by Peter Temple
All this in one day.
‘Boss,’ said Dove, urgent. ‘There.’
He was pointing at the multi-storey parking garage across the road.
Two big men, young, T-shirts, cargo pants, dark glasses, one wore thongs. Standing well back from the crossing.
Lizzie.
She was between them, the girl, she barely reached their shoulders, her hair was inside a baseball cap, she was in jeans and a white collarless shirt, a child wearing big dark glasses, carrying a bag, a blue sports bag with the swipe on the side.
The lights changed, they stepped off.
Villani was looking to their left, across the road, through the undercover bus stop. A black car was behind a bus with a luggage trailer, it was nosing out, twenty, thirty metres from the crossing.
A motorbike was beside it, on the far side, the driver’s side, two up, full-face helmets, the passenger had his left hand on the car.
In the moment, Villani knew. Oh, Jesus, no.
‘Car, the bike!’ Villani went between two women coming in the door, freeing the weapon as he ran.
The girl was looking at the bike, the car, her mouth was open, the light caught her teeth.
She knew she was going to die.
Villani was halfway across the road, the nose of the black car, an Audi, the tinted windscreen, the biker, he saw the pistol, he did not hear the sounds.
The girl dropped. The man next to her dropped.
Running, he fired, the helmets turned, the bike passenger swung his pistol across the rider’s head.
Villani stumbled.
Dove beside him, Dove had his gun in both hands, he fired once, twice, holes in the windscreen, the man on the pillion standing now.
Villani steadied, shot the rider, he knew he had hit him, you knew. He fired again. Dove beside him fired, again, the pillion shooter’s helmet jerked, the collar of his leather jacket lifted, he fell sideways.
The black Audi turning left, mounting the median strip, coming slowly.
Screaming, many people screaming, a child screaming.
Villani saw the faces in the car, the head and arm and the pumpgun sticking out of the passenger side.
Run back.
Too late.
‘Oh shit,’ he said, saw the flame in the shotgun barrel, felt his shirt and his jacket plucked, fired at the shooter, him and Dove, standing side by side, they emptied their weapons.
The Audi stopped a metre away. A hole in the windscreen on the driver’s side. Dove had shot the driver. Someone once shot him and now he had shot someone. Not gun-shy, Dove.
Silence.
Birkerts and Tomasic arrived.
They walked to the girl, seeing the slumped men in the Audi, seeing the bikers where they lay, hearing the bike ticking. Villani smelled cordite and hot gunmetal and petrol fumes.
The girl was clenched like a baby with colic. One of her escorts was on his side, losing blood, blood everywhere. His brother was holding the man’s head.
She would be dead, dying.
‘Police,’ Villani said, not loudly.
She raised her head and looked at him, dark eyes.
Not dead.
He knelt by her, Dove knelt too, they turned her gently, she did not resist, she was limp.
Not dying.
Not shot.
‘Safe now,’ he said. ‘Safe now.’
She blinked, she was crying, she smiled a wan little smile.
Not dead. Not Lizzie. Saved.
‘Medics,’ Villani said. ‘Tell them five down. Gunshot.’
THEY SAT in the big interview room, Villani and Dove and two interpreters, a fat sallow man who was also a justice of the peace and a stern young woman who was a court interpreter in four Slavonic languages.
And the girl. Her name was Marica.
The girl did not need to be told her rights. She was not charged with anything. She was giving her testimony willingly. She was a witness to at least one crime.
Dove asked the questions, it was his right.
He was quiet and friendly, smiling, Villani had not seen this side of Dove. He took Marica through her story, from the time in Tandarei when her uncle brought the man to see her and her twin sister and told them they could go to Australia and be trained as hairdressers and beauticians, the Australian girls did not want to do the work, they were also ugly and had big hands and could not do delicate things. His reward would be a small percentage of their earnings when they were qualified, that was only fair.
It took a long time, breaks taken, there was a need to ask for detail. Marica knew some names, just first names, not many.
At length, they came to the night at Prosilio, to the drive from Preston, to the garbage exit, to the stairs and the lift and the rooms in the sky, the bathroom with the glass bath, the champagne and the cocaine.
And the men.
Two men.
The tiny camera. There was a camera.
The things they did. The pain.
Marica cried, tears of shame and humiliation at having to tell strangers, men, these things. The stern female interpreter did not comfort her. She silenced the fat man with a look when he seemed to make an attempt.
And then it was time for the photographs. Dove had assembled them.
It was a delicate matter. Dove told the interpreters how it would be done, what Marica should do if she recognised any of the people in the photographs. But the interpreters could not see the photographs.
The woman explained the procedure to the girl. Dove asked the man if he was happy with the explanation. He said he was.
Dove gave Marica the red pen.
He showed the first print to Villani, A4.
Stuart Koenig.
He slid it face down to the girl. They watched her face.
Marica turned it over, looked, blinked, spoke to the woman.
‘She says she was taken to a house,’ said the interpreter. ‘She had sex with him but did not see him again.’
Dove showed Villani another picture, their eyes met. He put the print on the table, face down.
Mervyn Brody, car dealer, racehorse owner.
She looked, turned it face down.
So it went. Picture shown to Villani, slid to the girl.
Brian Curlew, criminal barrister.
Face down.
Chris Jourdan, restaurants and bars.
Face down.
Daniel Bricknell, art dealer.
Face down.
Dennis Combanis, property developer.
Face down.
Mark Simons, insolvency expert. Face down.
Hugh Hendry.
Face down.
Martin Orong, minister of the crown.
Softly, Dove said to Villani, face close to him, ‘The girl on the snow road.’
He slid the picture to Marica. She looked at it, blinked, blinked.
Face down.
Dove said to the interpreters, ‘I want to show her some photographs of groups now. We haven’t had time to isolate the people in them. If she recognises anyone, she should ring the face. Okay? We have enlarged the pictures, but she must examine them very carefully.’
The man explained, Marica nodded.
Dove showed Villani the pictures, A5, six of them. Photographs taken at the casino party, the party at Prosilio to launch Orion. Villani looked at them.
Black ties, little black dresses, champagne flutes, facelifts, hair transplants, Botox, collagen, coke smiles, rich people, clever people, talented people, untalented people, freeloaders, charlatans, tax cheats, unjailed criminals, kept women, kept men, toyboys, walkers, a drug dealer, trophy brides.
He gave them back to Dove.
Dove gave the girl the first picture. She studied it. She was tired, she rubbed an eye. She looked like Lizzie, Lizzie when she was alive.
Face down, pushed aside.
Next picture.
Marica was rubbing the other eye, looking at the photograph. She stopped rubbing. She looked at Dove, her eyes we
re red, her mouth was open.
She took the fat red pen and drew on the picture.
One circle.
Two circles.
She turned the print face down. She pushed the picture back to Dove. He picked it up. Looked. He gave it to Villani.
A smiling man, glass in hand.
A man making a point to a woman, half-serious, his eyebrows were raised.
To the interpreters, Villani said, no moisture in his mouth, ‘I’m giving the picture back to her. Ask her if she’s absolutely sure. You must impress upon her the seriousness of the matter.’
The woman spoke. The man spoke.
Villani slid the picture.
Marica looked, she nodded fiercely.
Da. Da. Da.
‘She is sure,’ said the woman.
Guy Ulyatt of Marscay. We Own The Building.
Max Hendry.
Villani and Dove went outside. They looked at each other in silence.
‘Well, bugger,’ said Dove. ‘That’s a bit of…didn’t expect that. No. What, ah, what now, boss?’
‘Your case,’ said Villani. ‘You’re the boss here.’
‘Apply for warrants to search their homes and offices,’ said Dove.
‘Go for your life.’
‘Boss.’
Silence.
‘I heard Max Hendry offered you a big job,’ said Dove.
‘Yes,’ said Villani. ‘Needed a certain kind of person. But it wasn’t me.’
SHE RANG when he was in the lift. She was across the boulevard in her car.
Villani had to wait to cross. He looked at his messages.
Love you, Dad. Always. Corin.
He went to her window, it came down.
‘I’m so sorry, Stephen,’ said Anna. ‘I can’t tell you how sorry I am.’
She reached up to him and he stooped. She kissed him, held his head in both hands, fingertips in his hair, pressing on his skull. Then she pulled away.
Villani wiped his mouth. He felt sadness. ‘Your lipstick,’ he said. ‘It’s smudged.’
He turned and left but he looked back, he could not help himself. The tinted light made her face pale, her mouth grey. He could not see her eyes.
Home. The telephone unplugged, mobiles off, he showered, closed the blinds, lay down on the big bed. So tired. He carried too much freight. And no pity left in him.
When the pity leaves you, son, it’s time to go. You’ve stopped being fully human.
Singo.
Carrying the knowing all these years. To be with Rose and know they had executed her son. Greg was rubbish but he was hers, the way Tony and Corin were his.
Not Lizzie. She wasn’t his. She was Laurie’s. He had taken Laurie’s child from her as Dance had taken Rose’s.
He could not bear the thoughts, went to the bathroom and found Birkerts’ sister’s tablets, two left. In time, he passed into a sleep of sad meaningless dreams.
He woke just before 7am, lay for a long time, not thinking about anything, overwhelmed by the world, by what was waiting for him. He noticed his hipbones. He had lost weight.
Rose’s treasure box. Do that first, he could not face her if something happened to it.
In the kitchen, the radio.
…wind shift that saved the evacuated towns of Puzzle Creek, Hunter Crossing, Selborne and Morpeth and many farm properties late yesterday has only provided a temporary respite. With the fires now largely out of control and extreme conditions again today, emergency services say the best hope is for a change in the weather…expected to continue…
In the car, he switched on his mobile. Dozens of messages.
Later. He would attend to them later.
On the freeway, heading for Rose’s house, the phone. He plugged in the hands-free.
‘Villani.’
‘Steve, it’s Luke, listen our chopper’s been up there and the bloke says Dad’s in dead strife, there’s no way out, the fucking wind is shifting and…’
‘He doesn’t need a way out,’ said Villani. ‘He’s got no use for a way out.’
‘Yeah, well, I’m going in the chopper. The bloke’ll put me down, he’s a fucking madman too.’
Luke Villani, the snotty, whining little boy, the smartarse teenager who had to be locked in his room, radio confiscated, to do his homework, who sucked up to Bob, who came running for protection every time Mark threatened him, whose highest ambition was to call horse races.
‘Talk to the doctor?’
‘Waiting for him to call back.’
‘Fucking lunatic idea this,’ said Villani. He could feel the snaretight wires in his neck, up into his skull. ‘I’m telling you not to.’
It was his duty to say it, his prerogative and his duty.
‘Can’t tell me what to do anymore,’ said Luke. ‘It’s my dad and my brother. I’m going.’
My brother.
No one had ever said it before. Villani had thought that no one would ever say it. It had not seemed sayable.
‘Where’s this fucking chopper?’ he said.
‘Essendon,’ said Luke. ‘Grenadair Air. Wirraway Road. Off the Tulla.’
‘Wait for me.’
‘Sarmajor,’ Luke said in Bob’s voice.
They were waiting on the blistering tarmac beside the shiny bird with its slim silver drooping wings: Mark and Luke and the pilot.
‘I reckon I can go to jail for this,’ said the pilot. He looked about twenty.
‘I know you can go to jail for this,’ said Villani.
THEY FLEW across the crawling city and its outskirts and over the low hills, flew over the small settlements and great expanses of trees, flew over dun, empty grazing land. They could see the smoke across the horizon, it stood a great height into the sky and above it the air was the cleanest, purest blue.
After a long while, from a long way, they saw the red edges of the fire, like blood leaking from under a soiled bandage.
The radio traffic was incessant, calm voices through the electronic crackle and spit.
‘Got to keep away from the fire choppers,’ said the pilot. ‘Go the long way around.’
‘Took your patient in,’ Villani said to Mark. ‘Kenny Hanlon.’
‘Not my patient,’ said Mark. ‘Don’t have any patients. I’m going to Africa next week. Darfur.’
‘Got bikies in Darfur? Got a Hellhound chapter?’
‘Fuck you,’ Mark said.
In time, they saw Selborne in the distance, they were coming at it from the south-west, and, beyond the hamlet in the direction of Bob’s, the world was alight, the road was a snaking avenue of trees burning orange, the air was dark.
‘Don’t reckon I’m going to jail,’ said the pilot, ordinary voice. ‘Reckon I’m going to die up here.’
‘Steady on, son,’ said Luke. ‘Just follow the road. Carrying the best cop, best doctor, best race-caller in the country. Don’t fuck it up.’
‘Dream team,’ said the pilot. ‘Help me, St Chris.’
Into the dark and frightening hills, they followed the flaming road, the chopper shivering, pushed up and down and sideways by the air currents, everything was adrift in the heat.
Suddenly, they were above the farm, the house, the sheds, the stable, the paddocks.
The forest. Untouched, whipping.
‘In the paddock, Black Hawk One,’ said Luke.
And then they were on the ground and Luke was patting the pilot, they scrambled out, the heat was frightening, breath-sucking, the terrible noise, the pilot shouted, ‘You bloody idiots.’
They ran and the chopper rose, showered them with particles of dirt and stone and dry vegetation.
At the fence, in the fearsome, scorching day, behind them Armageddon coming in fire and smoke with the sound of a million Cossack horsemen charging across a hard, hard plain, stood Bob and Gordie.
Bob spoke. They could barely hear him. ‘Don’t often get all three,’ he said. ‘What’s this in aid of?’
THROUGH THE dark day and into th
e late afternoon, in the furnace wind, sometimes unable to breathe or speak or hear one another, they fought to save the house and the buildings.
When they had lost all the battles, when the red-hot embers were coming like massive tracer fire, when the fireballs were exploding in air, Bob took the big chainsaw and, with a murderous screaming of metal against metal, sliced the top off the corrugated-iron rainwater tank.
Gordie propped a ladder against the tank wall and they climbed up it, threw themselves into the warm water, felt the slimy bottom beneath their feet, pushed through the heaviness to the wall furthest from the flames.
Bob came last. First he handed the dog to Gordie, then he climbed the ladder, slipped through between rungs, stayed underwater for a time, came up, hair plastered flat. He looked like a boy again.
They stood in the tank, shoulders touching, water to their chins, nothing left to say. This was the end of vanity and ambition. This was what it had come to, the five of them, all Bob’s boys here to die with the man himself, some instinct in them, some humming wire had pulled them back to death’s booming and roaring waiting room to die together in a rusty saw-toothed tub.
‘What about that Stand in the Day?’ said Luke.
‘Bloody ripper,’ said Bob. ‘Need more tips like that.’
They did not look at one another, ashes fell on them, drifted down and stuck to their faces, lay on the water, coated the face of the old yellow dog Bob was holding to his chest.
And, in the last moment, the howling wind stopped, a windless pause as if it were drawing breath. Then it came around as if sucked away to another place, came around and they could feel the change on their faces. The fire stood in its tracks, advanced no further, chewing on itself, there was no sustenance left for it, no oxygen, everything burnt.
They said nothing for a long time. They could not believe that this terrible thing had passed, that they would live. In the silence, they heard the fire chopper coming, it came from nowhere and hung its trunk over them and dropped a small dam of water on the house.
‘You never get the air strike when you need it,’ said Bob.
They pulled the ladder into the tank. Luke climbed it, they pushed it out and he rode it to the ground. Mark went first, then Gordie.
