Aggressor

my feelings wasn’t ‘bollocks to that’. I was actually looking forward to being with someone, and really wanting it.

If I ever managed to get out of here, I wouldn’t moan at her for the way she strapped her board on top of the VW. I’d even let her play the Libertines all the way from Cairns to Sydney and back again if she wanted to.

In the meantime, I curled myself up again, like the body in the boot of the Audi, closed my eyes and tried to think good things.

It was all I could do for now.

4

I lay on the cold hard floor, my hands locked like a vice to my head, my body numbed by pins and needles, no matter which way I turned, no matter how often I stretched.

At least the room was warming up now; someone had thrown the switch on the air conditioning a few minutes ago and hot air was streaming out of the duct alongside me. I sat up and shuffled across the lino on my arse until I was directly in line with it.

The odd Huey cruised overhead, and I could catch snatches of conversation along the corridor.

They still didn’t seem to know who we were. Drug dealers was a popular choice, and since we were white, we pretty much had to be Russian. Mafia, maybe.

One guy reckoned we were Brits because the driver had said so, but that got short shrift. Everyone knew that Brits were fucking stupid, but not this stupid, surely.

I didn’t allow myself to get too carried away, though, and I was right.

There was the sound of hurried footsteps outside my door, and the good news came through loud and clear. ‘Hey, just heard about these two fucks. They killed that politician, you know, the guy on the news? Yeah, shot the guy in the head twenty times and left him in the trunk of his car. Our guys caught ’em trying to get away.’

I lay there for what seemed like hours, bored now that I knew what was in store.

I moved closer to the door, to try to hear more. Mostly I wanted to know where Charlie was, but I would have settled for the time. All I heard was the squeak of boots and the odd bollocking about the noise.

I was gagging for a drink; it was a lifetime since those espressos at the airport.

I started to feel sleepy and guessed it must be getting late. I tried to nod off, but I couldn’t; every position I tried was just too uncomfortable.

More time passed; then I heard shoes, not boots, approaching down the corridor.

The door was flung open and the room was plunged into darkness.

There were two of them gripping me, one either side. They were in civilian clothes; my left foot pressed against a metal buckle on a pair of muddy loafers, and I was treated to a cocktail of stale nicotine and leather on my right as I got hauled off the lino.

I was prepared to bet all of Charlie’s three quid that the jacket was black.

Then all I could smell was turnips as a scratchy nylon sack was pulled over my head. It came down to my elbows.

My two new best mates exchanged a word or two in Paperclip; I was starting to get the hang of it now. Then they dragged me out into the corridor. Pinpricks of fluorescent light glinted through the weave, and I could see more grey lino through the gap at my waist.

We turned left, through a set of swing doors, then on again, through another.

A gust of cold air played across my bare skin, shrinking everything except the goose bumps. I started to shiver as we moved out onto a short flight of wooden steps.

Chips of gravel punctured the soles of my feet as I was bundled through the open tailgate of a waiting estate car. The back seats were down and I landed on a haphazard combination of scratchy woollen and furry nylon blankets.

I wriggled as far forward as I could, hoping to bump up against Charlie, but my only reward was banging my head against a spare car battery and having my nose attacked by the overpowering stench of urine and damp dog. Another blanket was thrown over me and the tailgate slammed shut.

This wasn’t good.

I had a feeling I knew what kind of policemen these guys were, and you wouldn’t want to stop and ask them the way.

The front doors opened and closed and I felt myself bounce around a bit as the two of them sorted themselves out. The engine fired up and we crunched our way past the Portakabins. I closed my eyes, to try and maintain some sense of direction.

I heard some chat, then the strike of a match, and nicotine-laden smoke began to do battle with the smell of dog.

I wasn’t scared about what might lie ahead. I just felt depressed.

And hungry.

And, much to my surprise, pretty fucking lonely.

5

We came to a halt and the driver wound down his window. He rattled off a series of short, sharp instructions to someone in Paperclip, then I heard the creak of a barrier being raised and the car rolled forward once more.

We rumbled over the kilometre or so of hardcore towards the main and took the left. No surprises there. The Georgians weren’t any fonder of their old mates from the Russian Federation than the Americans were.

We moved smoothly along the metalled road, with only the occasional shake and rattle as we encountered a good old-fashioned pothole.

I tried to time this stretch by counting off the seconds, and got to twenty minutes without a pause.

The two in the front were still enjoying themselves. They switched the radio on and listened to some Georgian songs that seemed to involve a lot of wailing. Maybe it was the same station that played in embassy security huts?

At no stage did they acknowledge I was there. Maybe they’d forgotten me. That would have been nice.

There’d been no steep climbs up or down, so we were still following the valley. Why weren’t we going over the high ground, stopping at the VCP then heading back to the city? And if we weren’t, was that a good or a bad thing? I had a nasty feeling I knew the answer.

Ten minutes more and this definitely wasn’t normal police stuff. We still hadn’t got anywhere near the high ground; if we’d been going back to the city we would have done so by now.

I shuffled around, trying to get more blanket over me. My goosebumps were on the retreat and I wanted to make the most of it while I could.

Something about being warm and cocooned set me thinking about Silky again. I was confused. I knew I’d done the right thing coming here with Charlie, but at the same time, all I wanted now was to be back with her in Australia. Not just as an alternative to lying in the back of a car on my way to what was probably going to be the beasting of a lifetime, but simply because I wanted to be with her. She smelled a whole lot better than these blankets, for starters.

I thought about her lying next to me on the beach, and sitting beside me in the passenger seat of the VW. My mind rambled. I couldn’t think of a single moment with her that hadn’t been good. I thought about the time she said, ‘We’re a good fit, no?’ She was right, we were. I missed her.

So what were we going to do when I got back? There was still the trip to the red centre; to what I called Ayers Rock and Silky and everybody else seemed to think was now Uluru.

Before meeting Silky, I’d have cut away from any fearful thoughts in a situation like this — even cut away from good stuff at the same time. I probably would just have lain here. But fuck it, I liked it this way. There was still sailing in the Whitsundays, and Kakadu National Park, and New Zealand. All the places we’d spoken about when we