White Dog

42

I didn’t care much about Stedman coming for me, I’d kill him, find a way. I parked the Dodge truck outside the boot factory, got the spare keys from their hiding place under the stairs, went up to my violated home and showered for a long time, examining the tooth wounds in my shoulder, the bruises everywhere. Out, I made plunger coffee, added cognac, the very superior old pale, a lot of cognac.

Hunger. It came upon me suddenly.

Nothing since the banana on the plane.

I ate Norwegian sardines on toast, two tins, four slices of bread, drank two cups of coffee.

When had I last slept? Busselton. When was that?

I drove to George’s corner shop in the Stud and rang Cam. It was a long ring, a woman answered. I said it was Jack for Cam.

‘He’s around here somewhere,’ she said.

A wait.

‘Choppin wood,’ Cam said. ‘Swore I’d never chop wood again.’

‘Small dogs, small women, wood,’ I said. ‘You can change.’

‘I knew I shouldn’t have said that. Find somewhere to sleep?’

‘Not exactly,’ I said. ‘Got a boltcutter?’

‘Don’t go anywhere without one.’

He picked me up in the HSV. The boltcutter couldn’t fit between my wrist and the handcuff. With a hard click, Cam sliced through the chain joining the handcuffs. ‘Have to wear that one for a while,’ he said. ‘There’s a bloke in Brunswick can take it off.’

‘Don’t you want to know?’

‘Never talk about sex.’

Cam listened to the story on the way to Linda’s, driving with his fingertips, blank face like a careful judge.

‘Jesus,’ he said when I’d finished, ‘you really know who to fuck with. Is there a course you can do?’

‘Some things you can’t teach,’ I said.

At Linda’s building, Cam parked illegally. The Alfa was where I’d left it. I went over. Unlocked. My mobile was on the passenger seat. I held my breath, leaned over, put my left hand between the seats, pain from the bites.

Tape. Notebook. I breathed again. We went upstairs. At the apartment door, Cam opened his corduroy jacket and took the big Ruger out of his waistband.

‘I don’t think you’ve got any warnings left,’ he said. He knocked loudly. ‘Federal Police,’ he said. ‘Open the door.’

We waited.

‘Reckon they think you’re in the acid,’ Cam said. ‘Boys and the dogs watching the bubbles.’

I opened the door. Cam went first. The file was gone but nothing else touched. I fetched two Carlsbergs from the pantry, uncapped them, and we sat in chairs and watched the video on the big flat screen.

A hotel security surveillance film, poor quality, date and time shown along the bottom: 03.12.94 23.14.

It was a compilation tape, people coming and going in a hotel foyer, eight scenes, not long, the last one at 2.36 am on 4 December 1994.

The tape ended.

Cam drank beer. ‘Have meaning?’ he said.

I was looking at my mobile. A message. ‘It has meaning,’ I said. I pressed the numbers.

‘Hello.’ Quick.

‘Jack Irish.’

‘The pictures,’ said Janene. ‘It’s them.’

‘Will you give evidence?’ I said.

A long silence.

‘Without you, Janene,’ I said, ‘they’ll go free and they’ll know money can buy anything and that you were just bugs to be squashed.’

She made a sniffing noise, I thought I heard her swallow.

‘Will you look after me?’ she said.

I touched my shoulder with fingertips. ‘I’ll look after you,’ I said.

‘Promise?’

‘Promise.’