31

CRAIG TOLHURST’S NEXT shot whanged off the chain ring as Garrett reached for his handlebars, and the third chipped the old wooden gate, so he dropped the bike and ran into the laneway. Scooted to the end, weaving, half-crouched, over the tricky cobblestones, as one last shot hummed past his ear and then he was flicking left, down a short side street.

I knew the guy looked pretty handy, he thought. Melodie should’ve listened to me.

As he ran, Garrett thought it through. Tolhurst had found his address in Melodie’s office, or she’d given it up before he shot her. And gaining access to the boarding house would have been easy—just knock on the front door with a convincing story. One of the other boarders—maybe even Mr Saggio—would have told him the room number, it was that kind of place. Or even said, ‘His bike’s not here but his car’s still out the front. He’ll probably be back soon, if you’d like to wait.’

And Tolhurst had waited—probably on the licheny old garden chair beside the hot water service. Perhaps by then he’d stopped caring about witnesses. He’d lost his son; been ripped off to the tune of a hundred grand. He’d simply get his revenge and accept the consequences.

But he’d found Melodie and he’d obtained a pistol—and someone happy to supply him with a pistol might be happy to help him in other ways, too. Keep watch, for example. Drive him away afterwards.

Minutes passed. No sirens. Maybe there wouldn’t be: Tolhurst had shot at him with what looked like a little .22 target pistol; not very loud. And the people in the neighbourhood of the boarding house mostly liked to keep to themselves.

Garrett made a loop around the suburb, trotting for fifty paces, walking for fifty, careful not to attract attention by running flat out but covering ground quickly and conserving energy, his senses alert. Vehicles coming in from behind; the body language of pedestrians. Was anyone unduly interested in him? Walking as if concealing a weapon? Too nonchalant? Turning away too abruptly to sniff a rosebush?

But nothing happened. This was a suburb of grand old residences become specialists’ rooms or fading behind thick hedges. Life along the broad streets was unhurried, the sun was lazy overhead, the air was still. A taxi searching for an address. A tradie’s ute with Lady Gaga blaring. A woman in jodhpurs walking a dog. A young father saying, ‘Come on, buddy,’ to a toddler crouched to inspect an ant. An old man rugged up on a veranda.

Garrett approached his Mazda from the top end of Studland Street and realised that his sleeve felt wet, his upper arm hurt and his hand when he lifted it was dripping blood. He blinked; shook all of his adrenaline-blunted senses back into action. If he’d not recoiled from the smoke in Mr Saggio’s incinerator, if he’d not jerked to his left, the bullet might have gone into his heart instead of his arm.

He felt dizzy. Sat abruptly on the kerb. But he couldn’t stay there, dripping blood. Someone would notice. Say something like, ‘You’re bleeding,’ or, half-jokingly, ‘Who shot you?’

Garrett removed the hi-vis jacket and rolled the sleeve of his T-shirt up over his shoulder, craning to view the damage. He poked gingerly. A shallow groove, not a hole. Oozing blood, though.

Get in the car, he thought. Drive away—leave Adelaide and don’t come back. He mentally scanned the belongings in his room: just clothes and toiletries, easily replaced. But he couldn’t leave the laptop behind. If Melodie’s murder or reports of shots fired brought the cops to Mr Saggio’s house, they’d have a long, hard look at that.

Still no sirens. Garrett risked getting to his feet, swayed a little, and then, with his bloody hand in his pocket and his good hand across his chest to clasp and hide the bloodied sleeve, began to close in on the boarding house across the street.

He froze. Ducked behind a Golf belonging to one of the boarding-house kids: he’d almost stumbled into the man who wanted to kill him. Tolhurst was in the Kia rental car, just sitting there, slumped as if exhausted. A part of Garrett wanted to climb in with him and say…

Say what, though? Sorry? Sorry I ripped you off? Sorry your son died? Sorry I didn’t go in there and save him?

A moment later, Tolhurst started the Kia and drove slowly down to O’Connell Street. Garrett, unwilling to trust that, stayed crouching for a few minutes. He was more conscious of the pain and bleeding now. Soon he’d attract attention—for crouching behind a car, if nothing else. He stood rockily. Trotted across the street and through the front gate.

He passed one of the Malaysian students on the creaking stairs, yawning her head off. He smiled and nodded, keeping his shoulder towards the wall, and asked, ‘Did you hear that car backfiring?’

‘Car?’ she said dazedly.

‘Bloody racket.’ Garrett smiled more broadly. ‘Woke me up.’

She’d already lost interest. But when he was on the top landing, she called up, ‘You’re bleeding.’

‘Fell off my bike. All good.’

She grunted and disappeared from view. Garrett continued along the dim hallway to his room. Listened at the door. Unlocked it, then, his spine flat to the wall, swung it open. Darted a look, then entered swiftly, at a crouch. Nothing. He grabbed a change of clothes and, checking that the bathroom along the corridor was free, washed and bandaged the groove in his shoulder. The bandage was too small; a seam of blood began to show again. He’d need to call in at a chemist for a larger bandage and some antiseptic.

Finally, wincing as his shoulder rolled and flexed, he pulled on clean jeans and a T-shirt and returned to his room. Crammed his bloodied clothing into a rubbish bag, stepped into an oversized pair of overalls that he’d thought might come in handy one day, and packed his laptop and a selection of jeans, pants, shirts, underwear and toiletries into an overnight bag. Stood at the edge of his window, looking out at the front gate, the street, the roof of his car.

All clear. He left the house for the last time. His rent was up to date. Mr Saggio would soon find another boarder. And landlords dealt with abandoned belongings all the time.

Everything would be subterfuge now, even a visit to the chemist. To hide in a football crowd, you wear a scarf and strike up asinine conversations with like-minded strangers. You become what strangers expect you to be. And so, to explain the seep of blood on his upper sleeve, Garrett smeared oil from the Mazda’s dipstick here and there on his overalls and became a mechanic who’d scraped his shoulder under a car. The chemist tut-tutted. Her assistant hurried off to find bandages and antiseptic. A woman waiting for a prescription said, ‘My husband caught his sleeve in a cog once—nearly lost an arm.’ Garrett was the centre of a little drama, but it was drama of the mundane kind, soon to be forgotten. He belonged, right then, and smiled. Rolled his eyes at his own bad luck, said thank you, enjoyed the attention.

Then he drove to a shopping centre where he used the parents’ room to clean and dress his arm. Pulled on a fresh shirt and a hoodie from his bag and stowed the bloodied T-shirt and overalls under oily pizza boxes in an outside bin.

Back in his car, he tried to think his way through the next stages of his life. Tolhurst had found and lost him, but there was no reason to believe he’d abandon the hunt. If the guy had found a photo in Melodie’s files, all he’d have to do was flash it around and say, ‘I’m looking for my son. He’s bipolar and suicidal and I’m worried about him,’ and people would jump at the chance to help. The police would not be far behind: on his trail as soon as Melodie’s body was found, doorknocking the streets around the boarding house and Melodie’s office building. And now that she was dead, his main income stream no longer existed. He’d also lost Anita—Grace—who might or might not be still in the Adelaide Hills. No point looking for her, she could be anywhere. Anyway, the Hills were too close to the city. He needed to be hundreds of kilometres away.

His remaining set of ID was in the name of Louis Denton at an address in an outer suburb of Perth. He’d been nursing it for a long time, flying to Western Australia twice a year to shop with the credit card, borrow and return library books, take out RAC membership and use a carwash loyalty card.

Which made redundant everything currently in his wallet. He leaned onto one hip to fetch it from his pocket, wincing again as his shoulder flexed, and searched every compartment, knowing that even a scrunched-up receipt could sink him. Cards, licence, Melodie’s business cards, a dentist’s appointment card…

He waited until he was an hour north of Adelaide before scattering them to the wind. The hours passed and evening came, and he was alone in a black and eternal vastness. He stopped at a roadhouse for a steak sandwich and a Coke. Sitting where he could keep one eye on the door, the passing headlights and the occasional highway motorist stepping in from out of the dark night, he checked the news on his laptop. There was no mention of Melodie, or of a shooting in North Adelaide.

But Craig Tolhurst’s name came up: arrangements had been made to fly his son’s body back to Australia. He’d have been giving soundbites if he hadn’t been taking pot shots at me, Garrett thought. He pictured Tolhurst’s bearing in the driver’s seat of the Kia, parked outside the boarding house. Maybe he’d just been informed. Something had gone out of him anyway.

His arm ached.