Directive RIP

by Stuart Parker

  26

  Three Military Police officers were waiting at the East entrance of the Fairfield Military Hospital. They were tall, solid and dour. One of them was holding an empty wheelchair. Furn leaned back against the silver Honda NSX and looked passed them, through the tall wire fence at the grey buildings beyond. His tiredness was stirred by the darkness of the scene and the dampness of the cold air.

  ‘Your man is in the backseat,’ he said. ‘Help yourselves

  The MPs efficiently, silently unloaded Dokomad into the wheelchair. One of the MPs remained back from the effort, keeping guard with his pistol drawn. As Dokomad was wheeled through the hospital gates, he held his hand out to Furn. ‘The keys.’

  Furn handed over the handcuff keys. The large barbed wire gate began closing the moment Dokomad was within the hospital grounds; it drew Furn’s attention to the overhead surveillance cameras crisscrossing the area: the thought of the kind of people who would be peering through them was colder even than the pre-dawn mist.

  Furn watched the MP join up with the rest of the party. He considered shouting out a warning about the tracking device wallowing around in Wragg’s stomach. But there was something eerie about the lifeless building with the barred windows they were headed for. He didn’t even want his voice going in that direction.

  He got back into the Honda and drove. The car felt so much lighter on the drive away from the hospital. All those hours in hotel rooms he had spent memorising inward routes, now he could unravel them and expunge them. He drove home chewing on mints. The only real obstacle on the way was the Black Gate pub. He wouldn’t have minded another crack at Jalice’s affections. Then his thoughts were accosted in the same manner as he had been physically accosted outside its front entrance by that peculiar kangaroo killer. Had it been McNaught, the silver statue? Maybe some time down the track Furn would have the opportunity to pose the question to the man himself.

  He let the idea sit on the 60 kilometre per hour speed limit awhile before discarding it to the streets. McNaught was going to get his fair share of premium penitentiary food and there was no bringing back the hapless kangaroo. So, Furn wouldn’t press for a charge unless the prosecutors couldn’t come up with anything better.

  As Furn pulled into his North Balwyn driveway a good night’s sleep was the only revenge he had in mind. His mail box was full of junk. How long had it been? Just a few days. Time always slowed away from home.

  After some fidgeting with key and lock he was inside. He could smell something funky away in the darkness that needed washing. Something in the kitchen. He figured his nose could get used to it quicker than it would take to turn the tap. Pulling off his shirt he realised the same couldn’t be said for his body. He stumbled to the shower, leaving the lights off - his eyes would not only have needed to adjust to the light but also all that light had to offer and he just wasn’t in the mood. He had soap and water and that was enough, although a towel would have helped.

  He bumped and cajoled his way to the bedroom, hoping he was air drying in the process. His knees touched mattress and the soft, fluffy pillow was exactly where he wanted his head to be. He rode it on a carefree journey into void. As far as Furn could tell, the only difference between sleep and death was that the former made you feel refreshed. Death, however, seemed on occasion to intercede and spoil things. Furn gasped awake, the pillow having become a couple of hands at his throat. Silver hands. It was very dark.

  ‘It’s okay, it was just a nightmare.’ The woman’s voice was gentle, soothing and then she kissed him on the lips. ‘I wasn’t going to do that until morning, but if all you’re going to do is have bad dreams -’ she kissed him again.

  Furn was alert enough to place the voice before he started calling out names. It wasn’t Nashy, the name most comfortable on his tongue, but the name was familiar all the same, recently so. He couldn’t make out anything in the darkness bar a hazy outline that might have included a cascade of hair or merely his own blurry eyes.

  He cumbersomely lifted his head off the damp pillow and his nostrils kicked into action. L’Occitane Fluer D’Acacia. He had experienced enough showers with that brand of soap to recognise it.

  ‘You’re sure you aren’t one of them, May?’ he croaked.

  She giggled and shuffled against him. Furn was keeping his hands to himself but as far as he could tell she was matching him for nakedness.

  ‘Haven’t we broken up?’

  ‘The keys still fit.’

  ‘Locks don’t keep people out. Not even in prison.’ Furn’s head sunk back into the pillow.

  May Haken’s hair, the luxurious flames of ginger, welcomed him there. A week ago it wouldn’t have been particularly strange. In fact, there was nothing strange about break up sex except that her new boyfriend had all but saved his life earlier in the day. Her fingers lightly stroked up and down his chest.

  ‘You’re really not glad to see me?’

  ‘Well, you and Johnny Condrey seem to come as a package.’

  ‘What’s wrong with Johnny? It’s what you always wanted, your own personal bodyguard. Was it all that you hoped it would be?’

  ‘He probably saved my life.’

  ‘It wasn’t only for your benefit. Having a gangster that’s a little good and a police officer that’s a little bad...there’s no shape stronger than a triangle.’

  Her hand was down around his loins: a salvage vessel laying claim to what it had retrieved from the depths.

  ‘You followed me?’ Furn asked, still trying to understand.

  ‘I put a bug in your phone,’ whispered May. ‘Senator Cameron Law has them lying around. I was worried by all that bad press you were getting. I told Johnny to keep an eye on you. He understands. Access to the Prime Minister, the Federal Police, and, it goes without saying, the Red Line Files. You really are a man about town. A nice, sharp corner.’

  Furn clamped down hard on the wrist of her probing hand. ‘I’m not in your pocket if that’s what you’re getting at.’

  May gently kissed him on his lips until he was reciprocating, then she nibbled on his ear. ‘I’m in your bed.’

  ‘Keep Condrey away from me,’ Furn whispered. ‘Things are going to get ugly.’

  ‘Too ugly for the eyes of a convicted felon?’

  ‘You’re playing a dangerous game.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll keep him away for now. Anyway, I think we’ve made our point.’

  Furn started to probe her body with his lips. ‘Yes, you have.’