Seven minutes later, Rory and Lida wandered around the left of the building to the main entrance. We walked as apparently aimlessly around the other end of the building to the door of the upstairs flat, and tried our key. It jammed. The locks had been changed and we had to get upstairs before Lida and MacFife! We raced round to the back and tried the key there. No go! Disaster already!
Jon turned the handle and the door opened. We peered cautiously along the passageway to the gallery. How could we get upstairs without being seen? The girl was shoving things around in the office, so we slipped into the workroom - a large space used for packing and preparing works for exhibition. I closed the door and turned on the lights. The room was bare of everything except a pile of sacks and a few large boards. Whatever MacFife intended to do with Max's gallery it wasn't exhibiting paintings.
"Look at this!' Jon had turned over a board. "The bastard's selling! This valuable property to be auctioned…"
I turned off the light and inched open the door. Voices – male and female - arguing. We had to get upstairs, but how? We crept along the passageway, nearly crapping ourselves when Lida let go with an hysterical shriek. "But I know he is there! I saw him arrive! I must see him! It could be a matter of life and death! It is about Mrs Culworth!"
The young woman's heels clunked up the stairs. Lida continued loud sobbing. McFife's irritable descent was followed by the young woman's clattering heels.
"I'll take it from here, Mary-Louise,' he snapped. His tone wasn't any friendlier when he addressed Lida. "Now, madam. What's the trouble?"
By now genuinely hysterical, Lida blurted her story. As Rory had predicted, MacFife said he too was worried and had already contacted the police. He was sympathetic, offered to ring for a taxi, and promised to contact Lida as soon as he heard anything. Rory made noises to the effect that it was good enough for him and he was happy to leave it to MacFife. Lida broke down, sobbing that she desperately wanted to see her mother's flat. If she didn't see proof of her existence, she would go mad! She might find some clue MacFife had missed, and she wanted to see if the brooch she had been promised was there, or if her mother had taken it with her. Perhaps she had told someone of its value and had been robbed and left for dead! She became incoherent. MacFife made increasingly impatient noises.
Eventually, supported by rumbles from Rory, Lida pleaded that if she could just see the flat, she would be satisfied and trust Mr MacFife with all further inquiries about the disappearance. Rory muttered belligerently about seeing no reason for not showing his wife her mother's flat.
MacFife was silent for several seconds, then said, "Very well. But your husband stays here.' He called Marie-Louise, who clattered across from the other end of the gallery. "Show this gentleman the view from the roof.' He then ushered Lida upstairs.
We crept into the gallery as they exited, and followed Lida's hysterical wailing to my old bedroom. McFife stood with his back to us just inside the door. Lida was facing us, thrusting a suitcase at McFife; insisting he force it open. Cursing all stupid, interfering, illegitimate women, he bent over it.
Jon slugged him on the back of the skull with a sandbag. I caught him. Jon wound packing tape around his head and over his mouth; I taped his arms to his body and immobilised his legs. After removing his wallet and key ring, we slid a sack over his head and shoulders, and another over feet and legs, wrapped him in CC's floral bedspread and wrapped the whole thing in metres more tape. Then Lida scouted ahead as we manhandled him down the stairs to the back door.
Rory's voice boomed from the roof. I shot back to the office, grabbed a piece of gallery notepaper and scribbled; Something urgent with estate agents… He'll be away for a few days. The young lady to lock the gallery and take the rest of the week off. I handed it to Lida together with six fifty-dollar notes from MacFife's wallet.
She was watching me, eyes wide, face a blank mask of panic. "I can't! I can't do any more. I'll never remember what you tell me!"
"Lida, sweetheart. You've been wonderful. Go halfway up the stairs and call Rory, keep them standing on the stairs out of sight of the front car park for as long as possible, and tell the girl that MacFife had to leave suddenly. You wrote down his message so you wouldn't forget it, and he asked you to give her the money. When you hear MacFife's car drive away, but not before, walk calmly out of this place and take Rory home."
She stared at me, uncomprehending. Jon slipped an arm round her waist, plonked a kiss on her cheek and patted her bottom. "Off you go, Lida the Wonder Woman. See you soon."
That seemed to wake her. With a shake of shoulders and head, she stepped back into the gallery, climbed to the bend in the stairs and called. As soon as we heard Rory and the high heels begin their descent we raced with our burden across to the cliffs. There was no one around so we rolled him over the edge; too bad if he bruised. I clambered down after him while Jon raced for MacFife's car and drove away.
Things were going too well. Probably the ute's wheels would have sunk into the sand and I'd be stuck. They hadn't. MacFife was solid, but not as heavy as Scumble to heave into the back, and although it had seemed like hours, it was only sixteen minutes since we first entered the gallery. Ten minutes later I pulled up beside Jon on the almost empty top floor of the car-park building.
Jon checked our prisoner. "I suppose we'd better let him breathe.' He cut a slit through the bedspread at the head end, exposed the sack, felt for the nose, slit the fabric open, and left it at that. McFife was breathing, making angry noises and wriggling. Good. I wanted him to be aware of what was happening.
"What now?"
"We wait until dark."
"Here?"
"Somewhere a small truck won't look suspicious parked for nine hours."
"I slept under a bridge not far from here for a few days. Noisy as hell, but invisible from the road."
"Sounds perfect."
After piling our luggage around and over MacFife in the back of the ute, we left the Porsche in the car park and drove to Jon's spot, locked up, then wandered around, marvelling at the speed of clean up and the financial acumen of souvenir shop and fast-food outlet entrepreneurs taking advantage of the boom in macabre tourism.
The evil smell was abating, dead bodies were no longer left behind by the tide, and a warm northerly wind and brilliant sunshine lent an almost festive air. We bought new jeans and T-shirts at a street market, then took a room in a motel where we showered, changed, rested and telephoned Mad, who was pleased to hear we were safe and all was going according to plan. She had recovered somewhat from the house search, but was still nervous. I also rang Hank. He and Celia were refreshed and ready to return.
To celebrate our successful abduction, we ordered very tough steaks, soggy chips and limp greens at an expensive restaurant. The chef redeemed himself, however, with the best whipped-cream- encased chocolate confection I had ever tasted.
By seven o'clock we were parked opposite the house. A late worker pulled out of the handyman's yard, locked the gates and drove away. The garden centre was dark and empty. A couple of cars sped past. We drove without lights down to the cottage, killed the engine and waited. Something moved on the verandah. We froze. A figure came down the steps and strolled over to my window. I wound it down, brain empty. White teeth grinned.
"Lida thought you might need a hand."
"You beaut! But that's the third time in as many days you've nearly given us heart attacks."
"Just keeping you on your toes. And I've thought of a modification."
"To?"
"The cage."
Jon drove the ute away while Rory and I lugged McFife into the house and dumped him in the cage. Rory cut the electricity cable between the cage and the hole in the floor and inserted a circuit breaker while I removed the bedspread and sacks. MacFife lay still, eyes following us. Rory then held McFife in a headlock while I cut the tape from his wrists and ankles, and told him to undress. He'd shat and pissed himself, seemed exhausted, and put up no resistance. Rory stood guard while I gathered up his soiled clothes, closed the cage and circuit breaker, then went out and turned on the power.
Jon had been away for a long time and I was just getting worried when he arrived, out of breath from running. He'd picked up something for supper on the way. He stared expressionlessly at MacFife. "Fuck he stinks.' He went out, returned with a bucket and hurled water through the cage. MacFife gasped with shock, struggled to his feet and hurled himself at the wire. Rory opened the circuit breaker and lashed out with his boot. MacFife sagged to the floor, whimpering.
"You're a lucky man. If I hadn't turned the power off you'd be cooked meat. I'm turning it on now. If you touch the cage you'll receive two hundred and forty volts, AC, right through your body. Whatever part of you is touching the floor will cook. Your heart will jump around a fair bit, and you might suffer a seizure. Do you understand?"
MacFife didn't respond.
"Your guest is recalcitrant, Peter. Another bucket of water?"
I fetched one and threw it over him. He was shivering violently, but caught some on his hands, rubbed them over his face and tore at his gag.
"Thirsty, eh?” Jon fetched another bucketful. "But… how do we…?"
"This is my second excellent idea.' Rory produced a metal pipe with a thick rubber handle. A three-metre, insulated wire had been soldered to the pipe near the handle. An insulated "alligator' clip at the end of the wire was clipped on to the cage and the handle passed to Jon. From his pocket, Rory drew a pair of heavy-duty rubber gloves and gave them to me. "Peter, open the flap. Jon, If MacFife comes near, prick him with the end of the pipe."
"Hang on, we'd better tie a string to the bucket so we can get it back – plastic's an insulator.' I knotted a length of cord to the handle, opened the flap, placed the bucket inside and closed it again. MacFife fell on his knees, still tearing at his gag. The tape was tough, but he managed to tear a small hole. He bent over and sucked noisily. When he'd finished he splashed water over his loins and between his legs in an effort to clean himself. He wasn't about to drop dead. We let him finish, then removed the bucket.
"Well, lads, I'll leave you to it.' Rory grinned, tapped us both lightly on the shoulders and was gone.
Suddenly I felt insecure. It wouldn't be long before land agents or someone else reported MacFife's absence; and we wouldn't be able to remain at the cottage forever.
"Hungry?' Jon rummaged in his bag and brought out the best fish and chips I have ever smelled and a large bottle of cola.
"My favourite food. How'd you guess?"
"Didn't. It's mine too."
"Another proof, if one were needed, of the cosmic rightness of our alliance."
"Whatever you say, boss. Does he get any?' A flick of the head towards MacFife.
"It'd be a waste. He'll only shit himself again."
After our meal I tossed MacFife one of the serrated plastic knives that had come with the fish. He was getting very cold and finding it difficult to move. It took a while before he could pick it up and start sawing at the tape round his head. When it began to fray, he clawed at it, tearing off pieces of lip. Blood streamed over his chin.
"Lick it up, MacFife. It's the only food you'll be getting,' Jon had a callous side to his nature.
He licked, then held the knife between his toes and tried to saw at the ropes round his wrists. The flimsy thing snapped. So far he hadn't spoken. We'd decided to soften him up before explaining his position, so told him to pop the pieces of knife through the diamond netting. It took several tries, he was frightened of electrocuting himself. After one last check that everything was functioning properly, we switched off the light, rolled out our sleeping bags in the kitchen to avoid McFife's stink, and settled down to fitful sleep.
A scream, followed by full-throated howling set us racing into the larger room, electric prod at the ready. McFife was kneeling, nursing his penis between his hands and moaning as though it'd been cut off.
Jon laughed. "Know what he's done? He's pissed and hit the wire. I did it once on an electric fence. Gives a hell of a jolt. Feels as though someone's ripped the thing out by its roots. Race out to the road and see if you can hear him. It's as quiet as it's going to get so if you can't hear him now there'll be no worry in daytime. And the longer he raves the hoarser he'll be tomorrow."
It was very cold outside after the warmth of the sleeping bag and I wished I'd put on some clothes. But you take greater care not to be seen if you're naked. A car sped past, followed by a motorbike. From the city I could hear the thump of a rock beat. The fish processing plant up the road emitted a persistent hum from its refrigeration plant. Behind the timber yard a loose bit of metal flapped in the wind. The grasses on the drive rustled as a startled bandicoot shot through; an owl hooted and that was about it.
Then I heard it. A wail - soft but chilling. I had to listen carefully. The boarded-up windows and hundred-metre drive had done the trick. No one would pay the slightest attention in daytime.
They'd just think it was a miserable dog. Which in a way it was. With road noise, radios and the business of life, even if he screamed his lungs to shreds no one would hear. When I got back I was so cold I squeezed into Jon's bag.
"I've been wondering,' he said quietly, "why we're keeping him in that cage. It'd be a hell of a lot easier to simply lock him in a cupboard like he did with Patrick."
"He didn't care if Patrick lived or died. I've no intention of becoming a murderer. This way we can leave him all day and not worry about his circulation."
"We could have found a large cupboard."
"Not easy to interrogate someone from outside a cupboard."
"Mmm."
"And think of the psychology."
"How do you mean?"
"MacFife, the supreme example of manhood, naked like an animal in a cage. Think what that's doing to his self-esteem."
"I don't care what it does as long as he confesses."
"He will, and he's inaudible from the road."
"That's a relief."
"And it satisfies some deep-seated need of my own."
"Mmm, kinky.'
I don't know when MacFife gave up howling, but when we looked in at six-thirty he was huddled in the middle of his cage, shivering so much the windows rattled.
"Do some push-ups and squats, stupid,' I said, "unless you want to catch pneumonia."
He rolled over like an obedient puppy and did a few push-ups before collapsing. We ignored him and ate a hearty breakfast of bread, salami and tomatoes, washed down with warm coffee from the thermos. MacFife did squats with his back to us. We threw another bucket of water over him and the floor, then passed another full one through the flap. The stink was horrible. He'd pissed and defecated again during the night. He drank, then washed himself carefully. After breakfast we stood on either side of his cage and watched in silence. It didn't take long.
"What do you want?' His voice was hoarse.
"Where's Glaze?"
He was clearly astonished. "Glaze? What do you want him for?"
"That's our business."
"But…' He checked himself and changed tack. "How'd you escape?"
"From where?"
"After… after that night upstairs in the gallery."
"What the fuck are you on about? I didn't escape from anywhere."
"But… those two were going to…"
"What? Get rid of me?' He nodded.
"Jeeze MacFife, you're as green as you look. When I promised them a truckload of high quality grass, they let me go."
"You mean…?"
"They did the dirty on you, old man."
"Then… why do you want him?"
"Because he pinched my Mercedes, and was unnecessarily diligent with the whip. The cuts turned septic and it was touch and go for a while!"
"But… you took him to hospital…"
"And told the cops he'd murdered Scumble! That was going to be my payback. I wanted him to suffer, not die. You ruined my revenge by taking him away."
"But…"
"You're all fucking buts, like a dirty ashtray. Just tell us where you're hiding Glaze and we'll let you go."
"But… I thought he and Scumble tried to kill… him?' He nodded towards Jon.
I pulled a face of total incomprehension. "Get real, McFife. After having their fun with Frances, Scumble and Glaze drove me up to my place to pick up the stuff, but that fat idiot arrived on blazing saddles and threatened to shoot me. So they did me a favour and got rid of him. If you're into mad and dangerous bastards, that's one!' I turned to Jon. "They didn't do you any damage, did they?' Jon shook his head and shrugged. I turned back to MacFife with a grin. "Those two have been conning you. Poor Gregor! You thought you had a couple of trustworthy heavies to do your dirty work!"
He growled something incomprehensible.
"The only clever thing you did was get Glaze to shoot Scumble. But you were a bit late. He'd already spilled the beans about your dirty tricks onto videotape. So unless you tell us where we can find your remaining unreliable henchman, we'll take the tape to the cops."
MacFife tried to look cunning but he was fraying at the edges. "If I tell you, you'll let me go?"
"Didn't I say so?"
"And give me the tape?"
"Why not?"
"But… I thought you'd be out to get me."
"You? What the fuck for? You're nothing. Your two dumb heavies have more charm."
"But… I thought you were upset about Max and Frances?"
"Get real! Max was totally up his own arse. He had it coming, trying to mix it with the big boys; and as for Frances! That two-bit trollop had lived about thirty years too long already. You did the world a favour with those two. Like you did with that maggoty old baggage, CC."
"So that woman wasn't her daughter?"
"What do you reckon?"
"And she hadn't been blabbing?"
"Nope."
"And you aren't after me?"
"You deaf or something? I want my Mercedes back, and revenge for an unnecessarily vicious whipping. You might have intended harm, Gregor, but you haven't done me any – except for pinning Frances's murder on us. But I'm sure you'll discover you made a mistake about that."
MacFife's face cleared. This was something he could understand. He could buy his release. "Yeah, yeah. Sure thing. I'll tell the cops I made a mistake. I'll tell them it was Glaze.' His voice was hoarse and the shivers made him difficult to understand, but one thing was clear, he was desperate to believe. "So it wasn't you who let that fat guy go?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Cold, hunger and fear conspired to anaesthetise common sense, or perhaps for too long he'd been able to make things happen simply by wishing. Whatever, he believed my story and couldn't wait to dob in his no longer faithful hound.
"If I tell you where Glaze is, and accuse him of Frances's murder, you'll let me go?"
"Didn't I say so?"
Shuddering with relief, he gave us an address. We thanked him, tossed the remains of our breakfast and half a loaf of bread onto the floor, removed the bucket, reminded him of the dangers of coming too close to the cage, stuffed his filthy clothes in a plastic rubbish bag, and turned to go.
"Let me out!"
"When we've got Glaze."
"People will be looking for me."
"Who would look for an unlovely, unshaven, stinking scumbag like you?"
His hoarse screams didn't travel beyond the side fence. We slithered under and crawled on our bellies through long grass until we were far enough away from the cottage not to attract attention.