Heroin Annie

by Peter Corris

  He looked pretty fresh, considering, although his stubble was darker and there was some tension in his movements. He kept patting the gun in his waistband. We pissed, and ate some of the food while the day got started; the sky was clear and even this distance north of Sydney there was a different taste to the air, fruity. I moved towards the door but he put his hand on my arm.

  ‘I'll drive.’

  I shrugged and got in. He tapped the wheel and gear shift as if getting the weight and balance of them, and then we were off out of the trees, bumping down the track and out onto the highway. Clem drove the way he fought; very smooth, and with a feeling of power kept in reserve. He kept the speed down; I'd spent some money on the Falcon recently and it was going along nicely at sixty. I was thinking that Clem's luck was holding when the trouble started. A motorcycle cop passed us and then dropped back. Clem passed him and the cop drew up alongside and took a good look at us. He waved us in and Clem put his foot down. I looked back and saw the cop's face which was white and set under the goggles. He hunched over the handlebars and came after us with a siren screaming.

  ‘This thing'll fall apart at eighty’, I said.

  ‘Shut up.’ Clem gripped the wheel and seemed to be looking ahead, beyond the turns in the road. We were climbing slightly and the bike gained quickly. Clem bent forward and his eyes flicked from the road to the rear vision mirror. I checked my seat belt and tried to console myself with the thought that the Falcon probably wouldn't even do eighty and that something would burn out if he tried—something that would slow us down and bring us to a gentle stop. Clem wasn't slowing, he pushed the speed up as we gained the flat. The bike cruised up close behind us and then Clem flicked off the bitumen and sent a hail of dust and stones flying back at the cop. That gained us some distance, the siren receded and then came back louder than ever. Clem fought the wheel as the needle touched eighty-five and the suspension and steering protested. When I thought the car was going to disintegrate he eased off and looked into the mirror, then he picked up again, eased back and studied the mirror. He grinned.

  ‘What?’ My teeth were chattering and I had to say it again to get the sound out.

  ‘He's confused’, Clem said tightly, ‘probably young. Give me a break and I'll shake him.’

  The break came in the next mile; the road narrowed over a bridge and there was a high bank quite close to the road over the bridge. Clem eased off the power, touched the brake and we probably weren't doing much more than fifty when we bumped over the bridge. He swung the wheel and the car lurched out towards the middle of the road, the bike came up on the inside and then we slipped back over to the left and crowded the bike closer to the bank. I saw the rider's head go up and then he was in a skid, sliding and slowing, and Clem kept just ahead of him, hemming him in until he went sideways into the bank. Clem picked up speed on the straight road and I kept the dark figure in sight until we went over a hill.

  ‘Moving?’ Clem said.

  I drew in a sour, gummy breath. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Should be okay, he wasn't going fast.’

  A truck roared by on the other side and Clem wiped his hand over his face. ‘He'll see him right. We've got to get off this bloody road, though.’

  We went inland south of Taree and started winding and climbing through the rich farming country. I had a map of sorts and Clem had a good eye for roads; we did some backtracking but still made pretty good progress north. After a while Clem started to whistle.

  ‘What the hell have you got to be so cheerful about? They're going to have two men in a dark Falcon registration number KLG 343 on the air by now.’

  Clem looked at me, he was munching on the last of the salami and the scars and lines on his face were criss-crossing, smoothing out and bunching up.

  ‘You're slipping Cliff. Notice anything about the farm houses around here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Fuckin’ great TV masts. This is TV territory, most of these people wouldn't listen to the local radio if you paid them and they won't watch television until the evening. Nothing to worry about till then.’

  I grunted. ‘You're wasted in a life of crime, Clem. You should be in my racket.’

  The remark sobered him. ‘Yeah’, he muttered, ‘well, it's a bit late for that, and I mightn't be so smart anyhow, we're going to need petrol and they listen to the radio in the workshops anyway. Going to have to trust to all that bloody luck I usually have.’

  We bought the petrol in a small town that featured a bowser on the side of the road, a post office store and a pub. Clem took some money and bought food; I bought some beer and a bottle of brandy. Clem gestured angrily at me to drive when he saw the package. I knew he wouldn't want to start a scene in the town so I opened one of the cans as I got behind the wheel.

  ‘I said no booze, Cliff’, he said when we got out of the town.

  ‘Fuck you, Clem, I'm twitching and I need a drink. I'm not going to go through another night like that without a few belts. Think of it as medicine.’ I held one of the cans out to him but he stared out the window.

  We pushed on through the afternoon scarcely talking. Clem kept looking at the map and dictating the route. He was making for some point short of Gismore and his spirits seemed to lift when we got into the ranges between Kempsey and Tamworth. The light was fading when we got to Bunda Bunda. Clem told me to stop by the single public phone booth in the town.

  ‘Let's have some silver, Cliff.’ I gave him what I had, and he reached over and took the keys. He went into the booth and I saw him take the .38 out and put it to hand; then he shovelled money into the box, dialled, waited and spoke. He was grinning when he came back.

  ‘What next?’ I said.

  ‘Night's sleep and a new car, about twenty miles off.’

  We turned back towards the coast and started dropping. I was tired and hungry when Clem guided us down a track to a shack at the edge of a fast moving creek. A white VW 1600, not new but younger than the Falcon, was parked behind the building which was mostly fibro with a bit of timber and a minimum of glass.

  There was a gas cylinder and a two burner stove in the shack and we had a meal of tinned poison and I drank two cans of warm beer. I was sleepy and even the rickety bunks at the back of the single room looked inviting. Clem had taken the distributor from the Falcon and he looked at me as I yawned.

  ‘Ready to pack it in, Cliff?’

  ‘Yeah, but let's not have any of that Siamese twins act, eh?’

  ‘You could shoot through and have the cops here in no time.’

  ‘Clem, I'm buggered. I don't know where we are. It's pitch black outside. I assume the creek goes down to the coast but I'm just not in the mood to build a raft. I'm not going anywhere tonight.’ I took off my shoes and handed them to him.

  He laughed and jabbed at me with the shoes. ‘All right, tell you what, you have a nice big brandy and I'll have a small one to keep you company.’

  He'd taken charge of the bottle and now he held it out. I set the world's bottle-opening record and we sat there in front of the kerosene lamp with a good brandy in enamel mugs. He took a sip and pulled a face. In the flickering light the strain and the years showed clearly. He drank a bit more, and squinted as if he was in pain.

  I took a long pull on the smooth spirit. ‘What's on your mind, Clem?’

  ‘Joannie’, he said.

  The room was full of light when I woke up and Clem was shaving with a blade razor and a piece of soap; steam was lifting from a shallow enamel bowl.

  ‘Get up you lazy bugger, and mako some coffee.’

  I had a bit of a head and I groaned when I swung my legs on to the boards.

  ‘You look bloody awful, I should make you take a swim in the creek.’

  ‘You'd be lucky. How'd you sleep?’

  ‘Fair.’

  I made the coffee and set the mug down in front of him. He wiped his face off carefully with a torn towel. He looked healthy and fresh. I rubbed my hand over my dirty, dark-bristled face
; I was the one who looked like a desperado. He offered me the razor but I couldn't see my heavy beard giving way to it.

  ‘Look, Clem, why don't you stick here a while. I'll go up to Gismore and see what I can find out. If you can pin it on this Riley character, you're home free.’

  Clem sipped coffee, taking it hot and squinting against the steam, then he shook his head slowly. ‘Thanks, Cliff; I know you'd give it a go but it's not on. I want him and I want the money, I'll start turning over new leaves then.’

  ‘Could be too late, Clem.’

  ‘Could be.’

  We tidied the cabin a bit and took the spare food and drink out to the VW. Clem took a plastic drum out of the back and told me to siphon out the Falcon's tank. He let me pour back enough to run her a few miles and he tossed the distributor on to the seat.

  ‘It's all downhill from here’, he said.

  He was preoccupied on the drive towards Gismore, and so was I.

  ‘Have you given any thought to the coppers, Clem?’

  ‘How d'you mean?’

  ‘Well, if this Riley set you up like you say, you'd expect a copper or two to know a little about it.’

  ‘Fine body of men, Cliff.’

  ‘Sure, but you see what I mean. If a policeman or two have an interest in keeping you fixed up for this job things could get pretty hot.’

  ‘You're so right.’

  ‘Well, you've been spotted going north, assuming that poor bugger back there could talk when they got to him. They've had plenty of time to prepare. This Riley'll have a copper in bed with him.’

  ‘I know that. I told you I'd thought about this thing, I've got a way to bring him to me quiet as a mouse.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You'll see.’

  He pushed the VW along pretty hard and when we were about still two hours out from Gismore I could tell from his driving that he was in familiar country. I wasn't; the deep green foliage and the red earth looked foreign to my city eye and the glimpses of ocean were like snapshots of exotic seas, richly coloured and mysterious.

  Gismore was ten kilometres away when Clem headed up a dirt road into the hills behind the town. He seemed to take pleasure from just looking at the forest and the cleared land—there were a lot of corn fields and I have to admit they looked nice. We bounced along a couple of tracks and Clem stopped just before a sharp bend.

  ‘Go for a stroll up the road, Cliff’, Clem said. ‘You'll see a big open shed with an iron roof, the house is off to the right, white weatherboard. See if there's anyone about. Look innocent, mate.’

  I got out stiffly and walked up the track. Birds and insects in the trees were making a lot of noise and I could hear a tractor working a long way off. It was a nice clear day and I felt tense, like waiting for a dentist to start in with his drill. I stuck my hands in my pockets and wandered up to the mill which had a very rusty roof and a slab wall at the back. There was a lot of rusty machinery and a couple of long, low shapes covered with heavy polythene. I took these to be Clem's cars. On a bench in the middle of the shed a set of tools lay in a jumble of oil and dirty rags and rust. There was an almost sheer rock wall behind the shed, the track in front. The rock wall ran behind the shed, the track in front. The rock wall ran around to the left and the house was on the right. There was scrub and light forest behind the house. I walked across towards the house; there were no fresh tyre tracks on the dusty ground and the place had a closed-down, empty look. There were cobwebs across the screen door at the front and the back door was locked. I walked back to the car.

  ‘All clear. What's next?’

  He put the gun away and relaxed. ‘I'll show you around.’

  We went into the shed and Clem swore when he saw the neglected bench. He pointed to the closest of the covered cars. ‘Take a look, I want to find something here.’ He leaned over the bench and I bent down to lift the polythene. Clem moved fast; I didn't hear him, and then his arm was around my neck and he was pressing hard somewhere and I grabbed at the dusty plastic and everything went black.

  When I came to I was sitting at the base of the bench and my arms were drawn back behind one of its legs and tied with what felt like wire.

  ‘Sorry mate’, Clem said, ‘I didn't think you'd go along with the next bit so I had to put you out. How do you feel?’

  ‘Like a Tooheys’, I grunted.

  He laughed and loped off down the track. He was fit, purposeful and fresh looking. I felt a thousand years old, impotent and beaten. He came back with the box of food, peeled a banana and fed it to me slowly.

  ‘Keep you alive for weeks that will.’ He found a dirty mug on the bench, rinsed it at a tap and mixed a strong brandy and water. He held the cup while I sipped it down.

  ‘Okay?’

  ‘Yeah. I don't like the look in your eyes, Clem; do you remember when you fought in the state finals? That army bloke?’

  ‘Yeah, I remember.’

  ‘He was too big for you, mate, too smart and he hit too hard. I think you're going up against him again.’

  ‘No, Cliff, I'm going to win this one.’ He turned and went out of the shed and down the track. The wire hurt my hands but not unbearably; 1 tried to relax in the unnatural position and the feeling of incipient cramp eased off. Clem had cleared a space all around where I was sitting; there were no tools, no nails, no rusty hacksaw blades. Ten feet away there was enough gear to break into a bank. It was early afternoon and warm; I still had on the winter shirt I'd worn in Sydney and in which I'd now slept two nights—it stank. I've always liked the north coast and fantasised often about that one big case that brings in an enormous fee which could set me up with a shack overlooking the Pacific. Right then I'd gladly have been in Melbourne, or in church or anywhere else.

  I dozed and came awake to the sound of the VW being driven up to the shed. Clem got out and grinned at me.

  ‘Bearing up?’ I grunted in reply and he worked at the wire so that I had one hand free. I looked at the other hand; the wire was heavy duty stuff twisted tight and hard with pliers, I couldn't make any impression on it with my fingers. Clem handed me a hamburger and made another brandy and water.

  ‘Sorry there's no beer, Cliff, out of the habit of it.’

  I looked across at the car as I bit into the hamburger. In the passenger seat I could see a vague, light shape.

  ‘Who's that?’

  Clem took the cup from me and had a swig himself. He looked confident and assured.

  ‘That's Dorothy Farmer; she's Riley's girlfriend.’

  ‘Happy to be here, is she?’

  ‘Not exactly, she needed some persuading. My mate in town tells me that Riley'd do anything for that girl; crazy about her, he's told me that a hundred times.’

  ‘And …’

  ‘I'm going to call him, tell him I've got her and suggest he comes to fetch her and bring along the money. Simple as that.’

  ‘Kidnapping, Clem; big one.’

  ‘Who's going to tell? I get the money and piss off, what's Riley going to say?’

  It sounded all right—if Riley's feeling for the girl was as strong as Clem thought. Clem went to the back of the shed and rummaged around. When he came back he was carrying a .303 rifle and a box of ammunition.

  ‘Jesus, Clem, I thought you were confident.’

  ‘I am, but Riley's a cunning bugger, I just want to be sure. Hold tight, Cliff, I'm going to phone him.’

  Carrying the rifle, he went towards the house. He took a quick look in the car then he stepped up onto the porch, clubbed the window in with the butt of the rifle and reached around to open the door. He was inside for about ten minutes; I saw the girl in the car stir and her hand go up to her face. Clem helped her gently out of the car and led her into the shed. She was a plump blonde with a lot of make-up over a very scared face. There was an old car seat under the bench and Clem dragged it out and pushed the girl down into it. He put some brandy in the cup and held it out to her.

  ‘Sorry, Dot’, he said.

/>   She tossed back the brandy and held the cup out for a refill. ‘You scared the shit out of me with that gun, Clem. What're you on about?’ Her voice was shaky and nasal; she had a frilly blouse on and very tight jeans with high-heeled shoes. She looked as if she'd just stepped out from behind the bar, except that she was as nervous as a rabbit. Clem stood over her with the .303 across his shoulders. I was dirty-faced, stubbly and stinking with one arm lashed down with wire. She had a right to be alarmed.

  Clem ignored her and I decided that it was time to recruit her to my side. ‘You're a hostage, Dorothy; so am I in a way. Clem's holding you because he wants something from Riley; when he has it he'll let us both go. That right, Clem?’

  ‘That's right.’

  She looked at me as if I had started spouting Shakespeare. She opened her mouth to speak and then she looked at Clem; he was just faintly comic with the big rifle, but not funny enough to cause Dorothy to laugh as she did. She leaned back in the chair and bellowed. Clem swung the rifle around and at that minute I wondered just how cool he was. There was a flush in his face and his eyes looked nervous as he watched the convulsing girl.

  ‘What …’, she gasped, ‘what makes you think Charlie Riley will do anything for me?’

  ‘You're his girl’, Clem grated. ‘He's nuts about you, Johnny Talbot told me.’

  She giggled. ‘Johnny Talbot told you!’ She laughed again and Clem stepped forward.

  ‘Easy, Clem’, I said.

  He grabbed her shoulder and shook it. ‘What's funny? Come on, Dot, I'm not joking.’

  She calmed down and looked up at him, tears had spilled eye black down her face so that she looked like a tormented mime.

  ‘Riley hasn't laid a finger on me for two years, Clem’, she said softly. ‘You know who he's on with now?’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Joannie, your wife. Johnny must've been too scared to tell you. Two years it's been now, Clem, near enough.’ She started to get up from the seat and Clem shoved her back savagely.