Prophets and Loss (A Johnny Ravine Mystery)

by Martin Roth

The next couple of hours were a blur of questions and photo identifications at some kind of police operations center. It was a large room, straight out of the police dramas, with desks and telephones everywhere and a gigantic map of Melbourne on one wall. A couple of video monitors were built into another wall and there were some little flashing red lights on another wall serving no discernible purpose.

  They’d given me a tracksuit to wear and placed me on a portable bed near the desk of a bullet-headed senior officer with wire-rimmed glasses, who was running the operation. I was fed sandwiches and innumerable plastic cups of coffee. A doctor and several nurses treated my injuries. Men and women operatives - some uniformed, others in plain clothes - came running in and out. It was clear that a major campaign was under way, apparently to round up suspected terrorists at several premises.

  In the midst of it all, while seated on the edge of my bed and counting my wounds - I was up to twenty-seven - I spotted a tall policewoman pushing her way towards me. My mind was a blur but I felt it could have been the same woman I’d met at Melissa’s house on the night of Grant’s death. That seemed a year before, at the very least.

  With the woman were two familiar figures: Briony and Rohan, both wearing jeans and thick sweaters. They stared at me.

  “Mate, you looked terrible last time we met,” said Rohan. “And you look worse now. By the way, nice one, pulling a gun on us,”

  “Surprised you didn’t just pump a few bullets into us while you were about it,” said Briony.

  “I see you all know each other,” said the policewoman, leaving us.

  “I was excited,” I explained. “Emotional. Shook up. I lost control.”

  Briony softened. “Are you okay? You look pretty awful.”

  “Yeah, I’m okay,” I lied. “What’s been going on?”

  “We’ve been helping the police for the last couple of days,” said Rohan. “They’ve been desperate. They knew some major terrorist incident was about to happen, but they couldn’t get enough details. The worst thing was that I wasn’t allowed to write anything about it.”

  “We contacted them after our little episode with you and the gun,” said Briony. She paused as a young policeman brushed past to deliver a folder to the commanding officer’s desk. “They raided the house we’d been held at, but everyone was already gone.”

  “They raided La Rue,” said Rohan. “And the Prophetic Edge office, too. It seems the boss there, Tom Traherne, was one of the big cheeses in this whole plot. Was he with you, wherever you were?”

  “I was somewhere in the Yarra Valley with Alberto and his guys. I saw Tom briefly right after I arrived, but then he was gone.”

  Rohan shrugged his shoulders. Then I heard a woman’s voice calling my name. I turned and saw Melissa arriving, dressed in jeans and a tan leather jacket. With her was Pastor Thomas, dressings all over his face, and wearing a torn overcoat that looked as if it had been borrowed from one of the derelicts sleeping outside Flinders Street railway station.

  “Johnny, you look worse than me,” he said in a weakened voice.

  “I’m sorry for all that’s happened,” I muttered.

  “You’re safe. That’s what matters.” He looked around the room. “And the police have caught that nasty piece of work who bashed me. They’ve told Mel here that he might be Grant’s killer. That’s why they got us out of bed at five in the morning.”

  “I’m pretty sure he’s the one,” I said.

  Briony interrupted us. “The sun’s coming up soon. I’m going to the dawn service. I’ll be back in an hour. Johnny, you’re coming with me. This is Australia.”

  The senior officer overheard. He put down the hamburger he was eating. “Sorry Johnny, not on,” he said. “We don’t know if we’ve rounded up everyone yet. You might still be a target. All of you lot could be.”

  “You’ll just have to protect us,” said Briony.

  “This is your first Anzac Day, isn’t it Johnny?” asked Rohan.

  “I arrived about a year ago. Just after Anzac, I think.” I was feeling comfortable on my portable bed. I felt like a sleep, and had little interest in Anzac.

  But Rohan was insistent. “Then he has to see it.” He seemed to find it incomprehensible that the police might not allow me to view my first dawn service.

  A couple of officers conferred. “We’ll arrange a police bus,” said one. “But you won’t be allowed out of it. It’ll park where you can watch. And we’re only going to give you ten minutes.”

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