Dome of Death - 18. Chapter 18 Rescue and ...

I don’t remember getting to the ground, but the rope burns lasted for weeks. Fortunately, it took several minutes before MacFife was ready. No one saw me race round the dark side of the building to the ute, and by the time they drove away I had the engine running. It was after midnight so traffic was light and following difficult. When we got to the motorway with the extra traffic it was easier and I let a couple of cars slip between us.

At the Caloundra exit, the bloke in front of me stopped on an orange light while the Mercedes turned left. When the lights changed I passed dangerously and shot after them, catching up at the next set of lights where they turned right and disappeared under a block of apartments. I parked illegally just beyond the entrance and raced down the ramp in time to see them supporting Jon towards the lift.

I raced up the stairs, checking every floor. They reached the tenth before me, but not much. I peered from the stair well in time to see the door to 1002 clunk shut. Time to call the cops. As I dialled 000, the door opened again. I scurried out of sight and disconnected.

‘Find out how much he knows and who else he’s told,’ MacFife snapped. ‘I’ll be back with Bob as soon as he’s cleaned up the gallery and disposed of CC.’

‘No worries.’

Scumble’s door closed and MacFife walked softly to the lift. As it started to descend, my mobile rang, frightening the shit out of me. No one I knew would be ringing at that hour. It had to be Scumble trying Jon’s shortcut keys. I switched off. With MacFife gone I had a chance. I scoured the corridor for weapons. Nothing, unless…?

I swung the fire-hose reel out, turned off the nozzle, opened the tap, then dragged the hose to the door of 1002. After pulling myself plenty of slack I took a deep breath and knocked firmly. Inside, a chair fell over and feet scuffed to the door. I pressed my back against the wall on the same side as the opening. The door opened slightly, not enough for Scumble to see me. If it was on the safety chain, I’d had it.

It was. The chain glistened in the light. Fuck!

‘Who’s that?’

In what I hoped were the fruity tones of his master, I said, ‘It’s me again, Ian’

Scumble disconnected the safety chain and pulled the door a fraction wider. ‘What’s up, b…’

I kicked the door wider and directed a jet of water between his eyes, knocking him back into the room. He opened his mouth and the jet must have nearly ruptured the back of his throat. He collapsed to the floor, gagging. I smashed the nozzle against his head, let it go and belted him as hard as I could on the skull with a solid looking chair. He slumped, shook his head and lowered it for a charge. I belted him again. This time he stayed down.

Before he could revive I unplugged a standard lamp, ripped off the cord and bound his wrists together. There wasn’t enough for his legs so I grabbed sheets from the bedroom, used Der’s knife and tore it into strips for his ankles. The nozzle was still thrashing around so I caught it and turned it off; more for my safety than anything else. And then I lost it. I took off his socks, rammed the stinking things into his mouth and couldn’t stop tying and wrapping till he looked like an untidy mummy.

Where was Jon? I searched the bedroom, lounge, study, bathroom, toilet, kitchen and dining area, balcony. Panic. MacFife might be back at any moment. Crazy with fear I forced myself to take ten deep breaths and a slow, more careful look. The lounge was cluttered with empty cardboard cartons and chairs. Jon’s mobile was lying on a glass-topped table. I shoved it in my pocket. There was only one cupboard, and it was empty.

The main bedroom – nothing. The study had never been used. I looked in the bath. In the linen cupboard. Back to the study again, a curtained window, but it was an inside wall! The curtain concealed a door to another bedroom. Jon was on his back on the mattress, tied to the frame with nylon line. Der’s knife again. Jon was groaning, sluggish. I’d already been there too long. I sat him up and tried a bit of gentle slapping and sweet talk. He groaned again, then slumped, head in hands.

‘Fuck I’ve got a headache! Stop hitting me! Whadaya want?’

A sharp blow with the knuckle to the temple causes temporary blackout. It can also cause memory loss, internal haemorrhaging, stroke symptoms, paralysis, brain damage. I fought back a scream of frustration and a desire to finish Scumble off.

‘I need your help.’

‘What’s the prob.?

‘We’ve got to carry the bloke in the other room down to the ute.’

‘Who’s he?’

‘Scumble.’

‘Do I know him?’

‘He’s the bloke who gave you the headache.’ I led him into the lounge.

‘What’s with the bandages?’

‘He had an accident.’

Scumble groaned.

‘Good.’

Scumble was heavy. Much too heavy to carry, so we dragged him out to the corridor and rolled him to the lift. Expecting MacFife to step out when it arrived, I had ready a cast-iron frying pan from the kitchen. Fortunately, it wasn’t needed.

Down at the garage I checked the coast was clear, then we kicked and rolled Scumble to an alcove behind the lift. I smashed the nearest light bulbs with the frying pan, told Jon to stand out of sight, and dashed up for the ute. Hoisting Scumble into the back was gut breaking; he must’ve weighed a hundred and forty kilos. I closed the canopy door, told Jon to get in the passenger seat, and drove sedately up the ramp.

MacFife and Glaze sped south in the Mercedes as we drove north. They didn’t give us a glance. For the first time that night I relaxed, although I had no idea where to go with our cargo of unlovely flesh, or what to do with it when we got there. Jon was humming monotonously.

‘Jon.’

‘Mmm.’

‘Do you remember what you’ve been doing tonight?’

‘Driving?’

‘Do you remember performing at the gallery for CC?’

‘I wish she was dead.’

‘She is.’

‘Good.’ He continued humming.

‘How’s your headache?’

‘What headache?’

Grateful for the moonlight, I drove around ruined canal estates looking for empty houses. The rear halves of three in a row had disappeared into the mud. The garage of the middle one was leaning but intact, and with a bit of shoving and heaving I pushed up the roller door, drove in and closed it behind us. I was desperate for a shit. Jon joined me in the garden.

‘Are we staying here?’

‘For a while. I need a rest.’

‘Me too. I’m utterly stuffed.’

I dropped the tailgate of the ute and rolled Scumble onto the concrete floor. He landed with a thump, groaned and struggled. I checked his wrists and ankles to make sure they hadn’t loosened, and his pulse to ensure there was still enough blood circulating to keep him alive. I didn’t care if he was hurting. I hoped he was. After a much-needed drink of water we rolled out the sleeping bags and climbed in without undressing. I tossed and turned; brain a seething morass. Jon leaned across and stroked my forehead. Within seconds, I was asleep.

Something woke me. I was sweating, pulse hammering in my throat. It was dark. I sat up and bashed my head on the side of the canopy. Jon groaned, rubbed his eyes and stared at me, jaw dropping stupidly. I put a finger to my lips. There it was again, a dull thumping, vibrating through the floor of the ute. Cautiously, Jon crawled to the back, opened the flap and peered over.

‘Who’s the inexpertly wrapped mummy kicking our tyres?’

‘Scumble.’

‘So,’ he said softly, ‘it wasn’t a nightmare.’

‘Yes it was.’

‘I remember arguing with MacFife outside the gallery, and then you and me rolling that bundle of shit along the ground … And then a car ride… And that’s about it. Jeeze, I’ve got a headache.’

‘Food’ll fix it.’

We had enough salami, bread and tomatoes to keep appetites at bay, and washed everything down with bottled water. Scumble could live off his muscle and fat. Eventually I relented and poured some water onto his gag and let him suck a bit, but wasn’t generous. During breakfast I told Jon what’d happened.

He shook his head in disbelief.

‘It’s like something out of a cheap thriller. You’re so fucking brave and I’m the jerk in constant need of rescuing.’ He gave an embarrassed grunt. ‘How can I thank you, fair knight?’

I was tired and couldn’t stop the irritation. ‘You stupid prick! You were the one laying his life on the line – not me. So don’t come over all grateful or I’ll thump you.’

He grinned. ‘So, wonder-boy, what now?’

‘Pass.’

‘Let’s check out the neighbourhood.’

Dull clouds obscured the sun and threatened more rain. Walking cleared our thoughts, and talking removed my fears for the actors in the previous night’s show. The girl that Jon and the other bloke screwed was a professional. She did the same show regularly - sometimes a victim, sometimes a nympho. He’d been arguing with Scumble beforehand because he didn’t want to risk the injection. The younger chap, who was twenty, not fifteen, was a gigolo and used injections regularly, so did it for him. Luckily, nothing had gone wrong. As for the wrestling girls, it was an elaborate act. The blood trickling from chewed nipples and other bits came from capsules in their mouths, which burst when they bit on them. The hair ripped out was false.

We stopped and gazed vacantly across at the remains of jetties and villas on the other side of a swamp that had once been a canal.

‘You said CC’s dead. How?’

I told him.

He nodded, sighed, skipped a stone across the marsh, disturbing a dozen scavenging birds, and said in a voice devoid of emotion, ‘It’s my fault.’

‘How?’

‘I told MacFife CC had been putting the hard word on me, and when I turned her down she threatened me.’

‘Did she?’

‘No.’

‘Clever.’

His look was inscrutable. ‘I told him that when I told her to fuck off, she got angry and said MacFife eliminated people who annoyed him, and he’d erase me if she asked him to. I told him I didn’t believe her because he was obviously an A1 guy. But I thought he shouldn’t let CC spread such rumours because someone might believe her.’

‘Cunning.’

‘Perhaps justice isn’t an idle concept after all’ He turned cold eyes on me. ‘And I want an even worse end for Scumble, Glaze and MacFife.’

I waited in vain for his usual lop-sided, just-kidding grin. Gentle Jesus nonsense of turning the other cheek had cluttered my head since childhood. I feared that if I acted like the MacFife’s of this world I would become as evil as them. My silence probably seemed accusatory, but I couldn’t think what to say. Jon sat on a pile of rubble and tossed stones. I watched the gulls.

‘You think I’m as bad as them, don’t you?’

‘No I don’t! It’s just that… that I don’t want us to become like them.’

‘When I was a kid,’ he said quietly, ‘a bull got under a fence into Mum’s garden. He was a mean bastard and refused to budge. We tried to shoo him out the gate but he got nasty and threatened to charge. I took a stick and tapped him on the nose, but he flicked it out of my hand, lowered his head and began pawing the ground. Mum got frightened and told me to get out while she waved the rake at him. She only just escaped. He had deadly horns and could easily have maimed us.

I ran to Grandpa’s and he came over with a pitchfork. It was really something to see a skinny old man stalking such a huge beast. He held the pitchfork at the ready and inched forward, daring the bull to do something. Suddenly the bugger charged and Grandpa buried a tine deep in the bull’s nostril. The poor beast stopped dead, shook his head and, nearly pulling grandpa over, yanked backwards to pull out the spike. He then stood quietly, head down, blood pouring from a fucking great hole in his nose, flanks twitching. Grandpa walked around behind him, patted him on the rump and the bull trotted quietly out and back to where he knew he belonged.’

I tried to look intelligent, unsure what he was getting at.

‘What grandpa did to the bull taught me you’ve got to treat people in ways they understand. Humans are just animals – no better, no worse.’

‘You make me feel like a snag.’

‘Snag?’

‘Sensitive, new-age-guy. A wimp.’

‘You’re certainly not a wimp. I’m an Old Testament lad. Eye for eye and tooth for tooth. In my book, CC had it coming - and I’m glad.’

‘If I’m honest with myself, I guess I am too.’

‘Good on ya.’

‘But I can’t get away from the idea that if I retaliate in kind I’m as bad as them.’

‘You’re joking.’

‘No.’

‘Who started all this crap?’

‘They did.’

‘Do you have the right to defend yourself?’

‘Yes.’

‘Will they stop persecuting us if you ask nicely? Will they go to the cops and confess to the murder of Frances and tell them you didn’t do it? Will they give you back your inheritance from Max? Will they apologise for trying to murder us and Patrick? Will they….’

I shoved my hand over his mouth. He was getting worked up and I didn’t want to draw anyone’s attention. Not that there were people about.

‘You’re right. A hundred percent right. I agree. It’s like our Dutch neighbour used to say, soft doctors make stinking wounds.’

He wasn’t to be mollified. ‘Are you easy about the fact that everyone thinks we’re murderers? That the cops are after us? That…’ He stopped, slumped onto his knees and buried his face in his hands.

I prised his fingers apart. He was crying. ‘Hey. Hey. I agree with you. I just needed to be reminded. I’m sorry.’

He wiped his eyes roughly, almost angrily, then stared into the distance, unsmiling.

‘Come on,’ I said with laboured joviality. ‘We’d better keep moving. My head isn’t clear yet.’ I dragged him to his feet and we strolled on, arms round each other’s waists, bravely uncaring. We saw no one so our bravery was untested. After half an hour of silent plodding, an idea began to bubble. I closed my eyes and let Jon lead me until I tripped.

‘Lift your feet, bumble foot.’

‘Sorry. Had my eyes shut.’

‘Eyeless in Gaza.’

‘You’ve read Huxley.’

‘I’m not uneducated.

‘Far from it. But I’ve seen a way out of this mess.’

‘The Blind Seer.’

‘We get Scumble to telephone MacFife and say that somehow you escaped, he recaptured you and took you somewhere, and now he wants them to join him. We hit them on the head as they come through the door and hand them over to the cops.’

‘I escaped from the bed with wrists and ankles tied to the legs with nylon fishing line. Good one.’

‘OK. The gas man came to check for a leak, so he had to get you out of the place and…’

‘At two in the morning.’

We mulled over all the reasons we could think of for Scumble taking off with Jon, but had to give our brains a rest. Finding a safe hiding place was more important. Back at the garage we unwound the bandages from our prisoner. He was looking bruised, pale, and turning yellow at the extremities.

‘If I take out your gag, will you shout?’

He shook his head, but as soon as the socks were out, gave vent to a bellow. Jon clonked him on the head with a length of timber he had picked up from the road. Our little talk had done me good; worries about Scumble suffering from concussion or brain damage never crossed my mind. While he was unconscious we removed the torn sheets I’d used to secure his wrists and feet, and replaced them with cord. It wasn’t too soon. Much longer and we’d have had a gangrenous corpse.

I rubbed his toes and fingers until the yellow turned blue and then pink. The pins and needles of returning blood set him groaning. He struggled and nearly strangled himself. We had replicated his hog tying of Jon, lying him on his stomach with a noose round his neck, wrists secure behind his back, knees bent and ankles tied securely together, a short line joining ankles, wrists and neck. Very neat, very efficient, very satisfying.

‘Thirsty,’ he rasped.

‘Open wide.’ Jon pissed over Scumble’s mouth. The joke wasn’t appreciated. I trickled some water between dry lips, before stuffing the socks back and securing them.

‘What’s the stink?’

Scumble had shat himself. We looked at each other, nodded in agreement, and with Der’s knife hacked off the big man’s clothes, leaving him blood speckled, and squirming on the filthy floor of the garage. I took a bucket down to the canal, found a patch of water between the mud, and hurled it at his filthy rump. Jon went for the second bucket, returning with a long-handled toilet brush.

Scumble’s posterior was raw but clean by the time we bundled him into the back of the ute. The place wasn’t safe. The house directly opposite had sprouted signs of life in the form of five tattooed youths and a motorcycle, and several other houses were obviously occupied. Even if they were squatters like us, we couldn’t afford to make contact. After checking the coast was clear we opened the doors and drove sedately away from the coast.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Home.’

‘Won’t the cops be watching the place?’

‘Probably, so we’ll drive straight past and visit Rory and Lida. They’ll be wondering what happened.’

‘About time. I haven’t seen them since the night before that bastard in the back tried to kill me. Must be ten days ago.’

‘Only ten days? Seems like a year.’

‘I reckon. D’you think they’ll have heard about it?’

‘The cops have probably been pestering them.’

The drive was uneventful and, in Hank’s little truck, as bumpy as I remembered. Scumble was going to be bruised. We drove quietly past my gate. No evidence of visitors. Rory and Lida’s place appeared deserted. We parked and knocked at the caravan door. No reply. Their ute was in its usual spot, so they had to be around somewhere. A flicker of movement a dozen metres away between the trees and there was Rory, shotgun at the ready. I waved and called out, but he brandished the gun as if to say, clear off. Jon waved and started to walk towards him. This provoked a stream of abuse that ended with, ‘…so get ya fuckin’ arses off my place.’

‘Either he doesn’t recognise us,’ I whispered, ‘or he does and thinks we’re murderers. I’ll do the talking.’

‘Rory. It’s me, Peter. This is Jon. He’s shaved his head and borrowed those stupid clothes.’ In the unforgiving morning light, Jon certainly looked a desperado. Dark rings round his eyes, head bald, too many earrings, tight jeans and bare chest, and like me, in need of a shower and shave.

‘Get your hands up!’

We held our hands high, open palms facing him. He took a couple of wary steps towards us, squinted intently, and snapped, ‘Taking a risk, aren’t you?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Cops are after you for killing that woman at the gallery where you worked. You’d better get out of here.’

‘Rory, we didn’t kill that woman. Do you honestly think I’d kill someone? It’s a frame-up and we’re the patsies.’

‘They said you’d say that.’

‘Who did?’

‘The plain-clothes cops who came looking for you the next morning.’

‘Did you check their ID? They weren’t cops. They were the killers!’

‘Oh yeah? How come they’re after you?’

‘I discovered they’d murdered Max, so they tried to get rid of me, but I escaped. Then they came up here to kill Jon, but I got here first.’ I was pleading, in danger of crying, and despising myself for the weakness.

‘It’s true, Rory. And you bloody know it.’ There was no pleading in Jon’s voice. ‘Be a man for chrissakes. Put the stupid gun down and go and get Lida. She’s got more sense than you. She’ll know we’re telling the truth.’

Lida appeared at the edge of the trees. Cautious but curious.

‘Is it really you, Peter? And Jon? Surely it’s too dangerous for you here? The police keep checking your place in case you return.’

‘We guessed as much. Can we go inside in case someone wanders over?’

They looked at each other. Lida nodded and Rory waved us towards the caravan. We sat at the table. Rory stayed at the door, gun at the ready.

‘Put that thing away!’ snapped Lida. ‘They’re not going to hurt us.’

When he tucked it behind the bed, I felt as though I was coming up for air after too long under water. Shotguns can be very tense making, especially when pointed at your useful bits.

‘OK. What’s the story.’

I gave them a fairly graphic résumé of the past ten days. The stunned silence was gratifying.

‘It has to be true. No one would make something like that up.’ Rory stared at us. ‘Where’s he now? Still in the back of the ute?’

I nodded. ‘You might recognise him. He was probably one of your plain-clothes cops.’

‘I’ll switch out his lights while you and Jon dig a big hole.’

‘Thanks, but we need him.’ I outlined our idea.

‘Risky. But as you say, you can’t go to the cops; they’d never believe you. Hell, if we half believed you’d killed the woman, the cops certainly will.’ He pushed himself to his feet. ‘But it’s a crappy plan.’

I shrugged, feeling like a kid who hasn’t done his homework properly.

He sniffed. ‘What’s the real reason you came up here?’

‘Like I said, to let you know what had happened and make sure you were both OK. After I spirited Jon away from my place there was no telling what they’d do. If they thought you’d helped him, they might have got nasty.’

‘They weren’t nice, but they weren’t nasty.’

‘They were menacing and I hated them.’ Lida was angry.

‘And you waited ten days to find out if we were OK. Some friend.’

‘Rory! I was busy!’

‘Yeah, yeah. Just winding you up. So you want me to give you a hand?’

‘It never entered my head. Honestly! There’s no way I want you risking anything for me.’

Rory grinned and turned to his wife. ‘Make us some coffee, Liebling, while we take a look at the murdering bastard in the ute.’

Outside, Rory winked, ‘Let’s put the wind up him, eh?’ When we got within hearing distance he began talking loudly, accent slightly stronger than usual and dripping with menace. ‘Yeah, no worries. Back home I got rid of dozens of slimy infiltrating commie bastards. One quick tap on the back of the head, and dump them in a pit. There’s so much land here no one will ever find the body. Grows good vegetables after a while too.’

‘But what if the tap doesn’t kill him? Jon grinned.

‘I make bloody sure it doesn’t! Much better if he wakes and dies real slow while the dirt works into his lungs.’ He gave a resounding and evil cackle.

‘If he doesn’t do as he’s told, he’s all yours,’ I said. ‘I’m in no mood to muck around.’

I opened the back door of the canopy. Rory peered in, poked Scumble in the ribs and laughed, ‘Plenty of meat on him. Ever tasted long pig?’

‘Long pig?’

‘Roast human.’ He smacked his lips noisily before adding, ‘I sure hope he doesn’t cooperate. I’ve got a sudden hankering for a tasty bit of flesh.’ He roared with laughter, landed a resounding wallop with the flat of his hand on Scumble’s bare buttock, slammed the door and led us back inside to coffee and cakes.

‘Here’s what we’ll do. You sort out your plan, get everything ready, then give us a ring.’ He slapped me on the thigh and turned to Jon. ‘You’re a bloody wizard, mate. The ute’s as good as new. That’s the only reason I’ve offered to help. Can’t risk losing the best mechanic in the neighbourhood.’

‘And he feels guilty for believing you might have killed that woman. But even if you had killed someone,’ Lida added darkly, ‘I would still love you, Peter.’

Rory blushed and nodded. ‘I was stupid.’

‘I’d call it sensible, so stop apologising. We’ll need your number. If I’d had it I could have rung you and got you to warn Jon.’

‘Think of all the fun you’d have missed.’

I turned to Lida. ‘Is it OK with you for Rory to help us?’

She looked perplexed. ‘But of course, darling. I want to help too.’

I found I couldn’t speak, so mumbled something I hoped sounded like thanks, and stood up to go.

Rory took me by the shoulders and shook me. ‘Take bloody good care, mate. Some time tomorrow, then. I’ll be sitting by the phone.’ With a thump that almost dislocated my shoulder he led us out and they both stood waving.

Jon drove and I telephoned the Alconas to let them know we were still alive. Mad was out so the call was redirected to Brian’s surgery. He was relieved to hear from me, had no news, and didn’t know any Justice of the Peace who was young, active and a freethinker. The only one he knew was an elderly, fundamentalist Christian opposed to birth control, abortion and homosexuality, but in favour of corporal and capital punishment.

I called Hank on his mobile. He and Celia were enjoying themselves, had gone whale watching and fishing, spent a couple of days on Fraser Island and were feeling relaxed. Patrick, according to his secretary, was physically recovering but still a neurotic mess. In my opinion he always had been, but I didn’t say so. I told them everything was fine with Jon and me and we were making good progress, but I needed the services of a trustworthy and adventurous JP. He gave me the number of his accountant, Matthew Kingstone.

‘But no funny business, Peter. Patrick and I still need his services, and so, I imagine, do his wife and kids.’

I promised to take as much care of Matthew as I did of Jon, and said I’d ring as soon as I had anything to report.