EPILOGUE
The farm
Three weeks later
It had been a simple funeral.
Hazel and Julie had thrown themselves into organizing every detail, even down to hiring the mini-JCB so Alan could scoop out Charlie’s grave. I guessed it held the demons at bay for a while, kept the two of them in their bubble just a little bit longer.
There’d been no priest in charge yesterday, and no formal prayers. We all just stood round the coffin next to the hole, and everybody said their piece; then we lowered him into the ground, Hazel and Julie on one set of ropes, Alan and me on the other.
The whole thing was done economy, just the way a tight-arsed Yorkshireman would have wanted it. Silky was in charge of music. A couple of Charlie’s favourite Abba songs blared out from the camper van nearby, and I wondered if his disco hands were behaving themselves when Boney M’s ‘Brown Girl In The Ring’ followed shortly afterwards. That was when Hazel finally stopped holding herself together. The grandkids couldn’t understand. They thought it was her favourite song.
Alan did the catering. The food was OK, but his kids said their dad’s barbecue wasn’t a patch on Granddad’s.
Later that night, Alan had chucked in a DVD for them, but we’d all watched. We felt too numb to do much else, and ninety minutes of Shrek was as surreal a way as any of not brooding about absent friends.
By the time Alan and Hazel were putting them to bed, I was drained. I sat with Silky, watching disembodied images float across the screen, picking up the odd sentence here and there. It was current affairs time of night; President Bush had stopped by in Georgia on his way back from the VE celebrations in Moscow. The event had been covered for CNN by a local reporter, ‘Emmy-nominated Nana Onani’.
I Googled her on Charlie’s ageing PC before we turned in. The 60 Minutes special had gone out; names had been named. Seismic changes were promised, but of course none had yet taken place. Two guys had been shifted sideways, and the other four had retired to their dachas to spend more time with their families.
Akaki threw up a few results, but nowhere near as many as Zurab Bazgadze. His state funeral had been a bit more lavish than Charlie’s. I searched everywhere, but Jim D. ‘Call Me Buster’ Bastendorf didn’t raise a dickie bird.
Now I was taking a final walk-past with Hazel. The plot was set among a clump of gum trees, with a low white fence round it. She’d thought it all out; made sure there’d be room for her as well, in due course.
It was last light and the sun was really low. Dust kicked up by the horses drifted across a blood-red skyline.
I started telling her how he’d been thinking of coming home when I caught up with him. ‘But something stopped him, Hazel. I think I understand. I sort of missed it, too. You know, when you’ve done something for so long, it feels sort of . . . comfortable. I felt more at home out there with him than I had for ages. I’m sorry; I didn’t try hard enough to persuade him to bin it. I was selfish. I wanted to go along as shotgun.’
She smiled at me and shook her head. ‘I knew the silly bugger wanted to die with his boots on. We’ve been together since we were at school. I knew him better than he knew himself. He thought he’d kept it hidden . . .’
She stopped to look out across the paddock at the dark silhouettes of the horses.
‘Nick, I always understood what was going on in that thick head of his, and was prepared to live with it . . . If I couldn’t make him stop, I wanted him concentrating on whatever he’d got himself involved with instead of worrying about me. That way he would stand a chance of coming home safe.’ She smiled again as she headed towards the house. ‘It worked pretty well for thirty years.’
She tucked her arm in mine. ‘I know he wanted to do the right thing – you know, make sure me and the family were OK. But you know what, Nick? I’d trade it all for just a few more minutes with him.’
I stopped and looked up as her grandkids ran shrieking and giggling from the house a couple of hundred metres away and headed in our direction. ‘You know what, Hazel? I think we’d all have liked a bit more time with Charlie . . . except for Charlie.’
The kids bounded up and hugged their grandmother, still not really sure what to make of things. Julie had told them Granddad had gone to teach the angels how to freefall, and they thought that was a great idea. But then they asked when he’d be coming home.
We reached the house. The VW was outside, all packed, ready to go. Well, sort of. The surfboard only had two bungees holding it down.
Silky came out onto the veranda, arm in arm with Julie. She came down the steps and gave Hazel a final hug, then jumped into the VW. With a bit of luck we’d be in the Whitsundays for breakfast.
Hazel kept her hand on my arm and pulled back to have a last look at me. Her eyes were brimming.
‘Nick, if you see Crazy Dave, don’t forget to thank him for what he’s done for us. The money, getting you two back here – he’s been absolutely wonderful.’
I kissed her cheek. ‘He has, hasn’t he?’
I climbed into the combi. Mother and daughter waved to us from the veranda as we turned down the track.
I leaned forward on the steering wheel, ready for a long night’s drive, thinking about my best mate Crazy Dave.
I’d heaved Charlie into the Taliwagon and followed the pipeline as we’d planned, driving all night without lights, so the helis didn’t see me. From that moment on, Crazy Dave had taken over. He got us picked up on the Georgian side of the border and driven into Turkey. He sorted passports, everything.
He’d got us flown back to Australia, me in Club Class and Charlie in cargo, and then he’d seen to it that Hazel was set up for life. But then, he hadn’t had a whole lot of choice . . .
As I’d crawled along beside the pipeline that night, I’d mulled over what the fat f*ck had said. Bastard’s politico mates had given him a million for the job, but instead of spreading it around he’d skimmed off five hundred grand for his retirement plan.
Crazy Dave hadn’t been far behind.
Charlie had only needed two hundred thousand, and the silly f*cker had probably said he’d do anything for it.
So, I made a deal with Mr Good Guy of Bobblestock while waiting in the Club lounge at Istanbul. He’d give Hazel the whole five hundred thousand, telling her it was the agreed fee for the job. In return, I’d hold off telling the guys who knocked on his door how much markup he liked to take, or telling the companies that used him that he had a quality control problem – he didn’t even check if the bayonets had disco hands.
The bit I’d enjoyed most was telling him that if he didn’t get his finger out and have the cash in Hazel’s account by the time me and Charlie arrived in Brisbane, I’d be on the next flight to Bobblestock, to come and separate his bony arse from his wheelchair.
Silky touched my arm. ‘Why the smile, Nick Stone?’
I took my eyes off the track for a second, and grinned at her. ‘Just thinking . . .’
I’d been thinking about her a lot – for 12,000 miles and plenty of time zones – and normally that would have been her short cut to a P45. I’d have left her in Brisbane, I’d have given her the van. I’d have cut away.
But this time, about 36,000 feet over the Pacific, I’d remembered something someone had once said to me in a car that stank of wet dogs.
‘It’s all about trying to hang on to the balance, lad . . . make any sense?’
I’d nodded to myself on the plane, and I nodded to myself again now.
‘About what?’
‘About how right you were. We are a good fit, aren’t we?’
She laughed and leaned her head against my shoulder, and if that was what joining the human race was all about, I was up for it.
Something else I’d learned from the expert.
We passed the paddock where the old stallion had used to mope, but not any more. I’d f*cked about with the JCB and dug a big hole in the corner of his field, and then I’d put Charlie’s shotgun to his head and given it both barrels. I had an idea that the bay was smiling now as much as Charlie was.