ThornyDevils (39 page)

Dave frowned. ‘Someone gave Stella and Peter some porno photographs, but ever since then we’ve been doing the heavy lifting.’

‘That wasn’t you,’ Sam interrupted, ‘who took those photos?’

‘This isn’t really the place or the time,’ Jenner replied. ‘I didn’t join the police force to be a crook. All I’m prepared to say is that I’m a keen amateur photographer. Birds mostly. You get a lot of leatherheads, tits and boobys around here. If you know where to look, that is.’

Sam smiled. ‘You’ll help us? You’ll help us find Peter?’

‘I will. Do you know where Peter went with Poppy?’

‘To a farm in the Yarra Valley. That’s all we know,’ Sam responded. ‘Will that be hard to find?’

‘The Yarra Valley is a pretty big area, but I think I know the place that she would go. Tony Donarto owns a weekender near Yarra Glen.’

‘Well, can’t you grab a few of your mates and head out there?’ Sam asked.

‘I’m a bit reluctant…We have to be careful.’

‘We’re going aren’t we?’ Dave enquired.

‘Just us three.’ Jenner turned on the ignition. She glanced at Sam’s frown. ‘Don’t worry, if danger comes to us I’ll call for reinforcements.’

‘That’s the plan?’ Sam raised his eyebrows. ‘I’ve been taken hostage and been shot at once already this month. Nothing against you, ma’am, but I’d prefer it didn’t happen again.’

‘We’re wasting time. Seatbelts,’ She slipped on her seat belt and reversed the car.

Dave put on his seatbelt. Sam was still fumbling to locate his. ‘Hold on, mate,’ said Dave. ‘We’ll find him, Sam.’

***

‘Let’s try something different.’ Poppy pushed Peter onto his back and straddled him.

‘Isn’t having sex in front of the fire enough?’

‘That was just the entree.’ She reached into her handbag.

‘Not handcuffs again,’ Peter pleaded, ‘my wrists are still sore.’

‘Not handcuffs.’ She retrieved a piece of black leather, too small to be a bag too large to be a pair of gloves. ‘Something better.’

He watched Poppy mould the leather with her hands to reveal its full shape. He remarked, ‘Very fashionable. I saw someone wearing a leather mask like that recently. I think it was at Concheetah’s party. Poor bastard could eat, no worries, but he couldn’t see.’

‘It’s called a passion mask. A bit gothic, isn’t it? It’s my favourite out of my collection.’

‘No doll collection for you then, hey?’ Peter laughed. ‘You going to put that thing on?’

‘No,’ Poppy replied as she stretched the mask out with her hands, ‘you are. Sit still.’

She pulled it over Peter’s head. It was then he noticed the lacing that ran behind the ear. Was it really at Concheetah’s party? ‘I don’t think so, Poppy,’ he said. ‘I won’t be able to see anything.’

‘All the better for you,’ Poppy teased as she continued to pull it over his head. ‘Try it, you’ll like it.’ She did up the lacing and pulled the mask tighter. ‘It heightens the other senses.’

‘Not so tight,’ he complained. ‘I’m starting to feel like the man in the iron mask.’

‘Hmm,’ replied Poppy.

The leather mask was taut against his skin, simultaneously sensuous and scary. He tried to ignore the knot in his stomach.
A novel way to overcome claustrophobia,
he thought as he lay back on the rug.
Like at the river when I was a kid.

Poppy lay on top on him kissing him on the mouth briefly before slithering slowly down his torso.

He started to breathe more heavily. ‘Are you going to…?’

‘Shush. You can never tell what I’m about to do next.’

Her fingers running gently over his penis aroused him. He tried to reach out for her as excruciating pleasure began to overwhelm him. She slapped his hands and pushed him down on his back again.

‘Control yourself,’ she commanded. ‘You have to be patient.’

‘I don’t know how much more I can take,’ Peter moaned. ‘I can’t see you. Shit, I can barely hear you. If you’re going to suck my cock, do it soon. I’ll explode all over the fucking lounge. It’s exquisite torture. That’s what it is.’

‘Quiet!’ she said, stroking his penis. ‘You have to trust me. Trust me.’

‘Oh God,’ Peter whispered. ‘You never stop talking do you?’ she said before running her tongue up and down his penis. ‘You need to be punished for talking too much. For knowing too much.’

‘Yes,’ Peter yelled, ‘all right. Whatever you say. Punish me.’ Suddenly, Poppy drew away from him. He reached for her. ‘Where are you going? Don’t stop. Keep going.’

‘Be quiet,’ she murmured. ‘Calm down. Slow down all your senses. You don’t want to orgasm too quickly, do you?’

‘What? Come on,’ he reached for her again and couldn’t feel her anywhere. ‘I am relaxed. I am…really.’ He tried thinking of something else. Tried to slow everything down.
Thinking
. The mask was familiar.
Thinking
. He’d seen it before.
Thinking
. He lost his erection.
Oh, shit!
It wasn’t at the party.
Not at Concheetah’s. Fuck! It can’t be! It can’t be!
He knew exactly where he’d seen the mask before. In McCracken’s photographs.
It must be! The girl in the photos. Poppy?

‘Poppy, don’t!’ Peter sat up and attempted to pull off the mask. ‘Don’t do this.’

No reply.

He tried to stand up, clawing at the mask. It was stuck hard on his face. He stumbled over the coffee table, shattering the wine glasses.
‘Get this off me, Poppy!’ He pulled himself up from the floor. ‘Let’s talk about this. Where are you?’

He was able to pull the mask up over his nose but it wouldn’t go any further. He felt like he was drowning. Like at the river. He was going down. His hands flayed around in an effort to find a wall or piece of furniture to hold onto. He hit his head on a cupboard. He kept feeling his way around the room. He felt the heat of the fire across his bare skin.
I don’t want to fall into the fucking fire. If I could get to the door. Escape. But how? Can’t get this mask off. No car.

‘Poppy! Get this fucking mask off me,’ Peter cried. ‘Come on!’ He propped himself against what felt like a post. He heard the front door opening. ‘Poppy?’ He held out his hands. ‘Come over here. Help me. This isn’t funny.’

‘Not Poppy, you arsehole.’ The voice was definitely not Poppy’s. If Peter had to guess, he’d have placed it somewhere closer to Siberia. ‘I am your nightmare.’ The man grabbed Peter by one arm and flung him across the room. He felt excruciating pain in his head as it smashed against the edge of the stone fireplace. Darkness.

Peter was woken by the sound of cattle mooing.
I must be dead
. He’d always imagined that the Clancys would go to a cattle station afterlife. Peter was there.
I want to see Dad. If I’m dead, then I want Dad
. The afterlife didn’t include that voice, did it? There it was again, growling in a language that he couldn’t understand. Along with other voices. In Russian? He had watched the odd subtitled Russian movie during his misspent adulthood.

He had the sense that he was lying naked on wet concrete, somewhere outside. He felt for the mask and was relieved to find it gone. He slowly opened his eyes as he raised himself up onto his hands. The cattle yard was bathed in a dim glow coming from an artificial light source. A fog was drifting in, making the light even duller. A shed attached to the yard was the source of the light. Looking down he could see that he was stretched out in sloppy cow manure.
Yes, I’m really in the shit this time. Literally.

Peter lifted himself up onto one knee, in an effort to stand. His head felt like it would explode with pain. He ran his hand over his head. He felt a large mat of dried blood congealed in his hair. He grabbed hold of the metal yard rails and pulled himself up. The metal was so cold that it stung his fingers. He surveyed the yard’s construction. The top
rail was at head height, which would make it difficult to climb over in a hurry. The gaps between the rails were a hand width apart. If he could summon all his strength, he might be able to climb the rails and piss off before anyone noticed.

He steadied himself enough to look around, his head still throbbing. He had to use all his willpower to stop himself from passing out from the pain shooting from temple to temple. He could hear faint noises, but the loudest sound he could hear was that of his teeth chattering. Apart from the pain in his head, he was starting to feel the bitter cold of the Yarra Valley.

Peter’s naked body began to grow numb from the chill. If he didn’t get something to cover himself with, he’d end up with hypothermia. The voices were coming from the shed in front of him. Now he could hear people speaking in English. Behind him were about twenty head of cattle of various ages, penned in a small yard, separated from the one he was in by a gate chained to a gnarled wooden post. He stumbled to the gate to see if he could loosen it. It was secured with a padlock. Trapped like a cow before slaughter, he thought. The cattle sniffed him with curiosity. He could smell their moist coats and feel their breath on his bare skin as he pulled at the chain. The cattle didn’t shy as he continued his desperate efforts.
I love cattle. They remind me of the station
.

The chain was attached to a bolt jutting from the wooden post. He kept tugging at it and thanked God when the wood started to fracture around the bolt. He pulled hard at the chain and was able to rattle it loose. He might be able to pull the bolt straight out of the wooden post. A few more attempts.
Shit!
Peter tensed and let the chain drop from his hand.
Those Russian voices are coming. They’re coming for me.

They emerged from the shed to the yard where Peter was held, like spectres coming out of the fog. Two torchlights swayed towards him. In the gloom, he counted five figures striding towards him.
Too late to escape
. He pressed his back against the gate.
Give way. Give way
. The only way they were going to get him out of there was through the gate at the other end. Or they could just shoot him through the rails. That would be easy.
I’ve seen cattle killed like this. Shit, I don’t want to die like a cow.

‘Peter Clancy,’ a Russian voice said out of the fog. ‘Welcome to my happy farm.’

The man now stood at the side of the rails and Peter was able to see him entirely. A short, squat, bald man with a face like a bulldog, he bore a slight resemblance to Khrushchev. Peter couldn’t help but be mesmerised by the man’s teeth. They were capped, the eye tooth in gold, and they seemed to shine through the fog. He was followed by a tall, lumbering man with features as ravaged as Keith Richards’s.
This must be the man who tried to sell Sam and Dave a stereo
. Behind him stood Donarto and McCracken. And Poppy.

‘You should be pleased, Peter Clancy,’ the squat man continued. ‘You are very popular man. All your friends are here, too. You know, if it wasn’t for Poppy, you’d already be dead. So sentimental.’

‘Not my fucking friends,’ Peter’s teeth chattered as he cupped both hands over his groin. ‘If we’re such good friends, how about letting me go?’

‘Yes, I’ve heard you have big sense of humour. Unfortunately for you, freedom is not possible.’ The squat man laughed. ‘You see,’ he continued, ‘They all come to say farewell.’

‘Well, then, I’d hate to disappoint them,’ quipped Peter. He had no idea where to go to from here. His mind was reeling.

‘Anticipation, I find, gives us the greatest pleasure in life. We are not in hurry. I will introduce myself—I’m Viktor Babikov. Russian businessman. How do you say it? Entrepreneur. And this is my associate Dimitry Zlobin. He was butcher before he became weight-lifter in Soviet Union.’ Babikov patted Zlobin on the shoulder, who reached inside his jacket and produced a large meat cleaver. ‘And of course, the others you know.’

‘So why am I here?’ Peter asked.

‘Still asking the questions. You are a big journalist, but this interview, you will never print. So sad for you. So all right, you ask me and I will answer,’ Babikov continued. ‘You see, Peter Clancy, we were very happy for you to assist us in destroying the O’Learys. You should have stopped there. When you start looking around our business, you make us very upset.’

‘You call killing people with drugs a business?’

‘No, no. You don’t understand,’ Babikov smirked. ‘We don’t kill anybody. We don’t put gun to head and say you must take these drugs. We only supply a market. These days, people want all sorts of drugs, not just heroin or cannabis. They want variety like alcohol, like food.
You want to go to restaurant and only see two meals on the menu? No. With your help, my business partners and I control all the Melbourne market. And soon we will own O’Leary’s wharf. Then slowly, slowly, we own all of Australia.’

‘Why bother telling me all this?’ interrupted Peter.

Babikov frowned. ‘You should know how pathetic and futile your life was before you die. You think you can make a difference to anything? You make big fuss and the O’Learys are out of business but not us, never us. Don’t you know, Peter Clancy, we are connected with, how you say it, the Russian mafia? Money is no object. What we cannot buy, we destroy. It is the winning formula, Peter Clancy. You we bought with your dick, with our little Poppy. In little while, we will control the wharves, the airports, the police, the law, the politicians. We are unstoppable.’

‘You’re a crazy fucking bastard, Babikov,’ Peter said.

‘Not crazy, Peter Clancy. Russian.’

‘And you’ve all done your deals with the devil, by the look of you,’ Peter glared at Donarto, McCracken and Poppy.

‘They had individual skills that could help our business. And in return, I have been very generous.’

‘I can understand McCracken being handy, but Donarto? Fat piece of shit.’

‘Let me kill him,’ Donarto raged as he pushed his hands through the rails in an attempt to grab Peter. ‘I’ll cut your fucking balls off.’

‘Let Dimitry do that. He will do a better job,’ McCracken sniggered as he took hold of Donarto.

‘What’s the use of Donarto?’ Peter asked.

Babikov sighed. ‘You are disappointment, Peter Clancy. All it will take is a generous donation to his party to make him mayor of Melbourne. A mayor is a good thing to have in your pocket, don’t you think? Your story about him with that girl—pfft—forgotten,’ Babikov concluded with a clap of his hands.