The Big Smoke

by Jason Nahrung

  Hamilton was a posh suburb; streets lined with jacarandas and poinciana, the houses large Queenslanders or brick mansions barricaded behind high walls and hedges rubbing shoulders with cramped McMansions and compact slabs of apartments.

  It was bold of the Needle to hide in one of the city's richest suburbs. Admittedly, there were empty or rundown houses here; his own further up the hill was a case in point. Not everyone could afford to knock down and rebuild. Not everyone wanted to take the money and run. But there was no guarantee the Needle had been that obvious. He could be in that three-storey monstrosity, or that quaint post-war cottage on stilts, or that rather tastefully restored mansion on the corner with the mango tree in the front yard. The slippery bastard could be anywhere the sun didn't shine.

  Was the Snipe on a tucker run? Then why not wait inside? Only way to find out was to ask. Nigel parked farther up the street, away from the nearest street light. Plenty of cars for cover.

  'What now, boss?' Nigel rubbed his neck, as though to indicate he'd done his bit tonight, clearly uneasy about being off the books without explanation. Kirk hung from a nearby jacaranda, apparently off the clock as well.

  'Stake it out.'

  'Huh?'

  'The Monaro. Didn't you notice it?'

  Nigel craned to check behind them. 'Fuck me, is that—'

  Reece's phone rang. Felicity. He toyed with not answering.

  'Boss?'

  He hit the answer button. 'Flick?'

  'Where are you?'

  'Went out for a pizza.' Shit, he shouldn't have said that. Why?'

  'Jensen is dead.'

  'I heard. You're there?'

  'It's a fucking mess. Went out for a little cheer-me-up and lost his head. I'm not sure if it's good news or not, but the building security footage suggests it wasn't Matheson.'

  'Who, then?'

  Her voice lowered. He could imagine her cupping the phone to her mouth like an illicit cigarette. 'It's hard to tell, but my money's on that four-armed freak. The shape's about right, even without the extra limbs.' She sighed. 'I could use you on this one. I'm the only Hunter in town.'

  'I'm on sick leave.'

  Silence. He could almost hear the cogs turning. 'What's going on, Reece?'

  'Indeed.'

  'You should be champing at the bit to get your teeth into this.'

  'I'm off the case, Flick.'

  'What are you up to?'

  'Nothin'. You just keep your eyes peeled. Gotta go, they're calling my order.'

  He signed off. 'You got a phone?' he asked Nigel, who nodded.

  'Give it to me.'

  'Why?' But he handed it over.

  'Mine's gone flat.' Reece opened the door.

  'What the hell are you doing? I thought we were on stakeout.'

  'I'm gonna go in for a closer look. You stay here. If that car moves, follow it.'

  'How can I call you?'

  Reece pointed to the bat, slammed the door, aware that Nigel had got out and was watching him across the roof of the car. He could feel the kid fuming. The night was still and hot, the air pressing down under the weight of clouds that made such a sickly ceiling above them. It gave him an excuse for the clamminess he felt.

  He checked the Monaro, nodding at the tasteful bodywork; noted the rushed paint job, the mud sprayed up the sides, the faint warmth from the bonnet. Scowled at a fresh bullet hole. Memorised the new plate.

  There was a lane of sorts, opening into a bitumen car park, a toilet block, another entry lane between wall-to-wall businesses lining Kingsford Smith Drive. He approached the back of the restaurant, ducked behind a car as two women came out a side door and dodged potholes to the loo. There was a staircase to a landing, and a curtain, dim light behind. He saw nothing untoward. He walked across, aware of the crunch of gravel under his boots, the smell of cooking oil and spoilt garbage.

  A loo flushed, the sound muffled by the concrete, and he made up his mind. Up the stairs. He knocked.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  One of the Needle's Snipes was pouring a baggie of heated blood into a glass for Kevin when a knock at the back door interrupted him. Everyone drew weapons in the sudden silence. With a gesture from the Needle, the male Snipe sneaked to the back door and peered through the spy hole.

  'A whitefalla in a suit,' he whispered. 'Looks like a copper.'

  'Just the one?'

  'Looks like.'

  The cop's voice carried as he said, 'Phillip Reece. Hunter Phillip Reece. I'm here to talk to Matheson.'

  Kevin scrambled to his feet but the Needle waved him back and told the Snipe to let Reece in. Kevin tucked his pistol behind his leg.

  'If he's found us...' Kevin said, nervousness putting a shake in his voice.

  'We'll hear him out,' the Needle said.

  The girl Snipe retreated to the far side of the room, her weapon ready for business, and the boy showed Hunter in.

  Hunter forked his revolver out with his fingertips, and then a small one from his ankle, followed by the Staker from his belt, and the lad piled them on the kitchen table. He patted him down, finding nothing more, and then brought him into the living room.

  Hunter gave Kevin a nod. 'Matheson.' He turned to the Needle. 'Well, this is nicer than a urinal, isn't it?'

  The Needle gave a small inclination of acknowledgement. 'Bold, coming here by yourself.'

  'I think young Kevin and I have a bit of an understanding.'

  'You're still alive,' Kevin said, 'so I guess we must.'

  'We probably don't have a lot of time, sport,' Hunter said. 'I've got a feeling my people are on their way.'

  'Tipped them?' Kevin asked.

  'I suspect they've been tipped for me.'

  'Interesting colleagues you've got there,' the Needle said.

  'Keep me on my toes.'

  Kevin tapped out a text message on his phone, feeling pressure closing around him, jackboots thumping on the stairs. 'I'll tell Greaser to keep an extra eye out.'

  The Needle sent his two Snipes to keep watch and then asked Hunter, 'So what's the reason for this little tête-à-tête?'

  'I wanted to ask young Kevin here what happened to the Romantic, the one in bedlam. I know Danica didn't make it off the island. But where's the girl?'

  'She's safe,' Kevin said.

  'And her condition?'

  'Ah,' the Needle said.

  Kevin shrugged.

  Hunter looked at him, at the Needle. 'Is she being treated? Because if she is, I was hoping you might tell me where.'

  'Not a chance, sport,' Kevin said.

  'Mira's case is much worse,' the Needle said. 'She purposefully consumed her ghosts, purposefully took them within her. Those life streams are embedded in her core, not like Melpomene's. Hers are a flash flood that will abate, albeit leaving her scarred; Mira's are a lake in which she's constantly drowning.'

  'Lakes can be drained. Drowning swimmers can be saved,' Reece said.

  'Dangerous, giving mouth-to-mouth to a snake.'

  'Old habits,' Reece said, lowering himself into an armchair, looking tired, looking — old.

  'There's no way I'd help Mira,' Kevin said. 'You must know that.'

  'But you didn't kill me out west when you had the chance. You fed from me. Could've taken me all the way. But you didn't. I still haven't been able to work out why.'

  'Maybe you just weren't my flavour, Hunter.'

  The man raised an eyebrow.

  Kevin rubbed his eyes, his face, wishing for water and a towel and somewhere to sleep. Sleep for a year. 'Maybe I'd just had a gutful of killing.'

  'And now?'

  Kevin looked away. That was the question, wasn't it? How much was enough? How many deaths would it take for him to be truly free? Was it even possible?

  'Kevin — give it up, sport. Danica is dead. Mira's in bedlam. Your parents, my mates, your mates. It's enough, isn't it?'

  'More than enough. I want to make sure there's no more.'

  'That your job?'

 
'It's got to be someone's.'

  'Yours?' Hunter asked the Needle, looking at him with fresh eyes, a policeman's perhaps, searching for something beneath the surface.

  'I'm not making any promises.'

  'You wouldn't. You think young Kevin is going to give you an advantage? Or are you holding on to him for the reward?'

  'Reward?' Kevin stood.

  'Maximilian wants you; badly,' the Needle said.

  'That's not news,' Kevin said.

  'Badly enough to give a council seat to the person who brings you in. That's a lot of prestige,' Reece said.

  Kevin studied the Needle, who met his gaze unflinchingly. He didn't strike Kevin as the kind of guy who gave a damn for prestige. No, Hunter was up to something. Well, Kevin wasn't falling for it. He'd already tasted Hunter once and knew the copper hadn't liked it.

  Kevin bent over Hunter, hands either side of him on the arms of the chair. 'Where's Mira?'

  'You can't get to her, sport. Just give it up.'

  'If I can get to her, it'll be in your blood.'

  'Or you could get the last time I played cricket.'

  'You played cricket?'

  'Thought you might've seen that, last time.' He kept his eyes on Kevin's, measuring him. 'Like I said, never can tell what you'll get.' A sigh as Kevin didn't move. 'Preferred rugger, but yeah, police shield champions, 1969.'

  'We made the state finals, once, a couple of years ago,' Kevin said, standing away from Hunter. 'Played up the road at Allan Border Field.' He gestured at a wall, not sure he had the right direction, more a reflex.

  'Didn't win?'

  Kevin shook his head.

  'Opposition's tougher this time, sport. Believe me. It's an attacking field, and the quicks, well, you haven't seen anything as quick as them.'

  'Still, you pad up, don't you? Give it your best shot.'

  Kevin's phone rang, the bass hook of Deep Purple's Black Night thumping. 'It's Greaser. People moving in.'

  'Got VS, far end of the car park,' the Snipe in the kitchen said.

  'Tell your friend to run,' Hunter told Kevin.

  'Already running,' Kevin said.

  The Needle pointed to the back door. 'Out!'

  Kevin paused to exchange a glance with Reece, the man hauling himself to his feet with what looked like sheer force of will.

  'Go,' Hunter said. 'Keep going. Because if you come for Mira, I will stop you.'

  'Unless I stop you first. You think of that?'

  Hunter lifted two fingers to his forehead and flicked him a salute.

  Kevin gave a curt nod and ran. He reached the landing in time to see the Needle's Snipes vaulting down the stairs. Figures at the far end of the lane shouted as they jinked forward, from car to car, guns aimed.

  The Needle jumped on to the rail and then leaped for the roof. Grabbed the creaking, bending gutter and hauled himself up. Kevin jumped, too, grabbing the brickwork, driving the toes of his boots into the mortar and shinning up, fingertips as sure as picks.

  Bullets chipped the wall as the Needle hauled Kevin onto the roof. The shooters were using silencers, lending the violence an air of eeriness.

  From the roof, Kevin could see the suburb meandering back from the river, the taller buildings of the main shopping street upstream. The cityscape a long way away, the stream of traffic running beside the river. And carving in toward the jetty across the road, a CityCat with a huddle of passengers at the bow.

  'Meet up at Mel's,' the Needle said.

  He ran downstream across the roof, jumped the lane and kept running. His Snipes had, Kevin thought, gone in that direction, VS well behind.

  Kevin ran across the roofs, upstream.

  Shouts and shots followed him, but he gained the street, using a handy sapling to swing down outside a 7-Eleven aglow on the corner. He ran through the traffic to the ferry landing. The gangplank was down, passengers alighting, others lined up on the pontoon to board. He pushed through the new arrivals and got to the boat just as a crewman was about to raise the bridge. He raced aboard.

  'In a hurry, mate?' the man said, sounding annoyed. Kevin ignored him as he darted for the cover of the cabin.

  The crewman waved to the captain upstairs and the catamaran pulled back, then powered away, followed by shouts from the bank. Kevin watched from the doorway as the first of his pursuers reached the dock. One was talking on a phone.

  'Where does this go?' he asked the uniformed woman taking money for tickets.

  'All the way to the uni,' she said. 'You a tourist?'

  'Sure.'

  She pointed to a map. 'Where do you want to get off?'

  The route criss-crossed the river. Mel's place was on this side. The second stop would be as close as he could get to her apartment. Question was, how long would it take VS to stake out each ferry stop? Or could they react faster, maybe send a boat to intercept? He asked how long the trip took and tried to factor the fractions.

  He forked out change to pay the fee, then went to the back of the boat. They were midstream, the bank dotted with leisure boats, some meccano cranes further away, the banks lined with sparkling buildings, the city spires a backdrop to the west, the Gateway bridges to the east. He could just make out one of the peaks of the Story Bridge ahead, projecting above a bend. A jumble not so much of hiding places, but ambush points, and Kevin had no idea how it all fitted together.

  The first dock was Bulimba. They pulled in almost directly opposite the wharf where he'd boarded. It was tempting to get off and find another way to get across the river. Steal a car or a boat, or hitch a lift, maybe hail a taxi. Surely VS couldn't monitor every cab in the city. How long would the drive take? How long would the Needle wait for him?

  He braved out that first docking, watching closely the few that boarded. A couple stood nearby, but soon moved inside, perhaps convinced by the diesel fumes, perhaps by his brooding presence. Others huddled on the bow. Most seemed satisfied to stay inside the cab.

  The ferry finally started its approach to the next dock, bobbing floodlit around a point. A concrete building squatted on the peninsula — he thought from the bulk of it that it was the theatre he'd seen from Mel's. People sat at a cafe just above water level. Behind the dock was a park bordered with fig trees. He immediately checked the sky, but couldn't see any flying foxes following him.

  The boat was going slowly, much slower than it had on its first crossing to Bulimba. Maybe because they were going up-river, now, nose into the current. But really slow. Another ferry came down, travelling much faster. A bat swooped overhead, a gentle whoosh of wings. Kevin looked away, shoulders hunched. How good were the creature's eyes? Assuming it was one of Max's spy animals, probably better than average. Or could they smell him? The animal swooped away, scribing a big arc. He knew, he realised, nothing about flying foxes except they were hated by orchardists and stank of piss.

  As the boat idled back and the crewman went forward to prepare his ropes, Kevin sat on the side and, when he was certain no one was watching, eased himself over and kicked away. He bobbed in the boat's wake, dog paddling, afraid of making telltale splashes. With careful effort, he pushed through the water to a navigation buoy and clung, sodden, in the red wash of its warning light.

  A car pulled up at the dock, brakes squealing. Men piled out. The boat nudged into the dock, people got off, more got on. Men worked their way through the arrivals, boarded.

  Kevin's wet clothes dragged on him and he sank as low as he could. The men spoke into phones and then got back in the car and left. The ferry resumed its journey, twin engines churning, rocking the buoy.

  He clung for a while longer and then swam for shore. Had the Needle got away? Had Greaser? Greaser wouldn't know where to find them, and his phone was saturated. Would it work? No doubt the Needle would have a way of contacting her. The important thing for him was to get to the rendezvous. If he could avoid drowning or being shot. If he could trust the Needle not to have sold him out.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  A
wobble of light from behind, the ring of a bell, the whirr of tyres on concrete.

  Kevin stepped off the path as a bicycle sped up, its rider hunched over the handlebars, Lycra-clad legs pumping, a light strapped to his helmet. Kevin stiff-armed him as he drew level. The man went down in a mess of arms and legs and bloody teeth. The bicycle clattered into a bottlebrush tree on the sidewalk. Kevin, uncomfortably wet, hungry, eyed the groaning rider, considering: blood scent and sweat.

  He turned from the cyclist and grabbed the bike. It'd been a long, long time. He pushed off. Mel's wasn't too far away, but this beat walking. In sight of Mel's apartment, he hid the bike behind a fence and made a cautious approach.

  The building was bone white. There were no live voices: no arguments, no conversations, no children; just televisions and radios. No fresh cooking smells, but blood and piss and shit; that familiar miasma of death overlaying the mould and rot and human odours. The stench leached out of the bricks like a sick fog. He could imagine the walls dripping with ichor.

  The front door wasn't locked. He opened it slowly, standing back, one hand pushing with the fingertips, the other clenched on his pistol. Electric whispers floated out, accompanied by blood trace, sinuous and teasing.

  Feeling like a fish following a lure, he crept up the stairs as the eerie, peopleless silence settled around him. There were scuffs and spots on the stairs, like a stale line of bloody breadcrumbs. The more he listened, the more ominous the silence grew; the televisions and radios so banal and oblivious in their self-importance, music little more than beats, repetitious and irrelevant. There wasn't even traffic noise.

  Mel's door was shut; the dark timber, the loose number, felt like a trap. Muted music sounded, undiscernible but for that heartbeat of bass. The stench of blood radiated from behind it. He wouldn't have been surprised to see blood under his feet, welling out from under the door. But the boards were clear.

  He reached for the doorknob and paused at the first contact. Sticky. Blood. More, there, on the jamb. And another smell — burned flesh; charcoaled. Lucky the joint had no fire alarm system.