by Martin Roth
Chapter Twenty-Six
I drove slowly along Cotham Road. Without thinking I hooted the car horn as the mid-morning traffic ground to a halt, then realized we were waiting for a tram to let off passengers. I was tempted to put one hand on the horn and blast my way through all the cars, but I couldn’t let the police catch me. Not with a gun.
I was desperately scared that I was going to be too late. Alberto would assume that the police had been summoned. He and his men might already have evacuated the house where I had just been held. Certainly they would have cleared out of La Rue. But his hideouts would be limited. This time I would get him. Papa Guzman expressed it best: we’re back in action.
My entire body felt in a state of decomposition. My left ring finger was broken and I suspected a couple of ribs were gone as well. My legs were so bruised that they felt arthritic. Yet the pain was all academic next to the burning within me to complete my final mission - to take out Alberto.
As I drove, other little notions raced through my brain, as if in transit. Why had I ever wanted to come to Australia? East Timor was my home. It was free now. That was where I belonged. I was a Timorese, not an Australian. I was never going to find my father. I would seek out my mother’s family. They would surely welcome me back into the fold.
I arrived at the church. It was locked, so I had to force the side door, which was easily accomplished. I limped through the chapel to the lost property cupboard in the hall, where I had concealed my swag. My passport and other documents were there, as well as some clothes, money and a knife. I pulled it out and put it on my back.
I wasn’t sure if I had enough cash to buy a ticket back to Dili. I didn’t even know if direct flights went from Australia. Maybe I would have to hitchhike north and then try and find a fishing boat to transport me over.
I went back through the chapel, vaguely aware of the floral displays for the Easter services. But I had a more important matter on my mind.
It was then that a sharp crack sounded and a bullet whizzed past my shoulder and slammed into the side wall. I dived to the floor and felt something like electric shocks shooting through my nervous system. I was in agony, but still I could roll behind a row of seats, and I pulled Tom’s gun from my pocket.
Alberto was standing near the side doorway, gun in hand. “You people always come back to your church, don’t you?” He laughed. But it was a hollow laugh. Through the gaps in the seats I could see that his face was bruised and puffy. He looked as if he had stepped from the boxing ring. He had to be suffering too.
I was silent. He was using the door as his shield. I couldn’t get a clean shot at him. With difficulty I crawled under some of the seats, trying for a better view. He fired another shot in my direction.
“Whenever we were chasing someone in Dili we always came to the church. No problem finding them.” Now he had lost me. I could see him stretching and then bending down, trying to spot my position. But he also had to keep behind the door. His line of vision was severely restricted.
It seemed sensible to keep him talking. “Did you follow me?” I shouted. I slithered around the floor a little more. I almost had a clean shot at him. The problem was, I only had one bullet. I couldn’t waste it.
“I was here when you arrived, Little Australian. Where else would you go? I was waiting out on the street. I followed you in.” He fired another bullet into the center of the room. I knew he had lost sight of me.
I crawled to the front of the church, right by the piano. At last I had virtually his whole body in my view. He was mine. The moment had come. I raised my revolver and aimed at his heart. I fired.
As I did so someone pushed open the church door and knocked Alberto. My bullet grazed against Alberto’s arm. He grunted, blood appeared and he stumbled to the ground, his gun in front of him. I dropped my own gun, struggled to my feet and hobbled towards him.
“What’s happening?” shouted Pastor Ron Thomas, walking in. He looked at me, struggling to get to the gun on the floor. He looked down at Alberto, on the ground, also making a lunge for the weapon.
The pastor beat us both. He stepped forward, bent down and picked it up. He surveyed his church.
“Johnny, what are you doing?” He looked at Alberto. “Who is this man?”
“Give me the gun.” I shouted at the pastor. “I need it.” I pulled the swag off my back and pulled out the knife.
“Johnny, put down that knife.” He put Alberto’s gun in his pocket.
“I need that gun,” I shouted at the pastor.
Alberto was standing. He was unsteady, and he was clutching his left arm. But the blood flow was just a trickle and he could move the arm. It was a minor wound. I edged towards him with the knife. He took a step back. The pastor stepped between us.
“Johnny, stop this now,” he shouted. “Put down that knife.”
“I have to get him,” I said. “He wants to kill me. Move away.”
I tried to push the pastor aside, but he stood rooted, like Uluru. Perhaps it was simply that I had so little strength.
“Johnny, I said put down that weapon.” He turned as I circled, keeping himself between me and Alberto.
Alberto eased back. Like me, his movements were slow and stiff.
The pastor stayed between us.
“He killed Grant,” I shouted.
“All killing is wrong, Johnny.” Some more circling. Alberto could see what was happening. He knew the pastor was protecting him. He watched me. He had a modest limp. He probably couldn’t run well.
“Pastor, please keep out of this. It’s none of your business. This is biblical. An eye for an eye.”
“The Bible is my business, Johnny, and it’s not like that any more.” He continued to shield Alberto.
“It’s between me and him.”
“Johnny. Revenge is never the answer. You both look as if you need a doctor. I’ll get one. And this is a matter for the police. I’ll call them.”
I thought of Alberto living comfortably in an Australian prison cell, and I cracked. I pushed the knife towards the pastor’s throat.
“I am going to kill him,” I said. My voice was hoarse. I felt that I had been swallowing gravel.
The pastor slowly took the gun from his pocket. He pointed it to the ceiling of his church and fired one shot. I stepped back in surprise.
“There will be no killing in this church or anywhere else. I know how to use this thing, Johnny. You don’t spend years in the outback without learning about guns.” He pointed it at my legs.
And that was when Alberto leapt, like a puma jumping onto its prey. In one mighty move he grabbed the pastor around the neck and threw him to the ground. With an elbow he smashed the pastor’s nose, and then he grabbed the gun and pointed it straight at me. He had a clear shot.
But he didn’t fire. He just said softly: “Come with me, Little Australian.”
I hesitated. I looked around. The pastor was lying on the ground, blood running down his face. Alberto took a vicious kick at his stomach. He waved the gun at the door. “Come with me.”
I dropped the knife and let him push me slowly outside to his car.