Chapter 82

 

 

High above the farm, a wedge-tailed eagle circled.

The storm had moved on and left behind a clean, twenty-kilometre easterly. Frank, Zeya and Ewen stood on the grit-covered veranda and counted the shed’s missing roof sheets. The windmill on the eastern horizon was also gone. Fistfuls of dirt lay piled on the wipers of Bernadette’s Volkswagen.

A single birdsong. A blue-breasted fairy wren hopped across the parking area.

They carried the table and chairs to the fig tree and sat for a while in the shade and silence. The rebuilding heat soon forced them back inside.

Frank had turned the handle to close the door when… He listened. Above the faint hush from the air conditioner, a noise. Distant. Steady. Mechanical. He peered out the doorway. A black sedan drove into view along Northcote Lane, its dense dust cloud signalling speed and purpose. “Vehicle! Black.”

The car turned into the driveway, and sped towards the house.

He shut the door, sidestepped to the window, and drew the curtain back a centimetre. “Chrysler. Any ideas?”

“None,” said Ewen.

“Tinted windows. Always trouble behind them.”

The car accelerated down the drive. To Frank’s surprise, it gently pulled up to the porch as if parking outside a school. The front passenger’s door opened.

Frank fingered his gun trigger. “The oriental Incredible Hulk. Know him?”

Ewen stood beside him. “Yut. Skinny Ray’s bodyguard.”

Yut stood tall and scanned around. Two other Thais and Lon stepped from the back seats.

“And now the man himself,” said Frank. “From behind the wheel too; he’s leaving nothing to chance; he has the reins.”

Frank and Ewen walked onto the veranda.

“Heard from Bernadette?” asked Lon.

“Only a text that said, No cops.”

“Same.”

“But not ex-cops,” remarked Skinny Ray. “Our paths cross one more time, Frank.”

“The last I hope.”

“An unusual situation.” Ray smiled beneath his sunglasses. “You can’t actually order me to leave, can you.” His smile evaporated when he turned to the reporter. “If my niece dies, you die.”

Ewen leant into the veranda rail. Sunlight reflecting off the Chrysler’s chrome trim made him squint. He stepped sideways. “You used me to locate what you wanted. So after you’ve done the deed make sure you fire a bullet into your own brain.”

“Nobody is going to die,” said Frank. “The girls are pawns, and Hogmyre will soon start pushing the pieces…I’m guessing you brought guns?”

Ray barked in Thai. His men opened the boot, and Frank wandered over to it.

On the veranda step, Lon whispered into Ewen’s ear, “Everyone here has history.”

Ewen’s stare settled on the gathering at the sedan’s boot. “Including us.” He turned to his best friend. “If Francis harms Bernadette or Celty, I’m picking up a gun again.” And he stepped off the veranda.

Inside the boot, Ray removed a false backboard and dragged out a heavy canvas tarp. As he unrolled it, metal clunked and chinked. “This is mine,” he said, reaching for one of two sawn-off, double barrel twelve-gauge shotguns. He opened a box of shells, loaded the gun, snapped it shut and balanced it in his hands. “It sure is a long time since I’ve needed this.”

Frank grabbed the remaining shotgun and a handful of shells. Ray’s men stood armed.

Two handguns, a semi-automatic and a revolver, lay untouched. Ray looked to Ewen. Ewen stared through him.

Ray huffed, reached in, scoped both handguns, closed the boot and reached round to the rear tyre. “For those with balls, here’s an old trick that may come in handy one day.” He positioned the semi-automatic on top and glanced at Ewen. “Where’s the bargaining chip, Frank?”

The ex-detective needed a second; familiarity had disgusted him—he’d stashed the uniform’s Glock behind Lord of the Rings in the bookcase.

 

Inside, Ewen knocked on the toilet door. “Zeya, it’s safe.”

The moment Zeya walked into the living room and saw the sawn-off shotguns, he swore. “I knew it was a stupid idea to place my life in the hands of amateurs.”

Everyone welcomed Frank’s gesture towards the front door. They followed him onto the veranda except Zeya who yelled to their backs, “He’ll kill me, and all of you. People say to win a war you need money and guns. Bullshit. You only need money.”

A second after Lon closed the door, something inside smashed against it.

“So,” said Skinny Ray, “we wait.”

Frank nodded.

“May I suggest the table. Away from Zeya.” Ray pointed to the Moreton Bay fig. “A coffee perhaps to keep us pepped. No point hiding. We’re a force. We might as well show it.” He spoke in Thai. Yut and the two others sat down on the veranda edge. He turned to Ewen. “Your hands are empty. White and one thanks.”

A moment connected Ewen to Ray, a silent stare deepened by a magpie-lark’s smoke alarm peep to its rivals.

 

Inside the house, Zeya asked Ewen. “Who the fuck are they? Guns for hire? Bangkok Bullies Incorporated?”

“Coffee?”

“Coffee? What, you gunna wear an apron and bake scones?”

Ewen filled the kettle and added coffee and milk to one cup.

“You might as well.” Zeya strode over and stabbed a finger into Ewen’s shoulder. “Because Bernadette sure as hell won’t be able to bake any. That psycho cop Brad. Great idea getting him to look after Bernadette. When they’re finished with her, she’ll be lucky if she’s still breathing. Good way to shut her mou—”

Ewen lunged, clutched Zeya’s head, yanked his hair back and slid his spine down the bench until his neck rested hard against the Formica edge. All Zeya could do to ease the pressure on his exposed throat was scrape his heels across the lino floor in search of traction.

Even when the front door opened and Frank peered in, Ewen, hot in the face, spittle hanging off his lips, kept pressing. The fact that the ex-D did nothing but stare in an unfocused, uncaring way kindled enough compassion in Ewen for his hands to let go.

Zeya dropped to his knees, gagging.

Frank returned to the veranda, closing the door behind him.

“You’re a loser!” spat Zeya. “Like Frank, like your friend Lon. Losers who will make me lose. Bernadette.” He spat out a laugh. “Upset are we. The only reason you’re upset is because you created her undoing. You’re noth—”

Ewen kneed him in the face, side on. No broken bones, no crushed cartilage.

“You mongrel!” was spat through fingers feeling for damage.

The jug clicked. Ewen unplugged it from the wall, turned round and trickled hot water over Zeya’s bare legs.

Zeya kicked and screamed.

The front door flew open and Lon and Skinny Ray barged in. Ewen poured his coffee, turned and fronted Ray. “Give me the revolver.”

Ray did.

“The kettle’s boiled,” said Ewen, as he walked outside with his brew.

 

 

Ewen watched Frank and Lon, coffees in hand, walk over to him at the table beneath the fig.

They sat. Guns crowded the table. A caw sounded. A crow, perched on the shed gable, wiped its beak on the iron ridge.

Frank plucked a fly from his drink and flicked it on its way. The sun reappeared from behind a cloud. The brightness hardened.

Lon stared at his mate staring at the house.

Ewen sensed eyes watching him. “What?”

“You know what.”

“A few drops of water.”

Lon also turned his attention to the house. “Ray and the boys are alone with him.”

Nobody said anything.

“What’s your connection to Skinny Ray, Frank?” asked Lon.

Silence layered more discomfort to a warm day.

“Worried I’m worse than you two?”

“Meaning?” asked Lon.

“If you don’t throw darts you never hit bullseyes.”

If the statement did hit a bullseye, Ewen didn’t show it; he kept staring at the house.

“Meaning?” repeated Lon.

Frank’s forehead crinkled. He took a moment. His brow and eyes softened. “At first, I thought to myself, Lon owns a handgun. Right or wrong, I was in too deep to extract myself. Right or wrong, an extra gun is always handy. Right or wrong, Lon may have been a good boy fantasising about being bad. The fact Ewen hated guns erred towards the right decision. Then I noticed he could handle one. Before that, I noticed the scars on his thigh.”

The topic turned Ewen back to the table. He kept quiet.

“Scars report crime. And history tells me that the wound on your leg is from a gunshot. So unless you two were on the piss and an accident happened, I’m looking at something I wasn’t expecting, something I can’t condone.”

“Condone,” said Ewen. “Maybe my scar transported you back to your past, to a dealer called Peter Sweet and his gunshot wound to the knee. What was it, a rapist walking free, or a cop, your friend Brad, in debt to the eyeballs?”

Frank’s breathing shallowed. An inner acknowledgment that he’d also run their backgrounds put depth back into his inhalations. “Don’t drag Brad through the mud. He’s batting for us.”

“He’s also batted for you. Or is it you for him?” asked Ewen.

Frank sensed the corner. “Rape is a true sin.”

“We know,” said Lon.

“You know what?” snapped Frank. “You boys probably know jack-shit.”

“We know you have a connection to Skinny Ray,” added Lon.

“What is this, a royal commission?”

“We’re batting for you now,” said Ewen. “So we need to know who’s on the team.”

“A need to know…” The words were sprinkled with sarcasm. “Okay.” His tone dropped into neutral. “Guns are on the table; let’s throw our cards there as well.” His coffee cup held his attention. “Ray was part of the eighties in Perth. Every cop from constable to assistant commissioner was on the take or knew of someone who was. Every cop station, every division became tainted. And even if you didn’t want to partake, it was seriously awkward not to; the slipstream became too comfortable to sit in. It’s as simple as that. Even if corrupt people rub you the wrong way, sometimes the harder they rub the better it feels. And we all want to feel better. Freer, wiser, richer. In the eighties, Perth moved to a pulse, money.”

He’d spoken the last word, money, sharply. An unblinking stare at the boys also suggested there was more to tell. Not today though.

Ewen eyed Lon. Lon nodded.

Ewen’s voice changed, turned reflective. “At the end of the nineties things started to get out of hand.” He sipped his coffee, and cleared his throat. “I told you on our first meeting that when my sister died I’d lived through crazy times and had the scars to prove it. We’d moved a few drugs. Hydro and home grown. Like your eighties, fast money was everywhere. And the quicker you go, the easier it is to spin out. Pounds of dope became tens of pounds. We partied hard. Surfed massive waves. Started in on the crank, which soon had us believing ourselves untouchable. A complete recipe for disaster. Paranoia crept in, and so did the guns. Looking back on it now, it conjures an image of children, not grown men.

“As you probably know, Perth prospered. So did the dealers; the city had slipped into party mode. Mining boom equates to drug boom. We worked as small fry unable to grow because we blew the proceeds as quick as we made it. In a farmhouse outside Rockingham lived three surfers. A gang. Small-time dealers. These boys seriously considered themselves tough. They were cunts. Difficult to understand how someone who surfs the ocean could be such an animal. Their leader, Rocco—”

“Rocco from Rockingham,” said Frank. “Shit.” He checked them both. “You two?”

Lon nodded.

“Fucking hell,” sighed Frank. “He was seriously worked over. Both his arms and legs broken. His mate also copped two broken arms.” He eyed Lon. “No matter how long ago, you remember the brutal cases. Especially when there is no conviction.” He eyed Ewen. “Why?”

“Because he raped a friend of ours, Juliette.”

“You take that shit to the police.”

“Rocco’s gang threatened her so brutally the next day she never spoke to the cops. She had to walk away.”

“We couldn’t,” interrupted Lon.

“You were armed?”

“The Beretta and a Smith & Wesson,” said Lon. Cricket bats and balaclavas.”

Frank’s tone turned condescending. “At least you were thoughtful enough to drag Rocco and his mate outside before you burnt his fucking farmhouse to the ground.”

“We had to,” added Ewen. “We thought Rocco was home alone. He wasn’t, and I copped a bullet from his friend. My blood was all over the crime scene so we sealed my leg inside garbage bags, torched the house and hobbled up the driveway to the car.”

Silence settled over the long end of a shortened story.

Ewen needed to keep unloading. “As Lon drove away, I looked back at the farmhouse, an orange glow in its guts. Fifteen minutes of life. Two people bashed. A house on fire. Three guns. A boot full of blood. My mind flicked through recent events; the TAB robbery, a run to Japan, lugging pounds through the bush. They were merging into a lifestyle where the only constant would be a backward glance over the shoulder. It had to stop.”

The story telling had bent Ewen forward. He slowly relaxed back. “How did I end up here in a similar situation?”

Nobody spoke for a moment.

“The gunshot wound. Where did you get it sorted?” Frank’s tone conveyed understanding. “Doctors aren’t dumb.”

“A friend. A vet.”

Frank let it soak in. “What happened to the guns?”

“Mine and the pistol from Rocco’s mate landed in the river,” said Ewen.

All eyes drifted to Lon’s Beretta on the table.

Frank spoke as if to himself. “Vigilante deeds don’t work. It wrecks the vigilante. If it doesn’t, it’s done in the name of fun.”

“From experience?” asked Lon thoughtfully. “Cards on the table.”

Frank was already staring at the table. “The girl Peter Sweet raped was the daughter of a woman I was having an affair with.”

Ewen pictured Susan’s skeletal body, her bony hand cupped by Frank’s. “But it’s coming,” Ewen added, wanting to steer pain away from the ex-detective. “Serious assaults getting only two-months’ jail. Street gangs running riot. Serial rapists walking freely. Violent home invasions. A cornered community will eventually attempt to take back the streets.”

“Not in my lifetime, I’m hoping. It’d be Armageddon.” Frank stalled, and turned away. Something had caught his eye. Skinny Ray walked from the house towards them.

Halfway across, the Thai swung round to Northcote Lane and a gravel rattle sounding from it. Everybody jumped to their feet. Ray dropped his coffee and ran to his shotgun on the table.

“The car blokes!” barked Frank. “Whose?”

A red sedan turned into the drive. “Mazda…” said Ewen, stretching sound and sight, searching for detail. “Snitchel’s is that colour.”

“Only the driver,” added Frank.

The vehicle cruised the driveway, knew its way, dodged the potholes, and approached at a steady pace.

“A blonde behind the wheel,” said Ewen. “Could be Bernadette.”

“We know someone pocketed her mobile,” demanded Frank. “Shit, why didn’t she call via Brad?” He scanned everyone, half expecting an answer. He only saw drawn guns. “Steady.”

The car didn’t head for the house; it rolled towards the boys.

“Nanny state number plate,” yelled Ewen. “Snitchel’s car. And...it’s B.”

“Excellent,” said Lon, lowering the Beretta, “she’s alone.”