by Jack Dey
The intensity of the outgoing tide increased, while bits of tree branch and vegetation floated passed in the current. Small fish made splashing noises as they darted, attempting to outmanoeuvre larger predators. Meanwhile, fraying ropes, supposedly securing the boat, dangled into the water as the current pushed the boat hard against the dock, making a perfect access for the river rats to come ashore. The sentry yawned, pulling hard on the humid air and exhaling violently. His tired eyes longed to close in sleep, but he would have to stay alert until the boat left, in a few hours.
A commotion over in a dark corner by a pile of rubbish caught the sentry's attention and he walked swiftly to investigate. A couple of large river rats tussled over territory. The sentry hissed, unamused at the warring rodents.
Rats tussle for territory just like the river pirates, he thought.
He walked back to his post by the old wooden boat and then slid his back down the wall to the ground and onto his haunches, deciding to rest his aching legs.
*~*~*~*
The sudden sound of a backfire woke the sentry with a start and he shot to his feet. The engine onboard the boat cranked to life and was chugging and chuffing. A steady stream of used engine cooling water poured over the side through an old green hose. Fish schooled around the disturbance in the water made by the steady stream, to see if any food was in the offering. Thick white diesel smoke wafted over the dock as the old diesel engine wobbled into life, momentarily choking the sentry. He glowered around sheepishly in the rising dawn light, coughing and hoping no one had seen his lapse at his post. Cong would not be pleased.
An old man wandered around on the vessel, preparing to cast off the ropes. As he did, he spotted the guard watching him. "Must make good time to get to Hainan, before the weather turns bad again."
Sooner you than me, trying to get to China in a tub like this, the sentry thought.
He waved the old man’s comments off, as the old man prepared his boat, laden with cargo, for sea. The tired guard couldn't wait for the boat to leave; then he could legitimately go home to his waiting bed.
As the old man steered the wooden boat away from the dock and out into the current, he glanced back at the mooring he had just left, noticing the sentry had quickly departed from his post. Returning his attention to his mission, the old man carefully searched the dawn-lit surrounds while checking each passing boat for spying eyes, as he made for the Mekong Delta River mouth and the open sea. Even at this time of day, the waterways were busy with traffic and a police boat trawling for people smugglers could materialise at any moment, putting an end to his journey before it began.
The seventy kilometre voyage from My Tho to the open sea would take six hours and with his load of cargo stacked all over the deck, the old man hoped he would look just like any one of a thousand merchant boats and not attract attention from anyone in authority. With the expansive river mouth just behind, the old boat rocked on the swells and slowly made way, out into the South China Sea. Instead of turning north and heading for Hainan, China, the old vessel steered south, heading for the Java Sea.
Tying off the rudder and with the single cylinder engine in full flight, the old man made his way into the covered section of his vessel and gave the all clear. "It is safe, now!"
The floorboards exploded upwards and bumped against the bilge of the boat, making a hollow, wooden sound. Three very tired and stiff people climbed out of their hiding place, relieved to be putting some distance between them and their pursuers. As the three itinerants joined the old man at the back of the boat, more people began to emerge from hiding places all over the boat. Men, women and children. An-Dung counted twenty in all, including the old man.
Their first fuel stop would be Natuna Besar, an island between Kuala Lumpur and Borneo. Then they would make way for the straits between Sumatra and Java, hugging the coast off Indonesia until they made Ashmore Island, an island in the Indian Ocean belonging to Australia. Hopefully, the Australian Navy would intercept them there, and then with the forged papers, they would walk straight into freedom. If all went to plan, they would make Ashmore Island in a month. Storms at sea, breakdowns and cutthroat pirates would be their worst enemies, while The Gulf of Thailand was their first great hurdle. If they could make it through without being attacked by Thai pirates, they would put a major obstacle behind them. Clearly they had many barriers to avoid, before making landfall in Australia.
An-Dung had not intended taking any part in this journey and he worried, knowing there was only enough forged papers for two of them, not three. The Australian authorities would send him back to Vietnam and to Cong if he could not convince them to let him stay. At this rate, he expected he had plenty of time to devise a plan.
*~*~*~*
The equatorial sun was hot and humid and the progress of the old wooden boat was slow. The old, single cylinder diesel engine pop...pop...popped along slowly, adding to the tedium. With so many people aboard the small boat, it was difficult to find a place to be alone and just think, while the smell of sweaty bodies in the cramped quarters added to the discomfort. Combining with the fear was the knowledge that if they were pursued by another vessel, they would be easily overtaken.
The old boat was a sitting duck.
The old man kept searching the horizon with his eyes and constantly peering behind them. His nervousness was making An-Dung edgy.
"What are you looking for, old man?"
"We are just now skirting the Gulf of Thailand. Many pirates roam these waters and they are not friendly," he said. Just as he was finishing his speech, a boat appeared on the horizon. The old man locked his eyes onto it and calculated that they were travelling several times faster than he.
"We have unwanted company. Soon you will know what pirates can do to a boat like this."
An-Dung watched the vessel approaching, blocking their view, as the moments passed.
"You had better tell everyone to hide. They will steal everything of value," the old man complained.
Panic set in across the people aboard, while the old man shouted for them to quieten down and to hide. Even in their hiding places, the telltale body odour was everywhere and could give them away. The old man's worried look grew more concerned as the fast moving vessel slowed and drew alongside.
A young Thai youth called across to the old man, "Shut down your engine. We are coming aboard."
As the old man reached down to kill the engine, he counted four young men standing on the deck of the pirate vessel. An agile youth boarded the old wooden vessel and a rope was thrown across to him, to take the vessel in tow.
"Who and what do you have aboard, old man?" the young pirate demanded, as he finished securing the rope.
"I am just a poor man, heading for Indonesia to trade my wares."
"You won't need to go any further, old man. We are taking your boat."
The pirate raised his nose and recognised the stale scent of body odour. "You are trafficking people. That is a crime, old man. Where are they hidden?"
The old man didn't answer and conceded his life was about to end, when, suddenly, he saw flames billowing from the pirate boat and then witnessed a huge ruckus as three bodies jumped into the water. The young pirate's face was shocked, as he watched in disbelief while his boat quickly burnt to the waterline.
A rubber raft floated nearby and three young men scrambled to get aboard. The pirate was just about to open his mouth, when he suddenly felt a hand around his foot and then found himself floundering beneath the waves, pulling for the surface and the rubber raft.
The old boat's motor burst into life, sending clouds of diesel smoke over the stranded pirates, as the old man extended the distance between them and his old craft. When he finally sounded the all clear, a dripping, wet figure pulled himself aboard.
Grandma giggled in delight, surveying the remains of the burning pirate boat and the rubber raft, growing smaller as the distance increased between them. Turning her gaze to An-Dung, she whispered in triumph, "
Mot Lang Quen."
*~*~*~*
Chapter 32
Dulcet pulled his chair up to the table and surveyed the sea of paper scattered over its entirety. He sighed, focusing in on weeks of study and questioning, the results of a human interest story that was fast becoming a personal obsession. The silence in his barrack accommodation afforded him the luxury of a place to study the Magician and his mysteries; all the while allowing him the solitude to clarify his cluttered thoughts and to think through each new piece of evidence as it became available and without Blair’s booming interference.
It had been a full day of Blair's orders and bellowing. Dulcet’s head was thick and foggy; the information in front of him had lost some of its appeal in his tired state and all he felt like doing was heading for bed and turning out the light. A stab of guilt suddenly attacked his moral mind.
Who am I to be dabbling with police matters, anyway?
Apart from an oversensitive curiosity and a natural desire to solve the unsolvable, Dulcet felt like an inexperienced gossip, another would-be-if-he-could-be.
Feeling deflated, he pushed his chair out again and concentrated on ironing his uniform for the morning and polished his boots instead. In a matter of half an hour, he had ambled down to the ablution block, showered and was ready for bed. Pulling back the covers on the top bunk, he reached over to his desk and extinguished the small light, then felt for the steel ladder attached to the head of his bunk and in complete darkness, wriggled into bed. In the quiet, his eyes began to close and sleep invaded his consciousness; the delicious feeling of tiredness meeting relaxing revitalisation.
Somewhere in his deep subconsciousness, a bell was ringing… ringing… ringing. He felt his senses being pulled up from a deep place of rest, until he was suddenly awake and discovered his telephone ringing.
In his haste to answer it, he jumped down from the bunk and collided with the desk’s chair, then fidgeted around in the darkness until he found the light switch. Eventually finding the troubling device, he pushed the talk button and the nerve jangling ring tone was silenced.
Needing time to adjust to being awake again, he managed a slurred, "Hello."
A familiar baritone voice dragged him fully into reality’s lair, "Dulcet, Senior Detective Ryan. Any chance of meeting me at Leanne Bates' duplex? We have another victim."
*~*~*~*
As Dulcet turned his unobtrusive automobile into Leanne Bates' street, he was met by a crowd of people and numerous squad cars. He parked the vehicle down the street, in the only available vacant place and glanced down at the dash clock. It had just gone 8.30 pm. Dressed in comfortable civvies, Dulcet walked down to the crime scene tape blocking the entrance to Leanne Bates' duplex. He was stopped by a young female constable, until Ryan appeared and gave him clearance.
"What happened?" Dulcet asked, walking to the door of the duplex.
"She's alive, but doesn't remember anything. She said that she had her usual orange drink before bed and remembers nothing after that. The ambulance has only just taken her away. Apparently, a Mr Tom Henderson, an elderly gentleman, had arranged to have dinner with her at 6 pm and when she didn't respond to his calling, he became worried and rang us. We found her unconscious, lying in her bed," Ryan disclosed. "The bloke next door reckons he didn't see or hear anything, but then again, he is well known to our uniform boys and refuses to talk to anyone connected to the police. If he knows anything, he just won't cooperate with us."
"Do you want me to have a word with him?" Dulcet offered.
Ryan shrugged. "You could try, but good luck with getting anything sensible. His name is Dean Porter and just so you won’t faint from the shock, he has a face full of metal and is probably doing dope, as we speak."
Dulcet nodded, ducked under the police tape and walked over to Porter's door, then knocked hard and waited.
"I already told you all I’m gonna say! Go away!" came Porter's agitated voice through the door.
"Mr Porter, my name is Edwin Dulcet. I am from the Special Air Services Regiment, Australian Army and I am not connected to the police, but I believe you may be able to help piece together what happened to my friend, Leanne Bates."
He heard the sound of locks opening and then the door cracked open. The face staring back at him had chains connecting his nose to his ears and all kinds of studs and metal forced through every part of his head. Seeing the army uniform must have made some kind of connection with Porter and he let Dulcet in.
"Are you really in the SAS, dude? You sure don't look like a killing machine," Porter stammered.
"Thank you for the character reference and yes, I am in the SAS."
"Can you put in a word for me? I'd love to be in Special Ops," Porter pleaded.
"Well, if you can answer my questions and tell me about any suspicious behaviour you saw tonight, or last night, I will give you a name in recruiting in Sydney. I am sure he will do everything he can to make you feel special," Dulcet’s attempted sarcasm was wasted on Porter.
The next hour proved to be an exercise in futility. Declining the offer of alcohol and smoking weed, Dulcet really didn't think he was getting anywhere, until he noticed the bump on Porter’s head. Not expecting the tale to lead anywhere, he listened politely, until Porter mentioned the sedan parked by his driveway and some stupid dude smiling at him.
"Go on," Dulcet requested, not wanting to sound too interested.
"Well, I gets home on me pushy about 9.30 pm last night, cause those rotten fuzz took away me licence. Got done for DUI and they came around and stitched me up, didn’t they!"
Porter was just about to go off on another tangent, until Dulcet directed his mind back to the sedan.
"Yeah, like I sez, this dude's got his window down and is giving me a great big cheesy. I am just about as tanked as I can be, when I spots this geezer. I lifts me finger to give him what for and I hits the kerb and spills me gizzards over the handlebars and rolls down the driveway. I bangs into Leanne Bates' car and by the time I can get up, the dude has sped off down the street."
"What happened then?"
"I drops me keys to the house and couldn't find ‘em again. Eventually, I finds the keys and the lock and let meself in. I was feelin’ really peeved at hitting the war office’s car and cracking me scone, so I cranks up the boom box to full blast and expected ol' grumpy to come thumpin’ on the door, like usual. I falls asleep on me sofa, waitin’ for the fireworks to begin and woke up five hours later, with the stereo still kicking and no circus act."
Dulcet raised his eyebrows. "So, Leanne is the ol' Grumpy that you spoke of?"
"Yeah," Porter started to laugh. "We’ve had our battles," he confided.
"So, in those five hours, your music was at full volume?"
"Yep," Porter smiled at his victory over society.
"And Leanne didn't come and bang on your door?" Dulcet asked.
"Nup. Was a bit of a letdown. I was gunning for a fight, too."
"You didn't think that was strange?" Dulcet responded.
"Yeah, thought it was a bit strange, but hey, she is a strange ol' girl, anyway."
"Did you see anyone come, or go, during the night?" Dulcet knew it was pointless asking if he heard anything unusual.
"Nup, was too far under the weather to see anything else."
"Well, thanks, Mr Porter, you have been a great help."
Dulcet stood to leave.
"Ain't doing anything to help those coppers, you understand," Porter complained. "And what about putting in a word for me with the recruiting dude?" Porter suddenly remembered.
Dulcet scribbled down the recruiting number for Sydney and also the name of the recruitment sergeant who had given Dulcet such a hard time and then innocently handed over the piece of paper. He knew Porter wouldn't even make the call, so Dulcet didn't feel so bad.
He let himself out. Just as Porter was about to close the door, Dulcet turned back to him.
"If you remember anything else and want to talk,
give me a call," he cautiously handed Porter his card, wondering whether it was a good idea.
Dulcet had a pensive look on his face when he finally caught up with Ryan.
"Anything?" Ryan enquired.
"Yeah, but it doesn't make sense," Dulcet explained.
"Why am I not surprised, with Porter... try me," Ryan prodded.
"Porter said he saw someone in a sedan with the window down, smiling at him, when he arrived home at, I guess, around 9 pm last night."
Ryan's eyebrows went up.
"He said the guy sped off when Porter had a fall."
"Do you think it is our friend?"
"No, I don't," Dulcet sounded convincing. "The sedan sounds similar, but Porter said the guy had his window down and was smiling at him. In the past, the Magician always smiled through a closed window. Secondly, the victim survived and was left to be found. The Magician never leaves a trace and the victim disappears. That, presumably, is what he prides himself on. Then there is the first time Leanne saw her attacker. She said the windows of the sedan were unable to be seen through and there were two figures walking toward her. The Magician always works alone."
Ryan's hard features lost all countenance and Dulcet found it hard to read him.
Then Ryan broke the silence, eager to add to the mounting evidence, "We suspect that Leanne's orange juice was spiked and it's on its way to forensics now, for analysis. There’s no sign of forced entry and fingerprints have dusted the place, but I figure we will only find Leanne's Bates’ prints."
Dulcet scratched his head. "It looks like the attackers had no intention of killing her."