experimentally. I took a bead on the line on the wall and didn’t miss by much.
The footsteps came back and a key turned in the door. I stood back a bit and let him come in; he had a plastic jug in one hand and the gun in the other. He took his eye off me for a split second while he put the jug down. I stepped forward and lashed the rope at him. The ball got him squarely in the eye, which was my first piece of luck for quite some time. He yelped and raised the gun, but I was in close by then, chopping at his hand. The gun skidded across the smooth boards. He only had one eye to work with, but he was game; he rushed, trying to butt me back to the wall, but I sidestepped and kicked at his legs. He went down, jumped up fast and came in swinging. One punch landed on the shoulder the billiard cue had hit, and I bellowed with the pain. I walked through two punches and smashed a hard right to the side of his head. The knuckle popped in and out again. I put a left onto his nose and got him again with the right on the ear. He lurched crazily and I dropped my shoulder and slammed him back against the wall. He propped there with his arms hanging wide, gasping for breath. I hit him hard, very low, with both hands, and he went down. He vomited and his eyes closed.
I’d been right about the gun; it was a nine-millimetre Browning Hi-Power, very popular in Europe. It carries thirteen shots in the magazine, and this one was fully loaded with one bullet in the chamber. It was the most powerful handgun I’d ever seen. It looked dangerous even lying on the floor against the wall, and I handled it with a kind of revulsion. I recovered the cord, unknotted and tied Rex Houdini-style, hands and feet. His eyes opened and he swore at me.
‘Don’t do that, Rex,’ I said. ‘I’ve only kicked you once; I owe you a few.’
I took a big mouthful of the water, swilled it around and spat it on the floor. It was frothy and red; he was a good puncher, Rex. I drank some water.
That left me with a gun I didn’t like and not much else. It was a straight road away from the house and there was no cover for hundreds of yards on either side of it. The Land Cruiser was still parked in front of the house, but my chances of commandeering it were slim; I could hardly hot-wire a Holden, let alone a Land Cruiser, and there might be more ugly people in the house or around the estate. I stood in the shadowed part of the doorway and thought that what I really needed was a Honda 750 or a telephone, or both.
As I watched, an old Japanese car drove up the road. Its rust spots jarred with the pristine white railing and superphosphated fields. The car made the turn at the top of the drive and came to a stop, pointing back towards the road and about fifty yards from the squash court. A man in a checked jacket and dark trousers got out, reached back into the car for what looked like a bundle of papers, and walked up towards the house. He was gangling and young with longish, untidy fair hair. He didn’t look like one of Mr Big’s minions or like the next-door neighbour calling in for coffee. His trouser bottoms flapped as he walked and the hem of his jacket was down at the back.
He went up the steps and knocked on the front door. After a minute or so, a man I hadn’t seen before opened the door. The untidy man started talking and the other guy began shaking his head. I bent as low as I could, given that my ribs were starting to hurt insistently, and scooted across to the car. I opened the back door, rolled in and pulled the door shut. There was nothing to hide under. I just scrunched myself down on the floor and hoped.
The door opened, there was a slap as something hit the back seat, the door slammed, the springs creaked and the car started. I stayed down for twice as long as I thought I needed to and when I risked a peep we were clear of the property. I looked at the driver, but you can’t do much in the way of character assessment from the back of a head. He had dandruff. I sat upright behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. He started and swung the wheel.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘Steer straight.’
‘Who’re you? What do you want?’ His voice cracked and broke with alarm.
‘I’ve had a bit of trouble back there. You got me clear of it. I want to go to the railway, that’s all.’
‘The police, more likely.’
I brought up the Browning and showed it to him. ‘I didn’t want to do this, but it has to be the railway. I don’t want to hurt you.’
‘Are you a prisoner?’
I laughed but the sound came our harsh and humourless. ‘No; it’s too complicated to explain. Do you know whose house that is back there?’
‘No.’
‘What the hell were you doing there?’
‘Canvassing. I’m the Labor candidate for the state election.’
‘Jesus. What did he say to you?’
‘Told me to piss off.’ The conversation seemed to give him some confidence. ‘Uh, Bill Anderson’s my name. What’s yours?’
‘Good name,’ I said, ‘top of the ballot. I’ve voted Labor all my life, when I’ve voted. Gough Whitlam’s the greatest Australian this century.’
‘That’s right.’
I was going to ask him where the hell we were, but I thought it might scare him. People who don’t know where they are sometimes don’t know other things, like that they shouldn’t kill people. The country was familiar anyway, flat, with the hills in the distance, well-watered. The side road hit the highway and I knew where I was- Camden, Macarthur Onslow country, wool country, fat lambs and fat cheques. I hadn’t told him my name and he hadn’t said he was going to take me to the railway station, but we were still moving and still talking.
‘What hope do you have around here, Bill?’
‘Not much. Safe Country Party, but you never know.’ He turned onto the highway.
‘Is this the way to the railway station?’
‘Yes. I don’t know why, but I suppose I’ll take you. I don’t really think you’d use the gun.’
‘You’re right, I wouldn’t. I’ve got an aunt in Camden; I’ll tell her to vote for you. Hell, I’ll get her to man the booth.’
He laughed. ‘Well, I’ll need everyone I can get. Can you tell me what sort of trouble you’re in?’
‘No, it’s Sydney trouble. I’m going back to sort it out.’
‘With the gun?’
‘No.’ I dropped the gun onto the front seat beside him. ‘Where’s the station?’
‘Bout a mile. Got any money?’
I’d felt the tightly folded money dig into me several times during the ordeal. It was still there.
‘A bit. Trains regular?’
‘No. Look, I’ll drive you into town.’
I was surprised, and moved to the side to get a better look at him. He was thirtyish and the fair hair fell forward onto his forehead and hung down over his ears. He had a beaky nose and a strong chin. He needed a shave.
‘I’ll buy the petrol, then,’ I said. ‘You can stop anywhere. Nobody’s looking for me yet.’
We crossed the Nepean River and Anderson stopped at a BP station. A liquor store across the road beckoned and I went across and bought a six-pack. I paid for the petrol, got in the front seat and offered Anderson a beer. He shook his head.
‘Never touch it before five. Can’t in my game.’
‘Which is what?’
‘School teaching.’ He started the car and we headed for Sydney. ‘It’s amazing, you know. That gun was on the front seat the whole time we were there getting the petrol. The garage bloke didn’t see it, or if he saw it he didn’t care.’
‘It’s television,’ I said. ‘We’re learning to love the gun.’
‘Is it yours?’
‘Hell, no. I took it off a heavy back at Sunnybrook Farm.’
He grunted and concentrated on driving. The car was a Datsun with a lot of miles on the clock; it bounced around and I had the feeling that Anderson was nursing it. I sucked on a can, conscious of the delicious cold sting of the beer on my cut mouth. I put the gun on the floor and looked out of the streaky window. The Camden district is littered with sandstone buildings drenched in convict sweat. It’s all worth a look on a relaxed drive, but I wasn’t relaxed.
