“I’m sorry, Tony. We should have…I should have told you what they were for. I just thought… It was like, if we were the only ones who knew, then we were the only ones who’d get in trouble.”
“Yeah? Do you still think that?”
“No.”
“No.” Tony sighed. “And then there’s that poor bloke, the teacher. How is he?”
“I don’t know. I tried to see him at the hospital, but he’s in intensive care. They wouldn’t let me in.”
Tony nodded. “Pass us a couple of those ties, will you?”
Billy pulled two ties from a little pile of torn cloth strips on the path beside the garden bed, and passed them through the line of stakes to Tony. “Rashmi won’t say anything. About you or John.”
“Right. Okay. Good.” Tony didn’t look up, intent on wrapping the cloth around the soft green tomato stem, tying it loosely to the bamboo in a figure eight.
Billy didn’t stick around. He collected his laptop and camera from his room and headed up to King Street. He could hang out at the sort of square at the top of Australia Street; most days someone was playing music there. It was fun, and the people were mostly friendly. Billy had started taking pictures of them. Portraits, like those street photographers he’d read about in New York City and places like that. That was what he’d like to do when he got out of school. Travel around and take photos. He had a pretty good camera. A Nikon. John had taken Billy to a camera shop after his mother, Betty, had been killed. Said she would’ve wanted him to have a decent camera, that she really liked that he wanted to be a photographer like her.
The Nikon was a serious-looking camera, so when he asked people if he could take their photo, mostly they were cool. Flattered maybe. Billy had spent a bit of time up there at the square, so people were used to seeing him with his pack on his back and his camera strapped in his right hand. He’d taken a lot of photos; at some point he’d have to go through them and figure out what to do with them.
There were lots of freaky-looking people to photograph in Newtown. All kinds: hipsters, rockers, punks, goths, drunks, meth heads, hippies. Even pensioners. Billy was starting to realise it wasn’t always the freakiest-looking people who were the best to photograph. Sometimes it was the normal ones, the ones with everyday clothes but interesting faces. They usually had the best stories to tell too.
Most of his friends didn’t understand why he liked the street people. But Rashmi did. Said she did anyway. Donno and Leroy definitely didn’t. They’d been his best friends for most of the time he’d been at school, but this photography thing, they just didn’t get it. Billy couldn’t blame them; even he found it hard to explain. It was just all the faces and the stories. Better than made-up stories in films or books. Like the old Greek guy who sold tennis balls and pot plants in the park, or the Elvis freak who drove around the streets all night in his mobility scooter, blasting out old-time rock ‘n’ roll from a speaker on the front. Billy felt he was like them now, like he didn’t fit in anywhere, so he had to keep moving.
Chapter 4
Easy Money
The trip back up north had been long and slow. Dave had stuck to back roads, keeping off the highway when he could, pulling onto forest tracks when he needed to sleep. He’d stocked up the Land Rover with water and food, and the long-range tanks meant he could make the whole trip without having to refuel. The robbery had been all over the radio on Thursday afternoon and Friday morning, but by Saturday it didn’t rate a mention. Replaced by interest rates and another load of boat people.
After the robbery, he and Stevie had ditched the Volvo in a shopping centre car park in Rhodes. Stevie drove off with the money in an old HiAce van, while Dave splashed a bottle of bleach through the front seats of the Volvo. The police would be onto it soon, but there shouldn’t be any prints and hopefully the bleach would fuck up any DNA lying around. All they could do was disappear, then wait and hope.
He pulled on a baseball cap, picked up his bag, and took the stairs down two levels to where he had left a stolen Honda Jazz first thing that morning. He headed west, towards Parramatta, where he dumped the Jazz and walked across Belmore Park to pick up his own black Land Rover. On the radio reports were coming in about a police operation in Burwood disrupting traffic.
Dave continued to work his way out of the city. The radio was talking about a shooting and robbery now, with witnesses saying how scared they had been. Nothing from the cops.
He crossed the Hawkesbury River at Richmond and headed up into the mountains on the Bells Line of Road. Less traffic and roadwork than on the Great Western Highway. When he got to Lithgow, he turned north through Mudgee, taking the long way home, through Gunnedah and Tamworth, staying west of the ranges till Tenterfield.
He hoped Stevie remembered what he had to do. Disabling the dye packs, moving the money. Stevie had done it before, but with Al around, and not just after he’d seen him lying dead in the road. Al hadn’t looked peaceful in death either; he’d looked old. Too old for this shit. They both were. Al must have been in his sixties. Too old, too slow. They should have stopped this bullshit long ago. When Dave had first met Al, there was no chance he would’ve let that driver get a shot off. Back then Al had been the smartest bloke Dave had ever met. And fast. A hard man but a good friend.
In 1980, Dave wasn’t yet twenty and was hanging out up the Cross. Living rough, stealing for food and dope. Some hard times. He’d never had to suck cock to score, but he knew plenty of guys who had.
The first time Dave saw him, Al was getting out of a taxi on Darlinghurst Road. Well dressed as always, blue blazer with gold buttons, briefcase in one hand. Leaning into the backseat, talking to a woman, kissing her. Good-looking woman, expensive looking. Lots of blond hair and makeup. It took money to keep a woman like that interested. Dave saw the briefcase Al held behind his back as he laughed with the woman, busy laying on the charm with some joke. There were no cops in sight. The briefcase was like an invitation, and Dave decided to take it up. Tried to anyway. He stepped away from the wall he’d been leaning against, grabbed the briefcase in both hands, and pulled. Al’s arm straightened a bit; that was all. Then the case started to pull Dave forward. He didn’t see the punch coming because he was concentrating on keeping hold of the briefcase. Al’s big bony fist struck him in the side of the head.
He remembered hitting the pavement, and the leather sole of Al’s fancy slip-ons coming at his face. That was all until he came to with an old piss head going through his pockets, stinking of sweat and alcohol. Dave tried to hit the old cunt but missed, the fucker cackling through the stumps of his teeth as he straightened up with the last of Dave’s money. And his ciggies. Dave pushed himself up from the pavement and tried to stand but only wobbled to his knees and immediately threw up, splashing the legs of a couple of tourists trying to step around him. They muttered something foreign and flashed him dirty looks as they scuttled away. There was no sign of the bastard who had hit him.
Not till that afternoon.
Dave was sitting on a doorstep in the sun, trying to figure out how to get some money, watching a guy eating a kebab at the bus stop across the road, wiping the juice off his mouth with the back of his hand.
A shadow fell across Dave. “What the hell are you doing, son?” Al looming above him from nowhere, blocking out the sun.
Dave couldn’t make out his features. He had an accent—Irish, maybe Scottish, one of those. Dave had never been able to tell the difference. “Fuck off,” he muttered.
Al laughed. “You’re an ignorant wee scrote, aren’t you? Bag snatching’s not rocket science, man. If you want a guy’s bag, make sure he can’t chase you. Kick him in the balls first. Then he won’t be so worried about the bloody bag, will he?” He pulled out a packet of cigarettes and held them out. “Smoke?”
Dave shook his head then reached for one. He really needed a smoke.
Al lit them both up with a big stainless-steel lighter that he flicked shut with the snap of his wrist. Across t
he road, kebab man had finished eating. He crumpled up the paper wrapper and threw it into the gutter.
“Dirty bastard,” Al said. He turned to back Dave and looked him up and down. “You hungry?”
Dave shook his head. “Piss off. You’ve got your bag. Leave me alone, will ya?”
Al ignored him. “Aye, you’re hungry, man. I’ve been watching you stare at that prick with the kebab.” He blew smoke out in a blue, backlit cloud. “I’ve got a bit of a job, if you want to make some cash. Fifty, say. Won’t take long. I just need a wee hand with something.”
“Doin’ what?”
“It’ll only take half an hour. Just drop something off for me.”
“Fifty?”
“Easy money.” That was what Al always said.
He hadn’t been in the country long then, still had the thick accent, and he never talked about Britain, about his life there. Nothing was ever said, but Dave always had the impression that Al had to leave the old country in a bit of a hurry
By the time he pulled into his driveway in Brunswick Heads on Saturday afternoon, Dave was in need of a shower and a sleep. When he shut off the engine, the rumble and vibration of the diesel was replaced by the cooling tick of metal and the chatter of wattlebirds. It was good to be home. The Land Rover had started to feel like a mobile prison, and all there was to do was think about Al.
After dark on Saturday night, Dave took the shotgun out of the bag and cleaned and oiled it. He wrapped the reloaded Browning in a clean cloth and stashed it under the front seat of the Land Rover, ready for next time. Whatever that might turn out to be. The bag, coat, and wig he dowsed in petrol and set alight in his backyard incinerator. He watched them burn until nothing was left but ashes, then threw a bunch of dried prunings in on top and went to bed.
On Sunday morning, he went for a surf. Slung his board in the rack on the side of his bicycle and rode through the village, across the old timber bridge, to the little beach next to the mouth of the Brunswick River. He left the bike there and paddled across the river on his board to get to the break on the other side of the northern wall.
It was good to be in the water. He needed it. The waves washed you, cleaned up your soul the way nothing else could. Salt water fizzing on your skin, not thinking about anything but the next wave. Not thinking about Al, lying in his own blood on the road; not wondering what the police were doing. Not imagining what the witnesses were telling them, what the cops had been able to find out about Al. Had they’d identified him yet? In the surf there was no room for the thoughts that had driven home with him. As he lay on his board in the glistening water, all he had to worry about was what the waves were doing. He could stop thinking and just let his muscles remember what to do.
Dave spent two hours in the water before he paddled back across the river mouth to Brunswick Heads. On the way home, he dropped into Johnno’s Hot Bread Shop and bought a loaf of sourdough and then the supermarket for tomatoes, avocados and milk. The place was starting to get busy, but things would really heat up after Christmas, especially around New Year. The camping areas would be packed and every bed in the town occupied. Dave was looking forward to it, even though he knew the crowds would drive him crazy after a week. During the holidays there were fairs and markets by the river, and the pub always had a good lineup of bands through January.
After lunch at home, Dave pulled a six-pack of beer out of the fridge and walked along the street to his mate Kurt’s house. Kurt was a dope head Dave had known ever since he’d moved to town. He lived at the other end of the street in a two-storey house with a wide veranda that wrapped around the upper level. Dave and Kurt had a standing arrangement: if either of them was away from their house, the other would keep an eye on things, bring the mail in, water the gardens. Kurt had a dog named Buster, a big white mutt with one of those dog faces that look like they’re always smiling. Dave had found himself looking forward to the times when Kurt was away, just so he could take care of Buster. He liked taking the dog down to the beach or walking along the river. He’d thought about getting a dog of his own but had decided that borrowing Buster every now and then was the best of both worlds.
He and Kurt spent the afternoon sitting out on Kurt’s veranda, drinking beer and smoking dope. Kurt always had excellent grass and was happy to share. The dog lay on the deck between them, snoring and periodically farting. It was good to just relax and talk bullshit as the afternoon stretched into evening and the sky turned mauve and then black.
On Monday morning, Dave hooked up his trailer and headed out on his mowing rounds. With Christmas coming, all the holiday sublets needed their yards mowed. Most of the places were pretty easy. They had big yards with only a clothes hoist in the centre to interrupt the grass stretching from one fence to the other. He could get them done with the ride-on mower and the trimmer for the edges, but he had to use a push mower on the smaller yards.
As he went back and forth, carving up the grass under the December sun, his shirt was quickly soaked in sweat. Fortunately, his straw hat provided a column of shade to protect his face and neck. On a ride-on mower, there’s plenty of time to think, which isn’t always a good thing. Dave’s mind kept returning to Al. He was going to miss the old bastard—him and his stupid accent. With Al gone there wouldn’t be any more bank jobs. From now on it would just be mowing. Lots of fucking mowing. That was one thing up here: the grass never stopped growing. He’d never have another mate like Al.
Dave had money put away. And there was always surfing and fishing. And the farm. He might get some calves to fatten up and sell. How hard could it be?
He’d have to get used to being a regular citizen now. Sure, it was something he could do, but he’d miss the jobs. The buildup, the coordination. The rush of stepping into the street with a gun in your hand, taking control. Taking what you wanted. How the hell did Al let that bastard shoot him?
Now Dave had to worry about staying ahead of the cops. He had plans, things in place. If it looked like they were on him, he could leave everything and go. Get on a plane. Gone. The trick was knowing when—not leaving it too late, fooling yourself that everything was still cool. It was all about the timing.
He had to be careful, not panic, not let himself get spooked by shadows. If he went, that was it. He’d have to leave everything. It would mean never seeing Rashmi and Sally again. He knew the risks; he’d always known them.
He kept mowing until five, which put a big dent in his list of jobs. It felt good to be on top of his work, to have something under his control. That all changed, though, when he climbed into the Land Rover and turned on the radio. The robbery was the lead story on the news. The cops hadn’t identified Al yet, but they had matched his prints to some big robbery in England back in the 1970s.
Dave turned off the radio and made himself drive back home carefully, keeping an eye on his speed. He washed down the machines, filled the tanks, and got everything ready for the next day. Inside he stripped off his work clothes, threw them in the laundry, and had a shower. Dressed in a clean T-shirt and shorts, he grabbed a beer from the fridge and drank it while waiting for the news, watching the digital clock on the bench flick towards 6:00 p.m.
Then he turned on the television. Again, it was the lead story. Al’s fingerprints were a match for some prints found on gold bullion recovered after a robbery in London in 1979. The English police had never identified the owner of the prints. Until now. The story included old footage of the warehouse in Heathrow that the gang had hit, along with a small pile of recovered bullion. Most of the gold that had been stolen had never been found, and only three members of the gang had been caught. The newsreader said police in London were certain the man killed in Sydney was a member of the gang. “He certainly was old enough,” said a spokesman for the New South Wales Police Force. They showed a cleaned-up image of Al, without the bullet hole and the blood, trying to get someone to identify him. There was a buzz about it now; Dave could feel the excitement in the journalists’ voices. They had
an angle. It wasn’t just a bank robbery and shooting; it had gone international. A mystery, complete with missing gold bullion.
“Fuck you Al, you bastard. What have you done?” Dave threw his empty can at the wall and watched it bounce across the floor. He wanted to punch someone, but the most likely candidate was dead. He grabbed another beer and drank steadily while the newsreader moved on to other stories.
After the news, one of the current affairs shows interviewed a journalist in London, a guy who’d written a book about this famous heist that Dave had never heard of. It had happened before his time, before he’d gone down to Sydney. Al couldn’t have been that old back then either. The journalist said the gang had hit a security warehouse in Heathrow. They’d gotten the vaults open by threatening the guards—pouring petrol over them, threatening to torch them if they didn’t open up. Until he heard that, Dave had been thinking that the cops must have gotten it wrong, that it couldn’t be Al they were talking about. But the Heathrow robbery must have been where Al got the idea. He’d made it a trade mark, you could get people to do almost anything if they thought you were going to set them on fire.
The police had a list of suspects for the rest of the gang, but never had any evidence, and the men they’d locked up never gave the others up. Then their suspects started turning up dead. Two bodies found soon after the heist were thought to be linked to the robbery. One of the men the cops had locked up was murdered in prison, and three other suspects were killed years later. One in Britain, one in Spain, and one just recently in Budapest. There’d been other murders too, men suspected of handling the gold. In all there’d been eight murders thought to be linked to the robbery. That was the sort of shit stealing nineteen million in gold could land you in.
Tunnel Vision Page 5