The plastic lighter.
I felt around for his pistol. It was in his hand, right hand, when he stuck his head into the doorway. Then he was walking towards us, lighting a cigarette. Where had he put the weapon?
Bugger this, use the flashlight, they were both outside.
I groped myself, struggling to get it out.
Engine revving. Huge bang.
I stood up and ran, ran into the dark, not caring, managed to run blind to near the shelf against the wall, clutching the bottle, clutching the lighter.
Felt my way to the shelf. Get the screwtop off. No nonsense about squeezing and turning when they bottled this liquid.
The left-hand door flew open violently, swung right open, bounced off the inside wall, headlights lighting up the barn.
Wick? Oh shit, collar, tear it off. No. A neatly folded handkerchief, in my windcheater pocket. I tore a strip off with my teeth.
I couldn’t get it to go into the neck of the bottle. Big scared fingers couldn’t stuff the cloth in.
Something, something thin.
He was reversing, getting ready to smash open the other door.
In the dim light from the headlights, I saw a nail, a rusty six-inch nail, on the shelf. Grabbed it, clumsy fingers, pushed at the strip of cloth.
Going in, going in. In. Bit sticking out. Shake bottle, wet bit sticking out.
Calm came down on me. Detachment. Too much adrenaline, too much sex, too little sleep.
Perfect calm. Perfect love driveth out fear. Ditto for sensory exhaustion.
Did this stuff work? I read about it in The Bridge at Spandau. Worked in the Hungarian uprising. That was 1956, however. About as old as this paraffin.
The vehicle hit the door so hard it came off its hinges, slid across the concrete, sparks, noise, the four-wheel- drive in the barn, the suddenly lit-up barn.
Coming into the doorway behind it. Dave, arm outstretched, pistol looking for me.
Dave. The man I’d believed, admired, felt a warmth towards.
You’re dealing with people, they can’t buy you, they’ll load you up, kill your friend, kill your wife, kill your child, kill you, it’s all the same.
Dave knew the people he was talking about. He was one of them.
‘Hey, Jack,’ he said, not a shout. ‘I’ve made a mistake. We’ll work something out.’
Lighters never work when you want them to. I’d been a smoker once, I knew that.
I clicked. How could I doubt? Who needs a Dunhill?
I touched the blue flame to the wick, ran to the end of the aisle and threw the bottle. Bowled it, like a grenade.
In the air. Wick burning.
Dave in front of the vehicle now, pointing the pistol to the left, to the short wall of the barn.
Ray, the fleshy man, half-out of the four-wheel-drive, no weapon visible.
Dave seeing me, seeing the flying bottle, arm coming back, no two-handed marksman Dave. Wrong, two- handed marksman, left hand coming up to steady the right hand.
To kill me.
Paraffin bomb falling short. No matter, falling at Dave’s feet, big splash of liquid, no shot, Dave stepping back, off balance.
Nothing.
Breaking glass, no bang, no fire, just spreading liquid, could be water.
Nothing. Oh God.
Total failure.
Perhaps you need petrol. Yes, that was it. They used petrol. Molotov cocktails rely on petrol.
Too bad.
Dave regained his balance, still the two-handed grip, steady, now for the target practice.
‘Oh, Jack,’ he said, ‘you silly prick.’
A voice from the door, a female voice.
‘Where’s Gary?’
Dave turned his head.
Fleshy-face turned.
Glenda, in the doorway. Hands at her chest, hand showing, hand in her nightgown.
Across the space, I saw her eyes move to the bodies. They lay in a huge dark pool. Tony, sprawled, crucified. Gary, barefoot, on his side, a man sleeping.
‘Bastards,’ she said. ‘Bastards.’
She took her hand away from her throat, her hand from her chest, shot the fleshy man somewhere, he fell over, she fired at Dave, three or four times before she hit him, in the middle of his body, walked over to him, he was upright, half-turned, doubled up, pointed the weapon at him at close range, at his neck. Bang, he jumped back a metre, fell over.
‘Bastards,’ she said.
She looked up and saw me and I was terrified.
‘I’m Gary’s father’s lawyer,’ I said. Loudly. ‘Came to make sure Gary wasn’t harmed.’
Pathetic.
Glenda threw the gun away. Contempt for the gun. It skidded across the concrete, spinning, came to rest.
‘Great work,’ she said, sinking onto her haunches on the cold concrete, hands to her face, rolling over like a puppy. ‘Fucking great work.’
I went outside, walked past Gary, dead, Tony, dead or dying, sleek dark Tony, Dean Canetti’s friend, Dave’s trusted associate, walked past Glenda, alive, sobbing, past the fleshy man, he might live. Live, die, I didn’t care. Walked past Dave, certainly dead. Didn’t mind that either. Past the four-wheel-drive, out the door, into the cold Tasmanian night.
The sky had cleared. Sky impossibly clear and clean and deep. Dense with stars, like city lights seen from a high place.
Last man standing. The Molotov cocktail man.
I took deep breaths, good, clean Tasmanian air, first lungs to use this air. Numb.
Who do you call? These dead and dying people were mostly from the government. Or were they? Did it matter? Two of them had tried to kill me.
‘Don’t know what to do.’
Glenda. Behind me. Shoulders down. Killer. Dream love of Gary Connors. The person of last resort. The one you call.
I pulled myself together. Jesus, Tony might live. Do something.
I turned, went to Glenda, put an arm around her cold shoulders. She came into my armpit, became small, shaking, uncontrollable shakes.
I said, ‘Go to the house, love. Ring the emergency police number. Tell them to send a helicopter, tell them where. Then start a fire down here, love, big fire. Something the helicopter can see.’
‘Right,’ she said. Sniff. ‘Right.’ She set off at a run up the slope.
I steeled myself. Went back into the barn, looked straight ahead, collected the sports bag with the money, walked out, got into the four-wheel-drive, drove away.
Survival of the innocents.
44
The drone came to my ears seconds before I saw the source. I was looking north but the aircraft came out of
