The Worm King (44 page)

‘Natasha?’

‘Yes Sir?’

Sir? She certainly had delightful manners. Now
he could make out the hole. On this side of the wall, a blotchy smudge directly
around the hole marked where someone might’ve pressed their face, or ear, and
two obvious hand-smudges slightly underneath on either side. They would’ve
stood on that bedside table, which had been pulled along the wall and was
directly below the hole.

‘Natasha, you don’t know a lady called Astrid
do you?’

‘Yes! We do! Is she in there too?’ She
sounded excited.

‘No,’ he replied sadly. ‘She’s not. I think
you might be seeing her tomorrow though, or sometime quite soon. Would that be
good?’

‘Oh yes!’ The girl went quiet for nearly a
minute, before tentatively asking, ‘So we’ll be leaving here?’

‘Definitely,’ he answered, fervently hoping it’d
be true.

Would it really be true? It saddened him to
think he could lie so easily, without a qualm, and to a wee girl of all people.
This may be one of the last chances he got to pass on something actually
useful. He wished Eloise were here. He would’ve liked to have spoken with her,
and said some of the things he’d never gotten around to saying. You always
think there’ll be another chance.

‘Listen, Natasha?’

‘Yes Sir?’

‘When you see Astrid, whatever you do, watch
out for a fellow named Forsyth. Make sure you stay
right
away from him. He’s
a jolly dangerous chap,’ the Brigadier said gravely.

Dick had a splitting headache.

Normally he took panadol but this time they plainly
weren’t up to the task. Barely five minutes ago, Bob had butchered Brigadier
Hensley. Dick still panted with the exertion of walking back so quickly from
the room to his office. The office certainly had a more tranquil ambience than
the abattoir Bob called a room. Bob had now gone outside to take care of the Brigadier’s
driver. This left him with another chore to attend to, along with his existing
mountain of jobs. At some point soon he had to go to Duntroon and explain why
the Brigadier wouldn’t be coming into work for a while.

He picked up the can opener, thinking a
small aperitif might help with the headache. Beetroot was his favorite snack. Baby
ones, straight from the can, using an English sterling silver hallmark stamped
fork and accompanied by Glenfiddich in a lead crystal tumbler. Each of the
’roots looked uncannily like Hensley’s face, a second or two before he’d
finally expired. The mellow flavor of the beetroot—in many ways not quite a
fully-fledged veggie yet so much more than a fruit—went extraordinarily well
with the peatyness of a superior whisky. A much underestimated combination,
Dick reckoned. And the color! A blush of scarlet that left your head spinning.

Bob the Beetroot. Or would you call yourself
Beetroot Bob? Beat your root with Bob. One day would he have to get rid of Bob
like that too? Dick stabbed his fork into another ’root, and thought dark
thoughts.

What would it take to placate Duntroon?

He realized with a warm feeling (which the
Glenfiddich may’ve had something to do with) that Duntroon will believe
anything he says. If the recently dearly departed commandant of the joint
accepted so easily that the Australian Prime Minister died of a car breakdown,
they’d swallow anything. Look at what these days had come to! Why it was so
ripe, for Dick. There for the plucking.

He could take the army. March right in, and just
take it.

Three sets of regulation police handcuffs lay
on his desk. Touching the heavy steel rings brought joy; stroking the
interlocking chains made his cock hard as a rock: they represented power and
the feeling of them rattling in his clutches was exquisite.

Dick also proudly owned eleven working,
drivable vehicles, parked at the rear of the hotel. But very little fuel. He
had a hundred and twenty fired-up, rather angry, unstable men at his disposal,
although less than half were armed. Duntroon had weapons aplenty, and he knew
where to obtain fuel. It all seemed a no-brainer.

He decided to test out his phone technique,
and have a practice, so picked up one of the handcuffs and held the ring against
his ear like an old-fashioned handpiece with the second ring dangling down as
its cord. ‘Hello, is that Duntroon?’ A pause, enjoying the deep, rich timbre of
his own voice. ‘Look, I’ve got Brigadier Hensley here and he chipped a tooth
and it went septic and his whole head just exploded. That’s right, all happened
in about ten minutes. Yes, damn bad show, what.’

Dick chuckled and lowered the handcuff-phone.
First, get that fuel. Getting it should merely be an exercise to hone his
skills, but more than that, it’d be a gift to himself, and to Bob.

If it unfolded as expected he’d reap the
trifecta then move on to Duntroon. The fuel, one of the twins and more than
likely the dwarf. A trifecta of blood-love. Coming away with
both
twins
and the fuel would be too ambitious, and too obvious, anyway he’d rather get
that mangy dwarf. Put him out of his misery. Bob hated the dwarf with a passion
and would give his good eye to lay hands on him for an hour. He’d been a
problem, right from first meeting him at Katoomba when he’d botched up that
live hook-up, just before the earthquake. Caused a hell of a ruckus, with that ugly
Māori Girl Guide, if Dick remembered rightly.

Chapter Forty-Six

Handrail

O
h, these unholy desperate measures we’ve arrived at, caught in a
land of night on night where the mad abound and fools run free.

So sayith the Lord.

‘Captain?’

‘Yes, Winston.’

‘How much longer should we wait?’

Forsyth checked his watch: quarter past
twelve. Snow was fifteen minutes late. You’d probably have to excuse anything
up to an hour late given current driving conditions, so they may still have
some standing around to do.

Waiting, waiting, waiting. The prospect he
might not show up at all hadn’t been considered a likely option, but here they
were, outside the “Big Yass” furniture shop on the main street of Yass and it
was fifteen past twelve and counting.

‘Longer,’ he growled. The grit in his throat
made speaking unpleasant although this didn’t seem to worry Winston or Lord
Brown. Winston only sounded more gravelly, and dwarfish, as though he’d just
crawled out of the ground. And Lord Brown probably sounded pretty much like
that from day one. Astrid began coughing, then the Hat. Francesco and Wiremu
stood silently either side of Astrid, at the head of the group. Two hurricane lanterns
were placed out on the road in front of the showroom and should’ve been visible
for nearly a hundred meters in either direction. They were open for business.

No wind blew and the air felt thick, almost murky,
but perhaps less so than two or three days ago. Still, you’d struggle to get
wildly excited: 4 degrees above zero and pitch dark in the middle of a summers
day. Not exactly picnic weather.

Forsyth’s role was purely as observer so he waited
at the rear with Winston, the Hat and Brownie. When the Hat had stopped
coughing he said, ‘This feels like a scene from one of those old westerns with
John Wayne, where he’s waiting for the baddie . . . whatever
he’s called, the evil cowpoke or whoever, to ride into town.’

‘Did the Duke do one like that?’ asked
Winston. ‘Set in Aussie, and all at night? I can’t recall if he did.’

‘And in the winter,’ Forsyth added, rubbing his
bare hands together before jamming them back into his pockets. Thick gloves
made reaching for one’s pistol slower unless you’re outside for a lengthy
period, in which case you’ll need the gloves to stop movement seizing up.

‘And with cannibals?’ continued Winston
sceptically.

‘Yes,’ replied the Hat. ‘I believe he did. John
Wayne and this sheila—can’t remember her name but she had jai-
normous
norks—anyway,
it’s called “Cannibals at Kangaroo Junction”. Saw it at least . . . well,
once, I think.’

‘What was that?’ said Astrid. ‘What did you
say?’

‘Canapés,’ fibbed Winston. ‘Hatsy just said
he’s at a junction in life where he’d fancy some canapés. How ’bout you?’ Forsyth
couldn’t help smiling despite the tense wait. Astrid wasn’t happy with Winston
& Co and had already asked Lord Brown to leave—which he’d refused to do—because
he was intoxicated.

‘This is extremely serious.’ She faced them
again, hands on hips. ‘And I think we’ve had enough of those little prayers too,
thank you very much.’

‘Verily,’ promised Lord Brown, which made
Astrid frown even more.

‘Headlights,’ called Wiremu.

Exactly twelve thirty-two in the afternoon. The
light clarified into two sets, so more than one car.

‘Now? Wiremu asked.

‘No, wait,’ said Francesco.

The first car, a beat-up old Hillman with
Henry at the wheel, stopped directly in front alongside one of the lanterns. The
second pulled up a good seventy meters short. Strange, because there was no
shortage of parking space. The dazzling headlights made the model hard to tell
but Forsyth thought it was the same lime-green Falcon that Dick and Bob had at
the truck depot.

‘Now?’ repeated Wiremu, more urgency.

‘Yes,’ confirmed Francesco. ‘Go!’ And it was
done. Wiremu disappeared and a moment later they heard the furniture shop front
door slide open. The Māori was unquestionably the best Forsyth had ever seen
at navigating his way around in the dark without a torch.

Henry stepped from the Hillman and waved to everybody
(Astrid in particular) then looked up the road, surprised the second vehicle
had stopped so far back. Henry’s companion emerged from the passenger side, also
called a friendly hello and waved, then both men leant on the roof of their car,
staring back at the Falcon. They exchanged quiet words, not threatening or
dangerous, more apprehensive.

It was Snow alright. He’d left the engine
running and climbed out, his profile obvious even at this distance. He walked
around the front to the passenger’s rear door. If he’d wanted to remain unseen he
could’ve easily gone around the back of the car out of the headlights. He wore
a greatcoat with suit trouser bottoms tucked into boots, just as he had done at
the rat-burning episode behind the Hyatt. Apart from Winston, Snow was the
first person he’d seen in ages not wearing head covering of any type.

Snow bent and looked in the Falcons back
seat, leaning against the window frame, but whether talking or not they
couldn’t tell. He straightened. It crossed Forsyth’s mind he might not have brought
the twins this time either—there could be four armed men crammed in the rear,
ready to jump out and spray the whole scene. Lo and behold, Snow opened the
door and out climbed one small figure, then another. No mannequins this time,
thank goodness.

Wait on? What was that . . . a
rope?

‘Mother of god,’ murmured Francesco. He’d
seen it too: the girls’ hands were bound in front, and each also had a rope
tied to their necks. A fourth individual stepped out behind the girls, holding
the ropes, dragging them back. Bob of the Bonfire. Dick walked around to the
driver’s side and reached in, switched the engine off, then the headlights. The
four figures disappeared.

A sharp, high-pitched scream came from one
of the twins. ‘Quick,’ cried Astrid, ‘We—’

‘No!’ ordered Francesco, grabbing her
shoulder. ‘Wait.’ He was right, they wouldn’t get there in time to do anything
and this had trap written all over it.

A full minute passed before a light finally reappeared
beside Snow’s car. The four figures were upright, and obviously still moving,
which eased Forsyth’s pulse somewhat. They began shambling forwards.

The girls’ profiles looked odd: humpbacked
in some way. No one had mentioned they were severely deformed and he was sure
it would’ve cropped up if they were.

Astrid gasped and Francesco tightened his
grip on her shoulder.

‘What the hell . . . ’ muttered
Winston.

Snow was in the lead holding a torch,
followed by Bob, then the twins. ‘Francesco! Astrid!’ one of the girls shouted.

Snow turned on her. ‘Quiet!’ he snarled.

As they approached, Henry called out: ‘Hey
there, Mr Snow. You didn’t say anything about
that.’
Snow pointed a
finger at him, clenching his teeth. Henry got back in the car without another
word, closed the door, and his companion did likewise.

When the entourage was ten meters distant
Astrid broke free, and ran forward, but Dick immediately held up his hand shouting,
‘Stop!’

She stopped.

Dick turned to the girls and with his index
finger pointed at the ground whilst twirling it around, indicated they do a little
pirouette, so everyone could see their backs.

Their hands were handcuffed at the front. Bob
led them by a pair of ropes, approximately two meters in length. Each rope was fastened
to the butt of a machete tied to their backs, blades hanging loosely down. Their
profiles had looked unusual because the handles protruded up past their
shoulders, which kept their heads pushed forward. This strap-and-brace arrangement,
made with what looked like two over-sized leather belts, held the shaft of the machete,
where blade joined handle, tightly against the back of each girl’s neck. A strip
of material had been wrapped around the base of the blades as skimpy protection
where they came in contact with skin.

It was patently obvious if any pressure was
applied to the machete handles, the widening blades would slide up and immediately
begin sawing into neck as they were pulled free. The curved edge of the metal
glistened wickedly.

Worst case scenario, both girls panicked and
ran from Bob in different directions. He’d looped the ropes around his wrist so
would just have to stand there and hang on. Even if Forsyth shot him, he’d only
have to thrash on the ground a few times waving that arm and it would do terrible
damage to the girls. And with no medical help nearby . . . 

‘Are you alright?’ Astrid called desperately.

‘No!’ the pair replied at virtually the same
time. Both looked frightened yet strangely classy, even elegant, which might’ve
had something to do with the designer matching coats and hats they wore under the
harnesses.

Snow held up his hand, grinning, as though
the whole machete setup were merely a boyish prank. ‘Get back!’ He nodded at
Astrid, then pointed at the twins. ‘Don’t get too close to Bob there. He might start
hauling those lines in.’ Forsyth began edging away, moving out of the light.

‘You agreed we’d all come unarmed!’ cried
Astrid. ‘We have!’

‘What about him?’ said Snow, pointing his
torch directly at the Captain.

‘He’s an observer! To make sure it’s all
above board,’ she answered lamely. Everyone stared at the handles poking up
behind the girl’s shoulders, jiggling like mini-portable guillotines. It had
been Astrid’s suggestion to title him as observer with the idea the semantics
would trick Dick into letting them have a weapon, when Dick wasn’t supposed to
be allowed one himself. Forsyth had expressed some
scepticism
with this angle but went along with it nonetheless
on the basis he’d no intention of giving up his weapons anyway.

Snow shook his head, perplexed. ‘They aren’t
weapons, they’re . . . garden tools, if anything. And it’s
to make sure you don’t take the girls away without authorization, as you
attempted last time. It’s merely a safety harness my assistant Bob strung
together.’

Snow wasn’t bad with semantics either.

‘Captain?’ he said pleasantly, ‘it’s good to
see you again.’ He paused, touching a finger to his lips as though remembering
something important, then walked around Francesco and in a flash was right there,
inside Forsyth’s personal space. He spoke quietly, so Winston and perhaps Lord
Brown would’ve been the only other people near enough to hear:

‘Hey, I’ll get ’im to yank one of those ropes
as hard as he possibly can. Really rip into it. I reckon it’ll whip her fuckin
head right off. What do you think?’

Snow’s breath carried an unpleasant, pepperminty
aroma and his eyes had that intense, wide-eyed stare usually reserved for
photos of serial killers, pyromaniacs and school teachers. His teeth were marked
with intense red stains at the gum edges and Forsyth wondered, without truly
wanting to know, what the monster had been eating.

Dick stepped back several paces, continuing
in a substantially louder tone. ‘So what do you reckon, how about putting that
gun down then, Captain?’ When he smiled the red stains became far more visible
so you wouldn’t call it a nice smile, by any stretch of the imagination. ‘There’s
no need for all that carryon. And the knife please. Yes, that’s right, the
knife too. Put them both down on the ground. And your other gun, and
ammunition, or do I have to search you?’

Forsyth shrugged and reached into his tunic to
remove the spare glock from its shoulder holster and place it on the ground
along with his primary sidearm, extra clips and knife. There were flecks of foam
at the corner of Snow’s mouth; he was excited, and overly confident. He didn’t conduct
a full body search so completely missed the 4-inch auxiliary blade strapped to the
inside left leg.

Snow picked up the pistols, clips and knife
and sauntered back to stand beside Bob, giving him the knife. The mongrel probably
had the audacity to come unarmed: he knew two machetes would be quite enough. With
just a couple of garden tools he’d traded his way up to now having a gun in
each slimy hand. He would’ve stepped out of that Falcon immediately knowing he
had the edge. Forsyth couldn’t help conceding a degree of brilliance, and had
to admit Snow was a magnificent tactician. The savagery of it flew past
anything they’d expected and caught them completely unawares, possibly even leap-frogging
a Ruarangi Special in terms of sheer brutality. In the same way they’d armed
the fuel truck, Snow had armed the twins. He’d set them to self-destruct as
soon as those ropes were pulled then tied the trigger to that crazy bastard Bob.

Bob, who drooled with delight: ropes in one
hand, knife in the other. A 5cm trail of mucusy dribble dangled, swaying from
his chin. He shouted some unintelligible sentence at Winston and jabbed the
knife in his direction. Forsyth winced, remembering the graphic description
Winston gave of stabbing Bob in the face with a wine bottle.

‘Friend of yours?’ drawled the Hat.