No way back, p.1
No Way Back, page 1
ABOUT NO WAY BACK
His fellow cops say he’s trigger-happy.
His ex-wife says he’s unstable.
His new lover says he’s obsessive.
His superiors say he’s off the case and under investigation.
His world is coming apart …
He’s a cop on the trail of a killer the law can’t touch.
He has his own brand of justice.
He’s got nothing to lose. Except his life.
When you’ve been pushed to the edge, there’s no way back …
CONTENTS
ABOUT NO WAY BACK
PROLOGUE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
ABOUT JR CARROLL
ALSO BY JR CARROLL
COPYRIGHT
For Rod Jones
PROLOGUE
In the small courtyard of the Earl of Bunratty Hotel, a recently refurbished pub set among factories in the light industrial neighbourhood of Fitzroy, thirty or so lunchers eat and drink their way through a warm Sunday afternoon. By two o’clock the temperature has climbed to 34 degrees on this, the first day of autumn. It’s not that unusual—occasionally it hits 40 this time of year in Melbourne. Though a strong northerly blows outside, its presence is not felt here in this protected zone. High brick walls surround the garden on three sides and a massive rubber tree provides both shade and sprinklings of sun. That sun, high up, glints off glasses of white wine and bottles and cutlery. There’s chatter and light laughter and plenty of exposed leg from both sexes. Two kiddies in harness play like pups around the table legs where their parents eat.
Then the band arrives—or starts to. It takes a while. So much gear and so little space. But it all fits in with some reorganising of furniture and lunchers. Finally they’re set up, and the pocket-sized courtyard is instantly transformed into a noise trap. The lunchers aren’t pleased. Why so loud, for fuck’s sake? Why so many speakers? There’s no escape.
This is an all-girl country band, the Show Ponies. Like the Stone Ponies. The tall dark-haired one who must’ve been told she resembles Linda Ronstadt belts it out, one hand cupped on her left ear. The other two girls just give support, chip in when needed. People start leaving. In fifteen minutes there are more band members, roadies and pub staff than actual paying customers.
Next, a whole new crowd begins streaming in, those who’ve come for the music. They file in by the busload, mostly young dudes in Levi 501s and discreet gold jewellery on their necks and ears who stand staring and licking their chops at the girl singers. They are good-looking, these singers, especially the Linda Ronstadt one. She’s tall, slim, black-haired, well-stacked, mobile come-and-get-me mouth. Tight leather skirt. Moves it all around, gives them a back view now and then.
The one next to her is short, boxy, streaky-blonde. Even bigger tits than Linda and legs a bit on the thick side. Satin cowgirl shirt, stud belt. Smiles well, bouncy type. Some proud dad’s little darling. Probably nineteen or twenty. Then bringing up the rear comes this Joni Mitchell-looking thing, all sad and wispy. Or stoned. She doesn’t actually sing much, mainly slaps the tambourine occasionally.
A bunch of bodybuilders come in. Five, six—seven. All together and in uniform—up-to-the-minute casual shirts, designer jeans. Joggers. Hair shaved up the back. Tasteful jewellery. Slicked down like plump young seals. The one in charge, older and watery-eyed, a juicer, can’t shut up. He’s pumped up about something and letting them know. He’s still gassed from last night, riding high on the first drink of a new day. He probably got out of bed an hour ago.
One member of this group stands apart. He’s looking at Linda, hands in pockets and mouth a bit open. There are a few doing that, all thinking their dirty wishful thoughts. This one, with the group, is twenty-one-two, hundred and seventy-six-eight centimetres, solid. Great muscle tone. Italian. Hair like Sal Mineo’s. The helpless brown cow eyes of a born victim. Bit of a baby face, appealing to some girls. Boys, too. This is the kind of guy that genuinely falls in love with film stars, both sexes. Alongside Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman and Jessica Lange in The Postman Always Rings Twice he’s got pin-ups in his room of Schwarzenegger, Richard Gere, and his favourite, the young Rock Hudson from Giant In fact Rock’s his favourite fantasy for jerking-off purposes, something he does a lot, along with looking at himself naked in mirrors.
This guy, Vince Morabito by name, wears a dark blue silk shirt tucked into the 501s, going down to pristine white Reeboks, The shirt, hand-made, has extra folds of material built into the shoulders to accommodate his muscles, achieved from pumping iron four hours a day, seven days a week. Vince’s a hunk, sure, but visibly soft and oh-so-vulnerable from the lack of intelligence. Tell Vince anything and he’ll pull a little frown and say, ‘Yeah?’ The day after he stops lifting barbells all that weight’ll gravitate to his bum and guts. Presently though, he’s got the hots for Linda, feels a rustling in his black silky briefs. That’s where his weight’s at now. Puts his body in plain view. Hands in pockets, jeans tight across the crotch. Here it is, darling, look. And, singing, she does. But then how could she not, Vince filling her space that way.
Next break and he can’t help himself, comes on to her. Hi. Great voice. Vince’s my name, Vince Morabito. Whassat? Judi, Judi Parr? Nice name. Anyone ever tell you you look like Linda Ronstadt, Judi? Sing like her too. Better, but. Getcheradrink? Coke? Sure. Mind if I sit here with youse? Hang on, I’ll get the drink. Coke, didja say? Be right back. Don’t move, right?
No question, Vince’s in love again. Hurries to the bar in case she’s snaffled by some arsehole by the time he gets back. But she’s not, just waiting with a patient smile. Eyes only for him. Vince’s just about coming in his pants. He can’t know Judi’s got a weakness for beefcake, can’t pass pectorals like his. Just loves these fit young studs with their hard shapely bodies. The hairless gold-tanned torso, muscles he’ll make ripple for her. Veins sticking up everywhere. She’s all wet and squirmy right now thinking about it. Sees herself going to work with baby oil, up and down the main muscle, too. In her mind she’s already got that in her hand, all pink and shiny from the oil. Then it’s inside her. Yum. Adores how he goes in narrow at the waist, then out again. That full round bum and his thick thighs rubbing together when he walks. All that hot gism zinging around in him. How he’s probably hung like a horse and will go all night. That’s all she wants: one night. Judi’s thirty and has a history of it. If Vince knew a fraction of what was going on in her mind he’d’ve blacked out by now. Or run for his life.
Their conversation’s no great shakes—gushed one-liners delivered with greedy looks, all body-talk. Signals flash and bounce, words pass by unheard. While she speaks Vince watches the mouth, those lips and how she likes to leave them open like an invitation between sentences. Talk’s not important. They’re both flesh merchants and understand the score. Vince ascertains the time her gig ends—8 o’clock. Fine. Can he take her out for a feed afterwards? In the Celica? Somewhere in Lygon Street? Great. But first she’s got more singing to do. Getting up, she touches his arm. First actual contact. Little detonators pop in Vince’s skull.
Composed, smug even, he waits, enjoying the show. Judi’s singing ‘Stand By Your Man’. But his mates are leaving now and want him to go too. Come on Vince, we’re away, the leader says. Not me, Alex, Vince tells him. But Alex’s insistent and the other guys stand champing, keen to move. Alex leans over Vince, pressing a point. Vince says something and waves him away. Alex in turn puts a hand on Vince’s shoulder, a fatherly hand. Vince folds his arms defiantly and shakes his head. He’s not going anywhere. Alex’s not pleased and lets Vince know. Vince says to get fucked, he’ll do what he likes. Seeing it’s hopeless Alex leads the rest of his troops out, glancing back once. Vince doesn’t give them a second look. He’s locked eyes with Judi and is wholly preoccupied. Thinking ahead, living it now.
Ten-thirty and they’re coming through the door of Vince’s flat. Dinner was short and to the point. Who needed it anyhow. On the way back she kept her hand on his thigh. Now, stripped down, he’s all she’d wished for. Undressing, she gets him to flex his body, show her how it goes. Make the veins pop up. Judi’s weak with need. They go to bed.
At some point in the night she wakes to a sound. Thump. There it is again. A wall vibrates. But Judi’s thoroughly shagged. And zonked from the joints they’d shared somewhere along the line, her good dope. Christ, Vince has really fixed her good though. She can still feel him there. Hmm … Smiling in the dark, she turns over and falls back asleep.
When she opens her eyes again it’s daytime. It takes a second to work out where she is. There’s no-one next to her. She sits up, scratches her head. Can’t focus yet. Wassa time I wonder? No clock around. She rubs her face, yawns, stretches, tries to wake up. Mouth’s dry, head spaced. Where’s Vince?
Judi gets up, totters nude through the door. ‘Anyone home?’ she calls feebly. No answer. Nothing. The living room venetians are still drawn. ‘Vince?’ she says. By now she’s half wit h it. ‘You here?’ No. Shrugging, she goes to the bathroom and relieves herself. Sits a minute. Gets up, swallows some water. Must’ve gone to work, she reasons. Oh well. Some fucking night. Wonder if there’s coffee? Judi heads for the kitchen. And there’s Vince.
‘Oh,’ she says. Just ‘Oh’. He’s lying face down. Mouth open, pointed her way. The tiled floor’s a lake. So much blood. On him, everywhere. In the open mouth, caked black on his lips. Splashed on walls, sprayed around. On everything. Fanned on the ceiling. At her toes, dark tongues of it nibbling at them. Surely more than one man can contain. Oh fuck. Oh no, please. Vince. Oh. She squeals, backs off, grabs her hair. Heart’s racing now. Staring at the knife, what can be seen of it. Can’t pull her eyes off. Starts to gag, bring up liquid in her hand. Then screams her tits off. Runs the fuck away, into the street, not thinking to dress.
ONE
It’s two in the morning. Dennis knows because he has this clock in him. He’s won money with it. They give him five minutes either way, no timepiece on him, no clock in sight. Dennis has never lost yet. Right now he’s lying on a bed of newspaper and cardboard and has an old army greatcoat over him. He’s had that coat more than twenty years, from actual military service. He can still clearly remember the day it was issued to him at the Puckapunyal QM store, though he’d prefer not to.
It’s June but not cold, not what he calls cold anyway. Dennis has been in some freezing places in his life, including a meatworks where he was once employed as a slaughterman. He’s done time in a morgue, too. Once when he was living in Switzerland the village was snowed in for a week and no-one could get in or out except by helicopter. Everyone had to shovel snow full-time. So this is a stroll in the park in that respect.
He rolls over to get more comfortable on the hard, bricked ground. His whole right side is aching from it. If he’s awake, which he usually is most of the night here, about half an hour is all he can take in any one position. It’s like the bones themselves are hurting. So he shifts frequently, more so as the night progresses until eventually he starts recycling the parts that hurt least. In the end ten minutes is all he can take. If he falls asleep for a while that’s a bonus.
He listens to the whoosh of cars along Flinders Street. At this time of night there aren’t that many. The trains have stopped running. Dennis lies listening for the cars, counting the space between them. Eight seconds. Eleven seconds. Four seconds. There’s something comforting to him about the sound of traffic, like normal life going on somewhere. Certainly no-one could describe Dennis’s present life as normal. But when has it ever been, he thinks. This time of morning he wonders where they’ve been, these drivers. Bars, nightclubs, in bed with illicit girlfriends. A real bed with actual sheets and blankets where you snuggle up to someone warm, press her against you and make love to her. Then go home at a ridiculous hour and feed the wife bullshit about being out with the boys.
Dennis is in Banana Alley, right there by the Yarra and practically under the train lines running in and out of Flinders Street. By day there’s nothing much here in this narrow little cul-de-sac, but at night the derelicts come to sleep. Old men, alarmingly young ones, winos. Some Chinese. Desperates. Metho drinkers with nine-tenths of their brain eaten away. Jabberers. Voice-hearers. Men who conduct heated arguments with a non-existent companion who’s giving them the shits. Singers of unintelligible songs that never end. Men who couldn’t tell you their own names. Human detritus.
Quarter past three and Dennis shifts again. He’s thinking he’d like a smoke, but hasn’t got any. Fuck it, thought he did. Check the coat pockets—nope. Then he hears them. Voices. No, real ones. Australian. Two or three. Three. They’re heading towards Dennis. Louder now, laughing. A bottle hits bricks and shatters. That sound, deliberately smashed glass, scares Dennis. In a pub it means gouged faces, slashed throats, heads through plate-glass doors. Nightmare stuff. Here? Christ knows. Christ knows what else they’re carrying. He tenses up. They’re swearing now. One’s fallen over and got up again. How they swear, it’s like punches being thrown. They’re shitfaced, of course. Real bother looking to happen. And they’re in the right place for it.
Dennis lies waiting and hears his heart. They can’t see him yet. A few others are huddled here and there against walls and in doorways. Dennis himself is against a north wall to avoid rain and wind, protected partially by an overhang of eaves from the terrace of shops along the alley.
He hears this pissing now. One, then another joins in. Just hosing the ground openly. Peeping over his greatcoat Dennis can see them quite clearly, see the pool they’ve made. They belch, fart and bark like dogs. Then, zipped up, drift towards Dennis. Pick him out. Shit I’m cold, one says. Need that guy’s coat. Fuckin’ get it then, he won’t know, another tells him. Any trouble just kick his fuckin’ skull in, right? So the guy comes, leans over. Dennis grips his coat. The guy says Hey, cunt, give us this, and yanks the coat. But it won’t come. Tries again, same result. Looks at his mates, says how the cunt won’t let go of his fuckin’ poxy coat. They come over too. This is terrific. Hey you, scum, another one says. Me mate wants a lend a your fuckin’ coat. Give us it or get bashed. Let’s do him anyway, one at the back says. Teach the dumb fuck a lesson. He comes past the others and throws a boot at Dennis. But Dennis sees it coming, grabs the leg. It just stops still and the guy’s caught on one foot. What the fuck, he says, not understanding, and Dennis flips him over. In the guy’s state it isn’t hard. He’s on his back now and Dennis has flung the coat and got up, legs spread. Next, out comes the Smith & Wesson .38, head-high, double-handed. Get on the ground with your mate, Dennis yells. They’re both a bit stunned, so he flicks one of their faces with the gun and gives them a clear idea of how things stand, what he’s got pointed at them. Now they get it. Now they’re not so drunk. Shit, one says. Go on, Dennis tells them, get down on your guts! Now! Police officer! Police? Christ, Harley, the second man says, what’s this? But Harley’s feeling his face where Dennis flicked him. He didn’t like that, not one bit. The third guy’s got to his feet. In the streetlight Dennis can see all their faces perfectly silhouetted as he shouts at them to lie on the ground, hands on heads. But they’re not moving.
Bastard’s got a gun, Harley says. Not scared, just saying it. Dennis shoves his chest and Harley goes back. The other two start running. Stop, Dennis yells. Harley can’t decide whether to run or not, maybe take this arsehole. He’s big and dumb enough to try. But his mates have fucked off and he doesn’t want to get left. So he runs. Dennis, ordering them all to stop, fires a shot in the air and then pumps five at their running backs. Harley falls, tries to get up, falls again. Dennis tries to reload but his hands are shaking and he keeps dropping rounds. Harley’s offsiders have vanished by the time he’s ready, and then there’s just Harley, motionless on the deck.
Dennis hurries to him, squats alongside and turns the man over. Lifts the head gently. Harley? he says, but he doesn’t need a framed certificate to see why Harley doesn’t answer. Back of skull smashed, hole big enough for two fingers. Exit wound under the right eye. Dennis lowers the head. His insides quake something awful. He holsters the gun and kneels, both hands massaging his thighs. They’re trembling too. All of him is. Shit it’s cold, he thinks. Sirens scream along Flinders Street as he kneels next to Harley, waiting.
TWO
‘So,’ Clarrie Vernon was saying. ‘You fired a warning shot, right? Into the air.’
‘Yes,’ Dennis told him. ‘I already said that three times.’
‘And did you consider where it might land, Dennis? The bullet.’
Dennis didn’t answer.
‘It could’ve gone anywhere,’ Clarrie said quietly. ‘Maybe hit someone. Didn’t you think of that?’ He wasn’t really interested in this, though—just making a point. Dennis could tell. What was of greater concern was that Clarrie had Dennis’s file out open in front of him, reading it over his horn-rims. Closely.
‘Then you emptied the gun, right? At the running suspects.’
‘That’s correct. Five rounds in all.’
