Bay of Martyrs

by Tony Black

  The shape was slowly coming toward him, as if uncertain, not quite stumbling but shambling in a slow, ragged gait. Clay tapped his pockets for something resembling a weapon but came up with nothing. He didn’t know what he was hoping to find; a lighter, perhaps? Maybe a pen or pencil? The futility of his actions dawned on him. He was being stupid. He steeled himself, willed his breathing to calm down again, and decided his only hope was the direct approach.

  ‘You alright there, mate?’ he said in his most convivial, non-threatening voice.

  The figure halted, stopped moving. Clay still couldn’t see any facial features, but he was starting to make out dishevelled hair, sticking up in short clumps, and baggy unkempt clothes that looked like they hadn’t been changed in days.

  Clay tried again, this time risking a step forward to lure the figure’s attention away from the house and Bec. ‘You OK, fella? You wanna hand with something?’

  ‘Stop moving.’ The voice was a tired bark, flat and low.

  Clay complied and raised his hands above his head in a surrender gesture. ‘I think you might be a bit lost there, mate.’

  ‘Are you Clayton Moloney?’ The voice sounded detached, drained of emotion; there was little intonation in the words, which were dragged from deep inside an exhausted frame.

  Clay’s gut knotted up at the mention of his own name. His eyes were adjusting enough to make out the exact shape of the gun; it was certainly real, and pointed straight at him. His mind flicked through the possible responses. Do I say ‘yes’? he thought. Do I say ‘no’? Do I say ‘who’s asking?’

  There was no instruction manual to consult, no real life reference he might utilise. All Clay’s images of men with guns came from film; he realised at once how unrelated to reality they all were. For reasons unknown to himself, the best he could fathom was misplaced gallantry, so he responded in the affirmative. ‘Yeah, I’m Clayton Moloney.’

  There was a pause from the gunman.

  ‘What do you want, mate?’ asked Clay. ‘I haven’t got any money or anything.’

  ‘Frank Anderson sent me to kill you.’

  Clay’s head flipped, he felt dizzy, like he was recovering from a fainting spell. He was acutely aware of an incredible silence around him, like the crickets had stopped their chirping to listen in on the conversation. A dozen thoughts ran through Clay’s mind all at once. Oddly, the one clear idea he could grab hold of was the fact that his life wasn’t flashing before his eyes, which made him think either he wasn’t about to die or that the notion was a myth.

  The feeling of vertigo passed, but Clay remained in a kind of stasis, waiting to see what would happen next. The sound of crickets returned. A dog howled off in the distance. Clay’s heart kept up its heavy pounding. After what felt like a full minute, the gunman spoke again. ‘But I’m not going to.’

  Clay realised he had been holding his breath, and for the first time in a short while, he exhaled. ‘I’m glad to hear that,’ he managed.

  ‘Not if you do what I say.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘We’re going for a drive.’

  There was a blur of movement and the gunman grabbed Clay by the arm and dragged him past Bec’s Mazda. Clay could smell sweat and body odour and estimated the man hadn’t showered in at least a couple of days.

  The gunman stopped suddenly, as if a thought had just reached him. He turned, swinging Clay out of the way without letting go of him, and pointed the gun at the red car. There was a loud crack that echoed through the empty night and the sound of air rushing from one of Bec’s tyres. Satisfied, the gunman wheeled around again, heading down the long gravel driveway, pulling Clay along with him.

  Clay’s ears rang from the handgun’s blast as he stumbled down the track. He felt like he was in a dream, but urged himself to get a grip.

  The man dragged Clay off the driveway and into the knee-length grass before letting go of his arm and shoving him away. ‘Get in,’ said the man, and Clay noticed for the first time a dark car not more than twenty metres away. He looked back and saw the gun still pointed at him. It flicked in the direction of the car. ‘You drive,’ said the flat voice.

  The gunman climbed into the passenger seat, the gun trained on Clay the whole time. Clay noticed a bad smell in the car. A glance in the back seat seemed to indicate someone had been living in there, amongst the Maccas wrappers and take-away cartons.

  ‘Start it. Drive.’ Clay was more than close enough to make out the face now. The man hadn’t shaved, or spent much time outdoors in a while, his skin was so pale it almost glowed in the dark interior of the car. Only the wild black hair, the beginnings of a beard, and the dark sunken pits of his eyes detracted from the paleness.

  Clay reached forward and found the keys in the ignition. The starter motor failed the first time and for a second he thought he’d received a reprieve. The gun-toting passenger said nothing and Clay tried again. This time the engine roared to life. Clay turned on the headlights, but in his peripheral vision he could see the gun being shaken at him. ‘Lights off,’ said the gunman.

  Clay followed the instruction and pulled slowly onto the driveway, hearing the wheels crunch the gravel as he rolled at low speed back toward the road. ‘Where are we going, mate?’ he asked, desperate to keep his tone light and informal. This guy might not want to kill me at present, but it’s still a possibility, thought Clay. Best to keep him on side.

  ‘Port Fairy. We’re going to see a man. I thought you might know where to find him.’

  The longer sentences gave Clay a better example of the man’s voice and a better insight into his state of mind. The tone was weary and flat, yet there was still a racing edge to his delivery. This guy’s tired and probably coming off a long bender, thought Clay. If that’s the case, he’s also likely to be propping himself up with something – ice or speed or maybe just caffeine.

  Right on cue, the man reached forward to the glovebox and opened it. The light inside came on and illuminated glassy bloodshot eyes, ringed with fatigue lines. Switching the gun to his left hand but keeping it pointed at Clay, the man pulled a small sandwich bag of white powder out of the compartment. He opened the seal, licked a finger, plunged it into the powder, and then rubbed the drug on his gums.

  Clay was relieved. The gunman was powering himself with speed, not ice. Crystal meth would have made him erratic and liable to do anything, increasing the danger level by a long way. Speed was going to keep him awake and focused, probably talkative, too, but less likely to do something totally unexpected or unnecessarily violent.

  As the gunman sealed the bag, Clay was struck by an idea. ‘May I?’ he asked. He licked his finger and pointed at the bag.

  Clay kept his eyes on the road – they were about to reach the end of the driveway and turn onto the asphalt – but he could feel the gunman glaring at him, trying to figure out what he was playing at. With careful movements, using both hands, the gunman opened the bag again and cradled it over toward Clay. It meant the gun was pointed straight up into Clay’s face and from the way the man was holding the bag, Clay guessed he was scared of Clay tipping the contents all over the place as a form of distraction.

  But Clay held to his plan – he simply dipped his finger into the bag and rubbed what stuck to his finger onto his gums.

  ‘Thanks, man,’ he said, pulling the car onto the main road. ‘I needed that. Probably not as much as you, but I definitely needed it.’

  Clay snuck a look at the gunman’s puzzled expression as the bag of speed was tucked back into the glovebox. The taste of the powder was bitter and chemical, and it wouldn’t start kicking in for a good twenty minutes or half an hour. It would take less than that to get to Port Fairy.

  ‘You seem pretty relaxed for someone who has a gun pointed at them.’

  Clay smiled. Maybe it had worked. The ultimate ice-breaker, he thought – do drugs with someone. It immediately made them equals and defused the situation. And it was the best ploy Clay could think of to get the gunman talking.


  ‘You’ve already told me you’re not going to kill me,’ said Clay. ‘Although I’m curious to know what old Frank Anderson has against me. By the way, I’m turning the headlights on so we don’t get pulled over.’

  The gunman nodded and Clay flicked the switch on the end of the indicators. The road ahead and outskirts of Koroit were illuminated. ‘Frank said you were snooping around Vegas’ place, asking questions about me.’

  Lerner. Clay felt almost certain this was him.

  ‘Man, I’ve known Vegas for years. And I didn’t “snoop around”, I went to his house to buy weed,’ Clay lied.

  ‘Frank said you’re a journalist. That you’re gonna pin Jacinta’s murder on me and print it in the paper. Even though I didn’t do nothing.’ The tone and volume of his voice was rising.

  Clay slowed and stopped at an intersection. ‘Frank Anderson is a liar,’ he said calmly, keeping a lightness in his voice. ‘I can’t just print accusations like that in the paper without proof. That would mean you could sue me and make a bunch of money. Why would I do that? Why would I give you free money?’

  The car pulled through the crossroads at a gentle pace. There was very little traffic around, but Clay was in no hurry to get to Port Fairy, not while he had Lerner talking.

  ‘I didn’t kill Jacinta,’ said Lerner. Clay’s explanation seemed to have calmed him a little. ‘And I didn’t mean to kill Vegas.’

  Whoa, thought Clay. A dozen questions flooded his brain, but he went with the one most likely to keep Lerner talking. ‘What happened?’

  ‘He went for the gun,’ said Lerner, the tiredness creeping back into his voice. ‘I was a bit on edge, it just went off. I didn’t mean it. I was pretty high on ice at the time. I wanted to just chill out with Vegas, ya know? Smoke a bowl and come down. Get my head straight. I had the gun. Frank gave it to me. But… I dunno. I wasn’t thinking straight. Frank had put ideas in my head. Ideas about you. He told me you were talking to Vegas. I didn’t mean to shoot Vegas. I told Frank that. Then Frank told me where to find you. He told me to go after you, not Fullerton.’

  ‘Wait. What? Fullerton? Lachlan Fullerton?’

  ‘The guy we’re going to see in Port Fairy. He’s the one who had Jacinta killed. I know it. No matter what Frank tried to tell me, no matter how much bullshit he fed me, I know it was Fullerton and his dudes. The bastard killed Jazzy.’

  The immensity of that comment made Clay’s heart stall and he found himself holding his breath again. Here were the answers to many of the questions that had been driving him crazy over the past couple of months. ‘How do you know that?’ he said. Clay wished he had his notepad, or a voice recorder. His phone was in his pocket, but he couldn’t do anything with it without being noticed and potentially shot.

  ‘Jacinta was getting money off Fullerton to keep her mouth shut. She was seeing him a couple of times a week and getting cash off him. Screwing him, too. But she told me she kept asking him for more and more money. I told her she was gonna get in trouble. She said she knew too much, he couldn’t touch her. Then one night she went to see him at Thunder Point. I drove up there and she was by herself, so I went away and came back later. There were two guys driving off in a real posh car and her car was in flames. They were Fullerton’s guys. She’d told me about them. They were usually around whenever she met up with him. A bald one, and a guy with slick black hair. Tough looking bastards.’

  ‘What did she have on Fullerton? Some kind of dirt?’

  Lerner had lowered the gun, lost in his memory. ‘You could call it that… she saw someone get killed and thrown off his boat.’

  Clay almost drove off the road. He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times but no words came out. He tried again. ‘Kerry Collins.’

  ‘She was in all the news and stuff.’

  ‘What happened? What did Jacinta see?’

  Clay could feel Lerner sizing him up all over again. He’d come off too keen, and now Lerner was suspicious.

  ‘Tell me, Lerner,’ he said.

  ‘How do you know my name?’

  ‘Don’t worry about that. Just tell me what Jacinta saw or I’ll pull over and I won’t take you to Fullerton.’

  ‘I’ve got the gun, ya smart-arse.’

  ‘Lerner, we both know you’re not going to shoot me. You would have done that already. You didn’t mean to kill Vegas. You’re not that kind of guy.’ Clay was taking a serious punt on that last bit, but he was desperate. The last piece of the puzzle that had been plaguing him, that had been keeping him up at nights, was in the passenger seat beside him.

  ‘You gonna put this in the paper?’

  ‘I won’t lie to you, mate – it’s more than likely. But I need to know. There’s some big, powerful people involved here, and with your help, I can bring them down. But you’ve gotta tell me what you know.’

  Clay had turned the car down a side road and was passing an old church and hall. They were about ten minutes from Port Fairy and Clay had no idea what would happen when they got there, but he didn’t care about that just yet. He needed to know what Lerner knew.

  Lerner pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and removed two smokes. He lit them both and handed one to Clay, who took it gratefully. Lerner dragged on the other Peter Jackson and wound the window down a smidge with his gun hand. He nodded finally and let a plume of smoke flow out his mouth and out the gap in the window. ‘So Jacinta gets this job on a boat,’ he said. ‘Supposed to service some real high-flying client. One of Fullerton’s mates. Fullerton hired her, but she was gonna do this other guy. She was some kind of deal sweetener, she told me. Anyway, there’s this waitress on board, too, real young bird, and Fullerton takes the boat out into the Lady Bay, and it’s nice and calm and everything’s cool. The waitress serves them drinks and nibbles, Jacinta has a few drinks with them and whatever. Then this client, Fullerton’s mate, gets a bit grabby with the waitress girl. He can’t even be bothered with Jacinta, he just starts going the grope on this teenage chick. The girl fights back. Jacinta walks in on all this in the little room on the boat. The cabin, or whatever you call it. And then as this girl sees Jacinta come into the room, she slips out of the guy’s arms, but she falls over and whack! She hits her head on the edge of a rail or something. Blood everywhere. Jacinta screams her tits off.’

  Lerner seemed to be relishing telling this part of the story, and Clay suspected he really was ‘that kind of guy’. ‘So this Fullerton comes in and the girl’s dead. Died right there and then. So he drives the boat out to sea a bit further and they throw her overboard and clean up the blood. Jacinta’s freakin’ out. She’s scared they’re gonna throw her overboard, too. But these guys are chickenshit, they won’t get their hands dirty like that. So they do a deal with Jacinta. Fullerton says he’ll look after her if she looks after him. If she says nothing, he’ll pay her. Weekly visits, good money. Jacinta’s just stoked not to get killed at that point. But when they get back to land and time goes by, she starts pushing her luck. Couple of times a week she catches up with this Fullerton. She screws him, she gets paid big money. But she starts gettin’ greedy and starts askin’ for more money. So he gets these two dudes to take her out. Bald guy and a dark-haired fella. I got a real good look at them as they were driving out of Thunder Point. They were in a hurry, but I saw ’em.’

  Clay dragged on his cigarette feverishly, as his brain finally connected the last dot. ‘The client on the boat that was groping the waitress girl – he was a politician, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, that’s it. What was his name? I know it…’

  ‘Wayne Swanson.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s the one,’ said Lerner. ‘That’s the guy, bloody mongrel.’

  Clay knew his guess was right even before Lerner confirmed it, but he was still astounded. He felt a wild mixture of absolute calm and utter excitement, like his mind was at one with the universe because everything was in its proper place, but his gut was still churning over.

  ‘Swan
son kills Kerry Collins,’ said Clay. ‘Swanson gets Fullerton to take care of Jacinta Porter and in return gives him the airport deal. Fullerton gets sick of looking after Jacinta and gets his goons, most likely the ones that beat me up, to take her out. Meanwhile Fullerton or Swanson or both get Frank Anderson to sweep the whole thing under the carpet, as they know full well it was possible to trace it all back to them. Probably paid Anderson off, or promised him something, maybe even had something over him.’

  Clay saw Lerner was eyeing him in a peculiar way, and Clay realised he probably seemed like he was talking to himself. ‘Meanwhile, I’m snooping around,’ Clay continued and threw a glance Lerner’s way. ‘You’re snooping around. We’re both asking questions. Anderson figures he can take out two birds with one stone and sets you onto me. He was setting you up, Lerner. He gave you that gun to set you up. It’s probably the gun that killed Jacinta.’

  ‘What? She was burnt to death.’

  ‘No, mate. She was shot. I saw the autopsy report. The burn job was an attempt to cover the evidence.’

  Lerner looked at the pistol, as if suddenly remembering he had it. He raised it in a half-hearted way then lowered it again. The eerie near-silence of driving in the country at night enveloped them as Clay drove on, telling himself that everything made sense. Could the weeks of confusion really be over?

  He reached the highway and turned right towards Port Fairy. As he stared at the road ahead he realised the night still had a long time till the sand ran out. Clay took his eyes off the road to assess the look on Lerner’s face. His passenger’s expression was one of stony determination. Lerner’s eyes blazed and when he wasn’t sucking hard on his cigarette, he was grinding his teeth. He was still fending off sleep by the looks of it, too, and Clay was worried all over again.

  ‘You can’t kill Fullerton,’ he said.

  ‘Why not?’ Lerner didn’t take his eyes off the road. The gun was now cradled in one hand in his lap.