The Coterie

Prologue Eddie Dickson knew intuitively he was about to die. From the moment his assailant stepped from the dark, shadowy recesses of the portico, suspended above the entrance to the South Australian Police Headquarters building, it was certain. The realisation that he was going to die sooner rather than later was not a conclusion he reached at that instant, but from the moment his normally ordered, structured life began to unravel just a few days earlier. Strangely, as he waited for the inevitable, it was the compelling desire to see the faces of those sent to kill him, and not his imminent death or how he might avoid it, that occupied his thoughts. For the moment at least, the rain had eased to a light drizzle but still the road was awash with the remains of intermittent heavy showers. The dark, nondescript sedan skidded to a stop a couple of metres from where Dickson stood at the curb, sending a filthy, black wash of gutter water over the footpath, soaking his shoes and the cuffs of his trousers. Suddenly, he felt himself propelled, forcefully, towards the car. He glimpsed only a shadowy outline of the driver, and even less of whoever it was behind him doing the propelling. This man was an anonymous force from behind. No image, no voice—just a sudden, violent shove in the middle of his back which sent him stumbling through the now open door and into the rear passenger compartment of the vehicle. Pushed violently and uncomfortably to his elbows and knees on the floor of the back seat, the one thing Eddie Dickson did recognise was unmistakable: the cold, hard pressure of a g*n barrel held firmly and steadily against the back of his head. One did not have to be a rocket scientist to know these people were not here to take him on a guided tour of the city. They were good, they were fast, and they were efficient. Dickson knew he was dealing with professionals. He also knew what they had been sent here to do, and why. Eddie Dickson might be many things, but defeatist was not one of them. Resistance, although desirable, would be futile in the circumstances in which he found himself. But, while he was still breathing, and as long as he maintained that most basic life-sustaining bodily function, there remained hope. Someone—he had long since forgotten who—once told him the secret to staying alive was to keep inhaling and exhaling. Simplistic in its logic, but well founded, he thought. At least until, and if, an opportunity to get free of his present predicament presented itself. Eddie Dickson was not a young man anymore, but he was surprisingly fit and strong for a man of sixty-four. Unlike the majority of Australian men in his demographic, he preferred fitness to flabbiness, and he was not lacking in motivation when it came to regular exercise. As often as the prevailing weather conditions allowed, he rose early, often before dawn, and rode a pushbike. For two hours, he rode hard and fast around the many cycle paths that crisscrossed his home city. On days when the weather was not conducive to outdoor exercise, he followed a rigorous workout regime in a gym near to his home. Fitness was not so much an obsession as a desire to stay as healthy as possible, given his advancing years. Dickson knew that in going one on one, he could handle himself with almost anyone, even someone many years younger than himself. These two characters, however, were very obviously not in the category of ‘easy-beats’. Still, he would love to try. He liked to think, given the opportunity, he was physically capable of doing considerable damage to his faceless captors before they finished what they came here to do. Eddie Dickson had killed men before, albeit a long time ago. Some he had shot; others he had dispatched at close quarters with a knife. A couple he sent into the next life with his bare hands. Accordingly, the prospect of killing another human being, although unpleasant and not something he hoped he would ever have to do again, was not alien to him. Given his current situation, he knew that the opportunity to revive these long abandoned but not forgotten skills, was not about to present itself. At least not while he remained jammed awkwardly, face-down on the floor between the front and rear seats of the vehicle. All he wanted now was to see the face of the man sent to kill him. He was not overcome with feelings of anger or hatred, or even helplessness. This moment had been coming for some time; he just never knew exactly when. Now he did. The car pulled away from the curb and the anonymous assailant jammed a heavy, sodden boot hard into the back of Eddie’s neck, forcing his face against the floor. A damp, musty odour flooded his nostrils. He hoped it wouldn’t happen in the car. He didn’t want to be found like that. If this is what it had come down to, he wanted his death to be, at the very least, dignified. During the short journey, no one spoke. Any conversation would have been superfluous. These people knew where they were going and what was required of them. It seemed like they had been driving for only a few minutes when the vehicle slowed and came to a stop. He heard the rear door open, and a sudden gust of icy wind flooded the interior of the vehicle. As he was dragged unceremoniously backwards out of the car, he tried to turn and get a look at the man behind the wheel. He saw only a glimpse of a shadowy figure in a heavy coat with the collar pulled high and his face turned away, staring out at the darkness through the driver’s side window. Eddie Dickson had never before had a g*n pressed against the back of his head. But then, he didn’t need to see it to know what it was, or know it was the instrument by which he was about to meet his premature demise. The prospect of dying had never been something Eddie feared to any great degree. It was more a case of the timing of his death that concerned him. He was not ready to die yet. In no doubt that it was about to happen, it was an immense sense of sadness rather than fear that accompanied him on the short walk to the centre of the park. There was more he wanted to do with his life. Places he wanted to go. People he wanted to see. Now, in his last moments of life, the realisation that he was never going to do any of those things filled him with almost overwhelming regret. He peered into the cold darkness that engulfed the park ahead of him, hesitating for just a moment, briefly considering an attempt to turn on his attacker. If he was going to do it, it had to be now. Then, he felt a tug at his collar and he knew it was time. He began to turn and face the stranger tasked with the job of killing him. In the last few seconds that remained of his life, he wanted to face the man and tell him to go f**k himself and, if he got the opportunity, spit in his eye. Then there was nothing. No sound, no pain, no awareness. Nothing. Just blackness. He never heard the footsteps as his killer walked briskly away towards the car that was waiting for him at the edge of the park. At that moment, as if by design, the heavens opened again and he never felt the cold rain as it fell on his back and soaked through his clothes. Eddie Dickson never did see the man who killed him.