Peter Corris - The Black Prince

‘Houses next door?’

I racked my brains. I hadn’t been planning on anything like this when I’d been there. I hadn’t been planning anything and a few minutes later I was in cloud cuckoo land. I tried to visualise the houses on either side and couldn’t. All I could see was the trees, then I remembered.

‘Corner block. House on the other side much the same as the others in the street. No brick fence. I think.’

‘You think. Okay. What about the fence along the open side?’

Open side. Military terminology. Encouraging. I tried, but I couldn’t stay with him on it. ‘I don’t know. Didn’t notice.’

‘That could be good. You’d probably have noticed something formidable. Right, well, this sounds fairly satisfactory. You see, if this Morris hasn’t got any real idea of security or any military experience, he’ll assume all you need is something impressive and high-tech out front. That’s bullshit. Any piece of territory has points of vulnerability right around the perimeter. Well, I’ll ring Mandy and tell her I’ll be a bit late. Oh shit, you are thinking of doing this tonight, aren’t you? You’re up to it, are you, Cliff?’

Of course I was. After a couple of Ian’s pills and a shot of whisky and with the cosh in my pocket and the illegal Colt. 45 automatic I keep for emergencies coming along with me for the ride.

‘Sure.’

The night had turned cool, enabling me to wear a light jacket with a pocket big enough to hold the Colt. I gave Wes the directions and we took both cars. The pills helped; I could feel the pain in my side when I shifted gear and turned the wheel but somehow it didn’t seem to matter. We drove down the side street and inspected the length of Morris’ property. Wes had overestimated my powers of observation-there was a high cyclone fence running from front to back. We stopped further down the street and went into a huddle.

‘Depends on the neighbours now,’ Wes said. ‘He controls the space in front and down that side. He doesn’t control the back and the other side. Let’s take a look.’

The cyclone fence only ran a metre or so across the back; after that it was a standard paling job.

‘Easy,’ Wes said. ‘Over into the other place and then over the back fence.’

‘Wes,’ I said. ‘I can’t scale any fences just now and anyway, I just happen to have a pair of bolt cutters in the car.’

He turned on me angrily, the first sign that he was on edge. ‘You’ve been pissing me about, man. Letting me do the military bit.’

‘No. We’re going to need all the experience we can muster. You were dead right. This fence is his Achilles heel.’

That soothed him. He grinned. ‘I like to work with a man with a classical education.’

‘Penguin Classics,’ I said.

He chuckled. ‘Doesn’t matter. Okay, let’s check that the fence isn’t wired up, which I doubt because any stray dog could set it off, and cut a hole big enough for you to walk through.’

We did that and pushed through a few scruffy casuarinas. I was glad to see Wes hanging on to the bolt cutters as a weapon. That meant he was taking the danger seriously. I showed him the cosh as we crouched in the shrubbery at the side of the house. He nodded sceptically. I didn’t show him the gun. It was a while since I’d done this sort of thing and I was nervous. I’d never done it with a broken jaw, cracked ribs and stoked up on codeine and alcohol.

‘No dogs,’ Wes said. ‘That’s good.’

I hadn’t thought about dogs at all. That was very good.

The house was brick with a covered verandah running all the way around on the lower level and a deck at the sides on the top storey. At a guess, six bedrooms. There was an in-ground pool at the back, off to one side, balanced on the other side by a sizeable carport. There were lights on in the house and I could hear music playing; or maybe it was from a TV set. We crept around to the carport and found the Tarago and a Holden Commodore of the kind Greg Norman advertises.

As we stood there a car pulled up at the gates and the intercom sounded. A staticky exchanged followed and the gate opened as the floodlights came on. A taxi backed away and a tall, slender woman wearing high heels, a short black skirt and a pink satin blouse strutted towards the house. Her blonde hair bounced on her padded shoulders as she reached into her purse for her mobile phone.

‘She’ll keep someone busy,’ Wes said.

‘Yeah. He’s so excited he’s forgotten to close the gates.’

We both got a better look and Wes said, ‘Oh, Jesus.’

She was slender because she was young, very young. The heavy makeup couldn’t disguise the fact. All her movements had a coltish awkwardness, sexually attractive I guess, to some.

She knocked, went into the house and the floodlights died.

‘How d’you see it?’ Wes said. He was rewarding me for the bolt cutters.

‘Two options. We sneak in, try to cut Clinton out somehow, or we do a diversion down here- drive a car into the pool or torch one, something like that.’

‘Which d’you favour?’

I stared at the house. I fancied some lights had gone on and others off but I wasn’t sure. We had no idea of the layout in there-stairs, doors, lights, furniture.

‘Diversion,’ I said. ‘Chances are it’s Morris in the sack. If there’s anyone else apart from Clinton we can assume what we like-man, woman, tough, weak, who knows? But Clinton’s the muscle. If there’s something going on down here, he’s supposed to front up.’

‘Agreed.’

‘I warn you, he’s not going to be happy about our interference with his little plan.’

‘Bugger his plan. I’m his father.’

I guess that’s the way fathers can look at things if they choose. I wouldn’t know. There was very little light coming from the house and it was easy to sneak about in the carport, keeping in the shadows. The Commodore was locked. It carried a sign saying that it was protected by a Viper Car Alarm. Wesley pointed to it. I nodded and hunted around in the garage for something to throw. I rejected a screwdriver and a bottle as they are likely to bounce. A hefty shifting spanner seemed like just the thing.

‘You realise that this is all as illegal as hell, don’t you?’ I said.

‘So’s selling steroids and bashing people up. I’ll chuck that thing. With your crook ribs you’d probably miss.’

Call it pride, call it stupidity. I stood back and threw the wrench as hard as I could at the Commodore’s windscreen. It shattered and the alarm began to whoop. My ribs protested and my clenched jaw didn’t feel good either, but the result was satisfying. Lights came on in the house and the front door opened. Clinton shouted something, jumped from the porch onto the path and ran towards the cars. Despite his bulk, he still moved like an athlete. Wes got ready to intercept him. I got ready to scoot back to the hole in the fence. Everything seemed to be going to plan when the floodlights came on again and a car came roaring through the open gates, heading straight for Clinton and not looking likely to stop.

Wes threw himself forward, swept Clinton up and carried him out of the path of the car. It did stop, with a squeal of brakes, throwing a shower of gravel in all directions. Male and female shouts came from the house. The men who jumped from the car, leaving the driver’s door open and the motor running, were the two I’d seen at my place earlier. Same car. At night they looked bigger and more threatening. They moved towards where Wesley was holding Clinton in a bear hug. Big as he was and struggling hard, he had no chance against his father’s strength.

I pulled out the Colt and got between the heavies and the Scotts. ‘Keep out of it, boys. It’s a family matter.’