The House That Jack Built

by Patrick Ford

  Sarah and Susan spent a great deal of time together. This was the first time they could be in each other’s company for long private talks since the last days in Armidale fourteen years ago. They were like teenage sisters again. Susan told Sarah about how she had fallen in love with Jack that first night they met. “Look at us now,” she said, “It has gotten better and better every day since then. I am so lucky.”

  Sarah confessed that she had been more in love with love than with John Starr. “But I miss the warm body beside me at night, I miss the lovemaking. Sometimes I get so lonely I don’t think I can go on. If not for the boys, I don’t know what I might have done. You have so much love here. I can feel it in the air. What I would give to have the same thing!” Susan felt so sad for her; she thought of Tom Lawson and his lonely life. She was sure he was a good man, but not so sure that Sarah was cut out to be a farmer’s wife on the Kansas plains, so she held her tongue. Maybe something would happen here in Australia.

  * * * *

  Like the rest of the year, the weather smiled upon them. The season came in hotter than normal and dry. This was the best weather for harvesting grain. They began on October fifth, a record for early starts. The great machines worked long into the night. Sometimes they kept going for twenty-four hours, stopping only for refueling, servicing, and to change drivers. As long as they worked, Jack and his men worked with them, filling bins and trucks, carting grain into the farm storage. As usual, there were all the little breakdowns that happen when machinery is used to its limit, but nothing major slowed them down.

  Jack was the mobile troubleshooter with his Land Rover and large toolboxes, air compressor, and stock of spare parts. This year he had three little mates to help him, Patrick, James, and Anthony. And help him they did, by his side for long hours and loving every minute of it. They would come home covered in wheat dust, straw, grease and oil. Bathed and fed, they went to sleep as though someone had turned off their switches.

  Jack called Ken in to help and his wife Robyn would not hear of staying behind at Emu Ridge. “They will be busier than blowflies in a rubbish tip over there, and Susan will be having her baby anytime now. They’ll need me as well as you.”

  At the homestead, despite the crowd, Helen had everything working like clockwork. The older girls helped with the young ones as well as washing clothes and dishes. Sarah added her substantial talents to the meals. The mounds of sandwiches and gallons of tea kept coming, and coming. Some nights, Jack came home in the early hours. He had taken to sleeping on a camp bed on the veranda so as not to disturb Susan. They were about three days away from finishing when Jacqui woke him early one morning.

  “Daddy,” she said, “Mommy says the baby will come today.”

  Jack sprang to his feet and ran to the room. He found his lovely wife smiling her special smile. “Hello, darling,” she said, “I think today will be the day. Pack me up and let’s head for the hospital.” Jack did not know how she could be so serene. Next day, November 9, 1978 at 12:00 noon, almost to the second, Michael Jack Riordan arrived, screaming his little head off. Soon, clean, dry, and warm, he was firmly attached to his mother’s breast. It would be his favourite place for the next three months.

  * * * *

  The harvest rolled on. Now there came problems insurmountable in the short term. It had been a great year all throughout the wheat belt of eastern Australia. The first sign of trouble came with the increasing difficulty of finding enough trucks to cart the grain to the grain elevators. Then the elevators, totally overwhelmed by the torrent of grain, became full to the brim. There was nowhere to go. Jack had filled all the storage he had, had consigned all he could to the elevators. From the first moment that the harvesters had entered the fields, it had been obvious that this crop was going to be one in a million.

  Jack read that in some drier areas, particularly in Western Australia, where there was little summer rainfall, wheat was just dumped in large mounds on the ground. He decided to try this technique.

  His advice was to make sure the wheat mounded up evenly without hills and troughs in the surface of the mound. Then, if it did rain, the surface grains, being very dry, would absorb the moisture and germinate. The sprouts from the grain formed a crust that prevented further rain from penetrating the hill of wheat. He dumped more than one thousand tons in two mounds. It worked. The final load was not delivered until March 1979, during which time it had withstood considerable rainfall. Jack estimated he had lost less than fifty tons of grain.

  At the beginning of December, they gathered to sum up what this golden year had delivered for them. They had made more than $600,000 from the cattle they had held for the three drought years. They had harvested more than 5,500 tons of grain, conservatively worth a million dollars. They repaid their bank loan and now had an unencumbered title to Emu Ridge. Their ship had truly come in.

  Jack was content. His little family was complete. He had realised his ambition to make his father proud of him. He had carried on the good work of previous generations and expanded it exponentially. There were two sons to carry on after him and a lovely wife and daughters. What else could a man want? A cold beer? He went to the refrigerator and got one!

  He had built a fine house.

  Chapter 24

  The Past Comes Calling

  Two prison officers loaded Abdul Amir Mahomet and his henchman Hassan Bakshir into the prison van at Long Bay Prison in Sydney. This day had been a long time coming. Captured by Jack and his Bushmen’s Rifles more than ten years ago, after the rescue of the Sunbird III, he and his thirteen gangsters received long prison terms.

  Abdul and Hassan got the longest sentences, fifteen years for piracy, assault and anything else the Australian authorities could imagine. Now, they were heading to Sydney Airport for deportation to Indonesia. They were not happy about this. Waiting for them in Djakarta would be more than enough trouble, for the Indonesian police had had years to catch up with their many crimes. There, wanted for the murderous execution of the seaman and the workmen on Ramu Island, their conviction would bring the firing squad.

  Abdul had used most of his accessible funds to pay for his defence. At first, he claimed he was a poor fisherman, lost at sea and washed up near the ship. Then he confessed he was an illegal fisherman. He knew this would bring him a short sentence. However, the courts were well aware of the piracy, kidnapping, murder and the gunfire he had directed against Australian troops. He didn’t have a chance.

  In prison, he had had a hard time from the Australian inmates. Nevertheless, he was a cruel and vicious man, and he and Hassan had learned to fight back. They acquired some prison-made knives. After they had isolated one of their tormentors and beaten him to death with a barbell in the gym, the other inmates avoided them.

  He cultivated those he thought could help him. He described his huge operations on Nam Lin Island, and his deposits in Switzerland and Jersey. The gullible ones acted for him after their release. He had given those men numbers and passwords. They had been able to get a substantial amount of cash for him. This money, stashed away by his contacts, waited for him to collect it. Now, the last part of his plan was about to take place. He and Hassan would escape.

  One of the prison officers was a recent Muslim immigrant. They took nearly two years grooming him, to have him embrace their pretended violent fundamentalism. In the end, he agreed to help them in the name of Allah. He had contrived an appointment to take the prisoners to the airport. He said that he might be needed to interpret for them.

  As the guards escorted them through the terminal to a holding area, Hafeez, their new friend, told his partner that it would be a good idea to get them all some coffee as they had an hour to wait for their flight.

  “Bugger that,” Hafeez’s partner said. “We’re not supposed to leave them.”

  “Come on Peter, at least get them some water,” Hafeez argued. “They will be here a long time.”

  “You go then, if you are so worried about the pricks. I don’t give
a shit if they die of thirst.”

  “Peter, I have to stay with them. They may need an interpreter.”

  “Bugger me! Alright, but be bloody careful.”

  Peter went off to find their drinks. As soon as he was out of sight, Hafeez took out his keys and released them from their handcuffs. “Go!” he said. Abdul moved to him as if to embrace him, then grasped his head, twisted it violently, and broke his neck. They eased his body into a chair. Quickly, they took his pistol and his wallet and casually walked away. They had been dressed in civilian clothes for the flight so as not to disturb their fellow travelers, so they moved without haste to the airport doors. No one noticed them. By the time Peter returned with the drinks to find his partner slumped lifeless in the chair, they were in a taxi and had cleared the airport precinct.

  At the first sight of a strip mall, Abdul ordered the driver to halt. There was enough money in the dead man’s wallet to pay for the taxi and quite a lot more. Abdul thanked his lucky stars. In the mall, they purchased scissors, shaving articles, and a large bottle of Hydrogen Peroxide. They went on foot for a couple of blocks to a park and entered the public toilets. Hassan closed the door behind them and locked it. Twenty minutes later they emerged, clean-shaven, blonde highlights in their hair. They left their jackets behind. Now, clad only in shirts and denims, they merged seamlessly into the crowded street. They walked for a couple of blocks, and then hailed a cab. It was time to visit some old acquaintances.

  They used the cab to travel well out of the city and into the suburbs. Their first stop was the suburb of Lakemba, home to a small community of Muslims. About ten miles short of their destination, they left the taxi and took a train. Abdul had instructed his three friends to each withdraw $25,000, $5,000 to be their reward. Abdul expected to collect $60,000. The first two were Muslims and had retained faith with Abdul. He thanked them in the name of Allah and moved on to the third. This man was, in Abdul’s opinion, the least reliable, but he had had no option but to use him. The man lived in a small, run-down cottage in the suburb of Bankstown. Abdul knocked on the door and waited. His contact opened his door; he had not seen Abdul for nearly five years and did not recognise him at first. Then he did. A glint of fear entered his eyes. Abdul produced the pistol and pushed him back into the house.

  “Good morning Alf,” he said. “Aren’t you pleased to see me?”

  “Yeah, yeah, sure. Just didn’t expect you, that’s all. I suppose you’re here for your money.”

  “You are a clever one, Alf. Did you figure out that all by yourself?”

  “There’s a problem, Abdul, I haven’t got it. I buried it in a vacant block, but before I knew, they built a house there. The money is under the concrete floor.”

  “Is that so, Alf? How unfortunate for you. You will have to find it from other sources.”

  “I can’t do that. I don’t have any other sources.”

  Just then, the front door opened and a young woman entered, calling, “Alf, it’s only Jillie, I’m home.” She walked into the living room and stopped at the sight of the two men. “Sorry, I didn’t know you had company.”

  Alf shouted, “Get the fuck outta here, Jillie, run.” It was too late. Abdul produced his pistol. Hassan grabbed the girl by the arm and hauled her into the centre of the room where she huddled against Alf’s side. Hassan went into the kitchen and returned with a chair. They hauled Alf to the chair and made him sit. Hassan turned out cupboards and pantry and finally found what he wanted, a large reel of silver duct tape. When he finished, Alf was securely bound to the chair, a piece of tape over his mouth with a small slit in it to allow him to breathe.

  “Now, Alf, we want to know where the money really is.” said Abdul “Don’t worry, we won’t hurt you. Just tell us where it is.”

  Alf shook his head. He did not have the money. He had purchased a car and had spent many hours at the racetrack. He had never expected Abdul to turn up. Abdul nodded to Hassan who moved to the girl and, grabbing her blouse, tore it open and half way down her back. She was not wearing a bra and the sight of her generous breasts caused a wolfish grin to appear on Hassan’s face.

  “Right, Alf,” said Abdul, “This is how it works. We have not had a woman for a long, long time. If you do not tell us where the money is, we are going to have a long session with Jillie here. You can watch, if you like. We have a lot of steam to work off.” Alf’s eyes grew wide. A look of abject terror appeared on Jillie’s face. Alf began to shake his head violently, making gurgling sounds.

  “I think he has something to tell us, Hassan. Let’s find out what it is.” He tore the tape roughly from Alf’s mouth. Alf began to babble: “Don’t hurt her. She knows nothing about it. I spent it all. I’m sorry, I’ll get it back for you, I promise. Don’t hurt her, please.” The girl was silent, terrified.

  Abdul went to the kitchen and found a long-bladed carving knife. He strode back into the living room, pulled back Alf’s head by the hair and cut his throat. Blood spurted from the severed arteries and there was a final burst of horrible gurgles from his throat. The girl screamed once, and then was silenced by a cruel backhand from Hassan. “Please,” she whimpered, “Please don’t hurt me.” Hassan grabbed her hair and dragged her to the nearest bedroom. She was too frightened to struggle. They took almost two hours over her; it really had been a long time as Abdul had said. When they were finished, he cut her throat as well.

  They ransacked the house, finding a few hundred dollars, some hash, and a pipe, nothing of much value. They looked in Jillie’s bag and found a small amount of cash and a set of car keys. Outside in the garage they found a Holden with racing stripes and wide tyres. Too conspicuous, thought Abdul. The girl’s car stood in the street; it was an innocuous white sedan, some kind of Ford. He looked around the garage and found a screwdriver.

  “Hassan,” he said, “Switch the plates on these cars. We will take the white one.” Twenty minutes later, they were heading north. They had not planned anything beyond this point. All they knew was that they had to get as far north as possible. If they could get to Darwin, they could steal a boat and get away into the myriad islands of Indonesia. Somewhere in teeming Asia, they could start again, unknown.

  They stopped somewhere near Newcastle for fuel and bought a road map. It was a long way to Darwin. It would take more than two weeks of driving at least. They would have to camp in the bush and avoid towns, stopping only for fuel and supplies. They found a camping store and bought a large water container, two cartons of Meals Ready to Eat, and a small gas stove, matches and a cooking pot. They planned to camp each night in the car, in secluded spots.

  * * * *

  Detective Chief Superintendent John McGarrity was fuming. He had made no progress whatsoever on the case of the missing Indonesians. They had disappeared from the face of the earth. Alerts at all ports, airports, and railways, produced no result.

  McGarrity had notified the Queensland and Federal Police. Their best guess was that the fugitives would try to get out of Australia by heading for the far north coast and stealing a boat. However, there had been no sightings, no news whatever. The phone rang. McGarrity snatched it up and growled, “What?” He smiled. “I’m on my way!” He called in his Sergeant. “Right Rick, there’s been a find out at Bankstown. I think we should take a look.” They sped off towards the western suburbs. This might be just the break they had been waiting for.

  * * * *

  Darren Lister was fourteen years old. This day, like so many others, he was wandering the streets of Bankstown instead of attending school. He had managed to steal a packet of his mother’s cigarettes and was happily puffing on one of them as he walked.

  Suddenly he halted outside a small cottage. He had noticed a hot looking car in the garage. He looked around; there was no one in sight. Perhaps the owner had left the keys in the car. People were so stupid! He approached the garage. Half way there, he noticed the front door was partially open. His small lizard-like brain took a little while to process this inform
ation. Maybe there was something worthwhile in there. He took a furtive look around and pushed open the door.

  There was a strange buzzing sound from deeper in the house. He crept a little further in. The buzzing grew louder. He moved towards the living room. As he did, a terrible stench assailed his nostrils. There in the corner was a shape in a chair. He moved closer, and as he did, a great cloud of black blowflies rose into the air. He had a glimpse of writhing maggots, sightless eyes, black bloodstains, and then he was racing for the door, retching, retching, and his legs like rubber. He collapsed on the remnants of the front lawn. He was still sitting there an hour later, under the watchful eye of a policewoman. The house swarmed with scene of crime officers.

  McGarrity soon received their reports. Two bodies, one tied to a chair, throat cut, and one dead and naked on a bed, her throat cut too, apparently raped. He told the men to check the license plates on the Holden. He could do nothing now. He had to wait for forensic reports, identification of the victims, and the owner of the house. He took his Sergeant and returned to his office.

  * * * *

  The wanted men had been on the run now for four days. Each night they slept in the open. The car was far too small for men of their size, but the weather was kind. It was warm and had not rained. By now, they were short of food and decided to stop in the town of Narrabri for supplies. Abdul craved coffee. He found a couple of cafes, small family run places where they would not draw attention. In one of these, he and Hassan ordered a large pot and settled down to enjoy the coffee. It might be a long time before the next such opportunity. Abdul found a newspaper. “They have found the bodies,” he told Hassan. “Soon they will work out the license plate switch. We may have to find another car soon.”