by Helene Young
‘I’ll be over here. Take your time. No rush.’
He caught the quizzical look as she left. The door closed behind them and he let out his breath. He was reminded of the first time she’d turned up to watch Abby at training. He’d been patching up a lad who’d split his knee open. With brusque efficiency she’d taken over the first-aid duties, then with a curt nod rejoined the watchers on the sideline. The light scent of perfume had stayed with him, along with the impression of eyes the colour of a summer sky.
He glanced up at the sign for the toilet. When he pushed open the door he grinned at the sight in the mirror. He would definitely have made a beeline for the other side of the street if he’d seen himself coming. The water turned brown as he washed his arms and sluiced water around his neck. He ran his hands through his hair and bound it up with the band from around his wrist.
‘Slightly more respectable, mate,’ he said to his reflection, scraping a nail over two days’ growth on his jaw. A far cry from Zegna suits and monthly haircuts. His old tailor would have a hard time recognising him.
The small waiting room was empty and he slumped in a chair, his legs stretched out to touch the chair opposite. The air-conditioner rattled into life. He stared at a cobweb wafting in the airflow. What had happened tonight? A warning, most probably. Before Christmas, after three days on the job, they’d ventured up the northern arm of the Endeavour River, where it narrowed to little more than a creek, laying a stream of crab pots. When they’d come back to collect them the floats had been cut loose. It took them half a day working the side-scan sonar to collect the crab pots from the bottom. The crabs, despite their healthy size, barely covered the cost of replacing the floats.
They’d been hauling in the nets a couple of days later when the black motorboat cruised past. The boat had done a U-turn and belted back at them, spray flying from the bow. It had hooked into another turn as the trawler’s nets surfaced and the wash tangled them in the mangroves on the bank. It turned again, but this time idled up next to them, its darkened glass and black paint menacing. A man in a navy-blue polo stood on the side, his hair slicked back.
‘Keep away from Barretts Creek,’ he called, making a gun out of his fingers and aiming at them. Then the speedboat turned and motored away, leaving Conor and Bill looking at each other in bemusement. Barretts Creek was a long way up from where they’d laid the crab pots.
Conor crossed his ankles. It sounded like Bill had changed his mind and wasn’t going to report tonight’s shooting either. That didn’t sit comfortably with Conor, but he didn’t think he’d have any success in forcing the old bloke to report it. Not every cop was an honest one. He’d learnt the hard way.
The long night was taking its toll, and his eyes closed. Fragments of time swirled behind his lids. Another hospital, busy, pulsing with life; Annabel with a clipboard, hurrying down a sterile white corridor towards him with the insistent binging of a patient call alarm. Annabel clapping as an ethereal Lily twirled in her ballet tutu. The three of them posing in front of a hut in Mauritius, the aqua water and sandy shore blinding and bright. Kristy spread in delicious abandon, brilliant blue eyes wide with surprise as she tipped over the edge. He sighed.
‘Snagged it on a wire? That’s a gunshot wound.’
His eyes sprang open. Kristy was standing beside him, hands on her curvy hips, those eyes drilling into his.
‘You want to tell me what happened?’ she demanded. ‘Or do I ring the police?’
‘Whoa! I’m with you.’ He held up his hand and slid up in the seat. ‘But it’s Bill’s place to report it. Not mine.’
‘Nonsense. You were there too, weren’t you?’
‘Hang on, Kristy.’ He got to his feet and towered over her. She didn’t budge, but her chin went up a defiant couple of centimetres. ‘I do think he should report it. You try budging the old coot.’
‘How come he was hit and you weren’t?’
‘Quicker reflexes?’ The instant he spoke he realised he shouldn’t have been flippant.
‘You left an old man standing while someone fired at you?’
Conor threw up his hands. ‘Sorry, it was a very poor attempt at humour. It’s been a long night. An unlucky shot. It could have been either of us. I dragged him down as soon as I could get to him.’
Her jaw relaxed some, but hectic colour still stained her cheeks. ‘So did you see who fired at you?’
‘No. It was pitch black, but we’ve seen the boat before.’
‘You’d recognise it?’
‘Only ever seen it at dusk or night. Always heading upstream in the left-hand branch.’
‘Barretts Creek,’ she breathed. ‘They’re trouble.’
‘No kidding.’ Conor was still smarting from the heat of her anger.
She flashed him a look that said he needed to grow up. ‘I treated another gunshot wound early last year. He wouldn’t press charges either and he was a hell of a lot worse off than Bill. You have to tell the cops.’
‘You convince Bill and I’ll drive him there.’
‘Even better, I’ll get them to come here. Cuppa while you wait?’ Her hair danced as she turned away, leaving the tanned skin of her neck exposed. His hands itched to reach out and see if she was as soft as he remembered.
‘Coffee,’ he managed to say, his mouth dry.
‘Come through. I just want to be sure the bleeding’s stopped completely.’
He followed her and heard the sharp intake in breath.
‘Where the hell’s he gone?’
Conor pushed past her. The white sheets of the bed bore the marks from Bill’s dirty clothes, but otherwise there was no sign of anything amiss. He could feel a wave of warmth flooding down the corridor and he headed towards it. The rear door was ajar.
‘Why would he leave?’ Kristy was right behind him.
‘Because he doesn’t want to report it.’
‘I have to report it anyway. You’ll have to make the statement.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. Bill hurt himself on the nets tonight.’
‘You admitted it was a bullet wound.’ Her voice was flat but she was almost vibrating.
‘He said, she said.’ Conor shrugged. ‘I’m sure I remember seeing him catch it on one of the wire hawsers on the net.’
The temper flashed in her eyes. ‘You want these people to keep doing this? How do we know this isn’t related to Danny’s shooting? This isn’t the Wild West. People don’t just run around firing weapons for the hell of it.’
‘No, I know, but this might make it worse.’
‘Who are you to judge that?’
‘More qualified than you, I’d reckon. I’ve had some experience with whistleblowers.’
The silence stretched on. Stalemate. The air-conditioner shot a blast of air over them and a strand of glossy hair blew across her lips. Before he could stop himself he’d reached out and brushed it away, the tips of his fingers sliding over her lips and across the warm skin of her cheek.
‘Don’t try to distract me,’ she said.
He wanted to lean in and see if he could make her boneless and limp again. Instead he backed down with a laugh. The tension ebbed. ‘I’m sorry Bill’s done a runner, but he’ll be trying to shift all those prawns himself so I’d better go help or he’ll rip off whatever bandages you managed to stick on him.’
He brushed past her and walked back to the front door. She followed.
‘I’m still reporting it.’
‘Make sure they spell my name right. Conor, one “n”.’ He pulled the door open and smiled at her. ‘Constable Joyce knows where to find me.’ He didn’t look back as the door closed and swallowed the light. He wasn’t surprised to find the ute was missing from the car park. ‘Bloody old fool,’ he grumbled, striding through the car park. No point in trying to call a cab at this time of night. He broke into a jog. At least it was largely downhill from here.
He made it to the wharf in good time, pleased that his breathing was still st
eady. Car lights shot two beams out over the inlet and he slowed to a walk, trying to make sense of the scene. Bill’s ute was parked at an angle, the driver’s door wide open and the headlights on. Slim Dusty was singing on the scratchy radio about a pretty girl in Charleville.
‘Bill? Bill!’
12
It took a moment for her fists to relax, then Kristy touched her palms to her cheeks.
‘Who’s too cool for school? Conor, with one “n”,’ she mimicked, turning on her heel. Tidy up the room first, she thought, then she was going to report it. Bill could do what he wanted after that. She screwed the sheets into a tight ball and tossed them into the linen bag. What on earth had possessed her to think she could have an afternoon of hot sex with no fallout? When the mood of the afternoon had shattered like the glass on the deck she figured Conor would nod politely the next time they met and that would be that. Instead he’d arrived at her door with flowers and wine, rumpled and gorgeous. Her courage had failed her and she’d left him standing on the doorstep with sad brown eyes.
She couldn’t surrender control again. Out in the middle of the ocean it was easy to pretend life could be different, but back in the real world, with a teenager daughter and a career, she wasn’t brave enough to risk making a mistake again.
And now she was frustrated that he didn’t want to report this shooting. What if it was related to Danny’s murder? Then again, she knew all too well that plenty of single men – and women – living north of the Daintree River were often avoiding something unpleasant down south.
The last fisherman to present with a gunshot wound was lucky to live. If his mates had taken any longer racing him to the hospital he would have bled out from the nicked artery in his leg. The cops had shaken their head that time and left without a statement. She’d heard later that he’d eventually given them a false identity.
Kristy had had a gutful of men and their guns. ‘Boys and their dangerous toys,’ she muttered, punching the pillow.
‘Everything all right?’ It was Petra, the nurse on duty.
‘Yeah, fine. Just patched up Bill McBride. I’m sure it was a gunshot wound and he skipped out before I could write up the report.’
Petra snorted. ‘What the hell was he doing this time?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He used to do sly grog runs to some of the communities further up the Cape. I also heard he used to do the odd shipment to the outer reef as well.’
‘Shipments of what?’
‘Drugs. Can’t be sure which way it was going, but he’d apparently meet up with the ships at the outer reef. If the Customs aircraft spotted them, he’d claim they were legitimately fishing. I thought he’d stopped all that when Leonie was diagnosed with cancer. She hated him doing it so he promised he’d stop.’
‘Right.’ Kristy’s head was spinning. ‘I had no idea.’
‘He’s a cranky old bugger, but he’s the first to lend a hand. Never really got back on his feet since Leonie went. You want to push off early so you’re there when Abby wakes up? I’ll call if anything crops up,’ Petra said as she tucked in the final corner of the bed sheet.
‘That’d be great. She’s only been back from Ruby Downs two days.’
‘Go. You’re five minutes away if I need you.’
‘Thanks. Appreciate it.’
Kristy ran a hand around her neck, feeling the tension as she walked to her locker. One of the delights of a small hospital was getting to know the staff and patients so well. The downside was covering when someone was sick or on leave. She’d be glad when one of her colleagues came back from hiking in the Andes.
Kristy had only just inserted the key in the ignition when she heard Petra calling her name. She slid the window down.
‘They’ve found Bill McBride. He’s been bashed. Down at the wharf.’
‘Damn. I’ll go. Are the ambos on their way?’
‘Conor said he was calling them.’
‘Okay. I’m on it.’
She found them easily enough. Conor was hunched over Bill’s prone body and he looked up as she parked next to him. She could see the relief in his face.
‘What happened?’ she said as she jumped out of the car.
‘I don’t know. I found him like this. He’s barely breathing.’
The old man looked shrunken and diminished, rolled into recovery position. The bandage on his arm was red but it was the injuries to his head that made her draw breath.
‘Someone’s run him down.’
‘That’s what I thought, but who the hell would do that?’
‘Same idiots who fired at you?’
‘Maybe.’
‘The ambos are on their way. Not much I can do until they get here.’ She checked Bill’s pulse then felt around his neck, looking for signs of spinal injuries. The skin was smeared on his face, gravel imbedded in the grazes. His smashed glasses rested on the ground at Conor’s feet.
‘Where was he when you found him?’
‘Right here,’ Conor replied. ‘I wasn’t game to shift him. I rang the hospital hoping I’d get you.’ His face was sombre in the weak headlights. ‘I thought he’d fallen initially, then I found his glasses.’
‘You don’t get grazes like that from falling.’
The ambulance pulled into the car park and two men hurried over to them. By the time Joyce and his offsider arrived, the ambos had stabilised Bill enough to move him.
She watched Joyce and Conor circle each other. If they’d had tails and hackles they would have been raised. It was lucky the policeman had the authority of his position to fall back on; Conor towered above him. She could hear Conor answering questions, giving his version of events even as she concentrated on manoeuvring Bill into a collar to stabilise his neck. The old man had regained consciousness, but his breath wheezed in his chest and his eyelids fluttered closed again. The drip in his arm hadn’t improved his blood pressure. He had to be bleeding internally and God only knew what brain trauma he’d suffered.
The two paramedics barely talked as they went about their job. The cops were examining the scene, their Maglites flashing across the dusty bitumen. No tyre tracks, no evidence of any other vehicle. The constable squatted in front of Bill’s ute.
‘Joyce, look at this,’ he called to his colleague. ‘Signs of damage on the front. Looks fresh.’
‘Really?’ Joyce swaggered over to the car, shining his light into Conor’s face. ‘Hit by his own vehicle? That’s convenient. We’ll have to dust for prints. You got the kit?’
‘I’ll get it.’
Joyce turned to Conor. ‘Lucky we’ve already fingerprinted you. See who was driving, eh?’
‘Handy,’ Conor replied. ‘My prints are all over the vehicle. I drove Bill to hospital. I drive the thing most days. He doesn’t like to drive at night.’
‘Convenient.’
‘Mostly, yep.’
Joyce eyeballed him for a long moment until the other constable returned and handed over the dusting kit.
‘You’ll still have to make a statement at the station.’
‘Sure, after I’ve been home, had a shower and a sleep. It’s been a long night.’
‘So you can wash the fuckin’ evidence off?’ Joyce stepped inside Conor’s space, the black case swinging loose in his hand.
Kristy rocked back on her heels, wondering if she’d need to intervene.
‘So I can wash the prawn shit, diesel oil and Bill’s blood off me,’ Conor retorted, his accent becoming more cultured by the minute. ‘And since I haven’t slept for nearly twenty-four hours I’m hardly going to make a reliable witness at this point in time. Anything I say could be misconstrued so I’ll have my lawyer present. Again.’ His voice hadn’t changed timbre, but he loomed over the other man.
Kristy turned back to her patient. Conor was capable of looking after himself. Bill, on the other hand, was going to have a tough time pulling through this one. The EMQ chopper had to come from Cairns so it would be at least four hours bef
ore Bill made it to Emergency at Cairns Base. With the extent of his injuries he’d end up in Brisbane. Provided he survived that long.
Staring death down still sucked the strength, the joy from her. She’d failed to save the life of her own son, a life too precious to measure. Every other failure was a reminder that all her skill couldn’t hold back the relentless march.
‘You good to go?’ Joe, the older paramedic, asked as he tightened the last strap holding Bill to the stretcher.
Kristy nodded. ‘Yep. The chopper will radio in when it’s half an hour out. Cairns is the best place for him.’
‘You want to ride with us?’
She glanced at her car and sighed.
Conor had come to stand beside her. ‘I’ll drive your car back to the hospital. Follow you there.’ She heard a catch of some deep emotion in his voice. His eyes were hooded, dark in his unsmiling face as she met his steady gaze. ‘It’ll make it easier.’ He held out his hand but she hesitated. ‘You’re dead on your feet, Kristy. Give me the keys.’
‘Let’s go, Kristy,’ Joe said.
Kristy nodded and looked up at Conor. ‘Keys are in the ignition. Thanks, Conor.’
He bobbed his head and headed for her car.
‘Conor’s a good bloke,’ Joe said as he tidied away used dressings. ‘The kids hang off his every word.’
‘I’d noticed. Worried me at first. He was all Abby talked about, but —’
Bill groaned and they both turned their focus back to their patient, the conversation forgotten as the old man tried to toss his head. In the front of the ambulance a phone rang. The driver answered.
‘Yep, yep. Got it. We’ll head to the airfield now. Meet you there.’
The engine note changed and the ambulance lurched as they rounded a corner with the speed increasing.
‘Chopper’s less than fifteen out,’ the driver called. ‘It was up past Port Douglas with a false alarm. They diverted it straight away.’
‘Great.’
‘Might make all the difference.’ Kristy gave Bill’s hand a squeeze. He was motionless again, his skin grey and clammy. Car lights flickered behind. Too late to stop and tell Conor to leave the car at the hospital. He’d either work it out and turn back, or he’d follow them all the way to the airstrip. It was no short drive.