Take a Life

by Phillip Gwynne

  ‘Okay,’ I said, not having a clue what to say, what to do. And then she was gone.

  It had all happened so quickly, I had to ask myself if it was real, if she’d been real. But when Imogen said, ‘Is that the girl you were with in Halcyon Grove that day?’ I knew it was definitely real.

  And I knew that Brandon had definitely died. And in my chest, there was this flower of sadness, spreading and growing, spreading and growing.

  ‘Yes, that’s her,’ I said, wiping the tears from my eyes.

  ‘She just sort of wandered in and wandered out,’ said Imogen. ‘Maybe there’s nobody outside?’

  Imogen’s question was just what I needed – let’s focus on the practical. Again, I tried to look at it from The Debt’s point of view. Why wouldn’t they let PJ wander in and out like that? It was us they were after, not her. In fact, it might even lull us into a false sense of security.

  No, it was better to assume that they were there, and that they were armed to the teeth.

  There was the buzz of a watch alarm, and Toby was upright and awake.

  ‘My turn now,’ he said.

  My first instinct was to say, ‘It’s okay, I can take this.’ But it didn’t take me long to realise that this wasn’t a great idea. I needed the sleep, needed to be as alert as possible when daylight came. And Toby had already shown how capable he was.

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Then it’s Miranda after you.’

  I found a place to stretch out. Imogen did the same. My hand searched for hers, and we went to sleep holding each other.

  Ω Ω Ω

  I woke, and the first signs of daylight were appearing. Outside, birds were in full voice. A kookaburra let rip with its signature mad cackle.

  Miranda was sitting up, eyes on the entrance.

  ‘All good?’ I said.

  ‘All good,’ she replied.

  The sky was still overcast, the clouds grey and heavy, but the rain had ceased.

  Mom and Dad were already awake.

  ‘Reckon we’re over the worst of it,’ said Dad, pointing to his wound.

  ‘Not so sure about that,’ said Mom.

  I waited until we’d had an hour of light – enough time, I figured, for the Zolt to steal a chopper – before I turned on my phone again. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. SMS city.

  From PJ: in toowoomba – you ok?

  From an unknown number: You ok pheidippides?

  From Hound: I will hunt you down Youngblood

  And from Zoe: airfield 7

  Immediately, I switched my phone off. And I slumped back. Airfield? They’d let me down yet again. Otto was supposed to steal a chopper. He was supposed to land it right outside here. The disused airfield, the one on which we’d landed the plane during the first instalment, was at least three or four kilometres away. Even without Dad I doubted whether we could make it safely. But with him?

  ‘Dominic?’ said Mom. Her eyes were bloodshot, her tangled hair hung over her face.

  ‘Yes, Mom?’

  ‘You did the right thing, you really did. All the lies, all the deceit, all the violence, they had to stop. And you’ve done that.’

  Not for the first time, I wondered how much Mom knew.

  ‘But look at this,’ I said, looking around helplessly. ‘Look what I’ve done.’ Again a kookaburra let rip with its mad cackle.

  I turned on my phone again.

  ‘I’ll be back in a while,’ I said.

  There was no way out but through the end of the drain. I imagined the gunman waiting outside, gun poised, finger ready. And as soon as a figure appeared, framed in that circle like some sort of arty photo, they would squeeze.

  I crouched down like a sprinter on the start line, fingers spread.

  Ready! Set! Go!

  I took off, all legs at first, and then brought arms into it, swinging hard. When I reached the entrance I was at top speed. They could shoot, but I wasn’t going to make it easy for them. I burst out of the drain and into the day.

  Any second a gun was going to go off, a bullet would rip into flesh.

  But there was no noise, except for the squish squish squish of my runners on the sodden ground.

  The sudden movement had caused the cut on my hand to start bleeding again, my swinging arms causing the blood to splatter over my shirt.

  I tried to remember the way I’d come with PJ that morning, where we had turned off the main track. They all looked the same now. Hell’s bells and buckets of blood.

  I wondered how Gus was, whether he’d upped his PB even more.

  Where was that turn-off?

  That was it, the tree with the split trunk!

  I turned left, building up my pace again. This track was rougher, but the bush it went through was much thicker and I felt less exposed. The ground was slippery, though, and I stumbled a couple of times.

  In the distance I could hear police sirens. Was all this my fault, all this destruction, this chaos? I hadn’t started the Ponzi scheme, but I sure had let out all its air.

  Suddenly the bush thinned out and I was at the back of Preacher’s, in those badlands with their burnt-out car shells. But where was the hearse?

  There was the hearse.

  I felt under the back tyre for the keys, the way PJ had. And that’s when the mutant bee sound of a two-stroke motorbike engine rent the air. And then another one. I unlocked the door, got in the driver’s seat, jammed the key in the ignition.

  The mutant bees got closer.

  I turned the key. The starter motor whirred, but the engine didn’t start. ‘Come on, Hearsey!’ I said borrowing PJ’s nickname for, and familiarity with, the Preacher’s vehicle.

  Two motorbikes burst into the clearing just as the hearse responded with the throaty roar of an internal combustion engine.

  Thanking Dad for the other night’s impromptu driving lesson, and Hound for the run in his Hummer, I slotted the gears into first and eased the clutch.

  The hearse stalled.

  There was the sound of a gun, and the front window disintegrated completely, shards of it accumulating in my lap.

  Again I turned the key in the ignition; this time the hearse started.

  Straight ahead, one of the motorbikers had stopped, his machine side on to me. He was taking careful aim with his pistol, using his forearm as a steadying brace.

  I pressed my foot hard on the accelerator; the motor roared. Slumping right down in my seat, I let the clutch out.

  This time the hearse spun its wheels, and then they gripped, and it rose up and surged forward like a speedboat.

  A bullet ripped into the upholstery where my head had been a second or so ago.

  Both hands gripping the bottom of the steering wheel kept it going in a more or less straight line. The mutant bee sound again. The hearse roared. There was a thud, and the mutant bee became even more mutant.

  I pulled myself up in the seat and risked a look behind. The motorbike was on the ground, the back wheel spinning furiously. The motorbiker was also on the ground, squirming. One leg looked fine, but the bottom half of the other one stuck out sideways at right angles.

  I felt sick – I’d done that to him! But this thought didn’t last long – one down, one to go. I couldn’t see the other bike. But I knew that was only a temporary situation.

  There was no way into Preacher’s from here, so I had to get back onto the main road and then come in through the main entrance.

  I turned the radio on.

  ‘The Gold Coast is in total lockdown,’ said the newsreader, ‘with roadblocks on all roads in and out of the city. All flights due to land in Coolangatta Airport have been diverted to Brisbane. Police have said that despite the extensive looting there has been no reported loss of life. The Prime Minister is due to give a press conference to discuss what has now become known as the Gold Coast Riots. There has been talk of mobilising the army, which would be unprecedented in modern Australian history.’

  I turned the radio off.

  I slowed for the T
-intersection ahead but forgot to change down gears and the hearse started bunny-hopping again. I managed to bring it under control just before the junction, and wrenched the wheel to the right. How had tiny PJ ever managed to drive this monster of a thing?

  The hearse drifted across the intersection before it responded to my steering. We were now heading more or less in the right direction.

  A straight road, and I floored the accelerator. My concern now was that the other motorbiker had gone straight to the drain, to where my family was hiding.

  The hearse built up momentum; I wondered whether it had ever gone this fast. The needle crept up: 60m/h, 70 m/h, 80 m/h. At 90m/h it was rattling so much that I decided to ease back a bit.

  Ahead, I could see the sign that indicated the main entrance to Preacher’s. So far I hadn’t seen any other cars; the lockdown was obviously working well. But as I managed to turn the hearse into the drive to Preacher’s I saw two all of a sudden. Both of them were white with lots of blue checks over them, with a strip of lights on top. Of course it made sense to have a roadblock at Preacher’s; from there you could go to practically anywhere in the city.

  Two policemen were standing by the roadblock, both busy on their phones. This obviously wasn’t one of those boring days the copper at Sanctuary Cove had complained of.

  There was no question about busting through the roadblock, not when there was even the slightest chance of a cop getting hurt. The old stone wall on either side of the gate, the old stone wall that ran around this half of the reserve, looked about as solid as a wall could get.

  If I was in Dad’s Porsche, no way; even in Hound’s Hummer I would have had second thoughts, but Hearsey? Sure, why not?

  The police were loudhailing me: ‘Stop now!’

  I checked that my seatbelt was tight as I veered away from the roadblock, stepping down hard on the accelerator.

  The hearse hit the wall hard, my forward momentum arrested by the seatbelt. For a split second it seemed like we were going nowhere, that the old stone wall had won, but then the hearse seemed to find a way through. Debris flew through the broken windscreen and into the front seat. Fortunately, none of it did me any harm.

  We barrelled along the road for a while, and then it was time to go cross-country. Fortunately this was more parklands than bush, and the hearse coped easily with the grassy terrain. I avoided the bigger trees, but just ploughed on through the smaller trees and the bushes. I kept waiting for the familiar sound of a police siren but I figured they couldn’t leave their post, especially now that the wall had been breached.

  Up ahead, the stub of drain poked out. I pulled the hearse as close as I could to the entrance.

  I knew that there was no way of getting everybody in the hearse, without being exposed. The other motorbiker was lying in wait somewhere. But how to do this? How to play it?

  I was struggling with this conundrum when I saw a figure break from the pipe and run towards me. He ran in a crouch, zigging this way, zagging the other, but Toby still made a sizeable target. I waited for the gunshot, for my brother to catapult through the air like in a Tarantino film. I cracked the passenger door open. Toby launched himself through it, and onto the seat.

  ‘That was a crazy thing to do,’ I said.

  ‘Somebody had to go first,’ he said, and he was absolutely right: somebody had to. ‘Is this what I think it is?’ he said as he clambered into the back of the hearse.

  ‘Don’t worry, no customers today,’ I said, and as I did I realised what a pathetic attempt at humour it was. No customers yet.

  Miranda was the next to break. Keeping low to the ground, she seemed to float across to us: the Arrogant Squirrel, the Swooping Goose, they were all paying off.

  ‘Get in, sis,’ I said.

  Imogen followed her. I’m pretty sure she did absolutely no tai chi, but she showed the same sort of ninja-esque capability as she flew across the ground and into the hearse.

  ‘Does Mom need a hand with Dad?’ I asked.

  But our parents were already out of the drain and on their way. No crouching, no zigzagging, they just made steadily for the hearse, Mom supporting Dad as best she could, until eventually they both squeezed into the passenger seat. Now I noticed how white Dad was, how thin his breathing. Mom said nothing, but she didn’t need to – her look said it all: hurry, he’s dying!

  I crunched it into gear, gave it some juice, released the clutch and we were away.

  ‘We’re going to make our getaway in this?’ said Toby.

  Actually, why not? At least then I wouldn’t have to rely on anybody else. Captain of my destiny, master of my soul and all that.

  ‘Not with that fuel gauge,’ said Miranda.

  I haven’t given the gauge a glance, but she was right: the needle was touching empty. But if I remembered correctly, hadn’t PJ once said that it didn’t work properly? The disused airfield wasn’t far, but would we have enough fuel to make it?

  We bounced over the rough terrain, and I don’t think any of us could quite believe the situation we were in. At least I understood what was happening, but Miranda and Toby?

  ‘Geez, I could kill for a latte,’ said Toby. Okay, it was pretty funny, but got a much bigger laugh than it deserved.

  I checked my watch. It was a couple of minutes before seven, we were almost at the airfield. I scoured the sky. The heavy clouds had broken up and there were patches of blue. Nowhere could I see anything that resembled a plane, however.

  Why had I trusted the Zolt yet again?

  Then two sounds, both high-pitched, came from different directions. I didn’t know which way to look.

  ‘A plane!’ said Mom.

  From behind a stand of trees a light plane appeared, taxiing towards us. The Zolt! I put my foot down.

  ‘Motorbike!’ said Toby.

  And from the other direction, the motorbiker, the mutant bee, also heading towards us. If only we had a gun, I thought. And somebody who could shoot it.

  I could now see Otto sitting up in the cockpit.

  ‘It’s the Zolt, isn’t it?’ said Miranda.

  ‘That criminal?’ said Mom.

  Criminal?

  ‘Right now he’s all we’ve got,’ I said.

  ‘Who’s that next to him?’ said Dad.

  I hadn’t noticed. What the hell was Zoe doing there?

  Otto motioned for me to pull up on his left. I did just that, making sure there was room for the car door to open. I noticed now how beat-up it was, like the aeronautical version of the Hispaniola; definitely not up to Otto’s usual high standard. Mom and Miranda helped Dad into the plane. Imogen climbed in next, followed by Toby.

  ‘Come on, Dom!’ yelled Toby, his hand outstretched, ready to give me a boost up.

  The motorbike flashed past, and a gun went off as I dropped down low, the side window of the hearse shattering. I sat up again, saw the motorbiker clutch at his right thigh, before both bike and rider crashed to the ground.

  I looked up at the cockpit; Zoe put down the rifle, and smiled at me.

  I killed the motor and gave Hearsey a silent goodbye before I climbed into the beat-up plane. Immediately Otto went into his take-off routine.

  Yes, the ground was ridiculously bumpy.

  Yes, the plane was old and beat up.

  But I had no doubt that the Zolt would get this bird off the ground.

  Landing it, however; that was a different matter.

  THURSDAY

  DROP IN SOME TIME

  The Zolt had borrowed the plane from a parachute training school. Hence its age and beat-upness. Hence the longitudinal bench seats. And hence the parachutes everywhere. He seemed pretty happy with it, though.

  ‘It might not look like much, but they’re a tough little unit, these,’ he said in that incongruously high voice of his.

  Miranda and Imogen didn’t seem to mind it; they both looked at him with adoring eyes, hanging on his every word.

  ‘We’ve got ourselves a full tank, so what say I drop yo
u nice people in some little out-of-the-way place like Barcoola, or Marcoola, or Yarcoola, somewhere with coola in it?’

  As far as jokes went it wasn’t much but Miranda laughed like a hyena. She was quickly becoming a major embarrassment.

  ‘We have to get your father to a hospital, and fast,’ said Mom. ‘Otherwise he’s not going to make it.’

  Otto turned around so that he could see Dad. Dad was slouched against some parachutes, his arm over his head, and Mom was applying pressure to his wound with that YSL hanky. Obviously, it had started bleeding again.

  ‘That’d be Brissie, then,’ said the Zolt, immediately banking the plane to the right.

  Down below I could see smoke rising from the Gold Coast; it was still on fire. No cars moved on the roads. Still in lockdown.

  It was only a half-hour run to Brisbane, and way before we’d gone that far we started getting grief from the control tower.

  ‘Aircraft approaching eleven miles to the north of Brisbane airport at altitude one thousand feet, can you please identify yourself?’ demanded the woman. ‘Can you please identify yourself?’

  Otto let her talk to herself for a while before Zoe said, ‘Stop playing games, Otto.’

  Otto decided to identify himself. ‘Control tower, this is that plane.’

  ‘Please squawk ident.’ Otto pressed a button, which I guessed was the ident squawker. ‘Okay, I have you now. Please identify yourself, pilot.’

  ‘Otto Zolton-Bander, also known as the Zolt, also known as the Facebook Bandit, also known as a modern-day Robin Hood.’

  I was pretty sure he was showing off in front of Miranda and Imogen.

  ‘Do you intend landing in this airport?’ the woman demanded.

  Otto’s tone changed instantly. ‘I have limited fuel and I also have a seriously injured man on board my plane who needs immediate medical attention.’

  ‘So are you declaring a medical emergency for a priority landing?’

  ‘He has a single gunshot wound to the upper arm,’ said Otto.

  ‘I repeat my question – are you declaring a medical emergency for a priority landing?’

  Otto looked at me, and there was the tiniest flicker of doubt on his face – Have I bitten off more than I can chew this time?