Torrens said he couldn’t think if he didn’t eat something. He made himself some toast while she kept an eye on the street. Now that she knew Membrey was there, she couldn’t take her eyes away. She and Torrens discussed the situation. She’d given the mayor a deadline—a name by today or else she’d talk to the press. If Fullerton was behind Helen’s death, Torrens was certain Jackson would have received instructions to dispose of her before that deadline came around. Membrey, on the other hand, needed Torrens alive, at least until he got his hands on the money.
They brainstormed ideas. The element of surprise seemed to be their best weapon but as they sketched out a plan, Clem just couldn’t see it working, too many things that could go wrong, and the clincher: they were up against armed men. She kept coming back to it, Torrens trying to reassure her, the discussion getting more and more heated.
‘Listen to what I’m saying: I’ve got it covered. All right?’ said Torrens, thumping the chair with frustration.
‘Yeah well it won’t be bloody all right when we’re lying on the ground, with…’
‘Farkenhell, will you let it go, Jonesy!’ he shouted over the top of her.
‘…holes through our heads,’ she shouted, louder.
‘For fuck’s sake, Jonesy. Here. Here it is.’ He reached around to the back of his shorts under the baggy black AC/DC T-shirt, a wildness in his eyes. ‘This is why it will be fucking all right.’ She watched as his hand emerged.
A gun. Short. Squarish. Black.
Clem’s jaw dropped, waves of disbelief rippling across her face. ‘A gun? A freaking gun. Here in this house.’
Torrens was already shoving the thing back in his pants.
‘And you didn’t think to mention it?’
‘Yeah right. I’m gunna ask your permission. Get real, Jonesy. Sinbin’s stash is hot property. So just relax, everything’s going to be fine…no one’s gunna have a hole in them except the Snout.’
‘But you can’t just shoot someone,’ she spluttered. ‘And not here. I’m bloody house-sitting for Noel—looking after the place, for Christ’s sake, and you’re planning a fucking shootout in the kitchen!’
Torrens proceeded to ignore her, making a start on the preparations for the plan they’d discussed.
‘You gunna help or what?’ he said, glancing at her over his shoulder.
‘Jesus Christ, Torrens.’
He kept working. She sighed a long, bewildered breath, shook her head. What could she do? She couldn’t stop him. She couldn’t make him leave, walk out into Membrey’s sights. She watched him for a moment longer then took a step in front of him, forcing him to stop and pay attention.
‘Okay. Here’s the thing. I don’t approve of guns, okay? I hate guns. And once this is over, I never want to see one anywhere near me or my house or my car or my dog or any bloody thing close to me. Right?’
They stood, squared off and bristling. ‘Suits me,’ he said, and there was an awkward pause, their eyes locked on each other defiantly, before he stepped around her and got on with the preparations.
They worked in silence in the lounge room for a while before Clem spoke again. ‘So where have you hidden the money, then?’
‘As if I’d tell you,’ he muttered under his breath.
He didn’t trust her. It hurt. He noticed.
‘Look, if Membrey gets hold of you it’s best you don’t know,’ he added.
She watched him leave the room. God, he was still making an effort to be kind. She didn’t deserve anything from him, least of all trust. And the fact remained, she was not returning to Katinga.
She couldn’t bear it—him not knowing, still hoping. He had come clean on the gun—it was her turn. Staying silent was a lie in itself.
She followed him into the kitchen. The gulls were still wheeling and screaming over the rising tide and the smell of the sea pungent through the open back door.
‘Torrens.’
‘Yeah,’ he said, sitting at the table, polishing off the last of the toast.
‘I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to Melbourne.’
He stared at the table, swallowed the last mouthful, got up abruptly and threw his plate in the sink with a crash.