by P. J. Nash
‘This is Wolf Commander. Go! Go! Go!’ the voice said.
A puff of smoke signalled the shaped charge going off as the front door was blown in. A volley of cracks followed as the flash bang grenades went off. The black clad figures poured into the multi-roomed house. The process was mirrored at the rear. In the side streets, the uniforms poured out of the cars and vans. Some clutching pistols, some spools of tape, they spread out and secured the surrounding block.
After a less than a minute, the house had been scoured and secured.
‘“Wolf Mother to Wolf Commander, premises secured. One male, who is not Alpha One, repeat is not Alpha One, has been detained,’ James heard over the radio.
‘That motherfucker has nine lives,’ swore James.
Marsh Ranch, Northern Territory
‘The older you get, the more complacent you get. You think life can’t chuck anymore surprises at you, and then, the weird turns bizarre,’ said Marsh, taking a pull on his cigar.
‘I’m a newbie to this case, relatively speaking. But I’ve never heard of anything so uncanny either. So, run it by me one more time. I think the Pimm’s is giving my brain congestion,’ said Kinsella, tinkling the ice in her empty glass.
Marsh took a sip of Isle of Jura. ‘Well, taking the shortest route possible, Martin Havilland is left an orphan. He’s abused by a cabal of Catholic priests in the UK and Australia. He kills another lad who’s picked on him at the home and gets a taste for killing. He kills a number of young British women backpackers and then gives up. Despite his shitty upbringing, he becomes a lecturer. He gets married and has a daughter. His wife divorces him and goes back to the UK. She marries a paedophile who abuses the young girl. Havilland reconnects with his daughter, Alice. Together, they top one of the girls who bullied her and her paedophile stepfather. Then, they travel the world, doing and killing God knows who. And then, they come back to Australia,’ said Marsh.
Kinsella mimicked being in over her head.
‘Well, if I’m boring you, feel free to take over,’ said Marsh.
She poured more Pimm’s and took a big swig. ‘So, the delightful daddy and daughter go on to cull a few more female Brit gap year tourists. Somewhere along the way, the random killing stops, and they start bumping off old Catholic priests. All of them were nasty paedophiles who probably diddled Martin. Then, you and James and Sandersen make the connection. James kills Daddy. But Alice is seen as some kind of victim and dumped in a mental hospital. Somewhere along the way, Cyrus Bain gets a little bird to put naughty thoughts in her head. About James and Sandersen being to blame. At first, the little bird is just out to collect the cash. But he falls for his stool pigeon. They go on some Bonnie and Clyde rampage, and both end up dead.’
Marsh clapped. ‘That’s the potted version.’
‘You missed the bit about the Big Bad Wolf fucking off and giving his den to the Big Maori,’ a voice said.
There was a rustle of movement. Marsh and Kinsella trained their guns on the area the voice had issued from.
‘Tranquilo, compadres,’ said James, hopping into the light on a pair of crutches.
‘So, he didn’t go out in a bucket,’ then said Marsh. ‘
As impressive as my man is, he’s not Jack Reacher,’ said Sandersen.
‘Hey, ho, the gang’s all here,’ said Marsh.
Havana, Cuba
The sun was beginning its descent into the sea as people of all ages gathered along the Malecon on Havana’s seafront. Smoking, dancing drinking and flirting, gossiping, … whatever didn’t cost too much. The converted sea going fishing trawler chugged unnoticed into the lee of the seawall. On the prow, a man wearing a linen suit sat sprawled in a deck chair smoking a Monte Cristo Number Two cigar, a glass of Remy Martin next to him. At his feet, a pair of suitcases chock full of Krugerrands, Canadian Maple Leaf and a bunch of others commissioned by the Royal Mint. Another holdall was stuffed with bundles of US dollars, Swiss Francs, Euros and a selection of designer watches. All the material needed for a new life.
Carlton, Melbourne, Australia
James was smoking his pipe on the wrought-iron balcony of the couple’s house in Lygon Street.
Sandersen came out and tenderly wrapped her eyes around him.
‘A penny for your thoughts?’ she said.
‘I was thinking we ought to get away for a bit. We never really finished our honeymoon properly.’
Sandersen pulled him tighter. ‘Where are you thinking?’ she asked.
‘Somewhere hot with beaches and just a bit of culture and history…Cuba,’ he replied.
