Peter Temple - Black Tide

Notes in neat bundles held by thick rubberbands. Hundreds and fifties, easily fifty thousand dollars.

I zipped the bag, came out. ‘Everything’s here,’ I said.

‘That’s my man,’ said Dave. ‘Let’s get out of here, wait for them at the gate.’

But we didn’t have to wait. As I shone the light on it, the small door creaked open and a head came in. A sleek dark head and a pistol.

‘Dave? You?’

‘Tony,’ Dave said. ‘Come and meet Gary, man who’s going to make it all worthwhile for us.’

The man came through the door, followed by another man, also in a dark suit, bigger, fleshy face.

‘G’day, Dave,’ said the second man. ‘Couldn’t bloody wait, could you?’

‘How many people does it take to apprehend one fugitive?’ said Dave, a lightness in his voice. ‘This is Jack Irish, to whom we owe everything.’

They walked towards us, two businessmen, dark suits, white shirts, one carrying a pistol at his side, the other lighting a cigarette with a plastic lighter.

When they were a few paces away, Dave said, ‘Well, boys, the end’s in sight.’

He raised his pistol and shot the man called Tony twice, in the head, in the chest under the collarbone.

Then he turned and shot Gary, twice, three times, all in the upper chest, swung the weapon in my direction.

I switched off the flashlight, jumped sideways.

Pitch dark.

Dave fired.

Black. Just the memory of the muzzle flash fading on my retinas.

In the darkness, I crawled for the huge shelves, crawled carrying a bag and a torch. Not thinking, instinctively trying to get something between me and the gun.

The guns. The other man would have a gun.

He did. The muzzle flash lit the blackness for an instant, the bullet passed well over my head, hit the corrugated-iron wall with a bang.

I kept going, found the shelf by crawling into an upright head first. Pain, lights in my eyes. I crawled to the right, met no resistance, went left, felt the corner of the shelving with an outstretched hand.

Got around the corner. Stood up, chest heaving, trying to breathe soundlessly, leaning against the shelf.

Blackness. Silence.

‘Get the doors open, Ray, get the vehicle in here.’

Dave.

I put the bag down, found a space for it on the bottom shelf. No use to me dead. Stuck the torch down the front of my shirt. The bulletproof vests. Oh shit.

Get as far away from the doors as possible. A vehicle was going to come through the doors, light up the whole space.

Walking carefully, left hand out to feel the shelves, down the space between the shelves and the back wall. How many rows of shelves? Three? Four? Could there be an exit in the back wall? In the short wall?

Move right to touch the back wall. Walk slowly, feel for a door. Not much time, the other man out the small door by now.

Noise from the doorway. Bumping, tin being kicked, grunting.

‘Fucking bolts won’t come up. Give me a hand here.’ Ray, the fleshy man, wrestling with the big doors. Big doors unwilling to open.

Moving slowly, feeling the wall.

Silence.

Bumped into something, something toppling.

Glass broke, loud in the silence.

Two bangs. One bullet low, screaming off the concrete near my feet. One into the wall behind me, flat, tinny smack.

Silence. More noises. Swearing. Something said. Dave’s voice.

Outside an engine coming to life with a roar. The small doorway was a light patch in the blackness.

He was going to ram the recalcitrant doors, push them open.

Strong smell of something. Paraffin. The glass breaking. I felt ahead in the dark, felt a shelf against the wall. A bottle, big glass bottle, old-fashioned quart bottle. Felt beyond. A row of bottles.

I took it off the shelf. Screw top. Sniffed. Paraffin.

‘Get the drums out of the way.’ The fleshy man’s voice.

The three steel drums outside the entrance. They had to move them before they could ram the door.

I took the bottle, went back the way I had come. Faster than I had come. Nothing to bump into, I knew that. Left hand on the wall, back to the corner, to the office.

I felt for the office wall.

Turn right. End of office.

My right foot went into something slippery.

Tony. His blood. Suddenly a strong smell of blood.

I knelt, felt, found his head, recoiled. Put my hand back.

He made a gurgling noise. He was breathing.

On. Where did he keep it? Jacket pocket, right jacket pocket.

The suit jacket was open. I felt down his side, wet, down. Pocket, got my hand into it, scrabbling, found it in the outside pocket.

The plastic lighter.

I felt around for his pistol. It was in his hand, right hand, when he stuck his head into the doorway. Then he was walking towards us, lighting a cigarette. Where had he put the weapon?

Bugger this, use the flashlight, they were both outside.

I groped myself, struggling to get it out.

Engine revving. Huge bang.

I stood up and ran, ran into the dark, not caring, managed to run blind to near the shelf against the wall, clutching the bottle, clutching the lighter.

Felt my way to the shelf. Get the screwtop off. No nonsense about squeezing and turning when they bottled this liquid.

The left-hand door flew open violently, swung right open, bounced off the inside wall, headlights lighting up the barn.

Wick? Oh shit, collar, tear it off. No. A neatly folded handkerchief, in my windcheater pocket. I tore a strip off with my teeth.

I couldn’t get it to go into the neck of the bottle. Big scared fingers couldn’t stuff the cloth in.

Something, something thin.

He was reversing, getting ready to smash open the other door.

In the dim light from the headlights, I saw a nail, a rusty six-inch nail, on the shelf. Grabbed it, clumsy fingers, pushed at the strip of cloth.

Going in, going in. In. Bit sticking out. Shake bottle, wet bit sticking out.

Calm came down on me. Detachment. Too much adrenaline, too much sex, too little sleep.

Perfect calm. Perfect love driveth out fear. Ditto for sensory exhaustion.

Did this stuff work? I read about it in The Bridge at Spandau. Worked in the Hungarian uprising. That was 1956, however. About as old as this paraffin.

The vehicle hit the door so hard it came off its hinges, slid across the concrete, sparks, noise, the four-wheel-drive in the barn, the suddenly lit-up barn.

Coming into the doorway behind it. Dave, arm outstretched, pistol looking for me.

Dave. The man I’d believed, admired, felt a warmth towards.

You’re dealing with people, they can’t buy you, they’ll load you up, kill your friend, kill your wife, kill your child, kill you, it’s all the same.

Dave knew the people he was talking about. He was one of them.

‘Hey, Jack,’ he said, not a shout. ‘I’ve made a mistake. We’ll work something out.’

Lighters never work when you want them to. I’d been a smoker once, I knew that.

I clicked. How could I doubt? Who needs a Dunhill?

I touched the blue flame to the wick, ran to the end of the aisle and threw the bottle. Bowled it, like a grenade.

In the air. Wick burning.

Dave in front of the vehicle now, pointing the pistol to the left, to the short wall of the barn.

Ray, the fleshy man, half-out of the four-wheel-drive, no weapon visible.

Dave seeing me, seeing the flying bottle, arm coming back, no two-handed marksman Dave. Wrong, two-handed marksman, left hand coming up to steady the right hand.

To kill me.

Paraffin bomb falling short. No matter, falling at Dave’s feet, big splash of liquid, no shot, Dave stepping back, off balance.

Nothing.

Breaking glass, no bang, no fire, just spreading liquid, could be water.