Chapter 36

The bus pulled away, leaving Harry in a cloud of warm exhaust and swishing jacaranda leaves. He shouldered his courier bag. Two big Harleys roared past. Harry jumped, heart hammering. He watched as they disappeared around the corner.

He waited for a gap in the traffic, then crossed the road. Away from the main road, the pathway alternated between the orange glow of streetlights and inky darkness under the trees. Harry walked quickly. He wanted to get home. He needed to get this story finished. Get it moving. At the top of his street he glanced up at the water tower. There were lights on underneath it now, part of the new security arrangements. Harry could understand why Cardinal had thought it a spaceship.

‘Harry! Wait up!’

Harry looked back towards the road. He saw the two sil­houettes. He could tell by the way they were shuffling, almost running, that they weren’t out for a late evening stroll.

They walked under a streetlight. Harry stopped dead, paralysed. One of them was tall. Greasy blond hair down to his collar. Celtic bands clawed up his neck. Heathy. The other one was shorter, overweight. Chin smeared with a dirty goatee. Crow.

Harry’s heart rate jacked. His fingers felt numb. His breath came in short, sharp gasps. Black spots jumped in his peripheral vision. He knew he should run, but where to? He looked around for help. On one side, under the tower, was a steep rock wall. The houses on either side of the road were dark. He forced himself to breathe deeply.

Heathy and Crow dropped into darkness, barely a bus-length away now. Harry tried to remember his last fight, in high school. He struggled to recall any useful titbits from the taekwondo classes he’d attended for six months when he was a kid, until his mum left and money was too tight to pay for them. His mind went blank. As the Dreadnorts emerged into light again, Harry raised his arms to cover his chest and stomach as best he could, then ducked his head behind his fists.

Crow lumbered in. Harry dodged. Pain exploded in the side of his head. He staggered sideways, vision blurring. His tattoos were burning.

‘Get on the other side of him!’ Crow spat.

Heathy had dropped into a fighting stance. Harry saw the kick coming and threw his arm out to try and protect himself. Pain blasted up his forearm, pins and needles followed. Crow ducked forward and tried to pull the bag off Harry’s arm. Harry twisted his arm through the strap and they fell together.

Harry felt Crow’s breath on his face: stale garlic and bourbon. Harry lashed out with his fingers, grabbing the bikie’s face and twisting. Crow roared in pain. Harry rolled away, felt another explosion of pain in his back. Caught a glimpse of Heathy lining up for another kick.

Harry clawed along the road, towards the rock wall, dragging his bag after him.

Crow pushed up onto his hands and knees, wiped blood away from his face. Heathy dived in. Harry rolled. The kick glanced off his thigh. Harry kept rolling, onto his back.

Get up, or you’re dead!

Harry winced. He pushed himself to his hands and knees, then rose shakily to his feet.

‘I’m done screwing around,’ Crow said. He pulled a knife.

The tattoos pulsed on Harry’s arms. He could feel something in his mind. Surging like a wave. Harry held it back, terrified. Then Heathy was on him again. Harry felt a blast of pain in his stomach, followed by a crack as his head snapped back against the rock wall. Stars danced in his eyes. The bag fell from his shoulder. Crow advanced with the knife.

Harry felt the surge again, and this time let it happen. For a moment the world was suffused with a deep blue glow. He sucked in a breath. His ears were ringing. Wind whistled through the trees. A TV blared. He could smell his sweat, and that of Crow and Heathy. Could taste the metallic tang of blood in his mouth.

Harry stepped away from the wall to meet them.

Heathy came in first, both hands out, trying to grab Harry. Harry pistoned his leg out, then watched stunned as Heathy doubled over and fell back to the ground.

Crow stabbed at him with the knife. Harry darted to one side, turned and thrust his leg back, but Crow dodged the kick. Crow slashed down. Harry parried the strike, barely noticing the lancing pain in his arm.

Harry backed up, wary of letting Heathy get behind him.

‘Come on, you little fucker!’ Crow said. ‘Come on!’

Heathy ran for Harry’s bag. Harry step-kicked in, driving Heathy against the wall. There was a solid crunch as the bikie’s head impacted, and he dropped to the ground.

He turned in time to see Crow rushing in with the knife. Harry grabbed Crow’s wrist, pulled him in close, twisting his hand into the bikie’s shirt. He could feel the knife between them, could feel Crow’s hot breath against his shirt. As he strained to hold the knife hand, blood pulsed down his wounded arm, warm and sticky.

‘Take some martial arts classes, huh?’ Crow said.

Crow snapped his elbow around. Harry threw his head back, taking the blow on the shoulder. Then brought his knee up, trying for a groin strike. He missed. Crow pushed him away. Harry grabbed for the knife. It sliced his hand but came away, bouncing on the road.

Heathy groaned, pushed himself to his feet. ‘I thought you said this was going to be easy,’ he said, then spat blood onto the road.

‘It would be if you’d pull your fucking weight,’ Crow replied.

Harry staggered back into the middle of the road, putting himself between them and the knife. His stomach churned. His bag was lying there, but they seemed to have decided that getting the bag alone wasn’t enough now. Just down the road, traffic continued to pass, the drivers oblivious to the life-and-death struggle going on less than a hundred metres away.

Harry sucked in lungfuls of air. Blood was flowing from his arm and the other hand now. Heathy and Crow started towards him, wary.

‘Do you want to cut, or dig?’ Harry said.

They stopped.

‘What the fuck?’ Heathy said. The streetlight caught the whites of his eyes.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ Crow said, unsure of himself. ‘Let’s finish this.’

‘It’s not worth it,’ Harry said. ‘You kill me, the story’s still going to come out.’

It was as though they didn’t hear him. Crow lumbered in. Harry lashed out with his fist. Crow’s head darted to one side at the last minute, the blow smacking against his cheek. Pain buzzed up Harry’s arm. The bikie’s head rocked back slightly, but momentum carried him forward. Before Harry could retreat the big man had him in a bear hug.

‘That’s it. Hold him,’ Heathy said.

Harry tried to lift his knee, but Crow had him turned slightly. Harry pummelled Crow’s sides with his fists. Crow grunted, but held firm. Out of the corner of his eye Harry saw Heathy step in and pick up the knife.

As Heathy launched himself, Harry slammed the heel of his boot against the top of Crow’s kneecap. Crow screamed. His grip loosened and Harry burst free, the knife catching him on the way through.

‘Fuck!’ Heathy screamed.

Heathy lunged, grunted, bringing the knife across. Harry darted sideways and watched the blade slide past, feeling the passage of its arc. Slightly off balance, he grabbed Heathy’s wrist, pulling the knife towards him. He lifted his leg and drove it into the bikie’s ribcage. Heathy yelled. He tried to free himself. Harry twisted under Heathy’s arm, curving the knife back around towards him. He saw it in his mind: the knife twisting under, slamming between Heathy’s ribs.

‘No!’ Harry screamed.

He jerked his arm. The knife tore through Heathy’s shirt and into the flesh below. The man staggered backwards, tripping over the kerb. The knife clattered across the bitumen, bounced off the gutter, and slipped down the stormwater drain.

Crow was on his side, shivering. Heathy lay beside him, panting. Heathy pressed a hand against his side, hissed in pain. The hand was black with blood, but the wound looked superficial, from what Harry could tell.

In the distance, a siren rose and fell through the late night air.

Harry stood over Heathy, pressed a boot against his throat. He could feel Rob, back in his cage, urging him to stomp. He resisted.

‘Tell Cardinal he’s going down,’ Harry said.

He limped up to the top of his street to get his bag.