Wasted Lives, a Detective Mike Bridger novel (22 page)

Cars passed by
intermittently blowing exhaust fumes. Passengers were alighting a
bus that had arrived a short distance down the road, a couple of
younger passengers were shoving each other good naturedly and
laughing as they neared the door. The sign on the bus read
'University-Octagon'. Life went on regardless.

He looked back
and he saw an image of Tama standing inside the darkened shop
window, shotgun in his hands, he was smiling. He looked content, as
if he had finally found his calling. It was almost as if he had
discovered an outlet for whatever was inside him eating away at his
soul, he looked at peace.

In a perverse
way, by killing the shopkeeper, Tama had achieved the recognition
he had been craving all his life. A life wasted, so that his own
life could achieve its potential, he had actually made something
out of the life which trapped him.

Dog eat dog,
only the strong survive and all that shit, he thought.

Martin’s
emotions were slightly conflicting, he felt badly for the
shopkeeper but at least Tama had died happy in the end.

The bus drove by him, slowly picking up speed, the growl of
its diesel engine vibrating against the glass of the shop window.
The passengers on board paid no attention to him, staring straight
ahead or sharing a joke with the person next to them. He stared at
the advertising on the rear of the bus as it continued, not really
seeing, the fumes of the making him cough.
‘Do you need a break? Try a break at the lake’

He did
not really know what he wanted to achieve by coming here, the need
to move on had drawn him this way. He took the crumpled piece of
paper from his pocket and smoothed it with his palm. Looking at his
messy handwriting he suddenly felt inferior, he had had trouble
finding the words and it was all he could offer. The simple word
'Sorry' would have to say everything that he had swirling around
inside his head, stuff that he had been unable to make sense of at
all.

He
slipped the paper under the locked door of the shop-front and stood
up. He saw dark spots staining the pavement around his feet,
reminding him of bloodstains. His stomach turned a little and he
moved slightly backwards to avoid stepping on anything. Something
moved in his peripheral vision and he flinched, looking to his left
he saw that he had come in line with a view of the attached
house.

The windows
were open and the lace curtains inside were moving in the slight
breeze. Then a stronger gust of wind blew them wide, revealing the
interior, it was for only a few seconds but it seemed to Martin
that time had slowed. He looked into the interior, a slightly
voyeuristic feeling, as if he was intruding on someone else’s life
without their permission.

A young girl
was sitting at a table inside; her head was in her hands. She
looked up and their eyes locked. He could see she had been crying,
she was looking directly at him but not really seeing, the same
look he had seen in those same eyes two nights ago. He panicked
slightly but could not bring himself to break eye contact with
her.

Martin could
see there was no recognition in her eyes though, only pain and
hurt. Still he could not bring himself to look away; her innocence
and sorrow transfixed him.

The girl
looked down again, breaking the moment. The lace curtains settled
back into place and took her away from sight, leaving a ghostly
image floating with the curtains in the breeze.

Martin
stood there, paralysed with a deep sorrow. He was once a little boy
filled with little boy dreams. Those dreams had died at the hands
of one man; he could not change that now. The dreams of that young
girl in the house a few feet away died at the hands of one man as
well, but for different reasons. He could have changed that but he
did not and that made him sick. This man’s death was a joint effort
in which he was involved; he was as guilty as if he had pulled the
trigger himself he knew that. His had a messed up life, and his
sickness had now infected others. He did not deserve this, she did
not either, and their lives owed them something better than what
they had.

He knew now
that he had to make amends before he could move on; he had to try
to fix things. He really did not have a clue where to start.

The
image of the girls lost face ran through his mind and then he
thought of two people who could use some help now, something that
he could do before it got worse. They were still pigs though and
they had a hand in this mess as well, stirring the pot, causing
reactions with their nosiness, but he knew that they did not
deserve whatever Joseph had in store for them. He had to go
back.

Looking at the
window once more, he mouthed the word ‘Sorry’ and then started
walking.

The fence line
was unnaturally quiet; they could not see any of the usual
bloodshot eyes peering over the ramparts. Something was slightly
amiss but no one was saying anything, frightened that they had it
wrong but not wanting to be the first to voice their opinion. The
only outcome that anyone who was present wanted was to have their
colleagues back unscathed.

Brian Johnson
and Grant Wylie had approached from the golf club car park, Becky
Wright and Ken Moore had parked further along Hillhead Road and had
backtracked until they had reached the row of Pine trees on the
edge of the golf course. The group were now standing in the shadows
of the trees, invisible to the pad situated across the sports field
in front of them.

“
Tama
Wilson was shot a few feet over there wasn’t he?” Becky said
looking at Grant.

Grant just
nodded his reply, eyes focused on the pad.

“
Bloody
good riddance to bad rubbish if you ask me” Ken Moore spat out. “He
got what he deserved”.

“
Lay off
it Ken, no one deserves to die, no matter what they have done.”
Becky’s tone was slightly matronly.

“
It’s
his lot that have John and Jo, Becky, so don’t tell me to lay off
it.”

“
I don’t
need the team arguing the toss right now,” Brian said angrily. “We
have a job on in case you haven’t noticed.”

The team fell
silent again.

Brian looked
at his watch, and then out over the field. The sun was shining;
there was a slight breeze but not enough to lower the temperature.
A smell of freshly cut grass invaded his nostrils. It was a typical
spring day in a typical neighbourhood in Dunedin. The only
difference was, behind the tall wood and tin fence hiding its
ugliness inside and situated between two tidy houses, was a police
target, and things were about to get noisy.

He counted
down silently from five, using his fingers, until he reached zero,
then watched with a satisfied smile as the large tractor with a
front end loader bucket attached and held out in front rounded the
corner and then came rumbling along the street, it was followed by
a procession of police vehicles. Thirty seconds later it made a
sharp turn and accelerated quickly towards the gate of the pad, the
noise of the engine sharp but then muffled by the sound of the
destruction it brought. The gate gave way as if it was made of
matchsticks.

Men dressed in
black, faces covered under their Kevlar helmets and bristling with
weapons disgorged from the patrol cars following the tractor. They
moved with precision, the sound of flash bangs reverberating across
the field as they filed in through the destroyed gates, rifles
raised and pointing forwards, all with a single purpose, find their
colleagues.

Brian listened
but hoped he wouldn’t hear any shots fired, although he desperately
wanted to get John and Jo out safely, the fallout from any police
shooting had far reaching effects, whatever the justification was.
It was his decision to do things this way; they had only had time
to come up with a loose plan of action based on best practice.
Although he would not be the one pulling the trigger, the
authorities would test his actions repeatedly in any subsequent
enquiry to see if there was any weakness. All to make sure that
some fine line had not been crossed, that it was a last resort and
that there was no one else to blame but the person who presented
the danger in the first place.

He was
comfortable with his decisions whatever the outcome; John and Jo
were his first and only priority.

Looking at his
cell phone, he could see no missed calls or messages. Still no sign
of Bridger then, he thought, hoping that his instincts had been
right and he had not just wasted the last half an hour on a wild
goose chase.

“
It’s
time to move over and see what we have got” Ken said, who appeared
to be listening to his radio earpiece. “The lads have got the
building secure.”

There was no
discussion as the group moved out of the trees and started jogging
across the sports field in the direction of the pad. They did not
look back; they did not see the person standing a bit further back
from them, hidden in the shadows and trees.

Martin
stepped out of his camouflage and watched them crossing the field;
he had heard everything they had said about Tama. It only served to
increase his confusion, he wanted to do the right thing, he needed
to do it to be able to move on, but what he had just heard showed
the futility of it all. It will always be them and us, he thought,
the underclass and the rest. “Open your fucking eyes and see,” he
yelled after them, not caring if they heard or not “I’m right
fucking here… This is my world, I fucking matter to you know.” He
crouched down in the long grass and began to cry, tears of anger
and frustration at his inability to find the right coping
mechanisms.

The closer
they got to the pad the more it looked like the place was empty.
Brian had a sinking feeling in his stomach as he saw a few of the
Armed Offender Squad officers were gathered just inside the broken
gate, milling around, wondering what to do next. Ken Moore asked
the nearest officer what the state of play was.

“
The
place is empty boss, there’s only one guy left as a caretaker and
he’s not saying anything… there’s no sign of Mouller or
Williamson”

“
Shit,
that’s not what I wanted to hear” Brian butted in on hearing what
was said. “Where is this caretaker person? I will have a word with
him. He must know something”

“
He’s in
the back room,” The officer said, pointing at the main building.
“The boys have him covered. Good luck getting anything out of him
though, it’s Baz Ropata and as you know he’s no friend of
ours”

Brain
was about to say something when a loud commotion erupted from
inside the house. First one black clad member, then another, came
stumbling out the door backwards. Both were off balance. The first
one missed the steps and tumbled onto the ground below the porch,
his rifle hanging in a sling over his shoulder over digging into
his back as he landed heavily. The second officer had regained his
footing only to be knocked backwards again by an unstoppable force
that materialized out of the darkened hallway and morphed into a
very angry Baz Ropata. He stood there on the porch just outside the
doorway, breathing heavily and looking around. He had the look of a
caged animal looking for his next victim. He looked like he was in
no mood to be answering questions and he was not going to just sit
down and take the police infringing on his personal
space.

“
Come on
you fucking piggies, come and get some slop… its dinner time and
I’m dishing it out”. He locked eyes with Becky Wright standing in
the group by the gate and smiled salaciously. “You first little
Miss Piggy, I’ve got something right here for you” Baz grabbed at
his crotch and sneered.

The
officer he had knocked over stood up and made to grab at Baz’s arm.
Baz kicked him in the stomach then expertly brought his knee up
into his face as he doubled over, blood and mucus spilled from his
mouth and nose as he deflated to the floor. “Come on, I’ll take any
of you’s bastard’s” he yelled, making ‘come here’ gestures with his
meaty hands.

The rest of
the squad had regained their composure after the surprise of Baz’s
advance; they had all brought their weapons up and were pointing
them directly at him. That did not seem to faze him one bit.

“
Get
down on the ground; get down on the ground now” The commands were
being yelled.

Baz did not
move an inch

“
Get
down…, do it now”

He just
stood there smiling as the officers inched closer and closer,
weapons raised, eyes locked on their target.

“
You’re
gonna have to kill me” he said quietly, holding his arms wide like
a cross and looking at the sky. “Just fucking kill me.”

“
Not
likely dickhead” the officer to his left said as he swung the butt
of his rifle into the bony part of Baz’s face, knocking his head
sideways. “I wouldn’t want to waste a bullet on you”

The officer to
his right returned service and swung the butt of his rifle into the
other side of Baz’s face in what looked like a practiced move. Baz
dropped to his knees, a stunned look on his face replacing the
angry sneer. Another officer used his boot to kick him face first
into the dirt before putting a knee in his back and reaching for
his handcuffs.

Grant had
moved over to the mêlée and leaned down. “Where are they?” he said,
barely containing the anger he felt towards him.

“
Don’t
know what you’re talking about Piggy” Baz replied groggily,
spitting blood onto the ground.