A Tropical Cure Page 6

  CHAPTER 10

  WALKABOUT

  “Billy!”

  No answer. The floorboards creaked from her obesity as she went to the kitchen door. Her hand pushed the stubborn door handle down and the door sprung open. Jilli dragged the heavy garbage bag out to the wheelie bin. She flipped the red lid on its only remaining hinge and lifted the fat plastic bag over the rim of the bin. Then she slammed the lid on the bag, puffing it out. “Bluddy kid, always doin’ his jobs for him,” she muttered as she shuffled back.

  “Billeyy!” Soon as she slammed the kitchen door behind her. Still no answer.

  “Auntie Jill, he’s not ‘ere,” the teenage girl said without taking her eyes off the magazine. ”No tellin’ when he’s back, he’s with Max and them. Told you he was gonna be trouble.”

  “You a good girl, Gemma. Want some more Fanta?” Auntie Jilli didn’t wait for an answer and grabbed the 2-litre bottle of fizzy from the fridge. Gemma pushed her cup over the table, in anticipation. Auntie Jilli’s flabby arm reached over the table, her hands weren’t as strong anymore, she struggled with the near full 2-litre bottle. “Here ya go.” She filled her niece’s plastic tumbler, losing a gulp’s worth over the side.

  “Should have left him on the island,” Gemma said in between sips from the orange liquid.

  “Shoulda sent him to go with Charlie to Tully. He better off getten a job. School don’t bloody want him.”

  “How come Charlie went up there? Thought he got a job at IGA?” Gemma asked.

  “IGA? Hah…first time I heard a that one. He another bullshitter, like his bloody dad. Nah, good riddens, let him go to Tully or where ever. Shame that he already gone when Billy tole me Charlie wassen comin’ back. Billy coulda gone with him.”

  “Just you and me now,” Gemma said, back to her soft drink and magazine.

  “And bloody Billy,” Jilli grunted. “He never here anyway.”

  ***

  The fibro cottage showed no sign of life. The lights had gone out, and Busta, the ridgeback cross mongrel was sound asleep on the concrete patio. Joel Shallowater had pulled up in front of the house, a few minutes earlier. “Bloody useless dog, you are, Busta.” Joel shook his head in disgust. As he looked down at the lanky dog, he heard Busta’s tail slapping the hard floor in a slow rhythm. Alright for you. You big lazy buggah. You can go back to sleep while I gotta wake the others. Joel sighed heavily and knocked on the kitchen door.

  It wasn’t long before Joel heard a rumble and cursing. “What the bluddy hell? That you, Billy? You need a bluddy walloping.” The light in the kitchen came on, the sound of shuffling slippers came closer.

  Grumbling, Jilli opened the door. Joel saw her grizzled face change to a warm, wide smile. It was going to make his job that much harder. With a loose wave of her hand, she beckoned him to enter, “Come. Come in. You’re up very late, Joel. Come and visit. You wan’ a drink?” She was already at the fridge. “I like that uniform, you make us proud. Been a long time.” Holding a can of Coke.

  Pssshhh. She popped the tab with her long fingernail.

  “Auntie Jill. I have bad news. It’s little Charlie,” Joel reluctantly pushed in before she could continue her welcome speech.

  “He not little anymore.”

  She froze, her smile disappeared.

  Joel recognised the look. She knew how this was going to play out. Joel held his breath, his heartbeat slowing, but thumping louder. He cleared his throat.

  “Charlie was found yesterday. I’m sorry I didn’t come earlier. It took some time to identify him,” Joel dropped his head down and paused.

  “He dead? How … did my Charlie die?” Her voice wavered, lips quivering. Tears filled her eyes. She stared forward. Her round cheeks started to glisten with streams of tears. Joel looked up from the floor, he couldn’t hide from the courageous woman in front of him: a mother who knew for years that her only boy would probably end up dead before his adulthood. She cried as he had seen the other mothers cry, for the loss of a child, for the loss of a battle against things that were impossible to change.

  A battle, Joel Shallowater knew too well.

  “What happen to him, Joel?” Jilli asked trying to control her sobbing.

  “No one really knows what happened to him. But he died from burns. Might have been an accident. There was a taxi cab near where he was found. It was destroyed by fire. The investigation is still going.”

  She nodded and suddenly her attention focussed past Joel’s shoulders. He spun around and saw Gemma standing in the doorway, tears welling in her eyes.

  “Charlie’s dead,” Jilli said without emotion.

  The skinny girl sniffled, “What about Billy? Where is he?”

  “Billy has not come back yet,” Jilli replied, “I think he gone walkabout.”

  Gemma wiped her cheek with the back of her hand, “How did he die?”

  “In suspicious circumstances. He suffered terrible burns.” A blunt reply. There was no point in hiding the truth. It pained him.

  “Where did he die?” Gemma came closer.

  “He was found in the back of a stolen car. Dumped. The car had been dumped in Stony Creek.”

  “Billy lied about Charlie going to Tully,” Gemma said.

  Jilli didn’t react, she stood like a statue.

  “Who’s Billy?”

  “A cousin from Palm Island. I warned Auntie Jill about him,” Gemma said angrily.

  “Gemma, stop talkin’ like that. You think all boys they bad,” Jilli snapped.

  “And such joy Billy has brought into this house.”

  A moment’s silence had sealed Gemma’s sarcastic response.

  It was stuffy in the kitchen, Joel was relieved when the elderly woman went to the kitchen door and opened it wide. There was no fly-screen door. The quiet of the evening was interrupted by a few crickets, and the random barking of dogs in the neighbourhood. The fresh air was just as warm as the air in the kitchen. Joel swatted a mosquito on his arm. All talking had stopped. Gemma had gone back to her bedroom. Auntie Jilli was rummaging in the pantry. She had turned the small television on, the sound was on low.

  There were questions burning on Joel’s lips. Questions that were too difficult to ask now. He’d been sent out to follow cultural protocols about informing the family about a relative’s death, he wasn’t here to interrogate. Anyway, who was Billy really? He pondered.

  “Auntie Jill. I need to ask you some questions. We can do that tomorrow when I take you into the city.”

  “Why am I going to the city?” she answered while rearranging the cupboard.

  “To see Charlie, to make sure it is him,” Joel replied softly.

  “What for? You seen him, you tole me he’s dead. I believe you.”

  “It’s required by the law.”

  “Bluddy white law,” she grunted, “One time, we had blackfella law.”

  “Blackfella laws don’t apply in the city, Auntie Jill.”

  “White law didden do anyfing for my boy!” she snapped.

  “Can I ask you about Billy? I never met him.”

  “Billy, my cousin’s boy. Her family is on the island. Billy was a good boy, then he hang around them bad boys. Them older boys up to no good. Stealing and fighting. Drinking grog. You know he’s only twelve. I took him, to help my cousin, she is always crying.” Jilli hung her head.

  Joel watched as her drooped head jerked slightly with the onset of crying.

  “Make no difference,” she snivelled.

  He got up from the wooden chair, put his hand on her shoulder and said, “You tried, Auntie Jill. That’s what matters.”

  Gotta keep trying. Joel shut the kitchen door behind him.

  CHAPTER 11

  GOOD OLE BOYS

  Darren was now a homeowner. A fortuitous run-in with an old mate from school had turned into a mutually beneficial arrangement. Darren’s buddy from high school, from Ingham, had slinked his way into a career as a bank manager. Who would have thought that the ‘biggest’ d
ope dealer in school would wind up with a bank manager’s job? Not Darren – he reasoned, a solicitor, maybe – after all, his mate, Simon, was smart and crooked. And old habits die hard, as they say.

  “Mango!” Darren hadn’t heard that name since Sydney. It came from behind. He spun around, ready and on edge. The nickname ‘Mango’ wasn’t used by too many that were dear to him, although Johnno was an exception. But, that voice didn’t sound like Eddie either.

  “Hey wild boy, thought it was you!” Excited, the three-piece suit extended his hand. Darren wavered, narrowed his eyes, I know him.

  “Simon. From school, mate. Ingham days.”

  “Fuck me dead. Didn’t recognise you in your clown suit,” Darren laughed.

  They shook hands, backslapped each other a few times and laughed more. After ten minutes of exchanging meaningless memories and reminiscing about a few lost opportunities with the best-looking chick in school, who Simon happened to marry, they settled for a beer at the closest pub. A hot afternoon in Townsville was a good excuse for sinking more than a few beers, helping the discussion digress to bringing up old habits that hadn’t died. Getting down to business didn’t have wait long.

  Although Simon didn’t believe half of Darren’s incredible story, he did compliment his buddy from home for spinning a good yarn. Darren was happy that Simon basically didn’t give a fuck about how the cocaine was left behind in the back of a taxi by a drunk bikie, in Sydney. All Simon cared about was – how soon Darren could part with it, for the right amount of money, of course. Darren picked up the shot-glass filled with Black Jack, clinked it with Simon’s, and downed the smooth bourbon whiskey.

  Within a week Simon had put an arrangement in place. The deal was done. Darren would sell him the package for one hundred and sixty thousand dollars , which was well below market value. Simon would pay him in a round-about way. No cash exchanged. No questions asked. Instead, Darren could buy a property, using the hundred and sixty grand for a deposit, then Simon would arrange and approve a bank loan to fund the remainder of the property purchase. Easy. Simon got a bargain on the dope, Darren got a house cheap, with mortgage repayments that were half the cost of renting a property. How could Darren lose out on a deal like this? After all, Simon was his mate, a bank manager to boot. Simon knew how to make things work.

  ***

  The skies looked threatening. Driving through the suburban street, he was pleased to see some green grass on the nature strips. The wet season had briefly touched Townsville. Darren was amazed at how quick dry, brown lawns would recover from a few weeks of wet weather. The green revival had made even the most run-down of the old Queenslanders look presentable.

  Darren stopped the car in front of his gate, got out and unclipped the lock. He greeted Patch, who was running around in circles sounding the cattle dog yelp. “Yeah, yeah. Go on get over there.” Darren directed the cattle dog back into the yard, parked the car in the driveway and closed the picket fenced gates.

  Halfway up the stairs his mobile rang, ‘Symo’, the screen lit up.

  “G’day, mate. How’s things?” Darren greeted the caller.

  “I don’t know. You tell me.”

  “Well, last time I checked the Rabbits were still aiming for the leader board. And Fatty reckons he can outrun Joey Johns.”

  There was no reaction from the other end.

  “Lost your sense of humour too?” Darren broke the spell.

  “No. But I haven’t had much to laugh about today. Mate.”

  The addition of ‘mate’ in Simon’s reply was not a ‘I-like-you-mate’ mate. What was up his arse? Darren puzzled.

  “Righto. Everyone’s entitled to a bad day, I suppose a suit like you can have the same.”

  “We need to talk, but not over the phone,” Simon said.

  His voice was serious and ominous, neither of which Darren equated with his larrikin mate, Simon the bank manager, master beer sinker and drug dealer.

  “Okay. When and where?”

  “Soon. Maybe later this evening. I have to sort out a couple of appointments. Please be available. I’ll talk to you in the next hour.” And Simon hung up.

  Darren put his phone away in his back pocket, continued up the stairs, unlocked the front door and went into his house. The interior of the Queenslander was steamy. He removed his shoes and socks, switched on the two ceiling fans in the living room. Standing beneath the rotating blades the swirling air cooled his face and head. The rest of his body seemed to be trapped under sweaty skin. Despite having been born and bred in North Queensland, the climate sometimes got the better of him. The humidity and heat would play tricks on your mind, stop you from doing and thinking. Darren ripped his T-shirt off, dropped his shorts, kicked them away and went to the bathroom, where he stepped into the shower-recess. He turned the cold water tap several rotations until it wouldn’t go further. It was like tropical rain, lukewarm and hard, the shower sprayed his face, head and shoulders. After a five-minute soaking he turned the shower off, under the dripping shower head, he wondered, did Simon get sprung doing my dodgy deal?

  CHAPTER 12

  CONNECTIONS

  After cooling off, Darren decided to get dressed and go out for a beer. On his way out, he saw Patch sitting at the bottom of the stairs, his tail sweeping the pavers. Darren understood the signs, a cocked head and brooming tail. “Yeah righto, I’ll feed you.”

  Patch followed on Darren’s heels as he entered the ramshackle laundry area under the house. Darren prised the lid from the plastic bucket and scooped the metal bowl through the dry food pellets. He filled Patch’s metal dog bowl to the rim; he sealed the bucket and put the bowl on the concrete floor. Patch was into it before Darren could blink. Phone rang. Symo.

  “Good timing. Just getting ready to go for a beer. I’m sure you’ll be up to sinking a couple,” Darren said without waiting for Simon to start.

  “Not in the mood. Meet me at the break wall, past the ferry terminal. You know where I mean. In, say, twenty minutes.” Click.

  Darren was left holding his phone. He looked at it as if something was going to jump out from the device. Not in a drinking mood, obviously not meeting at the pub, what the bloody hell was he on about?

  ***

  It was near dark, and from the passenger seat in the cab Darren saw Simon slumped on a bench. Darren directed his workmate to drive around and drop him a hundred metres past where Simon was. Darren thanked his mate, gave him a ten dollar note, walked back to where Simon was sitting. Keeping his distance, Darren sat himself down on one end.

  “Lucky these benches are decent size. Otherwise we’d be too close. Start people talking,” Darren chuckled, and gave Simon a friendly backhander. “Life so bad you can’t even crack a smile? And say g’day.”

  Darren studied Simon, his face was blank and pasty. Darren could see fear in his friend’s eyes.

  “Okay. I guess you’re not in the mood, whatever that mood is,” Darren said and bent over picking up a pebble. The Sealink ferry glided past them over the water. Darren flicked the pebble in the direction of the boat, falling well short of its mark.

  “I got a phone call today from someone I hadn’t been in contact with for a few years,” Simon said in a sombre manner. “He’s asking me if I know anything about a kilo of cocaine that I might have come across. He tells me that it was a special package, very high-grade stuff. My response was feign ignorance. Regardless of my ignorance of the package, he continues to inform me who this package was destined for – the head of one of the big families in Melbourne. But the package didn’t make the journey. It went missing from somewhere down south.” Simon paused and stared ahead.

  The tips of Darren’s ears warmed.

  “And? You know where the coke came from. Because I told you,” Darren reminded him.

  “Well, mate. I didn’t know that it was meant to go to Melbourne,” he hissed. “Maybe, you did.” Simon pointed his finger at Darren.

  “Don’t point.”

  “Where
did this stuff really come from?”

  “Left in the back seat of my taxi. I didn’t have an opportunity to ask my drunk passenger. As I told you before. Mate.”

  Simon held Darren’s stark gaze.

  “Besides, how would he know about you buying a kilo of coke?”

  Back at ya.

  “He didn’t spell it out, if that’s what you’re asking,” answered Simon, calmer. “I suspect he believes that I must have something to do with it. Why else would he be hassling me?”

  “No idea. Cunt’s run out of gear, and he wants to shake you down for some. Fucked, if I know.”

  “Kinda answer is that?”

  “Are you worried?”

  Silence.

  “Come on mate, let’s get a beer.” Darren slapped Simon’s arm casually, got up and started walking.

  “Where’s your wheels?” Simon queried as they wandered towards the terminal.

  “At home. Took a cab.”

  “Should’ve brought your own, and paid yourself for the ride.”

  “There’s a little Simon trying to crawl out of his dark hole,” joked Darren.

  The men kept walking, the conversation was light while heading towards the Strand, Townsville’s grand foreshore tourist area. They passed the Tobruk Swimming Pool with the huge apartment building next to it. The lights switched off over the pool area as they walked past. “Must be eight, no wonder I’m so fucking thirsty,” Darren remarked.

  A few hundred metres in front of them the streetscape started to liven up. Soon they were amid a mixed crowd of tourists, army dudes on a night out, and giggling girls doing the same as them, ‘finding a suitable place for drink and food’.

  “Right that will do.” Darren pointed to the hotel across the street. The pub was packed. And Darren didn’t wait for approval, rushed in front of a car, hop skipped to the other side, leaving Simon to follow.