first.
I shone the flashlight around. It was a huge concrete-floored space, once the storehouse for the battery operation. To my left, three sets of heavy-duty industrial shelves rose to the roof, wide aisles between them. They were still full of supplies, neat stacks of 100-kilo bags of what could be chickenfeed pellets, big cardboard cartons, rows of fifty-litre plastic containers of liquid, some greenish, some water-coloured. Giant rolls of something. One shelf held several dozen cartons of canned dogfood.
I was right. It was a place that had dogs. Lots of dogs. Once.
‘In the office,’ Gary said behind me. ‘Over to the right.’
In the righthand corner, an office had been created by enclosing the space and giving it a door, a window and a roof, presumably to enable it to be heated.
We walked across, me in front, Gary shuffling awkwardly barefoot behind me, Dave at the back. At the office, Dave said, ‘Okay, that’s it. Where?’
‘Open the door,’ Gary said.
I opened it, shone the flashlight around: formica-topped metal desk, three plastic chairs, a filing cabinet with a kettle and a toaster on top of it, big old-fashioned bar heater. The walls were panelled in dark-brown imitation wood.
‘Push the filing cabinet away,’ Gary said. ‘The panel right behind it comes away. There’s a sportsbag in there.’
‘Stand against the window where I can see you, Gary,’ Dave said. ‘Any shit happens, I’m going to shoot you in the groin. Several times. Get the stuff, Jack. Take care. Boobytrap’s not unknown.’
I went in, put the flashlight on the desk, pointing at the window. The filing cabinet moved easily. Empty. Behind it, I could see that the plastic sealing strip between the panels was loose.
I got a nail behind it and it came away. I put three fingertips into the gap between panels and pulled the corner one away from the wall, put my hand in.
A bag, flattened to fit into the space. I pulled it out, with difficulty. A cheap nylon sportsbag, zipped, heavy. On the table, I unzipped it, shone the torch into it.
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.
43
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.
