by Greg McLean
Her throat swelled before she again pushed her nauseous fear back into her subconscious. She would mourn Akira and Duncan later, deal with all this when she was lying safe in a bed somewhere and Mick was dead.
Jewel stood by the Kombi’s back door. She knew the handguns were somewhere inside, but where? Behind one of the panels with the dope and money? No, she doubted it. That would require too much time to retrieve in an emergency.
She heard a trailer door squeak open.
Shit! She dived to the ground and slid between the Kombi’s back wheels. She scurried forward through the squelching mud until she no longer felt the rain hitting her body. Lying face down, she could smell oil and metal, but mostly she could smell wet earth and the tang of blood. She swallowed back bile.
Out the corner of her eye, she saw boots: thick, black and splattered with mud. They sloshed through the ground, slowly, towards her.
What was he doing? Why was he hanging around? Had he heard her? Could he smell her?
He stopped and swivelled directly towards the Kombi and stepped forward.
Jewel winced. He’d found her. He was gonna cut off her head and put it on a stick beside Akira’s.
He was so close Jewel could reach out and touch his boots. The Kombi jiggled as she heard the sound of a door handle being rattled.
The noise soon stopped and he walked around to the other side and tried the front passenger door. The door was locked, but he didn’t leave.
He stood there, still, saying nothing. Like a statue.
Jewel held her breath, though she couldn’t stop herself from shivering.
Please go away, please go away. She closed her eyes and willed him to be gone.
After what seemed an eternity, she opened her eyes and turned her head and saw Mick’s grinning face staring at her. He was squatting by the side passenger doors, head bent low, rifle resting across his lap.
‘Boo!’
Jewel screamed and rolled away.
When she was out from under the Kombi, she scrambled to her feet and took off running.
‘Now don’t be like that,’ Mick called, laughing.
Her feet slipped in the mud and she wobbled but didn’t fall. Still, Mick gained on her. She felt his large presence closing in behind her.
He grabbed her around the waist and she shrieked. She was lifted off the ground.
Jewel tried prying his arm from around her, but it was no use. He was too strong.
‘Fuck off!’ she screamed, kicking her legs, hoping to hit him in the groin.
‘Now that’s no way to greet a friendly helper,’ Mick said.
His grip around her waist tightened and Jewel found breathing more difficult as her insides constricted.
She swung the torch behind her and felt the hard plastic crack against Mick’s head.
‘Bitch!’ he bellowed, and loosened his hold.
Able to breathe properly again, she cracked him a few more times, harder, but on the third strike Mick grabbed the torch from her and tossed it away.
‘Leave her alone!’
Jewel stopped struggling long enough to see Matt running out of the shaft towards them.
‘No!’ Jewel cried. ‘Matt, go away!’
Mick tossed her aside like she was a wet blanket. She landed hard on the ground, on her back, then slid a few metres.
‘You guys are making this way too easy for me,’ Mick said. ‘The point of the game is for me to find you, not for you lot to come runnin’ to me.’
Jewel pushed up on her elbows and wiped mud from her eyes. She heard the clicking sound of a rifle bolt.
‘But, since you’re here . . .’
The gun blast cracked like a whip, the noise slamming against Jewel’s eardrums, leaving her ears ringing.
She blinked and saw Matt stumble backwards. He fell to the ground with a splash.
‘God, no,’ she mumbled.
Mick ambled over to Matt’s fallen body, casually loading another round. He aimed high and fired again.
Jewel flinched. Turned her head away.
The torch was half buried in a puddle close by. She rolled over onto her hands and knees and crawled to it. She snatched it up, and just as she started to get up, the torch was kicked out of her hand.
Mick grabbed a strong fist of her short hair and pain tore at her scalp. He pulled her to her feet.
‘We can do this the easy way or the hard way,’ Mick said, his breath hot and rank against Jewel’s face. ‘I can either drag ya by your hair, or you walk. It’s your choice.’
‘Walk,’ Jewel wheezed, squeezing her eyes shut against the pain.
‘Smart girl.’
Mick let go, leaving a dull ache that pulsed through her head.
‘Move over to the shed.’
On unsteady legs, Jewel started walking towards the small shed.
‘No,’ Mick sighed. ‘The main shed.’
She looked up and changed direction. She thought of Amber, hoping she would leave the mine shaft the moment Mick was out of sight. It wasn’t a safe place to stay now, not since Matt gave their position away. She also wondered about Cindy. Had she managed to escape? Did they have any hope?
There didn’t seem to be any way out of the mine site. At least, not unless you wanted to scrape your flesh to the bone on the macabre fence across the entrance.
No, she had to pray for a miracle. Hope that one of the girls would think to look for the guns hidden in the Kombi. She had been so close. If the bastard hadn’t come along for another moment . . .
When they reached the shed, Mick pushed her inside.
‘Over to the hole by the bench.’
Jewel felt her bowels tighten at the sight of the manhole in the floor. Where the hell would that lead?
Hesitantly, she approached it, with Mick close behind. There was a strange smell in the room.
Mick stepped in front of her. ‘Don’t move. Or else.’ He kept the rifle trained on her with one hand as he reached down and pulled up the heavy concrete manhole over. Jewel gagged at the putrid smell that was unleashed.
‘Climb down,’ Mick ordered.
Jewel swallowed then coughed, caught between trying to keep the contents of her stomach from rising up her throat and the foulness of the air from pushing down it. ‘In there?’ She peered into the blackness. ‘What is it? Please don’t tell me it’s a sewer.’
‘It’s not a sewer. Don’t worry, you’ll be safe down there. Just climb down the ladder.’
The word ‘safe’ sounded foreign coming from him.
She got on all fours and scuttled backwards, lowering herself into the hole and onto the ladder. She got her feet on a metal rung, gripped the top rung and started working her way down into the darkness. Her head was almost level with the floor when Mick kicked out and his large heavy boot smacked her in the face.
She was knocked off the ladder and fell through the rotten air.
The fall seemed to last a lifetime. When she hit, her breath was pushed out of her lungs and her head thumped against the ground, firm beneath a layer of mush.
She lay there, dazed and winded, while the cover was dragged across the hole above her.
‘Be back soon,’ Mick said. His grinning face vanished and absolute darkness took over.
Jewel heard a heavy scraping noise above – the table, no doubt – and then all was quiet.
She struggled to get her breath back, but when she did, she almost wished she hadn’t.
The smell was unbearable. It reminded her of the time one of her parents unknowingly left a parcel of minced meat in the car. After a few days, they noticed an unpleasant odour. The mysterious stench got progressively worse. Every time they hopped in the car, they all commented on the smell. First, dampness was blamed, and old shoes. It wasn’t until, a few weeks after first noticing it, and unable to bear it any longer, she and her father decided to find the source of the smell. It was Jewel who found the offending parcel. Wedged down a gap inside the boot, she held the paper-wrapped green
mush and wondered for a few moments what it was. When she saw the handwritten label, she dropped the rancid meat, turned away and vomited on the driveway.
It was around that time she became a vegetarian.
That smell – rich, meaty and foul – had stuck with her. And it was that same smell that was currently all around her, a hundredfold, and she couldn’t escape it.
Unable to move, she remained on her back, staring up at the darkness, wondering when this would all end.
Back out in the rain, Mick stopped to take stock of the situation.
All the men were dead. Three women were left, two still out in the wild. The boy had come from one of the mine shafts – were the two females in there as well? It was a sensible place to hide, albeit scary and dangerous without any light.
Mick thought about the torch Jewel had been holding, the one she had used to bash him on the head. She must have just got it from the van, to take back to the shaft.
He strode over to where he had kicked the torch from Jewel’s hand, but he couldn’t find it.
Fair enough. He reloaded his rifle and headed for the mine shaft.
Once inside, he switched on his own torch. As wide as it was tall, this was the biggest shaft in the mine site. It was also long, but like all shafts, it came to a dead end eventually.
‘Cooee!’ Mick called. His voice echoed. He waited, but neither Amber nor the Yank returned his call.
‘Ah, you’re no fun,’ he said, and then started making his way down the long, dark tunnel.
17
Vietnam
February 1967
The next time Mick and Sarge go out of the wire to dump the bins, Sarge is quieter than usual at the wheel. He hardly speaks on the drive to the tip.
Afterwards, on their way to the village, Mick finally asks, ‘What’s up, Sarge? Barely said a word all morning.’ He draws on his Marlboro.
Sarge takes his time before answering. ‘I think we should cut back on these trips, Crack Shot. I think the officers are starting to get suspicious.’
‘Nah, they don’t know shit. Don’t worry ’bout it.’
‘No, I think it’d be best if we hold off for a little while, make this our last. At least until I know we’re in the clear.’
Mick sighs. ‘If you say so.’
As the truck bumps along the dirt road, Mick notices that Sarge still looks distracted, his face creased with worry.
‘What else is botherin’ you, skip? Come on, you can tell me.’
They’re close to the village when Sarge blurts, ‘Did you kill Stretch?’
Mick chokes on the cigarette smoke. ‘What?’ he coughs.
‘Come on, Mick. I need to know. Did you know about the grenade?’
Mick feigns shock – something he thinks he’s getting good at. ‘Christ, no. How could you think a thing like that?’
‘I know you two didn’t get along —’
‘And that means I killed the guy? Shit, yeah, okay, he and I weren’t exactly best mates, but I would never do that to the poor bugger. I’m not a heartless bastard.’
Mick wonders if Sarge sees through his lies.
Eyes still on the road, Sarge nods. ‘Yeah, I guess I’m being stupid. Just forget I said anything. Anyway, truth be told, I never much liked Stretch either. That new guy, Herby, he seems alright.’
‘He’s a bit green. His pack’s too clean and his boots need to get mud on ’em, but otherwise he’s a good bloke.’
Mick looks out at the rubber trees and smiles inwardly. Sarge may be smart, even cunning, but Mick has him fooled. He’s getting better at putting on a mask and not letting people see his real face.
Sarge has gotten close to seeing the real Mick Taylor – the closest anyone has gotten since the Kiwi station shooter, Cutter. But Mick hasn’t revealed everything – he’s never trusted anyone that much.
They arrive at the ragged collection of huts and Sarge pulls the truck to a stop, leaving the engine running. ‘Wanna go first?’
Mick’s surprised. ‘Are ya sure? I went first last time.’
Sarge waves a hand. He pulls out a pack of Salems and lights one with his Zippo.
‘Fair enough,’ Mick says. ‘I won’t argue.’
As he wanders towards the main collection of huts with the root bin, he notices that the girls haven’t come swarming out to greet them like they usually did. He glances back to the truck and Sarge shrugs.
Mick bangs the barrel of his rifle against the bin. ‘Hello,’ he calls. ‘Anyone home?’
An old woman emerges from one of the huts. She’s a familiar sight, the eldest lady in the village. Usually her mouth and teeth are stained red with betel juice, but today her mouth displays nothing but ragged yellow teeth. She yells at Mick in her strange tongue and waves an old cane.
‘What’s ya problem?’ Mick says. ‘Where are the girls?’
‘Di di mau!’ the old lady cries.
Sarge jumps out of the truck and joins Mick. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘I dunno. But I think she’s telling us to piss off.’
Sarge steps up to the old lady. She starts chastising the sergeant, pointing her cane at him.
‘Hey, calm down. Look, we bring bin. Full of good food. You hungry?’
The old crone starts hitting Sarge with the cane.
‘Hey!’ Sarge shouts.
‘Feisty old cunt,’ Mick says with a grin. He looks around at the various huts and sees some of the girls peering out of doorways. ‘Maybe they’re still upset about those two guys we killed,’ he says. ‘Boy, do these people hold grudges.’
‘You’re not kidding,’ Sarge says, warding off the old lady’s blows. ‘We’re helping you people! We’re trying to save you from the fucking Commies! Christ, show some damn respect!’
Sarge is in a fouler mood than usual. Mick has never seen him this wound up before.
The lady keeps hitting the sergeant with her cane. Finally, with a look that could melt rock, Sarge grabs the stick off her. The old crone looks surprised. With a snarl, Sarge smacks her hard across the face with it and she crumples to the ground.
When she starts screaming, some of the girls and other village women step out of their huts to see what’s going on. At the sight of the soldier striking the cane against the lady’s head, they duck back inside.
The old lady’s head starts bleeding. When her nose and cheeks are split open, she stops screaming. When the cane breaks, Sarge stops hitting her.
He raises the splintered bit of wood and brings it down, piercing her throat. Blood spurts into the air. There are cries around the village.
‘Damn,’ Mick mutters.
Sarge, breathing harshly, straightens, leaving the broken bit of cane sticking out of the dying woman’s neck.
‘Hit me with your fucking cane,’ Sarge huffs. He wipes sweat from his wide brow, then shoots a look at Mick. ‘Fuck giving them the bin. Let’s just take what’s ours and then get the fuck outta here.’
Mick drops the bin and grins. ‘Aye, aye, skipper.’ He takes out his knife and heads into the nearest hut.
18
Western Australia
February 1968
‘I think that was it!’
Officer Ellis stepped on the brakes and the squad car slid to a halt on the road shoulder. He changed into reverse and moved back, slowly. ‘Where?’
Bruce was sure he had seen a dark break in the highway, something that resembled a dirt track. He gazed out through the passenger window, hoping it hadn’t merely been his imagination.
He saw it again. ‘There!’
Ellis leaned over. He smelled of sweat and tobacco. ‘That thing? That’s barely a foot wide.’
‘Told ya it was narrow.’
Ellis backed the car a little more and turned off the road.
In their headlights, the way ahead was dotted with rocks and the odd clumps of spinifex, but it was a more cleared than the desert that surrounded them – definitely a path.
‘This is it,’
Bruce said. ‘I’m sure of it.’
‘I bloody well hope so,’ Ellis said.
Bruce’s shoulder throbbed, but he hardly paid it any mind. He was too eager to get to the mine. He wanted payback.
So, it seemed, did Ellis.
‘How long do you reckon you travelled on this road last night?’ the cop asked.
‘At least an hour. But we were being towed and going a lot slower.’
‘Let’s try to get there in twenty minutes.’
The police car bounced and rocked as Ellis sped up and the rain was like thousands of bullets pelting against the windscreen.
Mick felt alive as he strode through the mine shaft. His body tingled and his senses heightened. The last time he felt this good was on his tour.
Hell, in many ways this was better than ’Nam. There, you had the constant threat of your own death hanging over your head. Here he could do what he wanted, how he wanted, without the worry of stepping on a landmine or getting ambushed by a bunch of nogs.
Here, he could take as much time as he wanted. The fat pedo had operated here without being detected for god knows how long. And there was no reason he couldn’t do the same.
The deeper into the shaft he went, the cooler and thinner the air became. Cobwebs became more plentiful. The damp earth smell was overcome by a drier, sweeter odour.
It was a good hideout, now he thought about it. Roomier and less smelly than the underground tunnels. Maybe he could set up a base in here. Or even better – a prisoner of war camp.
There was no way out – none that he knew of – other than the entrance into the side of the hill. And if he blocked that off with some kind of gate that he could lock from the outside, he’d have himself a nice play area. Ingenious. Christ, the possibilities of this place. A whole load of mine shafts he could convert into prison cells.
He grinned at the idea of mines filled with women, all playthings for him and him alone.
After walking for ten minutes, he spotted a human-sized lump ahead in the distance.
‘Well, well, what have we got here.’
He aimed the light down on the shape. The girl was on the ground, dragging herself along the earth, torch in one hand. She must have come out and found it when he left with the other girl.
