Roll With It

by Nick Place

  Laver looked around then walked over to the car and opened the passenger-side door. Lou was still sitting in there, arms folded.

  ‘And Bushy, this is Lou, who’s not thrilled to be here, but needs to be.’

  Bushy folded his arms, shoulders and biceps bulging, and tilted his head to look at her.

  ‘G’day Lou. I don’t bite,’ he said.

  Lou was giving him looks, despite herself. ‘What does “one of us” mean? You said he used to be “one of us”.’

  ‘Oh,’ Laver said. ‘Former cop. A Soggie. But retrained for the ambos.’

  Bushy shrugged. ‘Once I decided I was up for a sea change, I realised there was a lot more call for medical support than Kevlar vests out here. Although that could be changing.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Laver raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Torquay pub on a Friday or Saturday night is getting hairy, even for me. You want a cuppa?’

  ‘Mate, I can’t. There’s things happening in Melbourne that I need to get back to, but I need a favour. These two need to be babysat.’

  Part of Lou bristled at the word, but she’d grown genuinely worried over the last few hours. And another part of her was noticing everything about Bushy. How he stood. Those surfer shoulders. How he wore those board shorts. The legs under them.

  Bushy’s face had taken on a harder edge, all business. They moved away from Jake and Lou. ‘How long, Rocket?’

  ‘Not long; tomorrow. We’re close to closure on this one.’

  ‘Want to let me know who I’m looking out for?’

  ‘Could be any of four. Two forty-year-olds in a white Ford. Or another guy a bit younger than us, with a surfer look but not one. And his mate, tall, orange mohawk, prison tatts, hard to miss, very dangerous.’

  Bushy chuckled. ‘Rocket. I’m an occasionally stoned and permanently retired surfing bludger.’

  ‘Of course you are. Gentle and helpless as a kitten if these two need protecting.’

  ‘Against four. Shit.’

  ‘Not four. Two or two but, honestly, I’m not expecting any of them to show, mate. I haven’t told a soul where we’ve gone, I wasn’t followed and I haven’t mentioned anywhere west of the Bolte Bridge on a phone. I just want these two safe so I can concentrate on the rest of it.’

  Bushy and Rocket gazed at one another and then the surfer nodded. ‘Of course, mate. You know I’ll help.’ He turned and called out, ‘Come on, you two. Let’s get inside, hey.’

  As Jake walked past, Laver put a hand on his shoulder: ‘I promise it will only be overnight. Trust me.’

  ‘Yeah, I do,’ the kid said. ‘ I guess I have to.’

  ‘And one more thing. I need your hat and your car keys.’

  ‘My hat?’ Not even waiting for an answer, Jake handed it over with the keys, clearly watching Lou and their host regarding one another. Jake gave Bushy a final look as he walked through the door and into the house, but he went.

  Lou hadn’t moved from the car. Bushy wandered over and leaned down. He smelled like salt.

  ‘If it helps convince you, I might have a cigarette that tastes a bit funny if you like tobacco, but will relax you quite a lot.’

  Lou looked at him now and said, ‘Aren’t you an ex-cop?’

  ‘Yeah, strong emphasis on the “ex”. And what? You think no member of the constabulary has ever smoked a joint? Anyway, I’m long retired. Come inside and let’s get to know each other.’

  Was that a pick-up line? She was being kidnapped by a strange renegade cop and now his friend was hitting on her? Even weirder, she found herself giving Bushy a little grin in return. She got out of the car.

  ‘Don’t think I’ve forgotten that you forced me into this car and coerced me here against my will,’ she said to Laver on her way past.

  ‘Coerced. Good word. Potentially saved your life too,’ he called after her.

  ‘Potentially?’ Bushy raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Hopefully better than potentially,’ Laver said. ‘At least I’m directing traffic for the next bit.’

  ‘Well, go get ’em, tiger. The swell’s shit anyway, so I’m happy enough to stay close to home.’

  ‘I can always rely on you, mate, as long as the waves aren’t running.’ Laver stopped at the car door and said, ‘Bushy. By sundown tomorrow, if you haven’t heard anything? You might want to ring Flipper.’

  ‘I thought you were going to turn up.’

  ‘Let’s hope.’

  ‘Shit, Rocket. You know what you’re doing?’

  ‘Yeah, I do. The only thing I can.’

  Laver didn’t drive straight to the main road. From the end of Sunset Strip, he turned left and away from Jan Juc on country roads, eventually sweeping around a long right-hander, the ocean huge in front of him, and parked at Bells Beach.

  He got out of the car and sat on the bonnet, watching the sluggish waves struggle through one of the world’s most famous surf breaks – currently subdued by a south-westerly wind and a meagre swell.

  Laver sat and took in the sea, the air, the sounds of the waves. Watched the patterns on the water. Felt a slight chill in the air as the breeze started to bite. He wrapped his arms around himself and took a deep breath. Laver took it all in: the very fact of his own breathing, his heart beating.

  Then got into the driver’s seat and drove back out to the Great Ocean Road, turning towards Melbourne and to everything that was to come.

  ***

  Laver sat outside his apartment for fifteen minutes, watching the street and the parked cars. Finally, he approached the building from a side gate, still moving slowly and watching the doorways. A gun would have been comforting – but then again, what would be the point?

  Inside his apartment, he showered for a long time and changed into fresh jeans and a T-shirt. Purple with a logo of Roger Ramjet on the front. He looked steadily at himself in the bathroom mirror, eyes empty in the reflection, and thought in a removed kind of way: Is this what I want to be wearing? Is this appropriate?

  Then thought, why not? What was he going to wear – a suit?

  He pulled on his favourite runners, a pair of Nikes he’d bought in New York a few years ago, exclusive to the Fifth Avenue store. Collector’s items. From what now seemed the golden age of him and Marcia. He thought of them exploring Brooklyn together, in love. He made himself stop thinking about her.

  In the lounge room, he pulled a notepad over from the other side of the table, and a felt pen. Then sat for the longest time, staring out the window until he was ready to write.

  Dear Callum,

  I don’t know why I’m even writing you this letter except that I have a feeling my worst fear might be realised and I may never actually see you again.

  I guess what I want to tell you is that it was never my intention to not be a part of your life. That decision was taken from me, like so many things in life are, whether we like it or not.

  As I write this, my life is a mess and the way forward is unclear. I hope so much that we can be together one day and I can talk to you about the kinds of things a father wants to say to his son. But I suspect that’s not going to happen.

  If I’m right and we don’t get that chance, try to live a great life. Remember that an honest life is harder but simpler. Be honourable and true to those you love. Try to avoid the sort of mistakes your mother and I made.

  And seriously reconsider any desire you might have to be a member of any kind of police force.

  I love you,

  Dad

  He placed the letter in an envelope and wrote ‘Callum Laver’ on the front. Then placed it on the mantelpiece along with an envelope containing other documents people would be looking for.

  He poured himself a big whisky, still with room for three blocks of ice, aware he was putting off the phone call. But finally he sighed and dialled.

  His father answered on the fourth ring.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Dad, it’s me.’

  ‘Ah, the stranger. Don’t have time to co
me and see your old man anymore, hey.’

  ‘I was there just the other day.’

  ‘For three minutes. That doesn’t count.’

  ‘Dad, I don’t want to fight.’

  ‘Who’s fighting? I’m just making a point.’

  Laver listened to his father’s raspy breath down the line. TV chatter in the background.

  ‘Dad, I want you to know that I appreciate the job you did in raising me, once Mum wasn’t around.’

  ‘Eh?’ He could almost see the squinting scowl enveloping the old man’s face.

  ‘I know it was hard for you. Things weren’t always perfect. They still aren’t. But I know you tried.’

  ‘Eh? What is this, boy? Hang on, I’ll turn down the tellie.’

  Laver heard fumbling, heard the TV noise fade and heard Daisy’s voice in the background, rising in inquiry.

  ‘The boy’s going soft,’ his father said, voice away from the phone. Then back to the receiver, saying: ‘All this murdering people getting to you, is it, son?’

  ‘Jesus, Dad.’

  ‘No need to blaspheme. You’ve got enough sins on your plate just now.’

  ‘Dad, will you shut up long enough for me to say what I want to say?’

  ‘Daisy thinks you should get out of the Force. Thinks that shooting is the start of a life decline unless you leave the job.’

  ‘What do you think, Dad? What’s your opinion?’

  A pause as he thought about it, then said speculatively, ‘Plenty of fellas shot blokes in the war and lived good lives.’

  ‘You weren’t in any war. Which war?’

  ‘Didn’t say I was, you little smartarse. But I know men who were. You remember Bob Johnston from my work? There was a story where—’

  ‘Dad, I want us to be peaceful with one another.’

  ‘Eh?’ His dad sounding pained. ‘Son, what’s this about?’

  ‘I love you, Dad.’

  That brought nothing but stunned silence. Tony hadn’t said that since he was maybe twelve years old.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘You’re starting to scare me, son. Are you okay?’

  ‘I think the correct response is, “I love you too, son”.’ Rocket going for it, now he was out there in this uncertain place. But there was more silence.

  ‘Can’t you say that, Dad?’

  ‘Well, of course. You know I do. I don’t know why we need to—’

  Time to end his father’s misery. ‘Relax Dad, I have to go. Give Daisy a huge hug for me. If you get a chance, tell Callum I was a good man.’

  ‘Callum? You’ve heard from Callum?’

  ‘No Dad, but you might. Goodbye.’

  Laver hung up and could feel tears in his eyes. All he did lately was cry or try not to cry. Christ.

  He stared at the phone and thought about phoning her. But why? He scrawled on a piece of paper: ‘Marcia. Good luck with the shit for brains from your work.’

  Then screwed it up and put it in the bin. Fuck it. What was the point of making her feel guilty? She’d left just in time.

  He was almost done. Laver moved to the door, having one last look around the apartment, when he suddenly put his keys back down on the table and headed to the kitchenette. He ran hot water and dishwashing liquid into the sink and then slowly, carefully, washed and stacked the dishes and hung the washing-up gloves over the tap to drip-dry into the sink.

  And then he left his flat.

  He had to drive two laps of the Groc-o-Mart car park in Jake’s car before Brunetti and Wilson picked him up, the white Ford falling in behind.

  ‘Very slack,’ thought Laver. ‘Asleep on the job.’

  He was wearing Jake’s ridiculous reggae beanie, hunched over the wheel. He wondered what was going on ahead of him. Flipper had refused to help him stop this, so Laver had decided his mate might as well watch the show. The calls had been made and Laver knew where to drive, not too fast in case they lost him. Lucky they were driving towards the city, against the flight of the after-work traffic.

  Rathdowne Street was moderately busy; not bad for peak hour. Laver turned right out of Alexandra Parade and slowed, even smiling when the white Ford clearly ran the red light to make the turn. Saw the flash of the camera on the pole – one last traffic infringement to complete their criminal history. They were almost there.

  Dolfin was in his car, with the house in the sights of his binoculars. A Soggie was planted on either side, three full houses away so they couldn’t possibly be spotted, as per Rocket’s instructions. Flipper was now seriously concerned about his best mate on the Force and was definitely going to be speaking to the police counsellors about him, whether Rocket liked it or not: the equivalent of a police intervention. But first, there was this house. When Laver had said ‘nuclear’ this time, there had been a note in his voice that Flipper had never heard before. After their meeting with Ned Kelly earlier that day, Dolfin knew Laver wouldn’t have used the word this afternoon unless he meant it. But he still had no idea why, or what was about to happen. Knowing only that he had to be outside this house. Watching as an old Mazda pulled up – Laver getting out of the driver’s door, wearing a ridiculous beanie.

  Another car pulling up behind him, two men in suits, as Laver went through the front gate of the house and, without looking back, hammered on the front door. The two men opening the doors of their car, but not getting out – sitting and watching.

  Flipper concentrating the binocular lens on the front door instead and seeing it open to reveal half of a big man, bare-chested and bald. But not bald. A flash of orange, vertically down his head. A mohawk. Something dull and grey and solid-looking in his hand. Dolfin knowing a gun when he saw one.

  The man and Laver staring at one another, Laver just standing dumbly with his arms dangling by his sides. Laver saying something Dolfin couldn’t hear. The big man’s face beginning to react.

  Flipper saying, ‘Oh fuck.’ Far too late.

  ***

  Stig, sitting at the kitchen table, stoned. He’d promised Wildie he’d have it together for the sale to Barry tonight, but hadn’t been able to get Paxton on the phone all afternoon and had started smoking joints as nerves took hold. Losing the will to stop lighting just one more up, and then another.

  Now looking at the world through a familiar haze, raising his head, hearing Wildie open the door and a voice say, ‘Thought it was my turn for a home visit.’

  Wildie snarling, ‘You’ve got to be kidding. You are so fucking dead.’

  At the front door, the cop just looking at Wildie, not saying a word as the Wild Man grabbed him violently by the shirt, dragged him into the house and landed a vicious right hook to the cop’s face with the butt of the pistol he was holding, a blow so hard the Wild Man felt it right to his shoulder. Blood exploding from the cop’s temple, but the cop not attempting to fight back. Wildie transferring the gun to his left hand and punching him twice more, savagely. The cop staggering but not falling, blood pouring from somewhere on his face, breath rasping. Wildie moving the gun to the dazed cop’s temple but just now beginning to wonder why he didn’t seem to be armed.

  Oh no. At the kitchen table, Stig knew. Just knew. With a dull certainty that went way beyond the fog of the drugs.

  It was like a dream sequence as Stig rose from the table, a gun magically in his hand – he’d forgotten he was even holding it – and took three lazy steps towards the front hall even as he heard the Wild Man fighting somebody: the hard smack of solid punches. Wildie grunting.

  And then was in the hall just in time to see Brunetti and Wilson, Jenssen’s men, as they burst through the front door; the thought occurred to Stig that he really should raise his gun, a moment before he saw the flash from Wilson’s handgun and felt himself punched in the stomach harder than he’d ever been punched before. Stig dreamily letting off a shot and watching the plaster above Wilson’s head explode as Brunetti’s gun flashed and he was punched even harder in the right side of his chest.

  Stig now fee
ling his legs fall away and dimly aware of the floor meeting his back. Surprised to feel floor against his temple. How did that happen? Stig thinking special effects never really prepared you for the reality; a moment of adrenalin, registering what it’s really like to be shot. Stig all wide-eyed on the ground, watching Wilson’s head explode as the Wild Man finally returned fire before Brunetti stepped all the way inside the door, hiding, and turned to look back outside where Stig vaguely registered shouting.

  A cop in full Kevlar bursting past the door and the concealed Brunetti to shoot the Wild Man three times fast to the body and head. Wildie toppling noiselessly. Or maybe Stig wasn’t hearing anymore? he wondered. Dreamily, he watched Brunetti about to unload on the cop from behind the door but then saw a red explosion on Brunetti’s chest.

  Stig slipping away but seeing the bike cop on the floor with Wildie’s gun, still trained on Brunetti who was sliding down the wall, hands scrambling stupidly at the hole in his chest, a river of red and bodily gunk snail-trailing down the wall as he fell.

  Stig going blank for a moment but then aware of two faces, in black cop helmets, looking down at him. Seeing their mouths move. Not hearing anything. Stig now not seeing anything. Stig remembering his mother once telling him, after his uncle died, that death was like crossing a road. Stig still wondering what that meant, wondering what came next. Stig feeling light, free of his body. Stig feeling a pang – of what? Regret? Fear? Surprise?

  Stig feeling nothing.

  ***

  Dolfin walked through the front door in his usual suit, no Kevlar, gun drawn but not fired. He surveyed the bodies: the gunman against the wall was gurgling and whimpering, but one look told Dolfin that would be short term. He’d already radioed for paramedics and back-up: Shooting in progress, potential member down. They’d all be here in minutes.

  Laver on his hands and knees, a handgun lying on the floor beside him. Laver, with scarlet red on his face, vomiting savagely into the hall’s carpet.

  Beside him the body of the orange-haired man. Colin Wilde, Laver had called him. The Soggies were shaking their heads from above the body of the one who must be Stig Anderson. Another body a metre or so inside the front door, now with pulp where the right eye and temple should have been. The untouched left eye staring.