37

BLOOD SEEPED around the screwdriver in my leg. The sharp pain replaced by an enervating ache arriving in waves like light through fog. I knew I had to get out, but mentally I was a mess, I couldn’t think. The gun on the bench? Impossible to get to.

Outside, The Turk, Enright, and another male voice — hostile, shouting.

Male: ‘Don’t fuck me around.’

The Turk, soothing: ‘Forget it, mate. The plan’s dead. It died with Ricky.’

Male: ‘No fucking way. We go on. I didn’t come this far —’

Turk: ‘Mate, we don’t even know where he stashed it all.’

Male: ‘It’s in the house.’

Turk: ‘Cops didn’t find shit. Ergo, shit ain’t there.’

Josie Enright: ‘Jacks don’t know where to look. It’s there.’

Turk: ‘Mate, okay. Say it’s there. We can’t just rock up, cops all over the joint.’

Male: ‘We thought so too, but I went up there, had a look around. Cops’ve gone.’

Turk: ‘Maybe not. Plain clothes in an unmarked car. Just a few days. Two days.’

The other voice was probably Ox Gorman.

Josie: ‘What about that problem?’

Turk: ‘Sorted. She’s in there and she’s not coming out. Relax, both of youse. Jeez, youse are uptight. Have a drink. I’ve got bourbon, vodka. Come in and calm down.’

Not coming out.

I sat there, dumbfounded. For how long, I don’t know. I just stared at nothing. Then I realised I was actually looking at the blowtorch. It took me another moment to comprehend that, possibly, it was within reach. I got low to the ground and extended both feet. Searing pain up my leg for my trouble. I tried again, sliding both legs out until I could hook the top of it with a big toe. I pulled it in but lost purchase. Legs out, my toe hooked the nozzle. Again I drew the can closer and again it slipped. But it was closer. My toe hooked it, and I drew my legs in. Close enough. I twisted around and felt behind me with my bound hands. Something smooth and cold, wrong end. I ran my hand to the top, but I was slippery with sweat. A finger touched the nozzle. I had it. I couldn’t see what I was doing, but I had it.

I felt around the mechanism, trying to find the regulator handle. The cable ties were tight around my wrists, and my fingers struggled to grip the nozzle. I manoeuvred it around until I could put my thumb and index finger on the regulator. Griping, turning, until I heard the magnificent hiss of gas. I moved to the handle and put a finger to the trigger. A click and the gas ignited.

I attempted to keep the trigger down, while holding the torch in the general area of the cable tie around my wrists. Without seeing what I was doing I couldn’t aim with any control. I was frying my own hands and after a short burst I had to have a break. I released the trigger but the torch stayed on, the mechanism was stuck. Now I could hold the nozzle at the top and direct the flame at the small gap between my wrists. Something burned — mostly me — and I stopped several times when the scorching became intolerable, but I smelled burning plastic, too. I held it there for as long as I could stand it. Then I dropped the can, pulled my arms hard apart, stretching the cable tie until it broke.

My hands were free. I wrapped my fingers tightly around the screwdriver handle, took a deep breath and dragged the thing out of my thigh. I took off my shirt and wrapped it round the wound.

Then I picked up the knife and cut the tie around my ankles.

The still-burning blowtorch had rolled to the side, and flame now lapped the concrete floor near the paperback book. I tried to kick the blowtorch away with my good leg, and sent it skittering away towards the motorbikes.

I stood, fell over, and hauled myself up against the stool. I searched the floor for my phone. It was lying near Jeff Vanderhoek’s body. I hobbled over, pulled the coverings over him, my head turned away. The phone screen was mostly intact, but the battery was low. I hit the keypad to call triple zero. It vibrated, a death rattle, and died trying.

I shoved it in my pocket and saw the blowtorch was burning close to an oil stain on the concrete. A second later the oil ignited into hot orange vapour. The flames spread along the floor to the motorbikes.

I wanted to run, but my right leg could take no weight. I hopped to the wall and used it for support.

Smoke poured from the nearest bike. There was no boom — more of a woof — as it was consumed. Rivers of flame were running on the oil leaks and petrol spills that covered the barn floor. I hauled myself along with the posts on the wall, headed for the double doors at the freezer end of the barn. These doors faced away from the Turk’s house, and if I could get them open I might be able to sneak away before they saw the fire and came looking for me.

I heard another woof and turned to see the other motorbike engulfed. Then it exploded. Pieces of metal flew, a cloud of heat followed. The air was now thick with smoke.

I made it to the doors. The deadbolt was locked. I tried to remember if he’d left the keys on the bench. I slumped to the floor, intending to crawl there. I was better off on the ground anyway. Fire had consumed the last of the motorbikes, and to my horror, it crept towards Jeff’s body. I limped to the bench, and hunted through the mess for a weapon. I had the knife, but I needed more. Then I heard the outside bolt slide back once more.