Tunnel Vision

by Andrew Christie

  “So Rash isn’t talking?”

  “No. Won’t tell them a thing.”

  “Good on her.” Dave poured some milk into his mug and mixed it in with the tea bag.

  Sally sighed. “It’s pissing them off. They’ll charge her.”

  “Probably.” Dave nodded. “She’ll get a suspended sentence, but it’ll be all right.”

  “They’re talking about assault. God knows what’ll happen if Jim Baxter doesn’t come round. If he dies.”

  “It was an accident. It’s not like she pushed him off the stage.”

  “That’s what the lawyer says, but the police keep talking about manslaughter if Baxter dies.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “An ASIO agent was here yesterday.”

  Dave waved a hand. “They’re just trying to scare you.”

  “Yeah? Well, it’s working. The lawyer says the police haven’t got a case, but the government and media are pressuring them.” She sipped her tea and went into the lounge room. “I can’t go to work tomorrow, can’t leave her alone. Luckily the holidays are coming up. Who knows what’ll happen after Christmas. I was hoping she could go up and stay with you.”

  Dave got up and followed her. “Let’s play it by ear. She’s always welcome. You both are.”

  “Are you staying over?”

  “Just tonight, if that’s okay. I’ve got to be in Penrith tomorrow. Straight home after that. There’s lots of work coming up before Christmas.”

  Dave saw the small familiar shake of Sally’s head. “We’re going a bit crazy here, just the two of us.” Sal wasn’t even aware she’d done it, but Dave saw it every time. It was how he knew he had disappointed her again. “What’s so important in Penrith?” she asked.

  “Turf-maintenance field day.”

  “Jesus, Dad. Are you doing professional development?”

  He laughed. “Nah. Trying to get a good deal on some mowers. New zero-turn gear. It’ll put me in line for some highway contracts.” He saw Sally’s eyes glazing over already. Which was what he wanted. The last thing he needed was her getting curious about his business.

  “Grandpa.”

  They both turned as Rashmi came down the hallway towards the living room, swinging between her crutches—a big smile for Dave, eyes, and teeth shining in her brown face. He was glad to see that. Glad to see she was still smiling.

  Dave crossed the room to meet her, picked her up in a hug and swung her around, her crutches dangling from her arms. “My girl,” he said, his face in her weird dyed-blue hair. “How are you, darlin’?”

  She kissed his cheek. “I’m all right. Let me down will you?”

  He placed her down gently and held her at arm’s length, looking her up and down while she arranged her crutches and balanced herself. “You look good, girl.”

  Everyone in the room knew he was lying. Rashmi’s eyes were red from crying, her face puffy.

  Rashmi led Dave into her bedroom while Sally started putting dinner together. They sat side by side on her bed while Rashmi tried to explain it all. How she’d never meant for anyone to get hurt. Just wanted to make a statement, draw attention to the refugees. And do something that smug government bastard wouldn’t forget. Crack his Mr. Ice facade. Show up the hypocrite hiding inside.

  Dave could understand that desire. It made sense to him, more than all the other political stuff. Revenge was real. The gut, not the head. He just wished his granddaughter had found a way to do something that hadn’t brought the law down on her. Or on him. The bastard police had a way of finding more than what they were looking for.

  “What about this boy who helped you?” he asked.

  Rashmi looked at him. “Billy? Did Mum tell you? She wasn’t supposed to.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “You can’t tell anyone,” she said.

  Dave laughed. “Be serious…I’m no dog. But he is letting you take all the heat. That’s pretty low.”

  Rashmi shook her head. “Billy wanted to own up, but I wouldn’t let him. It’s better this way. Better if it’s just me.”

  “How’s it better?”

  “It just is.”

  Dave shrugged. “Are you sure? What’s he like?”

  She shrugged too. “He’s all right. Nice. I like him…kind of like a brother, how you’d want a brother to be. He’s clever, not school clever but good with stuff. He figured out the pumps and tubes.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “Mostly Camperdown. His family is pretty useless. His mum’s a druggy. Billy mostly stays with a kind of guardian.”

  Dave shook his head but managed not to make a comment. “Who’s this kid’s guardian?”

  “John. He looks out for Billy, because his mum’s such a waster. She and her boyfriends used to hurt Billy. John stopped that, though.”

  “How?”

  “Billy says he put one of the boyfriends in hospital. John used to be in the army.”

  “You should be careful who you hang out with, darlin’.”

  “Billy’s all right.”

  “Maybe.” Dave put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her to him. “Stick to your story, love. Leave the boy out of it.”

  She stared at him. “I’m not a dog either, Grandpa.”

  “I know you’re not, baby. Just keep it simple. The teacher, that was an accident. Just bad luck. Don’t tell the cops more than you have to; don’t elaborate. There’s not much they can do if you keep to what you’ve already told them.”

  She gave him a look like Yeah, of course.

  He stayed the night, leaving early the next morning, telling Sally he had to get out to Penrith.

  She came out to the car to see him off, standing on the footpath in bare feet, a fine drizzly rain beading in her hair. “Thanks for making time for us.” She rose up on her toes to peck him on the cheek. “It was good to see you, Dad. However briefly.”

  “Sorry I can’t stay…” Dave started, but she was already gone. He watched her skip across the wet path, shutting the front door behind her.

  He called Al when he was on Victoria Road.

  “How’d it go?” The Scot’s accent boomed through the car speakers.

  “Okay. The cops want to know who helped her, but they’re not looking hard at Sal. She didn’t know what was going on. We could give them her boyfriend, send them in that direction. He was in it up to his eyeballs. But it looks like we’ll be sweet. Better to stay right out of it. Rashmi will probably get a suspended. The teacher slipped. Not really her fault.”

  “All right. If you’re sure,” Al grunted. “Everything’s set then.”

  “Right.”

  “The boy’s waiting for you. When you’ve done the cars, he’ll drop you back here. Some time after lunch.”

  The “boy,” Dave thought. Al’s son, Stevie, must be nearly forty now. “Sounds good. I’ll see you then. We’ll go for a drink.”

  “Not too late, mind you. An old fella like you needs his rest.”

  “Piss off.”

  “How is she anyway, the wee girl?” Al asked.

  “Feeling bad about the teacher, but she’s a tough one.”

  “Had to be, I suppose. She sure knows how to stir up the shit. I’ll give her that.”

  11:24 a.m.

  Dave’s earpiece gave a ping. At bloody last, Stevie had spotted the van. Now it was time to go to work. Beneath the table, he pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves while his eyes scanned the road. Al was already moving. Not hurrying, but giving himself plenty of time so he’d be waiting inside the bank when the van pulled up. Looking back the other way, Dave saw the van now. A squat white brick of armoured steel and glass amongst the cars, rumbling towards him through the sunlight.

  Dave waited while it stopped in front of the bank and two of the guards climbed out, leaving the driver inside. They pulled out a folding trolley and loaded it with the bags of delivery money. When they began to move, so did Dave. Stepping quickly between the slow-moving traffic, he’d made it a
cross the street by the time the guard with the trolley was approaching the automatic doors into the bank. Now Al was on his way back out, reaching beneath his jacket for his big stainless-steel Colt Python. Dave’s earpiece pinged twice. Stevie had started the timer and was bringing the car up. They had three minutes. Dave tugged his shotgun free of the harness.

  The outside guard was alert, his hand moving to the gun at his hip when he saw Al coming. Dave struck him from behind with the butt of the Browning, sending him down hard; blood poured from a cut on the side of his head. When the trolley guard turned to see what had happened behind him, Al put the Colt in his ear. “Be smart,” he said, “and you’ll live to see tomorrow.”

  The guard blinked rapidly, watching Dave take the gun from the man on the ground. When Dave looked up again, he saw a Volvo wagon swerve across the front of the armoured van, blocking it in. Stevie emerged and put his Glock on the van driver. The trolley guard looked back at Al and slowly raised his hands.

  “Good.” Al took the man’s weapon. “Take the trolley round to the back of the van.”

  Dave dragged the outside guard to his feet and pushed him hard up against the front of the armoured van. Blood from the cut on his head smeared across the windscreen as Dave jammed the muzzle of the shotgun into his back, pinning him in place. The driver’s eyes went wide as he stared at the blood then looked at Dave, who pulled a plastic bottle of petrol from his coat pocket and squeezed it over the guard’s head. The guard jerked and squirmed when he smelled the petrol, felt it sting the cut in his head. Dave hit him again, with the muzzle this time, then pulled out a cigarette lighter. Holding the shotgun out, pressing it into the guard’s back, he shouted, “Open up or your mate here burns.”

  The driver just stared. He was shaking, his mouth moving. It looked like he was saying, “I can’t.” Dave’s earpiece pinged: thirty seconds gone. He shrugged. “All right. Your choice.” He flicked the lighter, producing a strong yellow flame, then leaned forward, pointing the lighter at the guard’s head. As the flame got closer, the driver waved his hands and shouted, “Okay, okay” before turning and moving towards the back of the van. Dave dropped the lighter into his pocket and pushed the petrol-soaked guard towards the rear of the van.

  Before he got there, the vans back door crashed open, swinging against the side and bouncing back. Then two shots, almost together. And another. Dave shoved the guard hard, pushing him to the ground. Al was down. Blood on the road. The trolley guard was still standing, his hands up, eyes flicking to and from the back of the van. Dave dropped to his knees beneath the door and fired blind, up into the back of the van. The driver screamed. Dave reloaded, and stepped around the door as his spent shell bounced on the road. He fired into the back of the van again. Reloaded. The trolley guard, his hands still up, started to move. Dave shot him in the chest. Reloaded. Looked around.

  Stevie was there. “Fuck,” he shouted as he crouched beside his father. The driver was still whimpering in the back of the van, hit in the guts and legs. The gun he had shot Al with was still in his hand. Dave shot him again. Killed him. Reloaded. Two rounds left. The outside guard was still on the ground where he had fallen, his hands over his head, his eyes shut tight. Dave turned to where Al was lying. Stevie tried to lift his old man up, but it was no good. Al was dead. Shot in the head.

  “Let’s go.” Dave grabbed Stevie’s shirt and pulled him to his feet. “Drive. Let’s go.” He pushed Stevie towards the front of the Volvo and followed him, dragging the money bags from the trolley. A crowd was starting to gather as he tossed the bags into the back of the station wagon. Most of the onlookers were staring at the men bleeding on the ground; some had their phones out, holding them up, filming the scene. As soon as Dave’s arse hit the passenger seat, Stevie had the car moving, pulling into the road then turning left immediately. No squealing tyres, no revving engines. Stevie was a good driver; Al had trained him well. Could have turned pro, rally cars. There was money in that if you were any good. Not that it mattered now; this time they were fucked. Well and truly fucked.

  “What happened?” Stevie shouted.

  “Dunno. The driver pulled on Al… Fuck, I don’t know.” Dave turned to look out the back window. There was nothing behind them. He pulled off his wig and shoved it and the shotgun into a bag at his feet. There were no sirens yet, but there soon would be.

  Stevie kept the car moving quickly and efficiently along secondary roads, changing direction frequently. He was driving on automatic, but his voice was panicky. “Fuck me. Dad…”

  “Yeah,” Dave said, struggling to get out of his coat. “I know.”

  “Shit, man. What do we do now?”

  “Drive. Just drive.”

  “But…” Stevie turned away from the road for a moment, looking at Dave with wet eyes. “What the fuck, Dave? Dad’s dead.”

  “Yeah, he is. Keep your eyes on the road.” He bundled up his coat and shoulder rig and put them in the bag as well. “Nothing we can do for Al. He’s gone. We have to stick to the plan now. That’s what he’d do. ‘Trust the plan.’ It’s what he always said.”

  “His fucking plan didn’t do him much good this time.”

  “No.” Dave turned and looked out the back of the car again. Still clear.

  “What about the Colt?”

  Al’s fancy gun was still lying in the road where it had fallen out of his hand. “Doesn’t matter. It won’t make any difference now.”

  Chapter 3

  Situational Awareness

  Billy sat in the gutter, watching Rashmi’s house. He was hidden between the back of a four-wheel-drive and the front of a white van. Anyone looking along the street wouldn’t notice him; they’d have to be walking past on the footpath behind him. It had rained earlier in the morning, and the concrete kerb was still damp, soaking into his shorts.

  There was no one much about; all his friends were still at school till the end of the week. He should be there too, but there was no way he was going back, not if Rash couldn’t be there. He had been looking forward to the end of the year, doing stuff with Rashmi. Last year he had spent nearly the whole six weeks of the summer holidays hanging out at John’s house and going camping with him, down to the Snowy Mountains. That had been good. John was different there, away from the city. At Camperdown he was moody, worrying about stuff, getting angry all the time. He usually didn’t get mad at Billy, not like he was now, but even so, he wasn’t much fun to be around when he was in one of those moods.

  Billy didn’t know what would happen this summer. He was supposed to stay away from Rash, and John and Tony were pissed off at him. He didn’t want to spend time at his mother’s house, not unless he really had to, and even then, only after she’d had time to pass out in front of the television. His mates wouldn’t be around much. Donno and Leroy were never around much in the holidays; always off doing stuff with their families. Donno went to Bali with his family every year at Christmas, and Leroy would be down in Wollongong with his Dad. He went there every holiday, it was the only time they saw each other.

  That only really left Rashmi to hang out with. She was smart and pretty. Leroy and Donno were dumb and dumber—but they were fun, always making stupid jokes. Rash could be fun too, but she was more intense. Billy had only known her since she’d arrived at school at the start of the year. One day in February, he was running late as usual, trying to read his new timetable as he went, figuring out where he was supposed to be. Mrs. Coghlan stood outside the office, talking to a weird-looking new girl. Rashmi had red dye in her black hair back then and plenty of mascara. And the crutches of course.

  Mrs. Coghlan looked up and saw Billy. “Good morning, Billy Sheehan. Nice of you to join us.”

  “Uh, yeah. The buses were—”

  “Unreliable. Of course they are. We all know that, and most of us make allowances for it. Come here and meet Rashmi McPhedran. She’s starting with us today.”

  Billy turned to the girl and nodded. “Hey.”

  She looked
at him and blinked but didn’t say anything. She had big shining eyes and brown skin, kind of like honey. Her school uniform—a white shirt and green skirt— looked new and uncomfortable. It was her crutches that marked her out though, those and her legs. They were thin and bent, so she needed the crutches to hold herself up. Back then Billy had never heard of polio.

  “Rashmi needs to go to the library to register,” Mrs. Coghlan said. “You know where the library is, don’t you, Billy?”

  He nodded. Just because he didn’t use the school library much didn’t mean he didn’t know where it was.

  “Show Rashmi the way then, will you?” Mrs. Coghlan nodded to both of them then turned to go back into the office. “Don’t worry, Billy. I’ll fill in the late book for you.”

  Billy and Rashmi watched Mrs. Coghlan disappear into the office. “She’s a cow, isn’t she?” Rashmi said.

  Billy nodded. “Come on,” he said, turning away so he wouldn’t have to concentrate on not looking at her legs. “The library’s this way.” He headed for the new disabled ramp that led down to the lower campus.

  “But that way’s shorter, isn’t it?” Rashmi pointed with one of her crutches to the wide flight of steps that led down to the library courtyard. She crossed quickly to the top of the steps and started down, leaning forward with the crutches, putting them down onto the next step, then twisting her hips to bring her legs down. Billy stood watching her until she yelled back at him, “You coming, or are you just going to stand there perving at my arse?”

  It took her a while to get down the steps, but at the bottom she moved pretty fast, twisting her hips, lunging forward with the crutches, and swinging her legs through. Billy walked in front, listening to the double click her crutches made every time she put them down and making sure he didn’t get too far ahead. At the library, he held the door open for her.

  “This is it?” she said. “Not very big is it?”