by Peter Docker
Damn. There is that tone change. That tone change is like a target glance.
Met him once, says Izzy.
Liar.
Izzy marches into the sea container. She steps over the bodies, and goes to Xavier. She unhooks the wires. She grabs a knife from the table, and cuts the plastic ties at his wrists and ankles.
You’ll have to kill me too, Mort.
You know I will.
You won’t. You’re too human, Mort. They haven’t smashed it all out of you yet.
Xavier is trying hard to keep conscious. Izzy grabs his clothes, and gives them to him.
Izzy. Just you, me, and fifty mill.
Xavier is struggling into his jeans.
Izzy...
I can’t, Mort ... It’s not...
Mort looks at Xavier struggling with his jeans. He raises his pistol and shoots him in the back of the head. He strides straight past Izzy back to the car. He starts it up. Izzy grabs the pistol from the dead fingers of Four Axehandles and empties the clip at the departing car. Mort disappears into a cloud of dust.
Izzy turns back to the sea container. Beautiful Xavier has his face down in a spreading pool of his own blood. Izzy takes the pistol from the body of Silver Hair, and empties the clip into his body. She throws down the gun. She kneels beside Xavier, and slowly turns him over. The bullet has exited through his face and made a mess. She sobs. He was so young. So beautiful. She cradles his head. Her tears fall into the blood and piss and shit. After a long time, she takes out her BlackBerry and dials Uncle Wadi’s number.
They’re Coming for You, Neo
Izzy is still cradling Xavier’s exploded head when she comes to. She knows she has not been unconscious but has somehow shut down. She remembers Josh talking to her about the aftermath of combat. Queenie’s words down the phone come back to her. How long have I been sitting here? They’ll be here soon. She gently rests Xavier’s head back on the rubber matting on the floor of the sea container. She picks up her BlackBerry and switches it to CAMERA mode. She takes photos. The tears and snot stream down her face. She gets everything. It’s what she does. She dials up Foster’s personal computer and hits SEND. She is whispering to herself, doing her best Morpheus:
‘They’re coming for you, Neo, and I don’t know what they are going to do.’
She goes to the body of Silver Hair and takes an ammo clip from his belt. She retrieves his pistol, hits the button to drop the empty mag, and inserts the new clip. Weapons are logical, Josh always said. She checks her BlackBerry; the photos have gone. She drops the phone, works the slide on the pistol, and fires three shots into the phone. She throws the pistol away.
Police! Come out with your hands up! Police! Come out with your hands up!
Izzy looks to the half opened sea container door. There is bright light illuminating all beyond. Queenie said they’d be here fast. She puts her hands up, and walks out of there like Lazarus waking up. As soon as she clears the doorway, the light is so bright that it is blinding.
Don’t move! Police! Don’t move!
She stops.
Get down! Get down on the ground! Get down! Face down!
Izzy drops slowly to her knees, and lowers herself onto the red earth. She hears boots running. She feels a weight on the small of her back. She grunts as the air goes out of her. Her hands are ripped around behind her back and handcuffed. There are figures all around her in the bright light. She can see their black boots as they go past her and into the container. She is pulled to her feet by the handcuffs. There are two big men close to her who manoeuvre her down the rise and into the back of a 4WD. They belt her in and lock the door. One of the big men gets in beside her. She feels like it is happening to someone else. There are men running and shouting. It all feels so far away. She closes her eyes. She wishes she were dead and Xavier were still alive. She wishes she could have shot Mort. She sees the bullets tearing into Mort’s bare flesh. She fires and fires but he doesn’t fall.
Number 2 Wood
Smokey pilots the old ute through the quiet streets of Somerset. The sun has only been up for an hour. He goes past the flash new police station and smiles to himself. There are a few young countrymen moving around on the streets. They amble aimlessly in their Lakers and Giants ensembles, coming from nowhere in particular, with nowhere really to go. It’s a school day but this is clearly not on the minds of any of these kids. White man learnin – white man school. They don’t notice the bearded gudia in his stolen green ute. Smokey goes down the main drag where the road splits. On the island in the middle of the street there are half a dozen men asleep on the sparse grass. Smokey has a look to see if he recognises anyone. He knows the scarring patterns on the chest and arms of the two shirtless individuals, but not the men themselves. He goes down to the end, and turns into the Somerset Chalets. He parks the green ute at the farthest end of the car park, next to what would be a hedge if it ever got watered. The drillers and miners who are staying at the chalets have all left for work before sunup. There are no vehicles in the car park. But down near the office there are three small groups of women sitting on the concrete, waiting patiently. Not that they have the aura of waiting, they have the feeling of just sitting, quietly. They are women from some of the poorest and most neglected remote communities in Australia, and it seems the pride has been ground out of them. Their hair is wild, their skirts and tops are brightly coloured, but their heads are all slightly lowered. The women notice Smokey without looking directly at him.
Smokey turns off the engine, and lights a smoke. He takes in the chalets.
‘Chalet’ must be a fancy French word for ‘shithole’, he says to himself.
Three cigarettes later, Smokey watches as the office door opens, and Tom Samarchio steps out, and settles his white floppy-brimmed hat onto his head. The morning sunlight glints on the metal frames of his glasses as he stands over the first two women in the line and talks to them. He doesn’t notice the battered green ute up the other end of the car park. The two women get to their feet, and follow Samarchio back into his office.
Smokey sits in the cabin of the stolen green ute. He takes out his knife from the holster he’s got rigged so that it hangs under his left arm, hilt out. The last set of cuts hasn’t healed yet. He scrapes the blade sideways up the scabs, and they start to bleed gently. Then he draws the blade across the taut skin of the other forearm. He feels the pain come into his body like a computer virus installed by the knife hacker, and lights another cigarette. Only a few minutes later, the two women emerge in their bright tops and skirts. They look down at the cash in the younger woman’s hands, but have no sense of achievement about them. Their heads are a little lower, their shoulders a little more slumped. They wander off down the street. The next group of three women stand, and shuffle into the motel office.
Smokey carefully draws the blade across his forearm again, and watches the progress of the blood from the cuts as it slides down his little finger, and drips onto the rusted-out floor between his knees.
Three smokes later, and the last two women are in the office. Even from the ute, at the other end of the car park, Smokey can hear the raised voices. A minute later, the door opens, and the two women are shoved out. They are shouting back at Samarchio. He comes to the door and gesticulates at them to leave.
Piss off! he yells.
Smokey opens the door and moves across the car park towards him. Now Tom sees him. He stands his ground in the doorway as Smokey comes over.
G’day, mate, he says.
G’day, says Smokey.
Sorry bout that. You looking for a room?
Sorry about what?
Shit! What happened to your arm? You all right?
Ah, it’s fuck-all!
Come into the office.
Smokey follows Samarchio back inside. Samarchio has the aircon turned up full blast, and it’s freezing inside. Smokey is reminded of the Americans in Tarin Kowt during summer. Samarchio sits behind the desk. Smokey extends his hand.
/> Tom, isn’t it?
Samarchio takes the proffered hand, and gives it a quick, hard shake.
Yeah. Do I know you?
I doubt it. Good business you’ve got running here.
I didn’t catch your name.
I didn’t throw it.
Samarchio glances down at his desk drawer on the right-hand side. Such a brief eye movement that most people would have missed it. Smokey is not most people.
What do you want? Tom says.
You are fucking these people over.
Samarchio leans back in his chair and looks around as if he doesn’t understand. What is this?
I don’t force them to come to me, Samarchio says.
You don’t stop them either. You don’t give them a decent rate. You fuck them.
I don’t know who you are, but you better get out of my office.
Did you hear about that taxi driver? Got what he had coming.
There goes the second glance down to the right-hand drawer.
Just go, mate.
I’m not your fucken mate.
Smokey pulls out the wad of cash that he took from the taxi driver, and places it on the table. A couple of drops of blood drip on the cash in the process.
I’ll tell you what, I’ll bet everything I’ve got, against everything you’ve got, that I’ll be able to stick my very sharp knife into you before you can take your pistol out of your drawer and shoot me.
Tom’s eyes notice the hilt of Smokey’s knife protruding from above his left elbow. Who wears a knife there?
He looks back to Smokey’s grey eyes. His right hand dives for the drawer, and he is flung back in his chair as Smokey’s knife goes in just under his right collarbone. His hand is still trying to get to the drawer but he has lost all coordination. Smokey comes around, pushes his chair back, and opens the drawer. He grabs the .38 revolver there.
A revolver? Are you a cowboy, Tom? A real cowboy would’ve had it in his lap. Getting the drawer open is way too slow.
Smokey checks the load in the pistol, and then puts the revolver into his belt.
Anyway – I win! he says to Samarchio.
He picks up his wad of cash and pockets it.
So, where is your safe?
Samarchio is staring down at the hilt protruding from his body.
Fuck off, he grunts.
That’s my knife, says Smokey, and pulls out the knife from Samarchio’s torso.
Blood rushes out of the wound, and flows down the front of his polo shirt. Smokey punches him hard in the face, breaking his nose.
You’re a dead man, stammers out Samarchio.
I know, says Smokey. Safe?
Samarchio spits blood. Smokey punches him hard in the same place. He is still in the chair, but now is a mess. Smokey grabs his right hand and slams it flat on the desk.
I was gonna go one finger at a time, but I’m in a shit of a mood, so I’m gonna go – hand, hand, dick.
Smokey raises his hand like he is chopping up meat.
I wish I had a tomahawk. Cutting through bone can fuck a knife blade. The safe?
In the floor of the cupboard behind me.
Smokey drags him out of the chair to the cupboard.
Jeez, you’re a fat bastard.
You’re a dead man.
So you keep saying. Open it.
Samarchio opens the cupboard and there is a safe set into the floor with a combination lock.
I worked hard...
Smokey plunges his knife into the back of Samarchio’s thigh.
Don’t lie to me. You’ve never done a day’s work in your life. Open it.
Samarchio opens the safe. Smokey pulls him back from it, sliding him along the blood-slippery floor. Smokey looks into the safe. There are three large Milo tins full of small gold nuggets, and piles and piles of cash. Right at the front are a big stack of keycards, at least a hundred, and each card has a coloured sticky note stuck to it with a four digit number scrawled across it. Next to the safe in the cupboard is a golf bag. Smokey tips the clubs onto the floor. He carefully stashes all the bankcards with their PINs in a little front compartment of the golf bag. He empties the contents of the Milo tins into the golf bag, and then throws all the cash in on top of that.
Not my gold. That’s got nothing to do with...
Smokey kicks him hard in the knife wound to the upper chest. Samarchio groans.
Where’s your car keys?
Hook by the door.
Smokey grabs them and locks the front door. He puts the golf bag by the back door. There is a hunting vest hanging by the back door. He takes it down and puts it on. He turns back to Samarchio, still bleeding on the floor.
It’s gonna take me ages to distribute all this cash into these accounts. There must be over two hundred grand here.
Just fuck off!
You keep records?
Whaddayou reckon?
Smokey looks around. He picks up a number 2 wood. Samarchio is trying to get himself into a sitting position.
I could never get into golf, myself.
Just go, dead man!
I am going. In your Toyota. But you are the dead man.
Smokey pounds Samarchio in the head with the number 2 wood until his body stops twitching.
Famous Five and the Loan Shark
The door to the interview room opens. Izzy doesn’t look up. Her head feels heavy. She doesn’t know how long she’s been sitting here. Hours and hours. No one talks to her. She’s not allowed to get up. There is a tiny black speck on the grey government-issue table, and she concentrates all of her power on the spot, trying to wash it from existence with the strength of her mind. The chair across from her is pulled back, and Macca sits down. Izzy looks up. There is a female detective standing near the door.
How are you, Izzy?
Never better, Macca. You look good.
Do you need anything?
Izzy looks down at her jeans and shirt. With all the drying blood and body fluids splattered on her, she looks like she’s been standing between an angry Jackson Pollock and his canvas.
I could do with a drink.
Macca nods at the female detective.
Water, he says.
The female detective opens the door and speaks quietly to the crew-cutted constable in uniform who is standing there, and then steps back in.
What are you doing here, Macca?
What are you doing here, Izzy?
I asked first.
I’m in charge of the investigation now. I went to the WA Commissioner with what I knew, and ... here I am.
Here we are. Right in a sea of wrong.
‘Can’t be wrong if you’re right’, says Macca.
Rob Riley. I can’t believe you know that, says Izzy.
We’re not all rednecks, Izzy. I can’t believe you know it.
Izzy shrugs.
You’re in a very serious situation, Izzy.
We all are.
You want to tell me what happened?
You tell me what you know.
The door opens, and the uniform copper comes in and places a six hundred mil bottle of water on the table. Izzy picks up the bottle, unscrews the lid, and sips.
Can I get a pie with that?
We know you’ve been to his secret hideout, says Macca.
You make it sound like the Famous Five. It was on the front page of the paper.
Who is the girl, Izzy?
What girl?
The girl who picked up the false ID.
Just some kid. Picked her up by the side of the road. Paid her fifty bucks.
We’ve raided Uncle Wadi’s place, and two houses in Boolbardji.
Izzy sips from her water, and looks bored.
There was no one at any of these places, adds Macca.
Izzy looks at the female detective: how much easier would it have been to become a cop?
Our agents followed you last night when you went to the sea container. We know you arrived to find the suspect torturing s
ome local kid. Maybe the same kid who drove when he killed the guards, and busted Aransen out. A gunfight ensued. He killed two government agents, executed the kid, took your mate Mort prisoner, and fled.
How do you know all this?
Mort escaped.
I bet he did.
Izzy drinks some water.
If you know all this, why are you talking to me?
You are going to take us to the bunker. It is still being decided what you will be charged with.
If I went out to the container in the middle of the night...
We know you got a call about Bremmer and Mapleton.
...If I went out there, what did I drive?
Macca looks to the female detective. There is a knock at the door. The crew-cutted constable puts his head in.
Excuse me, Sir. Phone call. Urgent.
Who is it?
Sergeant Smithers at Somerset.
Excuse me, Izzy.
Macca moves out of the interview room, down the hall, and into the main operations room. There are a dozen officers in there, and a lot of activity.
Listen up, everyone! yells Macca.
He hits the speakerphone button. Everyone stops what he or she is doing.
Smithers, it’s McIntyre. I’ve got you on speaker in the ops room.
We have a homicide/robbery.
Who is the vic?
Name is Tom Samarchio, owns and runs a motel in town here.
Method?
He was stabbed at least three times, punched and kicked, broken nose, then his skull stoved in with a golf club.
Robbery?
Safe emptied. Hard to know how much. My guess would be over a hundred grand. He was also a well-known prospector. We think there is a connection to this case.
In what way?
It’s like the taxi driver one.
Was the motel man raping underage black girls too?
He ran a kind of a loan shark operation for blackfullas. They could loan cash from him, then he takes their keycards and PINs, and withdraws the repayments from the accounts when the dole payments come.
Macca paces up and down. Smithers is silent.
Why didn’t you close him down? asks Macca finally.
He was providing a service.