Foley & Rose Collection

Chapter 16

As caravans go, this one was small, equipped with the very basic of facilities. At one end, just inside the door, there was a tiny club lounge with a table, easily converted to form a single bunk should it ever be necessary to accommodate more than two people. In the centre, opposite the lounge and built against the wall, a barely adequate, two-burner stove, a small, dual gas/electric refrigerator, and a tiny stainless steel sink with shallow cupboards above completed the kitchen layout. At the opposite end, in the rear of the compact unit, sat a double bed more suited to one average size person than two of smaller build.

To the man seated at the table-come-bunk, it was of little consequence his home might be considered to be a little on the claustrophobic side. He never intended for it to be anything other than a temporary abode. Rather, it was the plain, unpretentiousness of it that attracted him when he was looking for a base while he went about the business he had set for himself.

He had a much bigger home once; a real home. Five bedrooms, two bathrooms, a huge swimming pool, all surrounded by beautiful tropical gardens, and just a short walk from the ocean where his children often played. But, that was before they locked him away, and the bank grabbed it all because he couldn’t make the mortgage payments while incarcerated in that godforsaken place.

There were those who had to pay for what they did to him. Most of them had already paid. There were two left still to atone, and their time was fast approaching.

There would be no belly wounds, however, like the one he inflicted on Richter. He grimaced and shuddered with the memory of it. He enjoyed killing that bastard. He enjoyed watching him fiddling and fretting, trying to stuff his insides back into his belly. Jesus the f*****g fat pig stank! Pig, yeah! How appropriate. He chuckled softly. The f*****g fat pig was too fat, and too slow to get out of his chair. Jesus, it was easy! Just walked up to him and – s***h, s***h – you’re dead, you fat pig! s**t he stank! Almost f*****g gagged. Fat bastard smelt like he had been eating s**t sandwiches.

slash, slashThe others, the ones who followed Richter, were throat jobs. No more gut jobs for him, he couldn’t stand that stink again. The last two would be throat jobs also. Not that it really mattered; he was quick and deadly efficient whichever method he chose. However, he remembered the stink from Richter’s guts, and that convinced him to go for the throat for the rest of them.

He was particularly looking forward to getting Sam Rose. Rose! Rose! What sort of Nancy-boy name was that? A f*****g fairy name, that’s what that was. Well, he’d fix Mister Sam-f*****g-Rose! He would be the last. Yeah, save the best ‘til last. Rose would be the finale, the coup de grace. The prick would already be shitting his pants. He would have the list by now. He would be one worried, s**t scared, ex-f*****g copper. He might even take more time with Rose, carve him up slowly. Let the bastard see himself dying. Yeah! That’s what he would do, carve him up slowly. Listen to the bastard scream and beg for it to be over! He shivered with delight at the anticipation. Justice they called it when they locked him away. Justice! He would show the bastards justice. Then it would be over.

Rose! Rose!see It wouldn’t be much longer before he would be on his way, away from this place. His work was almost finished. Not that he would have minded staying longer if necessary. He had gotten used to his “home” over the last few months. It was small but adequate for his purposes, and reasonably comfortable. Besides, he was accustomed to living alone in a confined space. Prison will do that to you. It was a bloody palace compared to Berrimah Prison.

He was on his own, had been for a long time now, and would be for a long time to come, perhaps for the rest of his life. It would not be wise, he supposed, to get too close to anyone again. Don’t want to slip up and raise anyone’s suspicions. Being alone was a price he was prepared to pay for the things he had done, and still had to do.

He had no immediate need for anything more elaborate than the caravan. Not yet. It was inconspicuous, and that was an advantage. It wouldn’t do to have a residence so audacious as to attract unwelcome attention. He couldn’t afford one anyhow; prison wages don’t allow for huge mortgages. Fortunately, the road that ran past his property carried little traffic most of the time, except for the weekends. Then the stupid rubbernecks cruised past all day.

Berry Springs was a rapidly expanding, semi-rural area forty minutes south of Darwin, a place where wishful, would be property owners flocked at weekends in a quest to find their little piece of paradise away from the rat race of the city. Developers also cruised the area in their flashy four-wheel-drives, touting for potential customers by offering acreages at prices relative to their distance from Darwin.

The caravan, located towards the back of the twenty-acre block, was obscured from the distant main road by a moderately dense stand of trees. The access road through the land to the caravan was rough. He deliberately left it that way as a deterrent against intrusion by curiosity seekers. Not that it was his land, exactly. The truth was, he had no idea who owned it. Nor did he care. He knew it was not part of the development land on offer because it was not listed for sale in any of the brochures readily available from the makeshift sales office ten-minutes-drive away. He suspected it was Crown land and he was, in all probability, a squatter. However, the legalities of his being there were of little concern to him. If, by chance, anyone should question his presence, he would simply plead ignorance and move on. There were plenty of places he could set up camp. To the unknowing, he was just another of the many unemployed drifters who seemed to gravitate to the Top End like so much of life’s discarded flotsam. He had few belongings, and was prepared to leave at short notice with no fuss should the need arise. The last thing he wanted was to attract attention any greater than passing curiosity. He had let his appearance deteriorate to the point where even the closest inspection would never reveal that he was, in fact, university educated, and had an IQ of one-hundred-and-fifty; just short of genius.

It would not be for much longer. He had escaped scrutiny for this long. He was sure he could continue to do so until he had finished what he set out to do. Then he would leave the Territory forever. Everything was going just as he had planned. He was pleased with himself. His plan was perfect. The police were chasing phantoms as well as their tails. Stupid, dumb bastards! Stupid, dumb bastards! They were running around in circles with their stupid heads up their stupid fat arses! He chuckled softly again.

He lifted the knife from the sharpening stone, and wiped a thin film of oil from the blade. He examined the edge. It was sharp, very sharp. Carefully, he tested the edge with his thumb and a tiny droplet of blood formed. Yes, it was sharp, but he could make it even sharper. Why not? There was nothing else he would rather do. He lowered the knife and placed the blade against the stone once more. Slowly, deliberately, with practiced expertise, he dragged the blade towards him across the surface of the sharpening stone. He listened to the “swish, swish”, of steel on stone. Soon, he once again fell victim to the mesmerising sound it made as he prepared his instrument of justice for the task that lay ahead. He closed his eyes, lifted his head, and began to rock back and forth slowly to the rhythm of the “swish, swish”. He smiled.

“swish, swish”,“swish, swish”.