|
1200hrs Monday December 17, 2012 Hampshire Constabulary. Aldershot Police Station |
A police escort, a young male probationary constable learning the ropes, was given the run-around duties. Tasked to drive Mackay and Cross in the same Mitsubishi SUV, back to Aldershot’s paved pedestrian shopping hub. Back to the parked Toyota Hilux.
‘So, you two are best friends now?’ Cross said, sitting next to Mackay on the rear bench. She sat on the far right, he on the far left. The centre space a good two cold feet between them.
‘What’s that?’ said Mackay.
‘Getting deep and personal with the sergeant back there at the station.’
‘She seemed decent. Bit of a gaffer, as they say.’
‘You mean gammer. Gaffer is used for old men, Tin Man. You should know. Been in the country long enough.’
‘We going there, are we? I’m sorry I’m not fully acquainted with the jargon. My new objective is to make friends, right? I’m doing my best. Those words might have even come from that wide mouth you got there.’
‘With the bobby patrol?’
‘Aye, with whoever. Let’s just say I’m practising my social skills. Feels nice talking to people again. And people listening to me.’
Cross stared out the window. The probationary constable darted a glance in the rear-view mirror.
‘Well, I admit you did pretty good then,’ Cross said still facing the window. ‘Opened up and answered all her questions. Full sentences too. Next step is to call her at home and schedule a dinner and a movie.’
‘She was talking to me, not you.’
‘Of course, you’re the big shot now.’
‘Why do you care anyway? Where’s this going?’
‘I don’t care, just making a point of observation.’
‘Cheers and thanks then, guv,’ said Mackay, unsure if he’d done something wrong.
Neither spoke for the rest of the short drive back to the Hilux.
Once their escort parked, Mackay did the polite thing and hauled Cross from the passenger bench of the Mitsubishi, into the passenger seat of the Hilux. One arm under the backside, one arm around her waist, like they were just married, entering the bedroom. There wasn’t much weight to her. Deceptively light for a double amputee. Amazing how much a solid set of legs weighed. Knees, shins, feet, litres of liquid, attached bone, cartilage and muscle all added up. Without it, Cross’s body weighed like a child’s. Mackay stepped around and grabbed her wheelchair from the SUV’s load space, transferred it to the back of the Hilux, then sat in the driver’s seat.
‘So, the chase-down,’ started Cross as Mackay slid and clicked the buckle. ‘The speed.’
‘I can’t explain it,’ Mackay said, turning the key. ‘Never even realised what was happening. I was in a zone, gunning it, then I grabbed them, then I fell. Weirdest thing was that afterwards, aside from falling over and looking like a right twat, I felt totally fine. Wasn’t puffing, wasn’t sweating. Just sore was all.’ Mackay rolled his shoulder back and forth. ‘Everything feels okay.’
Cross said, ‘Whatever happened, it’s an anomaly. You’re a fucking anomaly.’
‘Pog mo thoin.’
‘That’s one Irish saying I do know. Don’t get all salty on me.’
‘I’m salty?’
‘Can we move on?’
‘I’m sure you will regardless.’
‘Cheer up, Charlie. How in Christ you managed the speed and the take-down within five minutes is damn near impossible.’
Mackay pulled away from the kerb, mashed the throttle and shuttled into the traffic – the exhaust yelling in retort as he left. Aggressive and purposeful like he was biting back at Cross’s remarks with noise rather than words. Mackay stared straight ahead, overtaking, merging, then overtaking and merging again. On repeat. All the way until all the traffic cleared away behind him.
A cold shot of anxiety began to split and emerge somewhere deep in the pit of Mackay’s gut. Like a worm after a downpour, raising its head slowly and taking a peek at the world. Uncertain whether it continues to higher ground or nestles back into the mush. Cross was annoyed and upset over something, but Mackay couldn’t put a finger on it. It was confusing. But this was Cross. A red ant with a big mouth. All talk, all military. He hoped it was just the nonsense from another Army brat who liked mouthing off. Heart on her sleeve, no shame, all confidence. Letting it go was the hard part. The whole water off a duck’s back thing was difficult. There were always leftover uncertainties and zero clarification when it came to women. Running on the street had put him in a great mood, and he wished he were back out there. It felt good. Felt right. Then Cross cut him down. Maybe he was just thin-skinned or overly sensitive, but whatever her problem was, he was in the clear. He was sure of that. Neither spoke until they were on the main road leading to the garrison security gates.
Cross broke the ice.
‘I don’t mean you’re weird or strange, or some sort of mutant,’ she said, struggling to sound courteous.
Mackay kept quiet. Partly because he didn’t know what to say, and partly because he was starting to feel tired. He pulled up at the security booth so they could both present their IDs, then drove on through. Mackay stared reticently at random passing buildings, observing the variations in colours and shapes. Making a point of ignoring Cross and keeping his mouth shut.
‘Bloomin’ hell,’ said Cross. ‘Grow up already, I hate it when there’s silence. And don’t take my words to heart either, you fucking panzy. This is some kind of phenomenon, we both know it. And we both know it has something to do with that new fucked-up cheese grater chest of yours. Guaranteed. It felt big when you carried me.’
‘Carried you? When?’ said Mackay, light-headed, struggling to focus on the streets and signs back to the gym. Extreme fatigue was pasting his brain, laying on stronger by the second. Working up from dull, to pointy, to razor sharp.
‘Just now,’ said Cross. ‘From the police car into here, you goldfish. Your chest felt wide. Like it was… enlarged. Bigger than normal. I have felt other men’s chests you know.’
‘Okay.’
‘Okay? That’s it?’ Cross turned and looked directly at him. His head and neck were sagged over, his chin almost resting on the horn in the middle of the steering wheel. He breathed in deep and sighed. Cross couldn’t tell if he was annoyed or about to pass out.
‘You okay?’ she asked.
‘I’m fine.’
‘Quit cocking about, you look terrible.’
‘I’m just tired.’
‘Fine then. We can talk about this later after I’ve sorted out my bullshit with the booking swap. We’re going to look for Captain Andersen to find more answers.’
‘The surgeon?’ said Mackay.
‘What other Captain Andersen do you know who’s a surgeon? You need some time to rest and reset, Tin Man. You look like shit and your brain is all over the place.’
Mackay took another long breath. His eyes were growing heavier by the second, petering just above the bottom of the sockets. He closed them, just for a second. His foot slipped off the accelerator.
‘Where are you going? Mackay!’ shouted Cross.
|
1300hrs Monday December 17, 2012 Perth, Western Australia |
Inside his high-rise apartment, Nicus Van Breeman closed his laptop then took the elevator to the basement parking garage. He sat inside his white Audi saloon and prepped the number for Bryson on the dash display, one of his top boys back at the winery. A ranked associate, smarter than most gym jocks but dumber than a cheap accountant. He needed to reply to a voice message Bryson had sent him. There was a major problem at the winery, and he needed to check back in immediately. Once he’d cleared the winding exit ramp and merged onto the main street, he hit dial and began the long drive down to Margaret River. The tighter side of a three-hour journey south of Perth.
Van Breeman hit dial. Bryson picked up.
‘How big an issue is this?’ asked Van Breeman, pairing onto the highway.
‘Our biggest since, well, since Carice,’ said Bryson.
Van Breeman was quiet for a moment, deciding on the best course of action.
‘Sir?’ said Bryson.
‘Send all the staff home. Front gallery staff, and the others. Everyone except our main crew. Tell them it’ll be a week of paid leave while we assess. You know the drill.’
Van Breeman ended the call.
Aside from fixing the problem, Van Breeman first needed to check in on his men. He needed a straight story. Following that, on the admin front, there was always work to do: check expenditure listings, observe the export spreadsheets, import deliveries and moderate the cash flow on all accounts. Most importantly, he needed to oversee his pet project – where the current problem had without a doubt initiated from. Especially if it had any similarity to what happened with his ex-girlfriend Carice, who’d caught him out and begun digging deeper into it behind his back. Asking questions that shouldn’t have been asked. This annoyed him. He disliked problems, especially when it related to his off-chute pursuit. Considering it also kept the mainstream enterprise of the winery afloat, it therefore needed top priority. If issues arose, attention to detail was everything.
His winery still had the scent of his father spiritually rooted in the name, which Nicus hoped to change. But there was time for that later. Frans & Hoek was just that. A name. Based on the township of Franschhoek, outside of Cape Town where Nicus grew up. With Nicus’s trust fund, old man Van Breeman bought out a retired dairy farm stationed over the land sometime in the late 1800s. Colonial times. Run by either French or English descendants. But that part of history didn’t matter. What did matter was the land. Sprawled out across the skirts of the Jarrahwood State Forest. Prime real estate just outside the Margaret River valley. A haven with perfect soil for growing grapes and space enough to operate his activities undetected. Nicus’s father set it up, but Nicus invested the time.
To help run the legal side of the winery, Van Breeman employed eight staff. For the other side, he had six. Lower numbers meant fewer mistakes, and a tighter affinity for trusted communication. The six men employed for the offshoot venture were heavy-hitters. Top dogs under Van Breeman’s command and control. Two of the six were local cops happy to be on the take, while the other four were direct from the mother country: ex-soldiers and horse wranglers from South Africa. All self-absorbed, narcissistic, and money-hungry. Essentially, they were muscle. A security team overseeing the illegal operations. Much of it included shift work watching over the CCTV. Cameras were fitted to every building, set up at three-sixty-degree reference points throughout the entire property, even knocked into trees and wired into the main power. Internal. External. The whole nine yards. The front of house, wine press facility, underground cellar, maintenance cabin, the surrounding forest, and crucially, the strongbox. An extension built into the side of the main gallery where Van Breeman stored his precious goods. It was the first thing tourists saw as they drove inside the property. Dark web products hiding in plain sight inside a seemingly ordinary side office or supplies room. Illegal resources merely feet away as tourists tasted and tested the red and white range.
Overseeing the security system was a big job but the shift work was done on a rotation basis, easing up the workload. And most of it was done sitting down anyway, in front of a monitor. Seven days a week Van Breeman required a foot patrol around the bordering edge of the property – ensuring fence-line security. A three-kilometre check: front, back and sides of the property perimeter nestled deep into the surrounding Jarrahwood State Forest. Check for any gaps or slack in the line, check for leaning posts, eroding soil, and eliminate any wandering pesky wildlife. Sometimes, Van Breeman himself did the trip. Though his patrol was on horseback, involving a long-range weapon for sight practice.
Most people would think of a strongbox as some type of small, lockable box, made of metal for containing valuables. However, for Van Breeman’s side project, he erected a complete supplementary structure. An entire room to protect and house his nest eggs. These special orders needed a cool, dry room, sanitised and sterilised, which was the one job in the wider operation Van Breeman would oversee personally. The strongbox housed a priceless network, and only Van Breeman could cast, mould and polish it to its optimal luster. Only he would count the numbers and protect its contents.
On this particular day, and with this particular issue, the information coming in from Bryson was moderately stressing. Nothing he couldn’t deal with, but an issue existed where it shouldn’t. One of his guys had made a mistake, and mistakes weren’t part of Van Breeman’s vocabulary. If one did pop up, amends were made, and if necessary, reprimands were served. How he would clear the issue on this occasion depended on a few things. Things he spent three hours driving to Frans & Hoek contemplating.
Once he arrived, he would require a full rerun of how the mistake went down. Then an examination as to how the issue arose in the first place. That would require a sit-down. A one-on-one with his crew. Nut out the right questions and get the right answers. How was it handled? Who was the inadequate cog in the machine? Was that cog a culprit of failure, or was there an accident that needed tighter parameters? In a nutshell, Van Breeman would eliminate that cog, then find a willing replacement.
|
1300hrs Monday December 17, 2012 Aldershot Garrison, Medical Administration Wing |
Mackay was lucky. The roads inside the garrison were quiet. There was no other traffic coming in from behind or in front. He’d hit the verge, taken the Hilux up the sidewalk, then taken out a waste bin before Cross grabbed the wheel. Lucky again Mackay’s foot had slipped off the accelerator, Cross was able to hold the handbrake and steering wheel before shuddering the Hilux to a stop, parking it streetside tight against the kerb.
Mackay was sound asleep in the driver’s seat. Unresponsive. Still breathing, but totally unconscious. Despite Cross’s vocal attempts to shout him awake, shake him, even prodding her thumb inside his ear, Mackay was gone. And he didn’t look good. Cross could raise the booking issue with the physical training instructors later, this needed to be squared away immediately.
Cross killed the engine, buzzed the window down and looked out for help. Which came in less than a minute. A soldier in uniform twenty metres ahead was walking from an administration block to her left, across the road towards a parking lot to her right. Male, tall and thin, moving slow and slouched. His rank wasn’t visible from Cross’s position, but from his stooped form and waif torso, she pegged him as a private. His physicality looked less than mature, almost childlike. Not lean in an athletic kind of way, just thin. Plain old skinny. Could have had two of him walking inside his uniform.
Cross stuck her head out the window.
‘Soldier! Double in, I need your help.’
The kid bolted upright, straighter than the definition of vertical. He checked his peripherals for any danger, then seeing all was clear he looked over at the misplaced Hilux. Cross could see the mechanisms of thought flicker and spark, so she hurried him along.
‘Yes you. March over here like fucking now. Left, right, left.’
The soldier moved. As best as his gamer-bod could, arriving at Cross’s side of the vehicle breathless and wide-eyed. A private. She was right. Young, not even twenty years old. Red cheeks, earnest blue eyes. Innocent. Soft. Uncorrupted.
‘I need you to get in the car and drive this vehicle up to the medical centre,’ said Cross.
‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ said the private, ‘but my orders are to head back to our unit ASAP, we’ve got exams to prepare for.’
Cross leaned back in her chair, clearing the view of the driver’s seat with Mackay slumped over, his forehead resting on the horn, the seatbelt catching the rest of his body from collapsing into the footwell.
‘Step closer, Private,’ said Cross.
The soldier moved up to the door and peered inside.
‘Oh shit, he okay?’ he said.
‘No, and I need you to take over and drive. I don’t know how bad he actually is. The medical centre is only two streets up ahead.’
‘You want me to drive?’
‘If I have to ask you a third time, we’re going to have a real fucking problem.’
Cross hated making her disability an obvious point, but the kid didn’t know, and right now he needed to, if they were going to get anywhere.
‘Look down,’ said Cross.
The kid seemed confused. Cross could see the uncertainties bouncing around in his head. His brow narrowed, his eyes focused in on Cross’s expression, his own innate thought patterns processing her request.
‘At my legs, Private, I’m an amputee. I can’t drive. So, get the fuck in. Spit-spot.’
The kid finally looked down. He saw the denim jeans first, then the fold in the cloth with nothing protruding out of it.
‘Shit. So sorry,’ said the kid.
‘Reef his chair back and sit on him to drive. Looks like he won’t feel a thing.’
‘I got you.’
‘Thank fuck,’ said Cross.
The kid bolted around the front of the Hilux, opened Mackay’s door and found the handle to adjust the seat’s sliding mechanism. He pulled it further back, then took a moment to consider how he was going to manage the driving part. Mackay’s thighs were too big to sit between, so he figured he’d have to sit on top. Which he did, then closed the door and turned the key.
‘You know the way to the medical centre?’ asked Cross.
‘It’s basically my second home,’ he said. ‘Spend plenty hours in there.’
The private pulled away from the kerb and drove on down the narrow road.
‘You got allergies? Always sick or something?’ said Cross.
‘No, I’m in the medical corps.’
‘Well that makes sense. Was just considering how thin you are. Perhaps you get ordered there to take in extra supplements. Keep you alive or straighten that back of yours.’
‘You should see my parents, ma’am. Both tall and thin. Mum’s a dance instructor and Dad played basketball, but we prosper.’
The private turned left at a T-junction, maintaining balance on Mackay’s legs as they rounded the bend. He then took another left a hundred metres further where the signage for the medical centre stood fixed in a grassy bed out front of a huge brick building.
‘Park in the disabled. Close as you can,’ said Cross.
The private obliged, slotting the Hilux into the closest disabled bay next to a zebra crossing, adjacent to the building’s entrance.
‘Now I’m going to need you to get my chair from the backseat.’
The private held his breath, contemplating what to respond with. Making sure whatever he was going to say next would come out the right way.
‘If I may, ma’am, I want to help,’ he said. ‘I’m guessing you need someone from emergency, or one of the doctors or nurses. I can go in and call for help? I know plenty of the crew inside. Tell me who you need to see.’
‘Good initiative, son,’ said Cross. ‘Do you know Captain Andersen?’
The private thought on it. ‘No,’ he said. ‘That name is off my radar.’
‘He is for most,’ said Cross. ‘Unless you’ve been deployed and come back missing stuff. He’s a battlefield surgeon. Grab my chair, okay?’
The private got off Mackay and moved to the back of the Hilux. He pulled out Cross’s wheelchair and pushed it towards the passenger door, holding it steady while she scaled down.
Cross said, ‘Now you stay here with him and make sure he keeps breathing. This is a chin up, back straight kind of moment. You are not a duck’s vagina. What’s your name?’
‘Stafford, ma’am.’
‘Stafford. He’s in a bad way, okay. If his head drops further, or you hear wheezy, raspy noises, tilt him up and open his airway, like I’m sure you’ve been taught. Just make sure he keeps breathing. I’ll head inside and get the right person. Don’t fuck this up.’
The private nodded. He walked around to the driver’s door and watched over Mackay. On guard, eyes on, with good form, ready to impress.
Cross scooted herself over the zebra crossing, through the automated glass doors and into the front foyer. As a regular attendee over the last few years, she knew the halls, wards, and corridors well. She passed main reception, radiology, renal, oncology and headed straight for the orthopaedics nurse station. A regular face was on. Not regular in a way you’re happy to see and chew the fat with, but regular for familiar communication only. A face with a voice. She was competent, but there was less than zero friendship between the two. Nurse Henry. Late twenties with an atypical, no-nonsense attitude. Brunette locks in a tidy bun, mild scowl, large in the chest.
‘Is Captain Andersen in?’ asked Cross.
Henry looked up from her keyboard and paused.
‘Nice to see you too, Renee,’ said the nurse.
‘Well?’
‘He is, but he’s busy.’ A reflex response. Automatic. The familiar Henry trait was in good form. Terse, flat, cold.
Cross clenched her jaw and breathed out. ‘Busy with a patient, busy on a break having tea and scones, busy being a sex pest or whatever else “busy” means around here? Don’t cock about, this is vital.’
‘Pardon me?’ Henry grew an inch in her posture. Her eyes widened, her cheeks flushed.
‘Pardon you nothing,’ said Cross. ‘This isn’t the time for back and forth. I need him now, Henry. So, calm your tits and listen the fuck in.’
A second and third nurse busy filing and typing at the station stopped mid-task and looked over. Noticing who Henry was talking to, they both rolled their eyes then turned back to whatever they were doing.
‘I have an emergency in the car park,’ said Cross. ‘Sitting in a blue Hilux in the disabled bay. Mackay Connolly. He’s unconscious but still breathing. There’s zero response. I know you know him.’
Nurse Henry’s scowl grew, then locked in place. The other two glanced back again at the mention of Mackay.
‘Then why didn’t you go to emergency, Renee?’ Henry said through gritted teeth.
‘Because, luv, I’m coming right to the source,’ said Cross. ‘Emergency don’t know my boy out there, and if he dies in that car because you’re stalling me with that face, it’s going to be on you. Get Andersen now.’
Cross kept eyes on Henry and wrapped her fingernails along the desk. Henry closed her eyes for a long second, then picked up the phone and hit three buttons – presumably the intra-medical line, direct to Andersen’s office.
‘Sir, I have a Renee Cross here stating there’s an emergency with a Mackay Connolly,’ said Henry. ‘Apparently he’s non-responsive in the car park.’
Cross raised an expressionless smile. Lips only, no eyes. Then she turned and began speed-wheeling her way back outside.
Captain Andersen arrived alongside Cross, just as she exited the automated doors. He wore a navy-blue sweater, tie, and dress pants. Formal. Professional. He slowed from quick jog to brisk walk. Behind the two of them, two male medics, one short, one average height, hustled a stretcher out the door and over the zebracrossing. They were Asian. Which was not unusual, considering Britain’s multicultural society. Maybe Japanese, maybe Korean. Cross couldn’t tell. She didn’t catch their name badges. The stretcher made a crass racket as it bustled along, its little rubber stretcher-wheels chattering in protest as they danced unevenly across the tarmac to the Hilux. Cross wheeled in behind Stafford, still on guard, still at ease. His back had slouched a little more, but he couldn’t be faulted for standing at the ready.
‘He still alive, Private?’ said Cross.
‘Still breathing, ma’am. No change.’
‘Good work. You’re not made of soy after all. Now hang about, get into the back seat, and monitor his head and shoulders while these two get him onto the stretcher. It’ll be a three-man job.’
Stafford moved.
The two medics replaced Stafford’s position, easing the stretcher parallel to the driver’s door. Captain Andersen stayed back with Cross. Even from her lower position in her chair she could smell coffee on his breath. She also saw tiny morsels of crumbs sitting just below the bud of his tie and the ‘v’ of his sweater. A cake or a biscuit. Maybe both. Cross gathered he’d been on his lunch break, then thought about Nurse Henry and her stalling. She made a mental note.
‘Has he been taking his medication?’ asked Andersen.
‘No idea, sir,’ said cross. ‘Our chats never got that far.’
The taller medic undid Mackay’s seat belt and eased him down first, working him like a contortionist. The shorter medic held Mackay’s body as it leaned onto the stretcher while Stafford supported Mackay’s head gingerly from behind. Once Mackay was sorted, Stafford jumped out of the cab and looked at Cross with a what now expression.
‘You’re done here, Oppo,’ said Cross. ‘Dismissed. Thanks for your help.’
‘Oppo?’
‘Means fellow soldier.’
‘Thank you, ma’am.’
‘If anyone has any issue with your tardiness, tell them you were with ex-Sergeant Cross and Captain Andersen, saving a life.’
‘Ma’am,’ said Stafford, and marched off in quick time.
|
1315hrs Monday December 17, 2012 Aldershot Garrison, Medical Administration Wing |
Cross and Andersen followed the two medics with Andersen grabbing Cross’s rear push bars and stepping out in long strides behind them.
‘Isolation ward, quarantine room four,’ said Andersen.
‘Sir,’ replied the two medics as they moved the stretcher through the automated doors.
Andersen said, ‘You still running those boxing classes, Cross? Here at the garrison?’
‘What’s that got to do with anything, sir?’ said Cross.
‘Mackay shouldn’t be sparring. Not with his ribs. Not yet.’
‘He’s been boxing, but not sparring, thanks. I’m not a useless tit you know. I know about his surgery, and I know how to train my guys back from trauma. You remember my lack of legs? I instruct from experience.’
‘Sorry, Cross, you’re right,’ said Andersen. ‘I should give you more credit. You’re a good trainer, but you only know half his story. I’ll ask a better question. Has he exerted himself physically then? In the last hour or so?’
‘Yes, he has. And it wasn’t boxing. We were at the Bed and Bath in town. He just ran down a couple of getaway shoplifters on a fucking motorbike doing the town speed limit.’
Captain Andersen slowed his stride and shot a hard glance down at Cross. Part bewildered, part confused, part impressed.
‘Okay,’ said Andersen.
‘Okay, what,’ said Cross. ‘What does that mean?’
‘As in okay, that makes sense.’
‘Makes sense to you only.’
‘Correct. Me and about three others. He’s had a special operation, which I’m sure you’ve heard about, but with a special thermoplastic not used before. He’s our first-timer.’
Andersen strode out again, wheeling Cross faster, increasing pace to keep up behind the medics.
‘If he’s physically exerted himself to that extent,’ said Andersen, ‘maintaining a full sprint reaching… how fast? How many miles an hour?’
‘They think it was thirty,’ said Cross. ‘It’ll be on the news this evening no doubt, or at least tomorrow’s paper.’
‘Shit.’
‘Shit? Like, bad news shit?’
‘Didn’t expect this level of accelerated response.’
‘That’s good in my book.’
‘That’s good in any book. World, Olympic, and Guinness. People will be asking questions.’
The two medics, the stretcher, Andersen and Cross passed radiology, turned and rounded oncology, then stood in front of a set of locked double doors. Isolation Ward. Andersen pulled a swipe card and let them all through.
‘We’re going to have to keep a tight lid on this,’ said Andersen. ‘And tight-lipped. How many people do you think actually watched him run?’
‘Witnesses?’
‘Yes.’
‘No idea. Maybe four or five for certain. But I wasn’t there. That’s only from what I know when the police arrived and took witness statements. The roads weren’t that busy initially, but afterwards, there was a crowd.’
‘Shit.’
‘You’ll have to ask him when he wakes up. He will wake up, right?’
‘He will, big time. Don’t worry.’
The two medics moved Mackay from the stretcher to the hospital bed.
‘Get a drip ready,’ said Andersen. ‘The morphine and the two bottles from the cabinet. He’ll need the synthetic marrow assimilation solution. It’s marked as the clear liquid, and the synthetic liquid-fibre polymer is marked as blue.’
Andersen took a thermometer, placing it inside Mackay’s mouth under his tongue. He let it sit until it beeped. Forty-one degrees Celsius. High, but not alarmingly.
The medics removed their multi-patterned top jackets down to their olive drab T-shirts. Like a well-greased machine, they moved to the sink and washed their hands. Fingertips to elbow. First the shorter medic, then the taller, then Andersen following suit. Cross watched. Mackay drew air slowly.
‘Aren’t the nurses normally supposed to be helping with all of this?’ said Cross.
‘Normally, yes. But they don’t know Mackay’s trauma, and I don’t want them to know. These two have been on deployment with me. They worked on Mackay in Kandahar. They’re as good as any nurse in this garrison and know more about battlefield trauma than most.’
The shorter medic moved to a shelf with a pile of surgical gowns, pulled one, then walked in front of Andersen, threaded his arms through the front, then tied the lacing off at the back.
‘How well do you know him?’ Andersen asked Cross.
‘Mackay? Only the last month. Made a connection because of our ordeals in the desert, plus our surgeries and life on tour. He needed a friend.’
‘Okay.’
‘Okay?’
‘I guess he’s found one. And you can be here and help him understand what I’m going to tell him when he wakes up.’
‘Which is?’
‘You can wait for that too. Take this whatever way you want, but his collapse was a possibility that we chanced happening.’
‘What do you mean chanced happening?’
‘It’s not like it was life-threatening.’
Somewhere beneath the surface, Cross was starting to sense some bullshit. Her face perked from annoyed to pissed off.
‘Don’t you lie to me, sir,’ said Cross. ‘I’ve been on the other side of a life-threatening operation too. I know—’
Andersen cut her off. ‘These patients, you, him and a multitude of others are in my hands too, Cross. I take on a tonne of responsibility, and I have to live with it no matter which way it goes.’
‘You’re a soldier first, so own it,’ said Cross. ‘It’s your job. This could easily have been life-threatening, so you just waited it out? Does chancing it also mean chancing death? Just because you’re good at your profession doesn’t mean you’re not going to completely fuck it up one day either.’
Andersen took a breath. Took a second. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his eyes and slowly released the air from his lungs.
‘Hear me out, Cross,’ he said. ‘Mackay was given immunosuppressant medication so his body wouldn’t reject the surgery. We reattached the fissures throughout most of his entire ribcage with pressurised thermoplastic. He is taking prednisolone for inflammation and cyclosporine for anti-rejection. Usual stuff you’d take for a transplanted organ.’
‘But he didn’t have a transplanted organ.’
‘Not technically. We gave him completely new synthetic cartilages, which he needed.’
‘Completely new ribs?’
‘Yes. But there was one medication we didn’t give him. A synthesiser for his bone marrow. For when the synthetic compound naturalised inside his body.’
Andersen moved to observe Mackay’s slowed breathing while the two medics placed a heart rate monitor hooked up to an ECG machine. His chest ballooned as he breathed – expanding like a swelling wave wider and higher than any other human they’d ever seen. His breathing, however, had slowed in tempo, lulling to a pause of at least eight seconds after each exhale. Eight seconds with four heartbeats thrusting blood out towards his limbs and organs.
The medics prepped an IV bag full of saline solution and a morphine drip next to Mackay’s bed. Cautious and professional. They also set up a surgical table with needles, syringes and two small liquid bottles: one clear, one blue.
Cross said, ‘The military papers only wrote about the surgery realigning broken ribs and attaching intercostal muscle fibres. I thought they did a botched job too. Have you seen how raised his skin is? The barrelled chest? I thought it was just the post-surgery swelling taking an age to ease off.’
Andersen said, ‘When he arrived at Kandahar military hospital, there was hardly anything left of his ribcage. The cartilage was in shards, completely shattered. He needed a full upgrade. We were testing a new organic super-fibre, integrated with an outside film of ballistic-grade Kevlar and spectra shield. It’s flexible and expands as it sets into his existing ribs post-surgery. Hence the barrel-chest, like you said.’
Cross mulled on it, trying to pin her headspace around it all.
Andersen continued. ‘The synthesiser for the bone marrow aids in combining the existing marrow with the new synthetic form. The thermoplastic consists of pressurised liquid polymer elements utilising silicone, oxygen, carbon and hydrogen. All of which are combined into a single unified form to match his marrow cells. This could only happen if we knew he would collapse from overexertion, if his internal body temperature passed forty degrees. The low end of dangerous. His running for that extended period was why he collapsed. His body was hot and exhausted, so it shut down. Like heatstroke. We needed to be certain his body needed it.’
‘So, it’ll hurt,’ said Cross.
‘Like a triple shot of adrenalin to the heart. It’s a strong solution. It will hurt.’
‘Great proactive measures you got going, sir. Good way to pre-empt the use of an essential drug.’
‘Don’t start, Cross. You know how many patients I see every day? How many soldiers like him are in a purgatory state, waiting for the right timing for the right drug? He was scheduled to see me for a follow-up at the end of the month for an assessment. How would I know he’d be up and about chasing shoplifters on a motorbike? Maybe someone encouraged him?’ Andersen shot an accusatory glance at Cross. ‘Besides, none of us had any idea his physical capability would be that good.’
Cross said nothing. She maintained eye contact for several long moments, then eventually diluted her resolve.
‘Alright, sir, so you went along the conservative medical management route.’
‘For all intents and purposes, military politics and soldier safety have to play their part. I’m sure you of all people can understand.’
The shorter medic inserted the IV needle into the vein halfway up Mackay’s arm. Andersen prepped one syringe full of blue liquid and one full of clear liquid. He prepped a third filled with morphine then sat three hypodermic needles next to each, ready to go. The taller medic helped Andersen pull a pair of surgical gloves onto both hands, then placed a protective face mask over his mouth, strapping it behind his ears.
Anderson said, ‘The pseudo-marrow compound is simply injected into the synthetic ribs. It will only have effect on a subject who contains the organic fibre. Now you know more than most. Even more than those in this field of practice.’
Cross said, ‘I just hope the whole running incident in town falls on deaf ears. Or is made to look like a tall story from country folk wanting attention.’
‘I guess we’ll see,’ said Andersen. ‘We need to work now, Cross. Either hang around and endure his screams or go make yourself scarce.’
Andersen took the needle with the blue liquid while the two medics exposed Mackay’s upper torso. The shorter medic took an iodine dab and wiped it across the skin. With his left gloved hand, Anderson dug his fingers across Mackay’s thermoplastic ridges, pinched a solid mound and pulled it partially upwards. It moved about half an inch – stretching away from the ribcage itself. He then jammed the needle with the blue liquid into it. Immediately, he took the second needle with the clear liquid, dug into a second ridge and inserted it into the fibre. The shorter medic wiped another antiseptic film along Mackay’s skin, then rolled his body back to neutral. At the same time, the taller medic started fastening Mackay’s ankles and forearms with leather straps.
‘Now we wait,’ said Andersen.
|
1330hrs Monday December 17, 2012 Aldershot Garrison, Medical Administration Wing |
The two medics remained at the bedside: one near Mackay’s legs, one near his chest, bracing like alligators ready for some unlucky source of food. At first, Mackay only twitched slightly. Curling at the ribs where Andersen injected the two liquid vials, collapsing inward like a Venus flytrap. In short order, like Andersen said, Mackay woke. Big time. His eyes bolted open, and he screamed. At the same time, he was thrusting his whole body forward like he was trying to launch himself out of the bed. The taller medic planted his hands across Mackay’s shoulders while he yelled out in a raw gurgle, way down deep in the back of his throat. Mackay whipped his body back onto the mattress then arched upwards, lifting his chest towards the ceiling like a possessed child during an exorcism. His eyes widened like a goldfish, veins, arteries, and muscle bulged and loomed beneath the skin of his neck. His legs tried kicking and his lower body rocked and bucked like a wild bronco, but the leather straps were strong. He hammered wildly on repeat: chest, legs, chest, legs. Beating up and down like a human engine block.
The shorter medic leaned what weight he had onto Mackay’s upper legs, but his strength couldn’t match Mackay’s, so his body moved with the thrusts like a tornado ride at a carnival. He wasn’t of much use. The ECG machine went haywire, the needle scribbling and jerking across the screen, beeping and zigzagging frantically in protest. The cardiograph line scrambling at random under an abnormal rhythm.
Mackay bellowed. Guttural and loud. The longest ten seconds Cross had ever heard another endure. Mackay convulsed and gasped air like a steam train. He rocked and shook for one last fit, then suddenly, it passed. His eyes rolled into view as he finally began to breathe normally, drawing full-bodied, steady litres of air.
Cross wheeled herself to the foot of the bed. Andersen stood next to her, observing. Mackay’s eyes fluttered, opened, then blinked some more, clearing the glassy film. He was gaining clarity, dialling into the room and the people around him. He tried to speak, but his vocal cords were all burned out. He cleared his throat and attempted to ask the same question three times before a raspy, crackled sound eventually came through.
‘Where am I?’ Mackay asked. His eyes looked pleadingly at Cross as he tried to raise his arms and legs away from the leather straps. He then looked up at Andersen, the taller figure head and shoulders above the red ant, leaning over him. Andersen stared into Mackay’s eyes with a medical penlight, watching his eyes move and pupils dilate to the correct level of light in the room.
‘You’re in the medical centre,’ said Andersen.
‘Aldershot?’
‘Yes, Mackay. There are a few things I need to tell you.’
‘Why am I tied down? What am I doing here?’ Mackay said, again straining at the straps, pulling indignantly. The ECG machine fluttered, matching Mackay’s heart rate in agitated effect.
‘Relax, Mackay, we’ll get those things removed,’ said Anderson. He nodded at the two medics who began removing the leather. Mackay drew his hands and feet away in freedom and rubbed at his wrists, massaging blood back into the skin.
‘Can you sit up?’ asked Andersen. The taller medic helped Mackay slide back and upright against the headboard.
‘What happened to me?’ Mackay asked, flicking between the four pairs of staggered eyes staring back at him: Anderson, the two medics, and Cross low in her chair at the foot of the bed. He turned to Anderson. ‘What’s the story, horse?’
Anderson looked over at Cross, confused.
‘It’s an Irish thing,’ said Cross. ‘The man’s out of sorts.’
Mackay lowered his gaze to Cross, searching her face for answers.
‘You fell asleep in my car on the way back here,’ she said, wheeling herself in closer. ‘After giving your statement to the police.’
Anderson said, ‘Your body collapsed on you. Luckily you were in a safe place with Renee in the car.’
‘We drove you straight here,’ Cross said. ‘Well, me and the private I found wandering about.’
‘A private drove me here?’
‘He sat on your lap and used the pedals. I have no legs, remember. I thought you were asleep at first. But you weren’t responding to anything I was saying. Or doing to you.’
‘Doing to me?’
‘Shaking and shouting at you,’ Cross said, leaving out the finger-in-the-ear part. ‘What was the last thing you remember?’
Mackay searched his memory bank.
‘I put your chair in the back of the cab, after that police intern dropped us off. Then I put you in the front seat. Then I drove away. I think. It’s fuzzy.’
‘That far?’ said Cross. ‘You remember chasing down those two on the bike?’
‘That I remember.’ Mackay blinked more memories into the foreground. ‘Hang on… actually, I remember driving off pretty quick, and you getting all stroppy about some shite. Like we had an argument. Did we?’
‘Glad it’s some shite, and not anything specific,’ Cross said. ‘Yes, maybe we did. Sort of. I was, well… feeling annoyed.’
Anderson cut in. ‘You two can sort all of that out later. Mackay, I’m going to be straight with you.’
‘Good. I’m listening.’
‘Depending on what’s being asked of our body, during a normal day its core temperature might rise to around thirty-eight degrees Celsius. Based on its surroundings and output. It’s called thermoregulation.’
‘The body’s ability to regulate core temperature,’ said Mackay. ‘I know how it works. Been through about a million Army lectures on it.’
‘When you arrived,’ continued Anderson, ‘your body was at forty-one degrees.’
‘That’s not too abnormal, is it?’ said Mackay.
‘No, not really. During your rugby training, or Army operations in the heat, you may have reached the same number. However, it’s not often a human body reaches over forty-five degrees. And I am willing to bet my entire career and qualifications that your body reached over forty-five degrees when you ran down those shoplifters.’
‘I felt fine for a while,’ Mackay said. ‘Gave the police a statement, even had a chat to the good sergeant. Felt okay.’
Cross took a breath and looked away for a second. She composed herself, then chimed in for the big question.
‘Sir, as you said, it’s not often a human body reaches over forty-five degrees, but the same applies for a human running at urban traffic speeds. Aside from that being an anomaly of human capability, let’s stop and answer that question for a moment.’
‘Which is?’ said Andersen.
‘Let me simplify it then. How in the good fuck was he able to physically run at almost thirty miles an hour? Where’s that explanation?’
Andersen turned to Mackay and set his explaining face.
‘Mackay, two things make up your body now,’ he said. ‘New thermoplastic ribs which expand, allowing your lungs to suck in more air, and a new oxygen transport system. All synthetic, all military grade, which you already knew. It utilises groundbreaking properties to a mechanical effect never seen in biological chemistry before. We call it Phragazom. From the Greek word sphragizo, which means marked by a seal.’
Cross said, ‘So he’s sealed up with bigger lungs and more oxygen to inhale?’
‘More than that,’ said Anderson. ‘Means he’s marked with something special. Something specific and bespoke. Reserved for soldiers with heavy trauma who have no other way to stay alive.’
‘Which is able to give me better stamina and speed out on the road?’ said Mackay.
‘Only partially,’ said Anderson. ‘It’s half the equation. The incredible structure of your synthetic ribcage is an evolution of bone restructuring. They’re not just new bones or cartilage per say, it’s a completely re-engineered organ. An oxygen transport system and a filtration system. Simply inhaling larger quantities of air isn’t enough to improve physical performance. The amount of oxygen the body delivers to the muscles, say, during running, is equally measured by how much carbon dioxide is also removed. When oxygen moves from the lungs into the blood by gas transfer, there is a pressure difference. High pressure in the lungs, lower pressure in the blood. With you, Mackay, your pressure difference is increased. There is a more efficient gas transfer effect from your synthetic ribs. They have the ability to absorb most of the oxygen and carbon dioxide your blood and muscles would normally expel. This transfer is what allows the expansion of your new ribcage. That’s why it rises and falls so effectively. It is why you look like you have a large…’
‘Barrel chest?’ said Mackay.
‘Sure,’ said Andersen. ‘But think of it as an advancement, rather than a disfigurement.’
‘It’s why you look like the Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz,’ said Cross.
Mackay said, ‘Because the synthetic ribs are full of oxygen and carbon dioxide?’
‘Yes,’ said Andersen. ‘They’re filling up, expanding, then filtering the clean oxygen back into your bloodstream and removing the carbon dioxide. Like an oil filter in a car. Fresh oxygen all day. Works even better when your body is under stress.’
‘But an oil filter needs to be frequently replaced,’ said Mackay.
‘It’s not the same with you,’ said Andersen. ‘The ribs will hold onto the carbon dioxide under stress, then eventually it flows back out through the bloodstream. Exhaled out through the top end, and your bottom end. Out your mouth, out your butt. Like most gases.’
‘I end up breathing and farting out the excess carbon dioxide?’
‘Exactly. While you were running, your synthetic system was doing its thing like it’s supposed to. Expanding, filtering and moving oxygen at enhanced capacities. Coupled with your athletic abilities and musculature, you must have looked lethal sprinting through those streets.’
‘I told you you’re a phenomenon,’ said Cross.
‘I’m pretty sure you also used the words anomaly and mutant,’ said Mackay.
‘You do remember that conversation.’
Anderson said, ‘Have you been taking your medication, Mackay? Your immunosuppressants from post-surgery?’
‘Every day for the last six months.’
‘The prednisolone and cyclosporine would have helped calm things down, keeping everything feeling normal, until it couldn’t. Which was when your stress systems took over, but they were overwhelmed and needed to recover. So, you collapsed. Your body couldn’t handle it. You basically had a form of heatstroke because of how fast you ran. You overloaded beyond what any elite athlete could cope with.’
‘I remember feeling pretty tired,’ said Mackay. ‘Like now. I could fall asleep in five seconds.’
‘That’s because we just gave you an injection. Something we could only give you if you collapsed surrounding appropriate circumstances.’
‘Like running at close to thirty miles an hour,’ said Cross.
‘To any other human, it’s useless,’ said Andersen. ‘Basically, a poison.’
‘What is it?’ said Mackay.
‘A synthetic bone marrow synthesiser,’ said Andersen. ‘Only useful to someone with your condition.’
‘My condition?’
‘The condition of the cells that make up the Phragazom. Your new rib structure. It’s a chemical solution that unifies your existing bone marrow in its new synthetic form. The medication is now inside your marrow. It’s part of you and should help during any overheating conditions that may come up in future, so you don’t collapse. We could only give it to you while you were out. The stuff is painful.’
‘Out?’
‘Unconscious,’ said Cross, not realising she was holding Mackay’s hand.
Mackay looked at her, then down at their two hands, interlinked. He looked back into her face. Surprise and sincerity looked back at him. They held each other’s gaze for another moment, then let go. Mutually. For Cross at least, their touch roused a deep feeling of connection she hadn’t felt with anyone in years. She’d caught herself off-guard, a moment of vulnerability welling a warm sensation in her chest and stomach. Mackay was still barely with it, so he wasn’t sure how he felt. The connection was merely friendship based. The hospital, the captain, the two medics, running at urban speed limits, the collapse. For him, it was all a bit much to comprehend.
‘The injection is strong,’ said Andersen. ‘Part of it woke you from your unconscious state, part of it strengthened your recovery process.’
‘This medication, this injection,’ began Mackay. ‘Is it tailor made? Like a bespoke drug for people like me?’
‘For soldiers with the same density of organic thermoplastic inside them, yes.’
‘And you went off like a frog in a fucking sock,’ said Cross. ‘You almost tore the bed apart, even with these two trying to hold you down.’ She gestured at the two medics standing beside the ECG machine.
Andersen said, ‘Your recovery systems, without having the bone marrow synthesiser, weakened your ability to recover.’
‘On the street, I was feeling good,’ said Mackay, letting it all sink in. ‘I never even realised how fast I was running.’
‘Fainting or passing out shouldn’t be a problem now,’ said Andersen. ‘We’ve strengthened you back up again. But you’ll have to start taking a bone marrow synthesiser for the Phragazom in pill form now. No big deal. Instead of taking two immunosuppressant meds, you’ll have a third to throw in the mix. It’s the way of your new world now, and it will prevent any further excessive fatigue or passing out.’
‘Excellent. Can I go home now?’ said Mackay.
‘Yes,’ Andersen said tentatively.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Here’s the thing,’ said Andersen. Both he and Cross turned to look at each other.
Cross said, ‘You ran at an incredible speed. And maintained it.’
‘And?’ said Mackay.
‘In public,’ said Cross.
‘With witnesses,’ said Andersen.
‘And?’
‘And that’s the fastest anyone has ever run before,’ said Cross. ‘Olympic or world record.’
‘That information is going to get out,’ said Andersen. ‘People are going to come knocking on your door, calling your number. We have to keep a tight lid on this until we know how to deal with it.’
‘We?’
‘Us here in this room,’ said Andersen. ‘And my boss as well.’
‘Sir, you’re a captain,’ said Cross. ‘And the head surgeon for the entire British military. Who the fuck is your boss?’
‘We all have a superior somewhere up the chain,’ said Andersen.
Mackay looked at Cross. Uncertainty spilt adrenalin through his insides. He thought about journalists crowding his space, nosing around his business and asking questions he did not want to answer. Random people knocking at his door, making a fuss, and calling him day and night was too much. A small write-up in the paper for netting a pair of thieves was okay, but having camera crews and vans set up outside his unit? He wasn’t sure he could handle that much attention.
‘I don’t know what to say, Tin Man,’ said Cross. ‘He’s right. This will hit the news one way or another. Whether people believe it’s fake news or not, someone is going to start asking questions.’
‘Fuck,’ said Mackay.
‘Fuck is about right,’ said Andersen.
|
1400hrs Monday December 17, 2012 Frans & Hoek Winery, Margaret River Valley, Western Australia |
On the legal front, Frans & Hoek Winery looked like an above-board establishment. There was internet marketing, billboards and shire community acceptance – the whole nine yards. Van Breeman had just driven three hours from Perth city to fix what shouldn’t need fixing in the first place. Right now, he was stiff and thirsty, and he wanted answers.
‘We messed up. We killed a kid,’ said Bryson. His South African accent thick, his tone dry. Van Breeman’s number two. A heavy hitter. Ex-army and a solid all-round fighter honed from years of rustling bulls on farms in Johannesburg. A straight up meat head.
‘Who did?’ said Van Breeman.
No one replied. Van Breeman stood still, waiting for a response. He stood front and centre in the visitor’s foyer, the main wine-tasting gallery. With boots firmly planted on the polished floorboards, he eyed the six men scattered around the room: four goons from the old country, and two local bent detectives.
Bryson and Kimbala were calm. It wasn’t their mistake, not directly. They’d screwed things up before but not like this. They leaned with arms folded against the wall, their forearms popping with dense, roped muscle. The door next to them had a small plaque with a discreet inscription that read, Admin Room. Although it contained a wall-mounted desk with a computer for administration tasks, the admin room also doubled as a supply room and break room. It was wide and long, built to the same width and length of the front of house only divided by a wall for privacy. It had the usual fittings with shelves full of paperwork and filing cabinets, as well as boxes of additional reds and whites when the front of house started drying up. It also contained a large, stained poplar cabinet filled with an arsenal of guns. Farm-standard weaponry for most country properties of similar size. Inside was an array of shotguns and rifles, namely for wild pests getting into the crops. Birds, foxes, snakes, dingos, or excessive numbers of kangaroos. Whether they were on the endangered species list or not, Van Breeman didn’t care, they were shot and thrown back into the forest, or put through the woodchipper and used as fertiliser. The admin room was also fitted with tea and coffee facilities, pleather armchairs, a television, a fridge for keeping lunches and drinks cold, and along the rear wall, a wide flat-screen television for downtime.
The two cops, Taylor and Derek, were also at the top of Van Breeman’s food chain. Principal operators with a law enforcement advantage. Dirty cops given big money to keep any scent of illegal activities far from courtrooms and the media. They sat in the small wicker armchairs in the corner – pleasant ornamental chairs reserved for visitors. The last two men, Wynand and Snowy, were propped on their forearms across the edge of the wine-tasting bench. The immediate front counter. A polished granite bench with curls of white marbling that reached halfway across the room. The showpiece of the gallery. Snowy, whose real name was Petrus, stood out like dog’s balls. The only one with bleached blond hair, hence the name. White as vanilla ice cream. Both Wynand and Snowy were young recruits from the old country, wedged in at the lowest rung of the food chain. Basically, low-level interns in the wider racket.
‘It got complicated,’ said Kimbala. Breeman’s number one. A behemoth of a man with a dirty beard and skin as black as a moonless night. The pigment deep with centuries of African ancestry. Bigger and smarter than Bryson in every way with enormous heady eyes. A physical combination of cement block and sumo wrestler.
Van Breeman stepped between three wine display cabinets and walked behind the granite bench. He passed Wynand and Snowy, passed the wall with the signature series of whites and opened the visitor’s fridge. Cool drinks lined top to bottom. Everything from colas, lemonades, ginger beers, and iced teas. At the bottom were bottles of water covered in plastic wrapping. Van Breeman pulled one and drained it straight from the neck.
Beneath the granite bench were three small cupboards. The one on the left housed a web of electrical leads and power points, the one on the right contained cleaning products, and the one in the middle contained the merchandise. Keyrings, drink coasters, pens and notepads. All printed with the Frans & Hoek logo: a caricature of a half-eaten fish with prickly bones riding a stallion. Van Breeman opened the centre cupboard, took out a notepad and pen and placed it on the bench. He then gripped his familiar, all-purpose six-shot revolver from the small of his back and placed the weighted piece next to the pad. A Smith and Wesson .38 Special. Fully loaded. He then picked up the pen and wrote down the words: Time, Date, Place.
‘Start from the beginning’, he said, raising his head to view the crew. Of the six sets of eyes, only four pairs stared back at him with surety. More often than not, the character of a person was in the eyes, and was usually all Van Breeman needed to see. Two of those pairs of eyes stared out the window into the late afternoon. Out to the visitor car park, which was empty. Only a couple of magpies were present, perched on the edge of a birdbath at the end of the lot, taking drinks in turns. An unsaid birds-of-a-feather rule: you drink, I watch your back, I drink, you watch mine. A mild afternoon breeze rustled their feathers and danced through the leaves and branches in the background.
Van Breeman looked at Kimbala who stared back, unflinching. He then gazed across at Bryson. Bryson panned his eyes across at Snowy – forearms still propped on the granite bench, staring out the window. Bryson kept his eyes on Snowy for a three-count, then nodded. It was all that was needed.
Van Breeman took a step and placed the pad and pen on the bench in front of Snowy. Snowy looked down at the pad, then up at Van Breeman. He held his tongue, which Van Breeman thought was either because he was acting tough, or because he was slowly working up the courage for an admission. Van Breeman gave him thirty seconds. Snowy maintained silence. The tough-guy act Van Breeman initially predicted. It was weak. Snowy was hiding something. It was in his face, his eyes, the edges of skin around his forehead, the tight contraction across his jaw. His breathing was much too controlled as well, as if he was labouring unnecessarily to keep a steady rhythm. All very awkward and unnatural.
Without warning, Van Breeman gripped his revolver, tracked his aim down to Snowy’s left thigh and blew a slug through it. In through the front, out through the back. Clean. The .38 round leaving a dirty exit wound the size of a marble. Snowy’s leg kicked out behind him from the force of the round, pulling him off the bench and onto the floor. His chin bounced off the edge of the granite as he fell, screaming. The noise drowning out the echo of the blast as he clutched at his leg. The man next to him, Wynand, backed away from the long slab, away from Snowy’s howling. He tried joining Bryson and Kimbala along the wall, but Bryson pushed him away, back to the middle of the gallery. Where he stood on his own, arms raised at his sides. His breathing hurried, his hands trembling.
The two cops went for their sidearms. Glock 22s. Out of instinct and good training habits, but then let things be. The show was over. Van Breeman stepped up to Snowy and with the flat sole of his shoe, laid it over his throat, just enough to hear the slightest crackle of cartilage compressing into his windpipe. Snowy gurgled and fought for air. One hand clutching his thigh, the other clawing at Van Breeman’s ankle.
Van Breeman looked up and raised the Smith and Wesson at Wynand.
‘Go and take a seat,’ he said. ‘Swap places with Taylor.’ He motioned the barrel where the two cops sat in the cane chairs. Taylor moved and gave up his seat. Wynand backed up to it and sat down like a good dog. Feet together, hands in his lap, back straight, eyes locked on the boss.
Van Breeman released his foot from Snowy’s throat who was sucking air in quick sputtering gasps. He stepped over him and stood in the centre of the gallery.
‘Kimbala, you mind getting him a bandage?’ Van Breeman said. ‘Should be plenty in the first aid box in the closet.’
Kimbala opened the admin room and moved inside. Snowy edged himself up off the floor and leaned his back against the wall underneath the signature selection of wines.
Kimbala returned with two bandages and threw them at Snowy.
‘Wrap it yourself,’ he said.
Snowy looked like a scared dog. Humiliated. He began taking the bandages from their plastic wrappers, extending them into long strips and pulling them tight around his thigh.
Van Breeman looked over to Wynand. ‘Talk,’ he said. ‘From the beginning.’
Wynand swallowed. Air and saliva. A nervous reaction. Prepping carefully what he was about to say. He took a breath, held it, then exhaled slow.
‘There were two kids,’ he began. ‘Mother and father. First tourists in for the morning. They were outside looking at all the coloured carp in the fishpond, throwing sticks and rocks. Normal kid stuff. We asked the parents if they were okay with us showing them where we press the grapes while they did all the wine-tasting. They were more than happy. Even said it’d be nice for them to take a look and appreciated the break. Normal procedure. Everyone friendly, everyone happy. I told them we would be back in ten minutes. Nothing different. Same as always.’
‘So, where’s the fuck-up?’ said Van Breeman.
‘We took them both down to the wine press,’ continued Wynand. ‘Showing them everything. I grabbed the first kid, the older one. Snowy grabbed the younger one, but as soon as he touched him, he went ballistic. Snowy struggled to hold him down. Couldn’t place the rag over his mouth. Couldn’t inject the ketamine shot. It was like he was loaded with meth freaking out. Never seen any kid react like that ever. It was like spasm after spasm, screaming relentlessly. Then he somehow slipped through Snowy’s hands.’
‘He ran off?’ said Van Breeman.
‘Screaming this obnoxious cry on repeat,’ said Wynand. ‘An intense shriek. Everyone heard it. Anyone within two kilometres would have heard it.’
Van Breeman looked around the room. Heads nodded. ‘Continue,’ he said.
‘He shot out the front door and started running back towards the gallery. Snowy went after him. He still had the chloroform rag, syringe and ketamine vial in his hands. He caught the kid, but not fast enough to stop the screams out in the open. He got him back inside the wine press but then a second problem occurred.’
Snowy looked up at his boss. Ashamed. Van Breeman shrugged and motioned with a flick of his revolver at Wynand to keep going.
‘The older kid, the one I had, was convulsing in my arms. Having a fit or something. He couldn’t breathe. I’d given him the ketamine shot, and the rag had the normal amount of chloroform. Same as we’d done on every other kid. But it was like…’
‘Like he was having an asthma attack,’ said Taylor, pitching in. The leaner of the two cops. ‘I’ve seen it before, on other jobs. People can have it whilst panicking, stressed out, or high. The kid’s lungs couldn’t take it.’
‘He was choking,’ said Wynand. ‘Struggling to breathe, so I started CPR on him.’
‘You useless dogs,’ growled Van Breeman. ‘Don’t we have asthma ventilators, or a defibrillator with our first aid kits inside the press?’
He looked at his number one, Kimbala. The black mammoth shook his head. He turned to Bryson.
Bryson sighed and closed his eyes.
‘I went and checked,’ Bryson said. ‘Short answer is no. We only have two first aid kits. One in here, and one in the main cellar.’
Van Breeman tried keeping his cool. Underneath, he was seething. His cheek muscles bulging at the sides as he grinded his teeth. Half his attention was on the revolver, the other half visualising, processing and piecing the story together.
|
1430hrs Monday December 17, 2012 A31 Connection, Guildford, UK |
The A31 Hog’s Back streamed with the usual array of vehicles. Meanwhile, lukewarm anxiety festered inside Mackay’s belly. The potential storm of reporters and journalists trying to catch a whiff of the road running story wasn’t sitting well. The clammy hands and restlessness seeped a growing chaos in his head. Cross had no idea what he was thinking or feeling, and Mackay wasn’t one for expressing them. Besides, Cross had her own reflections to work through: one third wondering how Mackay might be feeling, one third caught up in Mackay’s infused thermo tech, one third confused at her own feelings towards him. Knowing she’d somehow clasped her hand around his inside the isolation ward was throwing a huge curveball. What did it mean? Had she attached herself somehow? Was there more than just friendship from her end? If it was more than that, did he feel the same? Had she started to care again… about a person other than herself? After years of self-isolation, was she beginning to open herself up to someone? She may have had a mouth, may have given up on caring what other people thought of her, but she still had feelings. Watching a fellow soldier go through intense, unimaginable pain, it was only natural for her to show compassion and hold the guy’s hand, right? That’s all it was, surely. He couldn’t be more than a friend, they only recently met. It was too early, too fast. She tried throwing the thoughts into some deep recess of her mind she hoped would eventually disappear.
Mackay on the other hand, wanted out of the car. Away from Cross. Off the Hog’s Back somewhere up into the greying, ragged clouds above. Or somewhere on an island with nothing but buttery sand and turquoise waters. He worked hard at keeping himself together, modulating the accelerator and breathing slow and deep. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Slowly, quietly, undetected. His inners felt like a pent-up malformed jack-in-a-box. He drove and thought. Thinking of the monstrosity of his inner human self. He was different now to who he was. What he was. Who he used to be. Physically and mentally. Why did his thoughts feed his insecurities? Why was he so feeble upstairs in the grey matter? Why was he so easily rattled and troubled at the unknown future that lay ahead? This was not the way he remembered himself. He was a rational guy. Or was he? The constant doubts played games with his mind, sucking him down into a pool of insecurity. What was wrong with him? He was technically faster than any living athlete that had ever come before him. But there was a fatigue issue. As long as he took the pills Andersen gave him, he should be okay. One a day. Marrow Maintenance Medication, as Andersen called it. Thousands of people take maintenance medication. Younger than him too. Some called them preservers or continuance meds. Look at all those children with type two diabetes. How hard could it be? And look at the bright side, he may be disfigured, but there was a silver lining. He had speed. How far he could push himself was anyone’s guess. There were things to look forward to. Stay positive. He had friends. Chris, Luke, now Cross… hopefully. He had his brother and his family. Don’t let the irrational demons take over. Don’t be pushed to the edge where pills and alcohol, and ropes and guns, are within easy reach.
Time and space slipped by unknowingly. The sound of the traffic a mere echo. A subconscious hum somewhere in the background. A drone of nothingness until he found himself out front of his cookie cutter home back in Guildford with Cross at the front entrance in her chair, waiting for him to open the door. Mackay spun the key in the door, let Cross in first, then followed in behind and turned on the kitchen lights. The air inside was still. A little cold, a little stale. Mackay hadn’t had a visitor in months. His brother and his family didn’t count.
Cross’s peripherals took in the bearings of a small lounge room which, according to its size and scale, could have served as a small sitting room. It was half connected to the kitchen, which then connected to the two bedrooms and single bathroom. From her point of view, the minimalist decor, tidy kitchen and made bed peeking out from the hallway screamed military.
Cross soaked in the ordered interior. ‘Holy shit, Tin Man. Don’t tell me you can afford a housekeeper. Not on your veteran’s pay. I must be doing something wrong.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Clean as a sniper’s rifle in here. Haven’t let go of the past, have we.’
‘Hard to, I guess. Good habits.’
‘True,’ Cross mused, flickers of her own career tinkling away. Somewhere in her buried consciousness where good, earnest times had come and gone. She felt totally out of her element. New place. No boxing bags. No trainers to yell at. The house was small with limited space and narrow walkthroughs. Not very wheelchair friendly. No railings or bars or platforms to help get her around, and guaranteed it was as tight as a sardine can in the bathroom.
As for Mackay, he was sombre and grey. Like a wet stick of timber refusing to light. He hadn’t spoken the entire drive back home, and Cross wasn’t about to pick at his head either. Not just yet anyway. With both parties’ emotions fogging up the indoors, Cross was at least committed to putting her thoughts out of her mind. Leaving her feelings as they were, somewhere in a cloud of uncertainty and confusion.
‘So then,’ Mackay started, walking into the kitchen and opening the fridge. ‘I’m supposed to offer you a drink, being a guest and all. I have water, juice, milk. The beer is in the cupboard at room temp, sorry. Can also do tea and coffee.’
Cross thought on it. ‘Let’s have some tea. And by let’s, I mean you too. We both need something calming.’
Mackay nodded and began filling the kettle.
Cross said, ‘This is going to be a day-by-day, take-it-as-it-comes kind of thing you know. It’s the only way we’re going to get through it all.’
‘We?’ said Mackay.
‘Of course fucking we,’ Cross said, rolling into Mackay’s line of vision from the lounge room. This is not just on you. Don’t be some selfish wannabe hero, bottling it in, dealing with it all on your own. That’s what fucks people up. You’re not taking this on by yourself. Hear me loud and clear, okay? This we, is you, me, Andersen. We’re all in this together, Tin Man. Reporters and journalists or not. Your organic, super polymer, whatever bullshit is inside you, is a we story now. The whole of it.’
‘Thanks, Cross,’ Mackay said.
Mackay took two cups and two teabags and placed them on the bench next to the kettle. He locked eyes with Cross. She knew he really meant it. She held her eyes with his, searching for a clue to how he was feeling. Maybe to sense the feelings inside herself – testing her emotions through his expression like a conduit. Or maybe she was just being polite in the moment. Mackay maintained Cross’s gaze a second longer, then looked for the sugar. He knew she couldn’t drive herself home, and he certainly didn’t want to drive back to Aldershot and drop her off at the garrison. Which meant she was staying the night. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to be alone or not, but either way, he was also a gentleman, and knew how to be hospitable.
Mackay’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He checked the screen. The number was long and scrambled. Not local, which meant it wasn’t likely a reporter. A good thing. Hopefully just a scammer, which made it all the more irrelevant. A total non-issue. No point in dealing with anyone else for the rest of the night. He swiped on red and hung up.
‘Some random long number,’ said Mackay. ‘Overseas probably.’
‘Don’t answer anything tonight. Just leave it. Turn it off.’
Mackay agreed. If someone really wanted him, they could leave a message and he’d deal with it later. Friends or strangers, he was done with conversation. In that moment, in that time and space, Mackay was a vacant lot and wanted to remain that way. At least until he’d slept off the synthetic drugs, the anxiety and the exhaustion.
Before he turned off his phone, it vibrated again. Same number. Long and scrambled. Mackay checked the screen and read out the area code.
‘Sounds international,’ Cross said, and had a look at the screen herself. ‘Couldn’t say where though. India, China, Russia maybe.’
Mackay swiped the red and poured the tea. ‘Do scammers repeatedly ring back on the same number?’
‘Who cares,’ said Cross. ‘Have a shower, watch some TV. I’m assuming I’m staying the night anyway.’ Cross waited for a confirmation, which didn’t take long.
‘Yes, you’re welcome to stay,’ Mackay said.
‘I’m obliged to look after you now,’ Cross said. ‘You know that, right? Doctor’s orders. Otherwise, if you did ask me to leave, you’d be a right arsehole and I’d hate you forever.’
Mackay said, ‘There is a spare room. Bed’s made.’
Deep down, Mackay wanted Cross to stay. Not that he needed a woman in his life, or in his bed. Not that he needed looking after either, but because he needed her. He needed her specifically, and everything she had represented to him so far. As a friend, for the most part. A person who knew and understood who he was. Where he’d come from and where he’d been, both mentally and physically. There was a bond and connection between them few others would ever have, including between many of his mates still on deployment. Mackay hadn’t had a woman present in his home since being back in civilian society. He couldn’t even remember the last time he was with a woman that wasn’t during deployment. Which made him feel a little uneasy. Unsure of himself. Unsure how to behave. He figured the best he could do was to bring back his basic social, hospitable skills. No awkwardness. They were just friends.
Cross said, ‘I’ll order takeaway. I’m sure there’s Thai or Chinese somewhere nearby. You rest, okay? Go freshen up.’
Mackay took the cups of tea, handed one to Cross, then rolled her into the living room next to the lounge. A three-seater with a chaise. Mackay sat in the middle and hunched over his brew. For what seemed like minutes, he watched three stray leaves whirl around the top of the cup, circling and weaving aimlessly. Lost, like his thoughts.
Mackay’s phone rang a third time. Same number.
Cross said, ‘Leave it, Mackay. Turn it off already.’
‘You said international, right?’
‘So? Scammers are all over the place. Could be anywhere in the world.’
‘I totally forgot,’ said Mackay, clueing in. A lightbulb moment. ‘My brother and his family are in Western Australia on holiday. Could be him. It’s a repeat call. It has to be. No scammer is going to try three times in succession. Could be important.’
‘It’s important for scammers to scam money too,’ said Cross. ‘Or important for journalists to sensationalise a story.’
‘Repeat calls happen for a reason,’ said Mackay. ‘If it’s not my brother I’ll hang up, promise.’
‘Alright, I’ll leave you to it,’ said Cross. ‘If it is your brother, I’d probably leave the whole organic fibre thing alone for now anyway. You can tell him about it another time.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m not telling anyone. Not even family. At this stage anyway. And I’m in no mood to talk much about anything. I’ll keep it short.’
Mackay swiped the green. A short delay chirped through the receiver. Then two dull clicks, then another short dead space, then a soft, dreary voice spoke through.
‘Mackay, it’s me, Malvin.’ His tone was quiet inside the speaker. Distant. Mackay couldn’t tell if it was a connection issue, or if maybe Malvin had a cold with a croaky throat.
‘Malvin,’ answered Mackay. He looked up at Cross, Cross nodded, then worked on her own phone for dinner options. ‘Good to hear from you. Sorry for hanging up, I thought it was a scammer. How’s Perth? You end up doing any wine tours in… where is it, Margaret River?’
Cross danced her phone in front of Mackay, waited for his attention then mouthed the word pizza. Mackay looked up then mouthed the word, whatever, and turned his concentration back to his phone. Cross rolled into the hallway for a quiet space to order.
‘Mackay,’ said Malvin, thousands of miles away, ‘I need you to listen to me very carefully. There’s been an incident.’ Malvin’s voice was slow and pained. The connection was okay, but his tone was off. Dejected and sickly. ‘My wife, Neve, she’s been killed. Angus is dead, and Lincoln is missing.’
Malvin said it straight up. No ice. No chaser. No pussyfooting or beating around the bush. Mackay heard it, but didn’t take it in. Couldn’t, considering the space of time it was delivered. Mackay needed the information again. Needed a moment for a second round with more clarification.
‘What? Malvin. Killed and missing? Who is?’ Mackay’s tone rose. His response fretful and quick. Before Cross hit the dial tab to order she’d heard the change. A night and day difference. She stopped and reverse-rolled herself back to the living room.
‘Please, Mackay,’ Malvin said. ‘I don’t have much time.’ The phone at Malvin’s end crackled and distorted as his lungs launched into a coughing fit.
‘Malvin,’ said Mackay. ‘What happened?’
‘Just listen, I can’t talk for long… it hurts,’ Malvin drawled, then heaved into his lungs again. ‘I need you to come to Perth as soon as you can. Immediately if possible. Use the money from your veteran’s account. The one I set up for you. Account details and password is in the vet savings folder on your desktop. Be on the first flight out if you can. I’ll see you when you arrive and explain more when you get to the hospital.’
Malvin resumed another bout of thick, brutal coughing and heaving. Then he stammered quietly. Purposefully low and faint.
‘And please, Mackay…’ he said.
‘I’m listening,’ said Mackay.
‘Do not speak to the police.’
Then it was nothing but dead air.
‘Malvin! Hello? Hello?’ Mackay’s throat constricted. The phone fell lifeless from his hands. Ice-cold adrenalin exploded inside him, flooding every edifice of his body. He ran his fingernails through his hair, back and forth across the scalp, wondering what just happened. Cross sat opposite him, frozen and confused, confronted with just as many questions as Mackay had. She carefully inched herself forward and reached for his hand. Now for the second time.
‘I only caught bits of it,’ she said. ‘What’s going on?’
A darkness bled through Mackay’s mind like a tumour.
‘He said not to speak to the police.’ Mackay looked down at his trembling left hand now held in Cross’s palm.
|
1500hrs Monday December 17, 2012 Guildford, UK |
For an international traveller caught up in a serious incident, there weren’t many hospitals in Perth which Malvin Connolly could have been admitted to. Struck with the abruptness of his brother’s shocking phone call, Mackay tried returning the number immediately. After two attempts where nothing went through, he went for his laptop and got online. The Royal Perth Hospital was the only realistic option. Seemingly the only choice for any normal international traveller without any celebrity status. Cross moved herself next to Mackay’s agitated form at the small dining table along the far wall. Mackay pulled up a search engine and checked the transnational code for Australia, then punched in the general enquiries number from the hospital’s website. It was the best he was going to get. He gave Cross a quick glance, finger poised above the green dial tab on his phone. She affirmed with a nod. Mackay swiped and listened in. The signal bounced, clicked, rushed under the Celtic Sea, the North Atlantic, the floor of the South Pacific, and finally pinged into the main line of the hospital. After being passed between three reception nurses, he was finally linked to the correct line at the emergency admin desk.
‘Emergency,’ stated a sober voice, distant and delayed. Male.
‘This is the emergency department?’ said Mackay, Cross sitting in tightly next to him.
‘Yes, please state the nature of your call,’ replied the voice. All business.
‘Good. Sorry if I sound like I’m freaking out, it’s because I am. I’m looking for my brother. Malvin Connolly. English. Tall. Around forty. I’m his younger brother, Mackay. I’m calling from England. I was just speaking with him.’
‘What was your name again?’
‘Mackay Connolly.’
A delay followed. This time longer than expected.
‘Hello?’ Mackay said into the dead air.
More silence, then the same voice picked up again. ‘Yes, sorry,’ the man replied. ‘I was checking through our records, confirming you’re his next of kin. Glad you got through to us. I believe he called you not five minutes ago. There is a phone in his room. Sorry if you tried returning the call, it’s wired for intra hospital calls only. Fat chance for international calls to come through.’
Mackay said, ‘Yes, I was speaking with him just now, then the line went dead. What’s going on?’
The man said, ‘There’s been a serious incident at one of the wineries in Margaret River. Your brother and his family were medically evacuated. An emergency rescue helicopter brought them in.’
‘All of them?’
The absence of an immediate response said it all.
‘Your brother was unstable for a time,’ said the man, ‘but then settled for a few hours, which is probably why he was able to call. I’m sorry but he’s gone into ICU now.’
‘And his wife? The kids?’
The distant voice avoided the question.
‘I believe your brother suffered a gunshot wound, so was flown in with a couple of detectives who were first on the scene.’
‘And… and his two kids? Angus and Lincoln. Where are they?’
‘I’m sorry, sir. I don’t have much more information at this point, but if you hold the line, I can try and find someone who knows more. I believe the police are here.’
Mackay lowered the phone and deliberated. Do not speak to the police, Malvin had whispered. Two detectives were first on the scene, the man had said. It all sounded off. Messy. Mackay’s instincts knew it – deep in his gut where all the right answers were buried. Experience in the desert had taught him he should listen.
‘Sir?’ said Mackay back into the speaker.
‘Yes?’ replied the voice. Still distant, still delayed.
‘I’ll worry about those details later. Better if I’m there to hear it from him myself.’
‘Sir, let me take your number just in case…’
‘I’ll be there soon. When you can, please tell him I’m on my way.’
Mackay swiped on red.
‘Do you have a current passport?’ asked Cross.
Mackay closed his eyes. ‘Yes,’ he said between a clenched jaw. Dark unshakeable images rose and looped around in his head. Manifesting within him like a plague, filling up space. He pressed the thick parts of his palms hard into his eyes and bellowed. Cross let his rage fill the room then waited for silence to take its place.
‘I know you’re hurting,’ said Cross. ‘But we need to think rationally before we make any plans.’
‘I have to fly to Australia tonight, Cross,’ Mackay said between gritted teeth. ‘And there’s no we.’
‘I’m coming with you,’ Cross said without hesitation. ‘Whether you like it or not.’
‘Like fuck you are.’
‘My life here isn’t that important, the gym will survive. And I’ve been to Perth. I can help. I know the city. I know people there.’
‘What?’
‘Pre-deployment training for Afghanistan, remember? I spoke about it at the coffee shop. Was there three years ago at the Campbell Barracks in Swanbourne.’
Mackay stayed silent. Head in his hands.
‘We spent three months there,’ said Cross. ‘We weren’t holed up at the barracks the whole time, we got out and about. I can help.’
‘I heard you the first time. You’re not coming. Not your concern.’
‘Motherfucker,’ said Cross, terse with disappointment. Heat and tension floated from her breath in resentment. ‘Here is a moment now when you need to step up, step out of yourself and accept help when it’s offered. Whatever happened to your brother and his family is fucked up, but if you’re going to go, then you’re going to need some help. And considering the state you’re in, you won’t be able to manage this on your own. Like it or not, you’re fragile, Mackay, and like it or not, I’m the best help you have right now.’
‘You’re not coming, goddammit. This is a family matter, alright?’
‘Don’t care. You book a flight, I’ll be on it too.’
‘You do whatever you want.’
Cross raised her voice and posture. ‘You’re being a right arsehole, you know that?’
‘Hate me then,’ said Mackay. ‘You’re not coming.’
‘So you want me to call a taxi now and go home? Back to the garrison? What are you going to do then?’
‘I’ll figure it out. Either way, that’s a good idea. Call a taxi.’
‘You don’t have a clue what to do, Tin Man, because your head isn’t on straight.’
‘Maybe it isn’t, so what. I’ll go back to our local police department, see what they’ve got to say. I’m doing this alone. I can sort my own family matters myself.’
‘How are you going to stop me?’
‘You’re not sodding well coming, Cross, for fuck’s sake.’
Cross paused. She rolled her chair back a few inches and gave Mackay some breathing room.
‘Mackay,’ Cross continued, lowering her posture and easing her tone, ‘sometimes, doing a bit of your own investigation is exactly what you need to get to the truth. To get the right answers. Your brother, in confidence, said to come to Perth immediately. Said not to speak to the police, right? If you want to help him and his family, I’d toe that line. Honour his word.’
Mackay wiped his pulpy red eyes. He took a few breaths of the stale house air, then peered up slowly towards the red ant’s face. There was an earnestness in the lines around her mouth, in the creases around her eyes.
Cross said, ‘If you go down to the station and eventually convince them to make a few calls to Australia, what do you think they’ll tell you?’
Mackay sat silently.
‘They’ll get transferred around a hundred times then, when finally they get to someone who knows something, critical time has gone by.’
Mackay sat silently.
‘That’s an entire day right there, just on phone calls. Then finally some relevant information comes back from Perth police, how do you know it’s reliable? How do you know it’s the truth? Or if it’s part of some kind of bigger cover-up?’
Malvin’s words rang inside Mackay’s head again: Do not speak to the police.
‘Sure, it could be nothing,’ Cross continued. ‘Could be a complete misunderstanding. Incorrect information is given all the time. Incorrect assumptions are made, all the time. But you don’t want to take that risk. Wouldn’t you want to know the truth first-hand? For your brother? For his family? Your family?’
Mackay watched Cross work. Watched and breathed it in.
‘If the police are actually covering shit up because they think they have that power, wouldn’t you want the opportunity to stop them? Do whatever you could to get to the truth and expose it?’
Mackay closed his eyes. He knew she was right.
Cross said, ‘If you stay here in Guildford with your thumb up your arse, wouldn’t you regret not making the better decision to get over to Australia and honour what your brother asked of you in the first place? When he was in his purest, pleading state, asking you not to contact the police?’
‘I would,’ Mackay said finally.
Cross nodded. ‘The cops will just tell you to let the police handle it. They’ll tell you to sit on it while you’re getting nothing but purple hands in the process. Your brother asked you to come specifically. He made that pretty clear. He wouldn’t have called otherwise.’
Cross watched Mackay retreat within himself. He didn’t look good. Even for a white man in a British winter, the colour sapped from his cheeks. Sitting there, his body swooned and shuddered.
‘This is all really bad timing,’ Cross said. ‘Everything you are going through right now is a mindfuck. Your physical changes, Malvin’s phone call. But we can deal with one thing at a time. Together.’
Cross was right, Mackay thought. He was hurting, and he wasn’t in the right mind to handle the moment at all. He clenched his fists deeper into the skin of his hands.
‘We humans weren’t meant to do life alone,’ said Cross. ‘You can’t always fix life’s problems by yourself.’
Mackay said nothing.
‘This thing with your brother is a shitstorm. Like a wet pussy packed with STDs.’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ said Mackay, his neck snapping back.
‘There you go,’ said Cross. ‘Sorry, I just needed you to perk up a little. However you want to look at it, yes, this is something that needs immediate attention. And it needs to be done as a team. You’re a soldier, right?’
‘I know what you’re getting at.’
‘Great then. Soldiers work in teams. The only muppets that work alone are the SAS, but even commandos work in teams.’
‘So, what do you propose?’
‘We go. We hear what your brother has to say then work on it from there. But before anything, we need to book flights. Dinner is going to have to wait.’
Mackay nodded solemnly in commitment. Acceptance sinking in slow and worn. He put the fact Cross was partnering with him in his head and let it sit. His capacity to think clearly had drifted with the winter wind. He needed Cross in his corner now more than ever. Whether he knew it or not, and whether he liked it or not.
Mackay said, ‘I need to get back online.’ He went back to his laptop and found the vet savings account number and password. He then opened Google to search for the earliest flights out of Heathrow. Cross sat close, helping him punch the numbers and filter the best cross-continental flights, which at this point weren’t cheap, especially being a week out from Christmas.
Cross said, ‘We’d have to take the direct to Singapore with British Air. There’s a three-hour layover before the next connecting flight to Perth, but it’s the earliest there is. We’d still land three hours before the next fastest with Qatar.’
‘It’s scheduled to leave in four hours,’ said Mackay.
‘Book it.’
Mackay worked over the details in the booking system. On the page for ticking seating options, Cross took over.
‘My special provisions will get us the best seats,’ she said. ‘At least for economy. And you’re my help, so we won’t need extra assistance from the airline staff.’
‘We’re both veterans.’
‘Hopefully we’ll get business class then.’
‘Maybe. Depends how full the flight is.’
‘We can query that at check-in.’
Mackay paid using his vet savings. A moment later he received a confirmation email in his inbox. He breathed in and held it, pushing his shirt to its limits as his barrel chest expanded. He let it out slow and long.
|
1500hrs Monday December 17, 2012 Frans & Hoek Winery, Margaret River, Western Australia |
‘That’s not the end of the story, is it, Wynand?’ said Bryson.
‘No,’ said Wynand.
‘Go on,’ said Van Breeman.
Wynand looked over at Snowy with a sharp nod. Flicking the rest of the story his way. A simple gesture; my turn’s over, now your turn. Wynand had said all he needed to. The rest was out of his hands. He wasn’t about to cover for things he wasn’t agent to. Not at his lowly position. The price was too high, the consequences too extreme.
Snowy struggled to start. He was pale. His fingers pressed into his eyes and massaged the stress. The others looked on and waited. Snowy breathed in once, then leaned over and dry-retched.
‘Talk,’ said Van Breeman, waving the .38 Special.
‘There was too much going on,’ said Snowy, finally finding his voice. ‘We were in the wine press. Me, Wynand, the two kids. Wynand was doing CPR on the older one, I was grappling with the younger who was screaming all kinds of hell. Then we heard the mother and father yelling for the boys outside. They were running towards the kid’s screams. The mother opened the door first. I saw her face, she saw mine. At first, she just stood there, frozen. Then she wailed. Screaming and screaming for her son, repeating his name. Angus, Angus. The one lying on the ground with Wynand. Between her and the one I was dealing with, the noise was insane. Then the father came in behind her. Both saw their kids. Both saw me and Wynand. Saw the syringe and the rags, all there in plain sight. They saw everything. So, I let go of the kid, took the Glock from my jeans and put the parents down. Had to. You know I did. I shot the woman first, then the father. It was the only option.’
Nobody said a word. Van Breeman mulled on it all for a long, tense moment.
‘Where did you hit the woman?’ Van Breeman asked.
‘In the chest,’ said Snowy. ‘Twice. Centre mass, like we’re supposed to.’
‘The husband?’
Snowy didn’t reply.
‘The husband,’ Van Breeman said again, waiting him out.
‘Couldn’t be sure,’ said Wynand cutting in. ‘Couldn’t see the wounds. It was clearer on the mother.’
‘No one’s talking to you so shut the fuck up,’ said Van Breeman. ‘The husband, Snowy.’
Van Breeman moved the revolver back to Snowy’s face.
‘I pulled twice, but I was out of sorts,’ said Snowy. ‘Shit was going on all over the place. I don’t know if the first shot hit him. He fell after the second, but…’
‘But what?’
‘He was still moving and breathing,’ said Snowy, sniffling back tears and snot.
‘Why didn’t you finish him off?’ said Van Breeman.
‘Because I’d already killed a fucking woman!’ Snowy yelled. ‘A mother! Because I’ve never shot anyone before!’
Snowy bellowed into his hands. Van Breeman waited.
‘I didn’t have time to think clearly enough,’ Snowy said, blubbering. He choked back phlegm and cleared his throat. ‘Wynand was doing CPR and I had just shot two fucking witnesses that happened to be the kids’ parents! I was thinking about the other guests arriving in the car park and keeping things quiet. Last thing on my mind was to make sure the witnesses were executed. You weren’t there. None of you were. If anyone else was in the same position, you all would have done the same. Or worse.’
‘No, Snowy,’ said Van Breeman. If you were doing your job like a professional, with the amount of money I pay you, then no. We’re professionals here. Or so I’d like to think. Bryson, are you a paid professional?’ Van Breeman turned his attention to Bryson.
‘I am, sir,’ said Bryson.
‘You see?’ said Van Breeman, turning back to Snowy. ‘A confident immediate response. No hesitation. Professional. I like that. Sometimes though, I have been wrong. I have hired an oddball here and there. I can admit that.’
Van Breeman knelt down next to Snowy and calmly placed his left hand on his shoulder. His right hand still gripped the revolver, aimed loose and low at the floorboards.
Van Breeman continued. ‘I don’t need people who think in this job, Snowy. We simply have a role to play, that’s why the money is so good. And for that money to keep being so good, going into your pocket, you don’t need a conscience. You do your duty. The chain of command must always remain a constant. Otherwise, we fall short of the system, and then the system fails. And if the system fails, well, we don’t get paid and we’re all out of work. You follow me?’
Snowy said nothing.
‘As for you,’ Van Breeman said, turning back to Wynand, ‘You should have known to have a functional first aid kit handy in the wine press facility.’
‘How was I supposed to know the kid was asthmatic?’ said Wynand. ‘At least I could manage my kid. At least I tried with CPR.’ Wynand eyed Snowy off, low on the floor, back against the wall still holding his leg.
‘That is a true point,’ piped Kimbala. ‘None of us would have lost that kid in the first place. Ineptitude is a problem. It’s bad karma.’
‘Agreed,’ said Bryson. ‘They both fucked up. Now we’re all in the shit and it won’t be the end of it until we find that kid. He ran off into the forest, and the father is still alive in hospital.’
‘Come again?’ said Van Breeman.
‘As Snowy mentioned,’ said Bryson, ‘he let go of the kid when he shot the mother and father. The kid ran away a second time. I didn’t see the kid, but after I heard the two gunshots I came out and saw Snowy running around the grounds. I’m assuming to look for the kid, but the kid never returned with him.’
Van Breeman nodded. Kept his cool. In the moments that followed, he tossed up whether there was anything worthwhile or beneficial in the long-term keeping Snowy on the books. He mulled through a short conversation in his head, then made up his mind. The moment lasted briefly.
‘All of this true?’ Van Breeman said, looking back at Snowy.
‘Yes,’ said Snowy, refusing to make eye contact.
‘I’m sorry, Snowy,’ said Van Breeman. ‘You left the father alive, and you lost the kid.’
Van Breeman shot off his second round for the afternoon. Through the front of Snowy’s face. High on his cheek bone just below the right eye. Snowy didn’t have time to flinch. His body position, seated upright against the wall, didn’t move. His left hand, the one applying pressure over his thigh, slumped to the floor. His face did retain a brief look of surprise though, right before Van Breeman aimed his revolver in his direction. Mouth partially open. Eyes in the midst of widening. The wall behind him was now a mess of hair and skull fragments, splattered in a wonky halo of deep crimson. The bubble of frustration inside Van Breeman had burst, and Snowy’s lifeless body was just enough to make him feel that little bit better. For now.
‘Not really my place to say, sir,’ said Bryson, ‘but I know we’re all thinking it. He needed to go and I’m glad he’s gone. The balance of karma is back to neutral. This is good. For all of us.’
Van Breeman closed his eyes, then brushed the comment aside. He turned his attention back to Wynand.
‘How long did your apparent CPR last?’ he said. ‘Before you realised the boy wasn’t coming back?’
‘He convulsed for about two minutes,’ said Wynand. ‘Then he stopped breathing and went limp. I tried CPR for maybe five minutes after that. There was no change.’
‘Why didn’t you go help Snowy look for the boy?’
Van Breeman pointed the weighted barrel at Wynand’s chest. Centred. In line with the sternum.
‘To be fair, sir, and no disrespect, but Snowy’s a grown man. Was. If he couldn’t find the kid, then that’s on him. That shouldn’t have needed more than one capable guy.’
‘Convenient for you to say that now,’ said Van Breman. He held the revolver steady for a long moment. Eyeballing the barrel’s alignment with Wynand’s mid torso.
Wynand said, ‘Once I figured the kid wasn’t coming back, I called Taylor immediately.’
Van Breeman looked across at Taylor and Derek. Taylor nodded. Van Breeman lowered the gun.
‘So where do you two fit into all this?’ Van Breeman said to the detectives.
Derek rose to the occasion. ‘Wynand rang with the update of the shitstorm, so we turned up first,’ he said. ‘Standard procedure. The father was breathing, but only just. Tiny mouthfuls of air like a fish on land. As good as gone. We called our guy in the paramedics, but his partner was new. A ring-in. Didn’t want to follow our guy’s lead. He decided to call in the medivac air service. We figured nature would take its course and the father wouldn’t make the ride back to Perth hospital, but he did. We were wrong.’
Taylor said, ‘We won’t use him again. You won’t see him again, either.’
‘The father is under full view of the doctors and nurses,’ continued Derek. ‘Plus, they have CCTV footage running throughout the wards. On top of that, he’s an international. Apparently from the UK. Which means they’ll have their national law enforcement agencies on the incident within forty-eight hours. Not much else we know at this point.’
‘Only that he’s breathing,’ said Taylor. ‘And that once he comes to, he’ll talk. He’s seen Wynand and Snowy’s faces. He’s seen mine and Derek’s up close too.’
Van Breeman paced slowly around the room, paying no attention to Snowy’s bloodied corpse getting colder against the wall. His black-hole mouth, drooped eyelids and cloudy pupils a constant reminder that failure and incompetence were not accepted in this line of work. His body had slumped lower, his hair painting the blood splatter behind him downwards in one long brush stroke. The thicker globules of red had now pooled around the bottom of the skirting board like molasses.
Van Breeman eyed the remaining five sets of eyes around the room. ‘What else has to be done?’ he said.
Taylor said, ‘We’ll pin the incident on Snowy. Cover it up to look like some lone-wolf terrorist event, then pay off any reporter who comes snooping around the place. If a woman named Lydia starts showing up, stay well clear. Derek and I know the people to see, so confirm with us. We know the reporters, we know the forensics team, and any other cops in the area. Including the rangers in the state forest, if the kid is spotted out there.’
Derek said, ‘And we’ll take care of the father in the hospital. Like Taylor said, he’ll talk. If he talks, we’re all fucked.’
Van Breeman soaked it all in. He took a few deep breaths, then walked over to the signature series of bottles above Wynand’s grey matter and poured himself a glass.
‘So, the kid,’ said Van Breeman. ‘We need to find him. How old is he?’
‘Around five or six,’ said Wynand.
|
1600hrs Monday December 17, 2012 Mackay’s Apartment, Guildford, England |
Cross raided Mackay’s bedroom cupboards for any clothing that fitted her, then removed a small number of essential toiletries from the bathroom. Mackay hadn’t stayed in many hotels over the years because of deployment, so the options for mini accessories were limited. She found one of each of what was most important: shampoo, liquid body wash, a tube of toothpaste. There was only one toothbrush: Mackay’s. Which wasn’t a problem as most international flights had disposable minis she could request. Otherwise, some hot water to swish it through would have to do. She dumped them in a cooler bag she’d found in the pantry next to a bulk-buy of two-minute noodles and a few bottles of dried-up cooking sauces. Possibly only ever opened and used when Malvin and his family still lived there. Whatever she didn’t have or couldn’t find, she decided she’d make do and buy on the fly.
Mackay managed to throw some things together into an old Army-issued dive bag. He did his best to pack light for what he assumed would be a hot Australian summer, somewhere deep in the thirty-plus degrees. At least that’s what he expected according to what he’d seen in various TV documentaries. He packed three of everything: tops, bottoms, socks, underwear. He grabbed his passport, synthetic bone marrow meds, immunosuppressants, and left his shoes on his feet. Lastly, he threw in a packet of sleeping pills he’d had since returning home from major surgery. Mild stuff Captain Anderson prescribed to help him get back into a normal sleeping routine. He figured it would help during the long flight.
‘Time to go,’ said Cross, wheeling herself to the front door with the cooler bag in her lap. Mackay gulped some water from the kitchen tap, turned off all the lights, wheeled Cross outside and locked up.
Once inside the car, Mackay blasted the heater while Cross typed Heathrow Airport into the navigation app in her phone. The drive was less than half an hour and got them to the Parking Express car yard at 1630hrs. How long they would end up staying in Perth was unclear at this point. Because of Malvin’s sudden call, the express parking was their best all-round option. Allowing flexibility for any short- or long-term plans they wanted to make once they touched down.
Mackay took the ticket from the barrier and parked in the nearest available space. The shuttle bus to departures ran every ten minutes. They waited five. Once inside the terminal, Cross lathered on an unusually friendly demeanour, convincing the booking lady at check-in to approve a twin seater in business class. Veteran’s benefits. Happy days. The crowds inside were thin. They found a quiet lounge opposite a duty-free store, basically a mini department store laid out with glass cabinets filled with exotic chocolates, high-end perfumes, boxed cigarettes and booze stands showcasing novelty spirits from all over the world. Most of them in tall, deluxe boxes. Being later in the afternoon, the overall bustle of the terminal was down to a mid-burble. The flights were less frequent, which meant that travellers were either up in the air en route back home, or they’d already made it and had started the unpacking. Easing the strains of the holiday journey. Maybe sitting down watching TV, or eating, or both. Or sleeping. Which Mackay wished he could be doing. Forget about life for a while. All of which was partly aided by the crooning Christmas music playing from the ceiling speakers, helping soften the overall mood. Mackay found it somewhat calming. Fewer people. Easy listening melodies.
Although mostly quiet, the duty-free store was alive. At least more than anywhere else. Like a street market coming to the end of peak hour. Taking in the last of the day’s patrons for their pickings. Almost as if every traveller who’d passed through departure security had organised a group chat and agreed to meet there at 1800 sharp. Cross and Mackay hadn’t bothered strolling about the terminal time-wasting before boarding, so they chose the lounge. Which at least had something pretty to look at and helped keep Mackay’s mind off what was happening two continents over.
The store was decked out in premium Christmas attire with a distinct red, white and green motif. The pine trees were all fake but were spruced up to the nines with glittery tinsel, bulbs and candles. There were blow-up Santas, angels blowing trumpets strung up overhead, and dozens of tiny plastic snowflakes spread amongst the cabinets and stands. Which gave Cross an idea.
‘Do you want to get booze?’ asked Cross.
‘You want to drink? Now?’ said Mackay.
‘Not for me. I shouldn’t advise this, but tonight and tonight only, once we’re on board, you may want to get yourself trolleyed and pass out. Help your thoughts stay off the radar for the next twenty hours. Cheaper than paying for whatever they’re selling on board.’
‘You’re serious?’
‘I know alcohol is usually bad news for anyone dealing with issues, but for the flight time, you don’t want things preying on your mind. Sitting idle for that long could be a train wreck in waiting.’
‘I brought sleeping pills,’ said Mackay.
Cross thought on it. ‘Let me see,’ she said.
Mackay rifled through his bag and took out the box. Cross read it out.
‘Triazolom. Captain Andersen had me take the same. Take both. One pill, plus the booze. Time should fly by. But I’ll be keeping the box, and I’ll give you the dose once we’re on board.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Don’t start.’
‘Thanks for your permission and concern, but I’m not stupid.’
‘Make a habit of this, and I’ll fucking hurt you.’
Mackay stared back. ‘Somehow I don’t doubt that.’
Cross looked down at his crotch. ‘I’ll remove them,’ she said. ‘Now go over to the duty-free and buy a bottle of something. Whiskey preferably. Nothing too lavish, but make sure it’s decent. I’ll be having some too.’
Mackay wasn’t a heavy drinker. He didn’t mind beer, but never went for liquor, spirits or wine. He wasn’t really sure which whiskey to go for from all the options on the stands, so he went for a common mid-range. One he’d seen numerous times before in his youth, standing proud in his friends’ parents’ liquor cabinets. A Chivas scotch. A twelve-year blended malt. Mackay had no idea how good or bad it might be. The striking shape of the bottle and grand design of the label made it look premium enough, and it was priced second down against a very expensive Japanese Hibiki. Surely Cross would approve. In any case, the forty per cent alcohol rating was enough to blend with the triazolom to keep his lids shut for a good while.
The flight was scheduled to leave on time at 1900. It was busy, but not full. And they got on without any carry-on checks, which was good news considering they’d boarded with almost a litre of scotch and a box of sleeping pills ready for a brain-wipe. For a long relax. After being seated up front in Business, Cross’s chair was handled by a grounds staffer and packed with the rest of the luggage to go underneath. Before take-off, Mackay adjusted his watch eight hours forward to Australian Western Standard time, then managed to proposition a friendly stewardess for two cups of water. Namely for the cups. Before the water arrived, Mackay withdrew the scotch from his dive bag and placed the bag above in the overhead storage. He shoved the bottle low in the gap of the seats between his and Cross’s hips, then once the water arrived, Cross handed over two sleeping pills. Mackay raised a brow. Cross shrugged, loose and carefree.
‘You’ll be fine,’ she said.
‘I get the feeling you’ve done this before.’
Cross shrugged again with a hint of a smile.
‘’Tis only a stepmother would blame you,’ Mackay said. He downed the pills with the water first, then proceeded to crack the Chivas. Delicately. Low between their hips, away from any prying, judging eyes passing by. He poured his cup half full, knocked it back and held on as it passed from mouth to throat to stomach.
Cross did exactly the same. Two pills, half a cup of scotch. Mouth, throat, stomach. They let it sit for a couple of minutes until a hostess gave the call for all passengers to be seated, then both did a second half-cup. A third half-cup was administered as they taxied out to the straight, then finally a fourth half-cup once they climbed away into the ether.
Mackay passed out first, somewhere over the English Channel, while Cross lasted another ten minutes. Falling asleep somewhere over France, possibly right above the Eiffel Tower. Mackay slept the entire flight to Singapore. Just over thirteen hours. Happy days for him. Meant he didn’t spend hours contemplating and pondering over thoughts. Ticking over the ominous unknown that was about to surface. It also meant no communication with Cross who was awake after eight hours. Which she didn’t appreciate, but was happy for Mackay to slog it out in the land of dreams. For his sake anyway. In the bigger picture at least. It meant she had to occupy herself with movies, TV shows, music and basic meals barely on par with a deployed catering company. Which she was okay with, but preferred conversation. Preferred interacting with verbal company. Even if it was managing Mackay’s equilibrium and supporting his frame of mind. After all, she was a talker, and a self-confessed one at that.
|
2000hrs Monday December 17, 2012 Frans & Hoek Winery, Margaret River Valley, Western Australia |
Van Breeman spent the rest of the afternoon in the admin room. Making calls and wiring money. He used the time to wipe three things off his immediate to-do list. First, he called the local coroner and discussed appropriate sums of money to a considered value. A sum large enough to fudge an official statement. The transaction was a verbal agreement: money for paperwork declaring there was no foreign substance in the asthma attack victim’s lungs when he died. That the young boy died of only that – an asthma attack. That he had a random episode and couldn’t breathe, linked to some kind of pollen in the air someone from the United Kingdom hadn’t been exposed to before. That he died before first aid could be administered. Second, he called his contact at St John’s paramedics state office in Perth. Again, discussing appropriate sums of money to a considered value. Enough to have the unknown paramedic who decided to call in the medivac helicopter transferred to the state’s far north. To keep things quiet. At least until things had settled down, or until other measures would be considered.
Third, he had his well-paid detectives, Taylor and Derek, knock up a quick, spurious statement. Van Breeman wanted to oversee it, so he made them write it then and there. Words in the statement were simple and to a basic effect, which kept everyone out of hot water by blurring the lines of the event’s specific details. Which said that the two detectives arrived after the paramedics, and that once the medevac helicopter arrived, they followed it back to Royal Perth Hospital. To keep the victim safe from any second-wave attacks should there be a second lone-wolf shooter trying to finish the job. Which, in the bigger picture, basically meant keeping the victim completely quiet until death, or action an early termination if he started talking. Whichever came first. Which they all agreed was in the best interest for everyone. Employment-wise.
Once Van Breeman eventually cleared his immediate to-do list, which included a hefty loss of numbers in a discreet bank account, it was late. And there was still one major thorn in the day’s proceedings: the lost boy. Around five or six years old. So, he joined the rest of the crew outside – scouring the winery surrounds. They went through the wine press facility, the visitor’s gallery, in and around every structure and even leaned out into the bushland. A three-kilometre wire fence line on the southern edges of the Jarrahwood state forest. The night came up empty-handed.
With no kid in sight and nothing else doing, Van Breeman ordered a final clean-up. Snowy was wrapped and bagged and sent for the woodchipper parked out behind the old maintenance cabin near the bottom edge of the property. A massive brick construction, rough-hewn by early settlers as part of the old dairy farm’s first accommodations. Erected by long-forgotten colonials who’d travelled by boat to take up the land, milk cows and create a thriving business before the turn of the century. It housed all the garden tools: one wall lined with star pickets, stakes, rakes and shovels, the other lined with wiring, rope, garden pots, gnomes and bird feeders. In the middle were two tractors and a ride-on lawnmower, while the back wall was full of empty, double-stacked wine barrels.
Later that evening, Van Breeman gave himself a buffer of time to think and make decisions. His men went back to normal operations monitoring the security feeds, the strongbox and making maintenance checks. Wynand was the only one ordered to stay out and continue to search for the kid, which was the only duty out of normal routine, but he’d messed up. So, he got the job. While all that was happening, Van Breeman went for a gallop. To clear his head.
The stable behind the maintenance cabin housed Van Breeman’s three horses. Thoroughbreds. Ex-racehorses he’d purchased before being put down and turned into dog food. He used them to survey the crops with pace and height, and occasionally take out for a ride to think thoughts like tonight. He took out his thoroughbred, Rye. A chocolate-brown specimen with a sliver of white down the forehead. He rode up and back between the long strips of crop, Rye’s drumming breath and pounding hooves the only sounds escaping over the vastness of the vines and leaves. He forgot about time and business as he rode late into the night – flushing the chaotic evening out of his system with clean air and the rhythmic hammering of the beast underneath. The isolation and purity of riding always helped him refocus and regroup his mind. As he returned and stowed Rye away, Van Breeman decided on three things: find the boy, eliminate the casualty in hospital, and cook up a sure-fire statement to the press. On his own terms delivered from his own mouth. A show of face and integrity. After all, he was an honest businessman, with at least an honest front. A public statement would place him above suspicion for the public opinion. And for Van Breeman, public opinion counted more than the truth.
Before his night ended, Van Breeman went to the strong box to check his goods. His babies. A personal necessity. The door was stout, made of treated mahogany with a keypad built into the handle. He punched in the access code and let himself in – a secret pin restricted only for him and his principal associates: Kimbala and Bryson. He turned off the alarm on the inner wall and closed the door behind him. The vague green light emitting from the ceiling lamps was comforting. Synonymous with ambience of the surrounding forest. Van Breeman knelt down and, with a small key kept inside the zipper compartment of his wallet, opened a small box. A stainless-steel item installed into the concrete flooring below the alarm unit. Inside the box was another key. Made of gold. For aesthetic reasons, and because it made it all the more special. Cut to unlock the four main storage units inside. Heavy rectangular prisms. Wide, long and deep. Positioned over a large set of digitised platform scales. The gold key unlocked the lids fixed to the main body of the unit. The room also had its own split system air-conditioning, keeping the room at a neat twenty degrees. All of which came from its own electricity source which was separate from the wine gallery. Isolating all the components and keeping a higher grade of reliability should a storm blow by.
Van Breeman opened each storage unit systematically and made his inspections, cross-checking everything with the paperwork itemised on a printed table attached to the front of each unit. The numbers on the scales looked good. Everything matched, which meant there was no change since the last inspection. Good news. Although, the numbers could have potentially been higher had the recent failures not taken place.
Van Breeman finished up, replaced the gold key back into the steel box, then moved out of the room, mostly satisfied. He ensured the front door was locked, then triple-checked it. As he stood outside in the warmth, he thought he heard an unfamiliar sound. Something new. Unidentifiable. He drew a breath, paused, exhaled, and listened. His rational mind said there was indeed a sound. Not one of his horses, not a roaming kangaroo, magpie, crow or kookaburra, but something else. He concentrated, forcing his ears to listen harder. Maybe it was just his subconscious making him think he’d heard something. Hoping it was a child’s cry. Willing it to be a whimper. Or maybe it was a hum. An off-beat melodic tone. Something random. He stayed still. One minute. Two minutes. Nothing. No sounds came that mattered. No little boy crying in the dark. Nothing but the low thrum of electricity emanating from the refrigerators behind the door. The tiny whirr of the compressor constricting vapor, raising its pressure, and pushing it into the coils inside.
*
Lydia Ferreira was a good woman to know if you had information, and sometimes, if you wanted information. For the second time in as many years, the Margaret River local journalist caught a second gust of pulpy information relating to suspect activities in her region. Once again centred around the same winery as eighteen months earlier. Same region, same familiar names involved. In early April of 2011, Perth art dealer and socialite, Carice Hackforth, was disclosed as missing by friends and family. Carice was reportedly seeing millionaire Nicus Van Breeman, her then boyfriend. The news storm made it to local and national broadcast Australia-wide. Headline stuff. A big deal. The media put it in the oven and left the heat on it for weeks. Big money and big rewards were thrown out to the public from wealthy family ties. She was last seen by a small group of hikers walking through the Jarahwood state forest – six kilometres from the Frans & Hoek establishment. Prior to that, she was seen alive and well at a salsa dance class with Van Breeman the evening before in one of Margaret River’s local community halls. They were observed to have been ‘putting on a bit of a show’, shaking hips and getting cosy while local photographers snapped away for the social spread. Four days later, police discovered a Mercedes SUV containing DNA samples of Carice’s hair and skin, abandoned on a dirt track leading into the northern end of the forest perimeter. It was her vehicle, but no DNA evidence linking Van Breeman was found. That was the part Lydia followed. Doing her best to allude to police procedural mistakes. The cops did eventually follow a small trail of motor oil leading into the forest, but that was it. Just oil. Could have come from any number of sources – trucks, tractors, even woodchippers. There was no blood, no shoe prints, no signs of a struggle. No open graves or mounds of raised dirt. Nothing. Carice disappeared. Now it was a cold case. As time and tide carried on, the public eventually forgot and turned their attentions to the next swathe of daily horrors.
Van Breeman’s supplementary earnings ultimately bought him an acquittal. Unanimously upheld by a court of appeal in May of that year. West Australia’s attorney general and police commissioner both declined to acknowledge any existence of police procedural mistakes. They also refused to initiate a follow-up search for Carice’s body. No evidence, no case, and no witnesses. Stalemate. Lydia Ferreira investigated for months. Doing the job no one else wanted because of the high-profile, criminal underpinnings of Van Breeman. Everyone else was scared. But Ferreira’s journalistic efforts for Margaret River’s online bulletin led to a small group of supporters, garnering enough momentum to push Carice’s case to a federal investigation. Soon, that small group of supporters helped the online bulletin grow. Ferreira became a big fish in a small pond. Instead of accepting positions from larger newspapers and networks, she remained in her beloved region in the south. As good as she was, however, and as bold as her questions were, her report into the missing case of Carice Hackforth and the shady ties to Van Breeman was again quashed. Thanks to high-profile associates and big money from Dark Web transactions.
|
0630hrs Tuesday December 18, 2012 Perth International Airport, Western Australia |
After a three-hour layover in Singapore, allowing time for better food and restorative hydration, they eventually touched down in Perth. Mackay almost made it to sober but was still groggy-eyed and swaying as they stepped out of arrivals and onto Australian soil. The summer heat was stunning and immediate. Turned up to a mild roasting, which was a shock to both, and didn’t help how either was feeling. A skinned pig left out in the open would have been edible in three or four hours untouched.
They made their way to the nearest foreign currency exchange and swapped out fifteen hundred pounds for a little under three thousand crisp Australian dollars. Next, they moved outside to the expanding taxi rank file and found themselves sandwiched between three interesting characters. A stooped middle-aged woman in front, and a loud-talking Australian couple behind. The stooped woman was way past her golden years, but despite her jelly triceps and pancake batter hips, her bent form inside a black and red polka dot dress made her look like a human ladybug. The couple behind them were young, somewhere in their early twenties, and were talking way too loud. They’d obviously been travelling abroad and doing whatever young Australian couples do when they go overseas – selfies, sex, drugs, booze, and purchasing cheap knock-off fashion. The girl of the pair had the kind of continuous blabber mouth with an everyone-listen-to-me volume, because what she had to say about her experience on the flight was a big deal. Apparently.
‘Excuse me,’ said Cross, wheeling her chair around and angling it towards the girl.
‘Yes, darl?’ said the girl. A skinny blonde with plenty of silicone and a mid-riff top exposing half her stomach. The guy standing next to her was a gym boy filled with tattoos. Sculpted up top but with chopsticks at the bottom. Shorter than Mackay by maybe half a foot.
‘Do we know each other?’ said Cross.
‘What’s that?’ replied Lips.
Cross raised her voice, pronouncing each word with overt enunciation, ‘Do… you… know… me?’
Lips didn’t like Cross’s tone. Something happened in her face. Stupidity trying its best to make out some kind of reply.
‘Ah, I don’t think so,’ Lips replied.
Chopsticks rolled his eyes. Slow and languidly.
‘So, why are you yelling in my ear then?’
‘What’s that?’ said Lips again, the two flaps at the front of her face almost waved.
‘We have a parrot, Tin Man,’ said Cross. ‘Likes repeating the same two words.’
Mackay raised a brow. He probably would have smiled if he was completely sober.
Cross said, ‘Could you kindly piss and moan about the flight two steps back? Those lips of yours are so close they’re almost touching my sphincter. Back up a little.’
Lips stood there. A dark hole gaping between the juicy plastic.
Cross went again, doing her best to look apologetic. ‘Sorry, you must be unsure what a sphincter is.’
Lips’ head turned to her boy like a bobble-head doll, gesturing for him to do something.
‘Don’t ask him,’ said Cross. ‘He doesn’t know what it means either. Look at him.’
The corners of Mackay’s lips eventually broke. He couldn’t help it. The boyfriend stirred. Just a reflex. His spine adjusted, his chin lifted half an inch. He opened his mouth, thought about it, closed it, then opened it again.
‘What’s so funny, mate, you got a problem?’ said Chopsticks.
‘Aye, I have loads,’ said Mackay.
‘He does,’ added Cross.
‘I got no problem fixing it, right here right now,’ said the guy.
‘Neither do I,’ said Mackay turning around completely. ‘The line seems a little slow, so I’m happy to make the time. And my insurance is really good. How’s yours?’
The dipped sockets around Mackay’s eyes and bladdered face doubled for contempt and rage. The full width of his torso and barrel chest ousted Chopstick’s entire men’s-magazine image, which made the guy think. At least for once in his life. He didn’t say another word.
‘We don’t want trouble,’ said Cross, changing to sincere. ‘We just landed. We’re all tired. If your girl wasn’t talking so much so close, I wouldn’t have said anything. Maybe if you did your job and kept something long and hard in her mouth we wouldn’t be in this position. My apologies.’
Chopsticks squinted and blinked, his mind slowly buffering the data. At least he took his hands out of his pockets – the minimum dutiful response for his girl. Lips did the goldfish thing but the rest of her remained idle.
Cross said, ‘Sphincter is your arsehole, darl. A rectum. I’m sure he’s explored it before. Now step back or I might react and bite those red bananas off your face.’
Chopstick’s eyes widened. Lines began etching into his cheeks. Mackay swore he saw a wry smile. Like there was some level of agreement there. Then Lips took charge, grabbed Chopstick’s hand and stormed out of the line. Hopefully to debrief over a coffee and a muffin.
The airport staffer in charge at the taxi rank designated Mackay and Cross a maxi-cab. A white Toyota Tarago with an ethnic driver. Dark skinned with hues of olive and red. He sported a black beard grown out to the top of his collar, and wore a white Kufi cap. A religious headdress. Essentially a Muslim turban. He remembered the name from a lecture way back at camp Shorabak during his first deployment. They were usually made of silk cloth and were wrapped in layers around a circular cap with a flat top.
The taxi was clean and neat. There was no burnt, smoky aroma imbedded into the fabric. Just a mild scent of cheap deodorant, which could also have been some kind of bathroom spray. Not entirely unpleasant but could have been used at half strength. The driver asked whether Cross wanted to be lifted into the rear by the hydraulic lifter, to which Cross declined. Politely. Mackay boosted Cross into the back of the cab then secured her wheelchair in the rear compartment. He sat in next to her and informed the driver of their destination: Royal Perth Hospital.
Sitting next to Cross inside the taxi, the first thing Mackay felt was apprehension. A learned reaction because of the driver: his skin, his Arabic background. It was, however, quickly followed by sadness, then respect. Apprehension because it reminded him of what his mates were still dealing with back in the desert, and sadness because he knew it was wrong to feel hate for a race of people. The man was just doing his job, making ends meet. The respect came from the fact the man had made it out of his war-torn country. Seeking out a better life for his family’s future.
The radio in the cab streamed music from some easy-listening station. Mackay liked it. Early morning wake-up. At seven-thirty it changed to a news jingle, queuing the listener for the half-hour updates. Perth news, sport, weather. The husky female voice spoke for two minutes. The first thirty seconds related to local drama, which was totally irrelevant for their travelling purposes: riffraff being charged for drugs, a string of offences relating to petrol siphoning, and a head-on collision somewhere north of the city. The next thirty seconds was an update on a shooting in Margaret River: three dead, a boy missing, and a British male flown to Royal Perth Hospital. The second minute was all sport and weather. Once the husky voice finished, the driver did the polite thing and engaged in conversation.
‘Bad news for Margaret River,’ said the driver. ‘Tourism might take a hit down there.’
Indian accent, not Arabic. He spoke quickly but fluently. A little muffled, but definitely educated. Mackay turned to Cross, unsure if he caught all the words as some of them melted into the next as they rolled off the tongue.
‘Pardon, sir?’ said Mackay.
‘Sir? Thank you,’ said the driver. ‘I don’t get much “sir” in this job. Mostly Australians say “mate”. You are military, yes?’
‘Yes,’ said Mackay. ‘That’s quite an assumption.’
‘If I’m honest, it is written all over your face. And your posture. It’s very straight. Very broad. Are you planning on going to Margaret River?’
Mackay took a short pause, deciding on how relevant his answer would be to the guy. Cross shrugged, like it didn’t matter the least, which was good enough for Mackay’s hypothesis; the odds the driver was involved in his family’s killings was less than one in a few billion.
‘Yes,’ said Mackay.
‘Good. Don’t let the news story stop you. Plenty of other wineries and things to do. There’s a chocolate factory, dairy factory, sweets shop, plenty of restaurants. Beautiful part of the world.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Your accent is unusual. Not British.’
‘Irish,’ said Mackay. ‘My friend here is British.’
‘Ah, yes. I didn’t want to be bold and guess incorrectly. Sometimes I confuse Irish for Scottish and vice versa. How many years in the Irish military?’
‘I’m British military actually. Long story. Moved over to England when I was twelve.’
‘That’s good I suppose. I always thought it strange committing to the Irish military in the south when your northern neighbour merges with the UK.’
A well-reckoned statement, thought Mackay. The guy was educated.
‘Good deductions,’ said Cross.
‘I was Indian military. Four years. It was the same custom for us to say “sir”. “Sir” this. “Ma’am” that. Always respect. Even on civilian streets. Not like here. But, Australia has more freedom as a country, so I bring my family here. Now I drive. Things are okay.’
‘Are murders common in Margaret River?’ asked Cross, fishing. Which was in their best interest. The more information the better, so get what you can when you can.
‘No, no, it’s very safe,’ said the driver, glancing into the rear-view mirror. ‘This one is most interesting because two years ago there was a missing woman connected to the same winery. Same where the most recent murders occurred.’
‘What happened in the most recent one?’
‘A shooting. Some poor family. Also foreigners. British, like you two. You might even know the victim. The six degree of separation rule is real you know. Some say it’s getting smaller with Facebook and social media and so forth.’
Cross moved the conversation along. Mackay sat quietly.
‘Did they catch the shooter?’ she said.
‘They’re saying it was a lone gunman. Some South African man working at the winery. Went crazy and demanded money.’
‘Did the police catch the shooter?’
‘Apparently they shot him. Shooter is dead, but so is the family. This is life, you know.’
Mackay sat quietly.
‘Which winery was it again?’ asked Cross. ‘We just want to know which one to stay clear of.’
‘Frans and Hoek. Everybody knows this one. Don’t go there. Are you splitting up your time in Perth?’
‘A few days.’
‘Beautiful city. Beautiful food, coffee, parks, beaches, sunsets. Everything is here. You will enjoy.’
‘You said everybody knows the winery. Why is that? Who was the missing woman?’
‘Two years ago, a rich businessman was accused of being connected to a missing socialite. Pretty girl. Carice or some such. Her body was never found. The businessman owns Frans and Hoek. Everybody knows him.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Perth millionaire. I forget the first name. Something Van Breeman. Everyone suspected him of killing this woman. His wife or girlfriend, I can’t remember. Was big, big news. All over Australia. They couldn’t connect him though. Very unfortunate. But everyone knows.’
‘Knows what?’
‘Knows it was him.’
‘Breeman?’
‘Yes. They say they found her car near his winery.’
‘Frans and Hoek?’
‘Yes.’
‘You like staying up to date with the news, don’t you?’
‘When there is no fair in the cab, I listen to the news. Always news.’
Mackay sat quietly.
Cross said, ‘And this Breeman, is he still operating as normal?’
‘Apparently. Police do nothing. Everybody knows. Nobody do anything. Too lazy.’
‘Knows what?’
‘The police work for Breeman. They must. Many of them corrupt. Like gangster. Crooked cops, like the movies. It’s all rubbish. He has an office somewhere here in the city.’
‘Here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know where?’
‘Probably in the CBD. In one of the two main streets. People see him from time to time. News peoples always trying to ask him questions.’
‘What are the two main streets?’
‘Hay Street and Adelaide Terrace. But you are going to the hospital on Wellington Street. So don’t worry, all is safe. Rich people go to private hospitals. You won’t see Breeman in there.’
The driver quietly chuckled to himself.
For the rest of the drive there was minimal generic chit-chat. Which both Mackay and Cross preferred. At least the questions they wanted to ask were asked, and the answers they hoped would be given, were given.
|
0745hrs Tuesday December 18, 2012 Royal Perth Hospital, Western Australia |
The driver pulled the maxi-cab into the drop-off zone of the hospital forecourt. He got out and started removing Cross’s chair. Good service. Once outside the cab, the warmth stunned again like a slap in the face, the baking heat helping the two veterans back to sobriety. The first thing Mackay saw as he stepped out of the taxi was a large woman. This time shuffling out of the hospital’s front entrance. Not that large women were such a novelty, not even in Britain. But this lady earned a triple take. The biggest point of reference that strained Mackay was the thick industrial belt clinched around her waist. A ratchet strap. Holding her pants up. Held mid-torso and pinched tight underneath all the folds front and back. Her stomach required a customisable implement and a ratchet strap looked like her best option. Mackay wasn’t sure whether to smile or grimace. He did neither. Anxiety was taking hold. The anticipation of seeing his brother was increasing.
‘What is that?’ she said.
‘It’s a ratchet strap,’ said Mackay.
‘Blimey. She’s wearing a tie-down for trucks and such?’
‘Great first impressions.’
‘Maybe she just came out of surgery for a stomach operation. What’s it called when you get the stomach stapled?’
‘Gastric bypass.’
‘That’s right. Maybe they just reattached whatever they took out back to her front. For sentimental reasons.’
Mackay pulled Cross into his arms and placed her in the wheelchair left on the path by the well-informed driver. Mackay paid the man, bid him a good day, then entered the front foyer of the hospital. Mackay and Cross quickly found the right desk, the right admin staffer and the right information which directed them to the ICU ward. Three minutes later, Mackay and Cross made it to the very reception desk where the male nurse answered Mackay’s call two evenings prior. Opposite the desk was a waiting room, sanctioned away from the busy hustle of doctors and nurses, paramedics, visitors and security. There were important-looking men and women in coats, uniforms and scrubs. Some were in the middle of important conversations, some moved in and out of rooms, and back and forth through doorways. A tall, thin woman in a nurse’s uniform stood at the desk with pursed lips, pushing pen to pad on some kind of diary or register. Her badge read, Moffat.
‘One moment,’ said Moffat, finishing up. She completed her last word, centred the pen in the middle of the page and panned down to greet Mackay with pinched eyes. She tried smiling, but it was hard sought. Must have been a hard start to the day. Or a long night.
‘How can I help?’ she said. ‘You visiting family?’ Her voice was soft and warm, but experienced. Maybe a little tense.
‘I’m here for my brother, ma’am,’ said Mackay. ‘Malvin Connolly. I believe he was in surgery recently. Gunshot wound. We’ve just flown in.’
‘Gosh, here already,’ she said, genuinely taken aback. ‘Well done. He only came in two days ago.’
Moffat went back to the register and leafed through the previous day’s pages. She found a page, stopped and skimmed horizontally down the paper. Nothing matched. She turned two more pages, found a date, skimmed over another, found a time, then probably a doctor’s name, a ward, then finally looked back up, this time at Cross.
‘I can only give out information to the next of kin,’ said Moffat.
Cross narrowed her eyes. Her expression both puzzled and irritated. Mostly it said give me a break. But Moffat was ready for it. She’d seen the same stare a thousand times over.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Moffat, ‘but anyone can make up any story they like in here. Without proof of next of kin, I can’t release any information. A driver’s licence or a passport will do. We’ve had made-up stories come through over the years, and privacy is privacy. I’m sure you understand.’
Mackay pulled his driver’s licence from the wallet in his pants, then his passport from his inside breast pocket. He slid the licence inside the passport and placed it on the bench, squaring it up neatly with the desk’s wooden edge.
‘This is me, Mackay Connolly,’ he said, pointing to the blue covering. ‘Brother to Malvin Connolly. I am his closest next of kin, ma’am. Our mother is back in England, and I believe his wife died in the same incident he was brought here for.’
Moffat breathed in and closed her eyes for a second.
‘That’s terrible,’ she said. ‘I know parts of the surrounding story. I’ll just take a quick look at your documents if you don’t mind.’
Moffat took the passport and license, checked Mackay’s name on them both, then matched it with what had been written in the register. She nodded once then promptly handed both documents back.
‘He is stable,’ she said. ‘Level three, ward one. Surgical ward. He’s resting, but I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you. I’ll take you up myself, just give me a moment to make a call.’
Moffat dialled a number, told whoever picked up on the other end she was leaving the desk and needed a cover. She then led Mackay and Cross into the surgical ward, turned one corner, then another. She slowed down to a line of rooms spread left and right down a quiet hallway lit with fluorescent tubes running across the ceiling like a spine. Aside from a trio of nurses walking casually past them, the only others they saw were a gathering of six men. A congregation. A murder, if they were crows. All nodding on a point of conversation in vague assent. Four of them looked like hospital staff, two of them did not. All were standing and deliberating on hospital topics in an offshoot waiting room. There was one hospital security guard, two uniformed paramedics, and one wise old doctor. The two who didn’t identify as hospital staff were men in suits. At first glance, Mackay couldn’t determine who they were. And couldn’t tell how expensive the suits were either. In passing, the materials however, came off as quality. Better than run-of-the-mill, but less than top-of-the-line. Something to wear for a full day’s work, but not so elegant and refined that wearing it for a full day’s work would seem over the top or undermine its purpose.
The two in suits held takeaway coffee cups and were directly speaking with the older, wiser-looking gentleman. The doctor. A stereotype with white hair, white moustache and white coat commonly seen in storybooks and children’s movies. Most doctors had a field of specialty, which Mackay assumed was pulmonology for this guy. A physician who specialises in the respiratory system. Which was a fair assumption considering they were heading to the cardiac care unit, and the fact Malvin could hardly breathe and speak over the phone. Which drew one single conclusion in Mackay’s mind; Malvin had been shot somewhere in the chest.
All men wore serious expressions as the white-coat doctor laid down his information. However, as Mackay, Moffat and Cross passed by, Mackay noted the two men in suits moved their attention specifically towards him. As if garnering immediate interest. Peas in a pod, moving in unison. Wondering who was seeing who, and why a legless woman in a wheelchair, a nurse, and an athletically built brick were walking through the cardiac care unit. The two suits eyeballed Mackay whilst he pushed Cross past their position. Their eyes lingering the whole length of the corridor. Which was enough time to make a tonne of assumptions. One of the men, the closest, had a flip-wallet clipped to the side of his belt with a shiny silver badge on it. Above it, jutting out from the inside of his jacket, was a worn leather pancake holster. If the other guy had one, which Mackay assumed he did, it was hidden by the cut of his jacket.
Mackay made note of the badge and the freshly shaved faces. He noted their size and features. The thinner one had a sheared widow’s peak down to a number two, with a broad nose as Italian as they come. Handed down since Caesar ruled half the world. The other guy was sturdier. Fleshy with a textbook buzz cut. Short back and sides with a flat top. Old school. Both were around the six-foot mark, neither more than six-two. While they stared, Widow’s Peak ran a hand through what remained of his once oily hair and turned to his partner and mouthed something. Buzz Cut nodded in response. From Mackay’s perspective, they were smug gits with rank and a badge. Same-same in the military field. And often enough, for many an adult in any kind of uniform, rank and badges meant a whole lot of nothing. They both stepped away from the group and took a step forward.
*
‘This is Malvin, here,’ said Moffat, indicating to an open entrance reading ‘Ward One’ posted on the wall. There were six beds in the elongated room. Three per side. Four of them had drawn curtains while only two were open, exposing empty beds with neat drawsheets hanging evenly either side of the frame. The far wall looked out to an expansive lake with scattered trees and mansions on the hills around it. Below that, the city loomed with traffic, pedestrians, cyclists and neatly arranged bushes and palm trees.
‘Malvin’s bed is second on the left,’ said Moffat, moving towards the second drawn curtain in the line of beds. Before she got there, a voice called out from behind.
‘Nurse.’ It was the heftier cop. Buzz Cut. Standing at the entrance to the ward. Moffat turned.
‘Those two can’t be in there,’ he said, pointing to Mackay and Cross.
Mackay stopped. Cross eased on her brakes.
Moffat closed her eyes and mouthed, ‘Oh my God.’ Then she turned to Mackay. ‘Really, these two need to bugger off. Been hanging around like a couple of blowflies since they brought your brother in.’
Moffat turned her attention to Buzz Cut. ‘Can’t they?’ she said, condescension smothering her tone. ‘Looks to me like they already are.’
The Italian with the nose sidled up next to Buzz Cut at the entrance.
‘This is a police matter,’ said Buzz Cut. ‘That’s why we’re here. To secure the man for later questioning. You’ve seen us hanging around, I’m sure.’
‘I have. Like two boiled eggs going off in the sun. And frankly, I don’t care. This is not your ward.’
‘We can’t allow any visits from anybody,’ said Widow’s Peak. ‘Not until we’ve completed our full investigation on the matter. You know the rules.’
‘I do know the rules,’ Moffat said, stepping forward, standing taller. ‘The rules of the hospital. Where I work, not you. If you did, and if this was your ward, maybe you could throw your badge around and dictate what goes on. But I never saw your names on his visitation list. And I’m not denying the poor man the rights to see his family who’ve just flown in from Britain. My ward, my rules.’
Cross raised a brow and turned to Mackay.
‘You can question him later,’ said Moffat. ‘Why don’t you go have another cup of coffee. Or better yet, a shower. If you have a problem, you can go speak with Doctor Rowe. The same doctor you were speaking with before. This is his ship, and he likes his staff, because his staff run that ship tight.’
Moffat turned away. The two cops looked at each other for a long moment, then left. Moffat continued to Malvin’s bed. The second drawn curtain.
‘Sorry about that back there,’ Moffat said. ‘These police, sometimes they’re real arrogant arseholes. Think they can run up and down this place doing whatever they like. Gets my goat.’
‘You did great,’ said Cross. ‘Nice way to relieve some tension, telling the constabulary off.’
‘Very true,’ said Moffat.
Moffat pulled the curtain halfway back, enough to reveal Malvin head to toe.
Mackay couldn’t look. He stared down at his feet, standing there, unsure what to do. Trying his best to gather enough mental strength to raise his head. Cross looked up at him.
‘It’s all good, Tin Man, go speak with him,’ said Cross.
Mackay stiffened. He slowly raised his eyes to Malvin lying there, a version of his brother Mackay hadn’t met before. He was asleep, but he didn’t look peaceful. A strained expression of pain and loss was drenched into the skin of his traumatised face. Ironed in. The fluorescent tubes weren’t kind either – coating his grey face to a pasty sheen. Normally a healthy eighty-five kilos, Malvin looked drawn across the cheekbones and hollowed through the midsection. There was a shadow in his face. The brother he once knew was no longer there.
‘He’ll wake up in his own time,’ said Moffat. ‘The surgeons will likely be operating on him again tomorrow. Today is a recovery day. Not to sour the mood any further, but I’m always one to be honest and upfront. He has one collapsed lung which couldn’t be reinflated, and the other keeps filling up with blood. The entrance wound from the bullet hit the left primary bronchus, and the exit wound was wide. About a ten-cent piece. A tradesman’s thumb. It’s allowing blood to spill over into the other lung. The surgery was difficult, enough to stop him drowning in his own blood for now, but he’ll need another operation tomorrow. He needs rest, so best not to stir him awake. I’ll need to head back to ER on level one. If you need anything, the nurses here can help. Just press the button on the console attached to the bedside.’
‘Thanks for your help,’ said Cross, blinking away jetlag. Staying clear and focused was trying.
Mackay took a step closer towards Malvin’s pitiful shape, sucking air through tubes inserted into his nostrils. One tube was implanted in his side, through the ribs, taped and connected to a mechanical box. Hardware that Mackay assumed utilised a pump apparatus to help him breathe.
Mackay was tired and needed to sit. He turned and looked around for a spare chair to help ease the fatigue. He dragged one away from the opposite wall and placed it in front of Malvin’s heaving chest. Cross rolled herself next to the foot of the bedframe. Mackay closed the curtain for privacy, then dumped himself into the chair. For what only felt like a matter of seconds, both Mackay and Cross fell asleep. Time was forgotten, as were dead nephews, dead wives and lost children. Their world stopped and time passed. Half an hour later, Malvin was awake.