Left Luggage

by Andrew Christie

  John could see Betty now, a small figure slumped in a chair on a low platform in the middle of the pulling machine. She was surrounded by steel, her arms held out horizontally by chains from her wrists to the frames. Other chains were connected to her legs, neck and torso. A black bag was over her head. She wasn’t moving. She might already be dead.

  “We’ve discovered these machines work a treat on people too,” Large said. “Sort of your twenty-first-century version of the rack. Pulls people apart, no problems. Gets a bit messy sometimes, but still nothing is perfect, eh?”

  John was between Large and his mother now, approaching Jimmy’s position.

  “When Jimmy starts playing with those buttons, it’s going to hurt her. What do you reckon Jimmy, how are you planning to start?”

  “Arms,” the skinny one said. “That usually does the trick.”

  “There was that one guy, though, wasn’t there?”

  “Yeah,” said Jimmy. “That big Tongan guy, Brody. He thought he was pretty tough. Till I ripped both his arms off.”

  “Yeah, nasty that.” Large laughed. “I dare say you’re a tough man too, Lawrence, but how tough do you think your mother is? That’s the real question.”

  There were three cars between John and the pulling frame. He could see his mother moving slightly, her head turning as if she was trying to hear. Her shoulders twisted, sending a vibration through the chains that held her arms out.

  “Now, I’m not going to count to three or any of that shit,” said Large. “Either you’re going to show yourself and put down your weapons, or Jimmy is going to start pulling your mother’s arms off. Right now.”

  As Jimmy reached for the control panel, John came up from between the cars firing, targeting Jimmy and the control panel first, three rounds. The first hit Jimmy in the shoulder, the others ricocheting off a post and slamming into the wall beyond. Jimmy screamed and fell out of sight behind a Volvo station wagon, as the window of the Falcon next to John shattered. He spun and fired at Large. Two shots, then two more, forcing Large to take cover. John turned back, approaching his mother. Jimmy was reaching up for the control panel again with his good arm. John fired. The second shot hit Jimmy’s forearm. He screamed again. John turned again, but couldn’t see Large. He put two rounds into the windows of the car Large had been standing behind last time he’d seen him, and kept moving towards his mother.

  “For fuck’s sake hit the button, Jimmy,” yelled Large. It sounded as if he was behind a double-cab ute so John put two more rounds into that before he rolled across the bonnet of a grey hatch and dropped to the floor. He reloaded and listened. Jimmy was whimpering and snuffling, but there was no sound from Large.

  Two shots hit the wheel he was squatting next to and the Volvo settled as the tyre deflated. John moved to his right and peered beneath the car. He could see Jimmy crouching on the other side. When he started to stand up again, John put three rounds into his ankles and feet. There was a lot of screaming. Jimmy dropped his pistol and fell back to the floor. John stayed low, moving around the car. He ignored Jimmy, picking up the Glock, dropping out the clip and ejecting the breach round. He tossed the empty weapon through the window of the nearest car and pocketed the ammunition.

  There was movement to his left behind a red Hyundai. John threw himself to the floor again as two shots punched holes in the roof of the Volvo. He crawled along the floor to where the grey-painted skeleton of a car body was resting on a trolley. He gave the trolley a shove, sending it crashing into the Hyundai as he jumped up onto the boot and then the roof of a Falcon. Large was on the floor between the cars, holding a stainless steel automatic and looking the wrong way.

  “Drop your weapon. Lie face down,” John shouted. “Do it now. Do it now.”

  Large turned his head.

  “Don’t make me kill you,” John said.

  The big man looked up at John and swore. His eyes flicked from John’s face to something behind him, and he started to smile. John dived forwards, but it was too late. He didn’t hear the shot that tore into his legs as he fell across the bonnet of the Falcon and slid off the front into the narrow gap between the cars. He felt the pain in his legs and knew he had been shot, but he still had his weapon. He started to roll over but found himself looking up at a big dark man holding a sawn-off shotgun on him. He let his weapon clatter onto the floor. The pain in his legs was bad and getting worse.

  Large watched Lawrence fall onto the bonnet of the Falcon and slide off the front onto the floor, leaving a red smear across the dappled grey paint of the undercoat.

  “You’re late,” he said.

  “Don’t mention it,” Pike said, breaking open the sawn-off shotgun and reloading it with two new shells from the pocket of his leather vest. The muscleman, the one called Joe, was beside him, holding a big stainless steel revolver on John. “Who is he anyway?”

  “He’s the one who has the machine guns.” Large looked down at Lawrence. A bright red pool was forming beneath his legs, but his eyes were clear and flicking between the three men standing over him. “Shoot him again if he moves.” He bent over Lawrence, picked up the HK and took Matt’s Glock. He also found two spare clips, a very nasty-looking knife and a set of car keys in Lawrence’s pockets. He kicked him in the ribs and turned back to Pike. “Would you mind dragging him over to the pulling frame, we need to talk to him.”

  Pike raised the shotgun so that it was pointing at Large’s chest. “Why don’t you put all those guns on the bonnet here first. Just in case.”

  Large grunted and put Lawrence’s guns and his own Sig on the car. “We should get some help for Jimmy too,” he said.

  Pike put the shotgun on the roof of the nearest car and went over the guns, dropping the clips out and checking the loads. The Glock still had a full clip. He held onto it. “This guy, who is he?”

  “Lawrence,” said Large. “John Lawrence. That’s all I know.”

  Joe handed Pike his revolver and grabbed John by the ankles. He dragged him between the cars over to the pulling frame and lifted him into a white plastic chair. They secured him to it with cable ties around his wrists and ankles.

  Jimmy had been shot in the arm and shoulder, and both ankles were shattered. But he was alive, still crying and moaning on the floor. His feet were lying at very strange angles. Betty Lawrence was sitting still in the pulling frame, her head slumped forwards.

  “If this guy’s the one with the guns, who’s that with all the chains?”

  “His mother,” said Large. “He was using her. A front for the importation.”

  “You took her hostage?”

  “Only Lawrence knew where the guns were. I had no choice.”

  “Your plan’s gone great so far, hasn’t it?”

  “Fuck off.”

  “So where are they?” asked Pike. “The machine guns?”

  “Dunno,” said Large. “That’s what we have to ask Lawrence here.” Jimmy was making a lot of noise, the bubbling sobs and cries, building in a new crescendo. He tried to talk but the effort made him scream again. Large couldn’t think straight over, the noise. “Jesus. We need to get Jimmy to a doctor. My car’s just out the front. It won’t take long to run him up to Liverpool.”

  Pike stood with Matt’s Glock hanging at his side, looking down at Jimmy. “No need for a doctor,” he said, swinging the pistol out in a short arc and shooting Jimmy twice in the head.

  “What the fuck have you done?” Large shouted and lunged at Pike, only stopping short when he felt the cold steel of Joe’s revolver on the side of his neck.

  “Do we have to shoot you too?” Pike asked. “Duggan had it coming. He was the one swinging the bat, not you. Ricky told us. Duggan was always dead, but I’m happy to kill you too, if you want to make a fuss.”

  Large moved away from Pike and Joe, and leaned against the bonnet of the Volvo.

  “Okay,” Pike grunted and turned back to Lawrence. “Machine guns? Where are they?”

  “Let my mother go,” Lawren
ce said.

  “I don’t think you understand, mate. I’m not interested in your mother and we’re not negotiating here. I’m just going to shoot you in the legs again and keep at it until you tell me where they are.” Pike lowered the pistol. “So what will it be? Right or left first?”

  Lawrence looked up at Pike, glanced across to Large and Joe, then back to Pike. “They’re in my ute. White Hilux, parked out the back, across the creek. He’s got the keys.” John nodded at Large.

  Pike held out his hand and Large dropped the keys into it.

  “Find the car, Joe. See if the machine guns are there.” Pike pointed his pistol at Large’s head. “We’ll wait here, won’t we, Phil.”

  Large stared at Pike. He wanted very badly to kill him.

  John’s right leg and buttock were throbbing from the shotgun wound, and he could feel his blood pooling and congealing around his arse in the seat of the plastic chair. The ties on his arms and ankles were just standard cable ties. He was pretty sure that he could snap them. He’d done it before in training scenarios, an explosive movement of his arms would do it. He hadn’t done it in a chair like this, but he was pretty sure the ties would break before his wrists did.

  Pike and Large didn’t speak to each other while they waited for Joe to return. Pike was leaning against the Volvo’s bonnet, casually holding the Glock in his hand. Large had opened the front door of the Volvo, and gingerly lowered himself onto the seat. John’s mother hadn’t moved. She must be in pain, with her arms pulled out like that. Jimmy Duggan was slowly leaking blood onto the paint-stained floor.

  Joe was back in ten minutes with Jorge’s suitcase. “The ute was across the creek. Where he said. This was behind the seat.”

  “Open it up,” said Pike.

  Joe put the suitcase on the bonnet of the Volvo. John watched them open it and pull out the guns, laying all five of them out beside the suitcase.

  “Small,” said Pike picking one of the machine guns up. “More of a machine pistol.” He removed the magazine, then slotted it back into place.

  “But easy to hide,” said Large, as he climbed out of the car.

  Pike was turning the gun over in his hands, squinting at the words stamped into the pressed steel frame. “Looks like they’re East European.” He unfolded the stock and held the little gun up to his shoulder. “Feels alright.” He cocked the gun, released the safety, and put it back up to his shoulder. He fired a short tentative burst, then a sustained one that emptied the magazine. The bullets shattered the windows of a Mazda hatch and left it slumped sideways on flattened tyres. “Nice,” Pike said, dropping out the empty clip and slotting in a new full one. “I’m really liking the feel of this thing.” He pointed it at Large. “Real quality. Those old commie bastards new a thing or two about guns.”

  Joe grinned and turned back to the suitcase. His eyes widened when he pulled back the next layer of blanket. “Pike. You better look at this.”

  Pike stepped forwards. Large started to follow him but Pike lifted the machine gun. “Stay,” he said before he peered into the suitcase. A big smile creased his face.

  “Bonus,” said Joe, grinning back at him.

  Pike spun the suitcase around and lifted it so Large could see the bundles of US dollars that covered the bottom.

  Joe lifted a cloth drawstring bag out of the suitcase, opened it and pulled out a handful of Krugerrands. “Jackpot man,” he said. “Total jackpot.”

  John watched Large. His blackened eyes were following everything the other two did as they tried to calculate how much the money and gold was worth. Joe had put his revolver on the bonnet and picked up another bag of gold. As Large began to move around the car, John saw his own knife slip out of Large’s right sleeve and into his hand.

  “How much is there?” Large said, stepping up behind Joe, his voice calm, but his arm coming up fast, ramming the full length of the blade into the side of Joe’s neck. Blood fountained from the wound. Large let go of the knife and reached for the revolver as Joe’s legs went from under him. His arm flailed, trying to get hold of the knife. Pike was moving. Stepping away from the car. Trying to get enough space to swing up the machine gun. He wasn’t fast enough. Large shot him twice. Chest and throat.

  “That’s for Jimmy,” Large muttered, putting two more rounds into Pike as he slid to the floor.

  John was on the floor now too, still tied to the chair. He had thrown himself sideways when Large went for the gun. Now he was looking into Joe’s eyes. The dying man’s movements slowed till he lay motionless with the knife jutting out of his neck. Pike was slumped by the front wheel of the Volvo, head tipped forwards on the bright red stain of his chest.

  Large picked up the machine guns and began packing them back into the suitcase. “This is all your fault, Lawrence. You and your fucking mother.”

  John had nothing to say.

  Large stepped forwards to retrieve the gun in Pike’s hand, grunting as he bent down with one arm wrapped around his ribs, protecting them. Pike wasn’t dead. The barrel of the Škorpion lifted, and he squeezed the trigger. The clip emptied in a swarm of random fire as Large dived back behind the Volvo. John was surprised at how fast the big man could move.

  The empty gun clunked back onto the floor, Pike unable to hold it. “Did I get him?” he whispered through the blood bubbling from the wound in his throat.

  “No,” said John. “You missed.” He could hear Large swearing to himself as he crawled back to the suitcase, but Pike couldn’t. His body sagged sideways, an awkward tangle of arms and legs, blood no longer pumping out of his throat, just slowly leaking under gravity. More and more red joining all the other colours staining the floor.

  John listened as Large moved away from him, dragging the suitcase to the front of the workshop. The cold from the floor was seeping into his body, sapping his energy. He tried to move, using the foot and shoulder that were in contact with the floor, he arched and crabbed slowly towards Joe’s body. Towards the knife that was still in his neck.

  A door slammed and a new smell joined the smell of blood and gunfire. It was sharp and sweet, the smell of paint solvent. John kept working towards Joe’s body but there was so much blood on the floor that it was hard to get any traction. The edge of his boot kept slipping, leaving him nothing to push against.

  A soft whump, followed by the crackle of blistering paint, confirmed his fears: Large was going to burn the place. The acrid smell of burning paint reached his nostrils as the first car burst into flames. John lunged and arched, pushing himself slowly closer to the knife. His boot found a joint in the concrete floor and he was able to push himself within range. He groped his fingers out and snagged the neck of the dead man’s T-shirt, dragging the body closer, jamming Joe’s face against the plastic arm of the chair. John stretched out his fingers again, this time trying to hook them around the bloody handle of the knife. He got hold of it and tried to pull, but the handle slipped out of his grasp. He snagged part of Joe’s T-shirt, using it to wipe the knife handle, and trying again. The knife was stuck. Large must have struck bone. John rocked Joe’s head, trying to release the blade, but it wouldn’t come. Above him he could see black smoke lit by blue and yellow flames beginning to fill the roof space. With a fresh grip on the knife, John began pulling and pushing again.

  When the knife came free, his momentum carried John across the back of the chair, and onto his other side. He lay panting for a moment, then reversed the blade and slid it back along his wrist. The cable ties on his arms fell away as the knife slice through the plastic. Seconds later he was free of the chair.

  He tried to stand up but his leg wouldn’t take his weight so he stayed down and began crawling to his mother, trailing his wounded leg behind him.

  He was nearly there when an explosion shook the workshop, throwing a jet of flame across the roofs of the cars. John rolled beneath the nearest car as burning liquid landed around him. The flames dripped down the sides of the cars and puddled on the floor. John tried to ignore
the noise and heat of the fire. He could feel it on his scarred arm and neck, could feel it burning again. He moved faster, pushing forwards but knew he was moving too slowly. He called out to his mother but he couldn’t hear anything over the noise. There was a lot of smoke rolling off the burning cars, tumbling upwards, gathering in the high points, pushed around by masses of superheated air pouring off the flames.

  His mother was slumped forwards against the chains, her arms still held out horizontally. John pulled himself up to stand against one of the posts and removed the bag from her head. She was dead, a gunshot wound just beneath her left eye.

  John began undoing the chain shackles, his fingers struggling to unscrew the pins, coughing as the smoke tore at his lungs. Behind him the workshop walls were alight, flames racing into the roof and along the steel trusses. Breaking glass added to the noise. The office next to the paint store was ablaze now, and it wouldn’t be long before more of the car fuel tanks went up.

  He got the last of the chains off, and began hauling the chair out of the machine, falling onto the floor, the chair and his mother on top of him. He stayed down where the smoke was thinner and started moving again, dragging himself with his arms and reaching back to pull his mother after him. He inched his way between the cars, to the lunch room and the rear door, moving away from the paint store. The wall frames and roof trusses were beginning to scream and groan, threatening to buckle as the heat weakened them.