Directive RIP

  *

  Perfecting an unsteady gait had not been much of a stretch for Ricky Purvis. It was owing, however, to the nerves rather than any alcohol. His provocations at Darling Harbor had defied the first tenet of his karate instruction: to avoid conflict at all cost. What he had done would demand response – could not be ignored. For some, even a bullet in the back would be justified. And it happened every day. That was how he came to be here, after all.

  He let his shoulder bump into a wall and straightened himself up with a tug of his pants. He was heading into the Rocks, the ancient cobbled streets that were the remnants of Sydney’s first British settlement: at best, a haunted collection of narrow, winding streets, at worst, a mugger’s paradise. On this sunny afternoon with a madman on his heels, it was no place for the faint-hearted.

  Purvis was contemplating a stumble on the steps leading to the next level of street in order to manufacture a glance back behind him. There had to be a person of interest there; otherwise, the RIP phone in his suit pocket would have already called him off. He was following the prearranged route which he had been assured was fully under the gaze of concealed cameras; and judging by the visuals on the monitors, he had seen at the Oxford Street suite also included satellite surveillance. Nonetheless, no matter how many pairs of friendly eyes were upon him, he had the nasty feeling the least friendly were the closest.

  He took the steps laboriously, the sight of Cumberland Street above distracting him from the stumble. Riley had assured him that any arrest of a pursuer would come before then; the designated spot would be marked by a purple pot plant out front. Right turn, left turn. He remembered that. It was another cobbled walkway. Purvis checked a passing window for reflections. He was the first stranger he saw. The dark, green suit, straggly blonde hair, flushed pink complexion, more resembled his younger brother, the one who had run off with a high school sweetheart and was still stalking her to this day; he really was a stranger.

  The other man, Purvis caught in a single frame image: strong brow and cheekbones shrouded under the rim of a baseball cap. Too close to have not been heard. Big men like that didn’t wear ballet shoes.

  Purvis desperately sought out that pot plant. He couldn’t let this man get any closer. On the other hand, if he was the spotter he was close enough for Purvis to take him out by himself. That would be a coup on his first job. Purvis’ cheek was twitching with the tension. This might even have been the right street. They all looked the same. He hadn’t been given enough time to prepare. A purple pot plant? What would it look like? Maybe some kid had run off with it. Why didn’t they use a marker that could be bolted down? Did the RIP really know what they were doing? Could they really be trusted? They were splashed all over the news: mismanagement, incompetence, and maybe this would be the biggest story yet: a promising, up and coming member of the Victorian Police Force taken out by some low-life for the lack of a gardening pot.

  Purvis wouldn’t let it come to that. The adrenaline was washing through his muscles on heavy cycle. His next movement, satisfactorily rationalised, would be aggressive; the only thing holding him back was the grip of that other golden tenet in karate: do not go rogue. It compelled him to take another look for the flower pot.

  There was an explosion of movement from the bushes, just two doors up from the window that had alerted him to the impending danger. He spun round fast and felt an immediate surge of relief. The RIP wasn’t so bad after all.

  The scuffle was as quiet as though it really were occurring on ballet shoes, Furn and Nashy were all over the man in the baseball cap. They had him down on his stomach, his hands behind his back. Nothing was said until the handcuffs were snapped on, then enjoying a wry smirk Furn murmured, ‘Wragg, we could read you your rights but then you’d just be aware of what you’re missing.’

  He took one shoulder and Nashy the other and they hauled Wragg Dokomad to his feet, more than a little gruffly for someone considered so valuable.

  ‘About time,’ sighed Purvis, shaking the undelivered punches out of his arms. ‘Next time you need bait I’ll give you directions to the fish and tackle store.’

  He was walking closer, but in a sudden, inexplicable instant of agony, he was flung off his feet, his body feeling like it was being torn in two, and his head bounced against the road. From deep within his throat, a hideous scream came pouring out – seemingly the sum of all the screams he had ever heard in all the mangle wrecks he had attended - the place in his head that had contained them all must have been breached. He pressed down hard on his lip, not wanting to add to them his own.

  Furn prevented a second shot by skewering McNaught’s hand on the picket fence he had just jumped over. If he thought that would be a turning point, he was in for a rude shock. McNaught was a hands-on fighter and he was merely shedding the gun the way a gentleman might his jacket. His firing hand left behind the gun and a strip of skin as it lifted a vicious punch into Nashy’s jaw, and his boot met her at ground level with a rib cracking kick.

  ‘Stay with Wragg!’ Furn shouted at her, employing a kick of his own, hoping to ensure Wragg was still around after Nashy had pulled herself together again.

  There was still silver make-up on McNaught’s muscled neck and gnawed upon ears; it was make-up that needed to be put on thick to conceal all those battle scars, such as knife wounds, burn marks and a chain imprint right across his cheek. The face of a fiendish Tasmanian Devil, right up to the streamers of saliva flapping around his mouth. What Furn read into it most was that only the dirtiest kind of fighting had left a mark. He went for a fast draw, but no sooner was the pistol out from his jacket that he was disarmed with a fearsome chop down on his wrist. McNaught’s other hand went to his throat. Furn was dragged across the street and thrown through a residential window.

  Was that Elvis Presley he could hear? He was in someone’s living room, his head smashing against a sharp corner and then Elvis Presley was on top of him. Terrified screaming filled the room. Furn rolled painfully onto his back; if there were any gaping wounds in his back, the TV screen might plug them. McNaught was momentarily engaged with the home owner. An overweight bearded man whose t-shirt rose to his chin as McNaught head-butted him over the couch; and the screamer, whom McNaught hesitated to hit, not so much because she was a woman but because there was so much new-wave avant-garde furniture in this living room that he wanted to involve in the process. He chose a leopard-print floor lamp, sling-shotting the woman into it. He did it wildly, a man possessed. This man was going to kill Furn. He was going to arm himself with something equally as gaudy and crack Furn’s head open with it. Furn needed to get moving.

  ‘Look at these,’ said McNaught, picking up a couple of weight laden dumb-bells and effortlessly curling them. ‘Knuckle-dusters.’

  Furn’s first attempt to stand up meanwhile was less than convincing: his hand slipped on the TV screen upon him and he was back where he started. He could feel sticky blood between his fingers. He tried to wipe it off on his shirt and give it another try. Elvis Presley, the overweight 1970s version, was still performing on top of him and was moving far more fluently as he shuffled across the stage in his gold embroidered jumpsuit.

  Another man entered the room, though he came through the door, and like smoke under a doorway he started off small and then got big. McNaught turned his attention upon him with his manic fury; his knuckledusters, however, weren’t particularly effective against him: even when they went airborne the newcomer was effortlessly able to elude them. Who was he? Furn was gazing out from under the TV but could not focus through the haze within his head. Still, it was clear the man was too big to be Riley. Someone from Military Intelligence? Hidden backup? Remarkably, the newcomer had a fury to match McNaught’s and any pieces of furniture in the pokey living room that had been left whole in the initial onslaught were getting a working over now as the two giants went toe to toe.

  Furn tried to pry open his eyes further to it, but with his vision so fuzzy he might as well have been watc
hing a rugby game with both teams wearing the same uniform. A kick came out of nowhere, thumping into his forehead. It must have been McNaught, for he was the expert at kicking one person while fighting another. There was no way Furn was keeping his eyes open any longer.