by Peter Temple
Whop.
The night turned to day.
Blinded.
Flare grenade. I backed away, left arm shielding my eyes.
The bullet plucked at my collar, red hot, like being touched by an iron from the forge.
I fell over backwards, twisted, crawled into the undergrowth, hands and knees, through the thicket, thorns grabbing, scratching face and hands, reached a sparser patch, got to my feet, ran into the dark, into something solid, forehead first.
I didn’t fall over, stood bent, stunned, looked back. The flare was dying, white coal.
‘Mac.’ Shout.
Bobby.
‘Mac. Deal. The tape, you walk. Don’t need you dead.’
What hope did I have?
‘Okay,’ I said, ‘I’m coming.’
I ran left, northeast, hindered by wet, clinging, growing things, hampered but not blocked. I reached the fringe of the cleared area, exhausted. Knew where I was.
Clouds opened. Moonlight.
The bullet hit something in front of me. Something solid, tree trunk.
Night-vision scope.
That was the fat tube on El Greco’s rifle. Light-enhancing nightscope.
He could see in the dark.
I threw myself into the denser growth to my right, crawled deeper, deeper, desperate, no breath left, ten metres, fifteen, more. Into, over plants, roots, through ditches of rotten leaves, mud, scrabbling, don’t want to die like this…
I fell into the sunken tennis court, fell a metre, head over heels, got up, dazed, winded, pitch-dark, sense of direction gone, ran, ran a long way, length of the court perhaps, knee-high weeds, swimming in porridge, fell, crawled, a barrier, a wall, the other side of the court, bits of rusted wire, hands hurting, sodden soil, tufts of grass coming away in my hands.
I was out of the court, on my stomach, all strength gone.
The end.
Fuck that.
I was being hunted. I was their victim. They’d had lots of victims. They knew about victims: they run, you find them, you kill them.
Dangerous is what you want to be. Go mad. Nobody wants to fight a mad person. Nobody wants fingers stuck up his nose.
A father’s words to a small and scared ten-year-old son.
Yes. I found the strength, crawled around the perimeter of the sunken court, turned north. Waited in the undergrowth.
Whop.
Fireball. In the tennis court. Night sun. Cold, white night sun.
I buried my head in the dank, wet weeds. Flare thrown from the edge of the tennis court, somewhere near where I’d toppled into the court.
Flare dying, fading.
Dark.
Dark.
And then light, cold silver moonlight through the flying clouds.
Bobby Hill, ten metres away, moving through the knee-high weeds, long-barrelled revolver at his side, not anxious, not hurrying, man out for a walk in difficult conditions.
Dark again. Lying on my face, I reached under my chest, found the gun butt, comforting feel, drew the Colt from the shoulder holster. Safety off. Hammer back.
Whop.
In the air, above me, intense sodium-like light.
I cringed, pushed myself down, didn’t move, Mother Earth, breathed wet soil, waited for the pain. You bowl these things, I realised, throw them, they float for a few seconds. Not parachute flares.
No pain. White glare dying away. Slowly, slowly. Dark.
I got up. Walked to the edge of the sunken court, slid down on my backside, stayed down, drew up my knees, rested my outstretched arms on them. Waited.
Look down. Another flare goes off, don’t look at the light.
Pitch dark.
The clouds tore, moon revealed.
Bobby Hill.
The length of a ute from me.
I saw him.
He saw me.
Handsome man, Bobby Hill: dense black hair combed back, nice smile, standing in knee-high weeds on a forgotten tennis court.
He was smiling as he brought the long-barrelled revolver up.
I fired first, at his middle, big bang.
The bullet hit him somewhere near the bottom of his fly, massive punch in the groin. His lower body went backwards, feet leaving the ground.
For an instant, I saw the expression on his face. It said: This is odd.
In my head, I said, Goodbye, Bobby.
From close by, from the thicket above the tennis court, El Greco said, ‘Bobby. Got him?’
I went up the side of the court again, crawled through the vegetation, Colt in hand, dark again, ground sloping, stopped for a second, heard the creek below me, full this time of year.
Flare behind me, to my left. El Greco had misjudged my direction. He was looking further up, thought I’d turned north. I holstered the Colt, lay still, crawled again, mud in my mouth.
Creek close, few metres, rushing water, making a noise no problem. I was in the thicket of poplars that lined the creek, dead branches poking at me, cheek torn open.
I fell head-first down the bank into the stream. Freezing water, couldn’t find my feet, taken downstream, banged into a fallen tree trunk, turned around, use of only one hand, swallowed water, Jesus Christ, I couldn’t drown after all this…
My feet found the oozy bottom, I got a hold on a branch stump, pulled myself along the tree trunk. Island in the middle of the creek, some moonlight. Hid behind the trunk until it went.
Another flare, even further over. El Greco thought I was trying to get back to the house, to the car.
Relief. I lay on a cold carpet of moss and caught my breath: I could get out of this.
I waded the second half of the stream, much shallower there, up the bank, into another poplar jungle, blundered into a barbed-wire fence, sound of sleeve ripping, climbed through it, caught, jacket ripped.
I knew where I was. I’d walked down here from the mill. The millpond was about two hundred metres downstream and there was a path of sorts along the creek. I could walk upright. El Greco couldn’t see me here, poplar thickets on both banks too dense.
It took me about five minutes to reach the brimming millpond. The moon came out and I could see what I had been hearing: water spilling over the dam wall, small waterfall.
Panting, I went over to the rusting sluicegates, looked down into the empty brick-lined millrace. It ran straight to the old mill, slight fall, disappeared around a corner to where the millwheel was.
If I dropped into it, I could run the hundred-odd metres to the shelter of the mill unseen, climb out, cross the bluestone-paved loading area and climb the embankment, get deep into the trees.
Safe.
Whop.
Sodium daylight.
In the poplars on the other side of the race pond, not thirty metres away.
El Greco.
Changed direction, come back. Probably seen me in the nightscope.
Frozen, I couldn’t move, reflexes not working. Tired. Tired.
I sank to the ground slowly, lay full length, felt for the Colt.
Gone. No Colt. In the stream. Oh Jesus.
The flare died. The millrace. Get into the millrace. I said this to myself. Get into the millrace and run.
I crawled to the edge of the sluicegate.
Just do this and you’re safe. He’ll have to go upstream or downstream to cross.
I turned and put a leg over, found a foothold, looked to see how far the drop was…
Whop.
Flare over the middle of the race pond, white light intensified by the reflection.
El Greco in the poplars, weapon at the shoulder, looking through the nightscope.
Drop. About to let go, fall into the millrace.
Bang, wink of red light at the mill end of the race. Bang on the metal sluicegate, felt the tremor of the metal in my hand.
Someone in the millrace. Shooting at me. Of course, two down the drive, two come from below. I knew there’d be more than two.
Bang, red wink, sound of bullet over my head.
Trapped. Finished.
My hand was on the sluicegate lever. Jesus. Heard Flannery’s voice in my head: Sluicegate’ll still work. Someone’s been greasing it.
I grabbed it with both hands, pulled.
Nothing. No give.
Pulled. Oh Jesus.
Moonlight. Two men in the millrace, thirty metres from me. Bang, barrel flame.
Pull!
The lever gave, I fell to my knees. Sound of rushing, falling water, sluicegate half a metre open.
Not caring where El Greco was, I watched the wall of foaming water barrel down the millrace. The men were on either side, trying to climb out, when it hit them, ripped them off the walls, tumbled them down towards the wheel, sweet Jesus…
‘Hands in the air, Mr Faraday.’
El Greco, behind me, five metres away, pear-shaped head behind the fat nightscope. I raised my tired arms. Berglin, you treacherous bastard. All those years.
‘I think we have to do a deal,’ I said.
He laughed, delighted.
‘A deal. What a wonderful idea. Selling something, are we? Gates? Fighter aircraft?’
Laugh again, the girlish laugh.
‘Haven’t got the tape on me,’ I said. ‘Somewhere safe.’
‘That’s not true, John. For telling me lies, I’m going to punish you. Before I kill you.’
The bullet hit me in the left thigh, like a hard blow from a stick, spun me around, knocked me over.
Pain. Intense, burning pain.
I could see him from where I lay. He came closer, weapon still at the shoulder.
‘That was the first part of the punishment, John,’ he said. ‘Now I want you to ask me not to punish you any more.’
Has to be some dignity at the end.
‘Fuck off,’ I said. ‘You disgust me.’
El Greco lifted his eyes from the sight. ‘That was a mistake, Johnny. This is going to take much longer now…’
He sighted again.
He was going to shoot me low down in the body.
Moon free of cloud, silver light, sound of water. You bastard, Berglin.
How to be a halfway decent person. That’s the main question in life.
What would you know, Berglin, you worthless, faithless bastard?
‘Wait for it, Johnny,’ El Greco said. He laughed, the light, little-girlish laugh. ‘It’s going to hurt, really hurt. And there’s more. Much more.’
A shot. Close. Loud. Another shot.
El Greco looked up from the rifle. His mouth opened. I could see his tongue lolling in his mouth.
He fell over forward, rifle barrel digging into the ground, chest resting on the butt, slowly toppling sideways.
Someone came out of the shadows, wet to the waist, arms at his sides, big automatic pistol pointing at the ground.
‘Fuck,’ Berglin said. His long foot moved El Greco’s rifle away from the body. ‘Flare grenades, night sight. Think bloody technology’s the answer to everything.’
I tried to get up, got to one knee. Pain. Whole left thigh on fire. ‘Why’d you do that?’ I said. ‘Just going to leap at him, knock the rifle away, strangle him.’
‘Got bored waiting,’ Berglin said. ‘Who’s he?’
‘Algie. El G. El Greco.’
He reached down, turned the body over, licked fingertips, held them to El Greco’s nostrils. ‘Won’t be standing trial,’ he said, straightening up. ‘Just as well. Guilty fuckers get off half the time.’
I was in the smithy getting ready to temper a knife blade when Detective Michael Shea drove up, again without Cotter. He came in and sat on the bench.
I had a thick iron plate on the fire, just about ready, almost red.
‘Can’t talk,’ I said. ‘Got to get this right.’
It was red enough. I took tongs and moved it to the cooler side of the fire, picked up the knife blade and put it on the plate. The important thing now was to quench the blade when it showed the right colour.
Shea came over to watch. The blade absorbed heat from the plate, turned strawy yellow, went through orange into brown, began to turn a redder brown.
I picked it up with heated tongs and put it in the quenching bath of water under a layer of clean olive oil, moved it about.
‘What’s that do?’ Shea said.
‘Hard steel’s too brittle, snaps. Get rid of some brittleness this way,’ I said. ‘First you have to harden it, then you temper it like this. What’s happening?’
‘Big morning. They found more bones. Marcia’s rolled, Veene’s decided to give us Crewe.’
‘That’s big.’
‘Crewe got pulled this morning. Steps of Parliament. Do it that way down there. Tip off Channel Nine, get your face on camera. Excellent for the career. They ran Marcia through the Canadian databases. No Marcia Carrier. But a Marcia Lyons did time for assaulting girls at a girls’ home in Montreal. Turns out it’s her. That’s her married name, Lyons. She says Crewe found out before she got the job, didn’t say a word, made sure she got it. Then he had her.’
‘Took part?’
‘Admits. Very distressed. Blames her old man. Says he used to beat her and her sister. Says she didn’t know the girls were killed after she left. Guilty only of assault.’
Gaby Makin had said something. She was talking about Melanie Pavitt, how strong she was for a small person. What was it?
Barbie liked the little ones.
She hadn’t been talking about Ian Barbie, she’d been talking about Marcia. Marcia was Barbie to Barbie’s Ken.
‘What’s Rick say?’ I said.
‘Gone to water. Says he had sex with the girls at the farm, left them with Andrew and Tony. Only found out later that Andrew killed them. On video. We got the videos. In the basement at Andrew’s mansion. Safe buried in the floor. Found it with a metal detector. Make you puke, tell you.’
‘Crewe’s in the picture?’
‘Not. But there’s enough. Got dates, times from Barbie’s last letter. Crewe was up here for all of them. They picked girls being discharged, nowhere to go, no family. So they just vanished, no-one looked for them.’
He came around and looked at the cool blade, picked it up. ‘Nice,’ he said. ‘You do good work. There’s something else. Ned. Been waiting for people to get back to me. Cop in Brisbane, he’s been trying to nail a bloke called Martin Gilbert for years, reckons he’s Mr Rent-a-Rope, priors for assault, attempted murder. Smart guy. Joe Cool. Three hangins up there, all got the smell, plus one in Sydney, one in Melbourne. One Brisbane one, car belongs to mate of Gilbert’s, bloke’s interstate at the time, car’s a block from the scene at the right time.’
‘That take us where?’
‘Got a picture of Gilbert,’ Shea said. ‘Nice colour picture. Had the troops takin it around the motels. Slow business.’
He had something to tell me.
‘Motel up the top of Royal Parade had two blokes come in on the night, just before midnight. One’s Gilbert, bloke’s a hundred percent on it. The two got pissed in the room, made a lot of noise, manager had to get up, copped a lot of abuse from Gilbert. I’m goin down tomorrow, show him the pictures come today. Some of Gilbert’s mates.’
I’d got this large, pale, sad-looking man very wrong. ‘You do good work too,’ I said.
Shea said, ‘There’s more. We done the car rentals for the day, ran the IDs, got a rental, cash, false ID. Brisbane troops seen it before, think it’s used by Gilbert.’
I started to say something.
Shea held up his hand. ‘Small rental place this,’ he said, ‘not too many paying cash these days. They remember this roll of plastic tape, black plastic tape, found in the boot of the rental when they cleaned it. Still got it too, lyin there in the office. Thought it’d come in useful, says the bloke.’
Shea shifted his buttocks, couldn’t get comfortable, got up and went over to stand in the doorway. ‘Forensic’s had another look at Ned’s pyjamas, Brissie cops
told ’em what to look for. Now they reckon there was tape on the pyjama sleeves, on the pants.’
‘You do more than good work,’ I said. ‘You do excellent work.’
He looked away. ‘Forensic think they might have missed some acetone stuff, like nail varnish remover, used to clean Ned’s face, round the mouth. Same on two hangins up in Brissie. Reckon this Gilbert knows his stuff.’
‘The plastic tape,’ I said. ‘Match it with the glue?’
‘Tomorrow, we’ll hear tomorrow, next day. Soon.’
‘Be enough?’
He shrugged. ‘Get a positive ID from the motel on Gilbert’s mate, he might shake loose.’
He looked out of the door. It had started to rain. ‘Got to go,’ he said. ‘Be in touch.’
I went out with him, put out my hand, ‘Glad we drew you on the night.’
He shook my hand. ‘Gettin there. Any luck, we get the bastards. Then they get a smart lawyer and they walk.’
I was finishing up for the day when the phone rang in the office.
‘Gather your local Member’s the first item on the news tonight.’ Berglin. No greeting.
‘So I hear. What’s with our friend in the Vatican?’
‘That’s why I’m calling. Scully resigned this morning.’
‘They going to prosecute?’
‘No.’
‘No? The bastards. He’s a murderer, how many times over.’
‘Can’t prosecute.’
‘Can’t? Can’t? What kind of…’
‘Can’t prosecute the dead. He shot himself. In his garage at home.’
I sat in silence for a while, telephone forgotten, looking out of the window at the tattered clouds blowing south, at the willows down at the winter creek sending out the first pale green signal of spring.
Berglin cleared his throat. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘there endeth the lesson.’
I said, ‘Amen.’
We limped off after the third quarter, six goals down, our supporters-now grown by about ten thousand percent- giving us a sad little cheer. Kingstead got a roar, hooting, small boys jumping and punching one another.
Mick tried his best in the break. ‘Six goals is nuthin, fellas. Knock ’em off in the first ten minutes, cruise away to a magnificent victory. Make it all the sweeter, that’s all…’
‘You goin to play Lew or not?’ Billy Garrett said. ‘What’s the bloody point of him sittin on the bench?’