“How would anyone have moved it out to Australia anyway?” Tony said. “That much gold, it would have been a few tonnes. How do you move that across the world with no one knowing?”
“Maybe through Asia,” John said. “After Vietnam, lots of stuff was being moved around. Weapons, drugs. Hong Kong too…”
“Maybe. But, like you said, then they wouldn’t need to be robbing banks.”
“You’d think so.”
No one knew and Billy didn’t care. The holidays dragged on. He watched a lot of television, and he slept. Didn’t go out unless he had to. Waking early in the mornings, before it was light outside, he’d lie in bed and listen to the birds and the traffic. It was never dark in his room anymore because he always left the light on. The channel-billed cuckoos were still around, announcing themselves with their awful call. Big, ugly birds that came for the summer to raid currawong nests. Billy had looked them up when he’d finally gotten his laptop back. They ate the currawongs’ eggs and chicks, left their own eggs behind. All the other birds hated them, tried to chase them away, but the channel-bills were so big, and they didn’t give a shit. Billy hated them.
A couple of weeks after New Year’s, Shasta went back to work, running her fitness classes in the park, and Tony was back at the university, doing whatever it was that he did there.
That left Billy and John at home. They went to Coogee Beach a couple of times. John just sat on the sand; his ribs weren’t up to being pounded by waves yet. Billy didn’t spend much time in the water either. He just bobbed about where he could stay with his feet on the sand, letting himself be pushed and pulled by the waves. Not diving under, like you’re supposed to, just letting them hit him. He didn’t like putting his face in the water anymore, but he liked the feel of it on his skin. Mostly he and John sat in the sun, looking out to sea, not talking much.
As the holidays wore on, more of his friends were back around. Leroy and Donno came around to see him, wanting to know what had happened. They’d heard some of it on the news. Billy tried to tell them, but it was hard to explain. They got pretty bored by the details anyway, and there were lots of things Billy didn’t want to talk about.
Going back to school was weird. The first day he had to go talk to Mrs. Coghlan in her office. She asked him how he was feeling. People had been asking him that a lot. He told her what he told everyone—that he didn’t know. It was the truth.
Mrs. Coghlan gave him one of her head-teacher looks, the one Billy usually interpreted as, Really? That’s the best you can come up with? But she said, “Okay, Billy, but promise you’ll come talk to me if you’re having any problems—if you need to talk or if you need some time off. Anything, just come and talk to me, okay?” Everyone wanted him to talk about it, which was the last thing he wanted to do.
She gave him another of her looks when he asked how Mr. Baxter was. “He’s on the mend, Billy. I spoke to Helen Baxter yesterday. They’re hopeful he’ll be up and walking again soon.”
Billy nodded. “I’m glad about that.”
“We all are, Billy.”
The rest of the teachers were unnaturally nice to him too, at first anyway. After a couple of weeks, though, things started to get back to normal. Rashmi wasn’t there of course. She and her mother had moved out of the city, to the Blue Mountains. They were renting a house at Wentworth Falls until they could sell the old one. Shasta said it might take a while, considering what had happened there.
Billy had only visited Rashmi once so far. He spent the whole of the two hour train trip up to Wentworth Falls, wondering what to say to her. It was good to see her. Good to hold her, the two of them hugging in the doorway of the little brick house. Turned out neither of them wanted to talk much. They spent most of the day sitting on her bed, holding hands. Rash cried a lot. At one point, Sally stuck her head in the room, looked at the two of them just sitting there, their faces wet with tears. She just nodded and closed the door again.
At the end of February, John decided his ribs had healed enough that he could work on the house again. He and Billy started with the floor in the front hall, pulling up the chipboard and replacing it with proper hardwood tongue-and-groove boards. Billy was in charge of measuring and cutting, pushing the big power saw through the boards like they were butter. At the end of the first day, he was covered in sawdust and sweat, but it felt good to be building something again.
The next John Lawrence Novel is Comfort Zone.
When his Army friend, Smokey, is murdered, John and Smokey’s neighbour, Rae, want answers.
You can get Comfort Zone here.
And you can read the first chapter on the next page.
Comfort Zone
Chapter 1
* * *
Thursday.
“I’m meeting him tomorrow, Mum.” Rae Holland switched her phone to the other ear and twisted to keep an eye on the grey-muzzled crossbreed that had trotted away to share an arse-sniffing moment with a chocolate-brown labrador.
Across the park, late afternoon shadows had pushed the sunshine off the lawns and onto the wall of the old cemetery, giving the graffiti-covered sandstone a warm glow. Humans clustered in chattering groups over the grass while their dogs dispersed around them, the older ones socialising with sniffs and tail-wags, the younger ones chasing balls. Or each other, tearing around in mad, tongue-lolling circles.
“Not before time,” her mother said. “You only get one chance at this. You need to make sure you’re good and ready.”
“I’ll be ready. Stop worrying.” Rae moved the phone aside, put two fingers in her mouth, and blasted a whistle towards the dog. It was loud enough to draw looks from half the people in the park. “Selective deafness,” she muttered, apologising to everyone and no one. “Come on, Stoker. Time to get you home.”
This time the dog decided to respond, but only after pausing for one last sniff of the lab. He had an expectant look in his milky old eyes as he trotted up to her.
“Good boy,” she said, clipping on his leash.
Her mother was still talking when Rae pushed her hair out of the way and put the phone back to her ear. “—and you’ve only got a week.”
“It’s nearly two weeks. Patrick knows what he’s doing.” She pushed herself up off the grass and brushed leaves off the bum of her cut-off jeans.
“Well I hope so,” her mother said. “I really do.”
“I’m paying for his expertise, Mum, and I’m going to listen to him.”
“Are you sure he’s up to—”
“Yes, I am.” Rae cut her off before she said something about Patrick being Vietnamese.
“Because I spoke to Donald Prescott the other day and he—”
“I like Patrick. And anyway, it’s too late to change now.” She set off down the hill as gold and pink clouds flared in the west. A jet climbed into the darkening sky, leaving Sydney behind. “Don’t worry, it’s all under control.”
“Do you want me to come with you?”
Hell no.
“What time is your appointment? I’ve got the hairdresser at ten… I could reschedule that. Janice won’t mind.”
“No, Mum. I’ll be fine. I’m going to get past this inquest, then I’m going to get on with the rest of my life.” She said it confidently, to convince herself as much as her mother. Get through the inquest and draw a line. Move on. Make a fresh start. She just wasn’t sure yet where to go, or what to start.
“It wouldn’t be a bother,” her mother said.
It would bother me. “There’s no need.”
Stoker led the way to the bottom of the park and across the road into Callow Street, where giant fig trees made a tunnel of the road, blocking out the glow of the sky. Fruit bats arriving for the night shift clawed the air between the trees, caught in flapping, squealing silhouette against glimpses of sky.
“You should have someone with you, Rae, especially for something this important. It’s what Dad and I do when we see his doctors. We always have a coffee afterwards and com
pare notes.”
“It’s okay, Mum.” Stoker stopped at the gate to his house, a converted warehouse next to the townhouse where Rae lived. “Let me handle it, please. Let me do it my way.” She slipped her key into the street gate and pushed it open. “I have to go now. I’m back at Smokey’s place. Bye.”
“But—”
Rae disconnected the call and pocketed the phone.
The brick facade of the renovated warehouse had been turned into an external garden wall, with barred-steel gates in the doorways and windows, allowing leafy glimpses into a courtyard. The old roof trusses formed a kind of industrial-grunge pergola above.
On the inner side of the courtyard there was a new wall, clad in corrugated steel to match the industrial feel of the building.
No lights were visible inside as she unclipped Stoker’s leash. He ignored the water bowl that was his usual first stop and went straight to the front door.
“Out of the way, mate.” She pushed him aside with her knee so she could get to the door, but he squeezed past as the door swung open.
Don’t mind me. She hung the leash on the coat rack by the door and called out to Smokey. “We’re back. Do you want me to feed him?”
There was no response, so she stuck her head into the kitchen. “Smokey?”
Tree-filtered light was spattered across the polished concrete floor between the benches and the kitchen table. Stoker’s claws clicked as he walked into the middle of the room and whined.
“Smokey? You there?” Rae reached for the switch and a grid of LEDs froze the kitchen in brilliant clarity. Rae blinked once, taking in the sprays of blood, then she screamed.
Smokey was face down on the table, blood pillowing his head. Grey and red glistened in his hair, his massive shoulders slumped against the edge of the table. Rae’s head was full of screaming. Hands over her face, she managed two steps away from the horror before her legs went.
No no no. Not again. She slid to the floor, screams becoming sobs, eyes squeezed shut, as she tried to hold away the images. Destroyed heads and too much blood. Henry and now Smokey.
Stoker sniffed the blood and let out a short whine before coming back to stand over Rae. He nudged her shoulder and licked her face until her sobs became whimpers. She slowed her breathing and let the shuddering gulps fade before she looked again. With her head on the floor, she could see beneath the table where Smokey’s blood had sprayed and puddled around the tyres of his wheelchair.
She sniffed and wiped snot off her face before reaching for her phone. Her fingers tapped in the three zeros automatically, just like last time.
Enjoy the book?
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Also by Andrew Christie
Left Luggage
A father’s murder. A mother’s secrets.
Can he protect his family from their deadly past? The first John Lawrence thriller is full of suspense and gut-wrenching twists.
Comfort Zone
They say lightning never strikes twice, but Rae Holland knows better. Already dealing with death and betrayal, Rae’s life is thrown into crisis when her neighbour is murdered.
For John Lawrence, Smokey’s death is an affront to the natural order. Smokey was a brother. A warrior who deserved to die fighting, not trapped in a wheelchair.
The Ridge
Hiding out in Thailand, ‘Large’ Phil Waters learns of the death of his first girlfriend. As teenage runaways, Large and Lizzie had survived on love and loyalty. But when the stakes became too high Lizzie sought safety, leaving Large to wade further into a life of violence and crime.
Now, Lizzie’s daughter, Carmen, has inherited her mother’s home in the opal-mining town of Lightning Ridge. Putting aside their mistrust of each other, Large and Carmen try to unravel the mystery of Lizzie’s life and death. But it’s complicated: Carmen wants an end to all the lies, but for Large, truth is a dangerous luxury.
About the Author
Andrew Christie is the author of four novels in the John Lawrence crime thriller series: Left Luggage, Tunnel Vision, Comfort Zone and The Ridge.
As well as the novels, Andrew has blogged about his quest to eat at every restaurant and café along the length of Newtown’s King Street. Close to the setting for the John Lawrence stories.
By the time his first novel came out, Andrew had spent forty years working as a stagehand, cameraman, gardener and landscape architect. He lives and writes on Yuin country, on the far south coast of New South Wales.
You can connect with Andrew at paintingthebridge.com or drop him a line at [email protected].
Acknowledgments
Thanks to all those who encouraged me to do it again by asking when the next book was coming out. You’ve only got yourselves to blame.
Particular thanks to the beta reading crew for pointing out that there is such a thing as too much trout fishing: Roy Chivers, Julie Garrard, James Gillespie, Ann Hoban, Julie Lulham, Fred Mantel, Wendy Stahel, Jill Sternfeld, Alex Unwin, and Jane Vallentine.
Thanks also to my writers group: Ashley Kalagian Blunt, Gabiann Marin, Andrea Tomaz and Michelle Troxler.
Thanks to my editors, Kylie Mason and Angela Brown, for bringing much needed professionalism and experience to the project.
Finally, thanks to my family for always being supportive, and to my wife Cath Renwick for proof-reading, reality-checking and ego-propping.
A Painting the Bridge Book
paintingthebridge.com
* * *
This edition published 2016
* * *
This is a work of fiction. While it takes inspiration from real events and places, there is no connection between any real events, individuals or businesses and the fictional ones in this book.
* * *
Copyright © Andrew Christie 2016
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
ISBN: 978-0-9925747-3-4
Created with Vellum
Contents
News
1. Stunt
2. Professional Development
3. Situational Awareness
4. Easy Money
5. North Circular
6. Airless
7. Uncomplicated
8. Black Door
9. Middle of Nowhere
10. Wouldn’t Dare
11. Expensive Hobby
12. Water Dragon
13. Potato Salad
14. Pale Shadows
15. Corner Pocket
16. Ten Hours
17. New Boyfriend
18. Wouldn’t Quit
19. Five Piece
20. Absolute Dark
21. Hadn’t Missed
22. Nothing Like This
23. Very Helpful
24. Headlights
25. Always Does
26. Hide
27. Nothing Good
28. Comprende
29. Landed Hard
30. Safety
31. Distant Rumble
Comfort Zone
Enjoy the book?
Also by Andrew Christie
About the Author
Acknowledgments
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Tunnel Vision Page 24
