White Dog (Jack Irish Thriller 4)

by Peter Temple

  Kill me.

  I felt the thing I was handcuffed to. The leg of something, I could make it out, a bench of some kind, steel pipe legs. I wriggled away until I could slide the cuffs down to the ground. If I could lift the bench …

  The leg didn’t terminate. It curved. The legs were one length of pipe, bent upwards to meet the top. I wriggled back and ran my hands up. There was a flange: the pipe was bolted to the top, two bolt heads.

  I wasn’t going to escape. I was going to freeze to death or I was going to live until they came for me and killed me.

  No.

  I got my palms under the benchtop, pushed, I didn’t know what I was trying to do, I was trying, that was all that mattered.

  I could not move the benchtop a single millimetre.

  What else?

  I squirmed around and tried to get my legs under the bench, use the strength of my legs to do I knew not what. I couldn’t. There was something in the way.

  Think.

  I thought.

  I tried things, hopeless, pointless, stupid things, my wrists were painful, I thought I could see blood staining my shirt-sleeves. I ached everywhere.

  At length, I stopped trying to free myself, lay, shivering, teeth clicking. A kind of numb peace came upon me and I slept, dreamed I was lying on the ground and someone was kicking me in the side. I tried to sit up and couldn’t.

  I opened my eyes, felt another kick, higher, in the ribs.

  ‘Fuckin wakie wakie,’ said Chokka. ‘Bag him.’

  Jimbo lifted my head by the hair, pulled a plastic bag down to my shoulders. I panicked, shouted, inhaled, exhaled, smelled my stale breath.

  The handcuff was off my right hand.

  ‘Geddup, fucker,’ said Chokka. ‘Gotta shotgun here, any shit I blow your fuckin balls off.’

  I stood up, my hands were cuffed again, behind me, someone pushed me. I walked, collided with something, the door probably, trying to breathe as shallowly as possible, feeling the plastic being sucked in, moist air in the bag, something jammed against my spine, a gun muzzle. I walked, stumbled on something, a hand pushed me sideways, changed my direction, no idea of distance covered.

  My collar was gripped from behind, stopping me, the bag pulled off my head.

  Air. So sweet, so clean.

  Dogs barking, close, metres away.

  The muzzle in my back.

  ‘Said to just fuckin shoot ya, bleed ya, crush ya in the stampmill, chuck ya bits in the acid,’ said Chokka. ‘Gotta acid bath here.’

  ‘How much,’ I said, ‘to let me go?’

  He laughed, a choking sound, ending in coughing, hawking, spitting. ‘Howsabout fifty?’ he said.

  ‘Fifty’s fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll go to fifty grand.’

  The terrible ruined laugh again. ‘Nah, mate,’ he said. ‘Fifty fuckin million, mate, how’s that? Go to that, fucker?’

  I was seeing now, the moon, cloudless sky, was it near dawn? It was freezing, my whole body seemed to be shaking. We were on a level surface, concrete, between sheds, a dark hill opposite. The ground sloped away sharply. A machine to the right, the height of a truck. This was a mine perhaps, long ago.

  Jimbo came around the corner to my left, two dogs on short leashes. One was big, white, it could eat from a kitchen counter, the other was below knee-height, brindle, broad, round head, low centre of gravity, some kind of pitbull cross. The dogs pulled away from Jimbo, came back, collided, the big one snarled, I saw teeth.

  ‘Big boy’s not blooded proper,’ said Chokka. ‘Just roos. Little fucker’s the killer. Bought him off a fuckin slope, killed so many dogs the other slopes won’t let him fight anymore. Turns out he’s also a fuckin tracker, gets a scent, nose fuckin down, he’s off. Go anywhere too. Run up a tree after a possum, straight fuckin up like he’s goin up stairs, the fuckin poss looks back, big fuckin eyes. Bang. They fall out of the tree, he’s got it.’

  Jimbo brought the dogs up, let the small one sniff my legs, held the big one back. It bared its teeth at me, widely spaced fangs like a fish trap. I stepped back, felt the muzzle press.

  Jimbo laughed, the deranged child sound.

  ‘Happy, boy?’ said Chokka, the voice of a father. ‘More fun than the girl he brung, hey? Whadya reckon, Jimbo?’

  Jimbo dropped his head shyly, long strands of filthy hair covered his face. When he raised his chin, threw back his hair, he was looking sideways, embarrassed. Snot was running from his nostrils and he put out a long reptilian tongue and licked it into his mouth.

  I felt cold in a way that had nothing to do with the temperature, cold in the core of my body.

  ‘Was the girl still alive when he brought her?’ I said.

  Jimbo looked at me, head tilted. I could see the whites of his eyes.

  He was smiling. He nodded. ‘Smelt nice,’ he said.

  My arms were pulled back by the handcuffs. I heard the snick, they were free.

  ‘Run, fucker,’ said Chokka.

  I didn’t know what to do.

  ‘Five minutes’ start,’ he said. ‘Howzat? See if you kin run faster’n these fuckin dogs. Fair go, hey, mate?’

  Jimbo squealed with sexual pleasure.

  Chokka kicked me in the base of my spine. The shock went into my skull. I stumbled a few paces, fell to my knees.

  ‘Go, fucker!’ Jimbo screamed. ‘Go! Go!’

  I got up and ran into the dark, downhill, down the bare slope, there was a path, slippery, leather-soled shoes, I fell, got up, slipped, fell, rose, ran, got off the path, there was grass beside it, it was less slippery, a terrible pain in my left knee, it was of no consequence whatsoever.

  The dogs wouldn’t kill me. They would maul me. I would be alive when Chokka and Jimbo arrived.

  So it wouldn’t be over.

  Only that part of the entertainment would be over. I would be alive.

  Like Katelyn.

  Get off the path, idiot.

  I veered right, into the scrub, the moon was gone, ran over roots, ran into something, a tree, stunted thing, hit it with my right shoulder, spun around, fell over, got up.

  Run.

  Chokka wouldn’t wait five minutes, this wasn’t a sport with rules. He wanted to see if the small killer dog could track me.

  Just run.

  I ran, stumbling, falling, face whipped by low branches, I could see things, the moon was out, a sharp dip, going down, I kicked something, arrow of pain, broken big toe. I fell, knees in water.

  A creek.

  Go up the creek, stay in the water, dogs can’t smell you in water.

  Hollywood. I knew that from films. Would the films save me? Would Cool Hand Luke save me? Water didn’t save Cool Hand Luke. No, that wasn’t Cool Hand Luke, that was Sidney Poitier handcuffed to a redneck.

  How long? How far had I run?

  I walked in the water, wobbly walking, no firm footing, feet freezing, slipped on a rock, fell awkwardly, my right knee meeting something hard.

  Fuck the creek.

  I got out of it, uphill now, some strength in my legs, surprising, a small hit of optimism moved through me.

  I could get away from these mad ferals and their killer dogs. They were not very smart.

  I was smart.

  Smart enough.

  Apes would be fucking insulted to be related to these idiots. Exactly. Stedman told them to kill me. But they wanted some fun.

  I could come out of this.

  A branch caught my nose, blood in my mouth, lots of it. I swallowed blood, blood was probably good for you, drinking your own piss was said to be good for you. Gandhi drank his own piss. A pioneer recycler.

  The scrub was denser here, the ground riven with erosion furrows. I kept falling. Once I thought I’d sprained an ankle but the pain subsided.

  Top of the hill. A stitch, pain in my side.

  Barking.

  Oh Christ, they were coming.

  Keep going. Just keep going.

  Downhill, steep, I tripped over something and rolled f
our or five metres. Felt no pain, just exhaustion.

  Get up. Run. I couldn’t, I walked.

  Barking. Much closer.

  Run.

  I stumbled down the slope, sweat in my eyes, mouth open gasping, trying to get air, legs like stumps, dead things, weights I was dragging.

  I didn’t see the dense bush until I hit it. It seemed to grab me. I fought it, wrestled my way into it …

  Oh Christ, trapped in a thicket like Brer Rabbit, the savage creatures would tear me apart at their leisure.

  Barking, loud, maddened barking, not twenty metres away.

  No. No.

  I threw myself forward, dragged at the branches.

  Ground crumbling under my feet. A precipice.

  Jesus. Falling.

  I tumbled down a slope, grabbing at stones, saplings, nothing holding. I hit water, rolled into it, got water in my mouth, swallowed it, mud-tasting water, ice-cold water, in my nose. I got up. I was up to my waist in a dam, a few metres from shore.

  Howling dogs. Somewhere above me. Close.

  I turned, tried to see the bank I’d fallen down, just a dark mass.

  A blur. The smaller dog, coming down.

  It landed on the narrow muddy bank on four paws, bounced, did not hesitate.

  It leapt for me, straight for my chest, my throat.

  In the second it was in the air, the moon came out and I saw its fierce cannonball head clearly, the whites of its wide-spaced eyes, the open jaws, the spiky teeth, the tongue.

  Then the animal was on me.

  Our heads collided. Blackness, pain.

  I went over backwards, fierce pain in my left shoulder now, the dog’s teeth in me, both my hands on its broad collar, trying to pull it away.

  We were under water, its weight on my chest.

  Something said: Don’t push. Pull.

  Stay down.

  I pulled the dog to me, felt its jaws moving in my flesh, intense pain in my whole shoulder, up my neck.

  Stay down.

  I needed to breathe. I hadn’t prepared myself, hadn’t drawn a deep breath.

  Hold on.

  The animal’s body was thrashing, paws scrambling against me, trying to get purchase. I could feel its strength, totally out of proportion to its size. My grip on its collar was weakening, I had to let go, get my head out of water. Breathe.

  Stay down.

  I felt the teeth come out of me. It did nothing for the pain. The dog’s head was pulling backwards, astonishing strength in the neck. I couldn’t hold it.

  Hold on. Just hold on.

  No, I couldn’t.

  I felt the dog’s strength go, I felt it as intimately as if it were my own.

  It stopped thrashing, the neck was not fighting me.

  I rose to the surface, breathed in the cold night air, smelling of stagnant water and mud. The dog was on my chest. I let it go, it floated away.

  Baying from the shore. The huge white dog was a few metres away, looking at me, the hayfork teeth.

  Christ, this would never be over.

  I backed away, across the dam, it wasn’t wide, ten metres perhaps. It was deep in the middle, I turned, swam the five or six strokes needed, started to walk out, mud holding my shoes, looked back.

  The big dog was gone.

  It was coming around the dam. How long would that take? From which side? I couldn’t see the end of the dam, it tapered at both ends, that was all I could see.

  I could hear shouting, then a whistle, not a human whistle. A beam of light touched the top of the vegetation across the dam.

  Chokka and Jimbo were on their way.

  On the bank, I stood in complete exhaustion, nowhere to go, I couldn’t run anymore. I touched my shoulder, looked at my hand. It was black with my blood.

  I turned and walked a few paces, kicked something, almost fell over. It was an old truck door lying on the mud. I stood and looked down at it in a stupid, fuddled way, shook myself, looked up.

  The white dog was twenty metres away, in full stride, all legs off the ground, coming for me, silent, huge, powerful, head the size of a giant marrow.

  Fuck you.

  I bent and grasped the ancient door by its top, pulled it up, heard the glup sound as I broke the bond between metal and mud, it wasn’t heavy, just a sheet of rusted tin.

  The dog was two cars’ length away, the awful teeth biting air.

  I turned like a hammerthrower, turned to my right, arms at full stretch, swinging the door parallel to the ground, reversed direction, came back with the door, released it, threw it at the dog, he was about to spring, melon head up.

  The door’s rusted bottom edge severed the massive Baskerville head. The head went up, the torso kept coming, ran into me, hit me like a motorbike, knocked me flat, lay on me, covered me.

  Hot blood in my mouth, in my eyes, up my nose, I breathed in the blood, felt the warm weight of the headless creature on me, its final jerks.

  The whistle, three or four blasts, sharp, imperious. The light coming around the other side of the dam.

  Chokka and Jimbo. No more dogs.

  Just me and the boys left.

  I was filled with a maniacal joy, a fifty short-blacks hit, anything was possible, I didn’t much care about anything. I got out from under the dog, spat the blood, walked the way it had come, walked, to fucking hell with running, I’d done the running.

  Jesus, Chokka would shoot me. He was always going to shoot me when the dogs had finished.

  Run.

  Still able to run, my legs moved, how amazing, no, not amazing, running on terror-produced chemicals flooding through me, why doesn’t matter, just run.

  I ran, clockwise, around the dam, crawled up a bank, away from the flashlight, away from the boys, I had a start. There was a passage through the scrub here, once a path perhaps, running again, this wasn’t bad, settle down to a pace, I could keep going like this …

  ‘Freeze fucker!’

  Light in my eyes, close up.

  Jimbo.

  I kept going, dived at the light, didn’t care, heard the crack, felt something brush my face, hot, I had him by the hair, long hair, he fell backwards, I went with him, on top of him, got him by the throat, squeezed, sat on him, bashed his head against the ground. He offered almost no fight.

  After a while, too tired to go on, I stopped, reached for the torch, found the rifle, bolt action. I worked the bolt, pressed the muzzle against his throat.

  Jimbo lay with his eyes closed, playing dead.

  I got up, stood back. ‘Get up,’ I said, ‘or I’ll shoot you.’

  I wanted to shoot him but he got up instantly.

  ‘Run, you bastard,’ I said.

  He ran.

  I ran the other way, switching off the torch, carrying it in my left hand, the rifle in the other. Where was I going? Go back to the mine, open ground, it would be light soon, surely? I could find a position, see them coming.

  The overgrown path ended at a wider track. My sense of direction was gone. I turned right, tried to run, couldn’t. Never mind, I had the rifle. I walked in the right-hand wheel furrow. The moon seemed to be down but the sky was lightening, just a shade. The track went uphill then down. If I was going towards the mine, the creek I’d crossed would be down there.

  Would they go directly back to the mine? They’d know the quickest way, they’d be there before me.

  Panic. I started to run again, got my legs moving, it wasn’t too bad, it was downhill. My left shoulder was now a steady ache. Tetanus. I needed an injection. The least of my worries. Water. I was in water, the creek, I was going the right way. No, only the right way if Chokka wasn’t there first.

  Uphill from the creek. How far had it been? Not far. A minute or two of petrified running. I stopped, walked fifty or sixty metres, the track was steep, the rifle heavier with every step.

  A building against the sky ahead, to the right. I kept going. The track intersected with another one running towards the mine. This was the way we’d d
riven in. I turned right, walked beside the track.

  The old truck and the Valiant came into sight. I crossed the track, put the truck between me and the buildings.

  Was he waiting for me? Coming back was a stupid idea, I should be in the bush, they didn’t have dogs now, they couldn’t track me.

  The vehicles. The Dodge truck and the rusty Valiant. Would they leave the keys in them?

  I went between the truck and a row of steel drums, stooping, reached up and opened the passenger door. It was heavy and it squeaked. Too hell with caution, I got in, reached across the steering column to feel for keys.

  Nothing.

  I was withdrawing my arm when I touched a projection.

  Key in the dashboard.

  I pulled myself into the driver’s seat. The gear lever was on the floor. I put my foot on the clutch, moved the lever. It was heavy. Where was first?

  Never mind. Put it into neutral. See if it starts. It probably won’t, it probably hasn’t run in years. I turned the key.

  A whine, a whine that died.

  Light, a torch switched on. Chokka, fifty metres away.

  Another starter whine, another fade-out.

  Something hit the windscreen, slapped against it, a short shriek. Bullet glancing off.

  Oh, God. Out. Take cover.

  The engine fired.

  I got it into gear, let in the clutch. Shit, first gear, going forward. I was scrabbling around, pulled the stick towards me and down, clutch in. Yes. Jerking backwards. I couldn’t see anything, right hand down, into a roaring turn, smack on my door, another bullet, find another gear, lurching forward, not first gear, sluggish but moving.

  Swinging the huge beast left, I put my foot flat, a long travel, Christ, no lights, looking for the headlights switch, pulling knobs on the dashboard, lights on, off the track, flattening bushes, hitting a rock, bumping back onto the road.

  No more shots.

  The truck picked up speed, reached the right gear speed. I changed up, flying high as a hawk on adrenalin and relief. The speedo was pre-metric, we were doing forty-five miles an hour and it felt like a hundred, everything vibrating, slack steering, total concentration required to keep the truck on the track. Top speed was close, probably fifty. Road twistier than I remembered, that wasn’t surprising: I’d been cold with dread in the back seat, not paying attention to the road.