The Inheritance

by Gabriel Bergmoser

  Aaron drank, then fixed Maggie with a bleary smile. ‘They fuck you up, parents. You know that old poem? It’s true, isn’t it? But we’re supposed to respect them, look up to them, learn from them, be like them. Where does that get you?’ He gestured around himself. ‘I know you hated your father. But you don’t have the monopoly on that. Just because Harrison Cooper seemed great to you doesn’t mean he was to his own kid.’

  ‘Except,’ Maggie said, feeling now as though her whole body was vibrating with something too powerful and terrible to name, something that obliterated rationality, ‘my father beat the shit out of me. Hurt me. Made me suffer for no reason. My father was a selfish monster who just needed to put his hate and rage and self-loathing somewhere, so he aimed it all at me. But you . . .’ She shook her head. ‘What, he was tough on you? Tried to teach you a lesson but didn’t do it well? Tried to make you sure you were better than he was? That’s behind all of this?’

  ‘It’s more than—’ Aaron began, but Maggie wasn’t finished.

  ‘Your father loved you,’ she said. ‘Whether he did it well only counts for so much. He loved you. He was human and he fucked up, but he loved you. And you want to throw that back in his face. Tell me, Aaron, did it ever occur to you that getting involved with the Scorpions was his biggest regret? That you doing the same, in the end, was only repeating his mistakes? That no matter how hard you’ve tried to distance yourself from your father, you’ve only succeeded in becoming exactly like him? That you—’

  Aaron smashed the bottle across her face.

  Pain exploded, a blinding glare of light behind her eyes. She tried to breathe and inhaled fire. She was on her side on the ground but didn’t remember hitting it. She blinked and saw red. She touched her face. Her hand came away wet and hot. Waves of agony. She blinked again. Aaron’s boots stepped into her vision.

  A kick in the gut. She couldn’t breathe. She tried to move. All she could see were the boots and the blood.

  Aaron knelt. Fumbled for her jacket. Absurdly, muttered an apology as he brushed her chest. Then found her pocket and tugged clear the hard drive. He stood.

  ‘You lying bitch,’ he said.

  The wire, resting across her.

  He lifted his foot.

  Maggie grabbed the wire trailing from her noose and wrapped it fast and hard around his raised ankle. She pulled. A cry from Aaron as he went over backwards and then Maggie lunged, snatching the broken bottle from his grasping fingers and bringing the broken end hard into his chest. Aaron screamed. Maggie dragged it. Felt the resistance of skin give, felt blood douse her hands, mingling with the blood pouring from her ruined face. Aaron was wailing but it wasn’t enough, not nearly enough; she needed more, she needed him to—

  Whether intentionally or instinctively, his knee jerked up and into Maggie’s stomach. She hit the ground. Whimpering and spluttering, Aaron scrambled to his feet. Fell, then rose again. Through the blood and the darkening and the edge of her vision, through the pain that built and built and didn’t stop, Maggie saw him pick up the gun from the table. He put a hand to his chest; it came away drenched in blood. Swaying, he turned to Maggie.

  From outside, the thrum of engines.

  Cars, by the sounds of it. Several. Not here yet but getting closer by the second.

  Aaron looked towards the door.

  ‘What did you do?’ Maggie rasped. Blood trickled into her mouth.

  Aaron was crying now. He shook his head and ran for the front door. It slammed behind him and Maggie was alone on the ground.

  The engines were louder.

  Maggie found the broken bottle. With some difficulty, she brought it around so that the jagged glass was working at the bonds around her wrists. She couldn’t see properly. She wasn’t sure it was working. She felt glass cut her hands but it didn’t matter.

  The bonds broke. She grabbed the noose and pulled. It gave a little, then a little more, then she pulled it over her head. She tried to stand. Couldn’t. Managed on the second attempt.

  Light under the door.

  She staggered for a cabinet to the side. More booze and a couple of old books. There was one closed door that turned out to be a bathroom. Over a grimy sink, a cracked mirror opened and Maggie found a first-aid kit. She needed to be out of here but that would be pointless if she bled to death. Her jacket and shirt were soaked with blood. With the back of her hand, she wiped her eyes and made herself look.

  Three gashes, left side of her face. One long, stretching from just above the temple to halfway across her forehead. The second, below the temple, stopping just under her eye. The third running under her cheek bone, stopping a centimetre from her nose. They were deep. They would scar. From outside, the engines were still going.

  She worked fast and sloppy, wrapping one bandage around her head, covering her nose and the two lower wounds. Another bandage higher up, across her forehead. Then one diagonal down her face. The knot was loose and in moments the bandages were soaked red. The pain hadn’t ebbed. Her hair, jutting between the bandages, was already matted thick and dark.

  The floor was mostly blood now. Out of the bathroom she found the pipe near the couch. It felt good in her hand. Like the rounders bat so long ago. She put it back into her belt. She looked to the small, single window. No light through it. Back to the door. Nobody had come in yet.

  Who?

  Weak, fearful, jittery Aaron Cooper was never going to kill his father. Nor were the Scorpions.

  ‘Well?’ the voice of Len Townsend called from outside. ‘You got something for me or what?’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Maggie closed her eyes. It was almost funny. Of course Aaron had known about Townsend’s hit, and that the gangster would come for Maggie if he was tipped off that she was here. Aaron needed somebody reckless, somebody who would arrive and, not finding the person he wanted, massacre whoever was left here – even a cop. Except Aaron’s plan had gone awry and, as a result, Townsend was about to get exactly what he wanted.

  ‘I’m warning you,’ Townsend called again. ‘If you’re not out here in the next minute with the girl, we’re gonna break the door down. Let’s handle this nice and gentle.’

  Maggie looked to the window again. It didn’t have a latch, didn’t open. The moment she smashed it Townsend’s men would hear.

  ‘I’m really fucking hoping you haven’t wasted my time,’ Townsend said.

  What did she have?

  ‘Ten seconds,’ Townsend said.

  Maggie ran for the cabinet.

  ‘Nine.’

  She found a bottle of absinthe. Opened it as she stumbled for the old couch, snatching the lighter from the table as she went.

  ‘Eight.’

  The couch wasn’t heavy but trying to lift it sent the pain in her face surging. Didn’t matter.

  ‘Seven.’

  She had the couch up now, lifting from one side. It was as tall as she, as tall as the door.

  ‘Six.’

  Trying not to be too loud, she shuffled the couch towards the door.

  ‘Five.’

  She doused the top cushion in absinthe. She held the top of the couch and the lighter in her right hand; in her left she had the bottle.

  ‘Four.’

  Maggie sparked the lighter, placed it to the cushion and as she did screamed, ‘Help! Please, help me!’

  The men outside didn’t think. The door cracked as someone slammed against it. Heat from the igniting couch cushion licked Maggie’s hand but she didn’t let go.

  The door shattered inwards. Maggie caught a glimpse of a man in black holding a gun, then she shoved the couch onto him. As she did, she brought the bottle up hard, splashing absinthe all over him, absinthe that caught fire the moment it doused his shirt.

  The man screamed.

  Maggie ran. She pulled the pipe from her belt and brought it hard into the window. In the doorway, the man still grappled with the burning couch as his own shirt went up. The window glass was gone. Maggie swept the bott
om of the sill with the pipe then hefted herself up and through. The cries from behind her continued. She fell through into cold night air, landing hard on the pile of wood. She rolled off, hit the ground and struggled to her feet, taking a couple of steps forward as she tried to regain her balance, then—

  A man came around the corner of the house. He saw her, went to shoot but she swung the pipe up hard. It caught his chin and his head snapped back. Maggie spun, checked for Nipper’s gun left on the ground but there was no sign of it and then she was running, into the trees, running through the agony, away from the screams now mingling with yells of fury and confusion as Townsend tried to work out what the fuck had happened.

  She burst from the trees surrounding the house. She tripped and fell onto grass. Ahead, streaks of blood, black in the moonlight. Aaron had gone this way.

  On her feet again and charging. The pain was far away now. Townsend would catch up to her, her face was ruined, and she never should have come here, but all of that receded – she knew what she had to do. She would get the drive back and she would make Aaron hurt. For herself, for Cooper, for all of this.

  She wasn’t steady on her feet. She was moving in stumbles, hitting the ground then getting to her feet again, colliding with trees and slipping in dirt. Her vision warped. Dark trunks then white grass then the endless stars and the looming moon and the desolate stretch of rugged ruin that was the empty lakebed.

  And finally, emerging from the last of the trees, Aaron.

  He was a lone figure, skinny and small among it all, tripping across the lakebed.

  She kept going.

  Grass gave way to rocks that cascaded under her feet down the last of the slope, and then to spreading cracks in dirt and dry mud that was once underwater. The ground below her levelled. The dead trees grew and stretched for her. And ahead, Aaron grew closer.

  She kept going.

  Maggie could hear him now, sobbing and wheezing, speaking to himself in fractured mutters. He fell hard. Rose with difficulty. His movements were loping, lurching. There was blood on the ground in front of Maggie.

  She kept going.

  The pipe was in her hand now, fitting like it had always been there, like an extension of her. She tasted the thought of it caving in his skull, the thought of those cries stopping, the thought of him knowing too late that he had fucked up, that he had crossed the very last person he ever should have.

  Aaron turned. Saw Maggie.

  She kept going.

  ‘S-stop!’ he managed.

  She kept going.

  Aaron raised the gun in an unsteady hand. ‘No further!’

  She kept going.

  Aaron fired. The ground a good metre from her feet exploded.

  She kept going.

  More gunshots. More bursts of dirt.

  She kept going.

  Aaron was begging now, crying out something desperate and strangled even as he fired again and the bullet missed and Maggie was on him. The pipe collided with the side of his neck and Aaron was down. He was soaked in blood but that didn’t matter. Maggie brought the pipe down again and again, hitting his chest, stomach, his kneecap, and all the while the screams, louder now, loud and wild because he knew this was it, because he knew and he deserved it and she was going to fucking kill him.

  Aaron stirred weakly on the ground. Maggie stepped back. Smelt the air. Only copper. Her blood or his or both; there was enough of it. Looked at the stars. At the pipe. Lifted it. Just like she had all those years ago with Elliot, before she’d been interrupted, before somebody had stopped her giving the prick exactly what he deserved. But this time there was no-one to stop her. This time she would be righteous and vengeful and would walk away from here with one more parasite of the world dead in the dust behind her.

  Aaron was curled up on the ground, eyes tightly shut, shaking with feeble sobs.

  ‘Look at me,’ Maggie said.

  He didn’t.

  ‘Fucking look at me!’ The words tore from her and then she had him by the shirt, pulling him up to look at her face, at what he’d done, at the nightmare she now knew she was with the bloodied bandages and the wild eyes and the raised pipe. The last thing this fucker would ever see.

  Aaron looked at her.

  There was no understanding or realisation in his face. No lesson learned. No regret. Just terror. Absolute, all-consuming, insurmountable terror.

  Terror she knew all too well.

  She dropped the pipe. Fell back into the dirt. Aaron’s eyes were closed again. He didn’t even try to reach for the dropped gun.

  A gust of cold wind. Maggie closed her eyes. Tried to breathe. The pain pulsed through her face, her hands, everywhere. How much blood had she lost? She could feel the icy crawl of tiredness spreading through her, her body protesting at the expended energy and the damage.

  She picked up the pipe and stood. Considered Aaron just a moment. Went to go through his pockets, to get the drive.

  And as she did, the lakebed came alive with bright light.

  Fast across the dirt they came; three hulking black SUVs, silhouettes behind the glare of their headlights, bouncing over the rough landscape as they closed in on Maggie and Aaron. One came straight for them; the other two peeled away, ready to encircle them.

  Instinct told her to bolt just as logic told her it was pointless. They would only run her down. So she stood, pipe in hand, as the three cars closed in around them.

  Aaron was trying to get up. ‘P-please.’ He was slurring. ‘Please.’

  Maggie just waited.

  The cars came to a halt. The sound of an opening door, then another. Shapes behind the white light.

  Maggie said nothing.

  Len Townsend stepped forward, a gun in hand. He looked just the same as he had in Queensland, dressed in his dark blue suit without a tie, the shirt open far too low. There was still amusement in those far-set eyes, but it didn’t offset the fury, nor the vicious delight in having caught his quarry at last.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘You’ve been a right fucking headache.’ He looked her up and down. Took in the pipe with a sneer. ‘Gonna beat us all to death, are you, sweetheart?’

  His lackeys had joined him in the circle of light. Only three others, all with guns. No sign of the men she’d burnt and bludgeoned.

  Townsend turned to one of the men. ‘She used to be pretty, believe it or not. Looks like somebody else wanted to give the little cunt what she deserved.’ Townsend stepped up close. Leered at Maggie. Grabbed her by the chin. ‘Not so fucking pretty now, eh?’

  Maggie bit down hard between his thumb and forefinger. Townsend yelled out. Maggie sunk her teeth in harder, then he was hitting her with the gun, each blow like a hammer, sending waves through her head. She let go. The ground tilted.

  Somewhere nearby, Townsend was breathing heavily. ‘Fuck. Jesus fucking Christ. Like a fucking animal.’

  He punched her. Maggie saw it coming but didn’t feel it. She was on the ground now, on her side. She could see Aaron, eyes still closed, mouth moving silently.

  Townsend had moved back to the front of one of the cars, inspecting his hand. He nodded to one of his men. ‘Get her up.’

  The man had Maggie by the hair, pulling her to her knees.

  ‘Now,’ Townsend said. ‘We’re gonna kill you. We’re gonna make it hurt. And we’re gonna make sure you know just how big a mistake you made fucking with my business.’

  Aaron’s terrified face, briefly, flashed in front of her.

  ‘Sam,’ Townsend said to the man holding Maggie’s hair. ‘Cut something off.’

  Sam’s laugh was low and stupid. He drew a knife. Maggie looked up at him, didn’t blink. His broad face contorted in something resembling glee. He lifted the knife.

  The top of his head exploded.

  Townsend flinched. The other men had their guns up, looking around.

  The ragged, splintered remains of Sam’s head, still including one eye, looked almost confused as he dropped.

 
There was no sign of another shooter. Even knowing it wasn’t him, Maggie looked at Aaron but he hadn’t moved; his gun still lay in the dirt.

  Townsend was now hunched low in front of the car, looking around wildly as he spoke into a radio.

  ‘Cal,’ he said, ‘there’s a shooter out there. Have you got visual? Cal?’

  Static.

  ‘Fuck!’ Townsend yelled. He tried again. ‘Come on, Cal. Ned. Fucking anyone. Tell me you guys stuck to your stations? There’s some prick with a sniper rifle!’

  Silence.

  Then—

  ‘Speaking as the prick with the rifle,’ Jack Carlin said through the radio, ‘I’d say you’re well and truly fucked.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Maggie burst out laughing. Townsend, still hunkered down in front of the car, moved for her but another gunshot blasted off the driver’s side mirror. He fell back.

  Carlin was alive.

  Maggie didn’t know how, didn’t know what she could have missed at the house, but that paled in the face of the beautiful reality. Carlin was alive and he was here. She wasn’t in this alone.

  ‘Do you know who I fucking am?’ Townsend barked into the radio. ‘You’re making a big fucking mistake.’

  ‘Let me tell you what a big mistake is,’ Carlin replied. ‘A big mistake would be sending your fucking goons to my house. A bigger mistake would be said goons not checking to see if I was wearing a vest after they emptied a few rounds at me. ’Course, the goons in question won’t be making that mistake again so chances are it’s a moot point, but it’s a lesson you can stand to learn, Len.’

  Townsend’s brow furrowed. ‘Carlin? Jack Carlin?’

  Aaron glanced up.

  ‘Aye, aye,’ Carlin said. ‘You know my address. You invaded my property. And that means you have to die. I’d apologise, but all told, I reckon I’ll be getting more thanks than admonishments for finishing you off.’

  Townsend was shaking his head. ‘Don’t be stupid. My men will come for you. They’ll—’

  ‘Your men will immediately go to work for whatever gutter rat replaces you in the scene.’ Carlin sounded bored. ‘You’ve got no leverage, Townsend.’