Dome of Death - 11. Chapter 11 Ambushed

The euphoria lasted ten seconds, to be followed by muscle cramps, uncontrollable shivering, whimpering and disembowelling fear. Scumble and Glaze are going to kill Jon! The thought hammered incessantly and was probably the only thing stopping me from lying there to expire of cold and exhaustion. Limping from the cut, blind from rain, shaking from cold, I staggered away from the coast. A telephone booth! Punch in 000. Nothing. I tried again. Dead.

I had no idea how long I’d been in the drain, but it was late. No lights in houses, no flicker of TV, no cars, no one. Panic. Smashed the handset against the wall. Swore and cursed and felt slightly warmer. There was only one thing for it – walk.

But where? I had no friends nearby. It never occurred to me to knock on someone’s door. Invading other people’s space requires the confidence of knowing you belong, that you’re not a barely tolerated hanger-on. That’s the preserve of heterosexual Anglo-Saxons in Australian society. Someone, who from their earliest memories has known they are different, is not going to take risks with strangers. I stretched my brain. Mad and Brian!

It was about fifteen kilometres to the Alcona’s up some steep and very exposed roads. If anyone objected they could call the cops. And surely I’d pass a working phone booth? Rain pelted. Chilled core sent spasms of shivering so severe I thought my bones would shake apart. Aching foot dragging. So cold it hurt. I tried slapping myself but that only aggravated cuts and grazes.

I couldn’t go fast enough to build up heat and was heading for hypothermia. No clothes on washing lines in this weather. No parked cars covered against the rain. A building site. A dark, flat, nothing. Sheets of black polythene dotted with plastic cones and reinforcing rods ready for concreting. I tugged out a section, tore at it with fingers, teeth and the edges of concrete blocks to make it smaller, chewed and ripped a hole in the centre and trudged on in plastic poncho and head cloth.

Body heat was trapped and life returned. I could go on. I had to go on. Delirious. Hills, torn feet, speeding cars, tripping, falling, bleeding again, hungry, hurting, body screaming for rest.

It was too late for the police. I have every confidence in their goodwill, but I also imagined I knew bureaucracy. By the time my story had been checked, the MacFifes investigated and someone sent to warn Jon; it would be too late. The closer I got to the Alconas the more certain I became. No cop in their right mind would believe a naked, bristle-bleached poof after they’d listened to the suave certainties of Gregor MacFife. I’d probably spend a couple of nights in the watch-house while Scumble and Glaze did away with Jon, and then be accused of murdering him myself in revenge for being jilted or some crap. With my luck I’d get a cop who hated gays. And I could imagine the stories Frances would concoct with wide-eyed-innocence.

Paranoia.

It was still dark when I staggered against Mad’s gate and collapsed. The first luck of the evening arrived when my head fell against the bell and kept it ringing. They’d have ignored one ring. I came to my senses shouting angrily. Mad was applying disinfectant. It stung! According to Jeff, I started shouting, ‘No! No! Don’t! Stop! Stop! I can’t! It’s too dark!’ And then just blubbered. I still get embarrassed thinking about it. Until then I’d always imagined I’d be able to out sang-froid James Bond if it came to the crunch. It was humiliating to discover I’m ordinary.

Eventually it sank in that I was dry, warm and safe. Dra poured sweet tea down my throat, Der massaged warmth and movement into the bits of me not cut and grazed, Mad continued to bathe, disinfect and apply dressings, while Jeff oversaw everything and kept his father informed. It was an hour since he’d dragged me inside, but I still wasn’t making any sense. I became hysterical about Jon, demanding to be taken to him immediately, babbling about being buried alive and trapped in tunnels.

‘It’s only half-past five, Peter. What’s so important?’

‘They’re going to kill Jon this morning!’

‘Where is he?’

‘At my place!’

‘Call the police.’

Apparently I became hysterical. They imagined we were in trouble with the law, but that didn’t stop them helping. Brian was still flat on his back and I wouldn’t countenance Mad or the twins getting involved, but Jeff offered to drive me. I warned him it wasn’t an adventure and insisted he return immediately after dropping me off. He promised.

‘Why don’t we ring Jon and warn him? Asked a puzzled Der. Of course! Probably it was only the Coast phones on the blink. I limped to the phone, punched in my number and it rang. And rang, and rang and rang. I grabbed the directory and searched for Rory’s number, cursing myself for not memorising it. Not there. Punched in Directory services. A computer generated voice… “The number cannot be provided as no matching details or listing was found. Please hang up and check the details.” ‘Jon’s not there! Rory’s number’s unlisted! Something’s happened! Quick, Jeff! We have to get up there!’

It took him four minutes to change, get the car keys and reappear with a dark tracksuit, anorak and sneakers for me. Mad had packed a loaf of bread, some cheese, a thermos of hot coffee and a packet of biscuits into a backpack. Dra appeared with a small first-aid kit and Der with his pride and joy – a Swiss Army knife. He pressed it into my hand.

‘Go for it, Peter. You’re not too late. It’ll be fine. Jon’s probably a deep sleeper, sleeping outside or something.’

‘Use the salve in the kit on your anus,’ murmured Mad. She kissed me on the cheek, Dra clung to Der and Jeff dragged me out to the garage. I was afraid to leave their haven. A hero, I am not! Jeff drove well, using the car as a means of moving from place to place, not a source of macho thrills. I gave him directions and we drove silently until the highway.

‘Is Jon your lover?’

‘Friend.’

‘That’s more important really, isn’t it?’

‘I guess so. But both would be ideal.’

‘Yeah. Isn’t he…?’

‘He either is but doesn’t know - or is and knows, but won’t acknowledge it – or isn’t.’

‘Problem.’

‘Indeed. How’s the South American?’

‘Off.’

‘Oh?’

‘We went to his place after school. I was all Byronic passion, dripping with romantic notions; soft kisses, gentle caresses. It was going to be….’

‘And it wasn’t.’

‘We had a coffee, which was nice, sitting on the lounger. Then he put my hand on his crotch, but I wasn’t ready for that, so I draped my arm around him and tried to kiss him. He pushed me away and got angry. “Don’t be stupid!” he said, “I’m not a woman. Men don’t do those things. I only want a fuck.” Suddenly it all seemed pointless and… I don’t know… unwholesome. So I said I’d forgotten an appointment, and left. I felt stupid.’

‘Have you seen him again?’

‘Every day. He ignores me.’

‘There are lots like that. Ashamed to be gay so refuse to get pleasure from it. Especially in Catholic countries and places where it’s either illegal or strongly disapproved of. Lots of men seek the respectability of marriage and kids, and pursue other men for anonymous sex-relief. But that’s a recipe for disease and matrimonial disaster. By refusing to share the gentle, loving aspects of sex with men, they pretend they’re not queer. Don’t blame yourself or him; blame social pressure. You’re a romantic like me. Hang in there, though. These experiences are what make us adults. You won’t become a very interesting person if you drift through life without setbacks.’

He glanced across. ‘You don’t think I was stupid?’

‘The opposite.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Thanks.’

The intersection was just ahead and neither of us spoke for the rest of the journey. The Volvo gave an even smoother ride than the Mercedes and the dashboard clock was showing six thirty-two when I whispered, ‘Stop.’

My gate was four hundred metres ahead on the right, Rory and Lida’s another five hundred metres further on. In case Scumble and Glaze had already arrived, I didn’t want to warn them. Neither was I going to put Jeff in any danger. He turned and drove quietly back the way we’d come. The sun wasn’t up but it was light enough to race as quickly as my legs would hobble the remaining distance. The car had been too comfortable. I’d just about reached the gate when the sound of an approaching vehicle threw me into the lantanas to the left of the track. More scratches. My Mercedes purred past, turned right and stopped, the gate was opened, then it continued silently over the rise to disappear into the house clearing.

I was too late! Heart thumping, I raced like a madman. Perhaps Jon wasn’t there. Had gone for a walk. Was with Rory. Please! Please! Please! I stopped at the top of the rise and peered down. The cottage was twenty metres in front of me to the left of the drive, on the high side of a grassy, shrub-dotted semicircle. The grass sloped fairly steeply down to the dam - placid, undisturbed and heartbreakingly beautiful. To the left, a tree-filled gully, the catchment for stream and dam, rose steeply to a ridge and the boundary with Rory and Lida. Eastwards, eucalypt-covered hills folded together, barely permitting the stream to pass on its way to join larger creeks, rivers and the sea. A sudden shout.

‘What the fuck are you doing? Leave me alone…Aaah!’ followed by more shouts, grunts and curses. Still nothing visible except the corner of the cottage, the empty Mercedes, and the roof of the studio beyond. Under cover of a hedge of grevilleas and banksias I’d planted along the back wall of the cottage, I skirted westwards.

Against the wall furthest from the drive, Jon, head twisted at an alarming angle, was being forced to his knees by a grunting Scumble while Glaze tied his legs together, lashed his hands behind his back, looped the rope around his neck and fixed it to the binding around his ankles. Lethal. You struggle – you strangle.

Jon wasn’t cowed. ‘Why are you driving Peter’s car? Where is he?’

They ignored him. After testing the knots, Glaze stood in front of his prisoner with a satisfied smirk, then kicked him viciously in the ribs. ‘Shut the fuck up! Your precious mate’s karked it. Fallen off a cliff. Buried his troubles. Sunk to new depths. Up shit-creek …’ he sniggered unattractively. ‘And you’re going to join him.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ Scumble interrupted impatiently. ‘Cut the Hollywood, Bob. Let’s ...’

A spine-tingling wail reverberated through the hills, echoed and returned softly. The hair on my arms stood on end and my flesh crept.

Scumble slapped his prisoner viciously. ‘Shut the fuck up, fag.’

Jon sobbed silently

‘What’s the plan?’ asked Glaze.

‘There’s a ladder over there. He’s been repairing the roof, see? I’ll take off a couple of tiles, put his builder’s apron on him, carry him up and throw him down. Poor bugger slipped while repairing the roof.’ He shook his head in mock sorrow.

‘Might not kill him.’

‘I’ll snap his neck first. Always a good party trick. Ever seen it done? Makes an interesting noise.’

‘Won’t the cops know?’

‘Not unless you go on kicking him around and giving him the wrong sort of bruises.’

‘Well get going before he strangles himself. I’ll guard while you set it up.’

Glaze picked up a rifle from the grass, eyes flicking everywhere. My hedge felt transparent so I forced myself to look down. Eyes and faces catch attention. I was lucky the sun wasn’t up and Jeff had given me a dark tracksuit. When I dared to look, Glaze was squatting on the ground with his back to me. Scumble appeared in the clearing and trotted across to the studio, returning with a hammer, pinch bar, nails, and an apron that he dumped beside Glaze. The other gear he carried to the front, out of sight. A thump announced the ladder’s falling against the guttering and I watched hopelessly as his head appeared over the ridge of the roof before disappearing again as he bent to prise off tiles.

I reckoned my best hope would be to overpower Glaze while he was putting the apron on Jon, but he was waiting for Scumble. Fear made me desperate for a piss, but at least I forgot my pains. Der’s knife was open and ready, but it would probably fold up and amputate my fingers if I tried to stab.

Powerlessness paralyses. I was five metres from my best friend who was trussed up ready to have his neck snapped by two blokes who had already attempted to murder me, and I was doing nothing! Why hadn’t I listened to the Alconas? Why hadn’t I told them to call the cops? Why bloody why?

Jon groaned. Glaze raised a foot as if to lay in the boot, thought better of it, and turned away in contempt. I dithered and wondered what to do. I didn’t dare move and there wasn’t a weapon in reach. The gun complicated everything. A clatter disturbed the peace as Scumble threw the tools down in front of the house. Half a dozen tiles followed before he climbed down and strutted back, feet apart, hands on self-satisfied hips, smiling cheerfully down at his victim.

‘Ready for the high jump, faggot?’

No response.

‘Right, Bob, pass the apron.’

‘Shouldn’t you break his neck first?’

‘Good idea.’

I had taken a huge breath and was on the point of hurling a blood-curdling war cry and myself in a Kamikaze all-or-nothing rescue bid, when the sound of a car skidding to a halt on the other side of the house, made the two thugs freeze. The car door slammed and a voice shouted, ‘Come out you thieving pervert! I know you’re in there! Max’s car – stolen property! Come out you load of rat shit!’ A gunshot echoed around the valley. ‘Come out, blast you or I’ll bloody well come in and get you!’

‘Sort it quick!’ ordered Scumble, stuffing his handkerchief into Jon’s mouth and shoving him into the bushes a couple of metres in front of me. I held my breath. Jon’s eyes, already popping from near strangulation, opened even wider when he saw me. Sitting on the ground in front of us facing the studio, Scumble’s bulk would conceal his prisoner’s trussed body from the view of anyone who might come round the corner.

We could hear Glaze striving to pacify Patrick – because it could only be him – and Patrick’s increasingly hysterical responses. Using the distraction as a cover I eased forward and was just starting to cut the ropes when another gunshot shattered the peace, followed by a yell of fury from Glaze. Scumble leaped to his feet, grabbed the rifle and took off.

It took twenty endless seconds to sever the ropes, rip out the gag and drag Jon through the hedge before running like hares up through the trees towards the ridge and Rory’s. Jon never faltered, didn’t ask how I had risen from the dead, just saw his chance and took it. Time for questions if we survived - unlike adventure films when I was a kid. A bloke and a girl would be escaping ravening wolves, erupting volcanoes or pursuing crooks, and she’d stop and start arguing, asking questions, complaining she wasn’t being treated with respect. The bloke would keep his temper, pander to her idiocies, take on the burden of worry and effort and even manage a well-tempered joke that never failed to infuriate. It was always despite the woman they survived. The odd thing was that none of my friends thought the woman’s behaviour was odd.

At the top of the ridge, instead of dropping down to Rory’s I turned north along the boundary. An act of utter stupidity. Jon followed unquestioningly. Later, when he asked why we’d gone that way, I told him I hadn’t wanted to involve Rory and Lida in any danger, police questioning, or court-cases. In reality I was a hen without a head, pursued by nameless fear, rushing headlong into inhospitable forests rather than using common sense.

The boundary was an overgrown surveyor’s sight line through lantana, vines and scrubby regrowth. When I first took possession of the block I couldn’t believe I owned such a vast area. I kept expecting someone to knock at the door and say there’d been a mistake. How could one person own twelve hectares all for himself? I soon realised I didn’t ‘own’ it at all. I was the temporary custodian; neither welcome nor unwelcome, simply another factor in the equation of nature.

If you sit still even for a few minutes and quietly view how the natural inhabitants of Australian forests go about maintaining their lives, it doesn’t take long to realise that nature’s not there for the benefit of humans – it’s there for itself. William Lines’ observation in his book, An all Consuming Passion is correct. The true habitat for humans is culture, not nature. What natural being would knowingly disrupt and displace life wherever they went, clear forests, alter habitats to favour some species over others, poison soil, air and water and precipitate the greatest extinction of life since the world began?

After fifteen minutes of dragging ourselves up hills and down gullies, we turned east along another ridge into the rising sun. Five minutes later we dropped onto the grass on the crest of a small hill, a couple of hundred metres behind the dam. I used to swim across with a towel and a book in a plastic bag, climb the rise and gaze back in ecstatic disbelief at my cottage while I was building it. Although trees and bushes had grown over the years, the cottage in its clearing was still just visible. We flopped onto our bellies and peered across the water.

‘There they are,’ Jon whispered.

Two figures were combing the trees and shrubs around the cottage, meeting up and talking together after each ever-widening circuit. Muffled calls and indistinct curses floated across the stillness. After about ten minutes they waved their hands around, seemed to be arguing, and Scumble pointed at a lump on the ground. Suddenly in a hurry, they dragged the lump, which I guessed must be Patrick, to the rear of his own car and heaved it into the boot. After a last look around, Scumble climbed into Patrick’s car and Glaze picked up a handful of something wriggly before following Scumble up the drive in my Mercedes.

Disintegration. Shudders wrenched my shoulders as though someone was physically shaking me, and I had to hug myself to stop my arms from flailing. I’m having an epileptic fit! I thought, conscious of what was going on, but unable to do anything about it. I know I was sobbing and I’m pretty sure I was dribbling. But I wasn’t hurting. I turned away but Jon held me until the convulsions subsided, leaving me exhausted and aching. At least I hadn’t pissed myself. Ashamed, I averted my face. Jon was still holding me.

‘No worries. Everything’s fine. We’re safe…’ he muttered again and again, hypnotising, calming.

Suddenly I felt angry. I thought, What the fuck’s he doing? I’m not a baby. This is ridiculous! And then the dams burst again. The brain has few ways of exorcising bad experiences - mainly dreams and lots of sobbing, ranting and shuddering, so Jon suffered several more mucky moments until this second, blessedly brief episode was over. I was still tired, hurting, angry and frightened, but the panic had passed.

He disentangled himself, pulled out a handkerchief and set about cleaning up my face.

‘Those guys had me worried for a bit,’ he said casually, ‘I thought you’d karked it and I wouldn’t get rescued.’

Manic laughter burst from somewhere inside me. I couldn’t speak.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘Mr Cool.’

‘Can’t afford to emulate your performance - we haven’t enough handkerchiefs.’ He looked me over. ‘You’ve been in the wars. Bark knocked off here and there. You’re limping and either you’ve shat yourself or there’s something dicky up the crapper. Wanna talk about it?’

‘No.’

‘Too fucking bad, mate. You’re going to unless you want me to add to your woes.’

I told him enough to bring back the shudders.

‘You couldn’t get me on the phone because I wasn’t there. I couldn’t sleep, so at five o’clock I went for a jog out to the main road and back, took a dip in the dam and was making breakfast when I heard your car. I walked straight into their arms.’ He shook his head. ‘That’s the second time you’ve saved my life, the debt burden’s growing.’

‘We’ve been through that! No debts, remember? Anyway, you’ve got it arse about face. You saved me. It was my pig-headedness that got us into this shit. And the only reason I was able to drag myself out of that fucking drain and haul my arse up the hill to the Alcona’s, was the thought that you were in danger. That’s what saved me! So we’re square. Understood?’

Jon’s stare was expressionless.

‘I know this is going to sound gooey,’ I continued grimly, ‘and you’ll probably feel threatened, but… I love you!’

No audible reaction, and I was too shy to look. After such an embarrassing confession, future options were limited. The embarrassing silence indicated that if we ever got out of the present mess he’d return to the relative sanity and safety of Brisbane and I’d… what? What could I do? Max’s murderers wanted me dead - thought I was dead - and wouldn’t hesitate to try again if they discovered I wasn’t. And who cared anyway? I gazed across to the cottage, brain empty.

‘Yeah, well… they reckon people say strange things when they’re hysterical, so we’ll ignore that. But next time someone needs saving, it’s my turn, OK?’

‘You’re staying?’

‘Can’t see why not.’ He plonked a quick kiss on my brow and grunted a laugh. ‘That surprised you.’

It certainly shut me up.

‘More to the point, you’re in need of a few running repairs.’ He checked the weeping wounds, rubbing antiseptic cream where required, replaced damaged plasters and bandages, then - ‘Lift your hips.’ He peeled down my tracksuit trousers, lifted my legs and let out a low whistle. ‘I don’t envy you crapping through that for a while. He applied some of Mad’s ointment and put me back together again. ‘You’ll do. Battered but lovable. In a week you’ll be as good as new.’

I lay back, contented. That sort of attention was worth any pain.

‘So,’ he murmured, ‘now we know how Max died. Glaze shoved him. I knew he’d never fall.’

‘Mad said the same thing.’

‘But how could they know he’d go up to the dome?’

‘It was Max’s baby. No one was allowed to touch the thing. Frances would know that if it failed to open he’d be up there in a flash, so made sure it didn’t. Anyone who knew Max would also realise he’d never miss a chance to grand-stand.’

We sat in silence. I wondered why I didn’t feel worse, then looked across at Jon. A trouble shared is a trouble halved, my grandmother always warned before launching into a barrage of complaints. How right she was. But there was one question I needed to ask. ‘What were you thinking when Scumble was about to break your neck?’

Jon grunted. ‘That’s funny. I was going to ask you the same thing.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘I didn’t think anything. All I remember is that when they said you were dead, I wanted to die too. After that, it’s a blank. What about you on the edge of the cliff with a dozer ready to dump rubble onto the body-beautiful?’

‘I didn’t believe it. I think I felt cheated, but I was too busy planning what to do when I fell over the edge to consider death a possibility. You read about people having their lives flash before them; it didn’t happen. Now it just feels like a bad dream. I still can’t believe people will do such terrible things - have such callous disregard for others simply for money! There’s no place in my brain for understanding such obscenity.’

‘‘Do you have these speeches pre-recorded in your head, or are they off the cuff?’

‘Gift of the gab.’

‘Gift of the blab.’

‘That’s the last time I offer you the benefit of my brain.’

‘Promise?’

‘Bastard.’

We turned our minds to our predicament. I was dead. Jon had escaped. The wriggling things were the ropes I’d cut, so they knew he had an accomplice. Patrick was either a prisoner or dead. I suddenly felt sorry for him. We owed our lives to his bad tempered bigotry.

‘What would you do if you were them?’ Jon asked.

‘You’re the bloke who’s roughed it in Brisbane. Tell me.’

‘I’d check out the neighbours. Who else could’ve snuck up and cut my ropes? I’d put a watch on the cottage and on the road, and bring in reinforcements to comb through this place.’

‘So we don’t go back to the cottage?’

‘Can you see over the hill to the gate? How do we know someone isn’t lying low, watching?’

‘How long have we got?’

‘No time. Your telephone works perfectly. Frances has a mobile. They must know at least half a dozen thugs ready to do anything for cash.’

‘So we don’t go back along the road. We don’t visit Rory and Lida. Have you had breakfast?’

‘A couple of mouthfuls.’

We downed Mad’s bread, cheese and coffee, slithered down to the dam under cover of shrubs, filled the flask, and packed the biscuits for later. Rested, slightly refreshed, absurdly cheerful, we took one last look across the water. Jon grabbed my arm.

‘See that?’

‘Where?’

‘Beyond the cottage.’

Sunlight slanting through the trees sent golden shafts across the grevilleas, rebounded off pale clusters of eucalypt flowers, spot-lit a flock of quarrelling lorikeets and silhouetted two shapes stalking the edge of the clearing. They conferred, split up, and set out on a circuit of the dam. We took off north, into the forest.