Crooked House

by Peter Menadue

  Heart racing, I looked around for Flat-face and Baldy. A few dozen people milled about. No sign of them, thank God.

  After stopping at a clothes shop, to buy some new gear, I’d head straight for Parliament House, the most heavily guarded building in Australia, where I’d be safe.

  I wandered outside and looked around for the taxi-stand. It was about thirty metres away. Three cabs were waiting. I’d just turned towards them when something unfriendly jabbed me in the back.

  "Stand very fucking still," a voice behind me growled.

  That was easy. Fear froze my muscles.

  "W-w-w-what?" I trembled.

  "Shut up."

  I glanced over my shoulder and saw Flat-face behind me. He jabbed me again with something so hard it had to be a pistol.

  Fuck. I’m dead. I’m dead.

  "Now, listen very closely," he whispered menacingly. "Do what I say or I’ll shoot you fucking dead. Understand?"

  The pistol made him very credible. I didn’t trust myself to speak and nodded.

  He said: "Good. Now, move very slowly towards the car park. Move."

  The car park was fairly empty and the land-cruiser - parked about 50 metres away - stood out like a sore thumb. Flat-face jabbed me with the pistol.

  I’m dead. I’m dead.

  I lurched forward, like a sailor walking the plank. Just as I reached the roadway, Dr McGrath appeared, also heading for the car park.

  He smiled. "Hello Mr Ryder, feeling better?"

  I sensed Flat-face’s attention shift. The pressure of the pistol lessened slightly.

  I had one ace up my sleeve: this thug had probably never met anyone as cowardly as me. I’m sure he usually tangled with hardened crims who put up a fight. But I was middle class, so my fight-or-flight mechanism was stuck on "flight". I instinctively brushed aside the pistol and bolted towards the hospital entrance.

  Flat-face yelled something. I braced myself for a bullet. None came.

  Thankfully, the automatic sliding doors were open. Otherwise, I’d have run straight through the plate glass.

  As I entered the lobby, I glanced over my shoulder. Flat-face was about twenty metres behind, running hard. He didn’t seem embarrassed or uncomfortable about waving a pistol around in public.

  I’ve heard soldiers describe how, in combat, their adrenalin pumped so hard they reached a state of total awareness. I felt something like that. The imminent prospect of catching a bullet made me run like a gazelle and process information like a super-computer. My heart smoothly pumped high-octane blood all around my system. Kick in the afterburners? Why not?

  As I ran, I looked around for an escape route. On my right were a newsagency and coffee shop. Dead-ends. Up ahead was a cul-de-sac of lifts. Before I got into one, Flat-face would shoot me dead. Death-traps.

  Fuck.

  I looked left and saw some toilets. Just beyond them was a door with an "EXIT" sign above it.

  The word "exit" triggered a Pavlovian response. I grabbed the handle of the door and prayed it would turn. It did.

  I glanced over my shoulder. Though Flat-face had fallen back, he was still in hot pursuit, waving his pistol.

  I shoved the door so hard that, when it opened, I almost fell on my face. I stumbled into a fire-escape.

  Christ, up or down?

  For no particular reason, I ran up the stairs.

  As already mentioned, I wasn’t fit. But my rabbit-heart pumped hard as I bounded up on steel springs. Funnily enough, in the back of my head, I heard the voice of my dickhead high school rugby coach: "Lift your legs, you fucking lazy bastard. Lift them. On your toes. On your toes".

  After three stories, a hand seemed to grab my heart and give it a warning squeeze. I ignored it. Bad move, because it soon gave my heart an angry twist and tried to yank it out of my chest cavity. My body caught fire and legs went numb. The proverbial grand piano landed on my back. I desperately tried to suck in air, and found I was in outer space.

  My system was near melt down. I lurched through a door and found myself in a long corridor with rooms along both sides. A big sign on the wall said: "CARDIOVASCULAR WARD". The irony escaped me.

  A couple of nurses stood talking, at the end of the corridor, about forty metres away. Neither noticed me.

  Gasping hard, I strode down the corridor, looking for an empty room. The first three rooms had patients suffering from bad -emias or -omas. The fourth, with two beds, was empty.

  I glanced behind me. Flat-face still hadn’t emerged from the fire escape. I slipped into the room and crawled under the far bed, comfortable with being a coward.

  I lay on my back, quivering and wheezing, gnawing at the air. I tried to regularise my breathing: in, out; in, out. No good. Start again. In, out; in, out. For a while I’d feared a heart attack more than Flat-face. As my heart-rate subsided, he got top billing again.

  For the next half-hour I lay there, afraid that Flat-face would turn up and flat-line me. He didn’t. I’m not sure what happened to him. He just didn’t appear.

  Eventually, I heard voices in the corridor. Though they were fairly indistinct, I picked up words like "police", "pistol", "big man" and "dangerous".

  Cautiously, I slipped over to the doorway and glanced out. Two male uniformed cops and a security guard were talking to two female nurses.

  A nurse said: "Sorry, we haven’t seen anyone who looks like that."

  A cop said: "OK. If you do, don’t approach him, OK? He’s very dangerous. Just give us a call."

  The hospital must be crawling with cops looking for Flat-face. Great. I just might live.

  The cops and security guard headed towards the lifts. I followed them at a discrete distance, acting casual while scanning for Flat-face.

  When they reached the lifts, the security guard pushed the down button. I strolled up and stood next to them. They didn’t even look at me.

  A cop said: "We’re wasting out time. This guy must be long gone."

  "Yeah," his partner said.

  A lift arrived and we all got in. A cop pushed the button for the ground floor. The lift descended and they got out with me hot on their heels.

  There were about a dozen uniformed cops in the lobby, chatting in groups or striding about purposefully. Several had police dogs.

  I considered identifying myself and asking for protection. But then I’d have to explain that a man I didn’t know was trying to kill me for reasons I didn’t understand. I’d recently had several dealings with police, none pleasant. They kept suspecting me of wrong-doing. Why give them another chance?

  As I approached the entrance, I saw Dr McGrath talking to a couple of policemen. I looked away, praying he wouldn’t notice me. He didn’t. I sailed out of the entrance.

  Outside were about a dozen more uniformed cops, including several from the Tactical Response Unit carrying rifles and looking keen to shoot someone.

  About ten marked police cars were parked against the curb, lights flashing. I heard the heavy beat of rotors and looked up at a helicopter with "POLICE" stencilled on its belly.

  I scoped the car-park for Flat-face’s land-cruiser. Gone. Flat-face and his accomplice must have got away.

  Comforted by the police presence, I strolled over to the taxi rank, where four cabs waited. I got into the back seat of the first one. The driver was a short, balding guy with a three-day growth. His belly almost touched the steering wheel.

  Glancing about, he said: "Shit, man. What’s the big fuss about?"

  "Some guy’s been running around the hospital with a gun."

  "You don’t say? They catch him?"

  "I don’t think so."

  "OK. Where do you want to go?"

  I told him to head for the Manuka shopping area, just down the hill from Parliament House, where I could buy some new clothes.

  As he drove off, I lay down on the back seat, in case Flat-face was still lurking about.

  The taxi-driver turned and glanced down at me. "Still feeling crook mate?"

>   "Yeah. I’ve had better days."

  "I know just how you feel. I was in hospital recently for an appendectomy. They gutted me like a fish. Fuckin’ one side to the other. Left a huge bloody scar …"

  For the rest of the journey, he gave me a cut-by-cut account of his recent operation. Though I wasn’t the slightest bit interested, he didn’t care. Finally, he pulled up outside a clothing shop in Manuka.

  "… so, the doctor reckoned it was a bloody miracle I survived," he said.

  "Really? Just wait here. I won’t be long."

  I ducked into the shop and purchased a whole new ensemble. At least, if I got killed, I’d be wearing clean underwear and socks. That would please my mother.

  Then I told the taxi driver to head for Parliament House.

  Funnily enough, despite everything that had happened to me that morning, I was only a little late for work. Indeed, when I walked in, Michael Boyd still hadn’t arrived. That was a relief, because it gave me a chance to make a cup of coffee, sit at my desk and ponder the events of the last 12 hours.

  Though I’d long ago accepted I wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea, I’d always expected to die in bed from heart failure or cancer, not a bullet. Surely, I was too lovable to get murdered. But last night a couple of thugs almost killed me, and I was still in shock.

  In the process, I also lost my girlfriend. I briefly considered calling Anne to patch things up, and decided against that course. My first priority was to survive the goons chasing me. Somehow, I had to climb out of the dangerous story I was stuck in and go back to routine activities like attending press conferences, boozing with contacts and gossiping with colleagues. When I'd done that, I’d work things out with her.

  Certainly, I couldn’t go home that night, because the goons would probably be waiting for me. I had to find somewhere else to stay. Of course, I could check into a motel. But I didn’t want to spend the night on my own: I was too afraid and depressed. I needed companionship. So I decided to ask Alan Casey if I could stay at his place.

  I wandered down the corridor to the bureau of the Sydney News, where half-a-dozen reporters lolled around in spacious cubicles. Alan’s was next to the outer window. I found him reading a newspaper.

  He looked up at me, wide-eyed. "Shit, Paul. You look awful."

  "I know, though at least it’s not contagious."

  "What happened?"

  The less he knew the better. I would chop away everything except the car crash. "I crashed my car last night."

  "Jesus. I hope Anne’s alright?"

  "Don’t worry, I was on my own."

  "Good. What happened?"

  I shrugged. "Slammed into a tree."

  He grinned. "You mean you were pissed?"

  "Hah, hah. This may surprise you, but I was sober. Somehow, I lost concentration and, before I knew it, bam, hit the tree. Maybe I had a micro-sleep."

  A doubting grin. "Yeah, that can happen." He leaned back in his chair. "What do you want? You here about the job? Don’t worry, I’ve already recommended you to the Editor, and the signs are good."

  "No. It’s not about that. Let me buy you a cup of coffee, and I’ll explain. Come on."

  He shrugged. "OK."

  We wandered around to Aussie’s Coffee Bar, where we sat and ordered cappuccinos. I was tempted to tell him everything that had happened to me during the last week, but reminded myself that, though he was a good mate, he was also a journalist. Though I didn’t know why my life was in danger, I sensed I was close to a huge story. No point tipping him off about it.

  I said: "I’ve got some bad news."

  "What?"

  "Anne’s given me the boot."

  He said: "You’re kidding? Why?"

  "Oh, being rude, not listening enough, leaving my pubic hair in the bath, leaving crumbs on the bench-top, etc, etc…"

  "Did she catch you with another woman?"

  "No. This time, that wasn’t a problem."

  He looked me in the eye. "True?"

  "Yeah, true."

  He crossed his arms and frowned. "God, you’re a dummy. If I had a woman like Anne, I’d do anything to keep her. Anything. Yet you let her slip through your fingers."

  "Thanks. You’ve made me feel a lot better."

  "Maybe you can get her back?"

  "If I do, it will take time."

  He shook his head sorrowfully. "Boy, you’re really having a rough trot, aren’t you? Last week you found a dead woman. Now you’ve crashed your car and lost your girl."

  "My life’s turned to shit."

  "So how can I help?"

  "Umm, you can let me stay at your place tonight."

  "My place?"

  "Yeah. You’ve got a spare bedroom."

  He nodded. "OK. But I don’t provide luxury accommodation."

  I knew that. "Thanks. I feel like giving you a big wet sloppy kiss."

  He grimaced. "That won't be necessary."

  I shrugged. "Then I'll save it for later."

  When I got back to the bureau, Michael still hadn’t arrived. The best way to forget my problems was to immerse myself in work. I read through the mail and that morning’s newspapers.

  An opinion poll in The Australian caught my eye. It showed that Vincent Martin was almost twice as popular among voters as the PM. The poll was bad news for the PM because it would encourage wavering backbenchers to dump him.

  I’d just finished reading the papers when Michael arrived. When he saw me, his eyes widened and eyebrows fluttered. "Fuck. What happened to you?"

  "Car accident."

  "You look like a crash-test dummy."

  "Very funny. Now, I want you to hold the fort for an hour, OK, while I pop out and get a new car."

  "Sure."

  I caught a taxi to the Budget Rent-a-Car office in Civic and hired a Nissan Pulsar, which I drove back to Parliament House and left in the underground car-park. When the time was right, I'd buy a permanent replacement for my dead Volvo.

  The meeting of Government MPs to decide the leadership struggle was now only three days away. But the main contenders were keeping low profiles. So, that evening, I filed another story which said Martin had the upper hand and support for the PM was waning.

  Just after 8pm, I strolled around to the bureau of the Sydney News and found Alan ready to go. We wandered down to the Nissan Pulsar, which I drove towards his house in Manuka.

  Still worried about Flat-face, I drove down backstreets and kept glancing in the rear-vision mirror. There was no sign of him.

  Alan said: "Why are you going this way? This isn’t the quickest way to my place."

  "Oh, umm, I’m worried about booze buses."

  "You haven’t been drinking."

  "Umm, yes I have. I had a few earlier."

  Alan frowned. "Something wrong?

  "No, nothing at all. Why do you ask?"

  "You look worried."

  "I am worried - about booze buses."

  "OK. OK."

  To divert him, I said: "What’s for dinner?"

  "That depends."

  "On what?"

  "What sort of pizza you like."

  I followed his directions to a pizza shop in the Manuka shopping area. Alan went inside and bought a couple of pizzas. Then we headed for his house.

  As we strolled towards his front door, he turned to me. "Just think mate, tonight, you could be cuddling up to Anne. Instead you’ll be spending it with me. I hope that shows you the error of your ways."

  Maybe I should have checked into a motel, because his moralising was getting on my wick.

  I hadn’t lived by myself for a while and had forgotten how much mess a bachelor can make without really trying. Once inside, I was reminded: books and newspapers were scattered everywhere; a tower of dinner plates sat in the sink and drying socks lined the sideboard. Cobwebs clung to the cornices and the dust lay in geological strata. A melange of unpleasant odours wafted under my nose.

  Alan shrugged. "I probably should clean up, but life's too
short to waste on housework." He sounded like he would rather lay down his life than pick up a sock.

  "Don’t worry: this place has - umm - character."

  "Exactly."

  We ate the pizza in front of the TV, watching the late news on the ABC. After the first item, a picture of Canberra Hospital appeared behind the newsreader. I leaned forward nervously.

  The newsreader said: "Police were called to Canberra Hospital this morning when a man with a gun was seen running through the hospital. The man was described as in his early fifties, tall and very solidly built. However, by the time the police arrived, the man had fled. It is believed he was last seen leaving the hospital in a Toyota land-cruiser."

  We watched footage of police milling around outside the hospital.

  Alan muttered: "Typical. Cops are always too late. Weren’t you at Canberra Hospital this morning, after your accident?"

  "Yeah."

  "See that guy?"

  "No, I try to avoid men with guns."

  "Wise policy."

  There were no items about Yvonne and Joanna’s deaths, so I assumed the police were still looking for someone else to frame.

  When we’d finished eating, Alan got a couple of beers from the fridge; we drank them while watching the sports news.

  There was a time when I’d have enjoyed such an evening. But I couldn’t help thinking that, in 20 years time, I didn’t want to be like Alan, eating takeaway every night with only the TV for company. I already missed Anne.

  During one commercial, Alan turned and said casually: "You want to talk about your broken heart?"

  I shrugged. "Do you really want to hear about it?"

  He pursed his lips. "Not really."

  "Then I’ll spare you."

  We resumed watching the TV.

  When the sports news had finished, Alan turned to me. "Well, tiger, you’ve had a big day. You’d better get some rest. I think the sheets in the spare bedroom are clean. If they’re not, let me know and I’ll have a poke about."

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  That night, I dreamt that I was sitting in a beautiful art deco café with friezes on the wall, marble columns and onyx tables, looking out over the main square of an ancient central European town. Horse-drawn carriages passed by.