*****
When I woke, the room was filled with light and I was face down, stripped naked, my arms and legs stretched wide, hands cuffed separately to the underframe of the bedhead, and my feet immobilised. I tried to pull them up closer to my body, but felt the distinct cut and burn of hemp rope against my ankles.
From outside I could hear the unmistakable pop and whine of bullets interspersed with the soft, distant thud of larger calibre shells. It was Wednesday, the morning on which high school cadets, newly enlisted soldiers, and marksmen were given free access to the range. Farther to the west of our bunker, the three westernmost concrete towers were taking a sporadic hammering from light artillery, the charges of their shells removed, firing accuracy spotted by a senior officer through his binoculars. Even if we managed to escape, the risk of being hit by a stray bullet or a piece of shrapnel from the artillery pieces as the shell hit the reinforced concrete towers was enormous. There was no way of running back to the fence and the garage where Kemeny’s car was parked without the strong possibility of being shot. No dummy bullets here, except for the two-pounders. On Wednesdays, so the new blokes could get used to it, it was all live ammunition.
I turned my head to the side and coughed.
“You’re awake?” Mark asked quietly.
I raised my head as far as I could and then turned it to face him. He was sitting beside me on the floor, also handcuffed to the bedframe. Although his shoulder was bandaged, he seemed to be naked too.
“Have you been awake long?”
He shook his head. “No, he woke me when he came in, probably about twenty minutes ago. Are you …?”
“What did he do to me?” I wasn’t sore down there and craned my neck to look over my shoulder.
“He stretched out on top of you, Clyde. I wasn’t sure if he was, you know?”
“I don’t think so, Mark. Did he touch you?”
“No!” he said emphatically. “The other bloke, Freckles, he must have some medical training, because he fixed my shoulder up and then gave me a shot, just like you. I think they cut our clothes off.”
“Why do you say that?”
“There’s a pile of strips of clothing in the corner. I recognise the fabric of my three–guinea shirt.”
I chuckled and it wasn’t long before he saw the irony. Here we were, chained up, me probably about to be sexually violated and then killed, and he was worried about his expensive shirt? I smiled at him. “This is the most human I’ve seen you, you know.”
“Don’t get used to it. Once we get out of here, it’s back to fists at five paces.”
I shook my head. I liked this Mark Dioli, even if it only existed for the here and now.
“We have to warn the Bishops,” he said. “I’m not sure if you heard him and Freckles—”
“I don’t think it was David’s and Susan’s parents he was referring to. I think it was something to do with that counsellor he murdered. Freckles asked if he’d see Kemeny at Bishop’s later, not the Bishops’. Did you notice his muddied, short–sided elastic boots? It’s all sand around here. He also said he needed money because they needed stuff. My bet is the children are being held at the property where the murder took place. Remember what Luka said? The smell of petrol and oil—that’s where it was refined from shale oil during the war, at Glen Davis, where Rupert Bishop’s property was. You need to goad Kemeny into letting slip some sign they’re there.”
“Me? Why me, Clyde?”
“Because he said he wouldn’t answer questions from me. Remember the other thing Luka said? You have to save my life.”
Mark groaned a bit and then wiped his mouth on the sheet next to his face. The saliva was red.
“How’s the pain?”
“He gave me something, but I think I’m bleeding inside, not just near the shoulder. Maybe the bullet ricocheted?”
“Happened to me,” I said. “When Marvin Keeps shot me, the bullet passed up through my chest and ripped up my pectoral muscle.”
“Was it you, Clyde? Was it you who had my grandfather put away?”
“Why do you worry about him? It’s unlikely you’ll ever see him again.”
He shrugged, wincing with the pain. “It’s all I know, Clyde. He’s been there all my life.”
“You have friends now, Mark. People who won’t hurt you. Children deserve love, not punishment. You got a rotten deal, and I promise you, if I get out of here alive, I’ll pay for your ticket to Holland myself. There’s a family over there that—”
“Good morning, fellas. Sleep well?”
My heart froze in my chest.
Dennis Kemeny stood in the doorway to his living quarters, dressed in a shirt and tie, with a longish seersucker jacket over it, his hat on, but naked from the waist down.
“You like my work uniform?”
I chanced my arm. “If you’re going to fuck me, I’d prefer you naked, Dennis,” I said.
Despite his threat to slice into me if I spoke, it was an awkward attempt to tough him out, to show I wasn’t afraid. In the back of my mind, I had a small hope that if I refused to kiss him, he may not be able to go through his ritual before sodomising me and then slitting my throat. I was positive he’d never stick his penis in my mouth, no matter what threats he used against Mark. Murderers of his sort were fixated on their ceremonies. Everything had to be “just so”. It was worth the risk, refusing to go along with his requirements. Maybe he’d just shoot me. I didn’t know.
“Tell Smith this is my farewell outfit, copper,” he said to Mark. “I wear it when I say goodbye to people. If he says another word I’ll have to gag him again. Maybe I’ll make you sit on the end of the bed and he can gag on what’s between your legs, eh?”
Mark turned his head in disgust. I could feel the anger growing in my belly; not a good sign. I had to get into self–preservation mode, pull myself back to the days of fight for your life, something that required a cool head and a will of steel.
He threw his hat across the room and then stretched over me, rubbing himself against my buttocks.
“What shall we talk about, copper?” he said to Mark while I lay as still as I could, despite my revulsion and the fear of unwanted sexual assault.
“The children,” Mark said. “Tell me whether the children are safe.”
“Of course they are. None of us boys would ever hurt a child. We promised Johnny.”
“But their parents—”
“Their parents can make more. They’re being looked after. My mate, Freckles, who so kindly looked after you? You see, he and his missus can’t have kids. You know why?”
“Why?”
“Because he tried to save me on the night Johnny left when they all took turns and then beat me rotten afterwards. For his efforts, they held Freckles down and one of them kicked him in the nuts over and over. Told the superintendent he’d been kicked by a horse and said if any of us spoke up, they’d kill us, not only us two, but also my other mates, those who were friends of Johnny’s. The doctors at the hospital couldn’t do anything to save his balls. This is his reward—his and his wife’s—two nice quiet children of their own.”
“But they’ll be desperate for their mother and father, Dennis. They’ll be scared and frightened.”
“They’ll get over it, won’t they, Clyde?” he said, giving me a pelvic bump and then biting the back of my neck. I clenched my buttocks involuntarily. “Oo, nice to see you’re anxious for a bit of rough love. Save it for when we get serious,” he said and then licked my ear. I shook my head away.
“Think of those kids, Dennis,” Mark pleaded. “Don’t you remember what it was like to be left by your mother? I was too young, but my entire life I’d have given anything—”
“My mother tied me up and left me like a dog at the entrance gate of the home I grew up in. I’ve hated her for as long as I remember, Detective. At least these children will be loved and cared for. What do you think, Clyde?” he added, bouncing hard against me. The action pressed my hips i
nto the bed and strained the small of my back, but my arms and legs were so stretched apart, each bounce pulled at my joints. I winced.
“Oh, am I hurting you?” he asked. “Here, let’s make it easy. I want you to enjoy this as much as me.”
He pushed a hand down between us and started to knead against my anus with his knuckles, rolling his hand as he did so and chuckling at my discomfort. I turned my head into the mattress and bit it hard to stop myself screaming, not because what he was doing hurt, but with the frustration of having allowed myself to be immobilised so completely.
“Now, don’t do anything rash, Clyde,” he said. “I’m going to move your hands together, one at a time onto the top handrail, to allow you to relax a little. Your shoulders and your arse cheeks are as tight as a drum.”
He put one knee in the middle of my back, the other immobilising one arm while he quickly unlocked one cuff from the underside of the bedframe and then snapped it shut on the long top rail of the bed. He did the same with the other. “Better, Clyde? Come on, show me what you can do,” he said, kneeling between my legs and grabbing my scrotum in his hand, his thumb and forefinger encircling the neck of my ball sack. I arched my back. The pain was minimal, but it was a reflex action, trying to draw away to protect myself. He laughed and slapped my arse, several times on each cheek, chuckling as I flinched with each slap, until I finally relaxed into the mattress.
“Why are you doing this to Clyde?” Mark asked.
Kemeny stretched on his side on my back, leaning on one arm, the elbow of which pushed against the base of my skull. I grunted. He was playing with me, but I felt that the longer I appeared to be annoyed, and not afraid, the better my chances were. I couldn’t imagine he’d let me go, but if I appeared to be acquiescent, perhaps I could come up with some plan to get away. The only thing I could think of was to ask to be allowed to use the dunny, to clean myself out before he … then, maybe I could overpower him in some way or another. I had no plan, but I was quick at seizing the moment. I knew I could wing it if I could get into the right position with him slightly off guard.
“Why am I doing this to Clyde? Because he took away the only person in my life I really cared about.”
“Really? Tell me how you think he did that.”
All at once, I sensed the aggressive change in his body. He growled out his reply. “Because it should have been him leading that squad of soldiers, not Johnny. It should have been him lying dead in the dust riddled with baubles, not the man who was supposed to come home to save me.”
“How do you know that?” Mark asked. I stared at him, hoping he’d lead the questioning. I had to know for myself.
“Because I visited their commanding officer, who told me he replaced Smith at the last minute and sent Johnny instead. He said your mate wasn’t fit for the job.”
“He couldn’t have said he wasn’t fit for the job, Dennis, because Clyde had dysentery and had been in the sick tent—he couldn’t have gone on a mission into the desert because he’d have held everyone up having a shit every two minutes. It was nothing to do with him. It’s the C.O. you should be punishing, not Clyde.”
Kemeny leaped up and squatted over my shoulder blades, his knees on either bicep. He grabbed a handful of my hair and pulled my head back. “You fucking liar, Smith. He said you were unfit. Coward! Telling everyone you were sick—”
“Billy Tancred showed me Johnny’s service record,” Mark said. “It wasn’t Clyde making it up, it’s the truth. I read the words on the page. I remember it. It didn’t say he was ‘unfit’, the actual words said ‘he wasn’t medically fit’. He had dysentery. Christ, Dennis, he was shitting his pants! You can’t kill him because of someone else’s decision. Go and kill the fucking commanding officer if you really want revenge, or better still kill yourself, you loser! Think of the men you’ve slaughtered because you thought Clyde—”
Dennis Kemeny roared, cutting off what Mark was about to say, and pulled at my hair even harder, stretching my head back until I felt it pressing into his stomach. My chin was tilted in the air, throat strained and fully exposed and then, without warning, his other hand whipped around, his razor clutched in his hand. He placed the blunt side against my throat and then turned it slowly, scraping the stubble, and almost purring as he spoke.
“I’ve dreamed of this moment, Smith. Give me one good reason to let you live and I’ll disappear and you’ll never find me again. I’ll phone the police in a few hours and tell them where you are. Come on, there’s the boy. Just one good reason, that’s all I ask …”
Although he sounded calm and teasing, his body told me he was anything but. The blade of the razor quivered, grazing the skin just above my Adam’s apple. His knees trembled on my upper arms. I was petrified he’d lose balance and slice my throat.
“Don’t kill him, please. For my sake!” Mark said. I couldn’t turn my head to look at him, but I could hear the agony in his voice.
“What?”
“Don’t kill him! Don’t you understand, Dennis? You can’t kill him for something that’s not his fault. Please, listen to me. This man saved me.”
“Saved you from what?” His angry, outraged reply rang around the room.
“He saved me from a man who abused me every single day of my life from the age of six. You know what it’s like, I’m sure you do. Just because the man who promised he would come back to save you didn’t, please don’t take the man who saved me. Don’t you understand, Dennis? Clyde is my Johnny, don’t do this to me.”
Despite the fear of imminent possible death I couldn’t believe my ears. Clyde is my Johnny …?
I felt the shock run through Kemeny’s body. For a moment he hesitated and then I felt a slight release in the tension of his knees and a relaxation of his arse on my shoulders. I could have sworn he’d started to cry. But then he sat back on his haunches, pulling at my hair harder, growling, as if enraged. The sound grew in intensity until he roared and then suddenly moved his hand, as if about to slash my throat.
I howled with frustration, ignoring my precarious situation, and then clenched my teeth, screaming with impotent rage, my head pulled back and immobilised.
For a moment, time stood still, and then, without warning, a torrent of hot liquid sprayed over my head and shoulders and ran into my eyes.
“No!” Mark yelled. “No!”
Kemeny’s body fell on top of mine. He’d slashed his own throat. His body trembled for a while and jerked a few times, before finally falling still.
After my initial revulsion, it was odd how little his action had either shocked me or distressed me. Except for stabbing Rinaldo Tocacci in the heart a year ago, it had been years since I’d been used to death so physically close to my body. During my days with the partisans in Italy, I’d had no end of blood spilled over me, but that was now a distant memory. Shaking my head, I laughed—black laughter we’d called it back then—spitting his blood from my lips as I did so.
“Clyde?”
I shook my head and closed my eyes, pressing my cheek into the sodden sheet and mattress.
“Clyde?”
My eyes flew open. Mark reached over and touched my face with the fingers of his injured arm.
“Clyde?” He slapped my cheek gently.
“Yes, Mark?”
“Are you all right? Why are you laughing?”
“I’m alive,” I said and then turned my head to look at him. Kemeny’s blood had sprayed over his face and his torso—he looked like something from a dreadful Bela Lugosi horror movie, except that it was in living Technicolor and smelled of death. “We both are, Mark. We’re fucking alive!”
He smiled. “Clyde? Pull yourself together, mate. The key, I watched him put it into his jacket pocket, roll him onto me.”
I heaved my arse into the air and Kemeny’s body fell off my back and onto the bed next to me. The bedding was soaked with blood, as was the wall behind the bed. “Oh, Jesus,” Mark said. He turned his head and vomited. He wiped his mouth with the b
ack of his free hand, groaning as he did so. “I’ll grab his jacket and pull, you push him off the bed with your hip,” he said. “Ready? One, two … three!” I pushed Kemeny with a shove of my hips. He fell off the bed, landing face down, angled across Mark’s thighs.
“Can you manage?” I asked.
He nodded and then with what looked like extraordinary difficulty scrabbled into the jacket pocket and retrieved the key. “Ah, Christ this hurts!” he said, holding his hand at an awkward angle, trying to fish out the keys with two fingers. It took him a few tries, until the keys finally slipped from the jacket pocket and fell onto the floor.
“Undo yours first,” I said. After a few attempts, using the arm of his injured shoulder, his handcuff snapped open and he pulled himself up onto the bed next to me and unlocked each of my cuffs in turn. I leaned down and pulled the razor from Kemeny’s fingers, wiping the handle on the edge of the sheet before cutting through the ropes that restrained my feet.
“Are you all right, Mark?” I said, pulling him into my arms. He didn’t resist. I recognised he was profoundly shocked from what he’d seen.
He stared at me blankly, nodding slowly, so I got to my feet and staggered to the wall, sliding down until my backside was on the floor. “Come here,” I said, “away from the bed.” He crawled over the floor and sat between my legs, the back of his head resting on my shoulder.
We sat in silence for more than a few minutes.
“So, I’m your Johnny, am I?”
“You tell anyone and I’ll fucking kill you, Smith.”
Slowly, we began to laugh.
*****
It took a fair amount of time for the bullets to stop flying and before I saw two uniformed officers gingerly threading their way across the rifle range, following a path of short red flags, set out to mark safe passage.
The Gilded Madonna Page 42
