Never mind. His face was aching and his eyes were blurry.
Some ice for his nose would be handy but he didn’t want to
get up. Tomorrow he’ d ice his face and clean up the stitches properly. He was lucky that his nose had copped the blow and not his teeth.
Lee closed his eyes and let himself drift backwards into the throbbing of his face. There was no darkness there but only a red cloud that filled his ears with static. He let himself go until the pain was diffuse enough to not feel it. He felt his limbs go heavy, and he focused on his breathing. He watched the light change on his eyelids as night came, and he sniffed and realised that his face had hardened into a mask. He was thinking about his father’s story from when he was locked
in Fremantle Prison, and how the screws came to give him a
beating after lockdown, every night for a month. He’ d made them earn their licks, he said, and as soon as he heard the door-lock turn he’ d get up on his bed in the corner so that he 41
DAVID WHISH-WILSON
could kick and narrow the range of their baton-attack. It was a strange memory, until Lee heard the lock turn in the motel room door and then his blood was pumping and his eyes were
open and he was rolling, but there was no back door to escape from. He got up on the bed and backed into the corner as
the hands reached out to grab him. His eyes were still blurry, and he kicked out at the arms that were trying to get at his legs to drag him off the bed. He connected with a snap-kick and heard the oompf as the man went out, and then he was swinging the bedside lamp with the cord still attached and
the bulb shattered over the shoulder of another man who’ d
strode across the back of his unconscious friend like he was a footpath. Lee didn’t recognise any of the men in the darkened room and there were two more coming at him and there was
an older man leaning in the doorframe smoking a cigarette
and watching with a smile. Lee’s nose began to bleed again, and his chin was slick with blood and then he felt a pain in his side and his legs turned to jel y. He looked down at the weapon that had paralysed him in the hand of the grinning
man and it looked like a torch. All movement had stopped
in the room and the man leaned in and stuck Lee in the side again and the electric shock was like a belt around the head with a steel chair.
Two sets of arms ripped him to the floor. There was a boot
on the back of his head and another on his ankles. The electric shock was gone but his heart was still lurching.
‘Watch it, Bal ard, he’s got more tricks. Can see it in his eyes.’
It was the older man, who closed the door behind him.
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‘Tie him up. This is no ordinary kid. You got army training, young fel a?’
The blood from Lee’s nose was soaking into the carpet while cable ties closed around his hands as the older man navigated the crush of bodies and came into view, peering into the
bathroom before turning and looking at Lee. ‘My name is
Kinslow. I run a towing service with a fleet of ten tow trucks and flatbeds. I see you sewed yourself up pretty good. I’ll ask again. You got military training?’
Lee didn’t reply, just stared at the older man. He wore black jeans and workboots, a black button-down shirt and a navy
jacket. Black peaked cap. Grey hair and a goatee beard. A
heavy gold watch on his wrist.
‘Toss his things. Empty that duffel bag and give me his
wallet.’
Lee had hidden the Luger beneath the mattress but they
already knew he was armed. His duffel was tipped onto the
floor in a jumble of jeans and t-shirts and a box of ammu-
nition and, last of al , his books; five, six, then more, hard and softbacks until all dozen books were piled and splayed open.
The old man whistled, got down on his haunches and picked
up a paperback, showed Lee the cover. ‘You like this book, son?’
It was The Turner Diaries, his father’s thumbed copy. Lee ignored the older man and thought instead about Emma’s
letter, and how he might kick it under the bed. The man stayed crouched, and took Lee’s wallet, extracted his driver’s licence.
There was a curious light in his eyes as he looked at the licence and compared it to Lee’s face.
43
DAVID WHISH-WILSON
‘Boys, I’ve got to make a cal . Hold the young fel a but try not to hurt him any more than necessary. Use the cattle prod if required but leave his face alone. He already looks like hamburger.’
*
The older man, Kinslow, was gone for a long time. Lee stood with his hands bound, trying to be brave. The blood was
drying in his nose but he couldn’t wipe it away or settle the itch. He figured he was due some more beating. The reality
was that he’ d been naïve to think that he could rock up in the city and operate his rig, without stepping on toes. The young men were eager to lay into him, he could tell. The nearest
stood before him with the cattle prod inches from Lee’s belly, and his breath stank of stale coffee and his eyes were yellow in the semi-dark. He was broad across the shoulders and
although he’ d beefed up his arms he was also quick on his
feet. Like the man who had Lee by the scruff, he was probably a tow driver too. Lee could feel the workingman calluses
scraping the back of his neck, the hand loose in case the
prod was used again. There was another man going through
his duffel bag. He was taking his time about it, tossing Lee’s clothes onto the bed so irregularly that he realised they were looking for something specific. They were all dressed in the same polo shirts, branded with a red laurel wreath on its
breast. The young man with the yellow eyes wore blue jeans
and workboots, but when he saw that Lee was watching him
he tucked in his shirt that had been loosened in the struggle, 44
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ran a hand over his shaved head and stared with dead eyes.
‘You got me good,’ Lee said. ‘Made your point. Give me my
keys and I’ll be on my way. I was always gonna head over east.’
‘Good try, mate. But don’t think so.’
It was the first time any of them had spoken, apart from the older man. The accent was broad Australian.
‘Why not?’ Lee said. ‘I made a mistake. I’ll go find somewhere else to work.’
The young man laughed. ‘This ain’t about towin, and turf.
Not anymore. Not since Kinslow got here. This is about APM
matters now.’
‘I don’t know what that is,’ said Lee. ‘Got nothing to do with me.’
Yellow eyes seemed to take offence at that, peeled up the
sleeve of his polo. A tattooed swastika, and beneath that
the letters APM, in Gothic font. ‘APM. Australian Patriotic Movement. You with me now?’
Lee hadn’t heard of the APM beyond his father’s stories
about what was happening in Perth: vague anecdotes about
badly organised right-wingers who thought that plastering
posters across the city was the way forward. Skinheads and
hoons going the bash against blacks and Asians. A few crazed plotters and rumours of blowing up this and that.
‘What’s that yer standin on?’
‘Just a letter.’
‘Move off it.’
Lee didn’t move and so the man before him smiled and
pushed the sliding button on the cattle prod whose twin
45
DAVID WHISH-WILSON
elements began to crackle. He stuck the thing in Lee’s bel y and, although his guts were tensed, the shock was like a punch to his heart and he felt it in his teeth and against the back of his skul .
But it didn’t
move him, and he felt the grip on the back of his neck tighten. ‘Do ’im agin.’
Yellow eyes winked over Lee’s shoulder, and he felt the grip leave his neck as the man put the prod against his crotch and stood back and watched. The pain was worse than any kick to the bal s, and his knees buckled and his guts came up inside him. He swallowed on the gorge in his throat which tasted
of acid and coffee. Then the hand was back on his neck and
they threw him facedown onto the bed. It was just a moment
before he got his face raised off his clothes, but Lee felt it, and understood that there were worse things than a beating to
come. His jeans were still belted up but the atmosphere in the room had changed. He remembered the letter, and turned to
watch the grinning fool who was kneeling down reading in
the small halo from the bathroom light. There was a knee in Lee’s back now, and the prod was at his throat. He was forced to kneel and watch the stupid smile and hear Emma’s words in the mouth of the idiot.
They kept him kneeling for thirty minutes, his eyes on the
bedside alarm clock. Every time Lee asked a question the men ignored him.
Final y, he heard the key turn in the door.
‘Get off him.’
Lee’s wrists were levered and then he was on his feet.
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‘Bring that chair and tie him.’
There was a flurry of movement as hands reached to their
task. The other man, Kinslow, had returned. He tossed a rol of gaffer tape to the one who’ d been reading Emma’s letter, then reached into his pocket and drew out a black cotton bag.
He flapped it open and leaned over and forced it onto Lee’s head.
Then everything went quiet in the room. All Lee could
hear was breathing. The door to the room opened. He sensed
something near his face, and then someone walking around
him. The voice, when it came, was warm in his right ear. It was the voice of a very old man. English accent, with a touch of something else.
‘We know who you are, Lee. And who your father is. Towing
is a small community and I’m surprised he’ d encourage
you to do it, knowing our interests here. So I’ll assume that you’ve done this yourself. We can’t let you work our streets and freeways, but if you answer my questions, honestly and
respectful y, we might just let you leave in one piece. Do you understand?’
Lee nodded because there was nothing else to do. There
were questions of his own that needed answering, but they
could wait.
The old man hadn’t left his position by Lee’s right ear. ‘We know that your father is missing, presumed … six feet under.
I knew your father. I won’t do you the dishonour of asking
about him, or Knights operational matters. I only want to know one thing. One important thing that I hope you’ll appreciate 47
DAVID WHISH-WILSON
is good for the cause. We want to know where your father
sourced his weapons. I’ve seen his armoury, and we’ve done
some trade in the past. I know what he’s buried out in the
desert. I don’t want any of that. I don’t want trouble with what’s left of the Knights. I want a name. A contact. So that I can build on what your father started.’
There was something about the man’s voice that was
frightening. The precise laying out of words, reflecting the clarity of his thinking and seeing. Lee knew that the man was serious, even if the others were clowns.
‘Fuck off,’ Lee said quietly, trying to muster the same calm determination, the same projection of authority.
‘Good boy. Good boy. Fair play to you.’
Lee listened to the rustling of silk as the man stood, and
moved away. He heard the sound of a zippo lighter and the
creak of boot-leather as another man knelt beside him. It
started as a warmth on the back of his thigh, behind the knee, then he smelled burning denim and then the pain was hot
and his jeans were on fire and his skin was screaming. There were no hands on his shoulders and he felt himself float to his feet and his vision faded to a speckled red and then he was swinging the chair like a steel tail and butting with his head and his eyes were saturated with the red and then he
was gone.
48
5.
Lee Southern was awake and there was light on his eyelids.
Before he moved or opened his eyes he floated in the warmth and stillness that would soon be disturbed by pain. He didn’t know if he’ d been unconscious for one minute or a day. He
listened, and all he could hear was wattlebirds squawking
outside a window and the wind pushing branches over a tin
roof. The air was cool on his body and he understood that
he was naked. There was no pain, even when he clenched his
fingers, and turned his neck. No throb or ache or shrill signal from his skin, even though he knew that he’ d been burned.
He opened his eyes.
The bedroom was empty.
The door to the large room with unpainted jarrah skirts
and architraves was open. His books were on a shelf above
an empty fireplace. His clothes were folded inside an ancient-looking wardrobe, alongside his boots. His duffel bag was on top of the wardrobe.
49
DAVID WHISH-WILSON
Lee rolled onto his feet. The linen on the bed was fresh
and there were spare pillows on the jarrah floorboards. Now the headache came on behind his eyes. It wasn’t the usual
concussion headache but something else. There was a nasty
chemical smell in his sinuses and he remembered the smel
of ether from his father’s field kit. On the bedside table were a digital alarm clock and a pill bottle. He looked closer and the label said morphine sulphate and the bottle was empty.
There was powder on the varnished wood and he looked at
his arms and saw that he’ d been injected. There was no trace of the needle.
He was bruised all over, but couldn’t feel it. On one of
his thighs was a handprint bruise that looked like an ochre painting on a cave wal , and he reached under his leg where he’ d been burned and found a bandage squishy with salve.
He put his fingers on his nose and understood that the
stitches had been replaced with butterfly strips.
The wattlebirds outside his window had ceased their
bickering and he could hear traffic. He drew back the white curtains and copped the sun in his face. He put up an arm and waited until his eyes stopped watering. The way his headache was developing, it was a pity the pill bottle was empty. He padded over to the cupboards and slipped into some red jocks.
They were from a packet of ten that his father had bought last year to share with him. They all went into the same wash so it didn’t make much difference.
Lee put on his spare jeans. He’ d lost weight and needed a
belt and he looked around for the jeans they’ d set on fire. The 50
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jeans were gone but the belt was hung over the back of a chair.
He threaded the links and tightened it an extra notch. He
found Emma’s letter in his duffel. One of the folds had torn, but every page was there.
There were two other bedrooms but only one was used;
the ceiling fan turning quietly and sheets draped onto the
floorboards. There was nobody in the bathroom or kitchen
and he went out the back door, shielding his eyes from the
sun. It was a regular parched yard with asbestos fencing, a Hil s hoist and lemon tree, and an asbestos shed in the corner.
There was an outside dunny against the back fence which told Lee that th
ey were in an older suburb. The lawn was a tangle of couch grass and the dirt beneath it was grey. The houses on either side had tall bloodwood eucalypts in their yards.
There was a noise behind him.
It was the girl from the tow truck – hard to forget that dark asymmetrical hair and pale skin. She stood on the back steps in knickers and a baggy t-shirt, sipping a glass of orange juice.
She had tattoos on her thighs of jaguar heads but it was her eyes that caught his attention. Despite the fierce sunlight, they were big and grey. Empty of every expression except curiosity.
‘They said I have to stay here and comfort you.’
Her accent was posh, like the voices on the government
radio.
‘Thanks.’
She finished her drink and nodded. ‘The amount of smack
in your blood, you’ll be comfortable for days.’
Some mirth in her eyes, watching for his reaction.
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DAVID WHISH-WILSON
‘Did you fix me up?’
‘I’m a nurse.’
‘Did I talk?’
‘Sorry?’
He stared at her, but she never left his eyes. She hadn’t been there at the hotel room, when he’ d gone berserk.
‘Why are you looking after me? Why were you told to
comfort me?’
‘You’ll have to ask Kinslow that. There’s a note for you on the microwave. I’m going to shower and get ready for work.
I’ve extracted some codeine that’s filtering on the benchtop in there. You can drink it anytime, but only half.’
‘This your place?’
She didn’t answer him, beyond tipping the dregs of her
drink in the dirt, turning back inside. He watched her walk down the hal .
The note was written on a postcard of Perth, taken from
Kings Park. It was propped on his truck keys, which he
scooped and pocketed. Written in a clear hand, the card read: Stay here as long as you wish. This is a safe house and it’s yours.
I’ve added the front door key to your keyring. If you run, we’l find you.
Lee went to the room and tossed his things. Everything
there except what he was looking for – his Luger.
The woman was dressed now in jeans and a baggy green
jumper. Riding boots. Running a brush through her hair,
framed by an edge of light around the heavy drapes.
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