35

THE TURK walked about picking up, inspecting, and rejecting items as he went. From a pile of junk and sundry mechanical spare parts, he picked up a chain. ‘Are you au fait with the laws of physics?’ The Turk juggled the weight of the chain between his hands. ‘For every action there is a reaction. Consequences.’

I wasn’t well versed in the laws of physics. But I was au fait with other subjects. The facts before me — being kidnapped, imprisoned — meant I was about to be terminated. But some part of me considered this preposterous. It was inconceivable that criminal bikie gangs would kill a nobody like me. Let alone risk the investigation, the scrutiny that would surely follow.

But this man didn’t care about being investigated.

I didn’t speak, in case he put a gag on me, but I had a few thoughts on the way he was wielding the chain. So far, I was holding up well. I breathed in shallow puffs. I hadn’t screamed at him to turn off the Human League. I was saving my energy.

He came close and held up his fist. I flinched, and he sniggered. ‘Bit jumpy. I was only going to show you me watch.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Let’s see.’

The sleeve pulled back and jangled a chunky monstrosity. ‘Eighteen-carat pink gold.’

‘It’s very nice.’

‘Cartier. Got it in the States. Worth ten grand.’

It was ugly and a stupid waste of money. What kind of psychopath tells you how much their watch is worth? He grinned in my face. He had what romance books called a generous mouth, gaps between his teeth. Flossing should have been a breeze, but he had bits of meat in there. That foul maw had halitosis that could strip paint.

‘You blithely enter a bikie’s house.’ He grinned, as though he was in fact delighted that I had.

Blithely? The man had an interesting turn of phrase; a well-read psychopath. I turned away to avoid his breath, noted the discarded boxes near my feet, Detroit Ammunition Company, 9mm cartridges. A gun must be somewhere around here. More than one.

‘What did you think would happen?’

‘It’s all an innocent mistake. I was selling Avon. Got the address wrong,’ I said.

The Turk chortled. ‘Josie tells a different story.’

Enright. She’d set me up.

‘We’re violent people. Didn’t you know that? We trade in genuine harm.’

‘I … you do? Okay. Sorry to bother you. I’ll just go now.’

‘What’s the problem? You like violence, don’t you? On TV?’

‘Sometimes I do.’

‘Of course you do. Everyone does. But real life is different. You act like violence doesn’t exist.’ He was getting annoyed. ‘Here’s a news flash. This country’s built on it. Violence gets the job done, gets the juices flowing. We love to hurt cunts.’

He tossed the chain away, took off the jacket, unbuttoned his cuffs, and rolled up his sleeves. Forearm muscles like undersea cable. The man found the time to work out. And to read. Pina Coladas? Walking in the rain? Look out, ladies.

‘We lost a great man, recently.’

This caught me off-guard. ‘Who?’

‘Ricky-fucking-Peck. Sick cunt, full of ideas, loved life. A true Corpse Flower.’

‘Yes. His funeral was on TV, lots of people. He was a popular man.’

‘He was. Sent off with full honours.’ He opened a drawer and rummaged through the contents. He returned with a police-issue extendable baton and extended it.

‘Now.’ He tapped the palm of his hand with the baton. ‘The jacks say it was an accident. But I don’t believe it. I’ll tell you why. That house, where Ricky died, that was a hydroponic set up. Full of dope, right? The man loved life, but for some reason he gets pissed and takes a bath in a house full of hippy lettuce?’

‘That sounds … unlikely.’

‘Good answer.’ He pointed at me ‘Now, what I want to know is, who killed him.’

‘Please don’t hurt me. I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Why would I?’

He ran the baton over his chin stubble. ‘Because of your interest in Mortimer. Guess who didn’t go to the funeral?’

‘Um … Mortimer?’

‘Give the girl a lollypop.’ Tap, tap, tap. ‘Ricky gets done, Mortimer runs off the next day. It might be a coincidence. But I need to know. You’re his mate, you know he’s connected.’

‘I’ve never even met Mortimer!’

‘You told Josie Enright he owes you money. So you’re cosy.’

‘I lied to her.’ I couldn’t have been more stupid in my approach to Enright.

‘Who killed Ricky?’ This time, he whipped the baton into his hand.

‘I don’t know! He was drunk, maybe it was an accident. More accidents happen —’

The crack, like lightning across my cheek, knocked me off the stool. My bound hands and feet couldn’t cushion my fall, I landed hard on my shoulder.

‘Ricky never got drunk,’ he said. ‘No accident.’

‘No way,’ I said, gasping, trying to get up. ‘He was murdered.’

‘By?’

I struggled to my knees. ‘By that bastard Mortimer.’

‘Well done. And where is he now?’

‘I don’t know, and I wish I’d never heard of him. Please, can I go home? Please?’

‘Nah, not yet.’

He took hold of the cable-tie at my wrists and dragged me to the wall. There was a chain attached to a bracket about a metre off the ground. He dragged my arms back, hooked the chain through my wrists. I had to kneel to relieve the pull of my weight on my arms. The floor around me was smeared with brown stains.

The Turk snapped a padlock over the chain and tossed the key on the bench. He touched his phone and the Human League stopped.

‘Got a few things to take care of. Take it easy, and I’ll see you in a bit.’

To my surprise and relief, he headed for the door. He hit the light on the way out, and I was in total darkness. The bolt slid shut outside.

I shifted, trying to get the pressure off my wrists. I found if I twisted my body to the side, my shoulder against the wall, I could let my weight fall. It was an improvement. My head dropped forward to rest on a wall bracket that jutted beside me. I tried to breathe, to think, but I was filled with too much angry static to think. One thing was clear — I was doomed.

At least the Human League had ceased. The place was quiet.

Then somewhere in the darkness, I heard a low groan.