Stealth

by John Hollenkamp

  “Cut a long story short. I met up with this bloke, Lars, big motherfucker. Looks like a bikie, but he didn’t dress like one. Anyway, he’s looking for guns, ones you can conceal. Handguns. He prefers .22 calibre, and not too bulky. He needs five handguns. So I tell him that I’ll see what I can do.” Johnno stretched his legs.

  “Obviously, you followed up and made a deal?”

  “Yeah, I made a deal. And now, I can’t fill the order.” Johnno stared out of his new panorama window. “Fuck, I wish Nick would get on with this reno.”

  “I think you got bigger problems than your reno, mate.” Darren remarked.

  Darren gently pushed the squeaky gate open, on his guard, just in case. Johnno thrust himself past the cab-driver, but stopped abruptly at the sight of the mutilated dog.

  “Jesus fucking Christ!”

  “Yeah, not pretty.” Darren pursed his lips.

  “What kind of fucking sicko would do that?” Johnno side-stepped the broken body of the kelpie-cross.

  Both men entered the empty hovel. Neither of them said a thing and went about searching every room. All of two rooms. They rummaged through the kitchen cupboards, prised up a few loose floorboards and searched under the sink. Nothing.

  “What about outside?” Johnno questioned.

  “I’ve looked, but feel free. There’s a tin shed of some sort around the side. But I searched it already.”

  “Fuck it.” Johnno stepped out of the kitchen door. He glanced down to make sure he wouldn’t trip over the dog. Not because he wanted to see the poor thing again. “I’m out of here.” Johnno left through the side gate leaving Darren at the kitchen door.

  Darren went to his car, and unlocked the boot. He took out the long-handled post-hole digger. He had brought it back from Ingham along with a few other items. His dad wasn’t going to use them anymore. This shovel brought back a poignant memory. Poor old Patch.

  He remembered the day they buried Patch. Darren dug his grave. One of the few days the whole family was together for an event. Other than Christmas. And Dad’s funeral.

  Darren returned to the backyard. He shut the gate. He thought it better that no one else see the dog. He speared the shovel into the ground and put his right boot on the top of the digging blade, he put his bodyweight over it. The first shovel full was stubborn, the ground was compacted but with a little effort it became easier to break it up. The vision of the animal lying a few feet away from him injected his muscles with superhuman strength. He would have to make sure the hole was deep enough. Something he learned from home, after burying a few pet rabbits, cats, and puppies that didn’t learn about trucks thundering past the front yard. Dig deep, make sure the foxes don’t uncover it. Although there were no foxes here.

  Ingham. Home. The memory of that day came back. He speared the shovel into the ground again. Harder.

  “Mum! Mum!” He ran out the back where his mother was mowing and churning up clouds of dust as she pushed the lawnmower across the sparsely grassed property. She stopped with chore to pay attention to her eldest boy frantically waving and screaming.

  “What’s the matter, darling?” She calmly asked him, her brown hair was matted to her forehead. She wiped the sweat from her face. Deirdre saw the tears on her boy’s face.

  “It’s Patch. He’s got run over. He’s dead, mum.” Panting and sobbing he tried to explain. Deirdre pushed the lever of the accelerator control to turn off the lawnmower engine. She put her arm around the young teenager and hugged him.

  “I seen it. They did it on purpose. I saw it, mum.” His sobs were turning to anger. “Fucking bastard did it on purpose,” he blubbered.

  “You watch your language, Darren!”

  “Sorry, mum. But I saw the driver swerve to hit Patch.” He wiped a tear from his cheek wanting to hide his embarrassment.

  Deirdre saw the anger welling in her son’s eyes. “Well, your father won’t be happy.” And she grudgingly pulled the lawnmower behind her as she made her way to the dilapidated garden shed. After she put away the lawnmower, she went straight to the washing line and filled the two baskets with dry laundry. “Mum. Can you help me with Patch now?”

  “Of course dear.” She put the baskets on the back veranda and followed her son around to the front of the house.

  That memory was still vivid in his mind. Darren measured the hole to be about three-foot deep, as he stuck the shovel down to the bottom of the excavation, and he scraped the last bit of loose dirt. He sighed heavily. He laid the shovel on the ground. Knees bent, he reached down and lifted the dog's rigid torso and carried it to the excavation where he lowered her into her grave. He picked up the remaining body parts and put them on top of her. Ten minutes later he scraped the last of the dry dirt on top of the small mound.

  “When I find you, I’m going to gut you like a fish,” Darren promised out loud with a vision of the scrawny beady eyed bastard clearly in his mind.

  CHAPTER 11

  A RAVINE IS A DARK PLACE

  Martin’s escape was swift. He had left his abode in Brookvale with no trace. Being a seasoned street-kid in his early teenage years had well prepared him for living in relative obscurity. Although inexperienced in matters of stealing, he was no fool. He figured that to remain unfound by Johnno and his mates he would need to keep his stash, the seven handguns, under wraps. But he needed more money. Despite having worked a few weeks for Tony he was running low. The choice was either get lucky and steal some money, or sell one of the guns. Working now was not going to cut it.

  He decided to travel south. Ulladulla sounded like a good destination. See his cousin, Matt. If he could find him.

  Martin was the last passenger to board the ferry. His new journey had begun. He would go through the city first. Visit a couple of his old hide-outs. And then move on to make his way south.

  McDonald’s in Sylvania was open early. After a night of walking a lot of kilometres and catching a couple of rides he was hungry. The weight of the handguns, his Bowie knife, and a few of his clothes in the big back-pack had given him a sore back. He was tired. His first stop was the men’s toilet. After a shit and a piss, he washed his face and his hands to feel freshened up after the long night. The restaurant was quiet and only a couple of early customers were waiting for their breakfast order. From here he would try and get a ride further south. But a Sausage and Egg McMuffin was first.

  That’s when he first saw her. Their eyes met. “Hi can I take your order?” A petite red-head girl of about sixteen asked him.

  Martin’s gaze fixed on her eyes. Mesmerised. A sign of mutual acknowledgement flashed from her eyes. After a few long seconds she asked, “Sorry, what would you like to order?”

  “A Sausage & Egg McMuffin.” With a command.

  “In a meal?” she enquired.

  “Yeah, with a hash-brown and some OJ”, Martin replied with less aggression.

  The red-headed girl punched in the order, “Will that be all?”

  “Uh-huh.” Martin remained at the counter, his eyes glued to her. There were no other customers standing in line to order. Martin was overcome by lust. She was beautiful, a nice small body, a younger than sixteen-year-old girl body. Her smooth petite fingers were resting on the benchtop. She turned away to attend to his drink order and dispensed the orange juice from the jug into the transparent cup.

  His gaze followed her as she moved towards the section where the meals were distributed. Where the apron was tied in the small of her back she revealed a bit of bare skin over her tight uniform pants. It was very pale; following down from there he imagined a very tight arse. He could feel himself hardening. Self-conscious, he tried to not think further.

  I want to fuck her. He had decided.

  She grabbed a tray and placed the paper-wrapped McMuffin and hash brown on the fresh paper sheet. His dark, lifeless eyes followed her every movement, as she picked up the cup with orange juice and carefully placed it on the tray. Their eyes met again. She smiled, and with innocence asked, “Are
you like a back-packer?” Martin was surprised at the question. Quickly, he reacted and gambled to entice her to take a bait.

  “Yeah, it’s been a long night, and I’m tired. The back-packer hostel was full and they wouldn’t let me stay, so then I just kept going.” She wouldn’t know the fucking difference anyway.

  “I finish at nine,” she volunteered.

  “Oh, that’s good.” Figuring out where to take this information.

  Their discussion was interrupted by a big bloke in a dirty yellow jacket. “Are you right?” Towering over Martin, nudging him out of the way, so he could order his breakfast.

  Martin scooted out of the way. Casting a quick glance at the red-head, he nodded and said, “I’ll just be over there.” While half-dragging his heavy and bulky back-pack with the shoulder strap hanging off his right shoulder, he balanced the tray with one hand tipping some of the orange juice in the process. He found the first and closest table and set the tray down. But the clumsy move tipped the cup over altogether. The spilt orange juice had soaked the paper sheet. Martin was visibly irritated.

  The girl saw the whole thing. She abandoned her station leaving the large man in a dirty yellow jacket explaining his breakfast order to thin air.

  Martin was surprised to see the red-headed girl coming over with a fresh cup of orange juice.

  “Here’s another, because you spilt the other, but it wasn’t your fault.”

  “Thanks heaps.” Martin took the replacement cup with a grateful expression, but no smile. He took a punt. “Want me to wait for you, you know, for when you knock off?”

  “Okay”. She shrugged her shoulders with casual innocence.

  Without another word she returned to her station. The line in front of the counter was starting to grow longer with impatient office-workers and hungry night-shift owls eager to settle their early morning food cravings. The man in the dirty yellow jacket was still standing at the counter.

  It was going to be a few hours waiting, but his new girlfriend would be worth the wait he decided. He scoffed his meal and picked up his belongings. She was too busy to watch him leave through the entrance door.

  Outside the weather was looking reasonable and it would warm up. Over to the left he found what he was looking for, a bench. Only a short stroll. Nothing out of the ordinary for someone to be having a kip on a bench in the city suburbs. He had a cheap sports watch. 7.22 am. A while to go yet.

  The back-pack was laid to one end of the timber bench and he used it as a pillow ensuring that no one would touch it while he was trying to get some rest. He could stretch out a bit. Soon he drifted into a deep slumber.

  A magpie landed on the bag and its flapping wings jolted Martin out of his doze. “What the fuck!” Startled and angry to be woken he sat up while the bird had already flown away.

  8.48 am. He rubbed his face with his free hand while the other hand was holding one of the back-pack straps. Blinking his eyes a few times and collecting his thoughts he realised that he was waiting for his new friend. Maybe I ought to just move on. Forget about her. The sun had put some warmth into the morning. It was only just autumn. Martin sat up and slouched against the back-rest of the park bench. He was thirsty. Go back inside. Go to the dunny. Then get a Coke. And hit the road. Sounded like a good plan. He got up and organised himself to load the back-pack on his shoulders.

  “There you are.” A sweet voice interrupted the noisy goings-on at the carpark. Martin straightened and recognised the soft voice. He turned around and there she was. The red-head.

  “Oh, hi, yeah, I needed to lie down somewhere, it was a long night,” he was suddenly very keen again.

  “So, what are you doing now?” She had beautiful hazel eyes, and her ginger locks were tied back into a pony-tail. Her hair wasn’t long. With her rosy and faintly freckled cheeks she could have been straight out of a fairy-tale story. Not wearing a work apron showed off a slender and well-formed body. Under her unzipped hoodie he could see that her breasts were only slight. Her facial features were fine, with thin lips. She wore no make-up. She was naturally attractive.

  Martin lied again, “I’m on my way down to the South Coast to see my aunt and uncle.”

  “I’ve never been down there, is it far?” she asked.

  “What’s your name?” Martin ignored her question.

  “Rosie. And what’s yours?”

  “That’s a fitting name for a ranga.” Martin commented, but regretting that he came out with that. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be insulting.” In a rare moment of remorse, even though the apology was measured.

  “I’m Mick,” he lied.

  “It’s okay, I’ve been called a ranga heaps of times, doesn’t bother me.” She shrugged it off.

  “Do you live around here?” Martin enquired.

  “No, in Heathcote. I take a train”.

  “You live with your parents?” Martin needed to find out some things if he was going to try to seduce her.

  “Just my sister. She works in the city, no one’s home. My parents split up ages ago. Mum lives with a bloke, he’s an arsehole. My dad is in South Australia, but I don’t know where.” She stopped, then quickly added, “Haven’t seen my dad for a while now.”

  “Yeah, I haven’t seen my dad for a long time either.” He lied more.

  “And your mum?”

  Martin was unsure how to answer this one. He went quiet and was quite surprised at his own reluctance to lie about his mother’s death. They had started walking and it was Martin who was following Rosie.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I have to get on the train at 9.30, otherwise I have to wait until 11 o’clock, for the next one that stops in Heathcote.”

  They walked further. Martin’s brain was scheming. Breaking the brief silence, Martin punted, “I’m going that way too. I have to catch a train to Wollongong.”

  “The 9.30 doesn’t go to Wollongong, but the 11 o’clock one does. Maybe you could come to my house and wait there.” Rosie offered.

  Oh yes. She’s taking the bait. You bloody beauty. Might be fucking her before tonight. Making sure to hide his thrill, he showed off his humility and gratitude by meekly asking, “Are you sure that’s alright, I don’t want to be annoying.” He was a good actor.

  “Do you like beer?” Out of the blue. Martin didn’t answer. She took out a packet of Winfield Reds from her pocket. Opening up the flap she deftly fingered out a cigarette and put it between her lips. The lighter was already in her other hand.

  “Do you want a smoke?” Offering as she lit hers.

  “No, maybe later.”

  “So do you like beer, Mick?”

  “Yep, do you like dope?” Martin probed.

  “Got some?” Rosie was very interested.

  “Yeah, I got some in my bag. It’s pretty good gear.”

  “Cool, let’s go to my house.”

  “So let’s go to yours then.” Martin was very pleased with the morning’s progress. The deal was sealed. They made their way to the train station.

  Rosie’s house, a fibro cottage, was a run-down shack which was located down a hill on a back road, right next to the Heathcote National Park. There was a short picket fence in the front yard separating the cottage from the street. It was in disrepair with many missing timber pickets, broken ones as well, and whatever white paint remained was flaking in a hurry.

  The front door was unlocked. Nothing to steal; it was sparsely furnished with the original timber floorboards bare. “It is my late auntie’s house. Mum won’t live here, because it’s too far away from the city.”

  Martin surveyed the room. It looked comfortable enough. A Rank Arena television sat on top of a Parker side table and a floral three-seater lounge put against the opposite wall. An oval shaggy rug, a discoloured blue lay on the floor in front of it.

  “You could stay here until tomorrow, my sister won’t care. She’s staying with her boyfriend in the city, anyway.” Rosie eagerly offered. “Are you eighteen? There’s a grog sh
op up the road. We could get a six-pack.” Rosie swung her body as if to twirl.

  Martin was instantly irritated at the thought that she didn’t think he was eighteen. “Of course I’m fucking eighteen, I’m twenty!” he growled.

  His outburst startled Rosie, and for the first time in his presence Rosie felt uneasy. He had piercing, nearly black eyes, and now they were scary. She carefully took a couple of steps away.

  Martin sensed her reaction and quickly changed his tack to regain her confidence. “Look, I’m sorry, I lost my mum a few weeks ago, that’s why I’m visiting my aunt, and my uncle too.”

  Suddenly she felt guilty. Of course, he was edgy, he had every right to be. He must be sad, all alone like this. With her nerves calming, “It’s okay. Sorry about your mum.” She paused, “Let’s get the beer, I’ve got money”. And she led the way again, cheerfully in a hop-skip fashion.

  “Just leave your back-pack here.” She pointed to the lounge. Martin left it and followed her out the front door. Then he stopped.

  “Can we lock the door, because I don’t want my stuff knocked off.”

  Rosie shrugged, “Sure, I’ll have to get a key, it’s inside in the kitchen.” She returned without fuss and locked the door. A satisfied expression from her new friend renewed her keen quest for beer.

  “Let’s go.”

  “So how old are you?” Just to make some conversation, although Martin didn’t really care.

  “Sixteen and three months. Here is ten dollars, you know, for the beers.” As if to remind him.

  Martin had missed his eleven o’clock train connection.

  The back of the cottage facing the National Park had a small square timber deck and the area was covered by a skillion roof sheeted with corrugated iron. Sturdy enough, but even Martin could tell it wasn’t a tradesman’s job. They sat on the edge of the timber floor, which was no more than eighteen inches off the ground. A very easy spot to sit. Martin leant against one of the timber posts. Rosie was drinking her fourth stubby and smoking her seventh or eighth cigarette. Martin had lost count. She was chittering away and he didn’t take much notice of what she was saying. But he let her know that he was paying attention by occasionally agreeing, “Oh really, wow.”