Shore Leave

by David Whish-Wilson

  The hatred in Cord’s face made his eyes bulge, which only made his tremble worsen, dropping ash onto the table. ‘What the fuck you blokes want?’

  ‘Perhaps that’s unfair of me, Ralph. Seeing as how we just met. What about if I told Nigel Kinslow that your brother was incarcerated for the rape of a white woman? Found her unconscious under a tree and thought he’d have a crack?’

  ‘He didn’t know she was white. It was dark.’

  ‘We told you back at Forrest Place, Ralph. We want to know what you saw at the Seaview Hotel, last Saturday night. We know that your brother lived there for a year. What were you doing staying there, after he’d already left?’

  ‘Place is cheap. Bar downstairs. Knocking shop across the road. Stayed there before.’

  ‘But you never visited the brothel, Ralph. It was your brother who was there, the night before Francine McGregor went missing.’

  ‘You better speak to him then.’

  ‘Must’ve been pretty galling, for a bloke with your … recent experience. Seeing a big black man with a pretty white girl, staying just a few doors up.’

  ‘I mind me own business.’

  Cassidy laughed. ‘Not good enough, Ralph. You give me something, or I’m going to personally call Kinslow, tell him about your last stretch.’

  ‘I heard bangin and crashin. Arguin. The big buck’s voice. Her voice. They were fightin. Like I say, I mind me own business.’

  ‘You didn’t feel like steppin in, helping her out? Lone white woman going up against what you call a big black buck?’

  Cord opened his mouth, disgust in his eyes. Nearly said it, what Cassidy had been leading him toward, until he understood and pulled back, put out his cigarette on the table. ‘Her business is her business. I didn’t step in. I got to live with that, every day of me life now.’

  Cord’s attempt to identify with Francine McGregor’s situation was a pitiful lie, and all of them knew it. But the moment had passed.

  Cassidy put out his own cigarette, nodded toward the door. ‘You’re free to leave, shitman. But tell your brother I want to talk to him. He doesn’t make an appointment to come down and speak to me, I get on the phone to Kinslow. Understand?’

  The bleak lizard-light was back in Cord’s eyes. He smiled, stood stiffly, pushed his chair to the table.

  44.

  In the trunk on the drive to what he assumed would be the bikers’ clubhouse, Devon Smith thought about what he could say to save his life. They’d already put a bag on his head and kicked him till he fitted the shape of the trunk, his body curled around the spare tyre. The V8 engine sounded like Barry Brown’s Holden Monaro. Blood seeped from Devon’s ear and he rubbed his face against the bag to soak it up.

  Now that Devon had reached the inevitable destination, he was surprisingly calm. It was almost as if the pointlessness of his life had been preparing him for this end; stowed like a piece of luggage ready to be deep-sixed. At the very least it allowed him to think on his next steps.

  Devon’s one advantage was that he’d spent his life among predatory men. He had imagined that one day he might join their brotherhood, but in this he was mistaken. Such men had always been able to read Devon and know that he was not like them.

  There would be no point begging the bikers for mercy. It was a matter of business, after all. There was no surer way to bring on punishment than to beg, and there was no better way for a thug to justify the meting out of cold and lethal violence than in matters of business. It was this latter thing that had always surprised Devon. His father got the trembles and suffered from the night terrors, woke screaming from bad dreams. He could be generous to his friends, however, and sometimes even to Devon. But he was ruthless when it was a matter of business, burning a drug dealer or ripping a fellow thief – just another transaction, just business.

  Devon Smith had fucked up again and now he had to make amends or pay the price. He knew that he had to come out fighting. He prepared the words and rehearsed them in his mind, his fists clenching and his neck stiffening as he made the sounds.

  The Monaro chugged down streets noisy with afternoon traffic. The men inside the car didn’t speak. It seemed that they too were preparing themselves.

  Finally the Monaro came to a stop. He heard the clanking of a gate and knew that they were at the clubhouse. Devon started to breathe deeply, trying to ride the wave of fear that was welling up inside him, turn it to anger.

  Inside the gates, the Holden spurted over rough concrete and pulled into a hard turn. The doors opened. Nothing was said. He heard the trunk lock open and then he did what he planned to do – kicked the lid and began to curse.

  The first punch to his head made him reel like he’d been thrown off a cliff. He tried to snarl out some words and was punched again, in the forehead this time, the back of his head cracking against the trunk lid. Tears welled in his eyes and he was too dizzy to speak and somebody had him by the legs. He was dragged out of the car, hitting his back on the tow bar, cracking his head on the cement floor.

  ‘You fucken cowboys,’ he tried to shout but it came out as a whimper. ‘Rippin me …’

  When Devon returned to consciousness the hood was gone and he was bound to a chair. A swell of nausea rose inside him; he coughed and drooled over his kitchen uniform, already bloody where his nose and mouth had dripped down his chin.

  The head biker, Devon couldn’t remember his name, stared at him coolly, blowing onto the end of a lit cigar, the red ember pulsing in the gloom. Barry Brown was drinking a beer while perched on a bar stool, watching Devon with the expression of a chef eyeing a cut of meat. Brown had bloody knuckles where they’d caught on Devon’s teeth.

  Neither of them spoke. They were going to use silence to break him open. Devon had to act fast.

  ‘Just do what you gotta do,’ he spat, surprised by the forcefulness of his voice. ‘Don’t know why you gotta do it, though, after what you did. Could’ve just ripped me off and gone your way.’

  The head biker glanced at Barry Brown, which gave Devon time to prepare. His next sentence – his life hinged on it. The head biker sized him up, head cocked, amusement in his eyes.

  ‘Oh, you think we took the guns, our cash?’

  The next sentence. ‘Stop fucking with me. I put the guns in the van, got called inside before I had the chance to take my money –’

  ‘Our money, motherfucker.’

  ‘… went back outside, the van was gone.’

  ‘Just gone, eh?’

  The head biker blew on the cigar, brought the ember to a fierce glow.

  I can take a little burning, Devon told himself. I can take that.

  But the man didn’t burn Devon. Instead, he nodded to Barry Brown, who snapped his fingers. Another biker emerged from the darkness behind the bar, unwinding an extension cord as he approached. Devon couldn’t see what he had tucked up under his arm, and when he did – felt his guts churn, heart putter, throat constrict.

  The biker passed the electric drill to Barry Brown, who tightened the chuck on the bit, put the chuck key in his pocket, passed the drill to the head biker who triggered it, made it scream.

  It was his body that gave Devon up. Despite the terror, the voice in his head was clear, even as his bladder opened into his trousers.

  ‘Good boy,’ murmured Barry Brown. ‘Quit the actin and let yerself go.’

  ‘I don’t know anything,’ Devon pleaded.

  The head biker got down on one knee. His red hair glinted in the dull light. His eyes were green and calm. Devon waited for him to say it, as he’d heard his father say it. It’s nothing personal, son. Just a matter of business.

  Instead, he placed the drill-bit onto Devon’s kneecap. A strange light entered his eyes. He’d done this before, and enjoyed it.

  ‘Who else knew about the guns?’ he asked, his voice barely a whisper. Devon didn’t have to think about that. ‘Only my boy on the Vinson, got me them. But he ain’t on shore leave until tonight.’

  ‘You su
re about that?’

  The phone behind the bar rang loud and clear, breaking the moment. Barry Brown walked over and lifted the receiver, grunted a couple of times. ‘Gus. Bloke at the gate wants to make a payment. Wants to make a payment in gold. He’s got it on him.’

  That made Gus, the head biker, laugh. ‘Tell him sure. I like gold. Everybody likes gold. But tell him we’ll need to add a ten-percent commission onto his next payment. Buzz him in. He can wait outside. Within earshot.’

  The head biker triggered the drill, put it up near Devon’s face, the sound filling his ears. Devon began to rock on the chair, throwing his head about. The sound died off. Devon looked at the biker, who was speaking. ‘I said, how do you know that he didn’t leave the Vinson early, organise a crew, take you for the lot?’

  Devon had to admit that it was possible, except that he hadn’t been specific about the arrangements when he told them to Mike Scully. If life had taught Devon one thing, it was that you never truly knew another person, but he didn’t think that Scully would do him like that.

  ‘He didn’t know about the plan. It wasn’t him.’

  Devon felt the memory emerge, sucking the breath out of him. He’d been so high at the time, and it was just a slip.

  ‘What is it, son? Before I give you a permanent limp? Not that you’ll ever have to walk on it. You grew up in the outlaw life. You know we can’t let you live, right?’

  Devon looked at Barry Brown, arms folded and leaning on the bar. He tried for his most apologetic tone. ‘Only person I told about our business was Barry’s nephew. Skinhead dude. Ant. Antony. I was so damn high, man. I’m sorry. I didn’t keep my mouth shut.’

  The biker leader turned to Barry Brown, who’d stood away from the bar, his fists balled, trying to erase a look of shock. ‘You told Ant what we were plannin to do?’

  ‘I’m sorry. He’s the only person I told.’

  It hit Devon with a flash of clarity and perverse pleasure. ‘I guess I trusted him because he’s your nephew.’

  ‘You little runt. Gimme that drill.’

  In two strides Barry Brown had Devon by the throat, crushing his windpipe, drawing back a fist that was grabbed by the biker leader, got it pinned behind him as other bikers moved into the light.

  At first it sounded like stones on the roof. Five single crashes that became a series of louder reports and then a single, continuous tocktock-tocking. No bullets hit the clubhouse. Devon remembered the high-security wall and heavy front gates, designed to withstand an armoured police vehicle, Barry had told him.

  Barry and the biker leader crab-walked to the phone, just as it rang. Barry lifted the receiver, pressed speaker.

  ‘… under attack. Can’t see who but it’s our white van. They’re driving away. They’ve gone.’

  There was a long silence, broken by Devon. ‘I know that sound. That’s an M16. Burst-fire mode.’

  45.

  Swann held the glass of Emu Export to the porch light. His first drink in many months. The lead poisoning had at least got him off the cigarettes, something his daughters had nagged him about for years. Every other time he’d tried to quit smoking it was just as bad as coming off the drink – sleeplessness, cold sweats, nightmares, ridiculous mood swings. He’d learnt to control his drinking but didn’t think that he could do the same with the tobacco. It was either smoke or not smoke.

  Marion touched her glass of moselle to his beer, put her feet over his knees. It was another hot night and they were on the back porch watching the moon rise. Because it was hot, Swann had made them cheese and salad sandwiches for dinner. Marion was tired after a long day supervising an East Perth health clinic that treated street people. The dog snored under her chair, and despite the early hour Swann found himself yawning. Marion had sore feet from being on the move all day, and Swann took one of her feet and put it in his lap, began to knead the instep as she liked him to do.

  They’d almost had an argument over dinner. On the table between them was the front page of the Daily News, including the article written by Louise’s friend Maddie. She had done solid work. Her article, which continued onto page three, detailed a long history of sexual assault and sex murders in ports frequented by the US Navy, across five continents. She included the names of correspondents in Mombasa, Hamburg, Okinawa, Yokohama, Subic Bay, Lisbon, Naples, Lima, Manta, Sydney, who each quoted specific crimes and their links to US sailors. It was a damning article, and while it didn’t explicitly suggest that the US Navy was culpable in allowing sexual predators to serve under the flag, the fact that so few of the assaults had resulted in convictions implied that there were serial rapists and murderers currently in the navy who’d never been brought to justice.

  ‘I know that look,’ Swann said when Marion finished reading the article, not meeting his eyes.

  She ignored him because it was a stupid thing to say. Marion worked with victims of sexual assault and domestic violence. These were crimes perpetrated by individuals, but often in an institutional setting, which allowed the perpetrators opportunity and cover. Whether it was a church, school, reformatory, prison or branch of the military, she knew the added damage when the needs of the institution to protect itself were prioritised over the needs of the victim.

  Swann was angry at himself for feeling defensive. ‘I’m helping Webb find an AWOL sailor. A man who if proven guilty will cop it.’

  ‘You don’t know that,’ she replied. ‘Look at how few of those crimes have been solved.’

  There was nothing Swann could say, because it was true. They had raised three daughters together. He shared her anger at the evidence that predators were getting away with murder, literally, by hiding behind the uniform. No doubt Webb had seen the article. He would have some explaining to do.

  Both of them heard the front gate open. The dog awoke and looked into the darkness, growled. Swann stroked her ears and waited. If it was family or friends they’d know to come down back, but it was the doorbell which rang. The dog barked and bolted inside the house, pausing only to make sure that Swann was following before doubling the volume of its barking.

  It was Tremain, the gold miner, standing in a puddle of light beneath the frangipani. For whatever reason, he waited there instead of the porch. Swann looked past him into the shadows. Tremain’s was an old trick used to lure someone outside, prior to their being shot. Swann had put those days behind him, but you never knew.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I tried calling you. A dozen messages.’

  Tremain hadn’t asked Swann to leave the house. Swann stepped onto the porch.

  ‘I gave you free advice,’ Swann said. ‘Told you not to contact me.’

  Tremain reached down to the Gladstone bag at his feet. Swann measured the distance between them, tensed. The bag that Tremain lifted was heavy, and clanked. Swann got ready to move.

  ‘I know,’ Tremain complained. ‘But your man told me to make the drop. I did as he asked, but that was before the bullets started flying. Got out of there by the skin of my teeth. Never made the delivery. Can’t do it, Swann, cut of the cloth and all that. It’s not me. Your man didn’t leave me a number. I had no choice but to come here.’

  Swann listened to the shakiness in Tremain’s voice. Nerves, adrenalin, exhaustion – Swann didn’t care.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Tremain. You’ve got to leave.’

  Tremain looked close to tears, or collapse. His whole body slumped. ‘I know, Frank. I know you got to say that. But your man –’

  ‘What man, Tremain? There’s no man.’

  Tremain looked at him in the eye for the first time, tried to understand, but wasn’t able. Lowered his head again. ‘I tried, Swann. Tell him that. But then the bullets started flying. Like a fucking war zone. They let me out before the coppers came. Dozens of them. TRG. An army of coppers. And me, with this bag, like your man told me to do.’

  ‘What’s in the bag?’

  Tremain put the weight of the bag on his
thigh, pulled the zipper. Gold. Ingots and kilo bars. More gold than Swann had ever seen.

  ‘You’ve been had, Tremain. There’s no man. And I don’t know anything about coppers or a shootout.’

  Tremain appeared to believe him, which only made him more upset. ‘You haven’t seen it? It’s on the news. I was right in the middle of it …’

  Tremain tried to control his breathing, began to lay it out for him: the older man who claimed to work for Swann, the demand that he make payments to The Nongs on someone else’s behalf, the machine-gun fire aimed at the clubhouse gates.

  Tremain had been taken advantage of again. Not much Swann could do about that – the businessman was a goldfish in a shark-tank. But someone else was out there, using Swann’s name to make fraudulent deals. That couldn’t stand.

  Tremain’s description of the old man didn’t match, which meant that Swann would have to lay eyes on him.

  ‘Next time he calls, tell him that you tried to make the payment. What you just told me. But that he needs to do it. That you need to meet him. Then call me.’

  Tremain thanked him and withdrew into the shadows. Swann called him back. ‘Do you have a lawyer?’

  Tremain nodded. ‘My cousin. He’s a barrister.’

  ‘First thing tomorrow, make a new will. You don’t have a wife or kids, right? Make sure that the will specifically states that in the event of your death, all of your assets including the company, mine and lease go toward a charity of your choice.’

  ‘A will?’

  ‘That’s what I said. Make it a children’s charity, like Telethon. Make sure that the assay results et cetera are all in the documentation, as well as a description of your tormentors. I don’t know what you’re caught up in now, but if there’s nothing to be gained by taking you off the map, then a new will and last testament might keep you alive. Otherwise, your current beneficiaries will just inherit your problems. Certain people might assume that your beneficiaries will be easier to deal with than you are.’