The Big Smoke Page 2

  THREE

  Fortitude Valley. It sounded all right — fortitude was just what he needed — but as Kevin stared at the crumpled map he'd bought at a servo, he found little comfort in the maze of meaningless names and streets, his forehead aching as the lines and titles morphed into a mess of doodles. He rubbed his eyes, tried to ignore the dryness in his mouth, a sensation in his gut that was empty and tight at the same time.

  He needed to rest. A cheap motel? Maybe one of those boarding houses with the peeling paint and rusted roofs he'd driven past? No, the idea of sharing space with other people didn't appeal. It wasn't safe. For anyone.

  Of one thing he was certain — he wasn't leaving the Monaro. Fuck that. He'd given up too much as it was. He wasn't letting the car go. Not until he had to.

  He threw the wrinkled map on the passenger seat and fired up the car. The burble of the engine, the feeling of control as he steered out into the traffic, helped settle his nerves. A little. He had until dawn.

  Driving slowly, letting the streetscape sink in, he noted the haphazard mix of rundown housing, new apartments, shops and offices. A mall opened, threatening with the flash of lights, clumps of shadowed figures, cops patrolling in gangs of four. There was an obviously Asian sector that, according to his map and the various signposts, was Chinatown. Hard to mistake the big wooden gate with the lion statues. Or were they dragons?

  Didn't matter, there could be no shelter for him there.

  So where could he hole up while he searched for the Needle? Afraid to park on the street, he'd spent the day under cover at the airport, just one of many in the long-term section. He'd slept in the boot. It had cost a fortune and he was low on cash. Hours passed as he drove around and around the Valley. Seedy and busy, it was a place close to Thorn where he could blend in, he hoped.

  Like a meter for this confidence, the petrol gauge arrowed toward empty. The hollow space in his gut expanded, the pressure causing his temples to throb as dawn crept closer. His vision clouded, the iris of black contracting until all he could see was dead ends.

  Kevin almost missed the shop and had to reverse to check it out.

  It was on a quiet back street a few blocks from the Brunswick Street Mall, surrounded by tin sheds and sagging, decrepit houses. Boards covered the windows, spray-painted warnings of No Trespassing discernible under the tags and graffiti.

  Hope flared. His vision cleared; the weight on his chest lifted. He could just read the faded Merle's Coffee sign fixed to the stained bricks of the front wall. At the rear, he found a lane and loading dock that suited perfectly. He used the tyre iron to break the chain. The metal door slid up with a rusty screech. Cobwebbed crates and bits of esoteric machinery cluttered the bay, but he had room to park the Monaro.

  Bugs scuttled in the headlights. The smell of coffee lingered in a musty mix of dust and mildew that made his nose itch. This could be it — sanctuary.

  A quick look around revealed a large, empty space backing on to the dock, and an office and reception at the front.

  He crept up creaky wooden stairs. His eyes adjusted until he could see the webs and vermin shit.

  Dirty water flowed from the tap in the kitchen, gradually running clear. The initial shriek of the pipes made him wince. He hadn't been aware of his ramped-up hearing scanning for any hint of danger, but he felt it retreat from the piercing noise, filtering back to a less painful level. He was ready for the scream and rattle when he tested the taps in the bathroom with its crusty shower-head, brown-stained bath and toilet. He could smell rotten wood; if he concentrated, he could hear the drip-drip-drip of the hidden leak, the scuttling of cockroaches and rats behind the walls, the munching of termites.

  There was no hot water, no bulbs for him to test the lights. He imagined the power had long been cut off. But this place would do. Hell, yes, anything to get out of sight and out of the sun.

  He returned to the car and nestled into the driver's seat. The night was almost spent. His energy drained away; finally, he could stop running, take stock, rest.

  He checked his map once more. He'd made a list of tattoo parlours from a search at an internet café, leaving the coffee untouched but filling several pages of a notebook with addresses. It was a massive task, with more than fifty parlours just in the central city area. He'd marked the locations as accurately as he could on the map. One of them, he hoped, would lead him to the Needle; and the Needle would lead him to Mira. Hungry and impatient, he folded the map and fumbled with the tuner until he locked on to the strongest FM signal he could find. Talking Heads were singing about running away from a psycho killer. He laughed, the sound brittle and humourless. He settled back, closed his eyes, tried not to think of the odds against him succeeding.

  He could understand Danica not wanting him to kill Mira: Dee was her biological mother, after all. But Kala?

  Her words came back to him, the two of them arguing as he packed his duffel bag. 'Don't pretend this is about me,' she'd said. And he saw her again, fingering her ear lobe, the flesh smooth now, no sign of the hole left by Mira's savage removal of the silver earring.

  It wasn't about Kala, or the things that had been done to her.

  'Don't go,' Danica had told him, even though she admitted there was nothing more for her to teach him. 'Killing Mira will resolve nothing.'

  Fresh is best. Straight from the vein

  Taipan, as though he was saying it for the first time.

  So much for a dish best served cold.

  He was Taipan's child. That was true. And an orphan twice over. Taipan had also died. And maybe he had found the peace that eluded him in preternatural life. But both Mira and her right-hand man, Hunter — Kevin always thought of the man by his rank, not his name — had survived.

  While Kala, Danica and he had escaped — skulking at the arse end of the country, living like leeches in the mud and tropical heat — it did not feel like victory. Not while Mira was free.

  Kevin turned off the radio and covered himself with a coat as he laid his seat down, lacking even the strength to crawl into the back.

  Dawn came, thin lances of sunlight glowing in the dust. The hunt would begin at sundown.

  FOUR

  Blood.

  Ink. Sweat.

  Fainter: bourbon. Fainter still: marijuana.

  Overriding it all, though, there was blood. Kevin's vision blurred as the smell triggered his hunger. His gut ached to be filled.

  'Yeah?'

  Kevin blinked, focused. Night three, tattoo parlour number eight on his list.

  He was leaning on a glass counter; the cabinet was filled with trinkets covered in silver skulls and marijuana leaf motifs. A book of flashes lay open: pegasi and tigers, rainbows and skulls. From behind a curtained doorway, a tattoo gun buzzed. In plastic chairs along one wall sat two lads no older than him, short hair and thick necks, tattoos dripping down biceps.

  And behind the counter, the girl, slightly younger — late teens, perhaps — pierced through eyebrows and nose and lip, dreadlocked hair, her nipples misshapen with rings where they pushed against her tight singlet.

  'Hello?' she said, waving her hand in front of his face.

  She stared with red-rimmed eyes from under pencilled brows. Pale skin highlighted the montages on her upper arms, the Asian script on her forearms, the purple veins pulsing under skin and ink.

  'I'm lookin' for the Needle,' he told her, his voice low and rasping, his throat dust dry with thirst. He'd drunk nothing but water for a week.

  'We got lotsa needles.'

  'A person. A tattooist. Called the Needle. Does silver tatts. Know him?'

  'Silver tatts?' A blink, a flinch. He smelled — felt — her rush of adrenaline. Veins pulsed in her throat. She stood back, crossed her arms. Physically, she reminded him of Kala. Flat, bare belly, framed by hip bones; a dangling chain sparkling with gems at her navel. Jeans so low her pubis bulged above the clip.

  The flesh there would be soft. There, and inside her arms, on her throat.
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  His gums throbbed. His fangs ached in their sheaths to tear into that skin, to free the sustenance his body craved.

  She backed up against the wall, her eyes never leaving Kevin, and rapped on the thin sheeting beside the doorway.

  'Flash?' she called.

  The lads looked up, more curious than threatening. Kevin was in blue jeans and an AC/DC shirt. They wore black and ink. Not that different to the eye. They avoided his gaze, huddled over a piece of paper and continued to talk about colours.

  The tattoo gun stopped.

  A bearded face emerged from behind the curtain.

  'What's up, Jen?'

  Kevin didn't give her a chance to answer. 'I'm lookin' for a bloke goin' by the name of Needle.'

  'Who's askin'?'

  Kevin licked his chafed lips, his tongue like sandpaper. 'A friend recommended him. Silver tattoos. Egyptian.' The man's veins stood out under his throat, in his upper chest. There was a smudge of blood on his white surgical glove.

  How long had it been since Kevin had eaten? Really eaten?

  'I can ask around,' the tattooist said. 'Where can I reach you if I find this fella?'

  'You know him?'

  'Silver tatts, that'll stand out. You sure he's in Brissie?'

  'Pretty sure.'

  He jerked a thumb at the girl. 'Give Jen your number.'

  'I'll come back.'

  'We open at noon.'

  'After dark.'

  'We close at seven, unless you want a job done.'

  'I'll be here at sundown.'

  'Suit yourself.'

  Kevin stepped out and leaned against the nearest wall as he willed his body back under control. Hunger uncoiled inside him, a balled python in his guts reaching up and up, making his throat clench.

  He had tried normal tucker and succeeded only in making the hunger worse. He could eat regular food — should eat, in fact — but he needed blood. Maybe the Needle could provide some baggies or decant.

  A moment surged through his weakness; Taipan feeding him:

  Fresh is best, fella: remember that

  He forced the phantom back, behind the doors in his mind that Danica had taught him to use. A way of controlling the lives he'd absorbed, the experiences he'd been gifted by his maker. To prevent him from being overwhelmed.

  Kevin pushed off from the wall and headed for base.

  The city knotted around him like lantana vines, thick and barbed. Traffic, the rhythmic bass of night clubs, the constant burble of voices and hyena laughter, the scents of booze and colognes and the melange of foods, stale water, rotting trash. Bodies flashing hot — arms and legs, chests and bellies — naked and glistening in the humid February night. And underneath it all, the drumbeat of hearts, the pulsing of blood, the warmth within that thin, vulnerable skin.

  He had to get off the streets. The last thing he wanted was to hurt any more innocent people, and with his hunger running rampant, he doubted he could stop at just a sip. As bad as the cravings were, he had to hold on one more night. Always, just one more night.

  FIVE

  They'd got lucky with the room: third floor, and a viable angle onto the tattoo parlour on the opposite side of the street, and no awnings blocking their view. But then, empty offices in this part of the Valley weren't hard to find.

  Reece stared out the Venetian blind, absently wiped his dusty fingers on his trousers. The street lights had recently come on, glowing jaundiced in the dusk, dotting the footpaths with light and shade. His red-eye vision rendered the scene in hues of grey, but pulled fine details from the gloom. Litter in the gutter; a prostitute hugging a doorway, her face illuminated by the flare of her cigarette; two youths in baggy pants and backward caps sauntering toward Wickham Street as though they owned the place. Kings of the jungle. Huh.

  Behind him, Felicity, sitting on a plastic milk crate, sipped coffee from a travel mug, then asked, yet again, 'How reliable is your snitch?'

  'As much as any junkie I pay for information.'

  'Wow, that much.'

  She was on edge, understandably, since he'd convinced her to keep Bhagwan under wraps. At the time, he'd thought it might offer them a valuable secret, but with Mira in bedlam and tensions running high inside Thorn as recriminations flew over The Debacle, it'd become necessary to dust the bloodsucker.

  Everyone thought he'd died back at Jasmine Turner's; explaining why he wasn't dead would have got them in hot water. Having finally extracted the information he'd needed — Bhaggy had held out for the best part of a month, the tight-lipped bastard — Reece had simply been fulfilling everyone's expectations. And Felicity had admitted it'd been the only course of action. If they were to get back into favour with the firm, they had to produce something very valuable indeed.

  Now, only days after Bhagwan's demise, he'd got the break he needed.

  'You saw the picture Jen lifted from the shop's camera last night. Matheson's here, asking about the Needle. It can't be coincidence.'

  'We should've brought back-up,' Felicity said. The grease monkey's tough. More than that: he's lucky.'

  'We can't trust anyone, Flick. Finding the leak would've been a good start; giving them Matheson, and maybe Danica, that's a game changer.'

  'Reece,' she said, sounding weary with the repetition, 'don't call me that. And what makes you so sure Matheson even knows where Dee is?'

  'If he doesn't, he can find out. He was with her at the gorge.'

  The gorge, where the kid had got the better of him, left him for dead, damn near killed Mira too. Long-healed wounds throbbed with the memory.

  'He'd better show,' Felicity said. 'I had to pull favours to get off shift tonight.'

  'Voi—fucking—la.'

  Kevin Matheson looked little different to the last time Reece had seen him. Jeans and a T-shirt, clearly nervous, not knowing where to look. The turn of the tables wasn't lost on Reece; he'd have been lying if he said he wasn't enjoying having the upper hand for once.

  He raised the camera and fired off a couple of shots. Maybe it should've been a rifle. Drop the kid right there on the street, publicity be damned.

  Felicity hurried to the window and pried open the blinds.

  He'd seen her like this before, out west, the adrenaline colouring her face, lighting her eyes, making her chest pump. A Hunter, like him, hot on the trail.

  His own heart was beating faster, his mouth dry. That old familiar buzz.

  He fingered the Staker on his belt. His hand shook. This was a young person's game and he was old.

  'When do we take him?' she asked.

  'Wait for him to go inside. Then we make our move.'

  'Will they protect him?'

  'Lethal force is authorised. But we need him, Flick.'

  She gave a grim smile. After a month in the doghouse, they were both ready to break some heads.

  Movement in the tattoo parlour window: a sheet of paper being tacked to the glass. A picture of something snake-like.

  'And there's the signal,' Reece said. 'Looks like we might have company. The Needle perhaps.'

  Suddenly, back-up sounded like a good idea. With surprise on their side, the two of them could take Matheson. But a second vampire? That could get awkward.

  Felicity grabbed his arm.

  'What?'

  'There.'

  'One of the Needle's people?' He snapped the new arrival's photo.

  'I think so, yes. I've seen her hanging around at the soup van.'

  'She must be the contact. Red-eye?'

  'Just a wannabe, I think. Fairly sure she's not on the roster.'

  'That's a relief.'

  'Take her as well?'

  'Sure, but Matheson's the bigger prize. The firm can sort out the Needle.' Reece drew his pistol. 'Let's get this party started.'

  'Wait,' Felicity pointed. 'There — crossing the street. That's Johnny Slick, isn't it?'

  'Fuck. What's that streeter doing on this side of the river? This isn't Viscounts territory.'

  'Get
ting a tattoo?'

  'This early? Nah, we've been sideswiped.' He ran his hand through his hair, considering options. 'I don't know what Slick's doing here, but we can't take the risk. We have to have Matheson alive. Call back-up. Let's move in.'

  'The rest of Slick's gang won't be far behind.'

  'Tell back-up to hurry.'

  Reece took a last picture of the Viscounts' leader entering the parlour, then gestured that it was time to leave.

  Felicity looked at him as she phoned, her eyes glossed red in the uncertain light. 'This feels like déjà vu, Reece. Like we're about to be fucked over again. Because of that grease monkey.'

  'Imagine how the kid must feel, walking into not just one trap, but at least two.'

  That was when he heard the shot.

  SIX

  Kevin unbuttoned his overcoat, bought from an op shop to replace the hoodie that didn't hang low enough to cover his weaponry. He felt ridiculous, as light as the material was; the heat of day still simmered on the footpath. He'd seen plenty of white collars in suit jackets, a few swampies in trench coats, but he couldn't shrug off the feeling he was sticking out like a sore thumb in his long coat on a summer's evening.

  He paused, checking himself in the glass of a Chinese travel agency's window, finding his dim reflection amid the posters for holidays and phone cards. Where would he like to go? Who would he like to call? He checked the heavy belt at his waist: the long tube of the Staker, the holster with the automatic, the pouches of extra mags — all stolen from Hunter.

  Who the fuck was he; the wild colonial boy?

  The tattoo shop was two doors away. He studied the street, the sky, the buildings. Something niggled at him. Some sense of familiarity. A prickling of the nape, an itch between the shoulder blades.

  Traffic on the main street made a constant growl, interspersed by the roars of accelerating trucks and bikes and occasional honking horns. A few people strolled the footpaths, but none paid him any attention.

  Kevin approached the tattoo shop, one hand on the pistol. A buzzer sounded as he opened the door. As it closed, he heard the drone of a tattoo gun at work.