The blindfold was tied tight, a nip of pain in her scalp where the knot tugged at her hair. The crunch and crackle of the tyres told her they had turned onto a dirt road; she guessed they’d been driving for about forty minutes. The phone chafed under her breast and she could smell Brose, beery, salty.
She lurched sideways as they took another right. Were they speeding, or was it just her inability to anticipate the corner?
She decided to try her luck with a question. ‘Where’s Clancy?’
‘Did I say you could speak?’ Ambrose snapped. They sat in silence again for a moment. Then he sneered, enjoying the power or just bored, and said, ‘You’ll see him soon enough. We’re bringing you two together for a brief reunion…brief but poignant.’
‘What have you done to him?’
‘Ha, I wouldn’t touch a hair on his pretty little black head. No, no, that’s a job I’m saving for you. A new experience for you, I should think.’
She flinched, her tongue wedged tight against her throat. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Oh, never mind, never mind, just enjoy the ride, princess.’
They hit a pothole with a fierce jolt.
‘Jesus Christ, Hardy,’ Brose yelled, ‘are you blind? I could see that crater a mile off.’
‘Yeah, yeah, keep your pants on, Grandma,’ came the voice from the driver’s seat. ‘Why don’t you have a little nanna nap?’
Brose swore under his breath. ‘All around me, fucking everywhere, useless fuckwits.’
She stared ahead into the blackness of her blindfold, clutched the seat as they rounded another bend.
They’d spent over half an hour parked near a shopping centre, Hardy getting some sort of supplies. Brose had sat there with her in the van the whole time, and the windows were such a dark tint that nobody could have seen in without pressing their face against the glass.
When Hardy had returned they’d driven through the town and taken a series of turns until she had no idea if she was facing north, south, east or west. She’d felt the car straighten, speed up—a highway. Then a right-hand turn onto the dirt road they were on now. She wondered if Rowan could see her? A blip on his phone screen?
She imagined the gun in Brose’s lap, his hand resting on the grip. It had sent a shiver across her neck. She was glad she couldn’t see. She knew nothing about violent men. Was there a line between cigarette burns and murder? A line that even a man like Brose wouldn’t cross? She wanted it to be so and her mind grabbed hold of the idea, but with every bend in the road a cold blast of fear would usher in the opposite proposition—that Brose was simply a cold-blooded killer.
She tried to concentrate, memorising important details, about the car, the two men. She tried to calculate Rowan’s progress, how far he’d have travelled by now, how far away he was still. He must be at least forty-five minutes behind them, she thought. She heard a click from the dashboard in front, then music—unexpectedly gentle. John Denver. The singing seemed distant at first, as she went over and over the maths, then it slowly crept into her consciousness—a soft, honeyed voice. Brose, singing ‘Sweet Surrender’.
It was like listening to the devil.
Hardy turned the music off. They had started into another windy stretch and he was throwing the van around the bends again.
‘Hey, could we slow down?’ said Clem. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’
She was starting to feel queasy, but she also wanted to buy time, give Rowan a chance to catch up.
‘Cool it, Hardy. You don’t want to be cleaning up last night’s carrots,’ Brose said.
After a while she tried another question. ‘Can you tell me what this is about?’ She could feel his eyes on her face. ‘Why would Gerard be doing this? All of this over a promotion?’
He snorted. ‘So much you don’t understand, princess. I’ll tell you one thing, though…I finally got the boss to agree with me. The stupid cow can’t save him now.’
‘Who? Bernadette, you mean? Is Gerard the boss?’
Brose laughed. ‘Oh, now that’s fucking hilarious.’
‘Explain it to me,’ she demanded.
‘Well, I could, I suppose. It must be killing you. But I’m afraid it’s a rule of mine not to get ahead of myself. I’m very good at what I do, princess.’ There was a long pause. She heard rocks crunching and flying up from under the tyres, a blustery wind buffeting the car.
Then she felt his hot breath on her face as he leaned forward. ‘Maybe I’ll tell you when you’ve dug a big hole for you and your black boyfriend to lay down in. That would be a good time, I think. I’d like to see you satisfied’—he breathed another breath on her face—‘completely in the know before Hardy shovels the dirt over you.’
As they started to climb, the van slowed. It had taken her a while to stop shaking, but the one thought she clung to was that Clancy was still alive. She counted the bends as they wound up a hill. Nine so far, tight, some of them hairpins. A waft of cigarette smoke made its way into the back.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Hardy, no smoking in the vehicles. How many times do I have to tell you?’
‘Come on, Macca, just a quick puff. I noticed you snuck one in back there at the terminal.’
‘I said put it out, Hardy.’
‘Aw, come on, Grandma. Here, I’ll put the window down.’
Clem heard the squeal of the leather seat as Brose jumped forward out of his seat, his shoulder brushing hers as he shouted into Hardy’s ear, inches from her own, ‘Put the fucking thing out now!’
‘Righto, boss, keep your shirt on.’ She heard Hardy suck in one more breath, then a blast of outside air as he opened his window. It was cool and moist and it whipped around the cabin in a frenzy. Brose sat back in his seat and Hardy put the window back up.
They drove in silence. Where were they? Was Rowan tracking her? Even if he was, he was a long way behind. She tried doing the sums in her head again. He seemed to be speeding based on his last update. Thirty minutes behind, forty perhaps? She was no longer confident in the maths, racked her brain for ways to stall. The more time she could burn up, the closer he’d come to catching up. Think, girl, think. She couldn’t come up with anything better—it would have to do.
She mulled it over for another minute, then cleared her throat. ‘Excuse me, but I need to go to the toilet,’ she said, her voice faltering.
‘Ah, princess, I’m sorry, but you’re just going to have to hold it in. We’ll be there in twenty minutes,’ said Brose.
She crossed her legs, jiggled her foot. The road had straightened and flattened out. They were no longer driving uphill. She could hear bellbirds and parrots. Forest. Elevated, in a mountain area on a dirt road.
She waited for a couple of minutes. ‘I’m very sorry, but I don’t think I can wait.’
‘Oh, bloody hell. Typical woman. Hardy, pull over when you can—princess needs to go behind a bush,’ said Brose.
Oh, shit, she thought, that won’t do. ‘Ah, no, sorry—I’m afraid I need an actual toilet.’
‘We won’t look, princess, I promise,’ said Brose.
‘No, no, it’s not that…it’s, ah…it’s that time of the month,’ she lied. ‘Things are going to get messy.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, that’s disgusting,’ said Brose. She heard Hardy let out a groan in the front seat.
‘When’s the next servo, Hardy?’ said Brose.
‘Not far. Maybe five kays.’
They rattled on in silence, then she heard the tick of the indicator, felt the van slow, a small bump—the lip of a driveway.
‘Toilet’s over there,’ said Brose. ‘Pull up in front of it so’s you can’t see anything from the shop.’ The van slowed, came to a stop. ‘Go and get the key, Hardy.’ She heard the driver’s door open. ‘And leave the engine running—it’s cold out there.’
A township in the mountains with a service station. That’s got to be reasonably rare.
They waited. The shop must be some distance away, she thought. The sliding door rolled open.
‘All clear?’ asked Brose.
‘Yep. Van’s blocking his view and he’s trying to fix the fridge anyway,’ said Hardy.
‘Okay, princess, I’m going to help you out, and you are going to do exactly, and I mean exactly, what I tell you, right?’
She nodded.
‘In and out, do what you have to do and back in the van. No talking, no yelling, no screaming—not a sound, or you won’t be seeing your black boyfriend again. You got that, princess?’
She nodded again.
She heard Brose get out of his seat, felt his hand on hers. ‘Out you come, easy does it.’ She shuffled forward, letting him guide her. His fingers were rough but surprisingly gentle. She imagined him a surgical killer, his honeyed voice singing John Denver as he sliced. It sent a tremor through her body.
He grabbed her other hand. ‘Big step now.’
She took a step down, onto the running board.
‘Another one.’
She took another step down, onto the ground. The fresh mountain air filled her lungs. The wind was blowing strong, flapping at her jeans. She heard it whine, heard the clatter and rattle of branches and leaves, the swoosh of something softer—fern fronds, perhaps. Were they in a rainforest?
She heard the click of a key in a lock and the squeak of a heavy door, smelled the overpowering odour of one of those old-fashioned deodorant blocks. Brose untied the blindfold, whipped it away and pushed her forward. She looked over her shoulder, catching a brief glimpse of thick bush on a steep slope behind him as he pulled the door shut after her.
There she was standing in the cubicle, on her own, the wind drowning out the quiet sob of relief that collapsed from her mouth.
She slid the bolt across.
‘Hey, keep the door unlocked,’ Brose shouted.
She stood there, groping under her bra for the phone.
‘I said, unlock the door.’
With the heavy door between them and the blindfold gone, Clem felt a surge of defiance. ‘The door won’t stay shut without the bolt,’ she yelled. ‘And I assure you, Brose, you do not want to see this.’ Using his name out loud gave her a sudden thrill of power.
The phone peeled away from her left breast, leaving a stinging strip of raw skin. Time 12.35 pm. No calls or texts. Rowan must have known it would be dangerous to contact her.
She pulled out the folded piece of toilet paper with the phone numbers from her sock, her heart thumping. The wind was howling like a banshee now, branches bashing and scraping against the corrugated iron of the toilet roof. She hoped it was enough to cover the sound of her voice. She rang Rowan’s number.
He picked up straightaway. ‘Clem?’
‘Shhhh,’ she whispered.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked.
‘Yes, for now. I’m in a black Mitsubishi Delica van, tinted windows, two men—Ambrose Macpherson from the Earlville tattoo parlour and a bloke called Hardy. Brose has a gun. I’m in the toilet at a servo. They’re taking me to Clancy. Can you see where I am?’
‘You’re a blip on the screen and it’s jumping all over the shop. Must be poor mobile range. Right now you’re showing up at Dunberry. It’s up in the ranges near the Arkuna National Park. I’m about twenty minutes behind you.’
Her breath came out in a rush. She was not alone. She wanted to cry.
‘Clem, this app only works while your phone’s on. How much charge do you have?’
Oh God, she hadn’t even thought of that. She took the phone from her ear, checked the indicator in the corner.
Her voice was trembling now. ‘One bar, flashing amber. Shit, Rowan, please hurry.’
‘I’m right behind you, Clem. I’ve got you covered.’
‘They’re killers, Rowan,’ she whispered.
‘Hang in there—don’t do anything crazy. Just do whatever they say. I’m calling the police, they’ll be on their way, hang on.’
A fist pounded on the door. ‘Hurry up in there! We haven’t got all day.’
She clicked the phone off and tucked it back into her bra, under her right breast this time, her hands shaking, fumbling with the buttons on her shirt. Then she sat there, silent, breathing as steadily as she could. She needed to play for more time, give Rowan the chance to catch up.
‘Okay, princess, I’m officially all out of patience. Bring the angle grinder, Hardy.’
She sat back down and began counting off the seconds in her head, trying to keep track of how much time she could soak up. There was a patch of damp on the pockmarked concrete floor and the heavy wooden door hung crooked from its rusted hinges, weighted down by decades of graffiti. She read the initials framed by love hearts—some barely scratched through the flaking paint, others carved deep into the timber—then the curses and insults and phone numbers scrawled in thick black felt-tip pen.
She briefly considered running to the service station attendant when the door opened, but it didn’t serve her purpose—she needed Brose to take her to Clancy. A rescue mid-journey would not assist. Besides, she now fully expected that, if the attendant asked any questions, they would just kill him as well. Although her mind tried to push the thought away, it appeared they must be travelling somewhere remote where Brose felt it was safe to dispose of bodies.
She tried not to think about it, focused on the seconds ticking by, each one a priceless gift. Her battery might die, there might be no mobile reception, Rowan might trace the phone but arrive too late. Stall, Jones. Stall.
She’d been sitting in silence about three minutes, perhaps a little longer, when she heard Brose swear.
‘Hurry up, Hardy,’ Brose called out. ‘What’s taking you so long?’
‘Fuckin’ thing’s underneath the friggin’ spare tyre,’ yelled Hardy from the van.
‘Come on, princess, you’re just wasting our time now. Out you come,’ said Brose.
She stalled some more, counting off the seconds, made it to three and a half minutes, heard the rear door of the van slam shut, footsteps.
‘Gunna make a bit of noise, boss. Think old mate might hear?’
‘Give it to me. Go and tell him we’re cutting a bit of pipe in the van or something,’ said Brose.
She heard Hardy’s footsteps fade. Should she come out before Brose started the machine? She didn’t want the service station attendant rushing out and putting himself in danger. She waited a moment longer.
‘Right, bitch. Here it comes. Get your fingers ready—I’m gunna take one of them too when I’m finished on the door,’ said Brose.
‘Okay, okay, I’m coming out,’ she cried.
‘You fuckin’ little tease. I’ve had just about enough of you. Get out. Now!’
She checked the phone under her breast, pulled the chain to flush the toilet, slid the bolt back and pushed open the door.
Brose was waiting, grabbed her wrists, crossed them behind her back and slipped a cable tie around. She winced as he pulled it tight. They’d parked the Delica as a barrier between the shop and the toilet. The service station attendant wouldn’t have seen a thing.
‘That’s what bad girls get for being a bloody nuisance,’ Brose snarled as he tied the blindfold. He spun her around, nudged the gun into her spine again and pushed her forward three steps, then up into the van. Then he slammed her ankles together, bound them in cable ties too.
She had only saved a grand total of about five minutes all up. Hardy arrived back and the van took off abruptly. She nearly toppled off the seat. The cable ties around her wrists and ankles dug in as she lurched forward. She was tied up like a mud crab waiting for the pot, and with the blindfold back on, all the strength and defiance of her brief minutes of freedom drained away.
She couldn’t give up, though—she had to buy more time. An idea entered her head. There was no time to think it through, but she had to give it a shot. Suddenly, she allowed her whole body to go limp, pretending to faint, slumping forward and pushing off with one foot—it only took the slightest touch to propel her body down and towards the sliding door. She rolled her shoulders and then braced for the impact. Her head slammed against the door with a hollow thud then speared down into the foot well.
‘Holy shit! Stop the car, Hardy,’ Brose yelled. ‘She’s bloody fainted or something. Fuck.’ She felt his hands trying to haul her up. ‘Come round and open the door, she’s bloody stuck upside down here,’ he said to Hardy. She felt the doorhandle engage and the sliding door open with a rush. She made sure she tumbled down onto the concrete headfirst, hitting the ground with a crack, pain shooting through her skull.
‘Shit a brick, Hardy, I said slow!’ Brose was out in a moment, positioning himself between Clementine and the service station shop. ‘Oh, you fucking moron, Hardy, you absolute fucking moron.’
She felt his hands rolling her over. The blindfold had slipped, but she kept her eyes closed. Something warm on her wrist? Blood from the twist and cut of the cable ties.
‘Quick, get the blindfold off before the guy in there sees anything,’ said Brose. ‘Hurry up, he’s coming out.’ She felt his hands on her wrists, then a cold metal blade, and suddenly her hands were free. She felt the blade against her ankles, the cable tie ping open, and let her feet fall away, limp.
‘Are you right there?’ The voice came from about ten metres away. She allowed her eyes to flutter open and then roll sideways in a daze.
‘Yeah, mate. I reckon she just fainted, that’s all.’ Brose was kneeling in front of her. ‘Are you okay, sweetheart?’ he asked with sickening concern. She desperately wanted to scream out to the attendant and rush into his arms. She couldn’t put him in danger, couldn’t abandon Clancy. She stayed silent, her head throbbing so hard it felt like a hammer inside.
‘Where am I?’ she said, rolling her eyes back the other way and staring blankly. The guy was tall and scrawny, somewhere around thirty or forty.
‘You’re at the Caltex servo in Dunberry, love,’ he said, helpfully.
Dunberry. The app was working! Rowan’s on his way. Stall, Jones, stall.
‘Maybe I should get her something to drink,’ the attendant suggested.
Before Brose could intervene, she groaned, ‘Oh, yes, please—could you?’
‘No worries,’ said the attendant. ‘You boys want anything?’
‘No, all good—thanks, mate. Much appreciated,’ said Brose.
The attendant turned and headed back to the shop.
When he was out of earshot, Brose leaned in close. ‘You fucking bitch. You’re going to pay for that.’ His face was an inch from hers, his eyes flashing. ‘You say a word to this bloke and I’ll slit your throat and his before you can blink.’ He brought the point of his knife up to her face. She gulped, her mouth dry.
‘We should go, Macca, before this joker comes back out.’
‘Then he’ll definitely know something’s up, you fucking dipshit. Just chill.’
Hardy leaned up against the van as Brose wiped the blood from Clementine’s wrist with the sleeve of his jacket. ‘You see this, princess? This blood? There’ll be a lot more of it, my girl, a lot more when I’m finished with you—and the more you fuck me around, the longer I’ll draw it out. Oh yes, darlin’, I’m an expert in making things last, and not just pain, either.’ He was leering, mouth open, a string of saliva spanning the gap between his teeth. She felt a wave of dread. Sheer dread like she’d never felt before.
‘Now, get the fuck back in the van and keep your mouth shut until the guy gets back.’
She pushed herself up slowly and got back in the van. Brose stood with his legs wide apart and his hands on his hips, eyes toward the shop, Hardy watching her closely.
They waited, perhaps two minutes. ‘What the fuck is this bloke doing, making cocktails or something?’ said Brose. ‘Go in and see what’s going on,’ he told Hardy. ‘And make sure he’s not making any phone calls.’
The sun was high and the wind was beginning to drop. She closed her eyes for a moment, preparing herself for whatever came next. The smell of petrol and eucalyptus wafted into the van. As the minutes passed, she imagined Rowan racing towards her. More than ten minutes saved overall, she estimated, maybe fifteen. Oh God, please come quick.
Hardy appeared in the shop doorway, holding the door open for the attendant. They came to the van.
‘Here you go, love,’ said the attendant. ‘A coffee and some chocolate, and two more coffees for you fellas. Sorry for the wait. Bloody fridge’s been on the blink. Milk was off. All of it! Had to go up to the house for another bottle. Oh, and Mum told me you should drink this first, love.’ He thrust a plastic mug at her. ‘Hot apple cider vinegar and honey—supposed to be good for fainting.’
‘Tell your mum thanks,’ Clem croaked.
She looked straight at the attendant as she reached out for the cup, making sure the red welt on her wrist was visible, drawing his eyes to hers, then widening them, twice, like flashing headlights. She saw him cock his head slightly. He glanced across at Brose, then back to her. She was sure he had registered her signal. Fear, danger. She was sure he had seen it.
‘Thanks, mate,’ said Brose, leaning forward across Clementine. ‘Here take some money for this lot,’ and he held out two twenty-dollar notes.
‘Nah, no charge, buddy,’ said the attendant, a hint of nervousness in his voice.
Hardy slammed the sliding door shut behind Brose and went around to the driver’s seat. The van rolled forward to the exit. She could see the attendant watching the car leave. She’d hoped he’d seen enough. Ring the police, man. Tell them which way we went. Please, God.
They drove another fifteen minutes. She wondered if the battery on her phone had died. Her thoughts drifted to the semi-final. It would be only an hour or so before the opening siren. She imagined Sellingham gathering the team in a pre-match huddle, firing them up, the crowd shifting in anticipation, the umpire blowing his whistle, striding forward and slamming the ball into the turf for the first bounce. Torrens would be muscling up in the ruck, eyes up, body on body, leveraging his bulk like she’d shown him when she realised he couldn’t jump to save himself.
She closed her eyes behind the blindfold, sent up a little prayer. Good luck to each of you, all my guys. Her heart was heavy like a stone.
Her hands felt swollen, the blood pooling beyond the edges of the electrical tape. Brose had been furious with Hardy for not bringing more cable ties. Humiliated, Hardy had bound the tape tighter and tighter around her wrists.
The van was slowing, stopping. Hardy’s door opened; she heard his footsteps crunching, then the squeak of a gate swinging open. That was when she felt it, the vibration beneath her breast, and then, an instant later, the unmistakable sound of a ringtone. Poker Boy’s ringtone.
Her mouth dropped. The volume switch must have been nudged during the scuffle, or maybe when she fell out of the van. Maybe she’d inadvertently pressed it on in the toilet cubicle.
‘What the fuck?’ Brose bellowed. ‘Is that a phone? Oh, for fuck’s sake.’ She felt his hands shoving her down on the seat, patting her sides, groping her crotch, lifting her jumper. ‘You stupid fucking bitch,’ he snarled, ripping the phone out from under her breast and cracking her across the face with the back of his hand, knuckles crashing into her jaw, throwing her sideways onto the seat.