by Ray Smithies
To this day the memories had remained so vivid and with each name read on the marbled monument, a different ominous event would spring to mind. I couldn’t help but think how fortunate certain individuals had been to escape the clutches of those responsible: Arthur Simpson, Brigit O’Neill, Hamish O’Connor and the remaining committee members. Fate knows no boundaries and indeed has no exemptions. You either have good fortune or not, there are no half-measures.
It had been three months since Detective Forbes and his crew departed Pedley. Life had returned to a somewhat normal and less eventful state, a situation I’m sure Burke and Whittaker were only too happy to reside over. I took a moment to contemplate on what had transpired since the arrest of the infamous Piedpiper.
Paul Marsh had persuaded the captivating Piochsa to return with him to the city.
Hamish was back in Peterswood attending to his daily farm duties. I couldn’t help but miss the silly bugger.
Arthur Simpson was back on deck and ‘rarin’ to go’ on his next mission, he kept reminding me. Contrary to many that recognise and concur with their twilight years, Arthur relished the most that life could offer. It was impossible to contain the old-timer for too long.
Danny Murdock continued to make steady progress following the horrific injuries he received from the Broadbent bombing. The long and arduous treatment was producing the desired result.
As for James Slattery and Kurt Muller, they continued to cross paths with the law, their dubious ventures often as transparent as metal drawn to a magnet. Consistently cautioned for minor offences, the pair was never quite clever enough to outsmart the scrutiny of Sergeant Burke.
Ben Johnson became a born-again Christian. His kidnapping and Russian roulette experience had transformed the man into a mild-mannered publican. At least a small positive had emerged from all the turmoil.
In recognition for his services above duty, Chris Martino received a promotion to senior constable, an acknowledgement that was both gratefully accepted and justly deserved.
Brigit O’Neill’s arm had relinquished the support of plaster, enabling her to once again drive the beloved VW Bug. Her days of wheelin’ and dealin’ the Pedley streets were now but a distant memory. Once bitten, twice shy, she had explained to me one day recently. Brigit maintained her distance with James Slattery, claiming any reconciliation would only open up old wounds. Determined to go straight and rid her days of the drug trade, she had commenced employment as a junior with George Franklin and Associates, a self-motivated move that had thrilled her stepmother no end. Her relationship with Helen had grown distinctly closer in light of recent events.
Helen’s trauma at the hands of Indigo had also had a positive outcome. She received counselling to help overcome her precarious condition and the treatment had proven beneficial in getting her back on track. She was, after all, a strong-willed woman, which put her in good stead to beat the odds.
I was both relieved and impressed with the swift action brought down by the authorities. Determined to avoid the subterranean from becoming a public stage show or ghetto for society’s outcasts, orders had come from a very high source to close off the three sites. It was considered mandatory, given the fluctuating tide presented a dangerous environment with the risk takers and idle curious in mind. With the entranceways totally sealed, the authorities were of the opinion the sites would now be left to rest in peace. The underground, it would seem, was destined for a further dormant period of two hundred years or beyond.
Unfortunately I didn’t quite share the constabulary’s optimism. Perhaps they were a little premature with their judgment, given a passing 4WD I had seen only yesterday looked remarkably similar to the one driven by Scorpio during the chase. The colour and make was identical, but more alarming was a rear window sticker depicting ‘I luv NY’. Not only had the label been applied to the same right-hand side, but was also distinctly similar in size, with the same bold red lettering. I recalled Brigit making a comment about the sticker at some point. To the best of my recollection, the syndicate’s car was never retrieved and confiscated by the law. If this was indeed the same vehicle, then who in the hell was driving the bloody thing?
