Peter Corris - Wet Graves

I counted forty-one people arriving but I might have missed a few when my attention wandered. The redcoats tied up and cast off for the launches, supported the tentative, valet-parked some cars and generally kept things moving. One of them did less work than the others. His main job seemed to be OK-ing a member of each party. After forty minutes he rubbed his hands together and went on board, leaving the other two to stand on the jetty, smoke cigarettes, stamp their feet against the cold and repel all borders. There was no way to get aboard legitimately. Maybe I should have arrived in one of Ray’s boats wearing a tux and with a woman on my arm. But I didn’t have a tux or a woman.

Say what you like, army training can be useful. I fell back on it now instinctively. In a situation like this, training said: attack head-on, or approach with stealth, or create a diversion. On the whole I prefer stealth, but not if it means getting wet on a cold winter night. Failing stealth, diversion is best, partly because it presents an intellectual challenge, but mostly because it cuts down the chances of getting shot through the head.

There are all sorts of handy things lying about in boatsheds. Rooting around in the semi-dark, I found a rescue kit, which included a flare pistol, plenty of motor spirit, a battery-powered loud hailer, several spearguns-almost too many diversionary items. But I didn’t want to start any fires or impale any redcoats. I just wanted to see a man, no need for World War III. On the other hand, I’d been assaulted and had my name taken in vain in a court of law. And I was present at a highly illegal gaming operation; everyone around here was breaking the law. I looked the scene over again-yachts, houseboat, jetty, able-bodied guards, motor cars parked along the upper reaches of the ramp-and the solution hit me.

I gathered up a long length of nylon cord and a couple of pulleys attached to screw clamps and left the boathouse, bent low and keeping to the shadows. I worked my way back to the ramp and along it behind the cars. There were seven of them: Volvos, BMWs, Saabs and the like. The first six were parked pretty close together, but a red Porsche was a bit further up the slope, as if it deserved a better view and a space of its own. Some of the cars were locked, but others had the keys hanging in the lock of the driver’s door so the redcoats could unpark them quickly and not keep the ladies and gentlemen waiting in the cold. The Porsche was open. I prised a brick out of the edge of the ramp, tied the end of the cord firmly around it and set it carefully under the nearside front wheel of the Porsche. When I opened the car and put the gearshift in neutral. I felt it roll an inch and come to rest on the two inches of brick that chocked the wheel.

I retreated towards the boatshed, paying out the nylon line. At two points, I rigged up pulleys and passed the line through them. Tricky work with stiff, cold fingers and hard, unyielding nylon. The line was barely long enough; I had to crouch near the front of the shed, almost in one of the circles of light, and hope the guards didn’t see me. I was sweating when I took up my position, and one leg was cramping from creeping and scuttling along. The guards were leaning against the jetty rail with their hands in their pockets. They didn’t seem to be talking but they weren’t super-alert. Bored, almost certainly, and probably tired.

I took a deep breath, surveyed the ground I’d have to cover to get to the jetty, and jerked the line. Nothing happened. I swore and pulled it again, putting some weight into the tug. I almost lost balance as the line slackened in my hands. I got ready to run. There was a moment’s quiet and then a grinding crash as the freewheeling Porsche slammed into the back of the next car. That must have been one of the locked ones, with its alarm set. A bonus. The alarm started to whoop and the guards shouted and ran towards the noise. I let them pass me and sprinted for the jetty. Any second now people would come out onto the houseboat’s deck to see what the fuss was. But the natural place for them to look first was up, not down along the jetty. I broke the world record for running on planks, took the gangplank in two strides and flattened myself against a wall of superstructure on the harbour side. I stood in the darkness waiting for the confusion on the deck to reach a useful pitch. Clark Island was eight hundred metres away across the water. For no good reason I remembered the story Robert Hughes told about the place in The Fatal Shore. Lieutenant Clark used the island to grow vegetables, but the convicts rowed out and stole them. Sydney hasn’t changed.

I thought I’d cause some alarm, stir the possum, but what I got was panic. Your illegal gambler these days must be a spineless type compared with the men and women in Perce Galea and Robin Askin’s day. They’d talk to the cops, buy them drinks, swap racing tips and go off to the lockup as if it was all part of the fun. Mind you, those were wide-open days when MPs and magistrates winked and nodded so much they looked as if they all had palsy and tics.

As far as I could see from poking my head around the corner, this lot all wanted to abandon ship. I could hear persuading voices and protesting ones; voices were raised in anger and threats were uttered. A motor boat came up in response to a hail from the houseboat. Two motor boat types in jeans and padded jackets came on board to back up a man in a dinner suit who was talking about money.

With the class of the company dropping, I felt safe in moving from my position along to a doorway that led inside the houseboat. Just inside the door were steps, going up and down. I went up a flight and came to what appeared to be a controls room. It featured a console with blinking lights, a navigator’s desk, several office chairs and windows giving a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view from a point about six metres above the water. I went down the steps and came to a short narrow corridor with a door at the end of it. I held my shoulder against the door so it couldn’t open and peered through a window in the shape of a porthole into the gambling room.

The place was about ten notches up from the one behind the coffee shop in Leichhardt. The bar was a thing of beauty-polished wood and steel, padded front, velvet-covered stools, all the trimmings. The socialising part of the room was lit by chandeliers: discreet, hooded lights hung over the tables and picked up the deep, rich colours in the paintings and tapestries on the walls. It should have been a scene of relaxed self-indulgence; instead, it looked like a children’s playground after a rainstorm. Chairs had been knocked over and glasses of wine spilt, and cards and chips were scattered across the green baize surfaces. The barman and a couple of dealers had kept their places but they were frozen, not touching any of the accoutrements in case the clients came back and protested that they’d been nobbled. A few last wisps of blue-grey smoke were drifting slowly towards a fan outlet. A classy joint, catering for the smoke-sensitive.

In the far corner of the room a blue velvet curtain hung over an opening. Another gambling room perhaps, or executive space? I could get up adjacent to that area by opening the door at my shoulder. I had to move; a few people wandered back into the room, no doubt with stories of a crashed Porsche and a terrorist. They wouldn’t find the brick immediately in the dark, but it wouldn’t take too long. I eased back and opened the door. The man in the next stage of the corridor was surprised to see me, which gave me a tiny advantage. I needed it because he was big and he wanted to stop me. He said something impolite and aimed a punch at my head, but I’d already moved the head and started a punch of my own. I got him low and hard. He grunted and sagged and I hit him again on the back of the neck. He went down and fumbled in his jacket pocket. I used my knee to bang his head against the wall, and he stopped doing anything.