pulling his hand away, black with blood.

 

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