The Killing Hour

When they get to the pier he kills the motor, then looks at her. He has very little to say. So does she, apparently. He removes her gag, then wraps a towel over her wrists to hide the handcuffs. He pulls her across the driver’s seat and outside.

Charlie is out there somewhere, he can feel it. His car isn’t here. In fact the only car here is … he looks at the Holden, and yes, it looks familiar, but he has no idea where he saw it last, if indeed he did. They cross the road. He keeps looking back at the Holden. Something about it bugs him.

They walk towards the pier as the wind begins to pick up around them.





47


They cross the road, Cyris glancing at the Holden that was parked outside the shopping mall last night. I head along the pier towards the ocean. There’s nobody around. For all my planning we may as well have been back out in the woods. I stop next to the rubbish bin with my gear packed in the top of it. I take the pistol from my pocket and tuck it into the waistband of my pants around the back. The wind is getting stronger, stinging me with sand. I’m thankful for the jacket. Cyris and Jo reach the top of the stairs. He lets the wind push the side of his overcoat out so I can see the shotgun beneath. The Mossberg. It’s shorter than when I last saw it: he’s sawn off a good length of the barrel.

He smiles at me when he’s within talking distance. ‘Glad you could make it, buddy.’



I look at Jo. No obvious signs of assault. ‘You okay?’

‘She’s just peachy, just peachy,’ Cyris says.

They stand next to each other, about five metres from me. The wind makes it difficult to hear. Jo lets go of the towel over her wrists and the breeze catches it like a kite and yanks it into the night.

‘Unlock the handcuffs,’ I shout, looking at her hands.

Cyris pulls the keys from his pocket, turns towards her, then turns back to me. The wind has his scraggly black hair standing on end. The grin on his face tells me he’s about to do or say something he thinks I haven’t expected. He raises the keys in the air and they follow the path of the towel.

‘You bastard,’ I yell, moving to the side of the pier and looking over the edge. All I can see is black sand and no water. The tide is out. ‘Why the hell did you do that?’

‘Stop pissing around, partner, and give me the money.’

‘The money’s here. Let her go.’

‘Looks like we need to develop some trust.’ He pulls a knife from his pocket and touches the blade against Jo’s face. I’ve seen how quick he is with that weapon.

I put the bag of money down and step back. ‘It’s all there, I swear.’

‘On your life.’ He laughs.

He pushes Jo forward until she’s level with the bag. He forces her to crouch down and open it. She holds it so he can see inside. One hundred thousand dollars, stacked neatly, looks back out at him.

He looks up from the money. ‘Very good.’

‘Now let her go.’

He shoves her in the back, and I manage to catch her before she falls. I realise I should have let her fall and drawn my pistol instead.

‘One more thing, arsehole,’ he says.

I don’t need to look up at him because I know what he’s going to say and do. I keep moving backwards, letting the momentum of catching Jo push us towards the rubbish bin. When I look up all I can see is the shotgun emerging from beneath his jacket. He points it at us.

‘We had a deal,’ I protest, stalling for time.

‘A deal, uh huh, we had a deal, and I upheld it, partner, I gave you the woman, I gave her to you in one piece. What in the hell’s your problem?’

I start manoeuvring Jo behind me, away from the blast of the gun, closer to the rubbish bin. I keep pushing at her, my hand moving behind my back, moving towards the gun.

‘How noble,’ Cyris says.

‘You’ve got your money. Now leave us alone.’

‘No.’

My fingers curl around the handle. One false move and I could shoot myself in the arse.

‘I called the police,’ I say.

‘Bullshit.’

‘They’re watching right now.’ I slowly pull the gun upwards before putting my finger into the trigger guard. At the same time the breeze whips a load of sand off the beach into our faces.

‘I’d better put on a good show.’ He pumps the Mossberg. The shell crunches into place.

‘I have more money.’

‘How much more?’

‘Fifty grand.’

‘Why don’t I believe you?’

I can see he wants to. His head is slightly cocked to the side as if the sounds of dollar signs crunching inside his mind are heavy. He’s contemplating what he can do with a hundred and fifty grand. Then he smiles. He has finished contemplating.



‘I can get it for you.’

‘When?’

‘Tomorrow morning.’