Scrublands(113)

‘Great. Mind if I have a look? Mandy might be interested.’

‘No, mate. They’re just rough ideas. I’ll give her a look when I’ve got something more concrete.’

‘Oh come on, Harley. Don’t be bashful.’ Martin walks past him towards the desk. And as he does so, he sees for the first time a flash in the man’s eyes: a flash of panic. It brings a small grin to his own face, some satisfaction; in the game of verbal brinksmanship he has somehow come out on top.

‘Hey, Martin?’

Martin turns, but the retort forming on his lips is stillborn. Harley Snouch is holding a shotgun, and he’s pointing it at Martin’s chest. Dread falls like a guillotine, the smugness draining from Martin, leaving his guts hollow and filling with fear. The muzzle of the gun is just metres away, black and full of menace. Snouch’s grip is steady, his eyes determined; there is nothing of the shakes or desperation of Shazza Young. He’s three metres away, now he steps closer; he can’t miss, the barrel a cobra poised to strike. All he has to do is pull the trigger and Martin will be shredded, reduced to ragged flesh, blood and terminal pain. ‘Maybe you don’t need to look at the desk, Martin.’ His voice is measured, almost serene. ‘This is my property, and you’re trespassing.’

A thought comes to Martin through the paralysing fear. He remembers the wire, Jack Goffing listening in from the car. Do ASIO officers carry guns? ‘A shotgun, Harley? Really? What are you planning to do, shoot me?’ Even to his own ears, his voice sounds thin, a threadbare attempt at bravado.

‘Why not? There’s a sign on the gate warning trespassers of exactly that. I’m within my rights.’

‘No you’re not. This isn’t America. Besides, I’m not alone. Jack Goffing is in the car.’

‘What’s he doing there?’

‘He didn’t want to come in. Reckons he can’t stand the sight of you.’

Snouch smiles. ‘I bet he can’t, the idiot. I’ve got him by the short and curlies.’ He pauses to think momentarily, reassessing the situation. ‘Maybe I don’t have to shoot you after all; maybe we can come to an arrangement.’ Martin nods, keeping his focus on Snouch, even as he catches movement behind the man out of the corner of his eye. Martin desperately wants to look, to see if Goffing is armed, but he knows that Snouch is watching him, that he will see Martin’s eyes shift, that he will turn and shoot. And if he kills the ASIO man, he will certainly kill any witnesses.

‘So what is on the desk?’ asks Martin, trying to hold Snouch’s attention. ‘What’s so sensitive?’

Behind Snouch the figure of a man moves closer, into focus, but it’s not Jack Goffing. It’s Codger Harris, armed with Shazza Young’s shotgun. Martin’s knees threaten to buckle, his bladder to release, even as he fights to keep control, to match Snouch’s gaze and hold his attention, even as his mind is screaming fight or flight, even as the adrenaline pumps out through his bloodstream. Someone is about to die, and there’s a good chance it’s going to be him: three men, two shotguns, and he’s the one without a weapon. Even if Codger has reloaded Shazza’s shotgun. Where the fuck is Goffing? Still Martin maintains eye contact with Snouch, searches for something to say to keep the gunman looking at him. Codger keeps advancing, calm and assured, deftly flipping the weapon around so he’s holding it by the barrel with both hands.

Snouch, sensing trouble, reading more than fear in Martin’s face, begins to turn. But he’s too late. Codger has already begun swinging the gun, a scything arc. The stock crashes into the side of Harley Snouch’s head. The impact is sickening; he collapses. Martin cringes, fearing a shotgun blast, but the gun hits the floor without discharging.

‘I’ve been waiting thirty years to do that,’ says Codger Harris.

Martin rushes forward. Harley Snouch is alive, breathing steadily. A lump the size of a golf ball is growing low down on the back of his skull, but there’s no blood. Martin gingerly moves the shotgun away before turning him over, pushing him into the recovery position on his side. ‘Jesus, Codger. You could have killed him.’

‘And he could have killed you.’ There is nothing even approaching regret in the old man’s voice.

‘What the fuck was all that?’ demands Jack Goffing, rushing up to them, a coiled earpiece still hanging from his collar. ‘He had a gun?’

‘That one there,’ replies Martin.

Goffing picks up Snouch’s shotgun and disarms it. ‘Is he okay?’ ‘Who knows? Concussion for sure. Lasting damage, maybe. But for now, he seems fine. Breathing and pulse are okay.’ As if to confirm this diagnosis, Snouch groans.

‘I think he’s coming round,’ says Goffing. ‘Let’s tie the arsehole up.’

They drag Snouch into a sitting position, and Martin ties him, hands secured behind his back, to the workbench.

‘Let’s have a look at this desk,’ says Goffing, leaving Codger to watch over Snouch.

It’s not really a desk as such. It’s a clean piece of laminated board, attached by counter-sunk screws to the top of the workbench: a large clean space for Snouch to work under the light of the angle-poise lamp. Martin and Goffing don’t have to look far; the evidence is laid out before them. There’s a letter from a firm, Excelsior Genealogy, confirming it’s able to conduct DNA testing. It says it can certainly compare two samples for paternity and includes two testing kits and a return address. The letter is written on the company’s letterhead, russet branding within a green logo representing a family tree.