Thrill City

by Leigh Redhead

  ‘Get your shit together,’ I told myself. ‘Tell Rod, rescue Nick, save Alex and Sean and yourself.

  ‘Thanks, Joan,’ I said as I downed the last of the bourbon and ground the cigarette out on the floor.

  I heard a voice underneath the music and thought it was Joan replying, before realising it was a little early for the speed psychosis to set in. The computer had buzzed into life and Wade was back onscreen, wiping food off his moustache.

  ‘Watto, turn that god-awful music off.’ He squinted into his monitor, obviously wondering what the hell was going on. I stood in front of the laptop and waved.

  ‘Where’s Watto?’ He frowned.

  ‘Screw you,’ I said, taking what was left of the chair and smashing the shit out of the web-cam.

  I crept down the hallway, heading straight for the lounge room, hoping the bikies had departed, leaving their guns behind. They’d gone alright, but taken the weaponry with them. I couldn’t imagine Rod turning up without an armed guard, so it had to be a regular mine’s-bigger-than-yours circle-jerk out at the shed. With any luck they’d all shoot each other, Tarantino style.

  I had Watto’s knife in a sheath around my waist as I prowled about, but didn’t know if it would do me any good. It’d been drummed into my head at some long-ago self-defence class that a knife could easily be snatched away and used against you by someone of superior force, which was pretty much every swinging dick around the godforsaken farmhouse. I wished I’d taken the splintered chair leg.

  Outside the sun was getting higher in the sky and it had to be at least thirty-five degrees. The dirt had settled to a dull ochre colour and the saltbrush was straggly khaki. I couldn’t see anyone but still felt exposed as I dashed from one hiding spot to the other: the dog shed, back of the van, a rusted water tank. A caravan was hooked up to a generator about twenty metres away from the tank, with an air-conditioner crudely installed and running, judging by the drips.

  I knew the lot of them would never be able to fit in there, so planned on heading straight to the large tin shed that Watto’s offsider had dragged Nick into. I peeped around the tank. Rod’s helicopter was roosting on a concrete slab in front of the shed. I crouched, looked underneath the chopper and saw two pairs of legs, one in jeans, the other wearing a combat jumpsuit and lace-up boots, both guarding the door.

  The helicopter shielded me from the men as I dashed to the caravan. From there I’d planned on ducking to the back of the shed, but a sudden sulphur and cat urine stench made me pause behind it.

  I stood on tiptoe trying to look in one of the windows. The curtains had all been drawn, but there was a small gap and when I pressed my eye to the dusty glass I saw science lab beakers, lengths of rubber tubing, and bottles of every sort of chemical from rubbing alcohol to drain cleaner. A pile of matchboxes on a table had all had their striker panels removed and there was a whole heap of empty cold and flu tablet packets.

  So that’s what Watto had been talking about to the bikie in the lounge room, a methamphetamine cook. Perfect place for it, I supposed. No neighbours to clock the stink, no one to call the brigade and the cops if the thing caught fire. I scanned quickly for any weapons, realised I should have checked the black van or searched the house more thoroughly, and decided to backtrack just as soon as I’d seen if Nick was still alive.

  I jogged to the rear of the shed and put my eye up to one of the many small holes in the rusting tin. Two Harleys were parked inside, and Nick was tied to a chair atop a concrete floor. Rod stood over him, stripped to the waist and covered in sweat, just like his action hero character, but much shorter. Rod’s Aryan offsider, Dean, stood watching, as did the bikies I’d seen in the lounge room. Everyone was armed except for Rod, who was doing a fair job on Nick with his fists, stopping every now and then to deliver a verbose soliloquy on justice, righteousness and an eye for an eye. Nick’s head hung forward and blood dripped from his nose and mouth, and I wasn’t sure if he was conscious or even alive until Rod signalled his guard and the guy tipped a bucket of water over Nick’s face and pulled his head back. Nick let out a groan and his eyes fluttered open.

  ‘Wake him up,’ Rod growled.

  The guard slapped Nick’s face.

  ‘Now, you pathetic, murdering cocksucker,’ said Rod, ‘we’re going to take a little joy-ride and you can see what it’s like to skydive—without a parachute.’ He turned to his men. ‘Start up the bird.’

  ‘Uh, Mr Thurlow,’ the skinny bikie piped up. ‘Craig has a package he wants you to dispose of at the same time.’

  ‘Fine, whatever. Go get it, but be quick. We’re leaving in five.’

  The guy nodded and left.

  Five minutes. Damn. I considered yelling out to Rod, but had a sudden flash of insight. He wouldn’t want to know that Nick didn’t kill Isabella. He hated Nick because he suspected she’d still loved him and if I told him he’d just spent a million catching the wrong guy, well, he’d probably refuse to believe it. I’d have given away my position for nothing and it wouldn’t take long for Craig’s guys to find me and shoot me. Speaking of whom, the biker who’d gone to collect my body was going to be raising the alarm any moment. Shit, shit, shit. I ran through the options in my mind, but there weren’t many. Run into the shed to untie Nick, get sprung and we’d die together. Run into the desert and die lost and alone. What about the black van? If Watto had left the keys I might have had a chance, except the bikies would follow on their Harleys, and I’d die in a hail of bullets at the first gate.

  I couldn’t get to the van, anyway. I was hidden by the copter as long as I stayed between the shed and the caravan, but as soon as I made a break for the van the guards at the front of the shed would see me, not to mention the guy who was about to find Watto’s unconscious body and come running out of the house. So many thoughts rushed through my mind I was paralysed, didn’t know what to do.

  Until I glanced back at the caravan and suddenly had an idea.

  Probably wouldn’t work, but I had to try something. It might at least create a diversion and buy me time to get to the van.

  I ran back to the caravan, keeping a lookout for the bikie who was heading towards the house. His back was to me as his boots scuffed up ochre dust. I tried the door and was amazed to find it unlocked. Goddamn. Well, we were in the middle of nowhere . . .

  I’d read stuff in the papers about meth labs. They were prone to exploding, and so full of toxic, flammable chemicals that law enforcement didn’t go in without full Hazmat protective gear. I pulled my t-shirt over the lower half of my face and went inside. An extractor fan was going but the stink was acrid, and I felt noxious gases sting my eyes and coil into my lungs. Inside, propane bottles, coffee filters, betadine and bottles of kerosene shared space with jars full of match heads. What the hell did they do with all that crap?

  I switched off the air-conditioner, left an extractor fan on and swept all the empty cold and flu packets from the laminex table to the floor. I grabbed a bottle of kerosene, squirted it around and picked up an intact box of matches. Soon as I’d jumped out of the caravan I struck a match. Blue flames leapt and I bolted, slamming into the dust behind the shed, sure the thing was going to blow any second.

  It didn’t.

  Had the fire gone out? I peeked through another hole in the tin. Soldier-boy Dean had untied Nick from the chair and was dragging him across the concrete towards the open doors and the helicopter beyond.

  And then—boom.

  chapter fifty-seven

  My shoulders jumped and I turned instinctively, poking my head around the corner of the shed and copping an invisible wave of pressure and heat. The windows exploded in a blur of jangling glass and orange flame, and black smoke unfurled, turning the caravan into a fireball. I ducked as burning shrapnel rained from the sky, scuffing the dirt and pinging off the shed. The air stank of melting plastic, smouldering tyres.

  Glancing through a hole in the tin I saw everyone running outside and I knew I didn’t have long if I wanted to
make a move. I snuck around the other side of the shed and ended up by the helicopter, where Nick was lying alone on the concrete slab.

  ‘Come on,’ I hissed. ‘Get up. Run to the van.’

  Nick shook his bruised and bloody head so I started dragging him through the dirt. Not easy. Although he’d lost weight he was still a big guy.

  Rod and Dean were standing at the rear of the chopper, backs to me, with two bikies and a guy I guessed was the chopper pilot. The skinny bikie with long straggly hair had come out of the house and was standing on the wraparound wooden veranda, weapon in hand, mouth open. Everyone swore and ducked each time another chunk of flaming debris rained down.

  Then something big blew and a fiery propane tank burst straight out of the roof of the caravan like a surface to air missile. The lot of them hit the dirt, but it wasn’t headed for the chopper, instead flying towards the house and crashing through the tin roof. Flames burst from the hole and a blast ripped the air as the tank detonated. The skinny bikie vaulted over the veranda railing as a new blaze roiled from the building. I’d almost got Nick out of sight behind the van when a figure came striding out of the inferno, untouched. He wore a backpack, carried the silver Samsonite case in one hand and a Wild Turkey stubby in the other and was bleeding from the side of the head. Watto.

  He stared straight at me as he came down the stairs. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ he yelled.

  Everybody turned, saw me dragging Nick and in seconds I was surrounded. Watto’s guys pulled me back and held me. Rod’s men grabbed Nick and hefted him into the helicopter.

  I struggled like a wildcat until Watto dropped the suitcase on the ground, reclaimed his knife from my belt and held the serrated tip under my chin. I froze.

  ‘Who the hell is that?’ Rod boomed over the sound of the helicopter rotors, squinting like he almost recognised me.

  Rod’s guard, Dean, had helped wrestle Nick’s limp body into the chopper, and stood on the edge of the cabin, pointing into the distance.

  ‘I can see a dust cloud,’ he yelled.

  ‘Get the binoculars,’ ordered Rod.

  Dean reached into the chopper and came out with a pair.

  ‘Shit. It’s a cop car. They’re stopped at the first gate!’

  ‘How many?’ Watto barked.

  ‘Looks like two.’ Dean adjusted the focus. ‘A black guy and a woman. I think it’s that Talbot bitch.’

  ‘Fuck,’ said Rod. ‘ETA?’

  ‘Five, ten minutes? He’s using a sledgehammer on the lock.’

  ‘Let’s get out of here—now.’ Rod moved towards the helicopter.

  ‘Me, the girl and Craig’s money are coming too,’ Watto said.

  Rod frowned. ‘There’s not enough room.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ said the fat guy in the t-shirt. ‘I looked inside. Seats five.’

  ‘Too much weight and she won’t fly, we’ll run out of fuel,’ said Rod.

  ‘We’ll be three soon enough.’ Watto grinned at me, then scowled at Rod. ‘You don’t let me on that fucking chopper and me mates here’ll shoot you out of the sky.’ He downed the last of his bourbon and Coke and threw the bottle into the dust.

  ‘Right, fine, let’s just get out of here,’ Rod said, heading for the aircraft.

  ‘What about us?’ the skinny bikie whined.

  ‘How much ammo you got?’ Watto asked.

  ‘Stacks.’

  ‘Bonus. One of you in the shed, one behind the water tank. They won’t know what hit ’em. Burn the bodies and the cop car and piss off straight after. They probably called for backup after the explosion, but it’ll take ages to get here.’

  Watto pushed me into the chopper beside Nick, who was slumped against the far door, and threw the silver case on the floor. Rod perched in the seat opposite and Dean jumped in, slid the door closed and sat next to Rod, a mini bar between them. The pilot started the engine and it let out a high-pitched hum before the rotor blades started to thump.

  Watto kept the knife pressed into my side and grabbed a pistol out of the back of his jeans using his free hand. It looked like the one Nick had given me. Rod’s guard held the sort of large automatic weapon favoured by Colombian drug lords, and his trigger finger twitched when Watto pulled the gun. Watto noticed.

  ‘Wouldn’t, mate. One, I work for Craig Murdoch, and two, youse have a lot more to lose than what I do.’

  Rod put his hand on Dean’s arm, made him lower the rif le. He glanced at me and then suddenly realised who I was.

  ‘Simone Kirsch?’

  I attempted a smile and tried to appear calm and resigned to my fate, when in reality I was speeding off my dial and noting exits, weapon placement and the position of the automatic screen that separated the cabin from the cockpit. It was directly behind Rod and Dean’s seats and it was open.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Rod asked, genuinely puzzled.

  ‘She’s with me,’ Watto said, like I was his girlfriend. ‘It’s grouse to meet you again, by the way.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did your writing workshop at Port Phillip. So inspired I went and writ a book of me own.’ He slipped the backpack off and, juggling the knife and the gun, opened the top so Rod could see all the jumbled notebooks and paper inside.

  ‘Know where I could find an agent?’ Watto asked.

  Rod looked horrified.

  While they were occupied I put Nick’s seatbelt on him, then clasped my own so it wouldn’t look suss. Watto noticed and chuckled.

  ‘Don’t think youse’ll be needin’ those,’ he said.

  Rod looked at me and opened his mouth as though he was about to tell Watto to unhand me, then he shut it and looked away, like being an imminent murder victim was contagious. So much for his righteous real-life action hero shtick. Arsehole.

  ‘Can you see the cop car?’ I asked, and everyone strained to look out the window. I took the Wild Turkey ring pull from my pocket and surreptitiously wiggled it into the buckle of Nick’s seatbelt until the top broke off and the bottom half lodged in the mechanism. I was hoping to jam it, buy us some time.

  As we wobbled, then began to lift, I put my next plan in motion.

  ‘Hey, Rod,’ I said. ‘How’s it feel to be sitting opposite your fiancée’s killer?’

  ‘Nick had it coming.’ He still wasn’t looking at me.

  ‘Nick didn’t do it.’ I smiled. ‘It was this guy: Watto.’

  I thought the short, sharp jab in my side was a punch, until I looked down and saw the red patch growing on my singlet. Watto had stabbed me just below the ribs.

  ‘Shut your lying hole,’ he growled.

  ‘Dean, get a towel,’ Rod ordered. ‘Now.’

  Dean reached under the bar compartment and came up with some paper towels, knelt in front of me and pressed them to my wound. Rod rolled his eyes.

  ‘No, for the seat.’

  I held a bunch of absorbent towels to my side while Dean carefully laid down the rest to protect the seat underneath, then scooted back to Rod’s side.

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ Rod told me.

  ‘It’s bullshit,’ Watto said. ‘She’s just trying ta, you know, like, get us to—’

  Rod sighed impatiently. ‘Set us against each other.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Everyone knows Nick’s guilty.’ Rod sounded like he was trying to convince himself. ‘He went on the run. The police have been after him for months . . .’

  I talked fast. ‘He ran because Craig Murdoch was threatening his family and blackmailing him. Isabella stole money and drugs off the Red Devils. It’s all in her book.’

  I winced and waited for the thump that was really a stab. Bam. There it was. One in the arm this time. Not too deep but I felt the burn and hot blood gushing.

  ‘Motherfucker!’ I gasped, in pain yet strangely exhilarated. ‘They read Thrill City after you donated it to the jail library. They recognised Lachlan Elliot and the replica Harley!’

  Bam, bam, two more hits to the arm and t
he blood was really spurting, but I could take it. I was so high I felt like laughing.

  ‘Would you stop doing that?’ Rod bellowed at Watto. ‘Those seats are imported calfskin!’

  His brow creased like he was thinking. Even if he hadn’t read the book he must have remembered her reading out the excerpt. He looked at me again and exchanged a glance with his blond-haired paratrooper.

  ‘Don’t listen, she’s full of shit,’ Watto said, eyes darting.

  ‘He wrote about murdering Isabella.’ I pointed at Watto’s backpack.

  I winced, anticipating the next stabbing blow, but Rod and Dean acted as one and leapt on Watto. Dean grabbed the gun but Rod couldn’t get hold of the knife and struggled with Watto’s wrist. In seconds the three of them were wrestling on the narrow floor space between the seats. I unclipped my seatbelt, scooted across to where Watto had been sitting, by the window, and clipped myself back in. Snatching his backpack, I wedged it between my knees before reaching forward to push the handle on the sliding door. Blood leaked everywhere, running down my arm, staining Rod’s imported leather upholstery, sticking to my fingers. As the handle released, the cabin filled with rushing air and the deafening thump of the rotors. The others stopped and looked at me. I slid the door open all the way and saw we were only fifty metres or so above the red desert sand, but it was enough to make me feel dizzy and weak in the shins. I started pulling scraps of paper out of the backpack. Some of them fluttered around the cabin, but most flew out the door.

  ‘You fucken bitch!’ Watto tried to crawl towards me with the knife but the others held him back. With one hand Rod grabbed a headset and mike, struggled into it and said something to the pilot I couldn’t hear over all the noise. I pulled out a bigger sheaf of paper and chucked it, too.

  ‘No!’ Watto yelled.

  I made eye contact with Rod as I held the backpack above the threshold, about to fling it into space. Watto was enraged now, inching forward, his lips curled back exposing pale gums and disintegrating teeth. Rod said something into his microphone and nodded at Dean. They released Watto at the same time and dived back to their seats, clutching at the belts. The chopper banked sharply left as Watto lunged for his backpack, and suddenly he was gone. No yelling, no sound. One second he was there and the next he wasn’t. I looked out the doorway and in between the strands of hair whipping into my eyes I saw his body hit the ground and bounce, once, producing a small puff of dust. I felt like I was going to throw up. The chopper straightened and Rod shifted to the seat next to me.