Blood Junction Read online

  “Elvis?”

  “My cat. Sofa’s his space. He’s likely to climb aboard any time.” He glanced at Polly. “You got somewhere, right?”

  Polly was biting her lip but she nodded. India thought about sleeping on the pavement, maybe in a doorway. But what if Red-cap and Dungarees saw her?

  “You’ve no worries from me,” the man said, and as she continued to hesitate, gave a shrug. “Just thought I’d ask.” He made to walk away.

  India hurriedly clambered to her feet. “That would be kind of you,” she said. “Do you live far?”

  He smiled and pointed south. “Ten minutes.”

  India walked beside him, Polly tagging their heels.

  “Have you lived in Cooinda long?” she asked him.

  “Born and bred.”

  They turned right at the Royal, down Kent Street. The man was eating his chips as they walked and India eyed him cautiously, not entirely sure she was doing the right thing.

  “You’ll be right with Elvis,” the man said. “So long as he don’t bring in a mouse. Plays with them for hours. Sick sod.”

  As he said “sod” she saw him drop his pie and chips. He reached behind him, for something at the small of his back, and came at her with a wrench. She made to dive away but he caught her wrist and she felt the wrench crack against her skull, just above her right ear. Then lights exploded behind her eyes, and went suddenly black.

  NINE

  INDIA AWAKENED AND THOUGHT SHE WAS DROWNING. Water cascaded over her face and strips of cloth were clamped over her eyes and mouth. She gagged and choked, fighting to get air into her lungs, and felt something like baler twine cut into her wrists and gravel crunch against her ankles. Then someone grabbed her elbows and hauled her upright.

  She stood with hands tied behind her, feet braced apart, swaying a little, and waited for the blindfold to let in some light. Nothing. She could taste oil and grease on the gag and smell the sharp rankness of excitement and fear. She turned her head and heard the roar of a truck’s engine and knew she couldn’t be far from the main road. Only when it faded did she catch the soft shuffle of footsteps, the fainter sound of breathing.

  “You’re a bit dense, aren’t you?” a man said. “Else you’ve got a kangaroo loose in the top paddock.”

  Some laughter, a raw gloating sound that made her shudder.

  “You should have got the hint and left town while you could.”

  She was breathing hard. Pumping air in and out through her flared nostrils. Trembling. She opened her eyes as wide as she could but there was still no light. She tentatively slid her foot forward. Someone kicked it sideways and she lurched violently, almost losing her balance.

  “Keep still,” another man growled.

  A finger touched the hollow at the base of her throat. India jerked wildly, was brought up hard by someone gripping her elbows from behind.

  Again the finger touched the hollow. Again she jerked. This time lashing out with her feet, her protest strangling in her throat.

  “Keep her still,” the same voice said, annoyed.

  She thought it was Dungarees. Or any one of the ugly mob who’d come for her at the Royal. She felt the bottom of her shirt yanked from her jeans and gripped hard. Cold metal brushed her breastbone. She bucked and squirmed, tried to twist away. There was a tearing sound. Her shirt was slit open to her waist.

  Everything went silent. Her throat froze solid. She could almost feel the feasting men’s eyes suckered onto her breasts.

  Someone chuckled. Then another voice spoke—deep and threatening. “Let her go.”

  Fear had taken a grip on her, made her imagine things; it sounded like Mikey the Knife.

  “Bugger off, will you?” That sounded like Red-cap.

  “Sorry, no can do. I’ve an obligation to fulfil.”

  She hadn’t imagined it: it was Mikey.

  She heard a muttered babble of outrage: “She’s ours.” “What’s it got to do with you?” “Sod off.”

  “Let her go,” said Mikey again, grimly determined.

  “Why the hell should we?”

  She heard a dull slapping thud, like a wet leg of lamb hitting a tabletop. A softer sound followed; cloth and leather and flesh collapsing onto the ground.

  “Because I’m bigger than you,” Mikey said grimly.

  Someone said indignantly, “You interfering, self-righteous …”

  The leg of lamb thudded again, and again. Grit scrabbled and scrunched. Someone grunted, as though the air had been punched out of them. Someone else cursed. Another shouted.

  India was hauled sideways, lost her footing. She crashed to the ground. She curled into a tight ball, tried to make herself small. Her breathing was jerky. She shook uncontrollably.

  The leg of lamb kept thudding. Wet smacks. Dry thumps. Some groans. A thin cry of pain.

  Her eyes were squeezed shut behind the blindfold.

  Heavy footsteps running. Running away. Someone breathing hard. Hoarsely panting.

  A soft scamper. Fingers tugging at her blindfold. India raised her head. Uncurled a little.

  “I can’t undo it,” Polly said plaintively.

  The snick of a knife. Baler twine first, then the gag. Blindfold last.

  For a moment India simply lay there.

  “Get a move on, woman!” Mikey snapped. He was leaning over her. His face was flushed and sweat ran out of his hair. He rubbed his forehead against the arm of his shirt. The checkered-blue sleeve was dotted with blood.

  He straightened up and looked down at her as he would a stubborn dog. The skin of his face was tight and the scar through his eyebrow pulsed red. His big chest heaved up and down. Saved by Conan the Barbarian, she thought, feeling slightly hysterical.

  She sat up and rubbed her mouth. It was stiff and numb. She could feel a swelling forming behind her ear. Huge clouds rolled slowly across the sky. Two streetlights faintly lit the flat wasteland of sand dotted with leafless bushes and plastic bags, rusting cans and broken glass. She could make out the shadows of half a dozen houses, and there was the cheerful green and gold band of a BP garage at the end of the street. Belatedly, she realized she was on the periphery of a rubbish dump.

  A squeal of tires reached them, then the angry roar of a V8 being pushed hard. Mikey immediately reached down and plucked her skywards as though she were made of goose down. She was shuddering and her legs felt rubbery, but under Mikey’s scornful eye she stood and clutched the torn rag of her blouse over her breasts and straightened her spine. Mikey unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off with an angry grunt. Thrusting it at her, he made an irritated gesture at her tattered clothes.

  “Thanks,” she murmured weakly.

  Abruptly he turned his back. India scrambled into the shirt, did the buttons up.

  With a chirp of rubber a police Land Cruiser pulled up beneath one of the streetlights. A uniformed cop climbed out and headed their way, followed by a man in plain clothes. The downy-stubbled constable and Whitelaw.

  “Jed,” Mikey said cautiously, “Justin.”

  Whitelaw and Justin nodded, came and stood next to them.

  India caught herself staring at the muscles shifting under Mikey’s skin as he answered their questions, the way the sweat glistened at the hollow of his spine, and hurriedly looked away.

  Yes, Mikey said, there had been a fight.

  No, it had nothing to do with Miss Kane, it was a misunderstanding over a bet.

  Yes, the bet had been with Ken Willis. Yes, everything was settled. Sorry to have troubled you both.

  Whitelaw glanced from Mikey’s bare torso to India’s blood-spattered shirt. “How come I’m finding this hard to swallow?”

  “Polly’s a witness,” Mikey continued stolidly. “And Billy Bryant and Tony Roberts.”

  “You flattened Fat Tony, too?” the constable said incredulously. “Ken and Billy and Fat Tony?”

  Mikey rubbed his knuckles and remained silent.

  Whitelaw turned to India. “Miss Kane? Y
ou have anything to add to this fairy tale?”

  Slowly she shook her head.

  “Okay,” he said, turning brisk. “Let’s stop wasting time and go home.”

  Mikey looked uncomfortable. “I’m not sure if that’s such a good idea. My housemate’s a bit pissed off with me at present and I don’t fancy an all-night lecture.”

  “Then find a friend. You do have friends, don’t you?”

  “I guess Debs could help me out.”

  “Well, so long as I don’t find you cluttering up some park bench …”

  Mikey glowered at the policeman. Whitelaw looked amused, said, “I’ll give Miss Kane a lift, sort some accommodation out.”

  Grateful to rely on someone to make decisions for her, India thanked him.

  Whitelaw made to usher her to the Land Cruiser.

  “Wait …” Fingering the thick cotton of his shirt, she walked to Mikey. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me,” said Mikey. He was looking at Polly, who was grinning back happily.

  “Mikey didn’t want to come,” Polly said to India.

  “Damn right I didn’t.”

  “I told him if he didn’t help you, I’d get a job at Susie’s massage parlor. He went mad. I had to promise that if he helped you I’d never, ever work in any sort of massage place ever in my whole life.”

  If it hadn’t been for Polly, India realized, she could well be dead. She thanked the heavens for the little girl’s devotion.

  Mikey seemed to read her mind.

  “Got it in one, India Kane. Next time don’t count on me to come to the rescue.”

  India slept fitfully, troubled by dreams. She tried to will her subconscious into driving along a road that stretched like a giant paintbrush stroke to the horizon—but she kept sinking onto a hard bunk and Polly was standing outside the cell asking if she needed help, and India was shouting no, she didn’t, why wouldn’t she go away and leave her alone.

  Don’t push her away so, she heard Lauren say.

  She’s nothing but trouble.

  It’s not her fault. She’s only looking for a friend.

  I don’t want a friend like that.

  Whyever not? She’s a sweet kid.

  A sweet kid who’ll suck me dry.

  You’ve gotta lighten up, hon, and let people in every once in a while. They’re not all bad, and some of them are even terrific guys. Why don’t you just open your heart before it gets rusted shut?

  Lauren.

  What is it, hon?

  I miss you.

  I know you do. Look, I’ve gotta go. Take care, darl.

  India lay in a stranger’s bed staring at the ceiling. It was six in the morning and a square of sun the color of butter lay across the bare floorboards on the other side of the room. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat there in knickers and T-shirt, rubbing her neck and her face, a burning ache of unshed tears in her throat. Unsteadily she got to her feet and went and used the bathroom before slipping back into bed again.

  Whitelaw had told her the room was rented by a cop friend of his, and the mess confirmed it. There were clothes on the floor, boxes in corners, magazines and weekend papers piled by the side of the bed. It was the kind of bedroom India felt at home in: cluttered, keys and change on the bedside table, coffee mugs and gold-rimmed glasses on an open hardcover.

  Being an incurable snoop, she slid out of bed and went and peeked inside the chest of drawers. Whitelaw’s cop friend wore blue jeans and checkered work shirts. On the floor beside the chest were several pairs of hard-wearing boots. She cracked open one of the larger cardboard boxes to find it full of beautiful Aboriginal carvings; snakes, crocodiles, birds and insects were jumbled together—an array of smooth colored wood and bright paint. The next box was full of cheap secondhand paperbacks by Louis L’Amour. No wonder he likes rugged clothing, she thought, distantly amused, he thinks he’s a cowboy.

  Knowing she wouldn’t sleep again, India went across to her backpack and delved inside. It was a peculiar comfort to realize everything was as she’d packed it in the police station. She went through the same routine, unpacking each item carefully and laying everything in neat piles. It was a form of security, she supposed, arranging her personal things as she liked them. She folded a red and gold towel she’d travelled with since she was nineteen and put it beside her toiletries. Placed an expensive body exfoliator on top of it that smelled of mangoes and had cost far too much, even in duty free. She sent thanks to Whitelaw as she removed each item. He’d produced her backpack like magic from the rear of his Land Cruiser last night, and it meant far more than she’d ever admit.

  After a quick shower, she put on a pair of shorts and baggy shirt and headed cautiously for the kitchen, sneaking a look at the broad living room with its cane furniture, scattered rugs and polished floorboards. She pulled open the fridge, expecting to see several shrink-wrapped dishes growing a variety of mold beneath them, and stared.

  Fresh green vegetables, fruit, two legs of lamb, a ten-inch stack of steaks and what looked like three dozen eggs stared back at her. There were two liters of milk, all fresh, and butter and bread and what looked like homemade strawberry jam.

  Not your typical bachelor residence, she thought. She took a packet of coffee, marked “Fresh ground Continental Roast,” from the fridge. She filled the filter machine and turned it on. When she reached for the sugar, she saw a fish tank set to one side. Empty of water, it contained a handful of dry twigs, some dried-up grass, and in the bottom right-hand corner was what could have been a rudimentary web. India licked her lips, peered a little closer—but not too close. There were no signs of any insects, but she could see numerous specks of what seemed to be excrement. Please, God, she prayed, let Whitelaw keep mice, and not what I think it might be.

  She extended her hand, flicked her fingers against the glass just once, very sharply.

  Instantly, the twigs withdrew into the grass.

  India stared at the twigs, the multitude of tactile hairs that could deteced the slightest vibration. The tiny claws at the end of each leg … No, they weren’t claws, she remembered, but a dense brush of hairs to give adhesion on vertical surfaces.

  “Good morning,” said Whitelaw from just behind her and she leaped into the air.

  “You …” India found herself ridiculously short of breath.

  “Oh, dear,” he said, and glanced at the fish tank, then back at her. “I suppose I should have warned you, but last night I didn’t think you’d want to hear—”

  “That you keep tarantulas as pets.”

  “Tarantula,” he corrected stiffly. “I’ve just the one.”

  “A Mexican red-knee.”

  Whitelaw instantly looked enchanted. “How did you—”

  “I wrote a profile of a soldier who had three,” she said quickly. “Sorry, but I can’t stand them. All those creepy hairy legs.” She shuddered, managed a smile. “Hope you’re not insulted that I don’t like your pet?”

  Whitelaw shook his head. “Your reaction’s not unusual. Most people are terrified of spiders.”

  She sent him a nervous look. “You don’t let it out, do you? Take it for walks on a string or anything?”

  “The South Americans do exactly that, I’ve seen it on the TV. But they hate it. The spiders, I mean. I made a mistake getting this one.” His expression was sad. “I had no idea how much they loathe being handled. They’re much better off in the wild and are truly miserable having anything to do with us.”

  India glanced at the hairy twigs poised for action and tried vainly to rustle up some sympathy for a miserably trapped wild creature.

  “Want some of this coffee you made?” Whitelaw offered gloomily, obviously depressed by his pet’s fate.

  “Thanks.” She crossed the kitchen to sit on the squishy divan beneath the farthest window from the Mexican red-knee, and lit a cigarette. She proceeded to scan an old copy of The Australian while surreptitiously watching Whitelaw pour coffee. He was in gray tr
ousers and a white shirt and looked taller than she remembered, and very black. In the soft morning sun, with a snowy-white shirt against his throat, he was so dark he almost seemed to absorb the light and diffuse it.

  India turned a page, and was convinced she saw the hairy legs in the fish tank stiffen at her movement.

  “Did you manage to get some sleep?” Whitelaw asked, bringing over her coffee.

  “Yes, thanks.”

  He switched on the portable stereo, flipped in a CD. The kitchen was filled with light jazz. “Would you like breakfast?”

  “Coffee’s fine. I never have much of an appetite before ten.”

  The detective liked his orange freshly squeezed. He had a bowl of Special K, followed by three slices of Vogel toast with a scrape of butter and Vegemite. Every so often, he looked across at her and half-smiled. India supposed it was meant to put her at ease but she shifted uneasily on the divan and tried to concentrate on her paper without looking at Whitelaw or the hairy monster in the fish tank. Here she was in the detective’s house, drinking his coffee, listening to his music, and it felt as weird as if she’d stayed with Count Dracula. She ground out her cigarette on her saucer.

  “What am I doing here, Detective?”

  “Keeping out of trouble.”

  Carefully, India said, “Would I be compromising your position?”

  “That’s my problem, not yours,” said Whitelaw simply.

  After he’d eaten, he put his dishes in the dishwasher, replaced the butter in the fridge and wiped down each surface with a damp cloth. The kitchen was as neat and orderly as the other cop’s bedroom was messy. It was painfully obvious who did the housecleaning.

  The divan made a small twanging sound when he came and sat next to her. He slowly sipped his second mug of coffee, and she could tell he had something on his mind by the way he would glance outside, then back at her.

  “Something wrong, Detective?”

  “Call me Jeremy. And no, nothing’s wrong, yet.”

  “What do you mean yet’?”

  He looked at her. “Listen, India—and I’m going to call you India whether you like it or not, whether you call me by my given name or not—I don’t want you staying anywhere but here until we can clear this mess up.”