The clan, p.1
The Clan, page 1
About The Clan
No-one can mess with the clan and expect to live…
The Killing: An unarmed teenage ram-raider is gunned down by police in a back alley…
The Family: The Beatties, one of Melbourne’s most notoriously lawless clans stretching back to the sixties. Now their youngest is dead, and Melbourne holds its breath, waiting for the payback it knows is coming.
The Job: But someone is planning the biggest hold-up in Australia’s history, and no-one, not even the Beattie family, is allowed to get in the way…
Contents
About The Clan
Prologue
PART 1 Danny Boy
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
PART 2 The Job
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
About JR Carrol
Also by JR Carroll
Copyright
Prologue
‘Are we really going to do this?’ she said, propped up in bed with a glass of white wine and a cigarette on the go.
‘Definitely,’ he said. He had come out of the bathroom, and stood buck naked in front of her, flicking water from his hands. She drew deeply on the cigarette, allowing her eyes to wander all over him. There was raised tissue on top of his shoulder and a thin scar that looked like a knife slash across his abdomen.
‘Just like that,’ she said, and smiled.
He nodded. But did not smile back.
‘No misgivings,’ she said.
‘None at my end, that’s for sure.’
‘Are we crazy?’
‘Possibly. Most likely. I know I’m crazy about you.’
‘There’ll be no going back. You can’t change your mind once we get rolling.’
‘That won’t happen.’
‘It’s a huge move. We could fuck up. We could easily die.’
He came closer, then sat on the edge of the bed next to her.
‘You never smile, do you,’ she said.
He traced lines on her face, hardly touching her. Then he prised open her lips and pushed a finger into her mouth. While she sucked on it he said, ‘This is serious shit. You just said we could die, and you’re right. No reason to smile.’ He withdrew the finger. ‘Not till it’s over and we’re home.’
‘Will we pull it off?’
‘Of course.’
‘You’re that confident.’
‘I’ve never been more confident of anything. But hey, this is your idea, remember. Your scam. I’m just the hired muscle.’
‘You’re so cool you amaze me. You’d think we were going to stick up a milk bar.’
Now he smiled. ‘Sticking up a milk bar can be fraught with danger,’ he said. ‘Anyhow, you’re pretty cool yourself. And you’re giving up a whole lot more than I am.’
‘I don’t feel cool,’ she said. ‘I feel scared. Scared shitless. And I’m not giving up anything at all. I might have thought that way once, but I don’t now. Now I just see it as … losing a whole bunch of bullshit from my life. And gaining something I never dreamed I’d have again. It’s a complete turnaround.’
‘That’s exactly how I see it.’ He had pulled the blankets back and was feeling her and inspecting the fresh love bites on her breasts and between her upper thighs. Her skin shivered; she put down the wine and crushed out the cigarette.
‘When do we go,’ she said, subsiding, parting her legs slightly, watching his hand go where it pleased, right down there.
‘Soon. Now.’
‘Not right now.’ Her hand had curled around his upraised sex; straightaway pleasure clouded his eyes like drifts of thick, blue smoke.
Wordlessly he moved on top of her and then she released a sigh of infinite sadness and rapture as he pressed himself wholly and sweetly inside her. The shock of the moment made her stomach flutter and the pulse in her throat pound as always, turning her face and neck a glowing scarlet. During the lovemaking she stroked his sides and back with her fingertips, but had to repeatedly pull them away because of the static electricity in his body.
When it was over he was surprised to notice a single tear sliding down the side of her face, which she had turned away from him.
‘What’s the matter?’ he said. ‘Wasn’t it good?’
‘Don’t be silly. It was wonderful. It’s always wonderful. It’s too fucking much.’
‘How can it be too much?’ he said, kissing where the tear had left its stain.
‘You know what I mean. What if I suddenly didn’t have you any more?’
‘Lover. You’re being foolish again.’
‘Promise me one thing,’ she said.
‘Name it.’
She looked him dead in the eye, but did not speak. She was assessing him; she was always assessing him, as if waiting for the trick to be finally revealed and the game to be up.
‘If you ever get sick of me,’ she said, enunciating the words as if to brand them in his brain, ‘don’t just piss off. Shoot me. Because I don’t want to be alive any longer if that happens. I just couldn’t hack it, darling.’
‘Christ. I’m not going to get sick of you. I’m not—’
‘Promise me anyway.’
He looked around at the .38 revolver on the bench above the minifridge, alongside his mobile phone. Then he shook his head and laughed without mirth, trying to make sense of what he was about to say.
‘All right. I promise.’
‘No, say it. Say the whole thing. And look at me.’
He swallowed hard, fixed his eyes on her wet ones and said, haltingly, ‘If … if I ever … get sick of you … shit … I promise I’ll shoot you. There. Happy?’
She smiled grimly, locked her arms around his neck and brought his face down for a deep, deep kiss. When their lips finally separated she said, ‘Right. Let’s do it, darling. Let’s go in there and fuck the whole lot of them.’
PART 1
Danny Boy
1
Turning the corner and seeing the traffic jam up ahead Bickford said, ‘Got him’, then watched with horror through the rapid swish of blades while the offender’s black Ford Maverick bearing the customised numberplate SAMMY jumped a red light and ploughed into a pedestrian, simultaneously collapsing him and flinging the already lifeless shape through the air like a crash test dummy. The vehicle skidded off the road, demolishing a mailbox, then momentarily threatened to overturn before finally coming to rest in a shower of exploded glass and shrieking, grinding metal hard against the brick wall of a post office.
Bickford hit the anchors, broadsiding the police car on the wet tramlines and fighting the slide instead of going into it the way he’d been taught. Realising the mistake too late he took his foot off the brake, turned the wheel in an effort to straighten, then braced himself while the car skidded backwards past the Maverick, hitting something on the road and then shuddering like a shot animal when it rammed the front end of a stopped vehicle. Stunned, Bickford stared at the ignition light, then through the cracked windscreen saw first one man, then another, climb out of the driver’s side of the wrecked Maverick and take off down the street. The second man limped noticeably. Bickford’s partner, Probationary Constable Damian Rigg, said, ‘Shit. You all right, Marty?’
Bickford said, ‘I’m going to get the bastards,’ and before Rigg could say anything more Bickford was gone.
He ran hard through the rain, turning down a street alongside the post office where the men had gone. He pulled out his two-way radio as he ran; air blew from his cheeks in short, controlled bursts, keeping time with the pumping of his muscular thighs. Martin Bickford had raced in marathons and could maintain a constant speed almost indefinitely once he got his rhythm. The punks would certainly be no match for him if he got them in his sights. If they had any brains they’d have separated by now, he thought.
A high, cyclone wire fence marked a dead end, beyond which lay a carpark and supermarket. Bickford stopped, got his breath, saw a lane that went parallel to the fence and followed it. There were no lights along here and he kept his hand on his holster as he ran, splashing through puddles and slipping repeatedly on the uneven flagstones. Then he tripped on a loose brick and pitched headlong, just managing to break his fall with both hands. The radio flew from his grasp, skittering away somewhere in the inky dark.
‘Fucking Christ,’ he said. A foul smell on his clothes told him he’d landed in dog shit. Then he heard a crashing sound further ahead. He stayed still, listening. Someone was muttering. Bickford got to his feet and unholstered his .38. The second finger on his barked right hand felt dislocated and he clenched his face against the bolt of pain that shot through him.
He advanced stealthily in a crouched position, minimising the target he presented, holding the firearm out in front of him in the regulation two-handed grip, the palm of his left hand under the butt, and tried to distinguish shapes in the dark. If I can’t see him he can’t see me, he thought. There were the back fences of houses bordering the other side of the lane to his left, and Bickford assumed that the man had tried to get over one, but couldn’t owing to his damaged leg. He listened for further sounds. He could almost see now, and ther e was someone moving not ten metres away. But were there one or two of them? Bickford couldn’t tell. The shape appeared to be huddled against the fence, and he was either mumbling to himself or speaking to someone else. Bickford came closer, crouching, then gave the standard order: ‘Police, don’t move!’
A man shouted and sprang awkwardly to his feet. Bickford repeated his command. The man thrust out a weapon of some kind and Bickford said, ‘Don’t be stupid! Put it down! You’ve done enough for one night! Put it down, fuck you! Put it down or I’ll shoot!’
‘Get fucked,’ the man said, and came at Bickford. Christ, was that a knife or an iron bar in his hand? Bickford fired twice. The man grabbed Bickford’s shirt, grunted, and said, ‘You’ve shot me. Oh, no.’ Something clattered to the ground. Bickford pushed the man off him and let him slide.
‘I warned you!’ he said. ‘I told you I’d shoot! Why didn’t you listen, fuck you! You bastard!’
‘Shit, I’m gone,’ the man said. Then he coughed.
Bickford holstered his weapon, then knelt. The man was in terrible shape. There was nothing Bickford could do. Where was that fucking radio? The man coughed and wheezed. Bickford cradled his head and felt blood disgorge from his mouth. He was going to have to leave him here to get help, but he would probably die before it arrived. Bickford was in two minds. It seemed wrong to leave him lying here in the rain in this condition, and yet he would certainly die if Bickford didn’t go immediately. ‘Why?’ the man said wearily. He was slipping. ‘Why?’ he said again.
‘I didn’t want to shoot. You made me,’ Bickford said.
The man groaned. Bickford could feel the life leaving him. He decided to stay there. The man suddenly grasped his arm as if he’d remembered something important and then his head shot up and he stared at Bickford. It was the first time Bickford had seen his face clearly. He wasn’t even a man, but a boy.
‘Steady,’ Bickford said. ‘Hold on, son.’ But to what? The last strand had unwound. The boy squeezed Bickford’s arm, vomited more blood over his shirt, then swooned and died. Bickford actually felt the passing of life from the boy’s body in the form of a violent spasm that trailed away into nothing. He set him gently down and wiped his hands on his thighs. Then he saw that the weapon the boy had wielded was a piece of paling fence.
‘Not my fault,’ he said. ‘Why did you make me do it? I told you I’d shoot. I gave fair warning. You young bastards! Why can’t you do as you’re told, for Christ’s sake? Why?’
*
Two screws approached Barry Beattie on the way back to his cellblock following breakfast. He saw them coming towards him, against the traffic of prisoners, most of whom gave them a wide berth. Both screws were bastards, known bashers, and Beattie braced himself for some unwanted attention. His history as an intractable and his more recent involvement with the Prisoners’ Action Group had made him a favourite target for persecution. Several months earlier they had denied him toilet paper for a fortnight after he had blocked the plumbing by shoving rolls of it down the bowl in his cell and causing minor flooding while staging a protest against prison conditions. Screws went out of their way to make life a bastard for Beattie, but he had nothing but contempt for the pettiness of their mindgames. So what did they want with him now, for fuck’s sake?
‘Governor wants to see you, Beattie. Now,’ one of them, Masters, said.
‘What have I done this time?’ Beattie said.
‘You’ll find out. And shut your face. Move it,’ the second screw, Blicic, said, prodding Beattie with his stick. ‘Button your shirt and make yourself presentable, if that’s possible.’
*
‘It’s bad news, Beattie,’ the governor told him as soon as he was in the room, immediately the door was closed. ‘Your son Danny’s dead, I regret to tell you.’
Beattie stood facing the governor’s desk. He had not been invited to sit down. Masters and Blicic flanked him. He could smell the garlic on Blicic’s breath and the stale body odours that were impregnated into his clothes. He dropped his shoulders and his mouth opened slightly. The governor waited for the information to sink in, then said, reading from a sheet in his hand, ‘Apparently he and a friend stole a car last night and used it to ram-raid a clothing shop. Police pursued them, they ran over and killed someone, then crashed the car. Your boy and his mate took off, but an officer gave chase, there was a confrontation and Danny was shot dead.’
Beattie stared at the governor. ‘Shot?’ he said blankly.
‘He was called upon to surrender, but refused to comply and chose to attack the officer instead.’
Beattie licked his lips. He was numb all over, and when he looked down at the faded cobweb tattoo on the back of his hand he felt as if it were not his hand at all. He felt that he was a floating, swirling head with no body attached. The governor said, ‘Not much detail is available at this stage. A full investigation is currently being conducted. I’m sorry, Beattie.’ He didn’t sound sorry, however. He sat back in his swivel chair, made an inverted vee beneath his chin with his fingertips and seemed to study Beattie with the clinical and faintly amused curiosity of a scientist waiting to observe the effects of an experimental drug on a rat’s behaviour.
‘I want to see my wife,’ Beattie said in a cracked voice.
‘All right.’
The message was spreading from Beattie’s brain to the various extremities of his body. He felt as if he were having a stroke. ‘Today. This morning. I need to see her.’
‘Yes, of course. Anything else? Counselling? The chaplain will be only too—’
‘Fuck the chaplain,’ Beattie said.
The governor bridled. Prisoners did not use bad language in his presence, in his own office. Masters and Blicic both moved slightly, flexing their bodies as if getting ready to sort Beattie out at the given signal.
‘All right, that’s all for now,’ the governor said. ‘As far as the funeral is concerned, arrangements will be made for you to attend.’ Beattie shuffled towards the door. He felt the hand of Masters guiding him unnecessarily, and shook it free. ‘It’s a pity you weren’t at home to exercise some control over your son, Beattie,’ the governor said to his back. ‘But then that probably wouldn’t have made any difference, would it?’
Beattie turned his head towards the governor and balled his fists. ‘That wasn’t necessary,’ he said.
‘Neither was your son’s death. Think about it.’
*
Back in his cell Beattie let the tears flow. He had not said anything to his cellmate, Lionel West. Once he had been locked in and the screws were gone he stood against the bars, leaned on his forearm and cried silently. West watched his quivering shoulders for a few minutes, then said, ‘What’s wrong, mate?’
Beattie turned slowly around, wiped his face with his sleeve and blinked out fresh tears before he could answer. ‘Fuckin’ jacks blew off my boy,’ he said.
‘Jesus. Shit, no,’ West said.
Beattie sniffed up a long strand of snot, which then plastered itself on his mouth and chin. ‘Young Danny. They didn’t need to do that. He wouldn’t a done nothin’. He wasn’t that violent ’less he was really provoked. Just a wild young bugger, that’s all. Not much different from me when I was his age.’
‘Sure,’ West said. Lionel West knew about violence. He had burned and bludgeoned his wife of twenty-two years to death with a hot iron after she had smoked his last cigarette.
‘Danny’d only have a go if he was pushed into a corner, and then you could only bring him down with a fuckin’ axe. I seen that maybe three times in his whole life. One thing a Beattie knows is to back himself. It’s in their blood, mate.’
‘I’m sorry, Barry,’ West said.
‘Shot him down in the street like a fuckin’ mongrel dog. And fuckin’ Harbutt blames me for it, the rotten bastard.’
‘Did he. Fucking low cunt.’
‘I’m not the one with the gun though, am I? That bastard’s walkin’ free.’
West gave him a cigarette. Smoking in the cells was not permitted, but what the hell. They sat on Beattie’s bunk and smoked. Beattie said, ‘Dirty filthy fuckin’ jacks. Murderin’ fuckin’ cunts. Mate, they chased the kid, naturally he’s gonna panic and lose the fuckin’ vehicle. So he’s hit someone, right? Whose fault’s that? Who’s the fuckin’ responsible party?’
