Waited.
Heard the soft feet on the steps. Rubber soles.
Saw the shoes, big, the trousers, dark, the waistband of the ski jacket.
No more.
The legs stopped. He had seen Neckhead’s legs.
‘Jesus,’ he said, came down the steps in a rush, swung onto the landing, sawn-off shotgun in his right hand, its ugly pig-nostril muzzles coming around to face me.
I shot him in the chest, twice, a third time. His eyes registered something, he bounced against the railing, mouth open, made a sound, cheerful, surprised sound, fell over sideways, slid.
I stood there, pistol in hand, feeling sick. The dishcloth was still around my neck. I took it off, used it to wipe the pistol, put it back in Neckhead’s hands again, pressed his fingers, utmost care.
I listened. Nothing but the growl of traffic on Hoddle and Victoria and Wellington Parades, and Miles Davis.
I left the scene of the crimes. Left carefully, in case Bobby had sent more than two people to get me. Not that taking care would make any difference in the long run, the short run even.
He who says Hill says Scully.
I couldn’t kill armies of people.
I went out on the Tullamarine freeway, suddenly hungry, bought a hamburger in the drive-through at a McDonald’s in Keilor, sat in the car park, appetite gone, system flooded with adrenalin, mind lurching between clear and blank.
I hadn’t listened to the Bianchi tape.
I didn’t want to listen to it. I’d left the Radomsky house with it in my hand and what I had done was to telephone Anne Karsh. All the effort to find it, lying to decent people, and then I put it in my pocket, put it out of my mind.
I took the slim plastic box out of my coat pocket, took out the cassette, slid it into the tape player, hit the buttons.
A voice, counting, humming, whistling. Darren Bianchi’s voice.
Silence.
What was he doing?
Testing a wire, that’s what he was doing.
Noise, traffic noise, tinny music, scratchy sounds.
So what’s she supposed to know, I mean, what do I…Bianchi’s voice again. Barely audible against the background sounds.
Know the absolute fucking minimum, anything goes wrong, she knows close to fuckall. Scully’s voice.
Bianchi is wearing a wire, sitting in a car with Scully. His boss, Scully.
Dennis will ring…Bianchi’s voice.
Then Scully: If Howie goes for his walk, only if he’s out of there. Doesn’t go, we wait till he goes somewhere. He goes, we see him, Dennis rings, says he’s coming round. At eight thirty. Now she’s got to wipe that from the tape, get it? Howie hears it, we’re fucked. It’s for fucking Faraday’s benefit.
So Howie doesn’t know. He’s gonna think, who’s at the door?
Darren, don’t worry about that, right? My department. Just one thing the bitch’s got to do, right. Open the garage door at eight thirty on the fucking nail. You make sure she understands that. No fucking margin for error.
Yeah, eight thirty.
Yeah, eight thirty. It’s just a run-through. She keeps her mouth shut, she gets wrapped up, they’ll be out of there, five fucking minutes, less. No way Dennis will know she’s not as surprised as he is. Okay?
Okay.
Something else. You make sure she knows, change of mind now, she’s meat. Too fucking late for that. She’s fucking in. Doesn’t want to do it, she’s seen fucking Daimaru for the last time. She’s fucking sushi. Doesn’t do it right, same thing. Applies to you, too. And me. And fucking Bobby. You don’t know this fucking El G, fucking mad. I know him from way back, kill anything, kill anyone, come in his pants while he’s doing it. Totally fucking crazy, makes snuff movies. Fuck it up, we’ll be fucking snuff stars.
Scuffling noises, car door slamming, Scully saying something inaudible.
The next five minutes of the tape were recorded somewhere noisy with background voices, laughter, scratchings, scrapings, bangings. The pub in Deer Park? Bianchi, low voice, giving Carlie Mance her instructions.
I listened with my head back on the seat, mouth dry, wishing I had something to drink, a cigarette.
Carlie showed no signs of fear, no desire to call it off. Bianchi told her what would happen to her anyway. Her last words were: Darren, tell ’em make sure they don’t put anything over my nose-can’t bear that, can’t even have a pillow over my nose.
Bianchi said: Not a problem. Won’t happen. I’ll tell ’em.
I ejected the tape, put it in its box, put it in my pocket.
Scully. The bastard. Scully and El G. Scully, the deputy commissioner-to-be. Scully, the man who investigated Ned’s complaint. Sitting in that car, talking to Bianchi, he knew that someone-El G, someone-was going to murder Lefroy and Carlie. Murder them, rape Carlie, enjoy it. Film it for future pleasure.
The tape might be enough to nail Scully, but I doubted it. I sat motionless for a while, uneaten hamburger on my lap, staring sightless.
Unfinished business.
I shook myself. Ian Barbie’s suicide was unfinished business. His letter to his daughter said he’d left a suicide note. Where? At his surgery? He hadn’t. Where he lived? He hadn’t. Where he committed suicide? People often did.
I got out the Melways, put on the inside light and found the quickest way to Footscray.
Varley Street, Footscray: one streetlight, icy wind pinning the newspaper pages against the container depot fence, somewhere a door banging in the wind, lonely sound.
I thought I heard them as soon as I stepped into the old loading bay: the sound of a classroom where the teacher has stepped out for a minute, not loud, but unruly, a jostling of voices.
I knew where the sound was coming from. I went across the loading bay, out into the courtyard, turned right and walked towards the glow coming out of a big doorway.
There were four of them upright, around a smoky, spitting fire. Other bodies lay as dead outside the circle, one face down. The fire cast a cruel russet light on wrecked faces, shapeless clothes, a swollen blood-filled eye. Two men who could have been a hundred years old were fighting weakly over the silver bladder of a wine cask, speaking incomprehensible words, neither strong enough to win possession. Someone who could have been a woman was nursing another person’s head in her lap, drinking beer from a can, golden liquid running down a cracked chin, dripping onto the long, greasy grey hair.
‘Robbo here?’ I said.
Only two heads turned, looked at me without interest, looked away.