by Iain Ryan
Two Days
Iain Ryan
Lamb House
Contents
Dedication
Copyright
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
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About the Author
Contact The Author
For Ken
Copyright © Iain Ryan, 2016
Everything in Two Days is completely fictional and imaginary; any resemblance the characters or settings may bear to actual circumstances or to a living person is entirely coincidental. I just make this stuff up.
“You’re sorry, I’m sorry, everyone’s sorry.”
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written consent of the author, except where permitted by law.
Cover design by Iain Ryan. Assistance from Carl.
Interior design by Iain Ryan.
Editing by Gabriella West.
www.iainryan.com
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1
Senator Ron Bachelard had a thing about warm air. He didn’t like it. “Central heating is a used toilet seat,” he said. “It’s warm, it’s comfortable, but it’s not clean. The cold is clean.” The man was like that. Sterile, neat, organised, frost-bitten. And he hated loose ends. “I want you to go to Queensland,” he said, his withered hand holding out the envelope with Thomas Bachelard scrawled on the side.
John Dannen took it.
“Give that to my son.”
“Why me? This is...”
“What do you know about Turnell Island?”
“More than I’d like to. I can handle it but—”
“He’s on Turnell. Find him, give him that message. Get it done however you like, but do it in person.”
Dannen looked at the envelope.
“That’s it,” said the Senator. “The money will be in your account by midday.”
Bachelard returned to his work. Dannen waited. After a minute, he got up and walked out, sealing the Senator back in.
Holt answered the call on the first ring. He was Dannen’s go-to guy for Turnell and the only person Dannen trusted north of the border. He sounded hoarse today, worse than the last time, older even. Dannen told him about the gig.
Holt huffed a little. He said, “You’re going to need someone who can talk to people.”
“I can talk to people.”
“Not like that. I mean talk, not that other business. It’ll need to be someone pretty. Do you have someone?”
“Maybe. This needs to stay as in-house as possible. The senator is...”
“I remember. I know someone. He’s good, trust me. You definitely need someone. No one’s going to say a fucking peep to you on Turnell. They’re as thick as thieves over there.”
“Okay.”
“Anything else? Or can I get back to my beer? It’s fucking hot up here today.”
Holt’s guy was a man called Daniel Aras. Dannen had the use of the Senator’s plane, putting him in Melbourne just after midday to fish Aras out of a transit lounge. Aras was easy to spot: tall, lean, clear eyed. He had a tan. When the waitress came by, she leaned in nice and close and whispered something into his ear.
Aras winked. “She’s got three kids, apparently,” he said as she left with their order.
Dannen checked his watch. “So Holt said you need someone for Tunnel, that’s what the locals call it, don’t they?” he said.
“So I gather.”
Turnell Island was joined to the mainland by a long tunnel under the ocean, a real feat of engineering. It cost the Brisbane mafia a fortune.
“You been over?” said Dannen.
Aras shook his head. “Read it on the Wiki.”
“It can get rough over there. Was that on the Wiki?”
Aras sniffed at it. “I can handle rough.”
“Good. I need you to do exactly as I say,” said Dannen. “Exactly. My boss isn’t big on mistakes. He takes it personally, and he’s not a real...people person.”
“I can do it.”
“Can you?”
“Look, I’m good at my job because I never look like I’m doing it. Don’t be fooled by all this,” and he twirled his hand like the whole room was for show.
2
The Bond Mirage Hotel in Turnell’s north towered over the beach. It rose up out of a wooded cove off the main drag and sold itself as such: a pocket of heightened civility set amongst the island’s gaudy churn. The place tried a little too hard for Dannen’s tastes. His suite was white and air-tight quiet, like a bubble. He much preferred the balcony and stood out there, ashing his cigarette into the wind and letting it carry it off.
Day Two.
Things were underway. Aras was out there somewhere. No one at the hotels gave an inch on Day One. No one would cough up the senator’s son. But last night, all the clerks and wait staff were getting together after shift and Aras was invited.
That was nine hours back. Nine hours without word. Aras’s room was locked: Do Not Disturb. No amount of knocking changed it.
This was not in the brief.
The brief was:
Check in every two hours, minimum.
No loose ends.
Dannen waited some more. He ordered breakfast. He took a sauna, then a stint in the rooftop hot tub. As the bright clear sky arced overhead, he sat in the warm bubbling water alone with his hair gelled in place, his eyes fixed ahead.
Too long.
Time to talk to someone.
He went back to his room and called reception. “I think my friend is unwell. I want to check on him.”
The clerk didn’t buy it. “I’ll need to go get someone.”
“Send a concierge. I need advice as well.”
It took ten minutes. Dannen opened the door on a broad man with a shaved head and a black suit. South American, bigger than expected.
Dannen told him the problem.
The concierge said, “I can’t let you into someone else’s room.” He wouldn’t check either. The hotel had a policy. There were a lot of rules on Turnell. With the sign on the door, five PM was the earliest they’d start worrying. They took those signs seriously.
“Okay then. I need help with the TV, while you’re here,” said Dannen.
The man came through.
Dannen’s first punch caught him in the side but the concierge kept a hold of himself. Dannen tried again, kicking his legs out and punching him a second time on the way down. Dannen used the man’s own momentum to flip him, blocking a blow, then slid his arm around the man’s neck. He was strong. Dannen counted to six before he went all the way out.
Moving quickly, Dannen went to the bedroom and grabbed a handful of zip-ties from his suitcase. He bound the concierge’s hands and feet. He gagged him then patted him down and took the room master key. Then he went across the hall and checked Aras’s room. It was empty. The bed was made. The bathroom was dry. He hadn’t been home. Dannen went back. The concierge was awake. He’d shimmied across the floor. Dannen squatted down beside him and took the gag out. “What’s your name?”
The concierge spat blood onto the car
pet. “Charles.”
“Okay Charles. You’re going to tell me a little about last night, nothing dramatic. I just need to find my colleague. But if you don’t tell me what I need to know, I’m going to cut it out of you. So what do you think?”
“You don’t know where you are man.”
Dannen punched him in the side. The man wheezed. “And you don’t know where you are.” He watched the man’s eyes for a few seconds before going back to the suitcase in his bedroom, for his kit.
Charles talked.
He made a job of it – and lost the tip of finger – but he gave it up.
Aras was at a particular party in a particular house and it was probably still going.
Dannen tied the concierge to the base of the toilet pedestal and locked him in.
Then, he packed his things and planned. When he was done he went back to Charles and checked on him. The man’s eyes bulged.
“You stay there. Or I’ll come back.”
Charles nodded fast.
Dannen slipped the Do Not Disturb sign over the handle on the way out.
3
The party was at a secluded place up in the dunes, halfway along a stretch called Robinson Beach. Number 947. According to Charles, a man named Oscar Samson ran the show. He looked after the island’s hospitality staff. Yesterday they were all talking about the attractive stranger asking questions. That was Daniel. They all liked what they saw.
The entrance to the house was unmarked but either side was numbered. Dannen parked the hire car out of sight and jumped the fence. He took the long gravel track down to the beachside scrub and the house nestled in the paperbark trees.
The place looked deserted.
One PM.
They were either sleeping it off or the party had moved on.
Dannen checked his piece then slipped on a pair of leather gloves. He crept in closer. When he was under the house, he stood in the sand by the tall timber stilts and listened. No movement upstairs. He took a side stair and tried the door, finding it unlocked.
The inside of the house was a war zone. There were sex toys strewn around, still wet to touch. Porn playing on muted television screens. Drug residue on the eaves and glass surfaces. Lots of smudged tumblers, used rubbers, broken furniture and dirty carpet. One room had blood splattered across the bed sheets but it wasn’t enough to kill a person. Another room had a harness strung to the ceiling beside a tripod and camera. Dannen went to the camera and turned it on. A woman plunged a strap-on dildo deep into a grossly overweight man, his flesh pouring out of the harness. The man laughed and moaned, gouging himself from a bottle of champagne. Dannen turned it off.
Holt was right: He did need someone for this.
The phone rang in the main room. Dannen picked it up. “Uh-huh,” he said.
Charles spoke fast into the receiver: “You guys need to clean up real quick. Some crazy fuck from the mainland is headed your way and—”
“Charles, I’m really, really disappointed in you.”
The line went dead. Dannen put the phone down.
The rear deck of the house provided an open view of the beach. Dannen went to the glazed windows and looked out on the long white expanse of sand, piercingly bright. He closed the curtains and checked his watch. He went to the kitchen table and sat down. He checked his gun. Satisfied, he centred himself becoming as still as the house around him.
He waited.
Two hours later, things started moving at the front door. Whoever it was did not have a key. Dannen listened to them try the handle a few times before slipping something into the lock. They were fast, experienced. Once inside, they stood a while in the hall before coming in further. It was a man. As he stepped into the living room, Dannen raised his gun and cleared his throat. “Easy now,” he said.
The man didn’t flinch at the gun. He was mid-forties, dressed in shorts, a faded denim shirt rolled at the sleeves. “You can put that down,” he said.
“Can I now?”
“I’m not looking to get shot.”
“Well, I can pick it up a lot faster than you think.” Dannen rested the gun on the table. “I’m looking for a colleague of mine. Daniel Aras. Six two. Friendly. Looks like something out of a fitness magazine.”
“I figured you’d be looking for Oscar, if you were here.”
“I’ve been told Daniel’s with Oscar.”
“That’s right. That’s what I hear too. Not a great idea to come at Oscar from the side, if you ask me. He’s not a big fan of prying.”
“That’s Daniel’s job. He works for me. So what are you doing here? Are you a friend of his or...”
“In a way. The concierge you roughed up, Charles, he’s a friend of mine. A good kid most of the time. You know, you really don’t want to mess with the hotel staff over here. That’s not a good way to do things. I think you may have gotten off on the wrong foot.”
“I don’t care. How do I find Oscar?”
“He’s around. What’s this about?”
Dannen decided the man looked like a soldier on leave. He was strong, broad, calm. But also tired, shell-shocked. Something about him didn’t fit. Dannen moved his hand closer to the gun and said, “Are you a cop?”
The man nodded. “Something like that. Jim Harris. And you’re John, right? John Dannen from Canberra. This is going to be a real short visit for you John, unless you tell me what you want.”
Dannen told him. There was nothing to lose. He wanted the Senator’s kid.
When he was done, the man said, “I can’t help you with Bachelard’s son. He’s here but...that’s not how we do things. You can make your own way on that. But the Senator has been a friend to us over the years so I’ll give you till the morning to get off the island. You get a pass till then. You deliver this letter to Ron’s kid or you don’t, I don’t give a shit, just as long as you’re done by tomorrow. And no one else loses a finger.”
“Part of a finger,” said Dannen. “So where’s Oscar then?”
The man looked out the bay windows into the ocean. “My guess is he’s out there on his boat,” he said, reaching into his pocket.
Dannen picked up the gun.
The man ignored it. He retrieved a battered old flip phone from his shorts and dialled a number. “Sue, it’s me,” he said. “Oh you know. Look, I’m here with a friend of mine. I want to send him out your way.”
“—Yeah, yeah, I know.”
“—Well, I’m inviting him okay? There’s a bigger picture, Sue. Okay. Well, you can decide for yourself when he’s out there, but I’ve met with him and he’ll be out of your hair tomorrow no matter what. So can I send him?”
“—Okay. Yeah, that’ll work. Bye.”
He closed the phone. “See that white dot out there in the water, that is Oscar. He’s sending someone in.”
“Right.”
Harris looked around at the room, as if finally noticing the state of the place. He shook his head. “I’m going to hit the road. I don’t want to see you again, John. Tomorrow morning, okay?”
“Tomorrow morning,” said Dannen.
Two days of this would be enough.
4
The ocean lapped the front of the dingy. The driver looked like a rich kid on vacation: light blue polo, deck shoes, smooth skin. He steered the outboard with one hand and sucked on a Corona with the other, his eyes shielded behind a pair of red tint wayfarers. As Oscar’s yacht came into view, the kid drained the last of his beer and belched. The was the sum total of their conversation.
The yacht was huge. A seventy-foot white manse on water. It cast a cold shadow over them as they pulled up alongside. Music thumped out. People on-board cheered. Glasses clinked. There was a small timber deck attached to the boat’s rear and two women sat out there in bikinis. As they moored, Dannen watched as one of the women puked into the sea. The driver got out and made to leave.
“I need you to take me to him,” said Dannen.
The driver ignored him, kept walking.
&
nbsp; Dannen looked in after him. A room full of standing people behind glass sliding doors. A party. Not his territory at all. After a few seconds, one of the girls on the deck finally noticed him sitting there alone in the boat. She stared, zoned.
“You know where I can find Oscar?” he said.
The girl turned to her friend.
“He’s around,” she said.
Dannen went inside and started looking. The party raged. The yacht smelled like a gymnasium on a bad day, like sweat and damp. Many of the guests were naked. Dannen squeezed through the bodies, searching for Aras and brushing off dance partners and hugs. Strangers screamed at him. On one of the higher decks, he found a lounge full of sleeping bodies, camped out like a crèche. Down the far end of the same level, he came up on a stubby man dressed in an ill-fitting black tuxedo. No earpiece. No weapon. Dannen figured him for hospitality staff on higher duties. The guard stood beside a sliding glass door leading off to another section. There were black curtains obscuring the view.
“I’m here for Oscar. Jim Harris sent me.”
“Is that right?” said the guard.
“I don’t need long.”
“You’ll have to wait. He’s not taking meetings at the moment.”
“I can wait.”
Dannen heard footsteps. He glanced back, a waiter — also in a tux — came up the stairs holding a tray of drinks. Dannen moved aside. As the guard slid the door open, the waiter looked him over. “Who’s this?” he said.
“He’s waiting for Oscar.”
The guard stepped in front of the open door and checked the corridor.
“Not today,” said the waiter.
Dannen drove his fist into the waiter’s kidneys, drew his gun and kicked the guard in through the door opening. Before either of them could move, Dannen grabbed the waiter by the arm and dragged him inside, slamming the door behind them all. It took seconds. “Either of you carrying? Gun? Knife?”
