by Gary Gregor
Then, he heard a noise, coming from within the bunker. It sent a shiver of recognition through him. He turned and looked back to where Foley waited. His old partner had moved a little closer, and now he held a revolver in his hand. Sam raised a hand, cautioning Foley not to come any closer, then heard the noise again. Suddenly, he knew what it was. Flies. Thousands of blowflies buzzed and swarmed in and out of the dilapidated door. Something inside, something he could not yet see, and from which he was certain the stench emanated, attracted the flies, whipping them into a droning frenzy.
He paused outside the door and held the handkerchief tighter over his nose and mouth. Flies, there had to be millions of them, not thousands. They swarmed around him, in his eyes, in his ears and in his hair; buzzing and darting at him and around him. He swatted at them with the torch and shuddered with the feel as they brushed against exposed areas of his face. Again, he looked back at Foley, then back at the bunker. He waved another fruitless swipe at the ugly black swarm, ducked his head and stepped into the darkness.
He paused just inside the door and switched on the torch. What he saw at first confused him. The light fell on what looked like a bench against the far wall. Something lay on top of the bench, something dark, something swollen, and moving. Moving? He forced himself to focus on the thing, allowing his eyes to adjust in the dim light.
The smell was horrible. It permeated the folds of his handkerchief and filled his nostrils. He could even taste it, and it made him gag. The thing was still moving. What was it? The noise of the buzzing flies filled the small, stifling room. Then, as he watched the shape in the torchlight, he realised it was not the thing on the bench that was moving. It was the flies. A dense mass of flies, black and bloated, buzzed, swarmed and settled on the thing, whatever it was, each one fighting for a clear place to settle; creating the illusion the thing was squirming on the bench.
“Ooh… sweet Jesus,” Sam moaned through the handkerchief. “Ooh… sweet Jesus.”
He turned, stumbled from the bunker, and staggered clumsily away from that horrible place, towards the airstrip and the car. He ran straight past Foley. When he could hold it no longer, he stopped, fell to his knees and retched noisily. The contents of his stomach spewed onto the damp ground. He could not stop. He retched and retched until the muscles in his stomach ached and there was nothing left to expunge. He lifted his head to the sky, and sucked great lungful’s of fresh, clean, sweet air.
For a long time, he knelt, alternately dry retching and sucking at the reviving air. He cried. Retching, sobbing, and sucking at the air. He did not know how long Foley had stood at his side, talking to him, comforting him. From somewhere he felt a firm hand on his shoulder.
“Sam? Are you okay? Sam?
“I…I will be…in a minute,” Sam spluttered. “Let me get my breath back. Jesus! Why do I always have to go first?”
“What is it?” Foley asked. “What’s in there?”
Sam tried to get to his feet. Foley held his arm and steadied him. His legs felt weak, threatening to fold beneath him. Tentatively, he tested his strength, wondering if he might collapse. He sucked again at the air. The stench emanating from the bunker lingered mildly in his nostrils. He turned his head and looked at Foley.
“It’s Paddy. That… thing. That… thing in there. It’s Paddy.”
21
A numb and incomprehensible aura surrounded the death of Paddy O’Reily. It began with the police investigators and crime scene technicians at the murder scene, and soon, spread like a cancer through the rest of the police community. There existed within the force a certain, unspoken respect and admiration for Paddy, and the hushed murmurings from stoic faces at the scene reflected that attitude.
Paddy was an institution among the police fraternity, and an integral part of the surroundings, his presence in and around the station never questioned. There were those who believed, mistakenly, he was one of their own. They were the new cops; those embarking on an exciting career having arrived fresh from the police training centre as enthusiastic, albeit naïve, probationary constables.
In a way, Paddy's death was like losing one of their own. The effect of his death was different from the death of Carl Richter. Richter was a cop, and that alone brought a personal element to the murders. But, no one liked Richter, and very few of his colleagues could, or would, confess to missing him. Indeed, in the weeks following his murder, no one aside from those directly involved in the investigation talked much about Carl Richter. It was different for Paddy. They would talk about Paddy O’Reily for a long time.
A camaraderie wound like an invisible, unbreakable thread, throughout the police force, binding and uniting its members in a common bond of mateship; a camaraderie that those outside the force rarely got to see, and almost never experienced, save perhaps for members of the armed forces.
Paddy was an exception. He saw it and experienced it every day, but not now, never again. Paddy was dead, and the effect of it was like an airborne virus introduced surreptitiously into the air conditioning system. An invisible, mind-numbing virus suspended, undetectable in the air, and inhaled by all who entered the headquarters building. Misery was contagious.
Sam breathed it, in greater quantities than anyone else, if that were possible. In recent times he became as close to Paddy as anyone ever had. To say he was struggling with the reality of the old journalist’s murder understated the truth of the situation. But, he had to stay in control, and to do so he had to detach himself from the personal element. It was not easy, although he found it less difficult whenever his thoughts lingered on the one person responsible for all this madness, John William Stringer.
Stringer had to die. He could not be allowed to cut the swathe he had through the living, breathing souls who had innocently and unwittingly become his victims, just to wallow in a prison cell at the expense of the society he had affronted. He had to die, and Sam considered he was just the man to see he did.
There would be no protracted, expensive legal proceedings in this case. The public deserved more. Even Carl Richter deserved more. If the system were allowed to work, it would not adequately avenge the deaths of Paddy and the others. In the Territory, a murder conviction carried with it a mandatory life sentence. It did not require that John Stringer forfeit his life and, in this case, Sam found that unacceptable.
For reasons known only to himself, Stringer chose to walk a path from which he must surely know there was no return. Sam was determined to ensure that was the case. He would kill Stringer. As surely as Stringer elected to kill his victims, Sam elected to kill John Stringer. He did not know how, as yet. The method was incidental, and seemed, strangely, to take on considerably less importance than the actual desire for it to happen. Even the timing of it was of lesser significance, except he knew it would be soon.
“… your fly’s undone, and your dick’s dragging on the floor… Jesus Christ! Are you listening to me?” he heard someone say.
“Huh… what?” Sam grunted, coming back from where he had been.
“You’re not listening to me are you?” Foley asked.
“Sorry,” Sam murmured. “I was miles away.”
“Try and stay with me if you can,” Foley said with deliberate sarcasm. “This is important.”
“Okay, okay. I said I was sorry.”
“You know,” Foley continued, “you don’t have the monopoly on grief around here. We all thought a lot of Paddy. He was part of the furniture. You’ll do his memory far better justice by thinking about catching his killer.”
“Oh, I was thinking about Stringer all right,” Sam insisted. “I’ve been thinking about nothing else since we found Paddy. I’m looking forward to meeting him again.”
“Yeah? Well, you can forget about that for a start. There’ll be no vigilantes taking the law into their hands while I’m running this investigation. When we catch up with him we, and when I say ‘we’ I mean the police, will handle it.”
“You agreed I could stay with you un
til this was over,” Sam reminded him.
“And you can. Right up until we find him. The arrest however is our concern. You’re out of it from that point on. You’re a civilian. I could lose my job for letting you come this far. The last thing I need is for you going in with all guns blazing.”
“You make me seem like a sort of cowboy.”
“There are those who know you who would suggest ‘cowboy’ is a fairly apt description,” Foley added.
“I think I’m offended.”
“Can we get back to what I was talking about before you drifted off into a world of your own?”
“I was thinking.”
“I know. Do you mind if we continue?”
“I’m sorry, go ahead. What were you saying?”
“I was saying, I’m putting you under twenty-four-hour surveillance, effective immediately.”
“I’m glad I wasn’t listening, just like I’m not listening now. Fuck your surveillance!”
“Well, you better fuckin’ listen. And I suggest you keep your finger out of your nose, and your prick in your pants, because someone will be watching every move you make, twenty-four-seven.”
“Pig’s arse!” Sam said. “I don’t want you blokes following me around all day and night.”
“I’m not canvassing your wishes here. I’m not particularly concerned with what you want, or what you don’t want. It's non-negotiable.”
“And here was I, thinking we were getting on so much better, silly me,” Sam smirked.
“You’re a target. That’s obvious now. Stringer’s coming after you, and we want to be there when he does.”
“I’m a big boy now, Russell; I can look after myself.”
“I’m sure you can,” Foley agreed. “But, you know, it’s not your safety I’m concerned about. Call me paranoid if you will, but I’d like to take Stringer with as few bullet holes in him as possible.”
“If he’s after me, you know he’ll spot anyone you have sitting on me.”
“No, he won’t. We’re not bad at this sort of thing ourselves you know, or have you forgotten that?”
“Come on Russ, Stringer’s good. He’s proven that. He’ll twig to you, and then he’ll be gone; you might never get him.”
“It’s not a debate, Sam. You’ve got two men on you around the clock. Get used to it.”
“I can’t appeal to your obvious good nature?”
“You can appeal all you want, but now I’m the one not listening.”
“Okay, for the moment we have a stalemate. But, be warned, I fully intend to continue this discussion at a later date.”
“Good, does that mean we can talk about something else?”
“Good idea. Have you got the autopsy report yet?”
“That’s not what I had in mind to talk about.”
“You wanted to talk about something else; this is something else. Have you got the autopsy report yet?”
“Be reasonable will you. You know there are certain things that must remain confidential. I’ve already given you enough latitude to get me fired.”
“Confidential to those not involved in the case. I’m involved. Answer the question.”
“Yes, I’ve got the autopsy report,” Foley resigned.
“And?”
“And what?”
“What does it say? Can I read it?”
“No, you can’t read it.”
“Why not, for Christ sake?”
“Because you have no need to read it.”
“I know I have no need to read it. In fact, I have no real desire to read it. But, Paddy was a friend of mine. We were working together on this thing. I think I have a right to know how he died.”
“Paddy was a friend of mine too.”
“Then you should understand.”
Foley paused, fingering some files on his desk in front of him. “What do you want to know?” he asked finally.
“How did he die?” Sam asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean, how was Paddy’s demise facilitated. How did he die?”
Foley lifted his head, and his eyes met Sam’s. “He was skinned alive. The bastard took hours to do it. He skinned him alive.”
The swish… swish… swish sound the knife made as it rubbed back and forth over the surface of the sharpening stone was malignant and alien in the tranquil serenity of the surrounding bush. John Stringer, however, did not hear the sound that way. To him, the sound was music; like a symphony. He hummed quietly to himself as he worked. It was a sound that belonged in this setting as much as he did. He brought the sound with him when he came here. When he eventually left, the sound would leave with him. It had become part of him, an extension of his very self. He owned the sound. He made it his own. It had become him, and he had become it.
Sometimes, in the middle of the night, when he knew the knife was safe in the special place he found for it, he would wake, hearing the sound. For a long time, he would lay on the narrow bunk of the caravan listening to its song. Swish… swish… swish. It would sing softly, seductively, and his spirits would soar.
He lifted the blade from the stone and wiped it carefully. It felt sharp, but not sharp enough. Not yet. It had to be sharp, razor sharp. It had yet to sing its closing aria, the final song, the grand finale. Then, and only then, it would be over. There would be no ovations, and there would be no encores.
That fuckin' old reporter had dulled the blade. Bastard! Now he had to sharpen it again. The Fucking old coot. Jesus, he screamed. Fucking nearly deafened him in that tiny bunker. It didn’t matter. No one heard him. No one would ever have heard him screaming way out there in the bush. He told him that, but it didn’t stop the old bastard screaming. Jesus, he was loud for an old bloke. He chuckled at the memory of it. Stupid old man, stupid! He got his. Yes, he did. Fucking prick wouldn’t write any more lies about him now. Ha… ha… ha… the sword is mightier than the pen. Old bastard had a pocket full of pens too. Should have taken them and shoved them up his skinny arse, one at a time. Yeah, should have done that. It didn’t matter now, though. Prick wasn’t going to write any more lies. Not now. Not ever. Pity the old prick snuffed it as quick as he did, though; that was a disappointment. Lasted only a couple of hours. Must have been his heart. Surprised the old shit even had a heart. Should have taken it out and had a look. Never mind, he lasted long enough to feel the blade doing its job. Singing its song, and what a fine song it was.
Stringer turned the knife in his hand, and the thin, shiny blade glinted in the reflection of the overhead light. It was smiling at him. Thanking him for the love and the care he heaped upon it. He lowered it slowly and presented it again to the face of the sharpening stone. Gently, lovingly, he caressed the surface of the stone with the edge of the blade, and it began to sing once again. Swish… swish… swish. Soon it would be sharp enough. Soon. Soon Sam Rose would know just how sharp. Soon Rose would also hear the song. It would be the last thing he would ever hear.
He wondered if Rose would scream. He hoped not. He liked to hear O’Reily scream, but with Rose he wanted it to be different. Rose was special. He was the last one. He guessed Rose would be too tough to scream. When they screamed, they weren’t concentrating, and he wanted Rose to concentrate. He wanted him to know everything happening to him. Every stroke of the blade, every caress of the steel, would be delivered with precision, and it would be a shame, if he screamed all the way through it.
Getting Rose to come to him had presented him with some concern at first. How was he going to lure him into the trap, into the web? Bloody cops would be watching Rose by now. Even those dumb bastards would have figured out Rose was a potential victim, and that presented a small problem. He would have to get Rose away from the cops. He couldn’t go to Rose as he had with the others because the cops would be expecting him to do just that. They would be waiting for him. There had to be another way. There had to be an easier way. The cops knew who they were looking for now, he had extracted that much from O�
��Reily before he died. He had to be careful, extra careful. He was close to the end now. He couldn’t blow it now. He was careful. He was smart, too bloody smart for the likes of Rose and his copper mates. He spent too many years planning this to let it all slip away now. He had figured it out, though, as he knew he would. It was easy in the end. Nothing to it. Stupid old Irishman gave him the answer. Shame he hadn’t lived a little longer. Another half hour or so would have made the experience all that much more enjoyable. Never mind, the old prick was dead now, and that was good. It made him feel good just to think about it, to remember every beautiful moment of it.
The girl was the answer, O’Reily gave him that much. What was her name? Curtis. Yeah, that was it, Curtis. Ann Curtis. Rose had a new girl in his life. Ha… ha… ha! Not for fucking long you bastard. It was a shame about her, though. He had no grudge against the Curtis woman; she was merely a means to an end. She was collateral damage. If he had to sacrifice her in the pursuance of his final objective, so be it. It was a shame, but he could live with it.
He sat at the tiny collapsible table in the caravan, deeply engrossed in the task at hand. The swish… swish… swish of the blade against the stone was hypnotic, and he rocked gently, back and forth in time to the rhythmic music of it. He paused. Lifted the knife and wiped the blade with a soft cloth. Again, the blade caught the light and flashed a smile at him. He smiled back at his instrument of pleasure. Carefully, he tested the edge of the blade with his thumb. A thin droplet of blood appeared where the skin came into contact with the blade. “Oh yes,” he murmured softly to the eyes he saw reflected in the gleaming blade. “Oh yes, now you are sharp, my darling. Now you are ready, my beauty. Soon you will sing again, and it will be the sweetest song of all.”
22
Ann Curtis looked at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, adding the final touches to her hair and makeup. She was thinking about Sam. In particular, she was thinking about the effect he was having on her life, and her emotions since the day he walked into her office. She wasn’t in love with him, at least not yet; it was way too early to think about being in love. But, she knew falling in love with him would not be difficult, and the feelings confused her; even frightened her a little. They were nice feelings, warm and comfortable, but confusing nonetheless.