Dead Point

46

I drove back without lights, the chalky road clear in the early moonlight. At the trees, I turned the car around, faced the way I’d come.

I sat for a moment, put my forehead on the steering wheel. My body had moved a step beyond tiredness and hurt, gone to a stage where I wasn’t feeling anything except a strange sort of buzzing in my limbs, an electrical discharge of some kind.

This was not my business. My business was finished. Almost. Soon. Just as soon as I’d put a proposition to Xavier Doyle that would drain the bonhomie from his cherubic, murderous being. Then my life would resume.

Charlie would be back soon.

Libraries. Ros Cundall had phoned. She wanted a library.

We wouldn’t be doing a Cundall library.

Good.

A library every now and then was fine but not a diet of libraries. We would be doing other things, sitting in the workshop fragrant with the smell of wood and discussing philosophical matters. His extended stay in Perth would come under examination. The merits of warm weather. Swimming, perhaps.

I lifted my head, rubbed my eyes, got out. Listened.

Far, far away a dog barking, a long strangled sound. The full moon, it stirred dogs in their blood, all their fluids, people too.

It was cold, a wind coming off the lake, off Bass Strait beyond the lake, a cold passage was the strait.

I shut my mind and set off down the track into the trees, into the dark, walking quickly. The wind was animating the gums, rubbing limbs together until they squealed, pushing under loose bark.

Where the road met the clearing, I stopped. Things were as I’d left them minutes before. No sound save the wind in the trees, at work lifting the corrugated iron.

No. A voice.

Someone talking. A low monologue, no individual word distinguishable.

I crossed the space, went down the passage between the buildings, towards the water, the voice getting louder, words becoming distinct.

I knew the voice.

‘Horse prick, secret of life, hey? Fuck people, they smile? That’s the attitude?’

In the deep shadows, I stopped, leaned forward.

It seemed so close, the dark helicopter, sitting on the water at the end of the rusty cradle tracks, moving in and out on its floats. I thought I could see a pilot.

Two men on the jetty, near the tethered boat, in sub-tropical clothing, long shorts, boat shoes.

Milan Filipovic and Steve, his short-legged employee.

I couldn’t see who Milan was talking to.

‘Don’t fuck around in there,’ Milan said. He had his small sub-machine pistol in his right hand. ‘Don’t fuck with me, cockboy.’

Susan Ayliss was on her knees in front of him, something around her neck. He was holding her close with his left hand, like a dog on a choke-chain.

To my left, a voice said, ‘Got the Pole’s gun.’

It was a tall man, heavily built, all in black. He’d come out of the house through a sliding door, stood in the light holding a pistol upright.

‘Goodonya, Mick,’ said Milan.

Mick Olsen, late of the drug squad, identifier of Robbie’s body.

Marco came out of the boat’s cabin, carrying something. A bag, a sports bag. He put it on the cabin roof.

‘It’s all here,’ he said.

‘Come,’ said Milan. He moved his head and his hair was like a silver cap in the moonlight. ‘Come here you piece of shit.’

Marco climbed onto the jetty, head down.

‘Treat you like a son,’ said Milan. ‘You steal from me, you whore.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Marco.

I could barely hear his voice.

‘Get on your knees, cockboy. Put the bag down, get on your fucken knees and say you sorry.’

Marco knelt, head down.

Milan gestured to Olsen with the machine pistol. Olsen came over, took the weapon, gave the pistol to Milan. ‘I’m sorry, Milan,’ said Marco. ‘I’m really sorry.’

Milan went right up to him, dragged Susan with him.

‘Okay,’ said Milan, ‘I forgive you. Look at me.’

Marco looked up slowly. Milan shot him in the face. One shot. He went over backwards, not quickly.

Susan made a noise, a terrible noise.

Milan pulled her head back, stuck the pistol in her mouth and pulled the trigger.

‘Okay,’ he said, handing the pistol to Steve. ‘Wipe it, stick it in her hand. Lovers’ fucken quarrel, hey.’ He laughed. ‘Let’s go. I’m thirsty.’

I walked backwards, slowly, very scared, turned, went quickly down the alley. Hide. I should find somewhere to hide until the helicopter left. Somewhere dark, somewhere to hide my head in shame.

I could have done something. Anything. Shouted, distracted Milan.

Where to hide?

I came out between the buildings, saw the big door of the workshop slightly ajar.

Dark. It would be dark in there, in the huge space, high as a church.

I was inside in a second. It was dark, but not dark enough for me, moonlight coming in through the front entrance. I could see the old cradle piled with drums, 44-gallon drums.

The helicopter started.

Drawn forward, I moved up until I could see the helicopter below, at the water’s edge.

Milan was standing on a pontoon, getting into the cabin. Steve and Mick Olsen were on land, waiting for him to get in. Steve had the sports bag. From ski jackets to sports bag, I thought. Sporty stuff, the South African cocaine.

I could have done something. Anything.

These men were going to fly away, fly to warm climes, refuel somewhere, Sydney perhaps. They’d be in Milan’s sitting room long before midnight, lounging in the white leather chairs and sofas, drinks on the glass-topped tables, having a good laugh. I thought of the huge picture above the fireplace, a picture of a red rose lying on stone steps, its decaying petals holding drops of dew.

I could have done something.

I went to the back of the shed, went behind the cradle, put both hands on the base of the frame, tested.

Too heavy, probably rusted into the tracks.

I pushed again, put some effort into it.

The cradle moved. Moved a few centimetres.

I changed my grip, put my shoulder against a drum, felt the cold metal on my cheek. Put everything I had into my push.

Moving, the cradle was moving. I found more strength, this was pointless, they would come up here and kill me, put the pistol in my hand.

I could have done something.

Push.

The cradle was running, running freely, rumbling along, picking up speed, getting away from me. I stumbled, went to a knee, got up, gave it a final shove…

Steve was the only one outside the helicopter. He was standing on the pontoon, looking up, he’d heard the rumbling sound.

‘Go!’ he screamed. ‘Jesus Christ, go!’

A drum dislodged from the top of the pile, fell forward, hit the concrete, bounced high.

I could see the pilot’s face through the open door. He’d seen the cradle.

One pontoon lifted, the helicopter moved.

The drum bounced again, hit Steve, smashed him into the cabin. I heard his scream over the whup of the rotor blades.

The whole cradle slammed into the helicopter, tonnes of metal travelling at speed, a screeching, crushing sound, a string of sparks as the rotors hit metal, drums hitting the top of the cabin, flying into the air.

Sound like a car backfire, another, a flash of orange in the chaos below.

The blast pushed me backwards, took my sight away, took away my hearing. Instinctively, I turned my head away, turned my body, almost fell over. I didn’t look again, willed myself to leave the shed, go across to the jetty, to the bodies.

Susan was dead, no pulse in her neck.

I went to Marco, put my hand to his throat, thought I felt something.

No, my own hammering pulse.

I leant down closer, trying to detect breathing.

From his mouth a sweet, clean smell. His toothpaste. French toothpaste.

The second time I’d smelled it today.

I pushed down the neck of the sweater, saw where the swing chain had bruised him.

Then I ran, down the path between the buildings, across the moon-pale clearing into the trees, down the dark road, not stopping until I reached the car, got in, couldn’t get my breath, fumbled the key.

The engine started.

On the hill crest, I looked back. There was a yellow glow at the end of the peninsula. Dead Point was burning. Mick Olsen’s enemies in the drug squad would be pleased. All they’d had to do was slip me some surveillance clips and I did all their dirty work.