Tony Pascoe climbed out of the van and straightened his jacket, cinching the top button and lifting his trousers over the boot heel-tabs. The borrowed boots now squeaked when he walked.
It was another hot morning. The shade from the jacaranda tree was weak and he could feel the sunlight burning his face, despite the opiate in his bloodstream.
Something had lurched in his chest this morning. The previously dull weight of the tumour now felt like jagged bluestone against his ribs. Sarani had sourced the pethidine after he awoke grey-faced with his fists clenched. He didn’t want to get her into trouble, and had tried to hide the pain, but it was like the bluestone rock had been dropped into a pond of what remained of his consciousness. What were previously ripples of discomfort had become waves that crashed inside him, leaving the taste of blood in his mouth.
The Subiaco street was quiet except for the ticking of a front-yard sprinkler and the warbling call of magpies in the branches above him. Pascoe wondered what his friends back inside Fremantle Prison were doing right now. The truth was that he missed them. They say that you can never really know anyone else, but that wasn’t true. The closest friendships that Pascoe had ever made were developed in prison. Once the japing and yabbering noise of the younger inmates died away it was possible to hold a decent conversation, either in the cells or out in the yard. Pascoe supposed that it was like being in the military. The prison walls diminished his world, but that only emphasised the importance of his friends. The regular human virtues of loyalty and generosity were cast into sharper relief by the reality of prison life.
Pascoe missed his closest friends, and he knew that they would miss him too. It was strange, but Pascoe felt lucky. If he died a free man in the coming days then that was a personal victory. But if he was recaptured and was healthy enough to be returned to his old cell, among his friends, then that was alright too. It was only the middle-ground that was unacceptable to him. Most of all, Pascoe didn’t want to die in hospital, surrounded by strangers.
He didn’t have much time left, but thinking about that time helped slow it down and fill it out. He thought now about what might happen next. The businessman, Tremain, hadn’t been strong enough to make the payment himself, meaning that Pascoe would have to do it. This exposed him to a degree of scrutiny that wasn’t good, but he didn’t have a choice.
Pascoe tucked the flare-gun pistol under the driver’s seat. His purposeful walk toward Tremain’s office was undermined by the squeaking of his boots, something that made him smile. He entered the gate that fronted the office block, passing between overgrown beds of orange-flowered nasturtium and purple morning glory that he hadn’t noticed on his earlier visit. The lobby still smelt of stale cigarette smoke. All of the other offices were closed, the thin veneer doors labelled with the names of various trading companies and mining concerns. Tremain’s office door was ajar, and Pascoe didn’t bother knocking. He pulled the door back and walked inside. Tremain sat behind his desk, an old Gladstone bag placed between the trays laden with invoices and faxes. Tremain watched Pascoe from behind a veil of smoke. He cleared his throat and nodded to the bag, whose weight Pascoe realised was going to be a problem.
Pascoe stepped into the room and heard the door click behind him. He turned to find a tall middle-aged man with ropy arms and a sallow face. His hair was cut short into natural grey-blond spikes. His jeans and collared shirt looked too large for him, as though, like Pascoe, he’d recently lost weight. He wasn’t armed, but the look in his eyes and the set of his feet and shoulders was familiar, poised for action. Pascoe knew who he was, and put up his hands in mock surrender.