Tunnel Vision

by Andrew Christie

  ~how’s it going?

  The reply came within a minute.

  ~potato salad dramas…can’t wait to get home

  ~?

  ~just amy being amy

  While John was typing a reply, two more messages pinged up on his phone.

  ~whatever I do is never good enough

  ~total bitch

  He hit “send” on his own message before she could send any more.

  ~sorry it’s so painful…when will you be home?

  ~5ish loveya

  John stared at the screen for a moment before he pocketed the phone. Was that the first time she had used the L-word? He couldn’t remember her ever saying it before.

  He finished his beer and ordered a serving of Christmas pudding with custard from the kitchen, and, from the bar, a double Jameson. Happy Christmas to you, mate, he thought, as he knocked back the whisky and prepared to dig into the steaming pudding.

  It would be a while yet before Shasta would be home, so John walked up to King Street. There was no sign of Billy or Rashmi outside the Hub or near the station. Too much to hope for, he supposed. There weren’t even any buskers around. They were all probably at home, having their own Christmas pudding. The afternoon sun lit up one side of the King Street strip and cast the other in deep shade. Most of the shops were closed, with just the pubs and a few restaurants open. A few people were out for an after-lunch stroll, probably trying to walk off their second and third servings.

  The homeless people were still about. Where else would they go? The supermarket was closed, but the usual blokes hustling for drinking money were there anyway. John stuffed ten bucks into a paper cup held up by the one with the Santa hat and showed him a photo of Billy on his phone.

  The man took the phone in his cracked, two-tone hands and held it close to his face. He nodded. “Good boy, that one. Took me picture, gave me a few quid.”

  “You’re not a copper, are ya?” his mate leaned in and asked.

  “No. Just a friend is all,” John said. “His name’s Billy. I’m a bit worried ’cause I haven’t seem him for a while. When’d you see him last?”

  Santa Hat scratched his stubbled cheek and looked up at John with red-and-white eyes. “That’s a bloody good question, mate. Must’ve been a couple of days, eh, Len?”

  “Couple, yeah,” Len said. “What day is it today?”

  “Christmas,” Santa Hat said.

  “I know it’s bloody Christmas. What day of the week is it?”

  “Friday,” John said.

  “Friday? Well, it would have been Monday probably, last time I saw that boy. Seen him a lot of times before, always taking photos and stuff. Friendly kid.”

  “Yeah, he is,” John said, giving Len a ten-dollar note as well. “If you see him around, ask him to give me a call, eh? John’s my name. He’s got my number. Thanks. And happy Christmas.”

  “Yeah, sure, mate. We’ll tell him. Won’t we, Len?”

  “Yeah, mate.”

  John walked back to Australia Street, got into the ute, and drove the few blocks home, figuring there was little chance of bumping into a Breathalyzer over that distance. It was cool inside the house, a relief after the heat outside. He grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge, snapped the cap off it on the opener fixed to the fridge door, and went into the living room. The television was showing the same old Christmas movies they played every year. Eventually he found a fishing show on one of the digital channels. Two young guys in a tinny, fishing for barracuda up in the Torres Strait somewhere. Every time they got a hookup, sharks would rip into the barracuda before they could get it to the boat. John thought there was probably a life lesson in that somewhere, if only he had the energy to think it through.

  Shasta came home at about five thirty, throwing herself onto the couch beside him. “Jesus, I fucking hate Christmas.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it. Fucking Amy. Mum was just trying to help. Jesus. And Nick, the useless fuck, doesn’t say a word. Won’t even stand up for his own mother.”

  “Can I get you a drink? Cup of tea? Wine?”

  “Wine. A big one.”

  Chapter 14

  Pale Shadows

  Billy heard Rashmi’s quiet snuffle breathing coming from the other bed. He lay looking up at the ceiling, listening to the morning sounds of the birds outside, and watching the big fan spinning away, stirring the air around. The spare bedroom was small, the beds close enough together that if Billy reached his arm out he could touch the back of Rashmi’s neck. Run his fingers down where her hair fell away behind her ear. Touch the warm brown skin of her neck.

  He got out of bed as quietly as he could, letting Rashmi sleep. The dark floorboards felt cool on his bare soles as he padded through the house and out on to the veranda. The sun wasn’t high enough to reach the garden yet, and the street was empty except for the birds. There were plenty of them. Big ones up in the trees, gabbling away, and little ones down in the bushes, hopping around. Looking for food, he supposed. There was no sign of the water dragon this morning. Probably having a Christmas sleep in. He wondered what John, Shasta, and Tony were doing. Last year it had been fun, all of them having breakfast together and exchanging presents before everyone went off. It had felt like a family. He wondered how soon the police would come looking for him and Rashmi. As soon as they realised she was missing, he guessed. Maybe they wouldn’t realise till after Christmas. Cops had families too. Billy wondered how Mr. Baxter’s family was doing, what sort of Christmas they must be having. There hadn’t been any news about him for ages. Maybe that’s a good thing, he thought.

  He found a box of cereal in the cupboard, but there was no milk in the fridge. There was bread, though. A bit old, but okay for toast. Through the kitchen window, he saw a bird flitting around in the branches of a bush, checking out all the flowers, sticking his beak right in them. Billy reached for his camera on the bench and slowly lifted it, not wanting to disturb it. The bird was right up close to the window now. He watched it through the viewfinder, its long curved beak darting into the flowers. He got a couple of good close-ups before the toaster popped, startling the bird and sending it back up into the trees.

  He spread some peanut butter on the slices of toast and sat down on a stool to eat. Merry Christmas. He hoped they wouldn’t spend the whole day waiting around for Rash’s grandfather to turn up. And what if he didn’t show? They should be moving on, but if they had to wait, they should do something fun, not just sit around the house. They could leave a note for her grandpa and go do something. Go to the beach.

  He didn’t know how far it was or how they’d get there. The walk yesterday from the bus stop had been pretty hard for Rashmi; she’d been buggered by the time they’d reached the house. He wondered if there was a bus or a neighbour who might give them a lift to the beach. Maybe that guy Kurt.

  Rash’s grandpa must have gone off somewhere for Christmas. Probably down to Sydney. Maybe they’d passed him on the highway the other day. He was probably at Rashmi’s house now, with Sally, both of them wondering where the hell she was. He surely would’ve gotten her phone messages by now. But he couldn’t ring her back because of Rashmi’s stupid no-phones rule.

  Billy glanced at the old-fashioned cordless phone at the end of the kitchen bench. Her grandpa could still ring his own house. A red light was flashing on the base unit, next to a big white “play” button. Had the light been flashing yesterday when they arrived? Why hadn’t they noticed it? Billy pressed the button. The machine beeped gently, and a thin, tinny version of Sally’s voice came out of the little speaker. “Dad? You there? Pick up, will you? It’s important. Rashmi’s missing; she’s run off somewhere. I don’t…I’m really worried about her. She might turn up at your place. Call me as soon as you get this, will you? Please. I don’t know what to do. I can’t go to the police… I… Just call me.”

  Sally must have rung yesterday morning after she’d found Rashmi had gone. She sounded really
upset.

  Hearing movement from the other end of the house, Billy put a couple more slices of bread in the toaster. Rashmi came into the kitchen and hoisted herself up onto a stool beside him. Her pale-blue hair was sticking out at all angles, and her pyjamas, almost a matching blue, were crumpled and twisted around her. Billy resisted the temptation to comb his fingers through her hair, to try to straighten it. “’Morning,” he said.

  “I thought I heard voices.”

  “Your mum left a message on the answering machine, asking your grandpa about you.” Billy pressed the button to play the message again, thinking how upset Sally had sounded. Scared even.

  Rashmi reached across and pressed the “stop” button. “I don’t want to hear it.”

  Billy shrugged. “The light was flashing. I just thought he might have rung for you. How else is he going to leave you a message?”

  “Well, did he?”

  He shook his head. “Nah. Just your mum, but she sounds worried.”

  “She’ll be all right. The cops can’t charge her with anything.”

  “She’s worried about you.” Billy watched Rash. For someone who was smart, sometimes she was really thick.

  “No, she’s not. All she cares about is herself.” She looked at the answering machine. “Grandpa should be here.”

  Billy shrugged. “It doesn’t sound like he’s down at your mother’s.”

  “I told you he wouldn’t be there.”

  “I was thinking about Baxter before.”

  Rash didn’t say anything.

  “Have you heard how he is? Have the cops said anything?”

  “They haven’t told us anything,” Rashmi said. “I suppose we’d hear if anything bad had happened.” She looked across at Billy. “Anything worse, I mean.”

  “What do they always say? ‘No news is good news.’”

  “I sent a letter to his wife. Don’t know if she got it. Or if she just threw it out.”

  “It was an accident,” Billy said.

  Rash just nodded. This was how these conversations always ended.

  The toaster clicked, and two pieces of toast jumped up. “Those are for you,” Billy said. “Happy Christmas.”

  He left her alone and took his toast out to the veranda. He heard voices in the houses next door. Kids talking and shouting. An old woman walked past on the street with a big brown dog wearing red reindeer antlers. She smiled and waved to him. Billy waved back.

  After breakfast and a shower, Rashmi seemed a bit happier. Billy suggested they leave a note for her grandfather and go to the beach. To his surprise, she thought it was a good idea, and she even had a solution as to how to get there.

  Her grandpa had a bike with a trailer, one of those trailers you see little kids in. He had fitted it with a seat big enough for Rash and a rack for her crutches. It was really cool, except Billy would have to do all the pedalling. The day was hot: no clouds anywhere, perfect for the beach.

  They rode back across the old highway, past the campground and the shops, and over an old wooden bridge to the beach. There was a crowd of kids on the bridge, jumping off the railings into the creek. It looked like fun, but the water would be way too deep for Billy. He wasn’t much good at swimming, so he always stayed where he could easily touch the bottom.

  By the time they arrived at the beach, the skin on the back of Billy’s neck was burning. Should have brought a hat, mate. Billy could just hear John telling him that. At least at the beach there was a bit of a breeze to take the edge off the sun.

  A big rocky break wall separated the surf beach from a little strip of sand tucked into the mouth of the river. That was where they went. There were no waves for Rashmi to worry about at the river beach. Getting her into the water, however, took a bit of mucking about, with Billy stumbling as he tried to support her across the soft sand. Her arm around his shoulders, his arm around her waist.

  “Grandpa usually just carries me.”

  “Yeah, well, he isn’t here,” Billy said, struggling to keep his balance as the hot sand shifted under his feet. “And you’re probably bigger now.”

  In the water, though, Rashmi could look after herself. She was a good swimmer, much better than Billy. Her legs just sort of floated behind her, but her arms were strong, pulling her easily through the gentle swells. Billy stood in the water, not willing to go out of his depth, while Rashmi set out doing laps. She swam back and forth between the two rock walls that kept the river from washing the beach away. Billy just bobbed up and down, enjoying the cool of the water and watching the people on the sand. Mostly they were families with little kids, running around and splashing at the edge of the water, or playing in the sand. The water was clear enough to see little fish moving around his legs, pale shadows against the sand.

  After Rash got tired of doing laps, they lay on the beach, letting the sun dry them off, while around them kids ran about and shouted.

  When they got back to the house at lunchtime, there was still no sign of Rash’s grandfather. Billy looked in the pantry and the refrigerator before suggesting instant noodles followed by chocolate ice cream for Christmas lunch. “Perfect,” Rash said, making an effort to smile. She set about making paper hats for both of them out of old newspapers, while Billy put the water on for the noodles. They spent the afternoon lying around with the air conditioning on, arguing about which movie to watch next.

  Chapter 15

  Corner Pocket

  Stevie was the only person alive who could connect Dave to Al. To the robbery and the two dead guards. Now Dave was back in Sydney, waiting in the dark, getting ready to kill his best friend’s son. He was parked in the street behind Stevie’s, across the road from the apartment block that backed onto Stevie’s backyard. There were no lights in any of the windows.

  His watch said 3:33 a.m.

  He pulled on a pair of gloves and screwed the suppressor on the Smith & Wesson .38. The S&W had been his first gun; Al had given it to him after their first job together. “Nah, you hang on to it, pal,” he’d said when Dave had tried to give it back to him after they’d robbed a smack dealer in Ashfield. “If you’re going to make a living in this game, you’ll be needing a shooter.” And now he was visiting Al’s son with that same gun, because after all this time, he’d never had to fire it during a job. It was still clean. He tucked the gun into the pocket of his jacket and made sure the overhead light was off before he cracked open the car door. The air was cool now, the rest of the city just a distant hum. He crossed the road to the 1970s blond-brick apartment building and slipped through the shadows along the driveway to the parking area at the rear.

  The money hadn’t shown up in his accounts when it should have. That was what made Dave wonder what Stevie was up to. Ever since the job on Burwood Road, Dave had been watching for any news reports out of Sydney, buying the Herald and the Telegraph every morning. In the first few days, there’d been plenty of stuff about the shooting, but after that, the stories were all about Christmas and the usual holiday-season crap. It had been days since there’d been any mention of Al or the robbery. Even the stories about the English connection, and links to previous unsolved robberies, had lasted only a couple of days. Dave needed to know what the cops were doing. And where his money was.

  He and Al had trusted each other with their lives plenty of times, but Stephen Munro wasn’t Al. Not by a long shot. If the cops got hold of him…well, Stevie had only been the driver, hadn’t he? He hadn’t fired his gun; he’d been bullied into the job by the two older men… That had to be his play: give up Dave and the money. It could get a big chunk taken off the long stretch Stevie might be facing. He would cut a deal if the cops caught up to him; Dave was sure of it.

  The police would eventually make the connection to Stevie. Someone would identify Al; in fact, they probably already had. It was bound to happen after all the publicity over the English bullion robbery, and then it wouldn’t take them long to find Stevie. And all Stevie had to bargain with was Dave. Stevie was still y
oung, which meant he had plenty of incentive to dog on Dave, make a deal to reduce his own sentence. The bastard might already be talking to the robbery squad.

  A low brick planter box at the rear of the apartment block made it easy for Dave to hoist himself over the fence. He landed silently in Stevie’s backyard and waited, listening. Dave knew there was no alarm and no dog. Stevie had a thing for cats. Something to do with his mother, Al had reckoned. They’d always had cats when Stevie was a boy. The back lawn was big and empty; the only thing between Dave and the back of the house was a clothes hoist.

  The sliding door at the back of the house was partially open, a white cat sitting in the gap. It watched as Dave crossed the lawn, then disappeared into the dark of the house as he stepped up onto the deck. Dave pulled out the gun and a small flashlight, and stepped through the door into the living room. He crossed the room, quickly checking the dining room and kitchen. A hallway led the front of the house and the bedrooms. The carpet at the end of the hall glowed where the glass-panelled front door let in a pool of streetlight. Dave switched off the flashlight and moved slowly along the hall, keeping to the side, hoping to avoid any squeaks from the boards beneath the carpet. He followed his gun through the first door on the left. Computer room. Lots of green and white LED lights blinking from the shelves above a desk that held an enormous computer monitor and a complicated-looking joystick.

  The next room was a bedroom: two unmade single beds, piled with boxes and magazines.

  The door to the last bedroom was ajar. Dave nudged it open with his shoulder and moved quickly inside, the revolver held in both hands. The king-size bed was empty. Clothes hung on the back of a chair beside the window: jeans and a T-shirt. The belt in the jeans had a fancy metal buckle embossed with a scorpion design. It was the one Al had given Stevie for his birthday two years ago.