Vengeance List

by Gary Gregor

  He moved around his desk and slumped into his chair. As he sat, his thoughts turned to Paddy O’Reily. He had been thinking of the Irishman since yesterday. Where was he? Paddy would simply not disappear like this, not without leaving word of where he could be reached. He was not answering his telephone, and no one at his paper had seen him since yesterday. Paddy was a big boy now, he could look after himself, but still Sam felt, if not overly concerned, then at least a touch anxious.

  He looked at the paper bag on the desk in front of him as if noticing it for the first time. It was plain and bore only his name and office address boldly written across the front. The top of the bag was folded over and stapled closed to keep the contents from spilling out. He reached out and picked it up. It was bulky, but light as he hefted it easily in his hand.

  A strange, unexplainable feeling engulfed him as he sat there examining the bag. Strangely, he felt he did not want to see what was inside. His hands began to shake, mysteriously. He sat the package back on the desk and stared at it for a moment, silently cursing his nervousness. Finally, dismissing his apprehension as ridiculous, he picked up the bag and tore at the staples sealing it closed.

  He upended the package, and the contents spilled out onto his desk. He gasped aloud in a reaction of recognition and horror. On the desk in front of him lay Paddy O’Reily’s trademark trilby hat. In one sharp, cruel blast of realisation, Sam knew that his friend was dead.

  “Oh, God no!” he murmured. He wanted to pick the hat up, but he couldn’t. He just couldn’t. He sat staring at it lying on the desk where it had fallen.

  Finally, he managed to gain control over his feelings. He looked inside the bag. Still lodged in the bottom, a small piece of paper caught his eye. He reached in and removed it. It was folded, and when he unfolded it, he recognised immediately the familiar red, felt-pen scrawl. He was looking at what appeared to be a roughly drawn map. Underneath the map was the number five, with Paddy O’Reilly’s name alongside it.

  “Oh, Jesus, not Paddy, Jesus, don’t let it be Paddy!” he pleaded aloud.

  “What the hell is wrong Sam,” Russell Foley asked, storming into Sam’s office. “I’m bloody busy, mate. Everyone’s busy. Where flat out trying to find Stringer. What’s so important that you couldn’t tell me over the phone?”

  “Look,” Sam said. He indicated the hat on the desk.

  “What?” Foley shrugged. “You buy a new hat?”

  “Look at it, for Christ sake,” Sam said. “It’s Paddy’s hat.”

  “Paddy bought a new hat?”

  “Jesus, Russell, give me a break, look at the fucking thing! It’s not a new hat.”

  Foley pulled up a chair and sat opposite Sam. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. Why don’t you calm down and start from the beginning? That’s Paddy’s hat. What are you doing with it?”

  “Paddy’s dead.”

  “What?”

  “Paddy’s dead.”

  “Jesus! What do you mean Paddy’s dead? I mean… how do you know he’s dead?”

  “Because this arrived a little while ago, by courier,” Sam explained, indicating the hat.

  “I’m confused.” Foley shook his head. “Someone delivers Paddy’s hat to you, and from that you deduce he is dead?”

  “This was with it,” Sam said. He offered the scrap of paper to Foley.

  Foley took the page and looked at it. “Shit!” he exclaimed. He lifted his eyes and looked at Sam.

  “Stringer?”

  “Yes, of course. Stringer. Who else? It’s the next name on the list.”

  “Just like the others,” Foley said, more to himself than to Sam.

  “Yes, just like the others.”

  “Who delivered this?” Foley asked.

  “A courier,” Sam shrugged. “A young punk with a terminal case of shit on the liver.”

  “We’ll check him out,” Foley said. “You never know. We might get lucky.”

  “There’ll be no trail, Stringer is not that careless.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. All the same, I’ll put a couple of fellas on it."

  “What are we going to do now?” Sam asked.

  “We? We are not going to do anything. I thought I made myself clear. The police will handle it.”

  “Oh no,” Sam interrupted shaking his head, “oh no, no, no… no fucking way. Don’t come that crap with me, Russell. That’s bullshit! I’m in this, all the bloody way! You can shove your badge in my face until you’re blue in yours. I want in!”

  Foley raised his hands in surrender. “Okay. All right,” he said. “I see a year out of the job hasn’t done anything to temper your pig-headedness.”

  “And,” Sam responded, “it’s not getting any better sitting around here arguing the point with you.”

  “You stay in the background. I’m warning you.” Foley stood. “You can ride with me until this thing is over. That way I can keep an eye on you. But, you stay in the background. And, if you should happen to receive any more communications like this,” he waved the envelope in Sam’s face, “you bring them to me immediately, you got that?”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Sam scoffed dismissively. “Stay in the background. Yeah, I got it. Jesus, they dab a bit of bird shit on your shoulders, and you’ve become a real bossy bastard.”

  “I’ve got responsibilities now, Sam.”

  “Yeah, right, and I’ve got an itch that won’t go away.”

  “Have you tried penicillin?”

  “Very funny, where do we start?”

  “We start by going back to the station,” Foley said. “I want to put some people on the courier who delivered Paddy’s hat. I want this note examined for any prints, and I want to issue a “Be On The Lookout For,” Paddy. Just in case all this is a sick joke,” he indicated the hat and the scrap of paper. “Then I want to check out this map. Where do you think this place is?”

  “Dunno, down the track a bit I think, towards Berry Springs. It looks like one of those old World War Two airstrips.”

  “Shit,” Foley exclaimed. “There’s a million of those things all over the place.”

  “I know, but I was looking at the map before you arrived. It looks pretty easy to follow.”

  “What do you think it means?”

  “I don’t think it means we’ll find Stringer waiting for us with a cup of tea and scones. If he wanted us to find him, he’d walk into police headquarters and give himself up.”

  “What then?” Foley shrugged.

  “It’s the hat,” Sam explained. “Stringer sent me Paddy’s hat and a mud map. We are going to find Paddy there; I’m sure of it.”

  “Jesus,” Foley hissed. “I hope you’re wrong.”

  “Me too,” Sam said.

  “Okay, let’s go,” Foley said.

  “Are you taking back-up?”

  “No, let’s see what this is about first. We’ll be in radio contact if we need it. Do you still have a gun?”

  “Yes.” Sam opened a drawer in the bottom of his desk and removed a Smith and Wesson .38 calibre, snub nose revolver. He checked the cylinder, confirming it was fully loaded, and slipped it snugly into an ankle holster he also removed from the drawer. He fastened the holster firmly around his right ankle, stood upright and shook his trouser leg over the holster, concealing it from view.

  “I haven’t worn this since I left the job,” he said to Foley.

  “I’m not even going to ask if you still have a licence.”

  “It’s probably a good idea if you don’t,” Sam smiled. “Shall we go?”

  “Yeah, well, just remember,” Foley cautioned, “you’re in the background. The gun’s just a precaution, so don’t be waving it around.”

  “You know, Russell, if this weren't such a serious matter, this would almost be fun. You and me, riding together, it’s like old times.”

  “Come on, John Wayne,” Foley beckoned, “you’re getting me all sentimental.” He paused in the doorway, noticing the crack in the glass. “What happened here?”
he asked.

  “Nothing,” Sam answered, dismissively.

  “Nothing?”

  “That’s right, nothing. Shit, it’s just a door for Christ sake. Are we going, or do you want to stand around discussing the aesthetics of my office?”

  “Just thought I’d ask,” Foley shrugged, “there’s no need to get all snooty.”

  They drove in relative silence. Somehow, there seemed no need for anything other than perfunctory conversation between them. The prolonged lapses between what conversation did take place were awkward. The two had not seen each other since they parted company under acrimonious circumstances twelve months earlier, and neither of them seemed to want to say anything that might be misconstrued by the other.

  They were both lost in their respective thoughts, thinking about what they might find when they reached the destination indicated in the rough, mud map drawn by John Stringer. After about thirty minutes travelling south, along the Stuart Highway from Darwin, Foley began to slow the vehicle.

  “Are we there yet?” Sam asked, searching the surrounding bushland.

  Foley looked across at Sam. “What are you, a fucking eight-year-old? No, we’re not there yet, go back to sleep.”

  Sam sat up straighter in his seat. “I wasn’t sleeping, I was thinking,” he claimed indignantly.

  “Given your recent track record in regards to thinking, you’d be better off sleeping.”

  Foley pulled the unmarked police car to the shoulder of the road, and reached for the map resting on the dashboard between them.

  “I think we’re close. We're at the fifty-kilometre mark. The map says we should turn off here, to the right.” He pointed to a narrow, dirt, single lane track just up ahead on their right.

  “Along that track there, I’d say. We’re supposed to follow that for another six kilometres. It should lead us to the old airstrip marked here,” he tapped the map.

  “Looks pretty rough,” Sam observed.

  “And bloody wet and boggy,” Foley said.

  “What do you want to do?” Sam asked.

  “We’ve come this far, can’t stop now.”

  “Okay, let’s give it a go. If we get bogged, you can always get out and push,” Sam joked.

  Ignoring the remark, Foley swung the car across the road and drove slowly up to the entrance to the dirt track. He stopped, and both men looked back up the highway. Several sets of dirty brown, muddy vehicle tracks, thick and clear where the two roads met, indicated a vehicle had travelled from the damp bush track, and back along the highway towards Darwin. In the distance, the tracks faded and eventually disappeared against the dark bitumen.

  “Stringer?” Sam queried, studying the muddy tracks.

  “Or Paddy,” Foley suggested.

  “No, not Paddy,” Sam said. “He’s still driving the car he got when he was seventeen years old, and it was a piece of shit then.”

  “Gotta be Stringer,” Foley said with little conviction. He began to drive forward slowly.

  The vehicle bumped over a slight rise at the edge of the highway and entered the track. It was much narrower than he first thought, and natural vegetation had reclaimed what was once the shoulder of the road on both sides. As he pushed cautiously forward, deeper into the thick undergrowth, he glanced into the rear vision mirror. The relative security of the highway disappeared behind them, swallowed by the dense, unfamiliar bush brushing the sides of the car.

  It was slow going. Recent rain had softened the soil, and Foley wrestled for control of the car as it bucked, and scraped through the deep ruts left by a vehicle that had been over this ground before them. He cursed constantly. More than once, the vehicle threatened to break away from his grip and go skidding into the scrub at the side of the track. Heavy beads of perspiration ran freely down his face and disappeared below the collar of his already damp shirt.

  Sam held tightly onto the handgrip above the passenger side window and fixed his eyes on the track ahead.

  “How you going?” he asked finally, refusing to look at Foley.

  “Good,” Foley grimaced, as he fought with the bucking and sliding vehicle. “I’m going good, how are you going?”

  “I could use a piss; I’ve got a prostate like a bloody baseball.”

  “Now there’s a mind picture I could have gone without. Tie a knot in it.”

  “I haven’t got any free hands,” Sam said. “I’m too busy hanging on, I think you’re gonna kill us both.”

  “There you go, thinking again. You need to stop doing that.”

  “Never mind, if it gets too bad I can always piss on the floor. These cop cars smell so bad no one would notice.”

  After what seemed like an eternity, the car rounded a long bend, and they found themselves facing an old, disused airstrip. Foley braked slowly to a stop and turned off the engine. They were in a place approximately mid-way along the length of the old, crumbling, overgrown strip. All around them lay broken and burned bits and pieces and rusting, rotting remnants of once occupied, busy buildings; corroding and collapsing storage sheds and long empty fuel drums. Decades of tropical jungle rot and ravaging bushfires had reduced this place to an overgrown, slowly disintegrating rubbish tip.

  In front of them, the airstrip lay, submissive and beaten by time. Untended to, and abandoned for as many years as it had taken the jungle to reclaim the place. Great open wounds scarred the surface where the undergrowth, including small saplings, had forced themselves up through the decaying tar and pitch. Once, this place would have offered a welcome sight and security to airmen passing overhead. Now it would almost surely not be noticed by passing aircraft. In the silence that surrounded them, only the sound of crickets and the occasional call of a native bird drifted from the surrounding woods.

  “Is this the place?” Sam asked in softened tones.

  Foley’s eyes wandered up and down the length of the strip. “I think so.”

  “What are we looking for?” Sam asked.

  “I don’t know, a building of some sort, according to the map.”

  “Look around, it looks like there might have been a lot of buildings here once. They're all just piles of rubbish now.”

  “This is the place, I’m sure of it,” Foley insisted. “The map led us right here. Besides, you saw the vehicle tracks leading in here. Someone has been in and out of here recently.”

  “Why are we whispering?” Sam asked.

  “Shut up, Sam,” Foley ordered as he opened the door and stepped out of the car.

  “Oh, that’s lovely that is,” Sam said, as he followed Foley’s lead. “You don’t say two words all the way here, and when we arrive, all you can say is ‘shut up’.”

  Foley ignored Sam’s attempt to lighten the moment. “I think it’s a bunker.”

  “What?”

  “I think we are looking for a bunker. You know, one of those old concrete and steel things they used during the war.”

  “I know what a bunker is.”

  “Good, because that’s what we’re looking for.”

  “That’s one over there,” Sam said nonchalantly.

  “Where?”

  “Over there,” Sam pointed across the other side of the strip. “Just there, in the tree line. You can just see it at the edge of the trees.”

  Foley looked in the direction Sam pointed.

  “Yes, you’re right,” he nodded. “And look, there,” he indicated to muddy tyre tracks on the strip. “Someone drove across there.”

  “Well, Sherlock,” Sam suggested. “Let’s not stand here. If we’re going to do this, let’s get it done.”

  They climbed back into the car, and Foley drove out onto the strip. He steered towards the muddy tracks and followed them across the crumbling tarmac.

  When he reached the other side, he stopped, just short of the edge of the strip and once again silenced the engine. Together, he and Sam got out of the car and stood in silence, studying the stark, alien shape of the bunker ahead of them. The passage of time had done its work
. The surrounding bush had all but covered the old structure, and what they could see of it was covered in a thick, green/black moss.

  Neither Sam nor Foley attempted to approach the bunker, preferring instead to stare at it in nervous anticipation.

  Finally, Sam stepped away from the car and walked slowly towards the tree line.

  “Wait!” Foley called after him.

  Sam stopped, turned and looked back at Foley.

  “What?”

  “You wait here. I’ll go.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “That’s what I thought you’d say,” Foley said as he hurried to Sam.

  They walked side by side, slowly and with just half a metre separating them. When they reached the tree line, they stopped. Something strange, something awful stopped them. A dreadful odour wafted to them on the gentle afternoon breeze.

  “Ah!… Jesus! What’s that?” Foley said, grimacing against the stench.

  “Don’t you recognise it?” Sam asked, turning his head away from the breeze.

  “God!” Foley continued. “That’s fuckin’ awful!”

  “That’s death,” Sam said. “We’ve both smelled that before.”

  “Ah…shit! You don’t think that’s Paddy?”

  “There’s only one way to find out, mate.”

  “You want to go first?” Foley asked.

  “No.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “What happened to my staying in the background?” Sam asked.

  “This is different.”

  “Okay,” Sam said. “I’ll go first.” He stepped tentatively towards the bunker.

  “Wait…wait!” Foley called.

  “Jesus, what now?”

  “There’s a torch in the car. Wait, I’ll get it.” He turned away and ran back towards the car.

  Sam reached in his pocket for a handkerchief, folded it, and placed it over his nose and mouth as a fresh wave of stinking air washed over him.

  Foley hurried back and handed a torch to Sam. Sam satisfied himself it was working, and stepped towards the bunker.

  After the ravages of time had done its work, the door to the bunker was now hardly adequate. It stood ajar, hanging awkwardly on rusted hinges. Sam could see only darkness beyond.