by Tony Black
‘You’ll go to jail.’
‘I killed Vegas, I’m going to jail anyways. I wanna take that bastard that killed Jazzy down as I go, though.’
Clay shook his head and started to let the car slow. They were heading through the township of Killarney. There was a hotel up ahead he could pull into. ‘I can’t be part of this. I can’t take you to Fullerton’s house so you can kill him.’
Lerner took the gun in his right hand and pressed the muzzle against the side of Clay’s head. The steel was surprisingly warm.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Lerner. ‘It doesn’t really matter if I kill you. Like I said, I’m going to jail anyways. And I’m sure I could find Fullerton’s house one way or another with this.’ He waggled the gun before putting it back to Clay’s temple. ‘But, y’know, I’m kinda hoping you will be there to watch it all go down and write it up in the newspaper. Big headlines about my big revenge. How I got my revenge for Jazzy. How I was the big hero who killed the scumbag. So here’s your choice – keep driving and write the biggest story of your life, or stop driving and I’ll shoot you in the head and leave you in a ditch on the side of the road.’
Chapter 38
‘Port Fairy – world’s most liveable community’ said the road sign as they reached the fringe of town. Not tonight, it won’t be, thought Clay, as he let Lerner’s car decelerate.
Lerner still had the gun pointed at him and Clay could tell the speed was starting to affect them both. Clay felt energised and upbeat in spite of the mortal danger, and his mind was on high alert, playing scenarios and ideas out in his head, while Lerner was letting his mouth run. It was no longer stuff Clay cared about, though. Lerner was talking about how he hadn’t slept for three days and the copious amount of drugs he’d been taking over that period of time.
‘But it was all leading up to now,’ Lerner said, still rambling. ‘I was just working up my courage and getting my head straight so I could do this. So I could get my plan together and shoot that evil bastard right in his smug face.’
They were only a couple of minutes from Fullerton’s house, maybe less. Clay’s furtive plotting had come to nothing. He’d considered driving to the Port Fairy police station, but it was about 9 p.m. and no one would be there. Plus, he suspected Lerner would know where the cop shop was and figure out what Clay was trying to do.
Plan B was to drive the car into the Moyne River on the way to Fullerton’s mansion and attempt to get away in the confusion as he and Lerner tried to swim to shore, but Clay guessed Lerner would probably shoot him before they even hit the water.
Plan C was to slow the car enough for Clay to dive out, but he figured that would end badly – it was something that would likely get you killed, even at low speeds. And once he was out of the car: then what?
Plan D was to stop at the wrong house and hope that someone would call the cops in the ensuing mix-up. But Clay realised this would put innocent bystanders in danger, which wasn’t a prospect he was prepared to consider.
All these options and arguments ran through Clay’s mind at a rapid pace, fuelled by the amphetamines in his system, but he realised he was one step from checkmate. His only course of action was to do as Lerner said and hope for a miracle. Maybe Fullerton or his wife would get an opportunity to call the cops. Maybe Lerner would have a change of heart. Maybe Clay would get an opportunity to disarm him. Maybe Clay could still talk him out of this… except he had no idea what to say.
The Moyne River approached and Clay followed it in Lerner’s car, the expensive houses overlooking East Beach on their left, the dark waters of the Moyne to their right. The time for brilliant plans was over. Clay slowed the car and pulled to the side of the road in front of Fullerton’s house. There were lights on. In fact, the house was lit up like a fairground. As he stepped out of the car, Clay could hear faint music coming from the mansion and the murmuring of jovial voices on the breeze. Christ, not a party, he thought.
The night was warm but the town was quiet, not surprising for a Wednesday night in Port Fairy. None of the other houses were as brightly illuminated. Clay gulped down the stomach acid that was rising in his oesophagus. Apparently this was the place to be.
He and Lerner stood on either side of the car. ‘Which one is it?’ asked Lerner.
Clay pointed. ‘The big one with all the lights on. Sounds like they’re having a party.’
‘Move it,’ said Lerner, gesturing towards the house with the gun. He didn’t seem to register Clay’s comment.
‘I said, it sounds like they’re having a party,’ he repeated.
‘I heard ya. And I don’t care.’
‘It’s going to be full of witnesses, Lerner. Innocent bystanders.’
‘Shut up, Moloney. Get moving.’
Clay steeled himself and began walking towards Fullerton’s home. The driveway sloped upwards away from the road to the top of what was once a sand dune. Clay had a vague idea of the layout of the house from his previous visit. There was a path that ran up beside the garage and led to the main entrance. As he got closer, his worst fears were realised. There was indeed some kind of gathering happening. It sounded like it was going on near the deck at the ocean side of the house. A set of wooden stairs, further on past the front door, appeared to lead up to the deck.
They reached the front door and Lerner poked Clay in the back with the gun. ‘Up the stairs.’ His voice was now a menacing whisper.
‘Are you sure you wanna—’
‘Up the stairs.’ The hard metal of the gun was once again pushed in his kidneys.
One begrudging step after another, Clay ascended the stairs. He could hear Lerner’s footsteps right behind him.
At the top of the stairs, the party came to life before his eyes. It wasn’t a big gathering, only about a dozen people. Two women were dancing in bare feet to music piping through expensive speakers attached to the corners of the roof over the deck, while the rest of the people sat in two groups, one around a large table covered in empty and half-empty alcohol bottles, the other on chairs facing out across East Beach and the ocean beyond. Off in the distance, Warrnambool twinkled like a faraway constellation.
At first no one noticed Clay entering the deck from out of the darkness. The dancers were too busy enjoying Bowie’s ‘Golden Years’, the group at the table were deep in conversation, and the other group had their backs to him. Clay took a step forward and still no one noticed him. He felt the prod in his back again and took another step across the wooden floor, this time raising his hands in a ‘don’t shoot’ gesture. That movement caught in the periphery of the party guests’ vision and one by one they turned to look at him.
Lerner moved out from behind him and to his side, gun pointed at Clay’s head now. ‘Put your arms down, you idiot,’ said Lerner, and Clay obliged.
One of the two dancing women turned off the music, and now the people facing the ocean looked around to see what was going on. Lerner had everyone’s attention as silence descended on the party.
Clay scanned the deck and spotted Fullerton. He was seated at the table next to his wife. Next to them was a Moyne Shire councillor and his wife. Also at the table was a lawyer Clay vaguely knew from his time as a court reporter, and a Warrnambool City Council executive. He didn’t recognise the two women dancing, and he couldn’t quite make out who was sitting overlooking the ocean, except for one of them – the Right Honourable Member for Warrnambool, Wayne Swanson.
Swanson was the first to stand. He wobbled his way free of his chair and took a couple of steps toward the table. Obviously drunk, Swanson looked paler than ever. ‘Moloney,’ he called in a buoyant manner, before stopping as he noticed Lerner’s presence and the gun. ‘What’s going on here?’
‘Who are you?’ growled Lerner. His voice had taken on an edge and Clay realised Lerner was muttering to himself. He’s psyching himself up, Clay thought. Holy shit, he’s going to go through with this.
‘I’m MP Wayne Swanson, member for Warrnambool,’ said Swanson, attempting to s
quare his shoulders. ‘Who the hell are you?’
‘Where’s Fullerton?’ said Lerner, ignoring Swanson.
Fullerton stood up from the table, pushing his chair back; it made a jarring sound as it slid across the wooden deck. ‘I’m Lachlan Fullerton. What do you want? What’s going on here, Moloney?’
‘Don’t talk to him, talk to me!’ Lerner wasn’t trying to disguise his rage any more. Seeing Fullerton had brought it out for all to see. Lerner shoved Clay aside, causing Clay’s foot to catch on the decking. He dropped to the floor and scuttled out of the way, towards the two women who had been dancing. They were cowering in a corner of the deck that was not far enough away from Lerner for their liking. Clay rose and backed up to them. He noticed they were standing in front of a glass sliding door.
Lerner’s attention was on Fullerton and Swanson, who stood close to each other. The table was between them and Lerner.
Clay placed his hands flat against the glass door and started to slide it open, trying to make as little noise as possible. Inch by inch it started to move. Lerner hadn’t noticed – he was too focused on his prey.
‘You guys have been very bad,’ said Lerner. He pointed the gun, first at Fullerton, then at Swanson. ‘You’ve been doing some very bad things. You killed Jazzy.’
‘I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Fullerton.
‘Don’t lie!’ yelled Lerner, moving the muzzle back in Fullerton’s direction. ‘You had her killed. You got your guys to shoot her in the head and then set her car on fire.’
‘I think you need help, my friend,’ said Fullerton.
Clay had the glass door open enough for a person to fit through. Lerner didn’t appear to notice. Clay half turned his face to the two women next to him. They were pale, with panicked expressions beneath their heavily made up faces. Clay dropped his voice to a breathy whisper that was almost inaudible. ‘Go in. Quietly. Call the cops.’
The two women slowly stepped through the door and padded on bare feet into the house. They were outside Lerner’s line of vision, but Clay could see the gunman was building into a rage and had only Fullerton and Swanson in his sights.
‘No, you need help,’ said Lerner. ‘You both need help.’ The gun barrel swung to Swanson. ‘You killed a girl. You were trying to screw her. Then you threw her into the ocean.’ He moved the pistol back to Fullerton. ‘And you tried to cover it up. You tried to pay off my Jacinta, and then you had her killed. Because she saw it all.’
Everyone had been staring at Lerner, transfixed, but now they were sliding glances in Fullerton and Swanson’s direction. Clay could see the confusion in their eyes. Their nice evening had been shattered in horrific fashion.
‘I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about,’ said Fullerton, his expression unmoved. But Swanson had gone a diminishing shade of grey and he looked like he was about to throw up.
‘Yeah, you do,’ said Lerner, taking a couple of steps forward. His hands were a little shaky but he looked in control. ‘You know exactly what I’m talking about. Two women are dead because of you two greedy bastards.’
There was a sluicing sound from Swanson as he emptied the contents of his stomach all over the decking. Clay looked away, but from the sounds of it, Swanson had enjoyed a liquid dinner. The politician crumpled to his knees, panting and retching.
Fullerton appeared overjoyed for the distraction and turned to help Swanson. ‘Someone get him a glass of water,’ said Fullerton, and one of the guests obliged. Fullerton crouched down next to Swanson, who accepted the glass with shaking hands. Everyone in the room was watching him now.
Clay realised this might be the opportunity he was looking for. He could disarm Lerner if he could take him to the ground. Clay took a careful step forward, then another. He was still a good ten steps from Lerner, but before he could move any further, Lerner turned to him, gun aimed right at his chest.
‘Get him up, get him on his feet,’ said Lerner.
‘I’m not helping you, Lerner,’ said Clay.
‘Do it.’
‘You don’t have to do this. Let the cops handle this.’
Lerner laughed. It was a disturbing, haunting sound devoid of humour. ‘You mean the same cops these two have been paying off? The same cops who gave me this gun and sent me after you?’ Lerner turned back to Swanson and Fullerton. ‘You two think you run this town, don’t ya? You two think you can do whatever you like to whoever you like, don’t ya? Well, this guy’s got the right idea – you make me sick.’
Fullerton stood back up. ‘We do run this town and when the police get here, we’re going to see to it that you’re put away for a very long time.’
A hand reached out and grabbed Fullerton’s arm. It was his wife, terrified. Her eyes pleaded and Clay read the look: please, don’t antagonise him.
Lerner noticed her as well. He moved around the table toward her. ‘Is this your wife?’ he asked, a hint of glee edging into his tone. ‘Maybe I should do to her what you did to Jazzy.’ Lerner looked at the terrified woman. ‘Of course, I wouldn’t bother paying her.’
He was right next to her now. Fullerton was on the other side of her, but Lerner’s gun was trained right on him. Lerner looked Fullerton’s wife in the eye. ‘Did you know he was bangin’ hookers, love? Did you know he was doing my missus ’til he decided it was cheaper just to have her killed?’
Fullerton’s wife burst into tears, her body racked by sobs. Her husband moved closer to her. ‘Leave her out of this, you animal,’ he sneered.
‘You don’t get to tell me what to do, mate. I’m the one with the gun.’ Lerner moved back around the table and came to a standstill facing Fullerton and Swanson. A large pool of liquid lay between them, and Swanson was still on his knees, panting and swaying. ‘Get up,’ said Lerner.
Swanson shook his head and retched again, then started to gulp air.
‘Get up!’
Clay heard a distant sound, like a car door closing. It had been a couple of minutes since the women had gone inside. He hoped a cop car was in Port Fairy when they’d called the police. Please let the police be here, he thought.
‘Get up!’ Lerner’s rage was back in full flight.
Swanson shook his head again and started to sob.
Lerner raised the gun to the roof and fired a shot. The noise was deafening and shocking, like an overhead explosion, and Clay was struck by a premonition. He’s really going to do it, he thought. Up until that point it had seemed surreal, as if it were impossible for Lerner to shoot Fullerton and Swanson, as if the universe wouldn’t allow these two important men to be wiped out by a vengeful drug fiend. But the frightening sound of the gun going off sliced through all doubt. Clay knew Lerner wanted to kill these two men, but now he knew Lerner was actually going to kill these two men.
‘Get up!’
Swanson rose to his feet with great effort. He was crying, spools of his own sick and tears running down his face. He had wine-red vomit on his shirt. The member for Warrnambool had been reduced to a physical, trembling mess.
Clay turned away and heard the sound of salvation – booted feet racing up the wooden steps. The police were here. Rescue had arrived, they could still be saved. Clay looked back to Swanson, he was spluttering, almost in convulsions, as he tried to form the words to reason with Lerner. But Lerner had heard the sound of footsteps drawing closer, too. The gunman’s face registered shock as he realised what was happening, and how his time as tormentor had run out. The first shot sent screams into the night air as Swanson dropped back to the deck, trailed by an arc of his own blood. It took a further two shots to fell Fullerton, his wife throwing herself on top of his lifeless form as Lerner turned to face the sprinting cops. With their guns drawn, the cops didn’t wait for Lerner to fire again; their shots were precise, clinical. Lerner went over on the deck and was motionless.
Epilogue
‘I feel like I haven’t seen you for a week,’ said Bec, as she joined Clay’s table in the smoker’s
lounge at the Hotel Warrnambool. Her friend looked tired, but healthier than she’d seen for a while, and he flashed her a wide smile when she sat opposite him.
‘It’s been a hell of a week,’ he said, between sips of a pint of beer and drags on his Peter Stuyvesant.
It had only been four days since the shooting, but it had felt like an eternity to Bec. On the night Lerner had killed Lachlan Fullerton and Wayne Swanson, Bec had spent a couple of hours in abject panic. After hearing the shot that had punctured her tyre, she’d raced around to the front of the house to find no sign of Clay, and see a strange car driving away. She’d called the police and sat on her verandah, nerves mangled, praying for answers.
‘A hell of a week might be an understatement,’ she said. ‘You’re a celebrity.’
‘For now. That won’t last, thank Christ.’
As a journalist who was witness to the murder of a federal politician and a prominent businessman, Bec was aware that Clay had spent most of the past four days in one of three places – the Warrnambool police station; the office, churning out stories about what had happened; and in front of cameras and microphones, as the story went national.
‘You haven’t been enjoying the limelight?’
‘Maybe a little.’ He grinned. ‘It’s gotten Tudor off my back, if nothing else.’
‘Your stories – I’ve read every one of them. They’ve been amazing.’ Clay’s account of last Wednesday night, or some variation of it, had run in every paper around the country.
‘Thanks,’ he said.
He’d also written a huge amount of follow-up copy after the incident. There were stories with grieving family members, from Kerry Collins’ parents to Lachlan Fullerton’s relatives. There was a colourful but disturbing profile on Lerner. There was the story about the airport deal being torn up as more details on Fullerton and Swanson’s corruption came to light. When Clay hadn’t been at the police station or giving an interview, he’d been sitting in a quiet room at the office working on articles and interviews, rarely sleeping. Bec had waved to him while walking past a few times, but that had been the limit of their interaction over the past few days.
