Draw the Brisbane Line (18 page)

Sammo stashed the jerry can behind the driver’s seat and dropped in behind the wheel.

A man at the pump next to theirs suddenly began cursing loudly, angrily.  He kicked the pump.  Nero hear the words
fucken empty
, and looked in his side mirror to see what kind of reaction that would cause.  Many car doors opened and closed, not the sounds of motorists returning to their cars to try their luck at the next station, but that of desperate people suddenly realising that the key to their escape and safety was about to be driven away at speed.  There wasn’t any shouting, but the sound of their marching footsteps began to quicken and slip into a kind of communal rhythm, a gathering force nearing its target.

Shouting was posturing.  Silence meant the time for talking had passed.

‘Go,’ Nero said.  ‘We need to get the fuck out of here, now.’

Sammo pressed the start button and the engine sighed with a subdued growl.  Nero looked out the rear window at the small crowd now charging towards the pumps, and at the drivers of the other recently-filled cars hurrying to make their getaway.  He looked at plaid shirt making a fuss in his Toyota, strapping his kids in and trying not to shout as them as they fucked about in the back-seat like it was all a game, just another way to wind up Daddy.  They were too young to comprehend the onrushing threat.  Nero turned away just as the first punch was thrown, a man trying to get back into his station wagon hit in the back of the head by the leading fist of a small cadre.

An electric blue Great Wall streaked off the highway and came around up the exit slip, and gunned it towards the LFX.

Right
, he thought. 
Here comes that act of monumental stupidity.

Nero opened his door and surrendered the comfort of that leather bucket seat.  He raised the Sig and fired off three shots at the car, one of them hitting the windscreen, the other two piercing the grille.  He didn’t think he hit Baldy, but the shots were enough to make him stop his Kamikaze run and duck below the dash.  Nero dropped back into his seat and slammed the door.

‘Go!’ he shouted.

Sammo didn’t hesitate.  He dropped his foot hard to the floor.  The Great Wall and the other cars all dissolved in a blur, and Nero felt his cheeks pull away from his teeth.  Only when they were on the highway and sliding through a thin stream of traffic, slowed to merely dangerously fast, could Nero pull his heart out from the back of his seat.  Nero whooped loudly, and Sammo smiled.  They both thought more or less the same thing: this arrangement could work out nicely.

He dropped the gun into the open bag at his feet and closed his eyes.  Gun play and violence and speeding cars and the adrenaline it couriered was no match for the fatigue he’d been trying his best to ignore since Moranbah, so when sleep now came knocking he let it in without hesitation.  As the sun began its slow dip below the tree-line, bathing the cloud-streaked sky in brilliant tangerine, Nero was already dreaming of betrayal, of desperation, of undiluted panic.  At the centre of it all was Lily.

Papetti slowed the Humvee and turned off the highway into a small side road.  They followed the narrow slip into a wide industrial estate, large pre-fabricated aluminium hangars dotted along wide and quiet streets.  It was as if backyard sheds had turned on their houses and swallowed them whole.  The day had drifted into early twilight, a change marked not so much by the muted detail of the bush around them, but by the eruption of cicadas and crickets chirruping from all sides.

Without the threat of onrushing death to distract him, Dave’s thoughts swung like a compass needle returning to horror’s true north: to Curly, and to Cain.  Two deaths in twenty-four hours.  Images cycled through his mind in a gruesome before and after comparison: Cain smiling, a Cain-shaped bundle of bloody pinstripe on the road; Curly sneering, Curly slumped against his broken ute with a vital piece of his head missing.  He wanted to push the images out of his mind by thinking of pleasant things, but the only thoughts putting their hands up for consideration were ones of Jenny, and that made him depressed and fearful.  Was she OK?  Had she made it out before the looting turned to rioting?  Did she still despise him?

‘This is one ugly-ass neighbourhood,’ Papetti said, interrupting his train of gloomy contemplation.

‘I’ve yet to see a pretty industrial estate,’ he said.  ‘What are we doing here?’

‘We’re shopping for a new car, something with good off-road handling and a diesel fuel tank.  Let me know if you see anything you like.’

Stubby fingers of worry made a few tentative prods at the inside of Dave’s stomach.  ‘We’re stealing cars now?’

‘You think we should buy one?  We don’t really have time to go through the paperwork, Dave.’

‘What’s wrong with this one?’

‘What do you think is wrong with this one, Dave?’ she said, drier than the brown patches of grass and weeds which dusted the gaps between the buildings.

Dave dug his index and middle fingers into the side of his right knee, massaging the muscle around his anterior cruciate through the denim of his jeans.  His right knee was always the weakest, always the most prone to injury.  Dave had undergone surgery on that part of his body three times over the course of his career.  He’d had the opportunity to have a fourth procedure on the knee, swap out some of the bone and ligament for plastic and carbon fibre, but he decided to call time on Dave Holden, tennis star, finish on top.  He found, over the years, that it still required some maintenance to keep the joint flexible, even though he rarely played anymore.  He’d knead the muscles to warm them up if he ever thought he might need to run.

‘I think it’s probably not the most fuel-efficient vehicle, but I don’t suppose that’s your main concern.’

‘I’ll admit, it’s a factor,’ she said, and squinted as the dipping sun caught her squarely in the face.

‘Why don’t you wear sunglasses?’ Dave said.  ‘You never seem to wear sunglasses.’

‘Habit,’ she said.  ‘Training.  Sunglasses get in the way.  You seem to be skirting the question, Dave.’

Dave’s finger found a hard knot of muscle just above his knee.  He pressed into it with enough force to make his eyes water.  He looked across at Papetti, weighed the mass of worry and regret on her face, and judged it to be on the light side.  He kneaded the knot harder. 

She raised her hand to brush a stray strand of hair from her forehead.  Her left index finger curled around the dark lock and slid it back into formation, and in that brief motion her finger didn’t glide mechanically over the contours of her forehead, it hit turbulence.  It dipped, it jagged.  It trembled.  She reached into a pocket over her right breast and slipped out a small phone, waking it from sleep mode with a click and a series of swipes and jabs.

‘Checking Facebook?’ Dave said.

‘Something like that,’ Papetti said, and briefly frowned at the device before locking the screen and slipping it back into her pocket.  ‘Look, there,’ she said, pointing at a forklift dealership across the street.  ‘That big white Toyota.’

‘The Everest?’ Dave said.  ‘Those things aren’t exactly cheap to run.’

‘We might still need a genuine off-roader,’ she said.

She turned into the drive of the dealership and parked up close to the loading bay doors.  They sat there for about half a minute, listening to the ticks and pops of the settling car.  Nobody came out to meet them.  Dave checked his phone for any missed calls or texts.

‘Place looks closed,’ Papetti said.

‘Looks deserted,’ Dave said.  ‘Most of this estate.  Is there a public holiday I didn’t know about.’

‘Maybe they’re on strike.  You guys seem to like your strikes.’

‘More like out of business.  But who owns the Everest?’

‘Maybe it’s outta gas,’ Papetti said.  ‘Wait in here.’  She reached across him to rummage around in the vehicle’s voluminous glove compartment, and came out holding a strangely industrial device.  Dave had a small vacuum pump to suck the air out of open wine bottles; it looked like that, except that it might remove life instead of air.  Interlocking metal teeth encircled its middle, like a wedding ring for a Cenobite from
Hellraiser
.

‘What the hell is that?’ he said.

‘Lock-fucker,’ she said, and opened her door.  ‘If anyone comes while I’m inside, honk.’

Papetti paused at the Toyota on her way to the office and rested her palm on the bonnet of the vehicle.  Was it warm or cold?  When she brought the lock-fucker up to the office door after taking only a brief peek inside, Dave guessed it must be cold.  To all appearances, the entire industrial estate was deserted.  She pumped the device back and forth a couple of times and swung the door open.  After a quick three-sixty surveillance, she stepped into the darkened building, and the wide roller doors in front of the Humvee groaned into action a few seconds later.

It was only when he heard the mechanical thunk a second before she returned to the driver’s seat that he realised he’d been locked in.

She rolled the Humvee forward into an open loading bay.  Forklifts painted the orange and brown of outback dust filled the rest of the dark space, some complete and apparently ready to go, the others in various states of dis- and re-assembly.  Papetti killed the engine and stepped out, and Dave followed her.  She reached around in the back of the Humvee, a space filled with an assortment of bags and cases and boxes, and slid out a small suitcase.

‘What’s in that?’ Dave asked.

‘Clothes.  What do you think?  Here.’  She reached into a side pocket of her combat fatigues and tossed him a bunch of keys with a car fob attached.  ‘These were in the office, they look like they’re a match.  Why don’t you back that Toyota in here?  Unless you want to stay here and help me undress?’  A smile curled up from the corners of her mouth as she began unbuttoning her shirt.

Dave froze.  ‘Um … ah …’

Papetti shook her head and laughed.  ‘Relax Sportacus, I’m just fucking with you.  Go on, get the car.’

Dave searched for a witty comeback, but he found it hard to focus while Papetti continued to release buttons.  He’d always been full of confidence on court, and at ease in social situations, but the moment any encounter started to slide towards the sexual, his inner adolescent self stumbled to the forefront, tripping over words and blushing powerfully enough to make his head pulse with the blood rush.

Fortunately, for him it was a trait Jenny found endearing, and she had the patience to coax him forward one tentative step at a time.

And there they were, her breasts.  Strapped down by a sports bra, but still, obviously breasts.  They jiggled as she laughed at him.

‘You are too much, Holden,’ she said.  ‘Tom said you’re a shy one.  Hard to believe you two share DNA.  You got all the sporting genes but none of the lady-killer code.’

Dave felt the blush leave his face, brushed away by a cold breeze.  ‘Yeah, well … maybe if he had a bit less of the lady-killer in him he’d have had better luck in politics.’

‘Oh, I think he’s doing OK.’  She peeled her shirt off and dropped it next to the suitcase on the tailgate.  Her olive complexion wasn’t limited to her face.  He wondered if it extended beneath the white Calvin Klein bra.

‘Just how well
do
you know my brother, Corporal Papetti?’

‘Well enough Sportacus, well enough.’

‘Well enough to know Sportacus is what he calls me whenever he feels like taking the piss?’

‘That car won’t move itself you know.’

‘He takes the piss out of me a lot, does he?  Or is it just around you?’

‘Fine, you want to stand around gabbing?  I’m getting changed here.’

Before Dave could blink or turn away, she pulled the sports bra up over her head, releasing a pair of pert and, yes, tanned breasts — though they were still a shade or two lighter than the rest of her.  He turned and stalked away to the Toyota, before the heat in his neck spread to his face.

‘Please excuse the tan marks,’ she called after him, laughing.  ‘There aren’t too many chances for topless sunbathing when you’re on tour.  Especially in a Muslim country.’

The keys were indeed for the Toyota.  After adjusting the seat for his legs — the last driver must have been the size of a young child — he slipped the key into the ignition and acquainted himself with the controls.  The interior smelled of cigarette smoke and those pine-scented cardboard trees.  He made sure the car was in park before hitting the big start button to the side of the steering column.

Whirring.  Grunting.  Many flashing lights and alarms.

He waited five seconds and tried again, achieved the same result.  At least he knew why the car had been left without a driver.

‘It’s out of fuel,’ he shouted at Papetti.

‘So push it,’ she shouted back, and he was sure he heard her mutter
you big fucken pussy
.

Push it? 
No
, he thought,
I don’t think so
.  He could think of better ways to re-fuck his knee completely.  He slipped back behind the wheel of the Toyota, took off the handbrake and put it in neutral.  The ground was close enough to level, so it didn’t move anywhere.  Trying his best to ignore Papetti as she pulled a polo shirt over her head, he walked to the Humvee and sat behind the wheel.  He smiled at her deep frown when he fired up the beast and backed it out of the dark space.  He turned, and he imagined it was how it might feel turning a bus — he felt like he was going to hit everything.  When he was in line with the Everest he crept forward until their bumpers kissed.  He applied the slightest pressure to the pedal and he felt the resistance of the big car in front, but it started rolling easily enough.  He moved as slowly as he could, and when both cars were under cover, he jumped out of the Humvee and ran to the Everest before it could run too far.  With their new ride safely in park, he manoeuvred the Humvee so their petrol caps more or less lined up.

He stepped out into the warehouse and prepared to gloat his genius, but he couldn’t see Papetti.

‘Papetti!’ he called out.  She didn’t respond.  He thought she might have opted for a more private changing room for her bottom half, so he tried the office.  The door inside the warehouse was almost entirely covered by a poster which shouted THINK FIRST! and then detailed in cartoon imagery a series of unsafe actions. A cartoon man lifted with his back, looked at his phone while walking barefoot in a construction site, took a selfie while operating a forklift … he was surely dead by now. 

Dave pushed through the door and found two figures sitting at a desk. One was Papetti, rigid as a store mannequin but sobbing in silent pain, and the other was a short balding man slumped and half twisted over the desk with a syringe jutting out from the crook of his elbow.

‘Oh, fuck,’ Dave moaned.

Papetti didn’t change her posture.  She just sat there, looking at nothing, tears running down her face and over twisted lips.  She was fully dressed in civilian clothes, a pair of blue denim jeans and a black polo shirt, her combat boots swapped for some lightweight hiking shoes. Her incognito outfit was finished off by a Yankees hat.

Dave realised he was going to have to do something, because Papetti didn’t look like she was going to take charge of the situation any time soon.  He crouched down in front of her, his knee be damned, and enclosed her in a hug.  At first it felt like he was embracing a tree, but by degrees her muscles unwound, relaxed, and then all at once she fell into him, threw her arms around his back and buried her wet face in his shoulder.  She was warm and soft, and the heat from her body passed through their clothes and into his skin.  He could smell her shampoo, a scent of coconut and flowers.  She cried, this time with sound, and that’s when he realised this had nothing to do with the newly discovered corpse.  She would have found it when she first broke into the office.

‘It’s OK,’ he said, although he had no idea what
it
might be, and whatever it was he was fairly certain it was far from OK.  Maybe it was Curly.  Maybe it was more than that.

‘No,’ she said, her voice rough and wet.  ‘No, it’s not.’

‘I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but your boobs feel bigger than they looked.’