by Alan Baxter
Sasha gulped some water down. “That’s better. I’m getting to that. Now, John McFarland would have been about twenty-five or so, his dad died young and he inherited the farm young. Gung ho, is what my dad called him. He decided fuck what the old man said, he was going to strip out a few more acres past the creek.
“So this creek runs right along the far side of the McFarland back paddock, marking the boundary of their land on that side. John McFarland decided to take down the fencing on his side of the creek, drop a couple of cement culverts in to make bridges, and then start clearing bush the other side.
“He had some help with him, a local teenage pair, brothers from one of the families in town. They were fifteen or sixteen, something like that, earning pittance bucks for back-breaking work on the farm. He still does that to this day, hires teenagers, pays them next to fuck all. Anyway, they get out there and start stripping down the fencing and one of these teenagers goes over to the creek and says, ‘The water is black.’”
“The water is black?” Dace echoed.
“That’s what he said. ‘What do you mean, black?’ John McFarland asked him, and the kid says, ‘The water is black, like oil.’ All this my dad told me. Apparently, McFarland got drunk one night at Clooney’s and told him the story.
“So this kid puts his hands in the creek and cups them together to get some water. Sure enough, it’s black. Not like oil, McFarland said, but dark like a glass of stout. ‘Probably just peat or coal or something in the ground hereabouts,’ McFarland says to the boy. ‘Stop fucking about, there’s work to do.’ Apparently the kid shrugged and said, ‘Well, I’m thirsty,’ and drank what was cupped in his hands.”
“So this won’t end well,” Dace said with a grin.
“Does anything in this fucked up town? The kid screamed in agony and collapsed to the ground. Began gibbering and rolling his eyes. They all freaked out, and McFarland rushed him home. He settled down a bit on the way, but the kid has never been the same. All his teeth fell out and his skin went white, like fucking chalk. You’ll have seen him around town, right? Everything about him is long and weird and floppy, he always wears overalls with that massive baggy jumper underneath, even in the height of summer.”
Dace frowned, nodded. “Yeah, I know who you mean. That’s how he got that way?”
“Fucked up his mind too, he’s not all there, so they say. I wouldn’t know, I won’t go near the freak.”
“This is a wind up, right?” Dace said, grinning.
Sasha shook her head. “Nah. Unless my dad was winding me up. He told me it was all true, John McFarland got drunk that night and spilled it. Says he still feels guilty for how that kid got fucked up. I mean, he’s a grown man now, must be around forty or something, but he is fucked up.”
“Did he ever extend the land?”
Sasha laughed. “Nope. Said he went back the next day and put all the fence back up. Said no way he wanted that creek on his land, it could stay in the bush. And that’s not even counting for whatever his dad said was out there beyond the creek.”
They nodded along to Blind Eye Moon for a moment. Dace thought maybe he didn’t want to consider too deeply what lay beyond the McFarland’s creek. Or what he might have seen up on the cliff top.
“No sudden moves, you two!” snapped a gruff voice somewhere behind them.
Dace spun his chair around to see another boat not five metres from theirs. Two men were in it, one at the wheel, the other standing on the prow pointing a shotgun at him. Both wore balaclavas concealing their whole face except the eyes. They must have cut their engine and coasted in under cover of the music.
“What the fuck?” Dace said.
“Who are they?” Sasha asked, eyes wide.
“Turn that shit off,” said the man with the gun. “Slow and easy as, yeah?”
Dace nodded, reaching cautiously for his phone. Blind Eye Moon stopped mid-riff and the night was heavy with silence but for the slap of low waves against the hulls of the boats.
“Give it to us then,” the man with the gun said.
Dace swallowed, stomach cold, legs shaking. He was glad he was sitting down. He felt as though his bladder would let go any moment. This was bad. Really bad. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t fuck with me, son!” the gunman said.
Son? Dace was thirty-four next year and the guy pointing a shotgun at him didn’t look old. What did that matter? His mind was rambling.
“Give us the fucken shipment!” the man yelled.
“Jesus, Dace, whatever it is, just give it to them!” Sasha said.
“Whatever it is?” the other boat driver said, his voice strangely high. Then he laughed. “You don’t know what your boyfriend here is doing?”
“He’s not my–”
“Just give us Carter’s weed, you fucking loser,” the gunman said.
Sasha turned a shocked expression to Dace. “Carter’s fucking weed?” she exclaimed. “You idiot, why do you have anything to do with that guy?”
The gunman laughed, loud and deep. “S’a good fucken question, dickhead! But don’t answer it now. The stuff, quickly.”
“Fuck fuck fuck,” Dace muttered, trying desperately to think of a way out.
The shotgun boomed into the air and he flinched. Sasha screamed and dropped to the floor behind the dash and low windscreen, curled up tight.
“All right, all right!” Dace shouted. He moved to the back and pulled out a 30-litre plastic storage tub with a clip-on lid. It was lined with newspaper, concealing the contents. But Dace knew it held around seven and half kilos of high-quality bud, grown on Carter’s farm above the south side of The Gulp.
“Just put it on the front,” the gunman said, gesturing.
Dace hefted the tub over the windscreen, shoved it forward. The driver of the other boat started his motor and nudged in. The one with the shotgun hopped over and grabbed the tub, the shotgun held one-handed, but trained on them the whole time. If he fired it like that, Dace thought, he was liable to lose it from the recoil. But he’d still have fired it and no way would a shotgun miss at this range.
“Can’t believe you made it so easy for us,” the gunman said. “We were going to run you down before you got to Enden, then here you are floating about like a pair of complete fuckwits.” He dropped the tub into his boat and jumped down behind it, the shotgun still aimed right at Dace.
The driver lifted a hand in a wave as he gunned the motor. “Don’t you fucken follow us,” he said. “You let this end here and no one gets hurt.”
No way does this end here, Dace thought. He had to go back and tell Carter he’d lost the shipment. Carter would kill him. He needed something, some clue to give over so they might make this right.
But before he could say or do more, the other driver carved a tight turn, spraying Dace as he roared away, back towards The Gulp. There wasn’t a single identifying mark on the boat, the whole thing plain white with a Yamaha outboard like a hundred others. He might recognise it again, but it was entirely likely he wouldn’t.
They bobbed in the wake of the thieves and Dace stared, dumbfounded. Then he tipped his head back and yelled, “FUCK!” at the indifferent stars.
Sasha got up from the floor of the boat, looking daggers at him. “You can take me the fuck home right now.”
Dace nodded and sat down on the driver’s seat, started the engine. He had to go right back to Carter anyway. No way he could put off telling the man. He pointed the boat back towards The Gulp wondering what the hell he was going to say when he got there.
Twenty minutes later he tied up at Carter’s point on the harbour. Sasha hopped straight off the boat, glared down at him.
“I was looking forward to the gig tonight,” she said. “Thought you’d be fun to hang out with.”
“I would be. Still can if Carter doesn’t kill me.” The dick wants what the dick wants, he thought to himself.
Sasha shook her head. “No way, man. I’m having nothing to do with anyone connected t
o Carter. You’re fucking mental to think it’s worth dealing with that psycho.”
“You were happy to come out with me in his boat.”
“I thought it was your boat, you fucking moron.”
Dace stopped, stood up to yell at her. “Yeah, so you only looked twice at me when you thought I had money, that it?”
Her mouth fell open. “I thought maybe you wouldn’t be after my money, you cunt. Half the blokes ’round here see a girl with a job and expect to mooch off her. I thought maybe you wouldn’t be like that.”
“Well, I’m not. I’ve got my own money.”
She laughed and shook her head. “Nah, you take Carter’s money. That’s entirely different. Anyway, best of luck. I’ll keep my eye open for the ‘Have You Seen Dace’ posters to start going up.”
She turned away and stalked off before he could reply. He hoped to hell she wasn’t right. He needed to get in the car and up to Carter’s place right away. Come clean and figure out a way to make it right. He wouldn’t say the bit about stopping for a joint and getting snuck up on. Those arseholes had said they intended to run him down. And they had a shotgun. That’s the story he’d tell Carter.
Once he was sure the boat was secure, he walked across the small car park to his battered old Mitsubishi and climbed in. It started first time, something it never usually did. Dace decided to look on that as a good omen.
He drove south out of town, up the hill where the houses got a little bigger and spaced further apart. He passed the industrial area where big aluminium sheds housed mechanics, a metal machine shop, half a dozen other blue-collar industries, then he turned onto a narrow road with a No Through Road sign at the start. A couple of larger properties had their drives left and right, then the road climbed even steeper, switching back on itself, and became a dirt track. Carter’s battered post box stood on a weathered wooden post beside a cattle grid, his name stencilled on the side. Dace’s hands shook as he gripped the wheel and pointed the car up the track. It doubled back on itself a couple times as it rose through thin bush, The Gulp falling away behind. Then it levelled off onto a natural geological shelf that housed the Carter property. Some two hundred acres, if he recalled correctly, cleared and farmed right when The Gulp was first settled, before it even had its name. Ostensibly a cattle farm, Carter kept cows and horses, but made his money in variety of other ways.
As Dace drove through the night towards the house, his mouth became dry. He’d left the water bottle on the boat and lamented that oversight. Then he shook his head. He’d worked for Carter for more than ten years, they knew each other well. As well as anyone could know Carter anyway. He would explain, the man would give him a glass of water, they’d figure it out.
He parked behind Carter’s Toyota Hilux and sat in the quiet car for a moment, gathering himself. Then he took a deep breath and climbed out. Carter stood on the veranda, hands on his hips.
“Trouble tonight, hey?”
Dace jumped, not expecting the man to be there. How did he always seem to know stuff? “Yeah. I’m sorry, Mr Carter, it’s not good.”
“In you come, son.”
Dace followed Carter inside and into the large kitchen. Chrissy sat at the kitchen bench, sipping a drink. It looked like a gin and tonic. She smiled and nodded at Dace.
“Hey, how are you?” he said.
“I’m good. You wanna talk privately, Daddy?”
Carter kissed her soft and long on the lips, then nodded. “You don’t need to worry about this.”
She stood and strolled off towards the lounge. Dace heard the TV click on.
“You want a drink, Dace?”
He turned to Carter, determined to be chill. “Sure, got a beer?”
Carter pulled a couple of bottles from the fridge, opened both and handed one to Dace. “So what happened? You should be in Enden by now, and I should have had a call about a successful transfer of merchandise.”
Of course, that’s how he knew stuff. Dace turning up here, no call from the contact. “I was robbed, Mr Carter.”
“Fucken robbed?”
“Yes, sir. They must have known and followed me. About halfway to Enden they ran around me in their boat and held me up. With a fucking shotgun! Two of ’em and one yelled, ‘Give me the fucken shipment!’ They knew what I had.”
“So you gave it to them?”
“Yeah, they were gonna shoot me, Mr Carter. They both wore balaclavas, but they were white, I saw their hands and eyes. Both men, I guess about middle-age, the guy with the gun had a beer gut, the boat driver was kinda skinny. It was a plain white boat, no name or numbers, with a Yamaha outboard.”
Carter drew a long breath in through his nose, lips pursed. He wore jeans and a collared shirt, his black hair slicked back like always. His cold blue eyes were hard, unblinking. He sipped beer. “You gave it to them,” he said again.
“Y-yes.”
“You really think they’d have shot you?”
Dace hadn’t considered this angle. “I do, yeah. I mean, out there, middle of nowhere. They could have killed me, sunk your boat, nothing would ever be found, right?”
“You’ve been thinking about this, have you?”
“Thought about nothing else all the way here. I’m really sorry, Mr Carter, I don’t know what to say. What to do. I want to make this right.”
“Who was with you?”
Dace paused, licked his lips. He took a sip of beer to buy himself another moment. Carter would know if he lied. Carter always knew. “Sasha. Just this chick I was planning to... you know. I invited her to a gig in Enden tonight. Once the delivery was made, we were going to see Blind Eye Moon, head back home afterwards.”
“You made it easy for them.”
Dace’s heart raced. “What?”
“Distracted by a fucking woman!” Carter yelled, and Dace flinched back.
“I wasn’t distracted! I–”
“They snuck up on you, don’t lie to me, shitcunt. If you’d been on your own, actually motoring towards Enden, and they tried to run you down, you could have run. You could have tried to not get caught. But they sailed right up and caught you without even fucking trying!”
How did he know this stuff? “Mr Carter, I–”
Carter held up one forefinger and it silenced Dace immediately. “What’s done is done, Dace. You’re a fucking idiot, but what’s done is done.”
Dace took a long breath, nodded, lips pressed together. He knew when to hold his tongue.
“A long time you’ve been with me, eh?”
“Yes, Mr Carter.”
“So I’m going to be generous.”
Relief began to seep through Dace. He nodded. “Thank you.”
“That shipment was worth, give or take, about eighty grand on the street. My contact paid me a flat sixty for it. So here’s my generous offer. You have forty-eight hours to pay me back the sixty grand I will have to return to my buyer.”
Dace’s stomach turned to ice. “Sixty grand?”
“I will also have to smooth things over with the buyer, all that extra hassle. But like I said, we go back, you and I. So I’m generously only holding you accountable for the actual monetary loss.”
“Mr Carter, I don’t have sixty grand!”
Carter’s eyes didn’t soften at all. He sipped beer again. “Isn’t that unfortunate. You were going to earn five hundred bucks for tonight’s delivery, so let’s say you owe me fifty-nine thousand five hundred.”
“I don’t have it! I have, like, eight hundred bucks in the bank. My rent is due on Monday.”
Carter smiled, lifted his shoulders. “How is any of that my concern?” He walked past Dace and took the half-finished beer from his hand, stood both bottles on the counter where Chrissy had been sitting. Then he carried on, towards the front door.
“Mr Carter, please. I just don’t have that kind of money.”
Carter opened the front door, then looked at his watch. It was gold, with diamonds around the face that glittered in the sof
t light of the hallway. Dace thought that watch alone was probably worth sixty grand.
“It’s just before nine,” Carter said. “You have until 9pm Sunday night to bring me my money.”
Dace stared. Carter smiled, like he didn’t have a care in the world. Dace wanted to ask what would happen if he didn’t make the deadline, but he knew already. People often went missing around The Gulp, and often the gossip led back to Carter. Maybe he could just run away.
“I would remind you,” Carter said amiably, “that I know your parents well, and where they live on the north side of town. And your sister visits often, even though she lives in Sydney now. Something to keep in mind.”
If you run, I’ll kill your family. The message was clear. Dace nodded. Carter gestured out the door. Dace left. The door clicked shut behind him and Dace’s body was wracked with tremors. Holding back tears of panic, he went to his car and drove slowly away. Sixty grand in forty-eight hours? How the hell was he supposed to manage that?
As he drove, he went through a mental check list of everyone he knew and how much money they had. His parents were okay, but retired now. They had a pension, but nothing much in savings. His sister worked for a media company in Sydney, and no doubt had money put away, but probably not much. And there was no way she’d give it to him anyway. They were civil these days, but after a falling out in their early twenties, they were distant. Maybe if it really came down to the wire, he could ask, but he doubted she had anything like sixty grand in savings. Every other friend he could think of was like him. Scraping by or on some kind of benefits. After all, sixty grand was the kind of money that could get a person out of The Gulp, so why would anyone still here have that kind of cash?
His mind switched gears. Where could he steal that sort of money? Hold up the drive-through bottle shop around the back of Clooney’s? Well, no, that would be mental. For one, they probably had nothing like that much to hand. For two, it was part of Clooney’s and the pub belonged to Chrissy, which meant it was really Carter’s. That whole daughter-lover thing they had going on was creepy as fuck, but everyone ignored it or gossiped about it privately. Either way, it meant he’d be stealing from Carter.