Two hours of steady drinking while absorbing the screaming vocals and thrashing guitars of The Wet Blankets clearly wasn’t the best way to mourn the passing of my mother, but the week had taken its toll and I no longer cared.
I sat slumped in a chair against the wall at the Yarra. The table pulled close so I wouldn’t have to stretch too far to reach my beer. Empty pint glasses littered the table; they’d given their all in my pursuit of oblivion.
’Empty,’ I scoffed, a perfect metaphor for my life. No family, no job and hiding out from the people wanting my dead for what I knew.
Dayne joined me at the Yarra earlier in the evening and, like a good friend, wasn’t judging my drinking or surly manner too harshly.
That my life is fucked.
Well, it may look that way right now, but remember we have a plan and that’s just the first step.
Forever the eternal optimist.
Dayne looked away, then made an attempt at changing the subject.
Tomorrow seemed a lifetime away, and I secretly hoped the night’s drinking would indefinitely delay that lifetime. Dayne spent the week preparing our plan. He believed it would allow me some breathing room until the threat passed. Exactly how long; depended upon an old family friend and how he responds to the communication I sent earlier in the evening.
Deputy Chief Commissioner Slattery of the Victoria Police Force, now the acting chief, had given me his business card late last year and said anytime I needed anything to contact him. Well, if this didn’t qualify…
I’d spent the past four days holed up on Dayne’s couch; venturing out only for Mum’s funeral earlier today. Calling work to take the week off for bereavement leave was simple enough, and I felt certain wouldn’t raise any eyebrows.
The search for Garth O’Neal’s killer continued, so the threat to my life was still very real. But not attending the funeral wasn’t an option.
It was a simple service held at St Ann’s in Bundoora performed by Father Kelly. Mum would’ve been pleased with the kind words he spoke. Leaving the church, the only thought in my mind was of how light the simple oak casket felt. The months at the hospice reducing her to a hollowed-out shell. It reinforced my feeling she’d long since departed this life before the heart monitor rang out its final monotonous tone.
Mother was laid to rest at Fawkner Memorial Park under a threatening sky. A strong southerly wind kicked up as Father Kelly recited a final prayer. As the attendants lowered her casket into the ground next to my father, the ten of us in attendance huddled together against the approaching storm.
The gravediggers had been meticulous in keeping my father’s headstone spotless in their digging. I’d have bet money Mother wouldn’t have minded just a little mud flung in his direction. We’d never discussed the subject of selecting a different plot; perhaps she’d decided lying by his side giving him the silent treatment for eternity was apropos.
Judy and I huddled under her umbrella as the rain began in earnest. Dayne walked beside us; eyes downcast tracking his footsteps, oblivious to the soaking rain. The rest of the afternoon, spent at Mum’s best friend’s house in Bundoora, passed in a blur. Hours spent with endless cups of sugary tea, rock-hard scones and condolences from Mum’s friends I barely knew.
Dayne’s question brought me back to the here and now.
Not really, I need another beer.
Don’t you think you’re done? You’ve drunk enough to float your eyeballs.
Just get me another would ya.
Dayne made his way to the bar. He’d stopped drinking over an hour ago, so I’m sure soberly watching my pathetic performance was starting to wear thin. He returned and slapped the glass down on the table with a solid thunk.
Tell me again why we couldn’t tell Judy about the plan. You know she’ll be pissed-off at me all over again.
We’ve been over this, Craig. Her knowing will only put her in danger.
Danger, danger… Fuck, mate!
In my wild exclamation, an arm I had little control of knocked over the full glass of beer. The contents arced majestically across the table and made a beeline for Dayne’s coat hanging on the back of the chair.
Dayne just glared at me as he frantically tried to wring 500 ml of Carlton Draught from his coat.
You know the material of your jacket is quite absor… ashor… very…
Are you trying to say “absorbent”?
Maybe.
I knew he was angry and didn’t mean to laugh. But both my self-control and good decision-making sauntered hand-in-hand from the bar well over an hour ago.
Dayne was on his feet, holding his sodden coat and glowering at me.
I’m going home. Where are the keys to the Beast?
Here, here, take my coat. The keys are in the pocket.
I don’t need your coat.
Yes, you do. It’s bloody cold out tonight.
He knew better than arguing the point with a drunk, so he slipped on my coat and flipped up the collar.
What about you?
I’m going to sit here and listen to the band a little while longer. I’ll be okay; I’ll catch a taxi.
I kept my word. Thirty minutes later, I stumbled into a taxi; however, in my drunken stupor, I gave the address of my unit to the driver instead of going back to Dayne’s as planned.
***
Dayne made his way to the front door of the Yarra and held it open for two young women. The cuter of the two flashed him a smile as she passed, then halted.
Hey, don’t you play in a band?
Yeah, occasionally.
Cool. Thought I recognised you. Hey, Wendy. You got a smoke?
Dayne watched the two women search through a bag the size of a shopping basket. He considered prolonging the conversation, but the moment had passed.
Turning right, he dug his hands deep into the pockets of Craig’s jacket and shuffled off towards Rich Street where the Beast awaited.
***
The young man wearing jeans and a black leather jacket turned right and quickly headed in the opposite direction. A passing Silver Top Taxi momentarily blocked their view, but even from 50 metres, they were sure it was their man.
Sean Costello had searched for Craig Walters since midday Tuesday. After the hit on the lawyer, he thought it prudent to lay low for a day, follow the news reports and check with his contacts to determine which way the wind blew. With no sign of the police sniffing around his usual haunts, he began tracking down the man whose elimination would complete his assignment. Surveillance on Walters’s home address proved fruitless, as did the time spent observing his workplace. He’d begun to think his mark had already gone to ground. Then last evening he received a tip; Walters would be attending a funeral the next day.
They’d tracked him for almost the entire day; from the church in Bundoora to the cemetery, back again to Bundoora, then to a run-down house in Clifton Hill. Finally, the time had arrived where he was totally isolated.
***
Dayne waited for a Silver Top Taxi to pass before jogging across Johnston Street. Then, one more time, went through in his mind the game plan for tomorrow. The last item needed; delivered as promised earlier in the afternoon. The man in Fitzroy producing the documents doing an excellent job. He’d used his services in the past and although a little pricey, you couldn’t argue with the quality of his work.
***
Sean’s driver eased the Volkswagen Jetta out of the parking spot and merged slowly into traffic just as the young man in the black leather jacket crossed Johnston Street 120 metres ahead.
Sean pulled the Walther PPX 9mm from his pocket, screwed on the silencer and pulled back on the slide. The weapon felt comfortable in his hands. A trusted friend. Together again mere days after the elimination of Garth O’Neal; now just minutes away from completing their busy week’s schedule.
The driver slowed to a crawl and Sean Costello was out of the vehicle and stalking the target, a mere 30 metres ahead, in the blink of an eye.
***
Dayne was pleased to find the Beast still parked where Craig told him he could find it. Which, he mused, wasn’t always a given in this part of Abbotsford. He held the key ring up to what little light was filtering through the thick foliage overhead and searched for the correct key.
He wondered for a moment if he was making a mistake leaving Craig at the bar. Dayne shook off the notion, deciding instead to give him a little space. His best friend had been through the wringer in the past few weeks, blowing off a little steam wouldn’t hurt. Then smiled, thinking, he’ll have a real bastard of a hangover in the morning.
Out the corner of his eye, he noticed movement in the shadows.
***
Sean Costello closed the remaining distance and from less than five metres squeezed the trigger twice. Two nine-millimetre slugs found their mark at the base of the young man’s skull. The lifeless body of the man Sean knew as Craig Walters crumpled to the ground with barely a sound.