Muttering angry apologies, Rory stomped up, to be met by Jon.
"Stop apologising, Rory,' he said roughly, "it wasn't your fault.' He grasped Rory's arm, inspected the cut, took off his shirt, ripped it into strips, and gave them to Rory. "Here, wrap it tight.' Turning to me, he wet a piece of torn shirt, wiped away the blood, reckoned it was nothing to worry about, but bandaged it "just in case."
Rory continued apologetic as he used the rest of Jon's shirt to try to stem the flow. A shaking, sweaty and very nervous Matthew joined us.
"That bloke in there… his shoulder's bleeding. He's in agony."
"Good. Is he safe?"
"Well and truly trussed. I'll get his gun.' He turned to go back.
"Leave it!' Rory snapped."
Matthew was turning green. "You… you're both bleeding too… and… where… where's the third man?"
"Got away, thanks to me,' Rory muttered.
"Crap,' I snapped
Jon caught Matthew as he fainted, lay him on my sleeping bag, then went downstairs to look at Scumble.
Matthew groaned, sat up, saw the blood seeping through my bandages and threw up over my bedding. I took a deep breath, quelled my own nausea and fetched him a tumbler of water. While he sipped I massaged his neck and head until colour returned. He swallowed the last of the water, handed the tumbler back and stared at the floor.
"Sorry about that, Peter. I'm not used to violence."
"Neither are we. Well, not until recently."
He looked at my bandage. "You've been shot!"
"He missed. It's only a nick."
"You could be dead."
"You could be driven into by a semi-trailer on the way home."
"I told Sally it was just going to be a routine witnessing of a statement. But suddenly I could picture myself dead, and her and the kids alone, not knowing where I was, or anything and… I'm sorry about chundering."
"Shut up, Matthew. I owe you an apology. I was so keen to trap that bastard I closed my mind to the possible consequences. I knew he was a killer, but somehow thought we were immune."
Jon ran up the stairs. "Well, that was a waste of videotape. Fuck, what's the stink?' Mathew blushed and helped me throw the sleeping bag out the window.
"Who shot him?' Rory asked. "I heard nothing."
"He used a silencer."
"Who?"
"That moaning bugger in there."
"And who shot him?"
"Jon,' I stated proudly. Jon winced.
Rory nodded appreciatively "Bloody quick thinking, mate."
Jon shrugged. "Not quick enough.' He turned to me. "You OK?"
"Yep, thanks to your reflexes."
"Plenty of practice on rabbits."
I tucked my hands into my armpits to hide the shakes. "I was certain we were done for. Thank goodness it was you with the rifle. I'd have just stood there while he picked us off."
"Course you wouldn't."
"I bloody would."
Matthew added his praises.
"OK. I'm a hero,' Jon snapped. He turned to Rory. "What sort of ammo was it?"
"Solid longs."
"Then it probably went straight through, I'll see if I can find it.' He slipped into the other room, muttered something to Glaze, and the moaning stopped.
Rory turned to Matthew. "Camera OK?"
Matthew came to life. "Crikey, I left it in there. I sure hope so, otherwise it's all been for nothing.' He stood up, blinked and whispered, "I think I'm going to faint."
It was hot and very humid. I sat him on the floor, far from Jon's sleeping bag, and went in to find the camcorder. Jon was digging at a patch of stucco. Glaze was writhing in the corner, blood seeping from his shoulder, a continuous groan seeping through clenched teeth.
Jon turned to me with a grin. "Viola, viola, as they say in France.' He held up a flattened bullet.
"All evidence removed.' He stepped over Glaze, kissed me lightly on the lips, and I followed him out.
Rory had removed the fainting man's shirt and was fanning him with it. Matthew's bony white chest, pale nipples, thin arms and jelly-belly made me wonder how he kept his wife faithful. Jon stood beside him, watching. The comparison was cruel, but Matthew didn't notice. I tried to imagine what I'd have done if a runt like him had come knocking at the gallery doors on a wet and windy night, instead of Jon. Matthew tested the camera, breathed a sigh of relief, swallowed manfully, stood shakily and said bravely, "Time for interview number two, gentlemen?"
"Na, let him wait. He's only in pain. Not bleeding to death. I need a coffee.' Jon was full of surprises.
We sat in a circle in front of Glaze, dunking biscuits into our coffees and slurping disgustingly. Glaze affected not to care. Matthew set the recorder going. I started chatting.
"You're in the shit, Bob."
"You're the fuckin' shit. Wait till MacFife gets you."
"Don't you recognise the bloke who winged you, Bob,' I asked sweetly.
"He's just a fuckin' stripper."
"He's the fellow you planned to drop from the roof of my house.' Bob turned red eyes on me. "And who the fuck are you?"
"I'm the one you nudged off the rocks so Scumble could bury me under a pile of boulders before you went back to have your way with Frances."
Glaze's sang froid wasn't as froid as Scumble's. His jaw dropped several centimetres and for a second he appeared to forget the pain in his shoulder. "But… But… But.' He gave up, staring at me in horror. Then… you aren't dead? It was you who….' He stopped, unable to continue.
"Who rescued Jon. Then we freed that fat sod you entombed in the hills. You haven't been a very successful combination, you and Scumble."
Sweat was pouring off him, he was turning yellow and obviously in need of medical attention, but first he had to talk. I laughed wildly. "Not only did you luck out with Jon and me, but you helped murder CC because of a pack of lies Jon told MacFife. I wonder what sort of welcome party MacFife will throw for you when he finds out."
No reply.
I tried to sound businesslike, but it came out bitchy. "You've two choices. Either tell us everything about MacFife's little game, what he's likely to do now and where we can find him, or refuse to talk and we'll leave you here to rot until MacFife comes back to finish you off - like he did with Scumble. We've not murdered anyone, and don't intend to start now. We simply want what's due to us."
"What're you going to do if I tell you?"
"We'll take you to a tame doctor we know and tell him you had an accident while target shooting. He'll patch you up and you can go home – or wherever you think you'll be safe."
"You'll really let me go? Promise?"
"Of course. You're no use to us….' And so it continued until he wilted and poured his woes into the video camera. The story was so similar to Scumble's they must have concocted them together in an idle moment. Naturally, his murder of Scumble was also an accident. He thought Scumble was carrying a gun and had only intended to frighten him, but MacFife had moved, jolting the car and spoiling his aim. He regretted his friend's death more than he could say. By the time he'd finished, his voice was almost inaudible and his thoughts were wandering.
Rory drove his ute over to collect his gear, and a very relieved Matthew drove home to his wife and two and a half kids with the recordings, promising to make copies and await our instructions. Jon and I removed evidence of our stay, then helped Glaze downstairs, bundled him into the tray of Rory's ute, covered him with a tarpaulin and followed Rory in our vehicle to the emergency bay of the main hospital.
As Glaze was loaded onto a gurney by a couple of orderlies, he came to his senses. "You promised!' he yelled. "You fucking bastard! You promised! I'll get you for this!"
I walked across and patted him on the arm. "This is Australia, mate. You forgot to ask if it was a "core' promise. You'll know better next time.' Jon was acting dumb at reception.
"…but you must know his name!"
"Like I said, Miss, I've no idea. He copped it while shootin' someone. We was jogging past and seen it. I reckon you should tie him to his bed and call the cops.' He turned to go.
"But… you can't go! Who are you? You're having me on… Come back!' Rory was waiting. "It's just on five. What now?"
"Go home and give Lida a kiss from us, and I'll phone the cops and tell them to pick up Scumble and Glaze."
"Where're you staying?"
"We'll go to a friend's for a hot shower, a good meal and…' I draped my arm around Jon's neck and kissed him on the cheek, "a comfortable bed.' Jon pulled away with an embarrassed grunt.
Rory laughed. "Mr Cool.' He glanced at Jon. "What're you blushing for? You're a lethal combination, you two' He climbed into his vehicle and leaned out the window. "I know I was worse than useless, but if you decide to go after the one that got away, I'm ready. I've a score to settle too, now.' He tapped at his bandaged arm. "Wouldn't mind another swing at the bastard."
"You're not useless. Neither of us would have dared do what we did if you hadn't been there. Your guns and support were essential. And we're counting on you for next time."
He nodded briefly and drove away.
Jon was staring at me, started to say something, shrugged, got in the ute and drove towards the hills
"Better make those phone-calls.' We'd stopped outside a small hall.
"What's the matter?"
He frowned. "Nothing. Phone the cops and get it over with."
We got out and leaned on the cab, staring across the roof at each other. I punched in the emergency number and a string of computer generated voices eventually set a living policeman's phone ringing. After about four lifetimes someone grunted, "Incidents."
"There's a dead body in the disused sport's club down by the beach, and the murderer is in the main hospital with a bullet in his shoulder."
"And who are you?' I disconnected.
Jon was still frowning.
"Come on, out with it."
"It's nothing."
"You're embarrassed because I pecked you on the cheek."
He sighed, shrugged and said softly, "Are you always so open about being… you know?"
"Queer?"
"No! Yes. Oh, whatever!"
"Not usually. In fact, that was a first. "
"Why'd you do it?"
"Rory knows I'm gay and unless he's brain damaged knows you are too. Do you want to pretend we're just mates?"
"I thought so. But… it's sort of a relief to have it out in the open."
"Hank and Celia knew Max and I were a couple, but because it was never discussed and we were never affectionate in their company, I had no idea whether they understood that two men can love each other deeply; what they thought about our relationship; or even if they approved! I loved them and they loved me, but there was always an invisible barrier preventing everything from being perfect. Are you listening?"
Jon was staring across the road. "Yeah. Go on."
"After Max's funeral I had an argument with Patrick and they leaped to my defence. Only then did I learn they thought our love was the best thing that had happened to Max. That made me decide to be honest with all real friends. I must speak about it with them; must be sure they're comfortable with it and still consider me to be a good man. It is not enough to have an "unspoken understanding"
because you are never sure and love is tainted by fear of what people might be saying behind your back.
"That makes longwinded sense."
"Jerk. If we always censor our behaviour in front of friends, it's conceding that it's only OK for us to be lovers if we pretend we aren't. As though, in reality, it's something dirty and shameful. We'd go on imagining they don't mind, not knowing whether they do or not.' I was becoming agitated, remembering the years of pretence.
"Gotcha. So now Rory knows exactly who and what we are - a couple of queers with no hang-ups, who like each other."
"Like?"
He grinned. "I wonder why it's so hard to say? OK, we love each other. But you're right. Now it's out in the open with him I do feel sort of – I don't know – sort of clean inside."
"And so you're going to be honest with everyone?"
"Everyone."
"What if they can't handle it?"
"That's their problem."
"Brave boy."
"What do you mean?"
"In case you hadn't noticed, we share this planet with a lot of very nasty humans. Rory already knew I was gay and I knew he had no problems with it. He'd guessed we were an item. I was simply confirming it. I don't intend to blab my secrets to everyone."
"Neither do I!"
"Really!' I was sounding unpleasant and hated myself. I knew perfectly well what he meant, but I was worried, tired, and couldn't stop myself.
He pulled back in surprise. "Hey, you know I'm not a blabbermouth."
Something poisonous was worming its way into my belly. "Everyone knows Patrick trashed my place."
"Peter! Stop it!"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Come on."
"You don't want to know."
"I do."
"OK. You say you love me, but you're everyone's best friend. Rory, Lida, the Alconas, even Matthew thinks the sun shines out of your arsehole. You treat them better than you treat me. When we're with other people I feel as though I don't exist for you - and barely exist for them."
"You know that's not true."
"Do I?
"Your friends are nice and… and I want them to like me too. I want them to be our friends."
"It's not only friends. On your first day at the gallery you chatted up old man Smith so well he thought you were the director and ignored me completely. Same at Mad's opening."
He stared at me, incredulous. "You're crazy. That's so long ago!' He shook his head in despair.
"OK, I admit it. I've sometimes ignored you when other people are there because I didn't want anyone to guess how much you meant to me. I was – you know – ashamed. Not of you! Scared they'd think I was queer. But I'm not ashamed any more.' He blushed angrily and looked away. When I didn't speak, he turned back with a sly smile. "You're jealous! You're jealous because when I'm there you're not always the centre of attention."
I wondered if it were true, but saved thinking about it till I'd got one more thing off my chest. "It's not only that. Sometimes you're so independent I'm… I'm not sure where I stand."
"On the passenger side of Hank's ute."
"Smart arse."
"You're the most important person in my life."
"For now."
"For ever."
I grunted, knowing I was being stupid but unable to stop. I wanted him to prove something. I didn't know what, but it was important. "Promises, promises.' I was almost sneering.
Jon stared, then shrugged as though he'd suddenly realised I wasn't worth arguing over, and began to walk away. My heart slammed against my ribs. He couldn't leave me like this? Could he?
He turned back, caught the fear in my eyes and grinned. "You stupid fart. Perhaps this'll convince you?' Strolling around to my side of the truck he wrapped his arms round mine, pulled me to him and plonked dry kisses on forehead, cheeks, nose, and a long, succulent one on the lips. "Now do you know where we stand?"
"In front of the Bridge Club, about to be surrounded by a bevy of ancient belles."
The doors had opened and several women were descending the steps towards the car park.
"Let's make them jealous."
"Make them angry, you mean. Let's go."
"Not till you apologise and say I'm the handsomest and perfectest man in the world."
"You're the most handsome and perfect man in the world - and I love you,' I shouted, shoving him into the cab. He slid across to the driver's seat. As we drove away, giggling like a couple of kids caught stealing fruit, I waved at three elderly dames standing beside their cars. One waved back and winked.
"Park at the top of the hill so I can phone Mad.' I dropped my hand onto his thigh. He looked across and blew a kiss. "Tell her to get the double bed ready."
The phone rang twelve times before she answered it.
"Hi, Mad, it's Peter."
A brief pause, then, "Kevin! How lovely to hear your voice. It's been ages. Where are you?"
"It's Peter, not Kevin. Jon and I are on our way up – if that's convenient."
"Oh, what a shame, you sound so close I thought you were nearby. You must bring Cheryl for a visit soon."
"You've got visitors?"
"I have no idea, Kevin. Why don't you give Brian a ring, he'll know. Here's his number.' She read out Brian's telephone number. We were both silent for a few seconds before she gave vent to a high pitched giggle, blew a couple of kisses down the line, said, "Me too. Love to Cheryl,' and disconnected.
"It seems Mad has visitors she doesn't want us to meet. She pretended I was Kevin, whoever he is, and gave me Brian's number. This needs thinking about."
"Stop fretting. It's just the vice squad. They heard we were friends with the Alconas and want to know if they know we're queer."
"That's a relief. I thought it might be something serious."
"You're just an old worrier."
"Warrior?"
"Yeah, that too."
"Not so much of the old, if you know what's good for you."
I telephoned Brian and was informed that Dr. Alcona was in surgery. We should call back in about thirty minutes.
"Where's Brian's surgery?"
"No idea."
It was in the telephone directory under Veterinary surgeons. Hilltop Animal Hospital: Dr. B S Alcona. We drove in the general direction, found a delicatessen, bought pies and bags of chips, took them to a park and washed them down with bottled water. Forty minutes later we rang again.
"Sorry, he's in surgery, can you ring…. Oh no, here he is. One moment please."
"Brian Alcona?"
"Peter Corringe."
"Peter! So you're still alive?"
"Just. Brian, I rang Mad a while ago and she was either off her rocker or there's something wrong. Do you know anything?"
"Nothing."
I repeated the conversation.
"Where are you?' I told him.
"Wait there until I contact you."
A few minutes later he rang back. "Mad had visitors. In case your name rang a bell, she pretended you were someone else. She apologises, but you can't stay with us tonight, so here's plan B. Drive to the corner of Alcazar Avenue and Fortune Street. Check you're unobserved, lie down across the seats and throw something over you so it looks as though the vehicle's empty. Lock the doors but leave the keys in the ignition. When I arrive, unlock the doors but stay lying down. Got that?"
"I've also got a cloak and dagger."
"Good for you.' He disconnected.
We decided he was over-reacting, but to humour him, drove to the appointed spot, locked the doors, snuggled together in the leg-well of the passenger side, and threw a blanket over ourselves. Jon smelled sweaty and sexy. A short while later someone tapped on the roof.
I flicked the lock up with my finger, Brian got in, started the engine, drove for a couple of minutes and stopped. "Stay there until I've closed the doors."
A roller door clanged down plunging the place into shadow, and we sat up. Brian tapped on our window and I opened the door.
"Where are we?"
"In the surgery's loading dock. Grab your important stuff and follow me. It's OK, everyone's gone home."
"Did Mad give you any details?"
"No. She asked me to apologise, but said she'd prefer to wait and tell me everything when I got home. Sounded ready to cry, so although the kids will be home by now I don't want to hang around."
"Right. Lead on.' We took phones and wallets and trailed Brian through to the staff room.
"What's wrong with your head?"
"I banged it on the corner of a building. It's just a graze."
"Sure? I can look at it."
"No, really. It's nothing.
"If you say so. OK then, make yourselves comfortable. There's tea and coffee in here, showers are through there. I'll drive your vehicle back to where you parked it and lock it, leaving the keys in the glove box. I left my car just round the corner from yours. You've got spare keys?"
We nodded.
"Then I'll go home and find out what's up. If the phone rings, don't answer. Leave it to the answer-phone. I'll ring your mobile."
We nearly shook his hand off. Words weren't enough.
Brian grinned like a kid on an adventure. "I've always dreamed of being a spy. I planned this getaway when you two set off on your search for justice. It seemed entirely probable, with your track record, that you'd need rescuing and hiding again. Thank goodness it was me this time and not Jeff. He'd never let me forget it. Cheers.' He left, and the air chilled.
I shook off the feeling and joined Jon in the laundry. There was a shower in there as well as a washing machine and drier, so we showered, shaved, washed and dried our clothes, then threw all the cushions we could find onto the floor of the staff room, wrapped ourselves in a couple of blankets from a store cupboard, and collapsed. The sex was short but sweet, followed by a review of all possible next steps.
Glaze had reckoned his boss would stay away from the tent house, but would probably keep the gallery going. He was certain no one would be going near either Scumble's or Glaze's apartments, and had insisted he knew only one other business, an up-market apartment block in Noosa, where MacFife housed his girls.
Jon suggested going there on the off chance of catching McFife, but I'd had enough for one day. Instead, we talked until we'd convinced ourselves that, despite the murder weapon being still at the crime scene with Glaze's prints on it, when the cops went to the hospital he would still manage to pin the murder of Scumble onto us, get them to contact McFife, and be set free. We had to get the tape to the cops and make sure Glaze's next stop was the cop shop. Then there would only be MacFife to track down.
To this end I rang Matthew and asked him to contact the police immediately, suggesting they hold Glaze until they'd seen the tapes. Three minutes later he rang back. The cops had picked up Scumble, but when they got to the hospital Glaze had vanished. Did we still want him to take the tapes to the police? There seemed little point, so I told him to hang on to them until we contacted him again.
We stared at each other in dismay. The mobile trilled.
"Peter?"
"Brian? Everything OK?"
By the time I disconnected Jon was twitching. "Well?"
"You're obviously psychic. It wasn't the vice squad, but it was the cops.