Getting Home

by Angus McLean

  He ripped the front of the girl’s blouse in one go, right down to the waist, exposing her white bra and soft abdomen. He turned and looked at Shavaunne. His lips were drawn back from his teeth and his dark eyes were gleaming. He jerked his head towards the door.

  ‘Go,’ he growled.

  Shavaunne knew there was no point in arguing. She shook her head and moved to the back door.

  ‘Please,’ the girl pleaded as Shavaunne went past her. ‘Help me.’

  Tears were streaming down her face and Shavaunne could see the terror in her eyes. Shavaunne barely gave her a glance. She knew what the girl was feeling; she’d been there herself, more than once. She felt nothing for her. Shit happened.

  She stepped out the back door, closed it behind her, and waited.

  Twenty-One

  The afternoon had been frustratingly fruitless, and the atmosphere in the cab of the Ford F-150 was tense.

  Curtis was seriously fucked off, and the longer this went on the worse it got. Lena was pissed too but while he steamed, she verbalised, and right now she was about one comment from getting a fat lip.

  She must’ve sensed it too, because she finally shut her trap and took to staring out the window. He wheeled the big truck from Porchester Road, a main route heading south, into a side street that led into Randwick Park. It was a suburb occupied by working class families and beneficiaries, and the only reason Curtis Green ever went there was to make a delivery or recover a debt.

  He spotted one of his dealers standing on the porch of his house and gave him a toss of the chin as he cruised up. The guy recognised the truck and immediately moved towards the kerb, something urgent in his body language. He was a fat middle-aged Maori dude with a goatee and frizzy hair.

  Curtis braked beside him and Stevie came straight to his open window.

  ‘C-Dog.’

  ‘Stevie. All good?’

  Stevie wiped his fat nose on his bare arm, leaving a snot trail from his wrist halfway to his elbow.

  ‘Your boys…they down here?’

  ‘Yeah. Looking for a chick and a dude. On foot, they put down my nephew.’

  ‘Dice?’ Stevie looked surprised.

  ‘Jaysin.’

  ‘Oh.’ Stevie almost looked disappointed.

  ‘You seen them?’

  ‘On their bikes, yeah.’ Stevie slid his gaze away and studied his feet.

  ‘No, the fuckin’ chick and the dude. Got packs on, she’s got long dark hair in a ponytail. Quite fit. He’s kinda geeky, got dark hair too.’

  ‘Na.’

  Curtis nodded, knowing there was more. He wondered what shit his boys had got themselves into, and hoped Gunner had got them out of it.

  ‘Where’re the boys?’

  Stevie let out a lungful of air, his cigarette- and weed-tinged breath blowing into the cab.

  ‘Fuck, C-Dog…’

  ‘Spit it out Stevie,’ Curtis growled, ‘or I’ll fuckin’ rip it outta your throat.’

  ‘Fuck, bro…’ Stevie gestured down the road further. ‘The park…that Mobster cunt…’

  Curtis stiffened. ‘Spider?’

  Stevie nodded, still not looking at him. Spider was a senior member of the Mongrel Mob who lived round the corner. Curtis had done business with him before but he was a conniving arsehole and Curtis had no time for him.

  ‘What’s he done?’ Curtis’ tone was low and full of menace.

  ‘I think…I heard your boys might…might be dead.’ He shook his head and finally looked Curtis in the eye. ‘I’m sorry, C-Dog…’

  The Ford’s engine roared and Curtis belted it down the road, tyres squealing as he threw it round the corner into Spider’s street. The man himself was in the road, short and wide and wearing his gay-as-fuck Mob patch, talking to one of his hood rats who was perched on a dirt bike. Gunner’s bike. They were watching another rat pulling a wheelie from the cul-de-sac end towards them on another bike.

  Even at the angle, Curtis and Lena both recognised it as Tyson’s bike.

  Spider and his sidekick turned and saw them, and both of them immediately started to move. The hood rat pulling the wheelie couldn’t see them and kept coming.

  Curtis let out a guttural roar and gunned the truck hard. He hit Tyson’s bike at full noise, throwing both the bike and the rider into the air. The rider flipped backwards, cracked his head on the asphalt and tumbled. The front wheel of the truck bounced over his torso and Curtis threw the truck into a skid.

  The rat on Gunner’s bike was almost at the alleyway at the end, which Curtis knew led to a park. If the bike got there he’d never catch it. He gave the gas some guts and cranked hard on the wheel, flicking the tail of the truck around.

  The hood rat was angling for the footpath but he was too slow. The rear panel of the big truck caught him side-on, hurtling him sideways through the air into the back of a car parked in a driveway. The bike crashed into the garden and Curtis turned his attention back to Spider.

  The fat gangster was frozen in the road, his mouth open as he watched the carnage unfold before him. Shit wasn’t supposed to happen like this; Spider did the shit round here, no one else. Specially not that white-bread KKK-lovin’ motherfucker Curtis fuckin’ Green.

  He saw the big truck bearing down on him, realised he was about to get run down, and fumbled to pull the stolen Luger from his waistband.

  Too late.

  Curtis hit the brakes and smashed into the fat gangster, throwing him backwards into the road. Spider somersaulted, landed on a bent leg which snapped like a twig, and tumbled head over heels until he ended up flat on his back.

  Curtis bailed out fast, the Beretta tactical shotgun in his hands.

  Spider’s chest was heaving and his eyes were everywhere. His jaw started moving as soon as Curtis appeared above him.

  ‘I-I-I-I…fuck…C-Dog….’

  Curtis snicked off the safety and rested the barrel of the Beretta against Spider’s forehead. Spider, so named not for the large web tattooed on his neck but for the fact his surname was Webb, pissed himself.

  ‘What’d you do, Spider?’

  Spider’s mouth moved, but no words came out.

  Curtis pressed down on the shotgun, digging it into Spider’s forehead.

  ‘Last chance, motherfucker,’ Curtis growled. ‘What’d you do…to my boys?’

  ‘I…I…didn’t do it…C-Dog, honest bro…some chick an’…an’ some guy…’

  Curtis physically flinched. Motherfuckers.

  ‘I just…I…’

  ‘Robbed them.’ Curtis’ teeth were bared, lips tight, and he was breathing hard. ‘You fuckin’ robbed my boys when they were dead. Didn’t you Spider…you motherfucker.’

  He pulled the trigger and the Beretta kicked hard in his big hand. Spider’s head was obliterated in a splash of red.

  Curtis turned and walked to the closest hood rat, the one he’d knocked off Tyson’s bike. The young fella was trying to get up, but one of his arms was broken and he couldn’t move far.

  The shotgun boomed again and the hood rat took a load of buck in the head and neck.

  Lena stood silently, watching as her husband stalked past the body and across towards the second hood rat. This one was unconscious from the impact of hitting the car, and never saw the shot coming.

  Curtis turned, did a double take, and went back towards the mouth of the alleyway. She saw him stop short near the garden adjacent to the alleyway. He dropped the shotgun, his knees buckled, and he sank to the ground with an animalistic cry.

  Lena put her hands to her mouth and started to run.

  ‘Oh Jesus, no…’

  Behind her she heard voices, rough and aggressive, as others came from Spider’s house.

  Curtis heard too and he turned, stood, and brought the shotgun up to his shoulder. A stream of vitriol like Lena had never heard unleashed as he stalked towards the new arrivals. He took two steps and fired, and again, and again, then two more steps and fired his last round.

  Spi
der’s mates had scattered and Lena could hear screaming, but Curtis was far from finished. He reloaded as he walked, passing her without even a glance, slipping rounds into the tubular magazine from his jacket pocket. Lena turned and saw that one of his targets had been hit and was staggering down the road, clutching his leg and yelping. He wore a Mob patch and black jeans and carried a length of chain in one hand.

  Curtis bore down on him like the Grim Reaper, catching up just past Spider’s place. He whipped the shotgun across the back of the guy’s head and dropped him, then slammed the butt into his head once he was on the ground. He lifted a boot and stomped the guy’s head once, twice, three times.

  Lena could see from where she was that the guy was out of the game but Curtis didn’t stop. More stomps to the head, kicks to the ribs, then one last kick, a full-on toe punt to the side of the guy’s head. Lena had nothing good to say about mobsters, but even she cringed at the brutality of the assault.

  Her husband left the dead mobster and turned his attention to Spider’s house, unleashing shots at it while she went to the side of her dead son. Tyson’s eyes were half closed and she could see his neck was twisted at an odd angle. She turned away, raw emotions boiling over, and her gaze fell on a figure in the park, a few metres past the end of the alleyway.

  Lena’s nose and eyes were streaming and she wiped her sleeve over her face as she half-ran, half-staggered up the alleyway to Gunner’s side. He was lying on his side and crusted blood covered his chin and neck. His eyes were wide open and his lips – where they were clear of dried blood – were blue.

  The surge of emotion that hit Lena was overwhelming and she collapsed beside her eldest son, cradling his head in her hands and crying uncontrollably. Waves of pain racked her body and she wailed like she had never thought she could. She didn’t hear Curtis arrive at her side but felt his strong hands as he lifted her to her feet.

  He pulled her into him and held her tight, tears rolling down his own cheeks as she trembled and sobbed against his chest. Barely a minute had passed before Curtis pulled away and stepped back. Lena was still sobbing and unsteady on her feet, struggling to comprehend what the hell had happened.

  He wiped his nose on his arm, rubbed his face and scowled at her.

  ‘Sort yourself out, Lena. We got shit to do.’

  The hollow in Lena’s chest got emptier as she stared at her husband. He snorted and spat on the ground, shook himself like a dog and hefted his shotgun. She wrapped her arms around herself and held on, doing her best to get it together.

  Twenty-Two

  The sound of chanting and crashing grew louder.

  At first Gemma had thought she was hearing things, but now she was certain. She dropped her feet to the floor and hurried after Alex to the front office of the travel agency.

  ‘Oh shit,’ he said, ‘this doesn’t sound good.’

  The chanting wasn’t clear, if it even was chanting, but the crashing was unmistakable. Windows were being smashed, lots of windows, and it was coming from further up the main street in the town centre.

  ‘It sounds like a riot,’ Gemma said, her heart kicking up a notch.

  ‘We better get outta here,’ Alex said, turning away from the window.

  She grabbed his arm. ‘And do what, go out there? With that going on?’

  Alex paused, reconsidering. ‘True. So what, we stay in here?’

  She shrugged. ‘At least see what happens.’

  Engines sounded and two vehicles raced up from the northern end, pulling up not far from the window they were watching from. One was a police patrol car with a pair of cops, the other was a white Military Police ute with four soldiers.

  They stopped in the road and debussed, all carrying assault rifles and wearing body armour. Gemma noticed that the cops fell back behind the soldiers – not a bad move, she thought.

  The sound of the rioting mob was getting louder and she saw the first projectiles start hitting the roadway around the troops, bottles smashing and bricks bouncing.

  From there it went downhill in a heartbeat, the troops all pulling on gas masks. One of the soldiers stepped out front with what looked like a grenade launcher, and fired a grenade towards the mob, who were still out of sight for Gemma and Alex.

  He quickly reloaded and fired again, but still projectiles were sailing through the air towards the troops. Shields quickly came out but it was clear that the troops were not going to win this battle unless they upped their use of force.

  ‘Why don’t they just shoot them?’ Alex wondered aloud, transfixed by the scene unfolding before them.

  ‘Can’t,’ Gemma said. ‘I doubt they’d be able to.’

  Alex looked at her. ‘So they can shoot looters, but not people throwing bricks at them?’

  There was a flash of flame out in the street as a Molotov cocktail burst in front of the troops. The soldiers and cops scooted back and a second firebomb exploded beside them. One of the cops burrowed in the boot of the patrol car for a fire extinguisher but already a third one was flying through the air.

  ‘Jesus,’ Gemma breathed, not quite believing what she was seeing.

  She could see the tear gas wafting down on the wind, and with it came a renewed volley of bricks, bottles and whatever other missiles the rioters could get their hands on. One of the cops was knocked down and the windscreen of the army ute was smashed and in a few seconds the first of the rioters came into view from the travel agency window.

  They seemed fearless of the small group of troops, who were scrambling back and dragging the injured cop with them. Another Molotov cocktail sailed through the air and exploded on the bonnet of the patrol car. A whoop went up from the rioters and they surged forward.

  One of the soldiers aimed his assault rifle over their heads and fired two shots, the cracks echoing off the surrounding buildings. It served to break the rioters’ forward momentum but still the missiles came in, crashing off the road around the retreating troops, some slamming into the shields that the front two held.

  The front of the patrol car was ablaze now and the troops were scrambling back fast, one of the soldiers taking a brick to the chest and falling backwards. As he went down one of the others opened fire on the charging rioters, two shots into the closest guy.

  The crowd went berserk, some scattering off to the sides or backing up, a smaller number charging forward.

  More shots sounded and Gemma ducked back, pulling Alex with her.

  ‘I think now’s the time to make ourselves scarce,’ she said. They reached the back office and grabbed their bags, heading for the back door.

  ‘Where’re we going?’ Alex asked, slinging his bag onto his back.

  ‘Not sure,’ she replied, reaching for the door handle. ‘But we’re not safe here.’

  She opened the door and took the first step outside.

  Two metres away were the huge man and the scary-looking skinny girl who had attacked them in Alex’s home.

  The girl locked eyes with Gemma and started to bring round a sawn-off shotgun. The big man grunted and started to move.

  Gemma slammed the door and bolted back, shoving Alex ahead of her. ‘Move, go!’

  A hole was blasted in the door behind them as they scrambled into the main office and up the narrow stairs to the second floor. The back door smashed open and they heard their pursuers crashing through the office.

  Alex found a fire exit door and shoved through it, leading the way up another set of stairs and out a door to the roof. Gemma slammed the last door behind them and scanned around them. They had been in the end premises of the building and she could see no way down, leaving them only one option – to run across the roof and hope they found a way down. They were half-way across when the access door they’d used was flung open and their pursuers emerged.

  More shots sounded from the roadway and the tang of tear gas drifted on the breeze.

  ‘Run!’ Gemma pumped her knees and arms, all thoughts of pain gone as she sprinted across the dirty roof afte
r Alex. He didn’t need the encouragement, running like the hounds of hell were on his tail.

  They reached the edge and skidded to a halt. Below them was a two-storey drop to a dirty alleyway. There was no fire escape.

  They were trapped on the roof with two psychos coming for them.

  Twenty-Three

  The journey back from Meremere was a quiet one, both of us lost in our thoughts.

  I was still processing the events of the day so far, and being dog-tired didn’t help. I’d barely slept the night before after the shootout with these clowns, then add on today’s shootout and it had been a busy day – and it wasn’t over yet.

  Most people go their whole lives without ever drawing a weapon on another person. Even most cops do too, unless you work the streets of South Auckland. In eighteen years on the job I’d drawn down on plenty of bad guys, and I’d had weapons pointed at me and even been shot at, but I’d never had to pull the trigger on someone.

  In the last three days I’d been involved in three shootings where I’d shot eight men, at least five of whom were dead, I’d drawn down on two young punks, and I’d killed a man with my bare hands. That was all before going to Meremere and confronting that lot, ready to kill them too. That was a situation which could have gone horribly wrong but turned out surprisingly well.

  The words of the guy from the previous night and the other guy today ran through my head. You shot us down like dogs. That was true; I had. Rabid dogs though, savage dogs, not family pets. Self-defence, not sport. They were missing the point. They came to us, not vice-versa. Supplies would soon be scarce – hell, they probably were now – and people would fight tooth and claw to protect what they had. I had always done that anyway.

  Sure, help out a person in need. I’d helped out Brenton and Linda Rees. I’d help out the Van Dijks, or any other neighbour who was genuinely in need, if I was able to help them. If helping them didn’t negatively impact my own family. If they didn’t come demanding or stealing.