Wells did not answer. Using his pistol to keep Carver’s head steady, he inserted the point of his knife just below the outer corner of Carver’s left eye. Blood welled up instantly, running thickly down his cheek. With a sudden flick of his wrist, Wells twisted the blade, slicing from his eye down to his jaw. He leaped back—but Carver did not wake; he only gurgled. His cheek was now awash with blood; it was running off the line of his jaw and soaking into his collar.
‘C for Carver,’ said Wells quietly, staring at him. ‘You’re a man to remember now, Francis Carver. You’re the man with the scar.’
He looked up and caught Anna’s eye. Her hands were over her mouth; she looked horrified. He jerked his chin at the decanter on the sideboard. ‘Have a drink,’ he said. ‘You’ll be asleep in a minute. Only you’d better do it fast.’
Anna glanced at the decanter. The laudanum had darkened the whisky very slightly, giving the liquid a coppery glow. ‘How much?’ she said.
‘As much as you can stomach,’ said Wells. ‘And then lie down on your side—not your back. You’ll drown on your own self, otherwise.’
‘How long will it take?’
‘No time at all,’ said Crosbie Wells. He wiped his knife on the carpet, sheathed it, and then stood, ready to leave.
‘Wait.’ Anna ran into the bedroom. A moment later she returned with the gold nugget that he had first given her, the afternoon of their first encounter. ‘Here,’ she said, pressing it into his hands. ‘Take it. You can use it to get away.’
MAKEWEIGHTS
In which Crosbie Wells asks for help; a customs agent becomes angry; and a bill of lading is recalled.
‘Psst—Bill!’
The official looked up from his newspaper. ‘Who’s that?’
‘It’s Wells. Crosbie Wells.’
‘Come out where I can see you.’
‘Here.’ He emerged into the light, palms up.
‘What are you doing—creeping about in the dark?’
Wells took another step forward. Still with his palms up, he said, ‘I need a favour.’
‘Oh?’
‘I need to get on a ship first light.’
The official’s eyes narrowed. ‘Where you bound?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Wells. ‘Anywhere. I just need to go quiet.’
‘What’s in it for me?’
Wells opened his left fist: there, against his palm, was the nugget that Anna had returned to him. The official looked at it, making a mental estimation of its worth, and then said, ‘What about the law?’
‘I’m on side with the law,’ said Wells.
‘Who’s on your heels, then?’
‘Man named Carver,’ said Wells.
‘What’s he got on you?’
‘My papers,’ said Wells. ‘And a fortune. He lifted a fortune from my safe.’
‘When did you ever make a fortune?’
‘At Dunstan,’ said Wells. ‘Maybe a year ago. Fifteen months.’
‘You kept bloody quiet about it.’
‘Course I did. I never told a soul but Lydia.’
The man laughed. ‘That was your first mistake, then.’
‘No,’ said Wells, ‘my last.’
They looked at each other. Presently Bill said, ‘Might not be worth it. For me.’
‘I go aboard tonight, hide away, sail first thing. You keep this nugget, and I keep my life. That’s all. You don’t need to get me on board—just tell me which ship is leaving, and turn a blind eye as I walk past.’
The official wavered. He put aside his paper and leaned forward to check the schedule pinned above his desk. ‘There’s a schooner bound for Hokitika leaving at first light,’ he said after a moment. ‘The
‘You tell me where she’s anchored,’ said Wells. ‘Give me a window. That’s all I’m asking, Bill.’
The official pursed his lips, considering it. He turned back to the schedule, as though the best course of action might somehow present itself to him in writing. Then his gaze sharpened, and he said, ‘Hang on— Wells!’
‘What?’
‘This inventory says it was authorised by you.’
Frowning, Wells stepped forward. ‘Let me see.’
But Bill pulled the log towards him, away from Wells’s reach. ‘There’s a crate going to Melbourne,’ he said, scanning the entry. ‘It’s been loaded on
‘I don’t know,’ said Wells. ‘Can I see it?’
‘You’re spinning me a line,’ said Bill.
‘I’m not,’ said Wells. ‘I never signed that bloody thing.’
‘Your money’s in that crate,’ said Bill. ‘You’re sending your colour offshore, while you hop over to Hokitika to cover your tracks, and when it’s all safe and sound, you’ll sally across the Tasman and make yourself over, tax- free.’
‘No,’ said Wells. ‘That wasn’t me.’
The official flapped his hand, disgustedly. ‘Go on. Keep your bloody nugget. I don’t want a part in any scheme.’
Wells said nothing for a moment. He stared at the dark shapes of the ships at anchor, the broken needles of light upon the water, the hanging lanterns, squeaking in the wind. Then he said, speaking carefully, ‘That wasn’t me who signed.’
Bill scowled. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Don’t start. You won’t take me for a fool.’
‘My certificates,’ said Wells. ‘My miner’s right—my papers—everything. It was all in the safe at Cumberland-street. I swear to you. This man Carver. He’s an ex-convict. Served time at Cockatoo. He took it all. I have nothing but the shirt on my back, Bill. Francis Carver is using my name.’
Bill shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘That crate’s not going offshore. I’m pulling the inventory, first thing in the morning.’
‘Pull it now,’ said Wells. ‘I’ll take the crate with me—to Hokitika. Nothing’s going offshore that way, is it? Everything’s legal that way.’
The official looked down at the inventory, and then back at Wells. ‘I don’t want a part in any racket.’
‘You’ll have done nothing wrong,’ said Wells. ‘Nothing at all. It’s only evasion of duty if you send it offshore. I’ll even sign for it. I’ll sign anything you like.’
Bill did not say anything for a long moment, and Wells knew that he was considering it. ‘I can’t get it on the
‘Send it on after, then. I’ll sign a transfer right now. I’m begging you.’
‘No need to beg,’ said Bill, frowning.
Wells came forward and placed the nugget on the desk. For a moment the thing seemed to shiver, like the needle of a compass.
