Blood Sport (29 page)

“You’re a terrible liar!” the Sarge hissed in my ear. “I’m going to be very pissed off if I have to rush you to the hospital again because of this little caper.”

“I said I’m okay,” I snapped back at him. I’d drive myself to hospital if he was going to have that attitude.

A window flung open near us. We froze in place, clutching each other’s arms, eyes huge.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” we heard a voice shout from inside the house.

This was it
, we both thought. We’d been spotted. We both reached for our guns.

“I thought I heard something,” replied another voice much closer to us and a head poked outside the window, looking up and down the side of the house, peering through the heavy rain in vain.

“You didn’t hear shit, so shut the fucking window, you dickhead!” called the first voice again. “You’re letting all the warmth out. My dick’s shrivelling up already.”

The man at the window shouted with laughter. “Don’t pretend it’s the cold air making your cock so small, Tipper. We all know you’ve only got a cocktail sausage to offer the ladies.”

“Mate,” Tipper retaliated, “you know I’ve got a full-sized meat and two vege here, not like your puny fun-sized bar.”

“That’s not what your old lady’s saying when I’m plugging her hard,” retorted Window-Man. Tipper’s response to that insult was cut off by Window-Man slamming the window shut and pulling the blind down.

The Sarge and I exhaled and relaxed against each other for a second. He moved onwards and I followed, finding the icy rain a good distraction from the pain in my arm. But I couldn’t wait to return to the Sarge’s place to take another painkiller.

We reached the back of the house and cautiously peered around the corner to the back patio. It was a simple structure – a plain concrete slab protected from the weather by cream-coloured roofing iron, joined to the house and supported by a few posts. The rain drummed noisily on its roof.

Fortunately for us, at that moment there was nobody on the patio. The oil drum that they’d held the fire in sat over to the far side in a darkened spot. That would provide us with some cover.

Unfortunately for us, there was a bank of glass doors leading onto the patio and the room inside was party central at the moment, no curtains or blinds blocking the view outside. The Sarge cursed softly when he assessed the situation. Even worse, a fluorescent light to the patio was on, blasting out one hundred watts of brilliant luminance. We would be completely visible to every person in that room if we crossed the patio over to the drum.

There was only one thing to do.

“Out of the way, Sarge,” I said and took out my gun. We both knew this was my area of expertise. I aimed and waited patiently for a loud burst of music before cleanly shooting out the patio light with one shot. The noise was negligible over the thump of the music and the rain. We waited with bated breath, but nobody in the room inside seemed to notice, or if they did, they merely thought that the light bulb had blown. No one seemed in a hurry to rush out to replace it.

We waited a full two minutes, which is an agonisingly long time when you’re freezing cold, in pain and hoping not to be caught trespassing by thirty bikies. Or by one Super.

The Sarge reached behind him and patted me twice on my arm. It was time to go. We hugged the perimeter of the patio, not crossing it. I looked into the room as we went and saw things happening in there that almost made me stop what I was doing and storm inside, gun out. But we needed to deal with one thing at a time and we had to think before we acted on what I’d seen. The Sarge and I were empowered by law to enter a premises if we believed a crime was occurring. But I didn’t think the bikies would be overly acquiescent to that argument. Let’s face it – when it came down to the hard facts of life, the law was just a bit of writing on a piece of paper to some people.

The whole endeavour was turning out to be more difficult than I’d ever imagined, lying in my warm safe bed, planning it through initially. The Sarge had been right to be cautious and I regretted getting him involved. Unlike me, he had a whole wonderful personal life and promising future career ahead of him. I would never forgive myself if something happened to him because of my recklessness. He didn’t deserve that. I vowed to myself then that I’d have to make sure he came out of this idiotic venture alive with his reputation unsullied, no matter what happened to me.

I sped up and pushed against his hard waist, forcing him to move faster than the careful pace he’d set. He reached behind to slap my hand away in irritation, thinking he was in charge, but I poked him harder in the back in response. We had to get to the drum, retrieve the ashes and get the hell out of here fast, so I could ring the Super and tell her what I’d seen.

We’d almost reached the drum when the door to the patio was thrown open and a drunken couple stumbled out. The Sarge and I hit the ground, our bodies slamming into the rain-drenched mud surrounding the cement slab.

“It’s too fucking cold out here,” grumbled a man’s voice.

“There’s no privacy in there,” complained a female voice in response. “I’m
not
sucking your dick in front of everyone. I have standards, you know.” I recognised the whining tones of her voice, as well as the distinctive pregnant silhouette of her body – it was Dorrie Lebutt. What the hell was
she
doing here?

“Babe,” he cajoled. “We do everything together in our gang.”

“No,” she insisted firmly. “It’s either out here or it’s extra if others are watching. Suit yourself.” She turned to go inside.

“Don’t be such a prick tease, babe. I can’t give you my best here. It’s too fucking cold. My cock shrinks in the cold. Every man’s does – it’s a well-known fact.”

“Where then, baby?” she coaxed, her hand in his jeans, rubbing. “Is this warming you up?”

“Oh God, oh. Um. Um. I know, come with me.” He grabbed her hand and led her inside, a dozen voices yelling at them to shut the door as they did. The door slammed behind them and the Sarge and I relaxed into the mud.

We scurried over to the drum and carefully and quietly tipped it onto its side, pulling out the garbage bags from our pockets. And in a manner that would make a forensics officer weep, we shovelled ash into the bags until we’d emptied the drum, trying not to let any rain into the bags. When we finished, we gently slapped hands in a sooty and muted high-five. I immediately hoped that we hadn’t been premature in congratulating ourselves.

We fastened the bags and prepared to head back, when the door to the patio flew violently open again. Someone was on the phone. Once more I recognised the voice – it was Rusty. And he was angry.

“What the fuck is
that
supposed to mean? Are you threatening me? Because I will come to your house and –”

Silence for a moment, but we could see a figure pacing up and down the patio. His shoes crunched on the broken glass from the fluorescent light that I’d shot out.

He stopped and looked down, moving his feet a few steps forward. More crunching glass. “What the fuck?” He hung up on whoever he was talking to and turned towards the house, bellowing, “Mickey, get your fat arse out here now!”

The Sarge and I froze again and pushed further into the far shadowy corner of the patio, dragging our haul with us. I was all in favour of changing plans and proceeding down the other side of the house, despite the security lights.

Inside the house we could hear the echo of Rusty’s call.

“Where’s Mickey?”

“Mickey, you’re needed by the boss outside.”

“Mickey, get your fat arse outside now. His highness is yelling for you.”

A few moments later, a tense, dark-haired chubby man with spectacles and sloppy, ill-shaped clothing, stepped out to the patio. “Y-y-yes, Rusty?”

“There’s a light out on this patio and there’s broken glass under my feet. What’s happening, Sherlock?”

“An intruder’s shot out the light,” he deduced instantly.

“Why?”

“Didn’t want to be seen approaching from this patio.” He turned to gesture backwards into the surrounding darkness. “They can see us, we can’t see them.”

“What the fuck do they want?”

“Let’s look around and check.”

The Sarge and I exchanged anxious glances. This could be it.

“Oil drum’s knocked over,” noticed Mickey.

“Fucking foxes again,” cursed Rusty, relaxing. “They’re in the bins all the time. What can we do to stop them? Google it for me Mickey, will you?”

“Foxes don’t shoot out lights, boss,” Mickey reminded him, earning his wage.

Rusty turned and regarded him carefully. “You’re right about that. But can fluoros explode? This one hasn’t been changed for a while.”

Mickey thought for a while. “Possible. Not probable, but possible. I’d favour someone shooting it out though.” My opinion of Mickey rose every second. He wasn’t a suck-up and he was smart.

They made another half-arsed search of the patio with no result – the Sarge and I were really good at holding our breath. Neither of them had their heart in it either, not thinking there could be any real bother for them in this small town. Rusty wanted to go back to his partying and Mickey probably wanted to go back to
Call of Duty
on his computer. And it was really cold and damp outside.

“I still reckon it’s the foxes,” insisted Rusty, and Mickey and I shared the same scorn at his stupidity. Foxes were scavenging for food, not old ashes.

“Yeah boss, it was probably the foxes. But let’s get that light fixed tomorrow though. No excuses,” Mickey unwillingly conceded. But geez, hadn’t we all had to do
that
to a thick boss once or twice in our lives?

“Good idea, Mickey. No point leaving us exposed. That bitch of a cop was asking too many questions about Kylie earlier, just like before with Lucy. Wouldn’t put it past a nosy bitch like her to be sneaking around trying to find out what we’re doing here.” He spat noisily on the ground. “Fucking feminists! She’s probably a pussy muncher with hairy armpits. But fuck, she’s a good-looking bitch though. I wouldn’t mind giving her a taste of my pork sword.” He laughed sharply. “Hey, that’s funny! A pork sword for a pig. Oink, oink, pretty police lady! Daddy’s got a present for you.”

Laughing loudly at his own joke, Rusty returned inside. Mickey followed him slowly, lingering and peering around in the darkness of the patio nervously when he was alone. When he spoke, his voice cracked with some kind of strongly suppressed emotion. “If it
is
you out there, Officer, I just want you know that I watched you both times when you came here. Like me, you’re smart but unlike me, you’re also brave, and I hope you succeed in whatever you’re doing here. I don’t like what goes on in this place. I just . . . I just want to play on my computer. I don’t want to be here anymore. Please help me.” He scurried inside and slammed the door behind him.

The Sarge tapped my arm twice and we took off, each carrying a bag over our shoulder. We moved stealthily across the edges of the patio, back down the side of the house. Well, he moved stealthily – I stupidly tripped over the same exposed root and jarred my arm again, losing my grip on my garbage bag. I laid there on the ground in exceptional pain, the rain pouring down on me, soaked to the skin, freezing, thinking that I should have become a teacher like Dad and Nana Fuller had wanted.

The Sarge had forged on ahead of me, not noticing his partner down until he suddenly stopped and turned around. His chest heaved in a sigh that I could almost hear from where I was, before returning to help me up to my feet.

He walked behind me after that, annoyingly poking me in the back at regular intervals. He virtually pushed me to the front and out of the gate until we were off the bikies’ land, both of us exhaling in relief about that. If we were discovered now, we weren’t breaking the law, even if we were acting suspiciously. We were just a couple of buddies out for a stroll on a balmy winter’s evening.

The Sarge maintained a fast clip as we trudged back to his car and I struggled to keep up with him. He popped the locks and snatched my garbage bag from me to toss it into the boot. As I did up my seatbelt, teeth chattering with cold, he threw himself into the driver’s seat. He started the little car and drove away so fast that he almost gave me whiplash. He sped all the way back to his house, where he screeched to a halt under his carport, turned off the car and collapsed against the steering wheel. I had the feeling he was saying a prayer of thanks.

I turned to him brightly. “That was fun, wasn’t it?”

He shot me a withering look in response.

“Did you see what was going on inside that room?” I asked.

“Tell me about it after we’ve had a shower and warmed up. I’m so cold that I can’t feel my fingers, toes or brain any more.”

He made me take the first shower and I was as quick as possible, even though the hot water was bliss, knowing that he was freezing while he waited for me. As he showered, I gratefully swallowed another painkiller and antibiotic and heated up some milk for us.

We sat at his kitchen table, sipping the warm milk, yawning. Adrenaline had kept me going, but now we were safe again, weariness was fast replacing every other emotion. Judging by the number of times he yawned as well, I was sure the Sarge was experiencing a similar let-down.

“What did you see, Tessie? I was too busy worrying about getting caught that I didn’t pay too much attention to the fun and games going on inside. All I saw was that it looked as though they were having some kind of orgy. And wasn’t that Dorrie Lebutt who was with that man on the patio.”