Game Theory (23 page)

‘You might want to slow down, Spider,' I suggested.

‘This car doesn't do slow, man,' he yelled against the wind. He was probably right. It didn't matter, anyway. We couldn't hear each other even when we shouted. I didn't relax until we left the city, which took about half an hour. Under other circumstances, I might have appreciated the looks of admiration we received driving along the highway, but I had too much on my mind. Particularly since I was concentrating on keeping the car away from any crash barriers by sheer force of will. Only when the traffic eased slightly did I force my fingers to relax and stop digging gouges into my palms. I took the opportunity to breathe as well.

Spider reached down into the glove compartment, pulled out a joint and lit it. Even with the wind rushing around our ears, the smell was pervasive, cloying and instantly recognisable.

‘Spider,' I said. ‘You think it's a good idea to be smoking pot while driving a car like this well above the speed limit?' I might have gone on to mention that he was a barely post-adolescent bogan and, therefore, a prime target for the police even if he was driving a Corolla, but I'm not sure he would have taken the point.

‘WHAT?' he yelled.

I repeated the question with a higher decibel count.

‘No worries, man,' he replied. ‘I don't have a baggie in the car, just some pre-rolled joints. The cops pull me over, I ditch the smokes into the slipstream.'

I shook my head. It wasn't the police I was worried about, really. In fact, I probably would have welcomed the sound of pursuing sirens, if only to minimise the chances of some stoned dickhead driving me into a wall at one hundred and fifty kilometres an hour. I reminded myself why I was here in the first place.

‘You're sure this guy can get me a gun?' I screamed, then regretted it. It wasn't a question that should be yelled.

Spider inhaled deeply. He even did the pinched cheeks bit and held the roach between the middle finger and the thumb, glowing end against his palm. I couldn't bear to watch.

‘No problem, man,' he replied. ‘There is nothing this guy cannot get. But it'll cost.'

‘I know that, Spider. I'm taking it you brought along enough cash.'

‘Well, yeah, but you need to pay me back, man.'

I pinched the bridge of my nose with a couple of fingers. Summer was worth an obscene amount of money. Spider, by association, was scarcely hard up. The car was a subtle clue.

‘Are you serious, Spider?' I asked. ‘You've got seven million big ones in the bank.'

‘Down to four and a half now, what with the house and the car.'

‘Still sounds more than enough to me.'

‘Yeah, but it's the principle, man.' He glanced over at me, tossed the roach out of the car. ‘Everyone should pay their debts.'

‘Summer won that money,' I said. ‘Have you paid her back for the car yet? And half the house?'

‘Hey,' he said. ‘We do things together, me and Summer. She bought the tickets but I paid half. So half the winnings are mine. That's the law, dude.'

‘You paid her . . . what, six bucks? When?'

‘Soon as I heard we'd won.'

‘Okay,' I said. There seemed little point in pursuing this. ‘I'll pay you back out of my pocket money. How does two dollars a week sound?'

He shrugged and reached down for another spliff.

‘Look. When we get there, let me do the talking, man. This dude . . . he's kinda . . . well, unpredictable, if you catch my drift.'

‘How unpredictable?'

‘Like, may gut you with a boning knife if you look at him the wrong way kind of unpredictable.'

‘Jesus, Spider,' I said. ‘Who is this guy?'

Spider took both hands off the wheel to light his joint. We were only doing a hundred and forty now. Maybe I wouldn't have to worry about a maniac gutting me with a boning knife.

‘You're buying an illegal gun,' Spider pointed out. ‘What were you expectin', Jamie, a freakin' nun? Nah, man. He's a big cheese in a local bikie gang. But he's all right. Generally.'

‘Oh, fuck, Spider,' I said. I didn't feel like talking anymore.

I spent most of the journey going through my plans, such as they were.
Did it really make sense to buy a gun? There were so many things that could go wrong. I could blow my own head off for one thing. Or I could hurt Phoebe, which didn't bear thinking about. Summer had made this point; it had shaken me then and it shook me now. And there was no sense in buying a gun if I wasn't prepared to use it, which presented further problems. I had never fired anything in my life and I probably couldn't hit a barn door at five paces. Was it physically possible for me to level a firearm at another person and then pull the trigger? Even if it was, if I could stop shaking long enough, was it psychologically possible? I wasn't sure. I didn't want to find out.

Ultimately I had to face the real reason I was on this journey with Spider. Oh, I could fool myself by saying it was a move
consistent with game theory, the argument I'd used with Summer. The kidnapper had researched me, he appeared to know my physical movements and my personality. If that was true, then he would also know that it was exceptionally unlikely I would come armed to any meeting. I was middle-class, I was a mathematician. People like me did not carry guns. People like me wouldn't have a clue how to get a gun in the first place. So I needed an advantage, an edge in this game. That was the theory and it sounded fine. It was logical.

But, fundamentally, there was another, much darker, reason.

Phoebe had seen this man's face. She would be able to identify him. Maybe if she'd been snatched on the street, bundled into a car and whisked away before anyone could witness anything, it might be different. He could have hidden his face, or put something over her head. But she knew who he was. You can't walk up to someone in a supermarket wearing a stocking or a latex mask. So was it reasonable to expect him to let her go when he'd got the money? Wouldn't it be more logical, safer for him, to kill her so she could never testify? It was this underlying suspicion that gnawed at me. I couldn't afford to adopt a position based on wishful thinking. I had to look at it from his viewpoint. And his viewpoint led to only one conclusion.

I knew the odds were against Phoebe coming out of this alive. And
that
was the reason I wanted the gun, because if she died, then he would too. Under those circumstances, there would be no psychological problems about pointing a gun at another human
being. I would level a gun at this man's face, look him in the eyes and pull the trigger. I wouldn't hesitate and I wouldn't care. I'd even reload and do it all again.

Maybe keep one bullet for myself.

The countryside became drab and featureless.
We had left the main road many kilometres behind. Farmers' fields flanked us, but if they were growing anything it was difficult to tell. Most seemed given over to grass and they didn't even house any livestock. An occasional barn appeared on the horizon and once or twice I caught sight of distant farm buildings, but other than that, we were far removed from civilisation. Spider appeared to know where he was going, however, which raised another question. Why would Spider be in contact with a bikie gang? The guy was a hopeless stoner and an even more hopeless bass player. I thought I knew the answer. What does a hopeless stoner do when he comes into money? He imagines himself a businessman with an empire to build. And his specialist commodity, his area of expertise? Drugs. Who runs drugs? Bikie gangs.

The way I figured it, Spider would be dead within a year. He'd either choke on his own vomit, have one too many brushes with crash barriers or find himself on the wrong side of a boning knife. I wasn't convinced the world would be a poorer place.

Spider turned off the road onto a dirt track. There were no signs that I could see. At least he was forced to slow down to about sixty. Even then, I could hear the car's undercarriage scraping the
ground when we went over ruts, which was nearly all the time. A Ferrari Testarossa Spider with a resale value plummeting by the second. I checked out the countryside, but only because there was nothing else to do. The land was still dry and featureless, the odd scrawny gumtree providing the only relief from terminal monotony. It was difficult to believe anyone would want to live out here. Apart from a member of a bikie gang, I guessed, who was not necessarily keen on being close to good restaurants and nationally recognised operatic performance centres.

Ten minutes later, we passed through a ramshackle gate that clearly marked the entrance to a property. There was a sign next to it, but it was impossible to read because it was completely pockmarked with dents. Someone had been discharging a shotgun, repeatedly. Despite the purpose of my mission, I did not find this encouraging. Nonetheless, we drove on for another two minutes, before rounding a bend and stopping. We stopped because we couldn't go any further. A small, low-set shack sat in our way. Its roof was completely oxidised, window frames rotted. Two things adorned the small, weed-riddled yard fronting the property. One was a large motorcycle. The other was a large dog.

I didn't like the look of either.

At least the motorcycle wasn't snarling.

The dog was something like a German Shepherd or a Rottweiler. I'm not great at recognising breeds. But I knew enough to realise this wasn't a canine bred to curl up at your feet, fetch
tennis balls or beg to have its belly rubbed. This dog had only one thing on its mind: death. As I got out of Spider's car, it eyed me with interest, as if I had suddenly been promoted to number one on its desirability list. Black lips curled, revealing large yellow incisors. A froth of drool gathered at one side of its mouth. A low growl built and then erupted into a frenzy of barking. It lunged towards me and came up short, only because of the chain that kept it tethered to a post. The chain snapped violently, but held. I eyed the post. It seemed secure enough, but this beast was all muscle, and it appeared . . . motivated. I backed against the car. Pity it was a convertible.

‘It's all right, man,' said Spider. ‘He won't bother you.'

‘He
is
bothering me, Spider,' I muttered.

The door to the shack opened and a man appeared on the verandah. He growled at the dog, which instantly dropped to its belly and rolled over. I felt like doing the same. This guy was every bit the bikie gang leader stereotype. A massive belly swelled against an inadequate singlet. And it wasn't a belly that spoke of too many fast food meals and an overindulgence in full strength beer. It was all muscle. He had a lot in common with his dog, including large yellow incisors. Where he differed was in the ink that covered every centimetre of exposed flesh. Most of the tattoos appeared to be of women in various stages of undress, though a few featured snarling jaws and dripping blood, or racist insignias. His head was shaved but, to compensate, his beard was luxuriant enough to curtain his chest. One long and vivid scar
ran from his left ear towards his mouth. My mouth felt dry and I swallowed.

‘Spider,' he said, and nodded towards my driver. Spider nodded back.

‘Hello,' I said. I took a couple of paces forward and extended my hand. The dog growled, but subsided at one glance from its owner. The man looked at my hand and ignored it. ‘This the guy?' he asked Spider.

‘Yeah,' said Spider. ‘The brother of my chick, man.'

My chick
? Had I gone back in time a few decades? I let my hand hang for a few moments, then dropped it.

‘You'd better come in,' said the guy. He turned and went back up the front steps. I could hear the floorboards of the verandah complaining. He disappeared through the front door and Spider followed. I followed Spider. I didn't really have much choice, and anyway, I had come this far. I was determined to see this through, even if I died in the attempt. The odds appeared pretty good in that respect.

The inside of the shack was consistent with its exterior. It spoke of neglect. A plain wooden table sat in the centre of what passed for the kitchen. The sink was full of dirty dishes and there was a vague smell of decomposition in the air. This might have been the result of an old woman who sat at the far end of the table. She had an excessively wrinkled face and her skin had that sheen you associate with leather left in the sun for too long. When we came into the room she got to her feet, displaying
a surprising sprightliness. Liquid brown eyes glittered.

‘We have guests, Darcy,' she said. ‘How lovely.'

Darcy
?

‘Yeah, Ma,' said the man. ‘Just a couple of business associates.'

I extended my hand a second time. The old woman took it and her grip was surprisingly strong.

‘My name's Jamie,' I said. ‘It's delightful to meet you.'

‘Jamie,' she said. She cocked her head to one side and regarded me as if I was a long-lost, favourite grandchild. ‘Charmed. Please sit. Would you like a cup of tea?'

‘That would be lovely,' I said. I didn't drink tea. I never drank tea, but I guessed it wouldn't be a great idea to spurn hospitality. Darcy didn't give the impression he would take rejection well. I sat at the table and the old woman started to struggle towards the bench.

‘Take a load off, Ma,' said the biker. ‘I'll put the kettle on.'

‘You're a good boy, Darcy,' said Ma, settling back down. As he passed she reached up and pinched his cheek. ‘Remember to warm the pot.' She smiled at me. ‘Sometimes he forgets to warm the pot and that doesn't make for a good cuppa, does it?'

‘Certainly not,' I said. Darcy shot me a glance as if suspecting I had been dissing his tea-making prowess. I wanted to point out that contradicting his mother might not have been wise under the circumstances. Basically I was screwed whatever I said.

While Darcy busied himself with tea-making, his mother tilted her head to one side and regarded me benignly.