by Alan Baxter
The water is black, the young boy had said about the creek at the McFarland place.
Fucked up his mind too, he’s not all there, so they say, Sasha had said. I wouldn’t know, I won’t go near the freak.
Dace smiled. He wouldn’t need to go near the freak either. From the position of the van, the weird bastard wouldn’t have been able to see into the front door. He hadn’t seen anything. All that mattered was keeping it that way.
Dace headed back to the kitchen, slipped on the Freddie mask and jumper. Making sure he had everything he’d brought with him or touched in the bin liner, he left the house by the back door, bin liner in one hand, Talbot’s case in the other.
As he came down the side of the house he paused, checking the street outside. No pedestrians, but a few cars. He leaned forward, caught a glimpse of the white van, the pale weirdo still motionless inside. He ducked back, dragged over a battered metal bucket as quietly as he could, and put it up against the side fence. He stood on it, dropped the bin liner over into the shadow of the house next door. Keeping the attaché case in one hand, he awkwardly clambered over and dropped to the ground, then froze in place. After a moment he crept forward, staying low as he moved into the shade of the large frangipani tree in their front yard.
He glanced to the house, saw nothing but the front window reflecting sky. He hoped no one was home, or at least, hoped they weren’t looking. Concealing Talbot’s case with the bin liner, he moved along behind the tree, then stood and strolled confidently down the garden path to the front gate, like he was simply heading out from the house next door. Dressed like Freddie Kruger. He stifled a giggle at the absurdity of it.
From the corner of his eye, as much as the mask would allow, he glanced sidelong at the van as he made the footpath. The thin, pale man’s eye’s widened at the sight of him, but he otherwise didn’t move. Dace turned his back and walked down the hill as quickly as his battered arse and leg would allow. When he’d put a couple of hundred yards between himself and the van, he crossed the street and quickly pulled off the mask and jumper, stuffed them into the black bin bag. His face and head throbbed in time with the rapid beat of his heart, but he was out. Elation churned inside him.
He went home, showered again, and changed into his own clothes. He stashed the eleven grand in his bedroom then put Nikolov’s clean clothes in the bin liner with everything else. He crammed the bagged stuff into a plastic storage tub like the one that had been stolen at the start of this whole debacle, only bigger. He added a couple of five-kilogram weight plates from a dumbbell set. Then he drilled holes in the tub with Nikolov’s drill, put the drill inside the tub, put the lid on and tied the thing securely shut with strong nylon rope, looping it around and around, knot after knot. He drove to the harbour, carried the tub to Carter’s boat, and motored out to sea.
The wind in his hair, the fresh briny breeze, was like a benediction. His face throbbed painfully and his butt ached, but some ibuprofen seemed to take the edge off. He went around the heads, well out from shore into bigger swell. When he was a good kilometre offshore, he leaned over the side and held the tub in the water while the holes he’d drilled let the ocean in. As it became too heavy to hold onto he let go and watched it sink away, trailing bubbles back up to the surface. He went back home for the attaché case.
When he drove up to Carter’s place he saw Rich working on something in the car port. The young man had come to work for Carter a few months ago. He always seemed a little distracted, Dace thought, acting like he was trying to remember something. But he was a nice guy, fitted in well with Carter’s operation.
“Hey, mate” Dace said, getting out of his old Mitsubishi.
“What happened to you?” Rich asked.
Dace’s eye had swollen almost shut, black and yellow bruising spread from his chin to his forehead on that side. It hurt like hell. “Walked into a door.”
Rich gave a laugh, shook his head. “Sure you did.”
“Not even five o’clock yet,” Carter said from his doorstep. “I knew I kept you in my employ for a reason. Assuming you’re here to settle your little problem, of course. If you’re after more time, I’ll be mad as a cut snake about it, son.”
“No, all good,” Dace said with a smile. He walked over and handed Carter the case.
Carter took it with one raised eyebrow. “So what the fuck really happened to your face?”
“Walked into a cupboard door.”
“Looks like a cupboard jumped off the wall and beat the shit out of you, mate.” Carter turned, carried the case back inside. He put it on the kitchen bench and counted the money. “Well, fuck me dead with a rusty crowbar,” he said, closing the case again. “You did it.”
“I’m really sorry for everything, Mr Carter.”
“I know you are, mate. I know. But business is business.”
“Yes, sir.”
Carter handed him five hundred dollars. “Remember I said we’d allow your fee. A deal’s a deal. How the fuck did you raise sixty grand in less than forty-eight hours?”
Seventy-one grand actually, Dace thought, but wasn’t about to admit that. With the money in his bank and this five hundred, which he had forgotten about, he had over twelve grand of his own now. More than he’d ever had at once. He drew breath to make some excuse then Carter raised one palm.
“Actually, maybe I don’t need to know. Is it better if I don’t?”
Dace nodded. “Probably, yeah. Maybe burn that case too.”
“Right-o.” Carter looked hard at him, his gaze seeming to dig beneath Dace’s skin. “You’re not the same.”
Dace smiled. “No. I’m not.” He felt stronger, more accomplished than ever before. He’d been a mess of nerves and panic through the whole debacle, but he had done it. He’d faced things he would never have imagined and he’d triumphed. Damn right he wasn’t the same. “In truth, Mr Carter, perhaps you’ve under-utilised me in the past. I’m capable of a lot more than you might think.”
Carter laughed. “Good on you, mate. I do like to see a man realise his potential. All things happen for a reason, hey? You’ll go far, you keep up this level of work.”
Dace smiled, thinking about two dead elderly Macedonians. Fuck those twisted freaks, he’d done a service ending them. And a young girl with a wire through her eye, maybe that had been a mercy. There was nothing he could have done for the two dead teenagers that sloshed, with disconcerting symbols carved into their flesh. He thought about the blood flooding from Talbot as he thrashed in his death throes and enjoyed a tingle of victory. There was a thrill in winning a life or death scrap like that.
“Thanks, Mr Carter.”
“I have a job for you, but I’ll need to organise some stuff first. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Okay, cool.” Dace turned and headed back for his car, trying not to limp. He wondered what the job might be. And if he didn’t like it, well, maybe twelve grand was Get Out of Gulp money.
Rock Fisher
Troy Mackay was pissed off. All the effort, all the time put in, and she runs off with Albert fucking Chang. Al was a great guy, Troy didn’t hold it against the man. Al didn’t know Troy and Cindy were on-again-off-again, he didn’t know how much energy and money Troy had sunk into proving his love for Cindy, and Troy had seen the way she fawned all over Al in Clooney’s the previous weekend. The bitch knew exactly what she was doing, playing him, stringing him along, then swanning off with Al right in front of him last night.
With a sigh, Troy trudged past the bank and the roundabout, carrying his rod and tackle box. When he’d awoken to his alarm, still angry, he’d thought to blow off the fishing. Which was spiting himself because it was his solace. But something had drawn him to the window, looking out into the pre-dawn darkness. Like gamblers, fishers always thought the next time they’d get the big score, it kept them motivated. Troy was self-aware enough to recognise the addiction of it. But something else seemed to nag at him this day, something indefinable.
It was
barely dawn and already hot as hell, the late-January heat lingering right through the night. It would only get worse once the sun came up properly. He walked along the cement footpath by the grass, then past the lighthouse and its surrounding car park. He took his own private route over the rocks just south of the lighthouse and zig-zagged down the steep decline to the rock shelf on the furthest south-east corner of Spiny Point. He had tried several times to learn why it had that name, but no one seemed to know. An aerial view of the small peninsula where the lighthouse stood did show a spit of rocky land with several small points along its north side and a wide, shallow shelf along the south. It looked sort of like an echidna if you squinted and didn’t think about it too hard. But that was a stretch as far as Troy was concerned. Regardless, this spot, at this time, was prime for bream and blackfish. He had his 8-foot rod and Alvey Combo reel and planned to cut some cunjevoi off the rocks for bait. Usually he’d bring more gear but couldn’t be bothered right now. He was too upset about Cindy Panko.
Well, they were welcome to each other. Al would no doubt learn pretty quickly that Cindy was a weird and vindictive person. A ‘malicious fucker’, as Chrissy at the pub had called her once, and Chrissy was smart as hell. He should have listened to her in the first place. But Cindy was hot, and Troy loved exploring every inch of her creamy skin and dreamed of doing it again. Maybe the chance would come around, when she got bored of Al. But one thing was certain, she would never be his true love. All his ideas of settling down, having someone to care for, to care for him, were wasted on Cindy. If that ever happened, as he desperately hoped it would, it wouldn’t be with Cindy Panko.
He felt like one of the old boys in Clooney’s. He’d always refused to become like them, complaining about everything. Nothing but whinging about fisheries inspectors and fishing rules, all the bloody amateurs taking undersize fish, never any bait, and all the damn leatherjackets. Troy wondered why they kept fishing when everything about it was apparently so miserable. Droughts are no good for fish, rainy weather sucks, the wind is a pain in the arse. The fishing is always awful, it was better when they were kids before the bloody council ruined everything. They even moaned about things like the streetlights being too bright or chips not tasting like they used to or craft beer taking up too much space in the bottle shop. It seemed that to be a keen fisher, you had to whinge about everything. Troy didn’t want to be that way. But maybe just for today he’d stare sullenly out at the ocean, grey in the dawn light, and let his inner cantankerous old bastard have dominion.
He loved to get up early and fish, it was his meditation. Maybe it would make him feel better. One thing he and his dad and his older brother had always enjoyed was the fishing. Never his sister, the middle child. Rose always screwed up her face at the very thought of it. That was okay. The Mackay boys enjoyed their thing. But his dad had given it up, too early, too late, too cold, too hot. Any excuse for the passion he’d lost. Same as the way the passion had drained from his marriage. Troy’s brother still fished occasionally, but said he had no time any more, now he was manager of the wood yard and a qualified tree surgeon. Always busy, and about two minutes from married with kids, Simon had done okay. His girlfriend, Laura, was the right stuff. A bit ordinary in the looks department, but solid, fun, honest, kind. They would have staying power. Si was a lucky bastard. He would get his family.
Troy reached his spot and stood staring at the ocean for several minutes, checking the swell, feeling the breeze. Nerves tickled over him, a strange sensation of expectancy. Why was he nervous? The thing his dad had instilled in him and Simon right from the start, when he and his brother were both wide-eyed little boys, was respect for the environment. Always keep a good sense of your surroundings, never turn your back on the ocean, and save yourself from wave knockdowns and subsequent lacerations, or even drowning. When it came to participant deaths, rock fishing was the most dangerous sport in Australia, Troy had been told. Unexpected waves or slipped footing off a platform into the churning waves with no lifejacket claimed a lot of lives every year. His dad had made him and Simon well aware of the risks, had always insisted they wear lifejackets as boys. Of course, he didn’t any more. He didn’t want to look like an idiot out here.
But today the sea was calm, just on the turn of the tide, perfect conditions. The sky was slowly brightening ahead over the ocean, soft orange pushing away the pink and grey. It might stay a little overcast, but that would only trap the summer heat in.
Thinking about his dad’s old lessons, thinking about his family, made Troy melancholy. But he was only twenty-five. Plenty of time to find a wife. Make a home and a family of his own. His home wasn’t bad growing up. It was perfectly normal, except his parents didn’t love each other. They stayed together for the kids then, and they stayed together because they didn’t know any better now. All three Mackay siblings were out of the family home, though all still in The Gulp, and Mum and Dad Mackay orbited each other in the big house at the top of Thomas Street in blissful apathy. They were good friends, they had their own hobbies as well as shared interests. They both worked, they had pals around town they socialised with, it was all normal. But it was so fucking empty. Cardboard cut-out people living cardboard cut-out lives. No aspirations for anything bigger or better, just treading water until they died. Not what a real family should be.
Staring at the ocean he remembered his dad out here back in the old days, vibrant and enthusiastic. So different to the blank sheet of paper the man had become. Troy wanted more than that. He wanted someone he genuinely loved. Someone who fired up his heart every time he saw her, even after thirty-five years of marriage. Or more. He wanted kids who grew up happy and wanted to visit after they’d moved out, instead of the way he and his brother and sister only forced themselves back to the family nest for special events. Birthdays, Christmas, anniversaries, the occasional Sunday lunch when Mum got downhearted that all her little babies were grown and flown. They’d recently endured the fake frivolity of Christmas so at least that was done with for another year. He would have his perfect family one day, but it wouldn’t be with Cindy Panko. He needed someone better. He had time.
The ocean swell matched his breathing and his nerves rose again. He sensed an insistence from the water, an urgency, and frowned, but a smile tugged at his lips. He set up his rod, fingers a little clumsy with haste. Something’s out there, he thought. All these years had given him a sixth sense for the right spot, the right time. All fishers either claimed to have that second sight or claimed it was bullshit. He’d always been in the latter camp, but not today. Now, inexplicably, he was a believer. He crouched, sharp knife sliding into the wet crevices at the water line as he carved away chunks of cunjevoi for bait.
Ready to cast, he checked his watch and sighed. He only had a couple of hours. Would it be enough? Another day making dental instruments lay ahead of him, eight hours of knurling scalers and sickle probes. Something else he needed to change, that was no lifetime career. The thought of it made him feel hollow inside. Maybe if he got a better job, he’d get a better girlfriend, but there was precious little work going in The Gulp. Precious little with any real prestige anyway. And getting out of The Gulp was harder than finding good work.
Fuck it all. Fish and forget, that was his mantra. It was how he stayed sane among the drudgery of life. He let the meditation sink over him, watched the swell, watched the clouds, cast and recast. Today he would make a grand catch. He didn’t know how he knew, didn’t question it. Just believed.
As the sun rose, the overcast sky cleared and the heat rose. It was going to be a scorcher after all. He’d pulled in a couple of decent sized bream after a bit more than an hour, which was disappointing. It wasn’t anything like the inner feeling had made him expect. They’d feed him for a couple of days, along with the stock of vegies he had in his flat from his mother’s garden. Whatever other faults she might have, no one could say she wasn’t a green thumb. Vegie beds took up nearly half the large back yard on Thomas Street and she
kept herself, all her kids, and several friends and neighbours well-stocked with fresh produce.
Troy checked his watch. He was due at work in just over an hour. It would take about twenty minutes to walk back to his flat on Freemantle Street on the south side of The Gulp, then it was only another five minute walk to Turner’s Manufacturing in the little industrial park on the very southern edge of town, where the bush rose steep and thick behind the large metal warehouses and workshops. So he had about half an hour in hand.
“Come on,” he muttered. “Today’s supposed to be special.”
He baited up and sent the line sailing out. The sun was well above the horizon now, shining gold and glittering across the water. Some of the locals were saying they were in for a long, harsh summer, but didn’t they always say that? Summer was always long, usually too hot, and getting increasingly humid even this far south. Thanks, climate change.
His line snagged suddenly. He flicked back, felt the hook catch and smiled. This felt bigger than a bream. Much bigger. He let the line go a little and it raced away fast. Frowning he tried to pull it back, but whatever he’d hooked was strong. His relaxed fishing became a sudden battle as he wound up, hauled in, let it run, wound up again. Whatever he had, he needed to tire it out before it broke his line. Or bit through it, some distant voice in his mind suggested.
“This is it,” he said. “Come on, in you come!”
For ten minutes they battled, the whole while Troy’s mind swam with possibilities of what he might have snagged. Then sudden slack and he staggered back.
“Fuck it!”
Another rock fisher, about a hundred metres away around the shelf, glanced over at Troy’s outburst. “Lost another one, hey?” he shouted across with a laugh in his voice.
Troy realised it was Trevor Clancy, one of the middle-aged whingers he drank with at Clooney’s, iron grey hair and hard eyes. Troy flipped the bird and Trev laughed, turned his attention back to his own line. With a sigh, Troy began reeling in. That fisher’s sense was bullshit after all. Wishful thinking. He felt a drag here and there and realised his hook must still be in place. He’d thought the line had snapped, but it didn’t feel that way now. Whatever it was got lucky and slipped the hook.