36

‘WHO’S THERE?’ I hissed.

I heard panting, then another pitiful, agonised groan.

‘Jeff Vanderhoek?’

‘Yes?’ His voice was thin, an exhale.

‘Are you okay?’

‘You have to get out. He’ll be back. He always comes back.’

‘I’m stuck, locked in,’ I said. ‘The key’s on the bench. Can you get to it?’

‘I can’t get anywhere.’

I took that in. ‘This is bad.’

Hollow laughter. ‘You think?’

Then the fear receded and I went low, into deep despair. Dead soon. Last thoughts turned to Brophy: that had been good. It had been a fine thing to know that man.

‘Jeff? Peter Brophy told me you saved his life.’

Nothing but rasping groans.

‘He ODd and you called the ambulance.’

Soft murmuring now. ‘Peter. Yeah. Peter. We hit up in the park, on the grass, drifting off. I seen his lips go blue. A lady’s walking her dog and I go ring the ambos or he’ll die.’

I realised I was crying; tears were streaming down my face at any rate.

‘Woman on the phone talked me through it. Mouth-to-mouth, till the ambos got there.’

‘Thank you.’

The outside bolt slid back.

‘Oh, Christ,’ Vanderhoek said.

The door swung open and the lights blinked on. The Turk was standing in the doorway holding my handbag. ‘Your phone’s been ringing. Every time I answer, it’s some ching-chong voice.’

I didn’t know what to say.

‘A messy bitch, aren’t you? I found a fucking apple core in here. Who the fuck puts an old apple core in their handbag?’

‘I couldn’t find a bin.’

He laughed, a mouth so wide I could shove a softball in there.

With the lights on, I scanned the room for Jeff. A pile of canvas drop-sheets was shoved into a space behind the row of motorbikes. It moved.

Karen Carpenter’s sad singing started to echo through the shed. He held up my phone and winked at me, listened until it rang out. ‘No ID. Who could it be?’

Not Brophy then. Maybe Phuong. It started up again.

‘Persistent fucker,’ he said, swiping the screen. ‘Stella Hardy’s boyfriend speaking.’

A pause then he frowned. ‘Wrong number, mate. Can’t understand you.’ He shook his head. ‘That’s a pity — I was going to have a bit of fun. Put out the idea that you and I had run off together.’ He tossed the phone over his shoulder.

‘They use mobiles to track people. They’ll track that call, see it was answered here.’

He upended a milk crate, spilling its contents on the floor, and straddled it. ‘Who’s going to do that? The jacks? I own half of them.’

The detritus from the crate: a wallet, a broad-blade knife in a leather sheath, some keys, a stubby Phillips-head screwdriver, a packet of Tic Tacs, a paperback. I tilted my head, trying to see the title. ‘Is that yours?’ I asked, nodding at the book.

He picked up the knife and pulled it from the sheath. ‘This? A good one, isn’t it? A Bowie knife from the States. There are more regulations in Texas on carrying one of these knives than there are on carrying guns. So that’s a fun place. No doubt about it.’

I’d meant the book, but I let it go.

‘You read shit about gun laws,’ the Turk was saying. ‘Some journalist having a go. Reckons guns are bad. But journalists are worse. Someone’s lost their kid and they shove a camera in their face.’

He went back to my bag and started to pull things out. ‘Old receipts, about ten fucking ballpoint pens, and some lip balm. Why do chicks always have lip balm?’ His face close to mine, liquor on his breath.

‘We don’t like chapped lips, it’s not a mystery.’

‘Got your phone, and some nail clippers, in here.’

I stared at a patch of dried blood at my feet, my eye followed the long smear to the drop-sheets covering Jeff. The movement had stopped for now.

‘So much rubbish.’

What was he looking for? There was nothing … Wait, did I still have Ricky Peck’s letters? Why did I leave them in there? Because I was an idiot.

I heard myself blabbering. ‘Yes, it’s all rubbish, debris, litter basically. Mouldy, rotting biological matter. Probably toxic, probably noxious, poisonous …’

‘Look what I found.’ He held up the letters, acted shocked. ‘Uh oh, these aren’t yours, are they?’

‘I don’t know how they —’

‘You opened them. You always open other people’s mail?’

‘I was going to give them —’

‘Shut up.’ He went to the bench, opened up a box in one furious rip, and went through it. He stopped and lifted his head. I heard it, too, the low whimpering. I glanced at the tarp. The thing was shaking, and then it seemed to fold in on itself.

‘Jeffy. Forgot all about you, mate.’ The Turk rubbed his nose, sniffed. Scratched the back of his neck, seemed to be trying to make up his mind. ‘Yeah. Rightio.’

He opened a draw and took out a pistol, pulled the slide, released it. He went to the bundle of tarp on the floor and kicked the sheet away, exposing Vanderhoek’s bloodied face, bruised torso. ‘Do it,’ Vanderhoek said.

‘Check this out,’ The Turk said to me.

He dropped to one knee and put the gun under Vanderhoek’s chin. ‘This is for Thailand.’

I shut my eyes. The blast rang in my ears. I couldn’t breathe, forgot how. I opened my eyes, and stared resolutely ahead.

The Turk tossed the pistol on the bench. ‘Only nine mil, makes a decent mess but.’

He resumed his rummaging in the box. He held up what looked like an old-fashioned tin of hairspray. In the other hand was a nozzle of some kind. It wasn’t hairspray; it was a butane blowtorch. He tested the firing mechanism on the nozzle. Then he unscrewed the cap on the can and slotted the nozzle over the opening. It hissed, until he twisted the thing and it clicked into place. He adjusted a regulator knob on the back of the nozzle, and I heard more hissing. He pulled the trigger mechanism like a gun and a blue flame jetted out.

‘Oh dear.’ I heard myself say.

He adjusted the flame as he came towards me.

‘Ricky was a serious man. He wasn’t your average criminal. He had ambition. We were going to go big. He was strategic, crunched the numbers. Big numbers. Data sets.’

‘Um. I suppose so.’

‘That’s what he said. Supply and demand. Simple economics.’

‘What are you going to do?’ I nodded to the blowtorch.

He brought the torch to my knee until the denim was smoking.

I breathed hard through clenched teeth, as the tears ran down my face. ‘Please, stop.’

‘What’s that? Does it hurt?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay, have a rest, we got all night.’ He moved the flame to the side.

Deep breaths now, a reprieve. Didn’t last long. He directed the heat to the other knee.

Shallow panting as I counted down in my head. It felt like a long time before he turned the flame away. ‘There, holes in your jeans. Now you’re cool.’ He waited for me to recover myself. ‘Brings a whole new meaning to the term “fashion victim”, doesn’t it?’ he said, chuckling.

I started sobbing.

He frowned and cocked his head. A car coming up the drive. It stopped, right outside the barn. Doors slammed. A man’s low voice, then a woman swearing. I recognised that deep voice, that unique style of cursing. Philomena Enright.

‘Lord and Lady Fuckhead can’t hold their horses.’ The Turk sighed, getting up. ‘Hold this for me.’ He picked up the screwdriver and stabbed my thigh. I screamed as the pain hit. ‘Keep it down, will ya? You’ll upset the neighbours.’ He hurried out, leaving the light on. A second later, the bolt slid shut.