Left Luggage

by Andrew Christie

  “Come on, we’ve got the cunt now!” It was shouted from the street and followed by the metallic scraping of the fence being moved. The sound of footsteps and elongated shadows preceded two sets of legs down the ramp. John started feeling around him, looking for something he could use as a weapon. An M4 would be good, but all he found was a bucket containing short steel bars. Each was about forty centimetres long and a centimetre thick, some kind of concrete reinforcing. He tested their weight in his hands. They would be very useful if he could get close enough to use them without getting shot.

  The two men were at the bottom of the ramp now, out of the light. John took two of the bars and moved further along the wall, squatting down behind a stack of framing timber. The resiny smell of the pine overpowered the smell of dust that pervaded the basement. He could feel his knee beginning to swell and stiffen, but he couldn’t stretch it out. He had to stay crouched, ready to move. How many shots had they fired? How far was the nearest house? Surely someone would call the cops. All he could do for now was watch and wait.

  “You go right, I’ll go left.”

  “It’s too fucking dark down here. We need a torch.”

  “Did you bring one?”

  “No.”

  “Then shut the fuck up. He’s in here somewhere, we’ll find him.”

  John heard them start to move, feeling their way on both sides of the ramp. He could hear the footsteps of the one coming towards him. John pulled himself up behind a concrete column and tried to judge the distance. When he heard a soft thud and a grunt, the man bumping into something, John cocked his arm and threw one of the bars low and hard. He heard it clanking off the wall and onto the floor. Shooting erupted from both of the men, filling the basement with noise and muzzle flashes. The flashes gave John all the target he needed. This time he stepped away from the column and threw overarm, hard and fast. There was a thud and a low cry before the second bar clanked onto the concrete floor. It was followed by a muffled thump.

  “Matt? Where is he? What’s he doing? Matt?”

  John started moving toward the one he had hit with the bar. He’d have to be quick, the other one was moving too. Pain shot through his knee, but he kept going, picking a route between the pallets. If he could get Matt’s gun he was going to put a big hole in the other prick.

  He didn’t make it in time. The other one found Matt first, falling over him in the dark.

  “Shit, Matt. Matt? Jesus, wake up for fuck’s sake. What’s happened?”

  John crouched behind a column and waited. He could hear sirens in the distance now. About bloody time.

  “Come on. Wake up, Matt, you stupid bastard.” There was a thud that might have been a kick, and then some slaps followed by groaning and retching. “Come on. It’s the fucking jacks. Let’s go.”

  John watched the men emerge into the light on the ramp, the skinny one half dragging the one called Matt.

  “My gun—”

  “What?”

  “My gun?”

  “For fuck’s sake. There’s no time.”

  John leaned back against the column, listening to the sirens get louder.

  This time the police kept him in overnight. Sally Walker turned up just before 5am. “Starting to make a habit of this, Mr Lawrence,” she said. “Shootouts – you’ll give the area a bad name.”

  “Is it still a shootout if only one side is shooting?”

  “Good point. I’ll have Harry check the manual. We’ll get back to you.”

  John took her through it all; it was the third time he had told it. When he had finished his story she surprised him by asking how Betty was.

  He shrugged, “Sleeping a lot.”

  “Memory?”

  “No change. She’s pretty old for all this.”

  “Makes it harder for us,” Walker said. “But having some prick stick a gun in her face, and then the bang on the head ... It’s going to take a toll.”

  John watched her read through a copy of his statement, making occasional notes in the margin. She was wearing a red tracksuit, and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. John presumed she had been in bed when they called her. He wondered if she lived alone.

  “It was definitely the other kidnapper again?”

  “Yeah, the skinny blond one.”

  “Jimmy Duggan. And the name he used, it was Matt?”

  John nodded.

  “Okay.” She wrote another note in the margin. “The one you hurt, was that the one who started shooting, the passenger?”

  John thought, trying to visualise the scene, seeing again the dim figures in the car, lit suddenly by muzzle flashes. “Not sure. Don’t think so, but it’s just an impression.”

  “How badly did you hurt him? Where was he hit?” She looked up at him. “Should we be looking for him at a hospital?”

  “Head, I think. He was out, unconscious, till the other one slapped him, shook him awake.”

  “But he walked out?”

  “With some help.”

  She scribbled on the report again. “Interesting about the guns. We’ve got two guns from these guys. Both Glock 19s, both virtually new.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “It’s definitely noteworthy. Did these guys have accents?”

  “Accents?”

  “Yeah, former Yugoslav for instance, Serb, Bosnian? Middle Eastern?”

  “Australian.”

  “Pity.”

  “No, these two were pure home-grown bogan.”

  He got home at 8am and went straight to bed, pulling his blanket over his head to block out the light.

  At ten he was woken by the sound of a garbage truck backing into the cul-de-sac, its reversing alarm beeping loudly. He could hear one of the runners dragging wheelie bins out into the road. John couldn’t remember the last time he had put his bin out. He crawled out of bed, pulled on a pair of shorts and ran out to the veranda. The bin was so full that the lid wouldn’t shut properly and it smelled pretty bad. He manoeuvred it down the steps and out onto the street. “Got room for one more?” he shouted to the runner.

  “Yeah, no worries.”

  “Thanks.” He watched while his bin was hooked up at the back of the truck and emptied into the foul-smelling hopper, nodding his appreciation to the runner before he took the bin back onto the veranda. He stood for a while watching the street before he went inside. It was a nice day, half over already. He needed to see his mother while she was awake, so he could ask her about the Algerian. And about his father. It was a conversation he wasn’t looking forward to, but he had to know.

  When he was sure there was nothing unusual on the street he went inside and showered and dressed. He walked down to Parramatta Road, to a convenience store with computers in the front window.

  There was a short cryptic message from Smokey, a new line on their draft email. It just said ‘4 broadway’ followed by a vehicle registration number. His chat with his mother was going to have to wait a bit longer.

  He bought breakfast at the café by the park: a flat white and a bacon and egg roll to take away.

  “Do you want sauce with the roll?” the young Irish woman serving him asked. She was new. Blonde hair and black eyebrows.

  “Yeah. That home-made relish. Thanks.” He took the coffee and the roll back to the ute and drove to Broadway shopping centre. The ramp from Bay Street took him straight up to the top level of the car park. He drove across to the down ramp and wound his way through the coloured-coded levels to level four: the baby-shit brown level.

  The registration number Smokey had sent belonged to a red Hyundai Getz parked behind the lift well. John found an empty slot in the next row and waited, eating his roll and drinking his coffee while he watched the car park. He checked all the cars, and the few shoppers who came and went. He noted that whoever did deliveries for Smokey had parked the Getz in a blind spot, out of range of all the security cameras. When he had finished his breakfast and was satisfied there was no one watching the Getz, he took the paper
bag and the empty coffee cup and put them in a rubbish bin by the mall entry. Then he turned and walked back to the Getz. The key was in a magnetic holder beneath the rear left wheel arch. Inside the boot was a bright green shopping bag full of groceries. On top were onions, a bunch of basil and some pasta. John took the bag and locked the Hyundai.

  Driving out of the car park, he turned left, down towards Wentworth Park, then around onto Wattle Street, past the Fish Markets and up onto Anzac Bridge. He turned onto Victoria Road and kept going west through Drummoyne, only turning back through Five Dock and Parramatta Road when he was sure he wasn’t being followed.

  Back at Camperdown he found a plain grey plastic gun case, a box of fifty hollow point rounds and a cleaning kit underneath the groceries. Smokey had done well. John popped the box and took out the stubby black Heckler & Koch USP 9mm pistol. It was ridiculous how much better he felt with a weapon in his hand. He stripped the HK down, put it back together again, and loaded the two thirteen-round clips. One clip went into his sock, the other into the grip of the weapon. He worked the slide to put a round in the breach and checked the safety before tucking it into the back of his jeans. Now he was ready.

  Betty’s bed was empty when John got to the hospital. He looked around the room and was just about to check with the nurses when he heard the toilet flush. A moment later the bathroom door opened and his mother walked out, leaning on her stick but moving surprisingly freely.

  “Bonjour,” she said. “Where have you been? I’ve been expecting you all day.”

  “Sorry. I had a sleep in. Late night last night.”

  Betty grunted and walked around the bed to a big blue vinyl armchair. “I can’t stand being in that bloody bed anymore. They won’t tell me when I can go home. I’m perfectly alright now. I shouldn’t be taking up a hospital bed. There will be sick people who really need it.”

  “They know what they’re doing, Mum. Have you seen a doctor today?”

  “Some woman looked at me this morning. She said I’m fine. I know that, of course I am.”

  “You were in a coma a few days ago, Mum. There’s still a risk of brain damage.”

  “I’m perfectly fine. I just want to get out of here.”

  “I saw Ken the other day. He’s looking a lot better than the last time I saw him. Still in a fair bit of pain though. He asked after you.”

  “I should go and see him. Where is he? You can walk with me, can’t you?”

  John looked at her. “Sure, Mum. Why not?”

  They found Ken sitting up in his bed with his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. He had a newspaper folded on the table in front of him and a pen in his hand. His face was pale but a smile lit it up when he saw Betty stumping into the room. “Ah, there you are. I wondered when you’d turn up.”

  John moved some magazines off a chair so Betty could sit down.

  “How are you, my dear?” Betty asked, squeezing Ken’s hand. “You look well for someone who has been shot.”

  “Do I? It’s not something I’d recommend. I’m just glad to be able to sit up now. How is your head?”

  “Oh, you know ... hard as a rock. Can’t remember a damned thing, though. They tell me you tried to be a hero and got yourself shot for your trouble.”

  “Yes. Bloody fool, that I am. Didn’t think he’d actually do it.” He started to laugh but then winced in pain. “Next time I’ll let them take you,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “There won’t be a next time,” said John.

  “No,” said Ken, his face relaxing as the pain eased. “Not for that bloke. The police told me what happened to him.”

  “It was an accident,” said John. “Would have been better if he was alive so the cops could question him, then we might have some idea what it was all about.”

  Ken was watching Betty, whose attention had been taken by the view out the window. He turned to John, raising his eyebrows in a question.

  John just shrugged. “So what are you up to, Ken?”

  “Oh, just the crossword. Bit of a struggle, can’t seem to concentrate long enough to get any out.”

  “Don’t look at me,” said Betty, turning away from the window. “I’m officially brain damaged.”

  “You were no use before you got banged on the head, so no change there,” Ken said.

  “Your room has a much nicer view than mine. I wonder if I can get a transfer up here.”

  They were interrupted by a nurse who wheeled in a little trolley loaded with sealed packets of bandages. “Sorry, I need to change Mr Mallard’s dressings.”

  “Time I got Mum back to her own room anyway,” said John. “Before she tries to move in. See you soon, Ken.”

  “I’ll come back tomorrow,” said Betty. “Annoy you some more.”

  “Please do,” said Ken, as the nurse pulled the curtains around his bed.

  On the way back, Betty insisted they take a detour to the ground floor café. “I really need a half-decent cup of coffee, and something to eat that has some flavour. Something not boiled to death.”

  John watched her devour a salad and a custard tart followed by a cup of coffee. He didn’t understand how she suddenly had so much energy. Maybe she would pay for it later.

  “The police have been asking if you remember anything about last Friday. About the kidnapping,” he said.

  Betty took a sip from her coffee and put the cup slowly back on the saucer. “I know it’s stupid but there is nothing, just the hospital, just waking up. I’m sorry.” She dabbed at her mouth with a paper napkin.

  “It’s okay, Mum. It’s amnesia. Everyone understands. Nothing you can do about it.” He reached across and held her hand. “They asked about Paris, too. About the terrorist. About Jorge.”

  “They’re both dead.” Betty was watching a young man helping a heavily pregnant woman into a seat at the next table. She didn’t look at John.

  “Did you know him, Mum? The Algerian?”

  “Yes. We all did. They thought he was some kind of hero, a freedom fighter. But he killed your father.”

  “How did you know him?”

  “He was Jorge’s friend. I never liked him.” She pulled her hand away from his and lifted it to her face. “That suitcase was his. Jorge was just looking after it.”

  “The suitcase? What suitcase?”

  “The one with Jorge’s things. In the storage place.”

  “What do you mean it was his? The Algerian’s? My father was looking after a suitcase for him?”

  “Yes. I thought the police took it.”

  Oh shit, thought John.

  Betty drank the rest of the coffee. “I’m tired. I want to go back to my room now.”

  When John had gone, Betty lay in her bed looking out the window, remembering Paris, remembering 1975. She had just returned from Beirut. That once beautiful city was being flooded with weapons and hatred. She had been away nearly a month, trying to cover the war developing between the Phalange and the Palestinians, trying to distil on film the brutal fighting between the militias and the growing toll on civilians on both sides.

  She had spent the month trying not to get shot or blown to pieces. Always on edge, always wondering who she could trust. Then when she arrived back at Orly, Hubert met her with the news that Amin and his family had been killed. He was her Beirut driver and fixer. She had said goodbye to him only the day before. A bear of a man, Amin had started out as a taxi driver, but as the conflict developed he had spent less time picking up fares in his old Mercedes and more time hooking journalists up with members of the Maronite factions. He must have finally pissed someone off enough to take the trouble to wire some Semtex beneath his car. It went off when he was taking Sana and the children to school. Betty had known Amin since her first visit to Beirut in 1973. He was a loud man, always telling stories, always laughing at his own jokes. A deep laugh like distant artillery.

  Hubert dropped her off at the apartment. “Get some sleep. I’ll call you in the morning.”

 
; The apartment was empty except for a large brown suitcase in the middle of the living room floor. Betty stepped around it on the way to the bedroom, wondering what it meant. Had someone arrived? Or was someone leaving? She was too tired to think about it either way. She felt numb. She closed the curtains and crawled into bed, pulling the covers over her head.

  When she woke in the late afternoon, she realised how hungry she was. Jorge was in the kitchen preparing rôti de porc. He always made a nice meal for her when she came back from her assignments. Her “little excursions”.

  She asked him about the suitcase. “Are you leaving me?” She smiled, rubbing her hand down his broad back, lingering over his buttocks.

  He turned and kissed her. Softly, slowly. “Bien entendu, but before I go, I am cooking you dinner.” He grinned at her. “It is Rashid’s. He asked me to look after it for a couple of days.” Jorge wiped his hands on a towel draped over his shoulder. “I will put it in my study.”