Peter Corris - O'Fear

Riley rubbed the back of his head; the carefully cut grey hair stood up at the crown. ‘We’re still talking. You’ve put the rest of the stuff somewhere.’

‘Somewhere,’ I said. ‘But you’ve put your money away, Stan. That wasn’t subtle. If I tell you what you want to know, I’m dead.’

‘You could be persuaded to tell. I didn’t want this to get messy, but I could give you to Gary.’

I shook my head. ‘If you give me to Gary he’d have to use his gun. I know a bit about guns. He’s got a good one there, but I might get to him. If I did, I’d put his eyes out.’

‘Try it,’ Gary said.

‘Wait on.’ Riley looked at me so hard I could feel the force of it on my face. I wanted to put my hand up, to block out his gaze, but I resisted the impulse. His thin, sharklike lips parted. ‘Mrs Todd,’ he said slowly. ‘That’s the key. D’you know anyone who lives in Chalmers Street, Redfern? Apart from Mrs Todd, I mean?’

I didn’t answer.

‘Pity,’ Riley said, ‘if you did, you could call ‘em up and ask if there’s one of my trucks in the street and an Athena van by the park.’

‘She doesn’t know a thing,’ I said.

‘I think she does. I think she knows all we need to know. I can see it in your fuckin’ face under that stupid beard.’ He swayed a little to the left, away from where the gunman stood. ‘Gary, we don’t need him any more.’

Gary’s hand moved and I started to move too, up and to one side, as if he was the conductor and I was a violinist in an orchestra. I knew I’d be way too slow but it was better than just sitting there waiting for the bullets. My eyes were closed: I felt the explosion bounce off the walls and floor and ceiling, and fill the room with echoing sound.

The second explosion came only a split second later, but in that time I recorded a few impressions. I wasn’t shot; someone had come into the room from the passage; Gary had been thrown around like a soft toy… My movement in reaction to Gary’s with the Colt had taken me over to the wall by the window. At the second blast the window shattered and I was showered with glass. I dropped to the floor and found Stanley Riley down there. He was writhing and cursing; there was a gaping hole in the floorboards and the worn old carpet square around it was scorched and sticky with blood.

A sharp sound made me look up. O’Fear had worked the pump action and was pointing a shotgun at Riley’s head.

‘O’Fear, don’t!’ I scrambled to my feet and moved towards him. He held the gun very steady as if he was taking aim, although at that range he couldn’t miss. Riley had guts; he looked at me and then at his legs. His grey trousers had turned black and there were puddles of blood around his knees and ankles. Blood was dripping into his shoes.

‘Get an ambulance.’ He ground the words out and clenched his jaw tightly as he struggled to get into a sitting position by the wall. O’Fear tracked him with the gun, but the murderous impulse had passed. He took his finger off the trigger as I grabbed for the phone. I called for an ambulance and also rang Frank Parker. When I put the phone down, I discovered that my recently healed hand was bloody from nicks and scratches caused by the broken glass. So we had the unwounded, the slightly wounded, the seriously wounded and the dead, all in one room.

Gary lay on his back in front of the safe. The charge had taken him in the left side below the armpit. Splintered rib bones stuck out through the bloody red meat and grey lung tissue. His eyes were open and bulging, and blood trickled from his nose and mouth.

A white, startled face appeared in the door. The iridologist. ‘All under control,’ I croaked. I waved her away with my bloody paw and she went. O’Fear put the shotgun on the desk and looked at the spread of photographs. He glanced at Riley, who was sitting with his back against the wall and his eyes closed. For a moment I thought O’Fear was going to pick up the gun and I got ready to stop him, but he relaxed and pointed to the photographs.

‘See,’ he said. His breath was whisky-laden, and there was a hysterical note in his voice.

‘What?’

O’Fear’s finger pointed to one of the men wearing a silver jacket and carrying a rifle. The face was sharp in every detail-the loose, slack mouth, the guileless eyes and soft jawline. It was the face I knew I’d seen but couldn’t put a name to.

‘That’s Danny,’ O’Fear said. ‘My boy. These bastards have got him into the sort of trouble he’ll never… He closed his eyes and struck himself on the chest with his fist. ‘They killed a guard, didn’t they? Danny’ll die in gaol.’

‘Easy,’ I said. ‘He mightn’t have been involved.’

‘He was. You’ve just got a few of the pictures here. I found a lot more in the office. Danny’s in them all. Bastards! He can barely write his own name, y’know. But there’s no real harm in him, if he’s left alone.’

‘So what’ve you been doing?’

‘I went looking for Danny, a’course, but I couldn’t get to him. He’s holed up in that bloody Athena fortress, I suspect. I was coming to see you here when I saw a couple of them in those poncy silver jackets using a scanner outside. Then these two arrived. I got hold of this pump gun the other day. I brought it with me and sneaked up for a listen. I heard enough.’

‘I have to thank you,’ I said, ‘He was going to shoot me. I’ll say that loud and clear to every cop and lawyer I meet. You’ll be all right.’

He nodded. Riley groaned and swore. ‘Where’s that bloody ambulance?’

‘Did you have to shoot him?’ I said.

‘I didn’t shoot him. I wanted to, but I pulled down and fired it into the floor. He’ll live. Y’don’t think it’d be a good idea for me to scarper?’

‘I do not,’ I said.

The ambulance men came, and the cops came, and there was a lot of standing around and photographing and measuring and collecting of trophies. I was treated for my cuts and Riley got some temporary relief for his pain and discomfort. Frank Parker put in an appearance. He was careful not to interfere with the work of the detectives from the Kings Cross station, but I managed to tell him that a few cruising squad cars along Chalmers Street, Redfern, could be useful. Riley refused to make a statement without his lawyer being present. O’Fear and I made statements and the photographs and shotgun parts made a big impression. Still, cops are cops.

Detective Sergeant Blazey looked at his notes. ‘I can’t count the number of bail provisions you’re in violation of, O’Fear.’

The ambulance men spread heavy plastic over a stretcher, lifted Gary’s body aboard and carried him out.

‘He was acting as my operative,’ I said. ‘That should give him some protection.’

Blazey, a dark good-looking man in a good-looking suit, lit a cigarette with a gold lighter. ‘Don’t make me laugh. Christ, this place is a mess.’ He consulted his notes again. ‘Two shots. What happened to the window?’

‘The building’s old,’ I said. ‘It probably just couldn’t stand the pressure. Like me.’

Blazey blew smoke. ‘Now I’m going to cry. You should’ve come to us the minute you got hold of this stuff, Hardy.’

‘I know I could have come to you, sergeant. I know you’re a man of integrity. But we’ve only just met. I think Riley owns a few of your colleagues, if you’ll excuse me saying so. I was working my way towards the police.’

‘Through Parker?’

I nodded.

Blazey gave the all-clear for the ambulance men to put Riley on a stretcher. ‘Parker’s okay,’ he said. He pointed his cigarette at O’Fear. ‘Gary Gilbert’s an escapee and no bloody loss. That’s lucky for you.’