Only the Dead

by Ben Sanders

  Closer.

  Hale opened the grips a fraction further, panting crazily. The wound stretched like sodden linen. He pictured raw and bloodied fibres tearing. He screamed against the twisted rag, every muscle in his legs and torso braced and wavering with the strain. Heels and head crushed against the end walls. The bath flexing against the massive pressure. Like the birth of some strange beast from its glassine shell.

  Closer—

  The pliers closed around the pellet. He withdrew. Bloodied pincers, a scarlet ball bearing pinched tight. He couldn’t drop the pliers quick enough: they fell with a dense thunk at his side, shocked from his grip. He sighed against the sodden wad and spat it free and curled towards the ache, both hands clutched to his side. Lips peeled back from locked teeth, eyes lost inside a tortured wince.

  The water was scarlet. He lay there with his cheek against the wall of the bath. Eyes closed, water rippling with each relieved breath.

  Hale soaked the wound site in disinfectant. The bleeding had subsided, reduced to a claggy scarlet mess. He cut a square of gauze and secured it with Band-Aids and duct tape. Another pain killer for luck.

  The kitchen took some cleaning: blood on the table and cupboards, a trail of puddles courtesy of his visit from the bathroom. It didn’t bother him. Gunshot surgery lent domestic chores fresh appeal. Mopping lino felt comfortingly routine.

  Devereaux arrived at three forty-five. He knocked, and Hale released the locks and opened the door. Devereaux shambled in. Beaten and worn out. He looked like a garage sale.

  ‘You normally take the stairs two at a time,’ Hale said.

  Devereaux didn’t answer. He draped his jacket over a kitchen chair and sat down. A sweat crucifix marred his shirt back. He unbuttoned his cuffs and pushed his sleeves to his elbows. The shotgun was lying across the table. He nudged the barrel so it pointed away from him. ‘You left blood on your stairs,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah. I had a shotgun pellet stuck in my gut.’

  ‘Did you get it out?’

  ‘Uh-huh. With pliers.’

  Devereaux sat there blankly. He was sideways in his chair, elbows on thighs. Hands limp between his knees. ‘You left blood on the carpet at the house,’ he said. ‘There was nothing I could do.’

  The mop was leaning against the bench. Hale stood beside it and mimicked the pose, folded his arms. ‘It’s okay,’ he said.

  ‘They have your DNA on file,’ Devereaux said. ‘They can use the blood to prove you were in the house.’

  Hale didn’t answer. He snagged a thumb in a belt loop.

  Devereaux said, ‘This will play out easier if you tell them it was you in the house.’

  ‘It won’t. I broke in. I broke the law.’

  ‘You’ll get found out eventually. Things’ll be easier if you just front up now.’

  Hale was quiet. His tongue passed behind his top lip. ‘How long does it take to analyse blood samples?’

  Devereaux stretched out and emptied his pockets. He arranged a neat stack on the table beside him: wallet, phone, keys. ‘Few weeks,’ he said.

  ‘If I tell them I was in the house, I’ll have to tell them I broke in. If I do that, they’ll take my PI licence. But with another couple of days, maybe we can close this thing.’

  ‘It’s been going since October.’

  ‘And now there’s good progress. There’s a guy loose with a gun.’

  Devereaux didn’t answer. Chin on chest, eyes to floor. Hale said, ‘You look stuffed.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘You want something to eat?’

  Devereaux looked up. The hunch stretched his throat taut. ‘What have you got?’

  ‘I made some scones yesterday.’

  ‘What flavour?’

  ‘Scone flavour. With dates.’

  Devereaux massaged chin bristles, thumb and index finger. ‘Yeah, I do quite fancy a scone actually.’

  Hale took a Tupperware container from a cupboard, popped the lid at one corner. Devereaux eased upright and took a scone.

  ‘Got any cream?’

  ‘No. We’re sans cream, I’m afraid.’

  Hale took one for himself, left the cache on the table, beside the gun.

  Devereaux sat down. He propped his elbow on the table. He said, ‘How did you find him?’

  ‘Who? Douglas?’

  Devereaux nodded. He took a bite and chewed.

  ‘I wanted to ask him about the fight club robbery. I background-checked Doug Haines, but it came back blank. I questioned his ex-wife; she told me his real name’s Doug Allen.’

  ‘She gave you the address as well?’

  Hale nodded.

  ‘And then he walked in on you in the middle of your B and E.’

  ‘I think the old missus tipped him off,’ Hale said.

  ‘So why did he feel he had to take you on with a shotgun?’

  ‘I got a bit short with his ex. He might have thought I was getting somewhere.’

  ‘Are you getting somewhere?’

  He shrugged. ‘Why else would he shoot me?’

  They chewed for a while. The mop dozed off and fell over with a crack.

  ‘So then, what’s the theory?’ Devereaux said.

  Hale got a toe under the mop and helped it to its feet. He said, ‘I think the January robbery was an inside job. Doug and his ex had cash access; they could have faked a heist.’

  ‘The woman can’t have been complicit. She made a fuss. It would have been a clean in and out if she hadn’t done anything.’

  ‘Maybe they didn’t want it too neat. They didn’t want it looking like straight staff theft, so they added some drama.’

  Devereaux mused, mid-scone. ‘I think it’s more likely Douglas set it all up, and kept the woman out of the loop.’

  Hale didn’t answer.

  Devereaux’s cellphone started ringing. He put a hand on it to stop it disrupting the pile. He said, ‘It doesn’t look like he packed when he left the house. It looks like he just got in the car and went, like he knew he had to be able to just drop everything and go.’

  ‘No cash either.’

  The phone stopped ringing. Devereaux drew his hand back. ‘Probably all in the car,’ he said. ‘He’s that edgy, he’s probably got everything stashed under the front seats.’

  Hale finished his scone and took another. ‘Why is it that nobody checked out old Douglas before now?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘It’s been almost two months. Presumably someone should have run his name before I did.’

  ‘Presumably.’

  ‘So why nothing until now?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Hale sat down at the table, the movement cautious, slowed by injury.

  ‘You don’t need stitches?’ Devereaux said.

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘You removed it with pliers?’

  Hale nodded. ‘It took me two goes.’

  Devereaux put a hand on the shotgun. ‘Why are you carrying this around?’

  ‘In case Douglas tries to find me.’

  Devereaux smiled. ‘You’re not normally this paranoid.’

  ‘I botched a simple search. Maybe I should be.’

  ‘If you’d botched it, you’d be dead.’

  ‘Maybe next time I will be.’

  Devereaux said nothing.

  Hale’s lips parted on a thought, but it took a while to surface. He said, ‘Do you think one day you’ll just wake up and know you’re no longer any good at what you do?’

  ‘Yeah. But it’s a long way off. Carpe diem.’

  Hale rocked his head side to side, face blank.

  ‘You morbid old fart,’ Devereaux said.

  Hale didn’t reply.

  Devereaux laughed. ‘You can’t retire. You’re not even fifty, for God’s sake.’

  Hale didn’t answer.

  Devereaux said, ‘You owe it to all of us to get on with what you’re good at.’

  ‘Who said that?’

  ‘WH Auden
.’

  Hale nodded and looked out a window. ‘That’s a good one to write on the fridge.’ He picked a nail. ‘Maybe it’s better to drop something early than lose your grip on it without wanting to.’

  ‘I think you’ve got a long stretch ahead of you.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe.’

  Devereaux didn’t answer. He reached behind him to his jacket and took a cigarette, then went outside to light it.

  Night shift, November ’98. Twenty-year-old Sean Devereaux, a freshly minted police constable, lets John Hale take the call.

  It’s their fourth night partnered together. Patrol division staff rotations mean pairings are varied. This wouldn’t have been Devereaux’s first choice. Hale has a unilateral approach to law enforcement: he drives, he works the radio, he puts the cuffs on. Devereaux feels somewhat redundant. He’s voiced his feelings to his sergeant. Sympathy was limited: ‘He’s got to be partnered with someone, and tonight you’re it. And, sometimes, that’s just the way it is, sunshine.’

  The call is a request for a police check at a nearby address. Details are light: a young woman has dialled 111 and asked for the police. She’s given an address, and then hung up. The Comms operator writes it off as a kid having a laugh, but Hale tells the guy they’ll check it out. He’s leaning back in his seat, handset coil stretched tight from across the dash. He clicks off and U-turns the car and flat-foots it back the way they came. Lights but no siren, engine tone straining and falling with each successive gear change. They’re west of central city, Henderson suburbs. The cabin’s lit cyclically as they pass beneath streetlamps.

  ‘You are allowed to consult with me,’ Devereaux says.

  Hale glances at him. A long second, and then back to the road. He conducts himself with a kind of blank confidence. Devereaux doesn’t know whether it’s meticulous theatre or genuine nonchalance.

  ‘Why would I do that?’ Hale says.

  ‘We just diverted from a suspected burglary to a call with no details given. Maybe we could have discussed which was more urgent.’

  ‘This is more urgent.’

  ‘Because …?’

  ‘Because I recognised the address. I’ve had domestic abuse complaints there. The husband’s a shitbag; I think he’s got the wife convinced not to push charges.’

  ‘You think she made the call?’

  ‘We’ll see. There’s a little girl in there too.’

  Hale turns and looks at him. Two seconds of eye contact. ‘Do you agree that it’s more important we roll on this?’

  Devereaux nods.

  Hale smiles. His side window frames a procession of small dwellings on barren sections. ‘I thought that might be the case.’

  The address is nearby, only a three-minute drive. The house is a prefab structure jacked knee-high on pillars of crisscrossed timber. A small square of decking ringed by long grass lies below the front door. A lonely mailbox stands slouched by the footpath, a deep tuft of weeds at its feet.

  Hale swerves to a hard stop, takes their seatbelts by surprise. He leaves the car facing the wrong way, engine and lights running. Devereaux has to trot to keep up. Hale reaches the door first. He has his torch raised to shoulder height, the beam skittering across a wide arc. He knocks hard and gives the handle a shake.

  ‘Police. Open up.’

  Nobody answers. The two front windows either side of the door are both lit.

  Hale gives the handle another shake and raps the door again. The torch beam constricts to a tight moon against the timber. A door slams. Footsteps, and then a man’s voice from inside: ‘Yo. What is it?’

  Hale says, ‘Police, Jamie. Open the door.’

  A long pause. Something catches in the guy’s throat, and then he says, ‘Nah, everything’s good, man. We’re all good in here. It’s fine, but thanks anyway.’

  Hale maintains his knocking. ‘I need to check Alice and the girl are okay, Jamie. So they can either pop out and see me, or I’m coming in.’

  ‘Bro, I promise, we’re cool—’

  ‘Jamie, open the door now. I won’t ask again.’

  Bleeps and radio static reach them from the patrol car. Jamie says, ‘Hey, is that John Hale out there?’

  ‘Jamie, open the door now.’

  ‘John, I swear everything’s good as gold; don’t even know why you’re here.’

  ‘Jamie. Open the door now.’

  The guy reads something final in Hale’s tone: ‘Dude, chill out, I’m opening, I’m opening.’

  Light along three sides as the door eases back. Hale helps it with a big palm, and a security chain snaps tight.

  ‘Bro, you gotta give me some slack here, or I can’t get the chain off the thingie. You know?’

  Hale backs off, and a finger flicks the chain free. As soon as it’s swinging, Hale pushes the door fully open and steps in. Jamie gets the torch beam full in the face. He turns away, slack-mouthed and blinking, trying to rid the orb from his vision. He tries to stand his ground, fending Hale with raised palms.

  ‘Hey, whoa, whoa, whoa. Take it easy, you don’t need to just roll in.’

  ‘Jamie. Step back, or I’m going to spray you.’

  ‘John. Bro. Just be cool.’ He sees Devereaux across Hale’s shoulder. He flicks his eyebrows. ‘Hey, man. How’s it hanging?’

  Devereaux doesn’t answer. The entry is warm, a heavy smell of alcohol prevailing. Hale puts a hand on the guy’s chest and pushes gently. Jamie moves back like he’s on rollers.

  ‘Who else is in the house?’ Hale says.

  ‘Just me and Susie. My little girl.’

  ‘Where’s Alice?’

  ‘I dunno. Out somewhere.’

  ‘Somewhere.’

  ‘Bro, get the fuck off my case already.’

  The guy reeks of booze, but an admission of drinking could imply Jamie’s judgment is impaired by alcohol. Hale doesn’t want that on record. He says, ‘Put your hands on your head and sit down against the wall.’

  ‘John, I gotta say, I think you’re taking things way, way too far.’

  ‘Jamie, do you want to get sprayed again?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then put your hands on your head, and sit down against the wall.’

  Jamie complies. His shirt is pushed up as he slides his back down the wallpaper. A pale midriff creased by fat rolls is exposed. Behind him, down a narrow corridor, a little girl about six or seven stands in an open doorway. A miniature fist pushed against her mouth, free hand trailing a pink-clad plastic doll.

  Jamie says, ‘You see, man, embarrassing me in front of my little girl. It’s disgusting.’

  Hale looks down at him. He’s yet to raise his voice. ‘So make it easy on yourself and comply with what I tell you to do.’

  He walks over to the little girl and drops to his haunches. He smiles.

  ‘Hello, sweetheart.’

  She doesn’t answer. Jamie says, ‘Don’t worry, poppet. They’ll be gone in a minute.’

  The girl’s eyes slide to him, and then back to Hale. She takes the fist from her mouth. The knuckles are slick with spit, dented with tooth marks.

  Hale ignores Jamie and nods at the doll. ‘Who’s this?’

  The girl shies behind the doorframe, holds him with one eye. ‘Sally,’ she says.

  ‘Sally. What a lovely name.’

  The girl smiles shyly.

  ‘Do you know where Mummy is?’ Hale says.

  The girl doesn’t reply. The smile falters and then dies, like a blown candle. She glances down the hallway at Jamie, and then looks at her feet. Hale’s still watching her, calm and patient, the smile easy, alert for signs of subtext. He’s sure the girl made the triple-one, but he doesn’t want to mention it while her father’s in earshot.

  He gives her a wink. ‘Why don’t you be a good girl and pop back into bed?’

  The girl risks a glance up at him. She nods once and turns back into the room, and Hale reaches up and pulls the door gently behind her. He rises to his feet.

  Jamie ge
stures wide, hikes his shoulders. ‘Bro, this is not like midnight open home or some shit.’

  Hale turns around. ‘If you take your hands off your head again, I’m putting the cuffs on.’

  ‘Bro, I’m just saying.’ But he puts his hands back on his head.

  Hale walks away and checks the back of the house. Used dishes clutter a kitchen bench top. A muted television projects a weak flicker across the adjoining living room. An almost empty beer bottle waits beside a worn armchair, three empties in a loose trio nearby. A chair from the kitchen table has been dragged over to beneath a wall-mounted telephone, a loose wave in a rug betraying the move.

  He walks back down the corridor and opens another door — a bathroom — and there, on the floor, pulped and bloodied, is a woman. She’s on her side, knees drawn up, arms outstretched, upturned fingers curled gently like old paper. Her lips are slack and shiny with blood, a red drip line feeding a small pool on the tile. Her hair is scattered across her face, like cracks in a dropped vase. One eye hooded and aimed wayward.

  Hale sees it all, and there’s a brief nauseous pause as he stands in the door considering whether the little girl has seen it all, too. And, if not, how much of it she’s heard. But it’s only a fraction of a thought, before he’s into the room, dodging blood spatter on the tile, radioing for an ambulance, crouching beside the woman.

  She registers his arrival, and the undamaged eye tracks his progress to her. There’s a glimmer of movement in one hand as she tries to reach up for him, but he crouches beside her and pats her arm gently and eases the hair out of her face with a delicate finger and whispers that everything’s going to be okay. Not the first time he’s used that easy little lie.

  The room darkens suddenly as Devereaux shadows the hallway light. And there’s the slightest, terrible idle silence before it occurs to Hale that if Devereaux is at the bathroom door, nobody is watching over Jamie. But Devereaux’s frozen there, looking in at the woman on the floor, his face pale, everything about him leaden and inert.

  Hale surges out of the crouch and pushes Devereaux back, hard enough to slam him against the opposite wall, but Jamie has already reached his bedroom, the door shut and bolted. Hale weaves inside the narrow confines of the hallway, and dips and thrusts his shoulder against the lock. The tongue cracks clean, no match for momentum and the sheer weight of human panic, and the door whips back like a cloth in high wind. Across the bed he sees Jamie kneeling, scrabbling for something hidden. Two steps and a lunge and Hale’s across the room, and he wraps Jamie in a tackle and crushes him to the floor, the guy wailing and fighting him, even once the cuffs are on.