‘Yes, sir. I will do my best.’ The man’s voice gave little encouragement. All Gary and Tracey could do was cross their fingers.
White mounds lay on street corners as the cab glided past the Queen’s Domain nature reserve dotted with council workers in bright orange vests, black gloves and beanies. They bent their backs in the biting cold wind and cleared the footpath. Gary couldn’t understand why – there were no pedestrians in sight. They weren’t wielding the wide snow shovels favoured in Europe and North America, but narrower ones used by gardeners and builders. Which meant the process was so slow, the falling snow replaced the cleared stuff in minutes. Cars were few and far between on the streets, only occasional 4x4s crawled along the slippery surface.
The driver turned up the radio. A presenter announced in a rumbling voice: ‘The government has declared a state of emergency. School and public transport services are cancelled across southern Tasmania. All flights are grounded. Wild winds in areas north of Oatlands are bringing down trees and power poles. Sub-zero temperatures and blizzards are forecast for northern centres. Traffic accidents are draining emergency personnel resources. It’s currently minus one in Hobart with a forecast minimum tonight of minus three. Conditions will ease tomorrow with a top of one and an easing of snow showers. In other news, U.S. President Michelle…’
Gary settled back in his seat and wondered how everything had come crashing down on him. With his anus aching and a deflated duffel bag sitting on his lap, things were looking worse than Christmas Day at the orphanage. One disaster after another, bad decision after bad decision. Now he was friendless in the world save Tracey, and his nest egg was stolen from under his nose. You’re a fair dinkum idiot, Braswell.
There were things he should have done: sought help for his gambling problem years ago; set Alcoholics Anonymous on speed dial. Then a bunch of stupid decisions led to a ruthless Russian mob hunting him and the Feds sticking him at the top of their Most Wanted list. Now, as if all that wasn’t bad enough, he’d been defiled and robbed by a complete stranger. Thank God he was unconscious at the time, but still. Then there was Maddie…
Tears pooled in his eyes. What a dead-set failure of a husband he turned out to be. He felt Tracey’s hand reach out and grab his, wrap around his fingers. Not a word was spoken between them since they got in the cab, but this gesture, tiny but human, gave him a spark of hope.
The cab pulled up outside the Glenorchy house. ‘I am so sorry the ride took so long, my friends.’ The cabby’s face was lathered in sweat. ‘I am never seeing snow in my life until this morning. The road is so slippery, like a cobra in a snake charmer’s basket.’
‘That’s okay, mate.’ Gary proffered a $50 note and waited for the man to hand back $19.40. Taxi drivers normally got to keep the change, but with the downward shift in financial circumstances all spending would be carefully monitored from now on. And for essentials like booze, he’d be looking out for products on special. Might even have to roll his own smokes. For non-essentials like food, generic brands would have to do.
They dragged their luggage out of the boot and deposited it in a squishy pile of ice and snow on the footpath. Gary looked up at the ramshackle house and shuddered. Their socio-economically marginalised hosts, still in threadbare dressing gowns but with the addition of woolly hats and gloves, stood beaming at him and Tracey like they were welcoming back old friends. What fun awaits. A cold blast of wind nearly froze his expression of despair permanently into place.
The morning’s splitting headache had long stopped, but the pain around his arse and inside his guts persisted. He prayed for it to go away by itself, to no effect. A visit to the doctor was inevitable, if not to make sure he wasn’t in imminent danger from internal bleeding today, then for some illness or other down the track. But the current Antarctic weather pattern meant it wouldn’t be possible to see a quack for some time. Unless the pain got worse and he had to call an ambulance. Please, not that. Too many questions at the hospital, too much risk of discovery. Self-medicating with whatever the bogans had in the house would have to do.
‘Hopefully our feral hosts have got some cheap cask wine or beer,’ said Gary. ‘Surely they’ve got some dope stashed away. A joint after today’s drama would be most welcome.’
‘You don’t smoke pot.’ Tracey scratched an armpit.
‘Not as a rule, but sometimes a spliff is just the ticket. In fact, I’ll go and make enquiries right now.’
Two minutes later he was back wearing a forced smile and holding a scraggly roll-up.
‘What’s that?’ Tracey asked
‘The most pathetic joint in the history of the world.’ He fired up the anorexic spliff. They each got about three drags out of it.
‘Feeling better?’ said Tracey. ‘I’m not.’
‘Nah, me neither.’ He stared at the ceiling, fingered his new Medicare card. ‘It’s gonna be nerve-racking using this thing for the first time. How on earth a bogus card can operate under the country’s intricate health care system – for a guy who doesn’t even exist – is beyond my comprehension.’
‘Relax. The Fixers said it would work. You have to trust them. The phoney MasterCard worked to pay for the hotel, why won’t everything else?’
‘I just wish the credit card had a limit higher than $3K. Cash resources are red lining, Trace. Something good needs to happen. Fast.’
‘I’m sure it will,’ said Tracey.
Gary felt no conviction in her words. It was like she was obliged to say positive things. To pass the time, he pulled his new documents out of a Manila envelope, spread them on the bed. Birth certificate, passport, the offer of a job at the Echidna Bay Oyster Farm. He frowned as he scanned the last one again.
‘Maybe I should go back to flogging used cars,’ he said. He realised he’d spoken aloud instead of in his head. Must be the marijuana.
‘You’ve gotta be kidding,’ Tracey sniffed. ‘Too early for a job as public as that.’
‘I know, but shucking oysters at some far-flung outpost isn’t my idea of a dream start to a new life. Sounds like hard fucken slog. Repetitious and mind numbing.’
‘You’ve heard the expression beggars can’t be choosers?’
Gary ignored the remark. ‘I checked the map. This farm is about 50 kilometres from Hobart. One hundred kays round trip. Did those lunks in Lakemba really think that was a good pairing of accommodation and place of employment?’
‘I’m sure that was the best option they could come up with.’
‘Couldn’t be bothered trying harder, more like it.’ But Gary knew Tracey was right. He was in no position to make demands.
‘Just go with it, Gaz. The oyster farm is a safe option. Easy to blend in with foreign backpackers, it’s remote and off the authorities’ radar. You can work there for a year or two, then look further afield. You don’t want to get caught, do you?’
‘No.’ Her logic was iron-clad.
‘So be a man and put up with a little hardship. Let me remind you of the benefits of this gig.’
‘Do you have to?’
‘Yes. Firstly, Hobart is a small pond, and you don’t have to be too remarkable to stand out here. Secondly, according to the Fixers, the Echidna Bay enterprise is owned by some foreign outfit. They don’t care who works for them. They aren’t nosey about their employees’ histories as long as they do as they’re told.’
‘But the pay’s shithouse!’
‘Tough. Your priority is to lie low. Not score a fancy job.’
‘Okay, okay. It all makes sense. I’ll give it my utmost consideration.’
Tracey gave a huge sigh. ‘Jesus. I’m not sure you’ll ever see sense. I’m exhausted. Goodnight.’ She climbed into bed beside Gary, pulled the thin blanket over her head and fell asleep.
As she lay there softly snoring, he remembered how the Fixers advised him to heed Tracey’s advice if things got tricky. Right now, though, doubts crowded his mind. Why? Because their coffers – last night safely nestled in a duffel ba
g – were now as empty as a politician’s promise. Not entirely Tracey’s fault, but she should’ve kept a closer eye on Gary. Surely she knew he was a magnet for trouble.
He rolled over, glanced at his phone. 11:38pm. Since arriving back at the Glenorchy dunghill, they’d napped, smoked, paid reluctant visits to the stain-streaked toilet that smelled like a fish had died in the cistern, and sneaked occasional looks at their smartphones for news of the hunt for Gary. Thankfully, no new developments there. Earlier, their vile hosts had served up a basic yet revolting dinner of baked beans on cremated toast. Most of the meal sat on a side table, now an object of immense curiosity for a couple of blowflies. He’d rate today in his bottom one percent of days spent on earth.
But tomorrow was another day. He’d get things back on course.
The couple’s brat chose that precise moment to snuff out any semblance of optimism. She stomped up and down the corridor, brayed like a tasered donkey. Tracey slept on. Gary wrapped a grimy pillow around his head.
Please, God. Take the poor, suffering child into your arms.
The noise got louder. God wasn’t listening.
Chapter 7
Ed climbed off Selina, gently tapped her red-raw, welted buttock. Ten minutes ago he’d rained down slaps on her round rump, and she cried out in pained pleasure. He loved how she thrived on his ownership of her, spurred him on, moaned with every sure-handed stroke. Now, with a girlish giggle, she rolled over to face him with a smile of satiated contentment. He grinned and winked, patted her soft hair. She chuckled and again turned onto her stomach, flat but with bacon streaks of stretch marks along the hips. Selena was a bit of a porker when she first hooked up with Ed, who avoided overweight women. But her sexual brio turned him on so much he overlooked the extra kilos. At first. Over time, he whipped her into a shape more to his liking.
Ed stepped into the shower and gave silent thanks he’d found a pliant chick like Selina. A genuine submissive and happy to be one, the type of woman to keep as a forever girl. He’d experimented with dominant women before, but they fucked with his head.
He turned up the hot water, pumped liquid soap into his palm, washed his smooth, waxed armpits. The musk scent of the soap mixed with his own sweat wafted up, triggered a memory. Mistress Monique at the Absolute Belter, an S&M club in Melbourne, had put a little too much elbow grease into her flogger deployment. Five minutes into the session, she delivered a stroke that stung like a motherfucker.
‘Stop it, you crazy bitch!’ Ed roared. ‘I’ll fucken kill you!’ He thought that would make her stop, but with the gimp ball firmly wedged in his mouth his words come out as muffled grunts. She must have mistaken his muted protestations for something else, thought he was asking her to ramp it up. And so she did.
‘Have some more, you pathetic little worm!’ The flogger’s strokes continued to rain down. Nerve-destroying pain ripped through his arse cheeks. Ed flexed his wrists enough to loosen the silken bonds. He freed his hands, yanked the gag from his slobbering mouth. He shot the dominatrix a look he hoped showed utter contempt. Must have worked because she stopped mid-swing, dropped the whip and took a step back. Her eyes widened like saucers – an escaped torture victim was a dangerous torture victim, especially one as big and strong as Ed.
His spine shivered, despite the water sitting a few degrees below boiling point. He’d been a microsecond from strangling the sadistic cow. No. Fuck that. He wasn’t cut out for taking that hardcore stuff. Only for dishing it out.
He stepped out of the bathroom in a llama-wool dressing gown purchased in Las Vegas while competing in a body building contest. After failing to impress the judges, the training intensity dropped. He still starred on the small stage of Tasmania, though, without killing himself in the gym. The roids helped keep the body looking good. Partying was important too, and he’d never sacrifice that to win a few grand in prize money. Anyway, while his little mixed business kept beetling along, he could maintain the party lifestyle while he was still young and fit. The sideline drug selling brought in the big dollars. He took in the opulent surrounds of his pad and smiled.
The smell of bread toasting drifted from the kitchen. He loved that smell. Homely and comforting. Today would start with a health nut special: wholemeal toast with no butter and poached egg whites. Selina was useless at doing eggs the way he liked them, so he’d have to do that himself, but flicking the lever on a toaster was something she could manage. And getting the coffee ready. Magic in that department. A nice strong caffeine-rich triple espresso. He could hear the machine chugging away. The smell of the potent brew mixed with the toast aroma made his mouth water.
‘Coffee’s ready, babe.’ Selina’s voice oozed devotion. Her obedience was unconditional. Like a loyal puppy’s. She was useful in other ways, too. Doing the obligatory quarterly financial statements, for instance. She had the patience he lacked for fiddling about with boring paperwork. And massaging his shoulders and feet. Housework. The sex, of course. She was a bloody little ripper. He’d marry her one day.
‘Before you sit down, I’ve got something to show you,’ said Selina, excitement giving her voice a falsetto quality.
‘What, babe?’
‘Come and see. You’re not going to believe it.’
Probably something on the morning TV news. Another terrorist attack in Europe. Earthquakes and tsunamis, floods and fires. Life discovered on Pluto.
‘I doubt that, sweetheart. I’ve seen plenty in my time and I’m prepared to believe almost anything.’
He turned the corner to see Selina dressed in a reveal-virtually-everything string negligee. She was sitting on the lounge tossing $50 and $100 notes into the air like she’d stumbled into some TV game show. The money cascaded into little piles either side of her shapely thighs; some spilled onto the polished floorboards.
‘Where the hell did you get that from?’
‘In a plastic bag in the wardrobe. Saw it in the corner when I went to put my nightie on. Wasn’t there yesterday. Do you know anything about it?’
‘Jesus, no.’ Ed scratched his head. ‘I don’t have a clue how we got home. Did you or Fern organise a taxi? Bit hazy on the details.’
‘I found the money.’ Fern stood in the hallway, wrapped in a chocolate bath towel. ‘There’s roughly $150,000 all up. Don’t know why I took it. I guess there’s a bit of Winona Ryder in every girl. Anyway, I saw the bag under the bed in the hotel room, had a peek inside. Couldn’t believe my eyes.’ Fern’s eyes expanded even as she said it. ‘Then I called a cab and got you two wasters home in one piece.’ She winked at Ed. ‘You were a particularly naughty boy.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Couldn’t help yourself. Slipping roofies into drinks. Poor out-of-town tourist, naked on the floor. Task, tsk. Could be construed as taking advantage.’
Selina’s eyes bulged, the joy of discovering the money overtaken by confusion. ‘It’s okay, babe. Fern’s exaggerating, as usual.’ Ed crossed his arms and took a deep breath. ‘So, what on earth happened?’
‘I bonked that Dylan bloke.’
‘You what?’ Selina’s eyebrows formed the Macca’s logo.
‘Yep. And a very ordinary lay he turned out to be. Wham, bam, thank you, Fern.’
‘I can’t believe you’d get it on with someone you’d only just met,’ said Ed, adjusting the belt of his dressing gown.
‘You know me. I like to be spontaneous.’ Fern cast a knowing look at her two friends. ‘Like some other people I know.’
‘Yeah, whatever.’ Ed blushed a light pink.
‘Not whatever. Listen up. When I climbed back onto the bed to get some shut-eye, you,’ – she extended an accusing finger at Ed – ‘had somehow regained a state of functional consciousness. You tried to squeeze onto the bed with the other girls, but there was no room for your big body.’
Ed’s face clouded in confusion.
‘You swore like a trooper,’ Fern continued, ‘but your mood lifted when you saw Dylan butt-naked on the floo
r.’
‘Oh my god.’ Ed slapped a palm to his forehead, paced back and forth. ‘Don’t tell me I… did it…while he was asleep.’
‘Fucking hell, Ed. What kind of idiot are you?’ Selina roared, hands on hip. ‘Don’t you have any self-control?’
‘Calm down, Selina. Man, this could turn to shit if he makes a complaint.’
‘Don’t worry, he won’t.’ Fern grabbed a red espresso cup from the kitchen bench, took a dainty sip. ‘He was a hundred per cent into it. Gave his consent. I heard it.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure. The bloke’s judgement might’ve been off, but his words were clear and unambiguous. “Fuck me, Ed” leaves little room for doubt in my book. You certainly educated him.’
‘Did you record it on your phone?’
Fern shook her head, dreadies flailing about. ‘Nah. I’m not that much of a sicko.’
‘Bloody hell. I wish you had. If he cries foul, I’m screwed.’
‘No, you’re not. I’ll vouch for you. He was willing, I have no doubt. Now, forget about that for a minute. What about the money? That’s a more pressing matter.’
Ed sat on the couch next to Selina, tried to put his arm around her. She edged away, made a huffing noise. ‘Leave me alone, you monster. Not sure I can handle what you’ve done this time.’
‘Sorry, babe. Don’t know what came over me. Must’ve been the coke and the roids. Geez, what can I say?’
‘Hey, guys.’ Fern stuck out a hand. ‘Stop. Sort that out later. What about the money? We should probably return it. Dunno why I swiped it. Spur of the moment thing. Dylan’s more likely to raise the alarm over stolen cash than a questionable decision to offer up his arse to a stranger.’
‘I agree.’ Ed’s voice was flat. ‘Who knows what they’re involved in. Honest, law-abiding people don’t have massive amounts of cash lying around in bags under hotel beds. Could turn nasty if we don’t hand it back. Either of you seen a movie called No Country for Old Men?’
Sold to the Devil Page 5
