Peter Temple: White Dog

The Valiant stopped, well back from me.

I didn’t move. They didn’t move.

Waiting. Did they think I was hit? I had Jimbo’s rifle. They weren’t brave people, they weren’t going to rush me.

Waiting, engine running. I liked the thumping sound of the old Dodge.

No more waiting. Punched, slapped, pissed on, home invaded, handcuffed, kicked, attacked by killer dogs, shot at.

An end to the night.

I let in the clutch and went backwards, foot flat, engine screaming, hit the Valiant with a bang, the impact jerked my head. I braked, got into first, pulled forward ten metres, braked, gear change, back again, foot down, engine howling in pain.

A solid, jarring crunch as I made contact with the car.

I braked, opened the door, took the rifle. It would be an interesting murder trial. I looked forward to it, Drew could defend me, try the battered solicitor defence.

Perhaps not.

The Valiant was twenty or more metres down, in a ravine, upside down. A wisp of red light near the sump, a flame.

The occupants might survive. Or they might not.

I went back to the Dodge, gave it a pat, hoisted myself into the cab, got going. I liked this truck. Perhaps I could buy it from Chokka’s estate, stable it with the Stud. We could grow old together.

The day had dawned by the time I reached the highway, joined the early commuters. At the first traffic lights, a man in a Range Rover looked up at me, looked away quickly, didn’t look again.

What he could see was a vintage truck driven by a man with matted hair and an unshaven face smeared with blood and dirt.

He couldn’t see the handcuffs hanging from one hand, couldn’t see much of the wet, filthy, torn, bloodstained cotton business shirt.

He couldn’t see anything of the grey flannels, now black, ripped at both knees and caked with mud.

He couldn’t see the soaked shoes, ruined, bought in William Street from Mr Conroy, kept in shape with shoetrees, regularly polished.

He probably thought I was just another suburban solicitor on his way to work.

The lights changed, we proceeded. By some miracle, I drove unchallenged all the way home.

I didn’t care much about Stedman coming for me, I’d kill him, find a way. I parked the Dodge truck outside the boot factory, got the spare keys from their hiding place under the stairs, went up to my violated home and showered for a long time, examining the tooth wounds in my shoulder, the bruises everywhere. Out, I made plunger coffee, added cognac, the very superior old pale, a lot of cognac.

Hunger. It came upon me suddenly.

Nothing since the banana on the plane.

I ate Norwegian sardines on toast, two tins, four slices of bread, drank two cups of coffee.

When had I last slept? Busselton. When was that?

I drove to George’s corner shop in the Stud and rang Cam. It was a long ring, a woman answered. I said it was Jack for Cam.

‘He’s around here somewhere,’ she said.

A wait.

‘Choppin wood,’ Cam said. ‘Swore I’d never chop wood again.’

‘Small dogs, small women, wood,’ I said. ‘You can change.’

‘I knew I shouldn’t have said that. Find somewhere to sleep?’

‘Not exactly,’ I said. ‘Got a boltcutter?’

‘Don’t go anywhere without one.’

He picked me up in the HSV. The boltcutter couldn’t fit between my wrist and the handcuff. With a hard click, Cam sliced through the chain joining the handcuffs. ‘Have to wear that one for a while,’ he said. ‘There’s a bloke in Brunswick can take it off.’

‘Don’t you want to know?’

‘Never talk about sex.’

Cam listened to the story on the way to Linda’s, driving with his fingertips, blank face like a careful judge.

‘Jesus,’ he said when I’d finished, ‘you really know who to fuck with. Is there a course you can do?’

‘Some things you can’t teach,’ I said.

At Linda’s building, Cam parked illegally. The Alfa was where I’d left it. I went over. Unlocked. My mobile was on the passenger seat. I held my breath, leaned over, put my left hand between the seats, pain from the bites.

Tape. Notebook. I breathed again. We went upstairs. At the apartment door, Cam opened his corduroy jacket and took the big Ruger out of his waistband.

‘I don’t think you’ve got any warnings left,’ he said. He knocked loudly. ‘Federal Police,’ he said. ‘Open the door.’

We waited.

‘Reckon they think you’re in the acid,’ Cam said. ‘Boys and the dogs watching the bubbles.’

I opened the door. Cam went first. The file was gone but nothing else touched. I fetched two Carlsbergs from the pantry, uncapped them, and we sat in chairs and watched the video on the big flat screen.

A hotel security surveillance film, poor quality, date and time shown along the bottom: 03.12.94 23.14.

It was a compilation tape, people coming and going in a hotel foyer, eight scenes, not long, the last one at 2.36 am on 4 December 1994.

The tape ended.

Cam drank beer. ‘Have meaning?’ he said.

I was looking at my mobile. A message. ‘It has meaning,’ I said. I pressed the numbers.

‘Hello.’ Quick.

‘Jack Irish.’

‘The pictures,’ said Janene. ‘It’s them.’

‘Will you give evidence?’ I said.

A long silence.

‘Without you, Janene,’ I said, ‘they’ll go free and they’ll know money can buy anything and that you were just bugs to be squashed.’

She made a sniffing noise, I thought I heard her swallow.

‘Will you look after me?’ she said.

I touched my shoulder with fingertips. ‘I’ll look after you,’ I said.

‘Promise?’

‘Promise.’

We waited on the winter evening pavement, rocks in the city stream, trams squealing behind us, leaning against a car not our own, Cam smoking a Gitane, the pungent blue smoke drifting to me, wrapping around my face, making me eighteen again.

They came out, dark overcoats, handsome, she wore a scarlet scarf, long, not wound around her neck, just a loose knot on the chestbone.

I took two paces across the space. They saw me.

‘Jack,’ said Tony Haig. He had perfect teeth, a wry, welcoming smile. ‘Coming to Corsica?’

I was obstructing the pedestrian traffic, people had to walk around me. I didn’t care. ‘The River Plaza,’ I said. ‘The dead girl.’

Dogteeth holes in my shoulder, the three good-looking people, rich people, they owned the world, we were just bugs, Wayne said that, we looked at one another, a metre separating us.

‘Come inside and talk,’ said Steven Massiani. ‘This is solvable.’

I looked at Corin Sleeman. There were thin lines running down beside her mouth.

‘She wasn’t dead, Corin,’ I said. ‘Did they tell you she was dead? Did they tell you Senator Londregan killed her? She was alive. Katelyn was alive. They took her away and gave her to crazies to kill. Did they tell you that?’

She looked at me and I knew who had sent the man to give me Janene’s name. ‘What about Janene Ballich, Corin?’ I said. ‘She had to die too, didn’t she?’

Corin was looking down, her eyes closed.

‘And then there was Mickey,’ I said. ‘And Sarah Longmore.’

‘Jack, Jack,’ said Tony Haig, ‘you’re not well, you need a rest.’

‘Can’t live with something like this, can you, Corin?’ I said. ‘Do you dream about it?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I can’t live with it anymore.’

She did not raise her head, crossed the space and came to me, put her hands out to me like a child seeking comfort.

I put out my hands, my sleeves pulled back, the handcuff showing.

‘For Christ’s sake, Corin, shut up,’ said Massiani. ‘Just shut fucking up.’