Peter Corris - The Big Score

‘Yes!’ Pearson yelled.

We travelled about another hundred metres and then he leaned across and turned off the ignition. The Pajero bumped to a stop. I could see activity behind us, heard a yell and a dog bark.

‘What’re you doing?’ I shouted.

‘Fooled you, Hardy. We have to do an exercise to pass the course, and I chose to persuade you to get me out of the perimeter.’

Few things upset me more than being hoodwinked. His laugh was strangled when I hit him hard with an anger-fuelled short right to the temple. He was thrown sideways, bumped his head, and slumped down in the seat. I started the motor and drove on. I stopped at the cattle grid gate long enough to open it, pass through, close it again and roll a big rock in front to block it. Headlights appeared but I was well clear and drove steadily along the track, making the turns carefully, keeping up a respectable speed. There was a straight stretch before I hit the gravel road and if there was a vehicle following, it was well behind.

Adrenalin and exhilaration pushed me on until I reached the paved road, where I pulled over to take a look at Pearson. He was barely conscious-one of my better punches, aided by the hard interior parts of the car he’d bounced off. But then, many a knockout has been due as much to the head hitting the floor as the left hook. He was coming around, wasn’t bleeding from the ear-a mild concussion at worst. I strapped him firmly into his seatbelt, took a good swig of Johnnie Black and drove on with my right hand throbbing.

Pearson surfaced fully, after some muttering, about the time we met the highway.

He shook his head several times. ‘What happened?’

‘You bumped your head.’

‘You king-hit me, you bastard.’

‘You were fighting above your weight, son. I’ve been tricking people and being tricked for as long as you’ve been alive.’

‘Let me out!’

There was no traffic and I slowed. ‘Sure. Here?’

He stared out to the left and right. ‘Where are we?’

‘About fifty kilometres from Sydney. You could hop out, hitch back. Take you a while.’

‘I’d be a laughing-stock.’

‘I wouldn’t say that. You gave it a go and did pretty well, just didn’t quite wrap it up.’

‘My head hurts.’

‘Probably got a slight concussion. Want a hospital?’

‘I could sue you for assault and… restraint or whatever they call it.’

‘You’d look pretty silly doing that.’

He went quiet but his breathing sounded normal and he seemed to be okay-physically. I reached down for the bottle of water I’d brought on the drive out and passed it to him. He unscrewed the top and swigged.

‘Where d’you want to go, Gary?’

He sounded young all of a sudden. ‘I dunno.’

‘Tell you what, why don’t we go and call on your old man.’

‘What?’ he said, sounding even younger.

I told him everything. He listened, occasionally turning his head to look at me. After I finished he stayed silent for quite a few minutes.

‘I didn’t think he gave a shit about me,’ he said.

‘He does. Probably has trouble showing it.’

‘I suppose so. It’s mutual, I guess. I used to look at a picture of him that Mum had, and I wished… but we never… He’s right that Sirdar got me interested in DTS, but he’s behind the times and way off-beam. Him and my mum were washed up a while back. They’re just friends now. Sirdar’s not a Muslim by the way, he’s a Christian. What do you think of DTS?’

‘How much did you pay to go on the course?’

‘Three thousand dollars. I took out a loan to pay it.’

‘I think it’s an exploitative play-acting operation. If you want to be a soldier, join the army, or the reservists.’

‘I might. What would my father think of that?’

‘I don’t know. He was a very good soldier himself, but he might have a different opinion of the army these days, the way things are.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Politics. Was it true what you said about the consequences of trying to get out of the place-the bastardisation, as it’s known?’

‘No. I made that up. Do you really mean what you said? We go and see him now, at this hour?’

‘Yes.’

I rang Clay, woke him and filled him in. ‘I’m bringing him to your place,’ I said. ‘You have things to talk about.’

I drew up outside Clay’s house in Erskineville. Clay was standing in his pyjamas and dressing gown at the front gate waiting. Gary grabbed his duffel bag, seemed to think about shaking my hand, didn’t, and got out. I waved and drove off.

I waited a couple of days, making use of the 4WD to do a bit of carting. My daughter Megan had moved into a flat in Dee Why and I helped her to stock it with some furniture I didn’t need. Then I rang Clay and arranged to return the Pajero and the gear he’d lent me. I handed him the keys and dumped the rest on the floor of his office.

‘I drank the scotch,’ I said.

‘Of course. What do I owe you?’

‘I’ll invoice you. Your kid’s got a hard head-I bruised my knuckles. How’s it going with you two?’

‘Not bad. We’re talking. I even had lunch with Harriet the other day.’

‘Don’t tell me I’ve…’

He laughed. ‘No, but it all feels a hell of a lot better. I have to thank you, Cliff.’

‘Any flak from St James?’

He smiled. ‘Flak, eh? Still taking the piss. No, not a squeak. Is there anything dangerous about DTS, d’you reckon?’

‘Only to the bank balances of people silly enough to get into it.’