Smith Street, Collingwood, eleven p.m. Looking north towards the Gertrude Street end, the place was swinging. All the bars and restaurants were doing plenty of business. Nightclubs too, with punters queuing up outside to get in. I wouldn’t queue on a night like this to get in anywhere. I was outside a pawn shop at the quieter city end of the street. The pawn shop was shut, of course, its window display of secondhand guitars and cheap watches barred with protective wire mesh. I huddled against the doorway trying to find some cover from the incessant drizzle. Opposite was a Seven Eleven store. I was sorely tempted to wait across there. Grab a coffee and a doughnut; find some better shelter than what this dripping canopy offered.
A man came out of the convenience store and opened a pack of cigarettes. He ignored a rubbish bin and threw the plastic wrapping onto the ground as he lit up with a match. Threw that onto the pavement as well. He drew deeply on his smoke and glanced up and down at the passing cars, then crossed the road and stood a couple of doors down from me. A car came cruising past and stopped where he was standing. He huddled over and exchanged goods with someone through the passenger side window. Deal completed, he took up station again.
‘You waitin’ for someone, man?’
‘What? No,’ I said.
‘A taxi? ’Cause this isn’t a taxi stand. Taxi stands are all up in Victoria Parade.’
Said I wasn’t waiting for a taxi either.
The guy curled his fingers and gave his smoke a final suck then flicked it into the gutter. He was taller than me by a good margin, heavier too. He had street-smart eyes and he used them to sum me up for what I was, an outsider in his territory.
‘You looking to score, then?’
‘No.’
‘Then if you’re not waiting for anything, you’d better fuck the fuck off. You’re in my space, you know what I mean?’
Go to the pawn shop in Smith Street at eleven. Be waiting right outside the door. Don’t move from there until I contact you.
Those were my instructions. I pulled up the sleeve of my raincoat and looked at my watch. It was five past eleven and there was no sign of him. I felt ridiculous in my plastic raincoat. It was the only thing waterproof and yellow that I could find in my garage. It wasn’t strictly part of my designated uniform, but like the backpack, baseball cap, shorts and T-shirt, it was the colour they had requested. To say I stood out was an understatement. I felt like a jockey at a basketball convention.
‘You hear me, man? I said I don’t want you waitin’ round here. You’re no good for business. I’m not gonna tell you again.’ He put his hands confidently back into the pockets of his jacket. Might be carrying a weapon, a knife maybe, hard to tell. He squinted a mean look at me and took another step closer. I must have been a puzzle and a source of annoyance to him. ‘Whatchu dressed up like some yellow faggot for, anyway?’
Another car cruised to a stop and he broke off conversation to do some more business. Good timing, as my mobile phone rang.
‘Punter?’
‘It’s me.’
‘You got the money?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You come alone?’
‘I’m by myself.’
‘Then who’s that loser you been talking with?’
I looked immediately up and down the road for a person or a car. He’d obviously been observing me from close by somewhere, but there was no visible sign of anyone other than the dealer and the occupants of the car he was speaking with. Could they be part of the crew? I doubted it. The car drove off and the dealer turned around and faced me again as I was talking into my phone.
‘He’s just some guy.’
‘Now listen,’ he continued, ‘the 109 tram leaves Victoria Parade in three minutes for the city. Be on it.’
‘Whoa, hang on a moment,’ I said. ‘We had a deal. We get to ask Michelle a question first, remember?’
‘I hadn’t forgotten.’ I heard him rustle some paper, perhaps reading from a notebook. ‘Michelle says her father’s best day at the track was the Winter Cup at Flemington last July. Satisfied?’
I let out a breath. I’d have preferred it if she’d answered the question herself, but she must have been alive to have given them the answer.
‘Now go,’ he said, and hung up on me.
The dealer glared at me from the side of the kerb. He looked like he was going to start up on me again, but I got in first.
‘I’m finished with the waiting,’ I said, and took off at a jog.
I could see the tram in the distance. Like he said, three minutes away. Bit tricky running for it, though, carrying the ransom. Bloody pack felt like I was carrying a load of telephone books. Weighed a ton. He’d been right about one thing; Big Oakie wouldn’t have been suited as the delivery man. Then again, I wasn’t so sure I was the right man for the job either.
I hailed the tram a stop down from St Vincent’s Hospital. It only had a few people on board at that time of night and I grabbed a seat up towards the back. The phone rang almost as soon as I sat down.
‘Get off at Collins and Swanston and run down to Flinders Street Station. You’ve got five minutes from when the tram stops. When you get there, wait under the clocks.’
He hung up. Where was he? Maybe following me in a car. Big Oakie and the others were. We’d managed to snatch a brief meeting before I’d taken possession of the ransom money and put into place what plans we could at short notice. Oakie and Veronica were in one car and Tiny and Kevin were in another. There were two lifelines. The first was Oakie’s mobile, which I was carrying, although I was wary of making unnecessary contact as the kidnapper had told me not to talk on the mobile to anyone but him. The only communication I’d managed to Oakie so far was a hurried text message. The kidnapper had already spotted me talking to the guy in Smith Street a while ago, so he must be watching me. Not all of the time, but I wouldn’t know where or when. The other device we had was the D Tracker I’d purchased earlier that day. I’d slipped the tag into the bottom of the pack and Kevin and Tiny were keeping tabs of where I was from a laptop in their car. The plan was that they could track my whereabouts, and when we made the swap they could still follow the kidnappers as they made their getaway.
When the tram stopped at Exhibition Street, you wouldn’t believe it, two transit officers got on. You can’t find them for love nor money when there’s a crazy or a drunk on board. They looked up and down the carriage before making a beeline for the weird-looking bloke in yellow. Obviously looked like a troublemaker.
‘Would you mind taking your feet off the seat, please.’
‘Oh, sorry,’ I said. ‘Didn’t realise.’ Hastily I took my feet down. Usually such a law-abiding citizen, so forth.
‘Can we see your ticket, please?’
‘What? Oh, ticket.’ Yeah, ticket, Punter, the one you forgot to purchase because you were bloody well daydreaming. You’ll have to lift your act, son.
‘I’m sorry, haven’t actually bought one yet from the machine. Just got on and been on the phone,’ I said, waving the mobile in front of them as a legitimate excuse. I rose to get up and one of the guys put a steadying hand on me so that I remained seated. Didn’t like that.
‘Where did you board the tram from?’ he asked. A wannabe copper, they all were.
‘Two stops back. Look, I apologise. Entirely my fault. I’ll just buy my ticket from the machine and we’ll be square.’
I went to get up again and this time he wasn’t so gentle, shoving me back into the seat while his partner looked on.
‘What’s your name?’
Oh for Christ’s sake. I needed a bloody interrogation like a hole in the head. ‘John, John Punter.’
‘Where have you been tonight, John?’
I could have told him to fuck off, but I gave him some yarn about exploring Smith Street and then catching the tram back into the city. He wasn’t buying any of it and neither was his partner, who joined in.
‘What have you got in the pack, John?’
‘What, do I look like a terrorist or something, do I?’ This was great, ten minutes into the exchange and I’m going to have to explain to a couple of transit cops why I’m carrying three hundred large around in a backpack.
‘Just show us what’s in the bag, John, we don’t want any trouble.’
‘No, neither do I. That’s okay, here, you can look for yourselves.’
This time they stepped back while I stood up and fiddled with getting the pack’s straps off my shoulder.
I figured I’d have to take the small one first because he was blocking my exit. He was a fit and wary-looking guy, wary from the drunks who took a swing at him and liars like me giving bullshit lines about fare evasion that he’d heard a hundred times before. I didn’t want a scene, he was only doing his job, and as it turned out I didn’t have to lay a hand on him. The driver hit the brakes sharply to avoid some idiot driver who’d pulled up in front of him. We all fell to the floor like ten-pins, but I was up and out the door before the two transit cops had even picked themselves up.
I shot a look back at the tram to see if they were following: they’d jumped outside and were looking about for me, but I’d disappeared into the night and given them the slip, I was in the clear. We’d gone a block past where I wanted to get off, so I ran down Elizabeth Street and kept a steady jog until I reached Flinders Street. Then I crossed at the lights outside Young and Jackson’s hotel.
Opposite were the famous clocks of Flinders Street Station. Every Melburnian has at some stage of their lives met someone ‘under the clocks’ on the steps at Flinders Street. I think the last time I met anyone there was my brother, David, when I was a teenager. Nothing much had changed over the years. There was a guy in a grubby grey waistcoat selling newspapers and magazines. Half a dozen young lovers were seated on the steps holding hands or cuddling. The usual solitary drunks were sitting around clutching at their paper bags, taking a swallow now and then. A busker was selling jokes. He was wearing a sandwich-board sign that read Jokes – three for a dollar or five for two dollars. He wasn’t bad either, rattling them off to a couple of German tourists. I joined those who were waiting and leaned against the wall under the clocks.
I checked my mobile in case I’d missed any calls during the fracas in the tram. No one had rung. For a moment I thought about texting or calling Oakie, but decided against it. I was far too exposed standing in the open, and if the kidnappers were watching me they’d know I was calling someone. A beggar came by and asked everyone within sight if they had a spare dollar. ‘Just a dollar,’ he said. ‘Who’s got a dollar? That’s all I need.’
Not much of a sales pitch. No mention of why he needed it. I stuffed a coin in his hands anyway and he thanked me before moving on down the steps with the same plea for help. The busker was doing okay. He’d finished with the German tourists and started up on another couple next to me. They seemed to find him amusing and gave him a dollar for the three quick jokes he rattled off.
‘What about you, mate,’ he said to me, ‘you look like you could do with a joke or three?’
‘Not tonight, thanks.’
‘I can give you three jokes for a dollar,’ he said, pointing to the notice on the sandwich board he was wearing.
‘No, really.’
‘How about five jokes for two bucks?’
‘Shouldn’t I get more jokes if I give you two dollars?’
‘That’s the joke, you see.’
‘I get it. But I’m waiting for someone.’
‘I know. You’re the man in yellow. What’s your name?’
Seemed everyone wanted to know my name tonight.
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘I might have a message for you. Tell me your name, and if it’s you I’ll give you the message.’
‘Punter, my name’s Punter.’
The guy reached under his sandwich board into his shirt and pulled out an envelope. ‘Then this is for you,’ he said, thrusting it into my hands. He was about to walk off when I grabbed his arm and spun him back around against the wall like I meant business.
‘Hey, who gave you that letter?’ I demanded.
‘Jesus, mate! Go easy. A bloke just came up ten minutes ago and gave me twenty bucks to give a bloke fitting your description this letter.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Fucked if I know. Sunglasses, a cap. Wearing a jacket and jeans. Could be anyone. When someone offers you a twenty for deliverin’ the mail, you don’t knock it back.’
I let him go and he snuck off, grateful to get back to telling his jokes again. The note he’d given me was in a plain envelope with no name or address written on it. It said: Take a taxi up to the Hilton Hotel. Wait outside.
At least a taxi would make a nice change from catching trams and dodging transit cops. I walked around the corner to the cab rank outside the station in Swanston Street. There were at least a dozen cabs waiting, so I pulled open the door of the first one in line and jumped in.
‘Where to, chief?’ asked the sullen-looking driver, starting up his car.
He gave me a look so that I just knew he was going to give me grief. Then he switched his ignition off again.
‘No way. Sorry, mate. But I’ve been waiting in line for twenty minutes and I’m not givin’ up my spot for a five-buck fare.’
Note to self: next time you deliver a ransom, advise kidnappers of Melbourne’s less than obliging taxi drivers. For Christ’s sake. I leaned forward over the armrest and thrust a fifty into his hand.
‘Listen, mate, I normally don’t tip in advance but I really need to go. Like, now.’
‘Sure,’ he said, looking at the note. ‘That changes things.’
I took the opportunity to send a brief text message to Big Oakie and Tiny, figuring that if the kidnapper wanted to ring me, his call could still come through. Making for Hilton Hotel was all I sent. Hopefully Kevin and Tiny weren’t too far away and were on to my movements via the D Tracker.
Three minutes later the guy dropped me outside the entrance of the Hilton. Didn’t even thank me for the tip as he took off in a screeching U-turn. I looked at my watch; it was eleven forty-three. Seemed like I’d been on this goose chase for hours already. Across the road, the odd bunch of football fans were still making their way out of the MCG. There’d been a match on tonight, although it must have finished well over an hour ago. Bombers versus Demons, judging by the supporters’ colours. Sounded like the Bombers had won, the way the club song was being sung and the red and black scarves waved.
My phone rang again – it was him.
‘There’s an eleven fifty-five Frankston train leaving from Richmond Station. Be on it.’
‘Why didn’t you just let me cab it on down there? Save us all the run-around.’
‘Don’t get fucking smart, Punter. You want to see the girl again, you follow the instructions. Right?’
‘Yeah, yeah, I hear you. You’re cutting it a bit fine if I’m going to make it from here to Richmond Station though.’
‘Then you’ll have to fuckin’ hurry, won’t you. You’ll make it if you run through the MCG grounds. Now get goin’.’
Bastard had picked his spot well. If I had anyone following me they would be easily seen in the grassy parklands of the MCG. I set off, trying to balance the heavy load on my back evenly. If I ran too fast, the damn pack would swing from side to side, the straps biting sharply into my shoulders. The best gait was a sort of jog-cum-shuffle with me holding the straps in my thumbs and digging my elbows into my sides so that it wouldn’t swing around too much.
By the time I’d crossed over the pedestrian railway bridge and into the MCG car park, it had started to drizzle again. I had the yellow raincoat on, but it was too hot to button up while running and the rain and my sweat soaked through me like a drain. A ring-tailed possum ignored me as I ran past; it was too busy scrounging scraps from a litter bin. The tower floodlights were still on, casting eerie shadows out into the grasslands where I was running. At least I could see fairly well in the dark. Well enough to see another bunch of supporters leaving the ground up ahead of me. They spilled out of the gateway and staggered drunkenly up the pathway towards me. I gave them plenty of leeway and switched direction slightly back up the grassy slope so that I wouldn’t come too near them. Even so, one of them yelled out some obscenity at me as I ran past. Running in the rain, wearing a yellow raincoat and a backpack with three hundred big ones in it. Just an average Friday night. Not.
I snatched a look at my watch. It was just on eleven forty-six. Not far away. I’d left the eastern entrance of the stadium behind and was keeping up a steady pace on the pathway that went past the Richmond Tigers’ training oval. Feeling all right. The taxi ride had given me a breather and the run through the park wasn’t that strenuous.
I got to Hoddle Street and darted across the traffic without having to wait for the lights. The Richmond Station bridge was overhead, and I took the alley to the left of the bridge – it was faster than the Swan Street entrance and I could enter the subway and be on the platform for my train within a minute. There weren’t many people about, just the odd group making their way to the Corner Hotel. I could hear the droning guitar sounds of a rock band coming from up that way. Up ahead of me was an illuminated sign: Richmond Station. Without shortening stride I turned sharply past a parked truck and ran straight into a group of punk rockers coming out of the subway.
My luck, I collided with the biggest of them. Knocked him accidentally to the ground with a hip and shoulder, like you give out playing football. The collision had spilled us both and left us sprawling on the pavement. The guy’s mates stood by, mouths agape and momentarily lost for words. Not for long. One of them said: ‘Where did this fuckin’ piece of shit come from?’ Then they advanced on me, lying hunched up as I was against the side of the truck. I could only see knee high and I counted four pairs of Doc Marten boots forming a semicircle around me. Then they started laying into me.
I hunched into a protective ball as best I could and rolled around, looking for some cover and a break from their kicking. The only thing saving me was how many there were. They were getting in each other’s way. Kick, stomp, grunt, swear. Same again. At least the backpack was some protection, a bit like trying to kick a library shelf full of books with all that cash inside. The guy I’d run into was back on his feet now, swearing he was going to kill me ‘proper’. I could see him running towards the semicircle through the gauntlet of boots raining down on me.
‘Where is that fuckin’ prick? Leave some of him for me.’
The mob parted to let him in. I looked up at him, green and pink spiky hair, studs on his nose and lip, tatts on his neck and studded wristbands and belt. A real kaleidoscope of colour. I thought that punk rockers had died out with the Sex Pistols. Tonight they were alive and kicking.
He came gunning for me, going for the big boot. If it connected, I was history. I had to get out of there fast and make that train. I couldn’t go forward with the pack of them in front of me. But I could retreat, so I rolled under the truck chassis as the kick sailed over my head. His foot slammed into the side of the truck, and I hoped to hell every bone in it had broken. I tunnelled under like a ferret through a rabbit hole and came out on the side facing the road. One of them had run around, anticipating my move. I jumped to my feet and went straight for him. On his own, without his mates, he wasn’t so sure of himself. He seemed to hesitate and then shouted out to the others that he’d found me. I didn’t miss him, hit him hard right in the middle of his nose and he went down like a bag of oats falling from a loft. I was tempted to give him a boot too, like he’d done to me, but by now the rest of them had run around the side of the truck.
The subway entrance wasn’t an option now, not with that mob blocking it. I could run back towards Hoddle Street and try the Swan Street side, but that was at least five minutes and my train was only moments away from leaving. I looked up at the station overhead. You could see the trains rattling by. There was a steep embankment covered in weeds and dirt that angled up fifty metres or so to an advertising billboard. Beyond that were the railway platforms. I sprinted for the shoulder-high cyclone fence alongside the footpath and clambered over, careful not to ensnare my pack on the mesh. Grabbing a handful of wet grass and weeds, I wriggled up the embankment, hoping I wouldn’t slip. My running shoes helped me, they were light and gave some traction. Below me, the punks had given chase and were climbing up after me like a pack of angry baboons. I reached the billboard and slipped through the fence railings and onto the tracks. In front of me was a platform of passengers staring down at me like I’d emerged from another planet. And to my right, I could see the whites of a train driver’s eyes as the big silver carriage blew its warning horn and hit the emergency brakes a second before he hit me.
The distance between the tracks and the billboard was probably a man’s body width. To me, it felt like centimetres. Wearing the backpack didn’t help and I had to stand pressed hard against the billboard while the carriages of the train roared past, a breath away from my nose. The driver probably thought he’d run me over for sure, which is why he’d thrown the brakes. The wheels had locked and were spitting and hissing sparks of protest as three hundred tons of steel ground slowly to a halt. I forced myself along the narrow gap between the train and billboards towards the rear carriages. When the train stopped, I scrambled through the couplings of two carriages and onto the next platform. All the commotion seemed to be at the driver’s end, but I didn’t stick around to find out. I jumped down onto the next set of tracks and up onto the adjacent platform, this time checking for trains. I snatched a look at my watch: it was right on 11.56 p.m. It would be odds-on that I’d missed my train and a bloody miracle if I could actually find the right platform. The TV monitor told me I was on the Belgrave line and the other side was Cranbourne. A quick look across at the next platform’s monitor, and there it was: the Frankston line. I looked back towards the city just as the Frankston train rolled in, blocking off the tracks. The only way I could make the train was to drop down onto the lines and hop up between carriages. Well, I guess I was getting plenty of practice at that.
As soon as I’d jumped up, the train departed and I swung open the connecting door and found a seat in what turned out to be an empty carriage.
For the last hour I’d been running on adrenalin, so I sucked in some air trying to catch my breath. I wasn’t fit for this, how could anyone be? The train pulled into Hawksburn and I was hoping like hell there’d be no transit cops, punk rockers or drug dealers who would get on and annoy me. Bloody list was endless tonight. The train pulled out again without a soul boarding, and I reached for my phone. I was worried it might have been damaged in the fight, but I had it tucked into a side flap of my raincoat and it seemed to have survived okay. It was the first opportunity I’d had to send a detailed message to Kevin and Tiny. Even so, I kept it short.
On a train to Frankston. Just passed Hawksburn. Stay close. You getting a signal?
Almost straightaway I got their reply.
Signal loud and clear. Driving through Richmond now. Hang in there, Punter.
Their quick response did wonders for my confidence and I felt like I’d backed a ten-to-one winner. It was just the tonic I needed. So the D Tracker was working. They were picking up the signal from within my backpack and weren’t too far away. With an ounce of luck, they’d be able to follow me right to the exchange location and be on hand to continue following the kidnappers when they made their getaway.
I nodded congratulations to a reflection I barely recognised in the window. It was a weird-looking guy wearing a torn yellow raincoat. His hair was a mess and his face was coated in blood and filth like he’d been in a brawl. I had, and was starting to feel the effects now that the rush had worn off. I had some cuts and scrape marks around my face. My ribs were feeling bruised on my right side and my elbow was starting to swell from where I’d tried to protect myself from the kicking. I explored gingerly, prodding and poking to see if any serious damage had been done. Nothing that a week of hot baths wouldn’t heal.
The train stopped at a couple more stations before rumbling to a halt at Malvern. The door opened and a couple of teenage girls poked their heads in, gave me a suspicious look and decided the next carriage was a safer option. Couldn’t say I blamed them. If I was a cop, I’d have arrested me on the spot, the way I looked.
We swung into Caulfield Station, the imposing brick wall of the racecourse easily visible from the window. The station was deserted, and when we took off again the train swung a right heading towards Frankston, another half-hour or so down the track. We rattled through the Queens Parade side of the racecourse, before slowing for the boom gates at Glenhuntly. If I got off here I could walk up to Gino’s Pizza and order a Seafood Delight. Fat chance of that. I spat on my hands and sort of washed my face down as best I could and straightened up my clothes. It didn’t do much good, I looked like some dirty old man about to expose himself in that ridiculous raincoat. I debated whether to take it off, but left it alone, figuring that at least it gave me some warmth.
The pack, too, was giving me grief. The straps were cutting into my shoulders and I was sorely tempted to pull it off and rest it on the seat next to me. In the end, I loosened the straps a bit and leaned sideways on the seat so that the weight was off my back. Can’t say I was entirely comfortable, but I settled in as best as I could for the remainder of the ride to Frankston.
As the train pulled into Glenhuntly Station, no one got in and no one got off. The train gave a warning toot and started to pull gently out of the station. Then the phone rang again.
‘Get off the train,’ he said.
‘I can’t. It’s already left the station.’
‘Do it, if you want to see Michelle alive.’
The carriage doors had closed automatically and locked with a defiant hiss. I tried in vain to force one open. Might as well have tried to open the Reserve Bank vault. The train started to increase speed as it commenced clearing the station. I was in the second-last carriage, and if I couldn’t get off soon I’d be riding it express all the way down the line to Frankston. The windows were a no-go; you could slide the top ones open but they were only as wide as my hand anyway. I thought about kicking one open, but instead, I ran back to the interconnecting carriageway doors. The passenger doors might have been locked, but you could still walk in between carriages. And get off, if you really had to. The driver blew his horn to signal he was accelerating as I jumped between the carriages and onto the platform. It wasn’t a clean leap. I landed clumsily and cartwheeled and rolled over, ending up in an awkward pile against the wire-mesh fence at the end of the platform. If I’d left it any longer, I would have jumped smack bang into a pylon. Then it would have been finito, all over red rover.
Picked myself up. Some more cuts and scrapes to add to the growing collection. Hell, why stop at one? Brushed myself down, no serious damage. Pack still intact and sitting safely on my back. Beginning to feel like I could get a job as a stuntman if I ever gave up my day job.
The station was dimly lit and deserted now that the train had pulled out. The mobile rang and I reached for it. Where was the bloody thing? Wasn’t in my raincoat, nor in the flap of my backpack. But I could hear it ringing nearby. The sound was faint, but it was somewhere close to where I was standing. I must have dropped it when I jumped from the train. It rang for the third time and I still couldn’t locate it. Would help if I could see past the solitary lamp they had on the platform roof. When it rang for the fifth time I found it wedged against the wire-mesh fence. I ran to pick it up, and of course it stopped ringing as soon as I had it in my hands. For Christ’s sake! I looked at the phone, sorely tempted to hurl it as hard and as far as I could. How dare it defy my efforts. Wasn’t I doing everything humanly possibly to comply? I glared at it for a moment and, believe me, its fate hung in the balance. Then it was nice to me. It rang.
‘Rather careless, weren’t you,’ his voice sniggered at me down the line. ‘Jumping off trains and losing your phone. You’ll have to be more careful.’
Bastard was watching me from somewhere. Had to be close by.
‘No thanks to you,’ I said. ‘How long is this bullshit going to go on for? Why don’t you just cut the crap and tell me where to make the exchange. Be a lot easier on the both of us.’
‘Shut the fuck up and do as you’re told. You haven’t got far to go. Walk back along the railway lines across Glenhuntly Road and follow them into the shunting yards. There are some goods carriages on the siding. Make for those.’
Five minutes’ walk later I entered the shunting yards. I paused a moment, sweeping my eyes over the place and trying to pierce the darkness from the few lights hanging from the overhead lines. I could make out a couple of rail tracks that ran down the centre of the yard. Several more led off to the right-hand side. Some rolling stock and freight carriages were sitting on those, patiently awaiting their next journey. In front of them were a couple of graffiti-covered workers’ huts and wooden railway sleepers stacked carelessly in a pile. A typical workman’s depot. I made for the goods trains like I’d been told to. When I got to within twenty metres a voice called out.
‘Punter. Stop where you are.’
It was him, the man who’d been speaking on the phone. I froze and waited for him to speak again. I couldn’t see exactly where the voice was coming from, somewhere within the freight carriages.
‘Okay, I’m here and you’re here. What do we do now?’
‘Go back to the second-last carriage and get on. We’ll make the swap there.’
I looked up at the train I was supposed to board. It was an empty bulk goods transporter consisting of high steel walls and no roof. It had a yellow logo painted on the side of each carriage: You can trust VLine. I could think of better places to put my faith in. In fact, the more I thought about it, the less I liked my chances of getting out alive. It was a perfect place for an ambush.
My tank of adrenalin, which had kept me going for the past couple of hours, had just about dried up. I felt my Dutch courage suddenly deflating like a punctured Sherrin football. As quickly as my bravado was deserting me, it was being replaced by fear. The fear that I’d walked into a fucking trap where there was no way out, and I had absolutely zero chance of doing anything about it. All that evening’s running and jumping about and fighting was over. It all boiled down to what would happen in the next five minutes. The reality was that this was where the trade would take place. And I had no idea if we’d get Michelle back alive, or if I’d be taken out in the process.
‘Where’s Michelle?’
‘She’s here. When you climb up we’ll show her to you.’
‘I want to see her first.’
‘You’ll do as you’re fucking told.’
‘I’m not coming up till I see her first.’
He swore again, then spoke hurriedly to another person. I figured he had to have at least one other covering for him, maybe more. There were some scraping sounds, then I saw two heads emerge over the top of the carriage wall. Michelle’s face was in front and someone else wearing a balaclava was directly behind her. I walked closer and called out to her.
‘Michelle, it’s Punter. Are you all right?’
Poor kid had a gag of some sort tied around her mouth and a bandage wrapped around her ear. A guy was holding a knife to her throat and he jerked the gag down over her chin so that she could speak. She answered me, her brave voice fighting back tears.
‘Punter, please come and get me.’
I took another step towards her and the first guy bailed me up.
‘That’s far enough. You know we’ve got her. Do as we say and it goes off nice and cool, right?’
‘All right.’
‘Go back to that carriage and climb on board through the front door like I told you. We’ll exchange in the middle of the carriage.’
I did as he told me and walked back twenty metres to where the door was. It was already ajar, so I hauled myself up on the metal stepladder and into the carriage. It was like walking into a darkened cave; even without a roof overhead I could hardly make out a thing. The drizzle was incessant, like a dripping tap that wouldn’t stop. It made the timber flooring as slippery as hell. After a moment, my eyes focused on some movement at the other end of the carriage.
‘You bring all the money?’
‘It’s all here,’ I said, unbuckling the backpack and letting it drop to the floor with a thud. It felt good to finally rid myself of the weight. I’d have welt marks for a week after running that load around town. I could see a little better now; there was one guy alone and another with Michelle. He had her safely in the corner, a knife still at her throat. Meanwhile, the guy who’d been speaking to me on the phone walked forward. It was the first time I’d caught a close-up look at him, but I only really remembered three things. He was wearing a surreal gorilla mask as a disguise and he was carrying a sawn-off shotgun in his right hand, which was pointed at my chest. He also held a powerful torch, which he switched on right into my face. I held a hand up instinctively, covering my eyes from the blinding light.
‘Okay. Five paces forward and put the pack in the middle of the floor. Then you go back to your corner while we check the merchandise. In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re carrying,’ he said, lifting his shotgun slightly. ‘You might be too, for all we know, but don’t get any bright ideas or she’ll cop it in the neck and you’ll get a head what’ll look like a sieve.’
‘I’m not armed,’ I said. I picked up the pack again, walked forward, then put it down slowly and deliberately where he told me to, before backing away a couple of steps.
‘Further,’ he said, his torch blinding my eyes and the shotty still levelled at my stomach. ‘Back off, right to the corner.’
‘I’m going.’ I obliged him and withdrew slowly to my dark little patch of ground. When he deemed me to be sufficiently clear, he stooped over and picked up the pack. Then he too retreated to his corner and set about opening it. He worked methodically, pulling out the first few bundles and inspecting them. Then he fished around deeper in the pack and pulled out some rolls further down. Perhaps he thought we’d stuffed it full of newspapers.
‘It’s all there,’ I said.
He didn’t answer, kept on shining his torch at the pack to see if they were genuine banknotes. He was cool, all right, seemed to take his time sifting through random bank rolls, although in reality it was only seconds that were passing. If I was armed, maybe I could have rushed him. But I was standing a good way off and he’d hear me running at him over the flooring. The other guy guarding Michelle might have a gun too, and besides, we’d come to trade. Finally he seemed satisfied and pulled the zip back tight. Then he stood up and called out to someone. ‘Here it comes.’ He picked the pack up, threw it high over the walls of the carriage to his left. I heard it drop on the other side and a muffled voice said, ‘Got it.’
He kept the light in my face and the shotgun aimed at me as he backed away to his corner. Crunch time. He’d got the money, they were armed and they still had the girl. When he got to the end of the carriage he called out.
‘We’re letting Michelle walk towards you. Don’t get any fucking ideas about bein’ a hero, or we’ll shoot the pair of you. You follow?’
‘I got it.’
‘And you both stay here for another ten minutes before you go anywhere.’
‘I hear you.’
The guy with the knife prodded Michelle forward. She took some tentative steps towards me and I could see her hands tied behind her back. They let her keep walking until she reached the middle of the carriage, then the man in the gorilla mask stepped forward, aimed his shotgun at us and let off both barrels.