The House That Jack Built

by Patrick Ford

  Hassan was looking through some kind of farming journal. There was a story about the recent record wheat crop and interviews with some of the more prominent growers. “These infidels have been blessed this year,” he said, “Perhaps Allah has given them this to fatten them up for when Islam will rule.”

  He tossed the journal to Abdul who gave it a cursory glance. Suddenly, he stiffened. “Allah Akbar,” he breathed, “God smiles on us again. Hassan, look at this.” There was a photograph of a Queensland farmer standing in his crop, smiling, surveying his domain. He looked familiar to Abdul. “Hassan, do you not recognise this man?” Hassan shrugged. He did not. “It is the soldier who captured us with the ship! It says his name in Riordan. I am sure that is the same name. It says he was once a soldier, a hero in Vietnam. I am sure it is the same man. Now we can have our revenge!”

  “Abdul, we should not go near him! We cannot afford to draw attention to ourselves. We must ignore him and press on to our objective at once. They have the bodies. By now, they will be looking for our car. Forget this man. It is too dangerous.”

  “I have served long years in captivity because of this man. I will not miss this opportunity to kill the infidel and all his children. Come, we must make plans.” He was excited, energized, but when they set off for their car, there was a policeman standing by it, speaking into a radio.

  * * * *

  Detective Chief Superintendent John McGarrity was feeling better this morning. He finally had something to work on with the Indonesian case. He gathered his task force about him for the morning briefing. After taking detailed reports from his team, he summed up the state of the investigation. “We are putting this together nicely. The house was full of fingerprints. Some of them belong to our escapees. There were partial footprints outside and some good ones in the blood pools. They are of the type of shoes issued to prisoners in this State. The dead man is identified as Alf Mentone, a petty thief, drug dealer, and sometime pimp. He was released from Long Bay three years ago. It is almost certain he would have met our escapees while in prison. The dead girl was Jillie Arnott, drug user, thief and an occasional prostitute.

  She probably turned tricks for Mentone when they were short of a few dollars. The plates on the Holden are not those issued for that car, but for a Ford Cortina registered to Jillie Arnott. My guess is that the plates that should have been on the Holden are now on that car, and that car is now in the possession of the escapees. We have notified our colleagues to the north of the State and in Queensland. They should soon be located. Now we wait. I’m sure they will turn up soon.”

  * * * *

  Abdul and Hassan halted and feigned interest in a shop window, watching the policeman talk into his radio. They were sweating now. Abdul put his hand in his pocket and grasped the pistol. Capture was not an option, not now, not ever! The policeman turned towards them and approached with a purposeful stride, turning his eyes on them. Abdul began to draw his pistol. Then the policeman was past them and striding away down the street.

  They released a collective sigh of relief, and hurried to the car. Under the windscreen wiper, they found a parking ticket. Abdul said, “That was close, but the number will be in their computers now, we must find another car.” They headed out of town, looking for a farmhouse or somewhere else secluded, where they could find another vehicle.

  * * * *

  Debbie Ross was a happy woman. She had been married for two years to a nice farm boy and lived on the family farm, Rosscommon. John’s parents had retired to the coast when she and John married. The homestead stood in a bend of the river. There was a large garden with many trees shielding the house against the hot summer sun and from the noise of the highway. This day she saw a dust cloud approaching. I wonder who this is, she mused. It’s far too early for John to be home. John was at a cattle sale in Moree and would not be home for hours.

  A small white car stopped outside and two large dark complexioned men got out. They reminded her of the Italians and Spaniards she had seen on her honeymoon in Europe. Something made her wary, a queer feeling in the pit of her stomach. These men looked dangerous…bad.

  Debbie was alone, but she and John had a plan for such an emergency. She quickly turned off the radio and ran to the back of the house. Behind the house was a small shed and inside it was a cold room. She quickly entered it, and latched the door from the inside. There, among the hanging lamb carcasses, boxes of vegetables, and crates of beer, she waited. She heard nothing for a while, but then she grew aware of a presence in the shed. She heard footsteps and two men speaking a foreign language. She did not recognise it, but it certainly was not Spanish or Italian. The footsteps approached the cold room. She heard the door rattle.

  “Please,” she whispered. “Please.”

  * * * *

  Sergeant Walls answered his phone in the operations room. He listened for a moment, thanked the caller, and hung up. He hurried to McGarrity’s office. “Sir, I have just received a call from motor registrations. That number we are chasing turned up in Narrabri this morning. Some plod gave it a parking ticket.”

  McGarrity leaped to his feet. “Get hold of the police air wing. Tell them we need a flight to Narrabri, right now!”

  * * * *

  Debbie heard a raised voice. She did not know what it said, but the cold room door stopped moving and she heard footsteps receding. She almost collapsed with relief. She sat down on a beer crate and sobbed with relief. After an hour, she was beginning to shake from the cold. She would have to leave her refuge soon or she would freeze to death.

  Cautiously, she opened the door a crack and looked out. The shed was empty. She listened for a while, but heard nothing, only the distant whine of truck tyres on the highway. In the house, the telephone began to ring. She let it ring out. She crept around the side of the house and peeked at the front driveway. The white car was still there!

  She went back around to the other side. She could see nothing out of the ordinary. Then she looked across the lawn to the carport. Her car was gone! She crept back into the house. It was silent. She could feel its emptiness. Relaxing, she searched the building. Her pantry stood ransacked and her handbag lay on the table, its contents scattered on the floor. She checked it. Her car keys were gone and all the banknotes were missing from her wallet. Only a few dollars, she thought, not much to pay for your life.

  She reached for the telephone.

  * * * *

  McGarrity looked down at the passing scenery. Based near here as a young cop, he sometimes missed the good natured and casual country people. Perhaps he would come back, buy a small farm after he retired.

  The pilot interrupted his reverie. “Sir, the Narrabri police have just received a phone call from a farm to the north. Our boys have paid it a visit. They left their Cortina and took a green Ford Falcon, number Delta, Echo, X-ray, one, three, seven.”

  “Ok,” said McGarrity, “Overfly Narrabri and follow the highway north. We might spot them.”

  “We are getting short of fuel, sir,” said the pilot, “But I’ll take you as far as I can.”

  * * * *

  Abdul and Hassan filled up the petrol tank of the car at the first service station in the small town of Bingara. They were happier now that they were away from the busy highway, into more timbered, hilly country, where there were plenty of places to hide up. They planned to drive all night and lay up during the busy time of the day. They would be harder to spot that way.

  Hassan paid for the fuel with Debbie Ross’s money. He had loaded a bag with nuts and confectionery, and a couple of loaves of bread. The service station proprietor tried to strike up a conversation with them. The Falcon was a brand new model and he had not seen one before. He wanted to have a good look inside it. They told him they were late for an appointment and quickly departed.

  They followed a circuitous route, veering here and there, but always heading north. By dawn, they were in a forested area near Yetman. Abdul consulted the map. They were only a couple of hours
from Goondiwindi, the home of the infidel Riordan. They ate, and then slept. The Falcon was much more comfortable for sleeping.

  * * * *

  McGarrity felt like smashing something. Their flight had been unrewarding and they had landed back at Narrabri. The stolen Falcon remained unseen. He had no leads, no hope of finding it. The Ross woman was helpful, and he had praised her for her courage, but she could only confirm the thieves were his escapees, nothing else.

  There were police patrols all along the highway. There were roadblocks all the way north to the border. They stopped a hundred green Falcons, all containing law abiding citizens. If they got to Queensland, they would be beyond his jurisdiction. Some bloody Queensland cop would get the glory of their capture. He did not know it, but he was already sidelined.

  * * * *

  It seemed to Abdul that time dragged much more in daylight hours. They had slept fitfully, waking to strange noises, wallabies crashing away through the scrub and strange bird calls. Now the sun had dropped almost to the horizon and the shadows were long and dark. It was time to move again. They chose a minor road, almost a goat track, to cross the river into Queensland. Now they found a better road and headed west. The town of Goondiwindi was about seventy miles away.

  Bob Fisck shut up his service station and crossed the road to the pub. He had had a busy day for little Bingara. There was an old Land Cruiser in his workshop that he was halfway through fitting with a new clutch. There had been a glut of customers at the pumps. He had not had time to read a newspaper all day. He settled into his customary bar stool. Gladys, the barmaid, had already poured his beer; she had seen him crossing the street. His old mate Charlie was there too.

  Bob downed half his beer in one swallow. “I should have had that for breakfast,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for it all bloody day!” He turned to Charlie. “Well, you old bastard, what mischief have you been up to today?”

  Charlie had been following the newspapers closely. He usually bought the paper for the racing section and the football, but today he had taken notice of the lead story and had read it thoroughly.“Them bloody terrorists ‘ave been seen in Narrabri,” he said. “They pinched a car orf a farm and pissed orf. No one’s seen ‘em since. They’re a nice pair of pricks. Did you see what they did to that bloke and his shelia in Bankstown? And the car was brand new. One of them new Falcons. How friggen lucky is that? Buy a new car and have it pinched a week later.”

  “A brand new Falcon?” said Bob. “There was one here yesterday arvo, a green one. Come to think about it, the two blokes in it were a bit dago looking. Shit, they might have been those buggers.”

  Charlie said, “It says here it was a green one, DEX-137 is the plate.”

  “Christ,” said Bob, “I’m bloody sure there was an X in that plate.” He looked around for the phone. The local Constable was about to have his sleepy little career rudely interrupted.

  It was, but not for long. The green Falcon was already in Queensland.

  * * * *

  The Riordan household was already a busy place at seven in the morning. It was a school day, and Patrick and Genevieve had to be on the school bus at seven thirty. Helen had been in her garden since six, and the always-hungry Michael usually woke Jack and Susan around the same time. They were at the breakfast table when Mick arrived for duty in the garden. Although he had retired, Mick still lived at Ballinrobe. He thought of it as his home, as indeed it was, and he was pleased to pay for this privilege by becoming Helen’s help in the garden. He loved to work there, and he loved talking to Helen about the early days at Ballinrobe.

  “G’day to you all,” he said. “Nice day.”

  They all greeted him. He was a particular favourite of the children, like a Santa Claus without the costume. His pocket was always full of something nice for them. He had never had children of his own. Funny how things work out, he thought. If it hadn’t been for old Paddy, I would’ve been dead in some gutter years ago. Coming here had been the best thing that could have happened to him.

  “Helen’s already hard at it,” said Jack. “I think she wants you to make some frost covers for the young fruit trees today. Keep an eye out for snakes, there was a brownie about a couple of days ago.”

  Australia is home to some of the most venomous snakes in the world. Here, at Ballinrobe, the most common of these were the Red-bellied Black Snake and the Eastern Brown Snake. The brown snake was the worst, for unlike the shy and retiring black snake, it had a reputation for aggressive behaviour.

  Mick disappeared around the corner of the house. Then Susan appeared with Michael in a pram. “Come on you two,” she said to Patrick and Genevieve, “I’ll walk you to the bus.” As they passed the silos and reached the road, she did not see the two figures concealed behind some nearby turkey bushes, nor the green Falcon parked behind a screen of wild limes about a quarter mile down the road.

  Soon the bus arrived. It gathered up the two children and left. Abdul and Hassan watched Susan walk back towards the house. Hassan smiled to himself. Before the job is done, he thought, we’ll have a bit of fun with that one. He could still remember Jillie.

  * * * *

  The two men worked their way towards the homestead, using the creek banks for cover. They came out near a large barn. From here, they could see a gathering on the veranda. Abdul looked. There, that one is the infidel Riordan. The woman and child must belong to him. Were there any others? They went back to the creek bank and moved behind the house.

  Mick, sent by Helen into the small garden shed to fetch the materials for the tree shelters, was out of sight. Abdul saw a dark-haired woman, about sixty, weeding a garden bed. There was no one else. They moved back to the barn, then, stepping from the building, they strode across to the veranda. Susan saw them first. She lifted enquiring eyebrows and Jack turned around to see two large dark complexioned men approaching. One had a pistol in his hand.

  Jack had several rifles in the house, but none that he could get quickly. He rose to his feet. “Who are you, what do you want?”

  Abdul said, “Stay where you are. You are the infidel Riordan who took me from the ship so long ago. Do you not recognise me? I have spent many years in your filthy jail, abused by your countrymen cursing Islam and me. You have caused me to lose my property and fortune. I have come to kill you.”

  Jack took a longer look. Yes, it was the same man, the one who had fired at his men on the cliff top. The beard was gone, the hair was coloured, but there was no mistaking the hooked nose and the evil black eyes. His blood ran cold.

  Abdul gestured with the pistol. “Line up along the veranda. Hassan, fetch the woman from the garden. Infidel, are there more in the house? I warn you, if we have to search and we find anyone, the woman and child will die too, but not before we have some fun with the woman.”

  Jack looked at the merciless eyes. He’ll kill us all anyway, he reasoned. They will not leave witnesses. He recalled the news stories about them. They would kill all who stood in their way. There was a shriek from the garden, and then Helen appeared, dragged by her arm and forced to the veranda as well. “Jack, what’s happening?”

  “Calm down Mum, these nice men are just visitors from the past. They called in to pay their respects.” Hassan looked at the older woman, still good looking and trim. Perhaps he would have her too before he left. He smiled an evil smile.

  * * * *

  In the garden shed, Mick had heard Helen cry out. He emerged just in time to see her dragged around the corner of the house. His first instinct was to run to her aid, but something made him stop. I wonder what’s happening out front, he thought. Perhaps I should take a dekko first.

  He crept to the house corner and peered around it. He saw the family lined up along the veranda. Behind them was the open kitchen door. There were two men standing in front of them. One had a pistol. That was enough for Mick; he turned and bolted for the back of the house.

  Abdul was still smiling. “Infidel,” he said, “perhaps you would like to
ponder your fate. You will die soon, and your women raped to death. Your filthy spawn she holds will die too. Perhaps Hassan here will pull him apart while you watch.” He raised the pistol. “Show me some fear, dog. You are going to hell.”

  Inside the door that led to Helen’s apartment was a shotgun. It was an ancient double barrel hammer design. Paddy had bought the gun with him when he came to Ballinrobe in 1936. It had belonged to his father. No one knew how old it was. It was kept here for the sole purpose of destroying any snakes that were foolish enough to come near the homestead. Mick came in the back door at a rush. He grabbed the gun, checked the load, cocked both barrels, and moved swiftly to the kitchen. He could see the backs of the family. No good, he decided. He moved to the sitting room where the French doors to the veranda were open. Thank Christ, he thought, that it is summer and the bloody doors stood open.

  I have to keep the bastard talking, thought Jack. Do anything to delay the inevitable, while there was life, there was hope. He measured the distance to Abdul. It was too far to leap at him. What could he do?

  “It is you who is the dog,” Jack said, “Waging war on innocent women and children. You will not find your way to paradise this way.”

  Mick had never killed another human being. He had avoided all the wars in his long life. He had been rejected by the army in 1940. They said he had a heart murmur. He did not want to kill now, but there was little option. He carefully pushed the barrel through the doors. He had a side on shot now, the family was just clear.

  “No more talking,” said Abdul, “it is time for you to die.”

  There was a blast of gunfire. Helen screamed. Jack flinched, expecting a bullet, but it never came. Mick had fired both barrels, aiming low at the legs and feet of the two men. Number four shot was small, but at that range, it did terrible damage. Abdul took one charge directly in his left kneecap; Hassan was blasted in both legs. With terrible screams, they went over backwards.

  Jack launched himself from the veranda and scooped up the pistol from the ground. Then he looked to Susan. “Get everybody inside, quickly,” he said. “There may be more of them.”