Chapter 5.
Dress-ups
Chook dropped me off on the outskirts of the town of Bathurst. I planted a kiss on his weathered cheek, and then, I watched as he rode away. I felt a bit lost, but I didn’t want Chook to get any more involved than he already was; though I knew that he would, willingly.
Chook had told me that he had been in a business and romantic relationship with Dawnie, for the last two years, and things were going ‘gangbusters’. I was really happy for him, and I hoped that I would get to meet Dawnie one day.
I started walking around, hoping that I was not attracting any attention, searching the back streets of Bathurst for a charity shop, where I could buy some clothes, as I didn’t want to risk going to the main street, and the shopping centre, where there might be cameras.
A cool wind blew in suddenly, as I walked up and down this particular street. But I knew that such odd weather as this sometimes happens, even on a summer’s day out here. Then I caught sight of a St Vinnie’s, on the opposite side, just around a corner. I ran quickly across the road, and ducked inside.
Fairly quickly, I sped around the store and gathered together a pile of useful items, which would help me to disguise myself. One shortish, toffee coloured, curly wig; a polyester tracksuit in a dirty pink; a 1970s pair of Homyped comfort shoes in brown; some old fashioned eye glasses; a shopping trolley, in a green, tartan fabric, and a Barbara Cartland novel called, ‘Love Finds a Way’. I paid, and then, quickly headed to the toilet block in the nearby park, and changed into my new attire; shoving my bag of money, and guns into the old trolley.
I set out walking for Bathurst Train Station, which would take me about 20 minutes. I was hoping that there would be no police hanging about, checking passengers, as I only had my own identification, and I wasn’t about to show that to anyone.
As I was walking along, I came upon the Bathurst library. I snuck inside, where I managed to find a free computer, and I sat down and checked my emails. There was one from Sargent Tiernan, telling me to give myself up and ‘not be silly’. He said that, he had managed to keep the story from the press, for the moment, but he couldn’t guarantee anything. Then I checked the train timetable; a train which was leaving at 2.10 p.m., could take me to Central Station in Sydney. That train was leaving in only 20 minutes away. I got out of there, and began walking along at a fast clip.
I soon came to the impressive train station building, which was something between Gothic and Tudor in its design. I thought, as I often did, when faced with such magnificence and craftsmanship, that, for all our progress, we don’t or can’t make buildings like that anymore. I walked in and immediately headed toward the ticket machine, to purchase my ticket. That was easy enough! I thought.
Then, I went to the ladies’ toilet to examine my appearance. I looked rather startling, in the dated, orangey wig, mangy, old tracksuit, and old fashioned reading glasses. I stood staring, almost mesmerised, by how a woman of 28, could be transformed into a fifty year old, so easily.
I sat down on one of the wooden benches and took out my romance novel and began to read the insipid tale of a man who suddenly inherits a Dukedom, and then, becomes involved in a love triangle. Reading, however, was hard work, as the eye glasses that I had bought from the second hand shop, were making the letters very blurry, and kept slipping down my nose.
A short while later, from the corner of my eye, I saw two police officers marching toward me; I felt my heart begin pumping faster, but I kept calm and continued reading –or at least pretending to. The pair sailed past, without even giving me a second glance, turning into the ticket office. I could feel myself sweating under the wig; I was glad when the train pulled in two minutes later, with a screech of wheels and belching acrid fumes. In a little over four hours, I should be back in Sydney.
I finished my book about an hour into the trip, which was both good and bad. Reading it had been like eating sugar straight from the packet, which felt good at the time, but not so good afterwards. But I settled down to watch the beautiful countryside flash and roll by, and soon, I was almost rocked into a soporific state.
However, from the time I passed Penrith, the carriage began to fill-up with many loud and colourful characters, and I felt like I was watching a stage show. One rather large woman, undoubtedly, under the influence of many alcoholic beverages, was ranting about various injustices of the world. After a time, some of what she said sounded cogent and convincing to me, and I began to wonder if sometimes, we marginalise and dismiss people too easily, and so, create greater angst and injury.
Then, there was the man who danced and shimmied up and down the train isle and serenaded the various ladies’ on board; some smiled and others, just looked fixedly out of the window, at the flowing scene. Not me, though, because, in my getup, I seemed to have become invisible, which was useful, yet disturbing. Was this what the future held for me, when I was no longer young and attractive?
Eventually, the train drew into Central Station. It was rush hour, with its thronging, clutter of jockeying bodies, and so, I was able to unobtrusively leave the train, pulling my tartan trolley behind me, and head toward the bus stop.
When I reached East Balmain, I began to walk around the area where I thought Scarmado’s flat must be located. I was keeping a sharp eye out for those distinctive, yellow-green, spindly trees, which I had seen in some of his photos.
Then I saw them, in front of a block of units, which sat next to the complex, where Aunty Zeta had lived, and where I had stayed with mum, years ago.
The block of units was of a blonde brick, ugly 1970’s design, with damp patches of moss growing on its lower walls. I knew, though, that despite the lack of aesthetic beauty, the price of a unit here would be exorbitant; beyond my price range….but then again, I did have a whole bag full of money….
I entered the property, using the key to open the security door. I made my way up the brown, carpeted stairs, to the second level, where I believed Pasquale Scamardo’s flat was located. There were four flats on this floor; I slipped the key into the nearest door and voila! The door opened.
So far I had been lucky. Too lucky.
Inside, the place was a mess. It looked like it had been systematically ripped apart. I guessed that the Sciarra Outfit, or the police, but probably both, had been here before me.
I was looking for evidence to bust this crime family right open, but, since others had scoured the joint before me, I didn’t like my chances.
I stepped inside and closed the door. I was in a lounge room with red sofas and a black and white zebra style mat. To my left, was a small orange kitchen, where drawers and cupboards were flung open, with the contents falling out. I walked a little way inside and I saw a small hallway to my right, with the bathroom directly in front of me, which I recognised from the photos. There were two bedrooms, one on each side of the bathroom. The main bedroom featured the leopard, skin bedspread, and the impressive views of the harbour bridge. The other room was empty, except for a mirrored wardrobe, and a black leather sofa chair.
Where to look first? I stood scanning the lounge room, from top to bottom. Then, I noticed that the glass display cabinet, which hung over the breakfast bar, had a gap of about ten centimetres on top of it, so I climbed onto one of the bar stools, which were lined up in front of the breakfast bar, and peered on top. I could see a leather covered book and a stack of DVDs. I grabbed these things and was ready to jump down and throw them into my tartan trolley, when I saw from the window, a black car stop a little way down the road, and two stocky men, with slicked back hair, jump out, wearing black shirts, jeans, and wrap around reflector sunglasses. I had the impression that these men were here for me.
I threw the book and the DVD’s into my trolley and ran outside, but I stopped, as I was unsure what to do, as I didn’t want to meet those thugs head on. Then, I noticed the security camera near the Stucco ceiling, directly in front of me. I cursed myself; why hadn’t I checked before? Now my
disguise was useless and it looked like the Sciarra Outfit knew exactly where to find me, in less than a minute, if I didn’t get moving.
I started running down the stairs, dragging and thumping my heavy tartan trolley behind me, as best as I could. I came to the glass door, but just as I was about to turn the handle, the two thugs in their wrap around glasses were there, right in front of the door, blocking the way.
They both began to pound on the timber-framed glass doors, yelling threats, but as yet; they couldn’t get in, as they didn’t have a key. What to do?
One of the thugs, with a spiked, greying, black hairdo, suddenly reached inside his jacket. I sped back up the stairs, two at a time. I knew he was reaching for his gun, so, I kept going. As I reached the last floor, I heard the gunshot and the breaking glass, and I felt the rush of adrenalin hit my bloodstream, as I surged forward. Immediately to my right, there was another door of a rusted, fading blue, which sported a sign, ‘Roof’. I tore through the doorway, and up the smelly, cement staircase, to find myself on the rooftop, in the hard light of a late summer evening. I stumbled about dementedly, with the silly trolley, looking for a place to hide.
There were plants in large terracotta tubs, and sun chairs up here, and there were clotheslines of flapping washing, and rusting exercise equipment. It was hot. In panic, I ran and hid behind a shelf of pot plants, and watched as the thugs stepped out into the light; like creatures of the dark, they seemed wholly out of their element. With guns held openly in front of them, they began to hunt me in earnest; throwing bikes and chairs and pot plants aside, to show me that they were in charge. Then, one of them began shooting pot plants and I felt even more like a hunted animal, as dirt and shards of pottery exploded all around me.
I heard the police sirens blaring in the distance, and I felt a sense of despair. In desperation, I looked about me. As the nearby washing flapped in the wind, I saw the words, ‘Fire Escape’, appear, between flaps. I began to edge that way, slipping through the agitated sheets; I tore toward the fire escape door, and pushed it open.
Picking the heavy trolley up, I leapt down four flights of dingy, cement stairs, with my lungs ready to explode.
I came out into the cheerless back garden of the flats, as the police siren screamed down the road, and then, suddenly, cut off in full wail. I edged along the side of the flats, where there were lots of black, putrid smelling rubbish bins lined up. In a flash, I hoisted the trolley onto of one of the bins, jumped on top of another bin, and hoisted myself, and the trolley, over the brick wall.
I climbed down onto the roof of a parked car (a white Honda) and found myself in the grounds of another block of flats. I slipped around the car, into the front garden, hunching behind a clipped hedge. I managed to crawl and climb my way through another five gardens, earning various scrapes and bruises in the process, until I came to the street corner. I bolted around the corner, and ran into a small park, where a group of people were performing t’ai chi. I kept running with the trolley banging behind me. I nipped down a lane, and saw the sign for the Balmain Wharf. I clattered down to the wharf, just as the last passengers were stepping onto a ferry. I sprung aboard and moved to the far side, and before long, we were pushing away from the land. I felt the sense of relief gently flow within me, as I saw the distance between the water and the land open up.
I sat, breathing in the salty air, as the sun slipped away; gliding through the water of the most beautiful harbour in the world. I looked up and watched the seagulls floating and soaring, with such ease and serenity. Strangely, I felt conscious of both a sense of peace and the immense weight of my troubles, as I gazed upon the rippling water, and the great expanse of darkening sky.
After fifteen minutes, I hopped from the ferry, and I was able to make my escape.
I didn’t know who had access to the surveillance camera at the Balmain flats, so I was feeling a bit paranoid. And, there were police about everywhere, so I quickly whipped off the horrid, scratchy wig, and put on Chook’s army hat. Then I took off the dirty, pink tracksuit top, and tied it around my waist. I’d lost the glasses back on the stairs in Balmain, when they smashed under my thudding feet, so I felt quite exposed.
I exited the ferry terminal, by keeping close to a large group of Japanese tourists, who were returning from a day at Taronga Zoo. Perhaps someone would think I was the nanny, I thought, as I edged closer to two teenagers, who were lagging behind the rest of the group. Though, I had to admit, I was a decidedly downmarket looking one, in my mangy wig and trackie dacks.
It was almost dark now and the street lights were on, along the road; showing people pouring from Circular Quay, scurrying by like rats leaving a sinking ship. I bolted onto the first bus waiting in a line, which was packed full of summer tourists and sightseers, who were chatting and laughing happily about what food they were going to eat, and how they would get to Bondi Beach in the morning.
I jumped off the bus a few stops past the city centre, and set out walking, through the backstreets, toward Surry Hills; a very eclectic and cosmopolitan suburb, which sat right next to the city.
I was tired and I was really hungry, and this morning felt like it was part of another life. I really needed to rest and recharge.
I was heading to an old pub, which I knew rented out rooms, with few questions asked. But just before I got there, I ran across a boutique, second-hand shop, on two levels, which was still open to catch the people heading to restaurants and bars.
Most of the clothing here was pretty wild; psychedelic 1960’s and 70’s, and disco wear. However, I purchased a few pairs of black trousers, a few plain t-shirts of different colours, and a black, long wig and a blonde, short wig. At another shop, I bought some expensive black jogging shoes, as there was a good chance that I might need to run.
I wore the long, black wig out of the shop, which made me feel like a different person. When I passed another shop selling bags and suitcases, I sailed in with great confidence, and bought a small suitcase on wheels, and a small backpack. I shoved some money into the backpack, and put the tartan trolley inside the suitcase. Then, I continued on to the pub, where I ate a hearty dinner of steak, potatoes, peas and carrots, and rented a dingy room for the night.