Lee passed the medic a cigarette, but he shook his head.
‘Son, I’m operatin on one lung, a quarter of my liver and a shitload of pil s.’
Back in the tiled room, his father was awake, sweat beaded
on his forehead. The medic wheeled in a drip stand. He
opened the fridge door and took out a bag of saline solution.
Went and pressed his thumbs into Lee’s father’s wrist where the cannula had been taken out. ‘Good to see you again, old mate. Blood type O, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, it is.’
‘Got plenty of that in the freezer, if we need it. Now let me have a look at that wound, front and back. You sit up?’
Jack Southern nodded, but put up a hand, called Lee over.
‘You go and see her now. Like I said, she’ll take you in.’
‘Nah. I’ll come back for you in a couple of weeks, when
you’re healed up. We’ll go to the camps north, live up there for a while.’
Lee’s father shook his head. ‘Soon as I’m healed enough to
be able to defend myself, I’m handin myself in. I can do that time, and I’ve got mates inside. That’s the smart play here. You be smart too. Go and see her. Then head east. Write to me
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after a year, when the heat’s off.’
Lee bent and embraced his father, who winced. Lee looked
into his father’s eyes. It had been dark in the van last night, and he hadn’t seen it. The new clarity there, as though his father had given something up.
He looked at peace, for the first time Lee could remember.
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25.
Lee drove east on Jarrahdale Road toward Albany Highway
when the clock ticked over the hour and the news came on the radio. He expected the lead news to be about his father going missing, or the murder of the Governor, and he was braced
for talk of sightings of his father or of roadblocks and raids, but the newsreader led with a breaking story about a young
woman’s kidnapping from a public street. The next words hit him hard: ‘… taken from outside an exclusive girls school in broad daylight this morning, as she got out of a bus … Three men in balaclavas. Speeding away in a white van. Police calling for members of the public …’
Lee realised he was climbing in third, the van close to
stalling. A horn blast from behind. He pulled into a bus stop and killed the engine. Fumbled for a cigarette. Punched the dash until his knuckles were bloody.
*
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Lee parked the van on the South Perth foreshore, looked
across at the city, so quiet and still in the morning light. The traffic on the bridge and the freeway interchanges distant
enough to be nothing more than a background rumble. He
smoked cigarette after cigarette until the early afternoon, then gave himself another shot in the thigh.
It was all because of that stupid letter. His foolish dream that a girl like Emma and a boy like him could be together, in the face of everything that said otherwise.
All he’ d done was put her in danger.
There was nobody he could go to. There was nothing to
say. Who would believe him?
Lee thought instead about Frankie and the old man,
Paxton, her father. Brad and Kinslow. Robbie and the others.
Concentrated all of his hatred on them.
They had kidnapped Emma because they knew that Lee
would come for her, and then they would kill him.
*
The sun was setting over the dark river, glistening like
snakeskin. Lee circled the riverside parade looking for
somewhere to park, the white mansion wal s glowing even as
the lush vegetation behind the wal s began to disappear into shadow. There wasn’t anybody on the street. The only signs
of life were at the local tennis and bowling clubs. He thought about parking on the Point Resolution bluff, but the carpark was empty, and the police were looking for a white van that had taken Emma. He chose the bowling club, where old men
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in creams rolled bal s across the minty grass, then he drove back to the nearest shopping centre. He bought two large
steaks and found a public phone outside a small cinema.
Lee dropped the coin and dialled the number that’ d been
played over and over on the radio. He didn’t bother shielding his voice. He only spoke for a few seconds, giving the address where he knew Emma was being kept.
Lee dropped another coin and this time dialled the operator.
When he got the number he wanted, he made the cal . He
could hear the sound of leather hitting leather, the grunts and slaps of the gym. When Gerry came on the phone, Lee spoke.
‘You knew, didn’t you? Soon as you saw me, you knew.’
The older man didn’t speak for a while. When he did, his
voice was gentle. ‘Sure I did. But knowing and saying, they don’t always go together. There’s lots of people I see like you, but that doesn’t mean they’re ready, or willin to hear. You there, son?’
‘I’m here.’
‘I’m a Yamatji man myself. Sure as shit, my mob bein from
up there, I’ll know how to connect you in. When you ready.
You know where to find me.’
‘Thanks. I wil . I appreciate that.’
*
At the bowling club, Lee parked against a yellow skip bin with a view of the mansion across the street. He cleaned the Luger and replaced each of the seven bullets in the magazine, making sure there was one in the breech. After half an hour he gave 243
DAVID WHISH-WILSON
himself another shot in the thigh, then swallowed two brown bombers to keep himself awake and sharpen his nerves. He lit a cigarette and sat back to wait.
It was another hour before the police wagon arrived. Two
uniformed police got out, and Lee could tell from the tentative way they carried themselves how it was going to go. The pair walked down the sloping driveway and disappeared from
view. It was only a minute before they returned, got back in the wagon and drove away.
Lee thought about how to breach the mansion wal s. When
Brad had murdered the Governor, they’ d crossed several
backyards to get to the private residence, and he’ d be expecting Lee to do the same. Lee had already scoped what lay at the
end of the driveway, when he’ d followed Frankie and caught a glimpse of General Paxton, not knowing then who he was.
A high steel gate, with intercom and security cameras. Two
Doberman guard dogs. No doubt an APM heavy stationed
there too.
Lee took a swig from his water bottle and climbed out of
the van. He stowed the Luger in his belt and took the steaks wrapped in butcher’s paper. He’ d studded them with crushed Rohypnol tablets taken from the ambulance.
Lee walked along the road that led to Point Resolution, then took small paths through the weedy scrub until he reached
the river. The tide was up and he could see the phosphorescent churn of current in the dark water. Lime stone rocks and
small reefs broke the shore, algae, sea lettuce and brown
and white jel yfish washed to the tideline. Up ahead, a large 244
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water rat swam in the shallows and scampered away when he
approached, disappearing into a clump of sedge-grass.
Lee counted the houses as he stepped over the reef. Above
him, behind the high wal s, he heard the tinkle of a piano
and smelled barbequed meat, freshly watered grass and
chlorinated swimming pools.
Paxton’s mansion was built onto a cliff that rose over the river
and was too steep to climb. Lee clambered up to the limestone wall of the mansion beside, and edged himself along until he was at the base of Paxton’s wal . The painted breezeblock was ten foot high and devoid of fingerholds. At the top of the wal Lee could see the glinting of broken bottles cemented along the crest, il uminated by the moon. He wedged himself into
the corner between the two wal s. The foot-length space was rough and grippy, enabling him to chimney-climb until he
was able to reach the crest of the neighbour’s wal . He lay on the top of the wall and looked into the rear of the house that was dark and quiet. The patio furniture was covered in canvas tarpaulin, and there were no lights behind the tinted glass.
Paxton’s wall was another three feet higher, and Lee crouched and peered into the old man’s sprawling and sloping yard,
built like an Italian grotto with raised limestone garden beds and rough limestone arches that looked like the entrances
to caves. A couple of olive trees and grapevines on a trellis overhanging the rear patio. The house blazing with light. Two storeys, and every room with curtains open.
He had cover where he was crouched. Clumps of banana
and palm tree pushed above the neighbour’s wal , shielding
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him from any view down the line.
There was no need to hurry.
They were expecting him, after al .
The appearance of the police would have confirmed this, as
he’ d planned.
But whatever happened next, he wanted the police to have a
record of their visit, and his cal .
A few minutes later Lee saw a dark shape emerge from the
side of the house, and he ducked beneath the parapet wal .
He heard boot-steps on limestone rubble, and then the eager panting of the dogs.
Lee waited until the guard was gone, then returned to his
surveil ance. The dogs were on the back porch, playing tug of war with a rope. Lee unfolded the steaks and leaned over and dropped them both, feet apart, onto the path.
He waited for the dogs to bark, but there was nothing. He
could hear them snuffling closer, and the wet chomping of
their jaws at work.
Lee waited until they’ d left before he stole a glance over the fence. The dogs were back at play on the porch, lanky shadows silhouetted against the bright light of the kitchen behind them.
He watched and waited for them to tire. One of them whined
and sat, wiping its paws over its face. The other dropped the rope and went and licked the other’s face. It too sat, and laid its chin over the other dog’s back, then closed its eyes.
When he was sure that they were both asleep, Lee crawled
onto the parapet wall and dropped the ten feet onto the gravel.
The sound was louder than he expected, and he felt a spike of 246
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adrenalin rise from his guts and spread to his shaking hands.
He took out his Luger and switched off the safety and scurried to the side of the house. He glanced inside the patio doors, but couldn’t see anyone. He moved to the edge of the patio
and waited for the guard’s shadow to appear. He kept his back against the wal , and his ears alert to the sound of windows opening or door-locks behind him.
Lee used the time to steady his breathing, loading his blood with oxygen, hoping to clear his mind of the chemicals of fear.
But despite his training, his heartbeat was rising, and his palm was clammy on the crosshatched grip of the pistol. He felt the need to move, to burn off the tense energy that was pumping through his body, making him feel light-headed and weak.
Lee was better trained than most soldiers in the ADF, but
this wasn’t training.
He listened to his father’s voice, telling him to breathe. He held the breath for a few seconds until he released and sucked in another lungful, allowing his bel y to breathe for him,
waiting for the shadow on the wal .
When it came, a long angled shadow accompanied by the
crunching of boots on gravel, Lee was nearly overcome with
panic, and overcompensated by striking out early, the butt
of his Luger catching the man’s face rather than the side of his head. The guard cried out, automatical y reaching for his crushed nose. Lee kicked out from the porch and caught the
man in the midriff, winding him and doubling him over. The
guard righted himself by reaching for Lee’s legs, knocking
him off balance. Lee went with it and rolled into the pathway, 247
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keeping himself above the guard who he struck with an elbow and then another. There was a sharp pain in Lee’s side and he knew that he’ d been stabbed in the hip and he rose above and tried to get at the guard’s arms but then he heard a low growling and saw the dark shape on the edges of his vision. He pushed himself toward the wall and let the guard raise himself and now Lee was prone and the Doberman fixed its jaws around
the man’s shoulder while Lee got out from under him. The dog was still dazed and didn’t notice him crawl away. Only one
of the dogs had woken and Lee got onto his feet and backed
to the wal . The man was shouting as the dog now tugged at
his hands. The dog’s movements weren’t coordinated, and
its legs kept buckling, but the distraction allowed Lee to get behind the man and launch a kick into the back of his head.
The sound was ugly and the dog fell sideways, crawling on its paws beside the unconscious man, looking up at Lee and the
pistol in his hand. It closed its eyes and he stepped around it, continued in the direction the guard had come from.
The front yard was brightly lit. Lee climbed onto the balcony that he knew from the television interview wrapped the front of the house. Bamboo furniture and a barbeque and potted plants.
He could smell the jasmine as he edged across to each window and peered inside. There was nobody visible, and the only
sound was some frogs in a nearby pond and the strumming of
cicadas and laughter from over at the bowling club.
There was nobody by the front door, which was open. It
smelled of a trap, but there was nothing for it. Lee went in low and quiet.
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He moved through the house, looking for the cel ar. The
same smell of polished wood and Brasso. Photographs of
Paxton and Frankie, on holidays in Europe, by the Pisa
and Eiffel towers, on a gondola in Venice. Paxton in three
sets of uniforms within the same picture frame. Young and
handsome, wearing the British para beret, then later in SAS
baggy greens and another in full dress uniform, receiving a medal from Her Majesty.
The door to the cel ar was in the laundry, and it was open.
He could smell the rough limestone wal s, musty and dry, as he aimed his pistol down the stairs. It was semi-dark, lit by a dull globe. All he could see was a wall of bottles. Wine bottles, layered with dust, necks facing out. Shelves laden with whisky and clear spirits in pretty bottles.
‘Come down, young man. We’ve been waiting for you.’
Paxton’s voice was mildly amused. ‘And come down without
your weapon, or your friend will suffer the consequences.’
‘Hurry up, Lee. Let’s get this over with.’ Frankie, sounding bored.
Lee looked around for something to roll down the stairs,
anything to create a diversion and break up the static pattern of bodies waiting for him.
‘We’re waiting,’ Frankie said. ‘Actual y, you know what? I
think we need to hurt her some more.’
There was nothing to hand. Just some powdered bleach and
bars of soap. Shoe polish.
A bottle of methylated spirits. Given time, he could make something of that, but …
Lee heard the unmistakable sound of a cattle prod
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crackling to life. He imagined Emma’s face.
‘Throw your Luger to the foot of the stairs,’ Paxton said, ‘or your friend will be hurt.’
‘Ok. I’m coming down.’
‘Good boy. Place your hands on the railings as you descend.
You move, she dies. There’s no need for you both to suffer.’
It was those last words from Paxton. The certainty behind
the smugness.
Once they killed Lee, there was no chance that they’ d let
Emma live.
‘You let me see her, and I’ll come down.’
‘Throw the Luger. Last chance.’
Lee tossed the Luger down the stairs. It landed on the
bottom step and slid onto the cement floor.
He grabbed a singlet from the clothes basket at his feet.
Twisted off the cap from the metho bottle, thrust half the
rolled singlet inside, tilted it up. When the rag was stained wet he lit it with his lighter, watched the blue flames and black smoke turn over his hand.
He reached for the heavy iron doorstop, shaped into the
form of a Balinese dragon.
‘You know she’s here. There’s no need to see her.’
Lee stood in the doorway and aimed with the doorstop.
Threw it hard into the shelves of spirits and released the
Molotov as he dive-rolled down the stairs, scrabbling for
the Luger and hitting the cement while above him the wal
exploded as the gases in the metho and the shattered spirits met the flame, a searing shockwave that filled the room and 250
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blasted over him. Bullets smacked behind him, dust from the wal s and roiling black smoke filling the room. He lay on his bel y and saw Brad firing into the smoke, fired the Luger into his guts, his chest. Frankie was standing next to her father, a look of black shock on her face, a jagged splinter of glass caught in her throat, the cattle prod hanging in her hands.
Only Paxton was calm, holding the hooded Emma by the
neck and forehead, ready to twist and snap. She was limp in the chair, her hands lolling.
Paxton was unarmed.
Behind him, wine bottles cracked in the heat, dozens of
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