The Killing Hour

Still no traffic so I run over the road and this time, instead of vaulting the barrier, I hurdle it. I land running, pumping my legs hard, holding the briefcase in front of me. I round the corner, reach the rubbish bin and put the briefcase back where I found it. Before I can head back, tyres shriek into the parking lot and headlights wash across the neighbouring fence, sweeping towards me. My only chance is the service alley. I dive just as the light behind me comes into view. I hit the ground hard and come to a stop against a chain-link gate that rattles but not loudly enough for Cyris to have heard. I twist around and, staying low, peer around the corner.

Instead of turning the car around as Frank had, Cyris keeps Jo’s Mazda pointing directly at the rubbish bin. He climbs out of the car and doesn’t look in my direction. He looks exactly the same as last night from the scruffy facial hair to the black clothes. The only difference is a pair of sunglasses over his eyes. He walks to the bin, reaches in and grabs the briefcase. He rests it over the edges of the bin, tilts it towards him and pops it open with his thumbs. The angle is wrong for me to study his expression but not wrong enough to watch him stand there for a full minute, still and silent. He closes the case, turns it around in his hands, sets it back down and opens it again, as if he’s the victim of a parlour trick. Then he turns from the rubbish bin and carries the hundred-dollar note to the front of the car. Carefully he examines it under the headlights, turning it over so he can read the note I wrote for him. In the end he screws the bill into his jeans and walks back to the briefcase. He picks it up and swings it hard into the bin. The impact clangs out into the night. After two more blows the briefcase starts cracking and the bin begins to fold inwards. The headlights isolate him from the darkness as though he’s on a stage.

He stops thrashing the briefcase, swings his arm back and throws it high in the air. It hits the roof of the supermarket and doesn’t come back down. He leans over the bin and starts shaking it, pulling it from side to side, wrenching it back and forth until it tears from the bolts, leaving jagged holes in the bottom. He holds it high above his head for a few seconds, then throws it at the supermarket doors. It bounces off with a metallic thud, the dents in it stopping it from rolling away once it hits the ground. He picks it back up and throws it harder. This time the glass cracks. The third throw gets it through the glass doors. The alarms are instant.

He walks back, leans against the car and watches the supermarket.

I turn around and study the service alley gate. Three metres tall and made up from chain-link wire. I’m sure I can scale it without being heard over the alarm. I do just that, climbing it like a large spider. I follow the alley until it circles towards the back entrances of the shops in the mall. I scale another fence and hit the ground in some industrial section, perhaps a panel beater or wrecker —— it’s too dark to tell exactly. Then over another fence and into somebody’s backyard. I climb into a park, and start to circle my way back towards my car. By the time I get there two police cars are parked in the carpark but probably no Cyris. With thousands of dollars on the front seat I’m lucky not to be walking home right now. I guess it’s a school night for all those joyriders out there. I do a U-turn, pissed off that I let Cyris get ahead of me, but what could I do? Wait for him to stop breaking glass doors then run after his car?

I keep my foot on the accelerator, hovering between seventy and eighty. I can’t afford to be too late. Cyris already has ten minutes on me and I doubt he took his time driving to Frank’s. I also doubt there’s anywhere else in the world he’d be going right now.

I wonder if I’m already too late.





40


There’s no other traffic, no reason to stop at any red lights. Cyris sure wouldn’t have. He’s fuelled with rage just as I was fuelled with despair the other night. I’ve raced these lonely streets before, but the fuel that has me speeding is different from the mix that burned through my veins on Monday. I don’t get lost on my way to Frank’s house, not like Monday morning, and when I turn into the street the first thing I see is the silver Mercedes still parked on the side of the road. Maybe it’s purely for show.

I drive past Frank’s house and glance in. Lights are burning inside but I can’t see his Mercedes. It’s probably in the garage. I pull up two houses further down. Jo’s car isn’t here, at least not that I can see. Either Cyris has been and gone or he isn’t coming. I kill the engine, kill the lights, and wait. I look around the street for any signs of life but it seems like life in this expensive street has died since I was here earlier. I look at my watch. It’s nearly one o’clock.