Garry Disher - Pay Dirt

Wyatt stood and hopped two steps to the bench. He rejected the oily invoices and the horse-racing liftout from the Adelaide News. The box of matches would be better for what he had in mind. For a moment he considered burning the rope, but rejected it as painful and time-consuming. Instead he turned his back, lifted his hands and grabbed the matchbox. By bending over slightly he was able to keep his hands raised while he tipped the matches on to the floor and tore the matchbox into small strips. Then he turned around again, kicked the matches under the bench and bent his mouth to the bench top. With his tongue he drew the strips of cardboard into his mouth. He chewed them a little until they were moist and malleable, then manoeuvred separate pieces under his top and bottom lips and inside each cheek. He knew that Happy would go for the head first. The cardboard wads would save his teeth for a while, minimise the damage to the inside of his mouth.

Wyatt hopped back to the chair and sat down in it. Trigg and the big man came back a few minutes later. Trigg started with questions. ‘Where are the others? How much do they know?’

Wyatt stared at him dully.

‘Okay, Hap,’ Trigg said.

Wyatt looked up. There was no moral light in the big man’s gloomy eyes. Happy stepped forward and smashed his fist into Wyatt’s face. He did it again. The battering was skilful and hard. To help withstand the pain Wyatt made himself neutral, separate from the fists and the damage. He made eye contact with Trigg and didn’t let go of it. He said nothing and tried to avoid involuntary sounds. He let his body go loose and yielding, knowing the pain would be worse if he were stiff and tense. Unnoticed by Happy he was breathing deeply and evenly. This helped him turn inwards, turn off from the fists and pain. He was also helped by what was happening to Happy. The big man no longer seemed uninvolved. The pressure and rhythm of his blows grew uneven, telling Wyatt that he was beginning to unhinge. It was becoming a personal thing to Happy. If he’d been punching regularly and systematically, Wyatt would have found the punishment more damaging.

The beating went on even after he toppled onto the floor. After a while Happy stood back, breathing heavily. Wyatt felt himself slipping in and out of consciousness. He coughed bloodied cardboard out of his mouth and heard the roar of the sea in his head. He could feel grit and grease where his cheek touched the floor. He knew that Trigg was saying something, but the voice was far away.

When he woke up he knew he’d been out for a few hours. They’d taken the ropes off and he was lying on a foam rubber mattress. The air was stuffy. He tried to sit up but the pain tore through him and he blacked out. When he woke again the pain was still there, like a bird diving its beak into his body. In films the hero always gets up. Wyatt knew about real pain, how it stays with you. Taking it very slowly, he sat up.

The absolute lack of light puzzled him until he realised he’d been locked in the shipping container. He reached out a hand and touched the nearest wall. It had been insulated on the inside-from the heat, he supposed, but he also knew it meant he could make all the noise he wanted and no one would hear him. He didn’t risk standing yet. He slid along the perimeter of the container. At the back he found a stack of plastic boxes the size of Gideon Bibles. Videos. There was also a refrigerator with a lock on it.

Some time later they came to check on him. Blinding sunlight came through the door and Happy was there, holding a torch, the.38 and a glass of water. He turned on the torch and closed the door behind him. ‘Drink,’ he said, placing the glass on the floor.

Wyatt took small sips of the water. His mouth was dry and he had a raging thirst but he knew he’d vomit if he gulped the water. Happy, he noticed, was staring at him curiously, as if last night’s fight and beating had bonded them in some way.

Wyatt tried to speak, coughed, tried again. ‘Is it Saturday?’

Happy nodded.

‘Why don’t you just kill me?’

Happy considered the question carefully. ‘Too many people. Sunday.’

Wyatt deciphered this. They were waiting for when it was quiet, no customers, no one shopping in the main street. It could also mean they intended to move him. ‘Happy?’ Wyatt said. ‘Where’s the money?’

The voice rumbled like sludge sliding off a shovel. ‘I’ve got my share.’

‘I know. Where did the boss take the rest of it?’

‘Mesic,’ the big man said.

Wyatt knew that name. It was a name in the Melbourne papers and it meant rackets and killings. The cops had given up on the street crimes to concentrate on tax evasion. They weren’t getting far there, either. Not that Wyatt cared about any of that. Now that he knew who to go after and what to expect, he was starting to work out how to get his money back.

It didn’t strike him as unrealistic to be thinking like this. The Mesics had his money and he wanted it back, that’s all he cared about. It didn’t occur to him to think that he wouldn’t succeed, that he wouldn’t be alive to do it.

‘Hap?’ he said. ‘Trigg’ got a lot of money from that van, but you did most of the dirty work. I bet he paid you peanuts.’

‘I know what you’re trying to do,’ Happy said. ‘It won’t work.’

It was the longest speech Wyatt had heard the big man make. He closed his eyes, shutting him out. A few minutes later Trigg came in. Wyatt looked up. Muscles were working around Trigg’s mouth and eyes. His colour was high. ‘Bloody tyre-kickers, that’s all I get these days. Come on, Hap, we’ve got work to do.’ He grinned at Wyatt. ‘Plenty of fuck-tapes here, my son, a fridge full of pills. Pity they’re no good to you.’

‘Stay away from holes in the ground, Hap,’ Wyatt said. ‘Don’t turn your back on the little turd.’

‘Shut up, moron,’ Trigg said.

When they were gone Wyatt checked the door. As he expected, it was a waste of time. He lay back and wondered if psychology would get him out of this.

He lay there for thirty-six hours. Happy checked on him from time to time, giving him water and food. They had their shorthand conversations but Happy wouldn’t be drawn. Wyatt gave up trying to turn the big man against Trigg and lay in the darkness, adjusting to the silence.

His sleep was fitful. He felt cold during the night and the thin mattress was uncomfortable. On Sunday morning when Happy came to check on him he complained about it. ‘Some cushions or a chair, Hap.’

What Happy did with his face was close to a grin. ‘Not worth it,’ he said.

Wyatt shrugged. ‘Tell me, Hap-how will you do it? Dig another pit?’

Happy shook his massive head. ‘Accident. Hallam Gorge.’

Hallam Gorge was an ugly buckling of the earth’s plates a few kilometres north of Goyder. Wyatt had driven around it one day when he was working with Brava Construction’s surveyor. At one point the road narrowed and all that lay between it and a sheer drop of half a kilometre was a white guard rail. He knew what Trigg and Happy had in mind now and he could see the appeal of it. There would be no one around when they left later that night. On Monday morning someone would see the hole in the guard rail and call the cops. The cops would find the wreckage of the truck and the van at the bottom, Wyatt’s body at the wheel. They’d be able to close this part of the investigation. They’d assume Wyatt had been holed up in the area and was pulling out again when he misjudged a curve and ran off the road. They’d assume that left only the guard, and he would have the money. They’d go through the usual channels, checking flight lists, putting the guard’s photo on the wire. They’d trace Wyatt back to Brava-that’s if he had any skin left on his face after plunging half a kilometre down a cliff face.