Edge of Crime: A Collection of Crime Stories

by John Moralee

  “In Sydney you don’t see many stars,” she said, wistfully. “The night sky is too bright with all the light pollution. What’s it like in Darwin?”

  “Where I live, you can see plenty of stars. My house is in the suburbs. It has a view of the sea. Did I tell you I have a boat?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said, so I told her. She listened as I described it. Then she excused herself to visit the toilet. When she did not come back within five minutes, I wondered what was taking her so long. I waited another five minutes. Now I was worried. I went inside and asked a woman heading into the toilets if she could see if Lisa was still inside. The woman emerged shaking her head, telling me that there was nobody else using the toilets.

  I looked around the restaurant, but could not see Lisa. She had gone. I asked a waiter. He said he’d seen her leave. He’d assumed she’d forgotten something and was coming back. I hurried outside. That was when I discovered my car keys were missing. My suspicions were confirmed when I looked for the Land Rover and found an empty parking space.

  I thought of the words she’d said earlier:

  I wish I were dead, then I wouldn’t feel anything.

  *

  There was a taxi arriving as I stood there, helpless. Once the people climbed out, I rushed over and explained the situation to the driver. He’d seen the Land Rover on the road just a kilometre away. I got in and he turned the taxi around and we set off after it. I had no idea what I would do when and if we caught up, but I could not let Lisa drive a car when she was only twelve years old. She was likely to crash and kill herself. Maybe that was what she intended. Maybe she had just been faking interest in my conversation to lull me into a false sense of security … so she could sneak away and kill herself. In the direction we were heading, the road curved up and down through the West MacDonnells like a gnarled tree branch. The taxi driver knew the twists and turns, but Lisa did not. I prayed we’d catch up. We passed a sign that flickered in and out of existence just before a sharp turn. Then I saw the rear lights of the Land Rover. It was veering from one side of the road to the other. The road squeezed between two monoliths. The taxi gained ground with every second, but the Land Rover looked small and vulnerable as it rose up through the hills.

  From this angle, I could see ahead of the Land Rover to the next bend, a savage right.

  What happened next was inevitable.

  The Land Rover smashed through the barrier and plummeted out of sight.

  *

  We reached the broken barrier thirty seconds later. While the driver used his radio to call for assistance, I approached the edge and looked down at the rocks and wreckage. The Land Rover was about a hundred metres down the steep incline, lying on its side in a dark fissure. It was smouldering. I could not see much in the darkness. I could not see Lisa. I called out her name. She did not answer. I looked back at the taxi. The driver looked scared.

  “How long?” I asked.

  “Ten minutes,” he said.

  “Too long,” I mumbled. “Do you have a torch?”

  “Yes.” He found it and gave it to me. I switched it on and shone it down on the wreck. I could see dust and broken glass - and part of a pale arm hanging out the window, wet with blood. Lisa was not moving. I looked for a way down. I reckoned I could make my way down if I slid on my backside, using my hands and feet to grip the rock. I tried it, sliding towards the wreck in short stages. If I lost control, I had every chance of becoming a human avalanche. But I did not. I stopped when I reached the Land Rover. I could see Lisa inside, tangled up in the seat belt. The seat belt had probably prevented her from going through the windscreen and dying at the bottom of the gorge, but right now it was trapping her. The Land Rover creaked and shifted slightly forward. It would not stay on the fissure for long.

  “What’s happening?” the driver shouted. He was looking over.

  “She’s trapped,” I yelled.

  “Wait for the ambulance!”

  “The car looks like it’ll fall.” I swore and crept forward. I could see Lisa, but I could barely reach her without touching the vehicle. My heart was thudding. I carefully opened the door without disturbing anything else. Lisa heard me and opened her eyes. Her forehead was bruised, but she seemed to realise the situation she was in.

  “Don’t move,” I said. “I’m going to undo your seatbelt and I want you to hold onto me and not let go. Can you do that?”

  Slowly, she nodded. I reached into the car and waited for her to grab my neck with both arms. Then I held supported her with one hand and unlocked the seat belt with the other. The click was loud in the night. Suddenly unsupported, Lisa’s weight pulled at my shoulders. I grabbed her and pulled her free. Together, we headed back to the incline just as the Land Rover lost its grip and tumbled down into the darkness.

  I did not see it hit the ground, but the noise told me that there would have been no survivors.

  Lisa held me tight. I could hear the rescue team coming.

  “Why’d you save me?” she asked.

  “You’re my daughter,” I said. “I love you.”

  “Dad,” she said, ever so quietly it could have been my imagination, if I had not been so sure it was real. Dad.

  She was my daughter now. Rachel was wrong about me. I did care about people. I cared about Lisa. I just did not care about Rachel. That was why I had gone to Sydney and stolen a car to ram into hers. I had not seen Lisa in the car, otherwise I would not have created the accident. Now, I regretted doing it, for I should have thought about the consequences. Rachel had brought something wonderful into existence.

  Dear Rachel … I wished I’d not killed her last week.

  It should have been sooner.

  Pulling No Punches

  Two strikes to the face and one hammering blow under the ribs were enough to change everything. The final punch lifted Danny Banks off his feet and dropped him to his knees. He could taste the blood swirling round his mouth and hear the referee counting. Now there was such incredible pain in his chest, he knew - knew - it was over.

  His chance was over.

  “... five ...”

  He had to stand, had to. He’d won every other round, only a knock-out could stop him. To be so close and lose wasn’t fair. He needed to get a shot at the title, get a chance to prove himself, to prove that he wasn’t a failure. He just had to finish the twelfth round on his feet. He blinked away blood and acid sweat and stared at the grimy canvas, unable to raise his head. The pain in his chest was unbearable. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. His brother Joel shouted at him to get up. The crowd chanted his name. “Danny! Danny! Danny!” Back home, watching TV, Brenda would be crying, praying he wasn’t seriously hurt. And from heaven, his father’s gaze would be set on his youngest son.

  “... six ...”

  Danny’s heart felt as if it were about to blow out of his chest, cracking ribs to be free. He could feel it moving slickly with each uneasy beat.

  “... seven ...”

  Photographers’ flashes strobed him, made it hard to see. His hands touched the canvas and he tried to set his feet so he could stand, but the canvas was slippery and his limbs were drained of strength.

  “... eight ...”

  It was no good, he was no good. There were so many people counting on him. “Dynamite Dan, Darlington’s Man,” the fans called him. He grunted and spat blood, pushed with his hands, straightened his aching legs.

  “... nine ...”

  He was not going to make it. There was nothing left in him, no reserve strength, nothing. He could picture his father holding the corner post, calling to him, calling him a failure as he lost consciousness, six years ago. He felt the same shame. How many would laugh at him, call him a failure?

  And then he heard it, the finest, most beautiful sound a boxer ever heard.

  The final bell.

  He’d won. He’d won because time had run out. He flopped lifeless on the canvas and watched, bewildered, as total chaos erupted in the Atlant
a stadium. The British crowd roared. He couldn’t believe it. He’d won by default, by sheer luck. He looked through his bloated eyelids at the real winner of the fight, Brad McKlusky. McKlusky’s look of shocked defeat was enough to renew the pain in Danny’s chest.

  Danny was swept up by cheering supporters and carried around the ring. He was rescued from the revelry by Joel and his manager, plus the ringside doctor. As the adrenaline dissipated, the chest pains flared like a red hot poker. The doctor ordered a stretcher.

  “Get him to the hospital. Now.”

  Leaving the arena, Danny heard the judges announce his hollow victory, then his heart stopped.

  Danny dragged himself out of the swimming pool, feeling gravity pull at his body as if he were an astronaut returning from a year-long mission. He had three weeks to get ready for the title fight, yet a dozen lengths turned him beetroot red and sent his chest throbbing. Joel was talking to him from the villa’s balcony between sips of sangria, but the words sounded as if still under water. Danny accepted a towel from Brenda and rubbed his hair dry while she applied sun-tan lotion. By the time she’d finished greasing his muscles, Joel had descended.

  “Frank says you missed the training session this morning.”

  “That’s right. I over slept.”

  Joel shook his head. “You do want to win the title, don’t you? Look at yourself in the mirror.”

  Brenda threw a wet towel at Joel, slapping him in the face. “Leave him alone. He’s got to recover from the operation.”

  “I know that, Brenda. You think I want my brother hurting himself?”

  “Well, the way you -”

  “Dan, can we talk? Alone?”

  Danny nodded and followed his brother to the beach, aware of Brenda’s eyes drilling his back. He’d buy her chocolates and flowers. Joel walked in the surf. “You know something?”

  “What?”

  “I never figured out why you have a pool next to the beach.”

  Danny laughed. “Lazy, I guess.”

  Joel’s eyes turned serious. “I’m going to take over your coaching to see you do it. Are you in shape to fight?”

  “My fists are ready.”

  Joel picked up a pebble and hurled it into the blue water. It disappeared without trace. “But what about ... it?”

  “My heart?”

  “Yes. What did the specialist say?”

  Danny didn’t know what to say. His silence told Joel all he needed to know. Joel bit his lip and winced as he drew blood. He turned away, picking up more pebbles and launching them into the sea. Brenda called from the villa, said his manager was on the phone. Joel grabbed Danny as he made to go back. “Tell me.”

  Danny paused. “Only if you promise not to tell Brenda. I don’t want her worrying.”

  “Tell me.”

  “The punch caused internal bleeding. They had to operate, put a tube in and drain the blood. I’m healthy, but some of the arteries pumping blood got damaged. Another similar punch and I might not walk away so lucky.” He touched the scar tissue, like a ridge, like a target. “I think it’s game over. I’m finished.”

  Joel squinted up at the sky, and then blinked tears as he looked at Danny. “No ... we can’t stop now.”

  “I don’t want to, but -”

  “I remember when Dad first put you in the gym, you hit the punch-bag like lightning. I’ve never seen anyone so fast, so powerful. You made Dad so proud when you beat your first opponent.”

  “He never said.”

  “He said it to me. You can’t give up. It’s the only way out. You still owe money on this house and the two Porsches and ...”

  “I know.”

  “Dad didn’t want you to end up like him, working in a factory for forty years, a nobody.”

  “Dad wasn’t a nobody.”

  “That’s what he believed. You could see it in his eyes.”

  Danny remembered his father’s eyes, they had been a mirror of his own, like two stones.

  “Listen to me, Dan.”

  “I am.”

  “Winning the title will make the rest of your life a gravy train - even if you never fight again. But if you stop now, you’ll never know. You’ll live the rest of your life wondering if you had the right stuff to make it, but you’ll never know. Now I want you to go and answer the phone and be back here in ten minutes ready to jog, okay?”

  “Okay, Joel. I’ll be in shape for the fight, Joel. I promise.”

  *

  “Danny, I need to see you,” Frank Hirst said. “In person.”

  “Yeah? About what?”

  “Can’t say now. I’m leaving Heathrow in a hour, make sure you’re alone when I get there. Ciao.”

  Danny put the phone down, puzzled. He returned to the beach, thinking.

  *

  Frank Hirst removed his sunglasses and rested his briefcase on the coffee table, clicked it open. Danny saw several photocopied documents inside. His manager spread them on the table and leaned back on the chaise longue, looking at the African face-masks on the tropical wallpaper.

  “I see you’ve redecorated. Nice.”

  “Brenda’s idea. She read ‘Long Walk to Freedom’ by Nelson Mandela.” Danny felt uncomfortable around his manager. Hirst did his business expertly, but his Public School accent and Armani suit distanced them more than a foreign language. He was the only man Danny knew who looked comfortable in a suit. Danny wondered why he wanted to see him when Joel was out, since Joel handled the finances.

  Hirst opened a pack of cigarettes, then looked for an ash tray. Danny passed him an onyx tray and watched him light up. “So ... the training’s fine?”

  “No problems.”

  Hirst sucked in tar and stabbed out the cigarette after just one drag. “There’s something we have to discuss.”

  “Yeah?”

  “About Joel.” Hirst leaned over the table so Danny could smell his designer aftershave. “He’s used cash in your bank account to bet on the fight.”

  Danny took in the information slowly. “How much?”

  Hirst showed him the documents.

  “Half a million, here or there.”

  “I don’t have that.”

  “No, he’s used your properties as security.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Believe it. I only found out because a bookie friend I know called, informed me.”

  “Surely there’s a mistake?”

  “No. I was going to call the police, but I thought you’d want to know first.”

  “Forget it.”

  “It’s fraud ...”

  “He’s my brother. I’ll handle it.”

  *

  Danny grunted to a halt after sixty press-ups, unable to continue to the fabled two hundred. Panting, Danny watched Joel leave the room and heard him on the phone to someone, whispering. He attempted another press-up, but his chest burned and he collapsed.

  “Did I give you permission to stop?”

  He looked up at his brother, but saw his father standing there, noticing the uncanny similarities for the first time. In a couple of years, Joel would lose his hair, just like his father, and the transformation would be complete. Danny wanted to ask about the money, but was afraid of the answer. “Joel -”

  “No pain, no gain. Start from sixty ...”

  Fight the pain barrier, Danny thought.

  Fight the pain.

  *

  He was lying in the four-poster bed, looking up at the ceiling, seeing his and Brenda’s reflections in the mirrors. She slept, emitting little cute purring sounds. Brenda liked the mirrors, said it was erotic. He thought it was kinky and perverted, but said nothing. He wanted to wake her and tell her about Joel. But he didn’t want to worry her. As long as he won the fight, everything would be okay, he could forgive Joel for risking everything. But -

  He slid out of the bed and took a shower, then dressed and crept downstairs to the kitchen, opened the fridge, looking for a Newcastle Brown. He felt a presence behind
him.

  “Joel?”

  “It’s four o’clock. Running time.”

  Danny slammed the fridge closed.

  *

  When he was running with the wind roaring in his ears, he thought of his father watching him circle the track at Gateshead. The memory forced him to run faster, his legs a whirlwind, feet pounding the sand. His father has said that to be a boxer needed stamina and speed in equal measures. Unless he had the stamina of Steve Cram, he was nothing. Unless he had the speed of Linford Christie, he was nothing. So he had run as if his life depended on it. But whatever time Danny had done wasn’t fast enough for his father. Even when he broke his own personal best he received no encouragement. Try harder next time, son.

  He reached the rocks at the end of the beach and turned back. Joel was standing a quarter of a mile away with a stop-watch, shouting. Again, the words were liquid, incomprehensible. There was a roaring in his ears, like holding a conch shell. He powered on, blocking out the pains. He hurtled past his brother and staggered to a stop, legs twitching, thighs burning. Between his ribs someone lit a blow-torch.

  “That was excellent!” Joel grinned. “But try harder next time.”

  *

  Joel sat in the darkness of the hall. Brenda had gone out for the day on a tour to let him concentrate on the training. Joel would be the next person to come through the door. Danny’s head spun with thoughts. He’d called the bank, they had confirmed the loan. He had to talk to Joel; the betrayal of trust was eating away at him. He heard Joel’s Mercedes pull up the drive. The door unlocked. Danny waited for Joel to step through and shut it before he moved. He hadn’t planned anything, he just wanted to talk, be reasonable. But when he saw Joel, saw the boyish grin, he acted. His right hand flipped out in a jab.