Tracked An Outback Mystery

By Chris Twyman

It’s time for soldier of fortune Paxton to ease up after a lifetime in hard places. But he’s out in the red sand of the central desert and the wild northwest, searching for lost treasure. He’s carrying a bullet and the hopes of his companions, but coming up behind is a mysterious trio, armed and unhesitating, who’ll test him at his best. Over them all hang the ghosts of a forgotten war.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lorik
• Release date: Jul 19, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476137643

Chris Twyman

Professional background Chris Twyman worked in journalism in Sydney over 35 years, firstly as a reporter and subeditor in the business section of the now defunct Daily Sun. After five years there, he moved to the business section of the Daily Telegraph for nearly two years. The following two years were spent travelling overseas before he joined The Australian newspaper, where he rose to become chief subeditor in the business section. After five years with that paper, he took time out for his own writing, with the result that he signed a contract with Rigby publishers for his novel to become part of what was to be the Stonyfell series – a selection of fiction writing from younger writers. Unfortunately, Rigby experienced financial difficulties and the series was cancelled when the publisher was taken over by the Kevin Weldon group. When it became obvious that the novel was dead in the water, the author accepted a small payout and returned to journalism. There was a brief stint at Australian Business magazine (now defunct) before he received an offer to become chief subeditor in the business section of the Sydney Morning Herald. What was meant to be a short stay at the Herald turned into a 22-year career, which included two years as chief subeditor of the sports section. The author created and wrote the Retro column which appeared in the SMH’s business section every Saturday -- nearly 200 columns in all. He also wrote the year-end features from 2000 to 2005 included. After leaving the Herald in early 2006, his writing efforts were concentrated on this manuscript, although he did receive a high commendation for an essay written for the Black Dog Institute’s 2010 competition. Personal background Chris Twyman was born and raised in Sydney, Australia. He abandoned his formal education at Sydney Boys High School when 15 years old and spent a few uninspiring years doing office work before also abandoning that. After a tentative foray overseas, he returned to Australia and joined the Army. There were irreconcilable differences, which resulted in his going absent without leave. He kept one step ahead of the authorities, hitchhiking from Sydney, across the then wild country of north western Queensland and into the frontier-like Northern Territory, where he found work in the labour gang at the Rum Jungle uranium mine. There, he earned enough money to take himself overseas. He was gone for nearly six years, during which time the Army discharged him. He returned home overland from Europe, making his way along the hippie trail and through hot spots such as Iran and Afghanistan. He was jailed in India on trumped up charges, but after a trial spread over a month, he received a full acquittal and resumed his journey home. Back in Sydney, he worked on the assembly line at Holden’s Pagewood plant before being given a trial in the business section of the Daily Sun. He now lives in Sydney.

Book preview

Tracked

An Outback Mystery

Chris Twyman

Published by Chris Twyman at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Chris Twyman

This is a work of fiction. All the characters are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition, Licence Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Acknowledgments

Special thanks to Lorraine Kennett, who ran the show and handled all the hard work and hassles and Angela Bright who did the cover with a zeal for detail, and Rosalind Hunnerscheidt, to whom fell the onerous task of reading the first draft (a backbreaker compared with this version).

Foreword

In the early 1960s, when I was nineteen years old and on the run, I hitchhiked into Australia’s Northern Territory, crossing from the endless soft dirt roads of the State of Queensland. The Territory was a vastly different place then, the home of buffalo shooters on the Marrakai Plains and crocodile hunters in the swamplands and billabongs.

My grandfather had been there a decade before me, fruitfully engaged in a scam. Often during the more than half century since he worked his wiles, I have contemplated telling the story either as truth or shaping it into a fiction novel.

I’ve chosen the latter course and echoed his offences as a pivot for the main part of this tale. Contemporary sources provided historical references, such as The United States Senate's Scope of Soviet Activity.

Tracked is an adventure story with an historical hook, of strangers in a strange land, of hunters and harried, lost chances and desperate hopes.

Chris Twyman.

Chapter 1

What you need to know is where you stand before the shooting starts, or you’ll likely not be the one left standing when it stops.

Old Benjamin Brook would say that with a twinkle in his eye and rhythm in his voice.

He should’ve have followed his own advice. It was his ninetieth birthday and he sat in his wheelchair in the courtyard he’d often nominated with his teasing ambiguity as the perfect place to finish up. He was positioned on the path at the point where it swelled out to a circle with a fountain at its centre. On top, Pan played the pipes and the cascade flashed in the sun and the arriving guests leaned over the Old Man and kissed his cheek and spoke softly.

Gifts -- for someone who’d no need of anything but care and regard -- piled up at one side of the wheelchair. At his other side, squatting and holding his hand, was Dolores Brook, his sole grandchild. He still called her Freckles, despite her resolute march into middle age.

The first round to come the Old Man’s way struck him in the chest. That alone would’ve done the job. His strength was eroded by the too-many years and he could never now brace to take the weight of a bullet.

Paxton was in the wrong place when the shooting started -- in the kitchen brewing tea. His revolver was in a camera case and that also was in the wrong place. It sat on the floor in the corner when it should have been hanging from his shoulder.

A second shot sounded when Paxton was halfway to the bag. He quickly wrenched the pistol free and cocked it as he ran out of the kitchen and along the hall. Passing the lounge room, he caught a glimpse of guests frozen in the first phase of alarm.

The third shot came as he lunged through the doorway and into the courtyard. A mistake, others could say later with the cool analysis of the non-combatant. More the move of the inexpert than the man they knew. He should’ve judged the lie of the land from the window. Instead, he’d taken himself out into the open.

The Old Man had toppled forward, kicking the wheelchair from under himself, and he lay curled on the path with his granddaughter huddled on his prostrate form.

Surprise hit Paxton, just before the bullet.

The shooter, who was leaning over the fallen man, was also old. As ancient as his victim. With crutches tucked into his armpits and struggling to maintain his balance after firing, he was barking the same word over and over again.

Horror, Paxton wondered, why is he saying horror?

That hesitation snatched a vital half-second from him and gave it to the gunman.

The next round struck Paxton in the right shoulder. That alone wouldn’t have done the job, but it stopped his progress. He flopped, his knees hitting the loose gravel of the path and his upper body twisting sideways.

As he dropped, he squeezed off a shot, but his suddenly weakened right hand had lost its tight grip on the revolver, and the bullet hit high on the fence. There was a savage sound of metal on stone and a spray of dust that made a figure near the gate duck his head.

A second man, Paxton realised through the fog of pain -- dark, middle-aged. A face to be remembered. In this man’s hand was a large-calibre pistol. It had been at his side, but now was swinging up.

Paxton tried to toss his weapon to his left hand, but it bounced off his receiving fingers and fell to the path. Something came in from behind and hit him hard on the side of the head. There was that same sound of metal on stone and a stinging spray of brick dust. His head jerked and cracked against the brickwork and, in the same instant, a wave of needle-like pain swept across the back of his skull.

He turned his head to see who was there. No-one. But his eyes registered the crimson stream running down the spine of the big bright green leaf of a potted plant beside him. He was transfixed by the sight of this bright blood pouring over the end of the leaf and forming a spreading pool in the pot.

The bullet had come not from the younger man near the gate, but again from the gunman on crutches. His weapon was still aimed at Paxton. A hand was moving towards the revolver Paxton had dropped, scrabbling slowly, crab-like. Not a young hand, but one with a few small scars and too many liver spots.

Must be mine, he thought. And yes, those fingers are too slow.

He looked up. The younger gunman gently pushed down the old shooter’s pistol arm and just as gently turned him towards the gate.

Paxton felt he was falling but he knew that not to be true. He was propped, wedged against the wall of the house and it seemed that the rising swell of troubled voices within was filtering through the brickwork. His right eye stung from the blood flowing into it, and he had to squint as he looked towards the gate.

The gunmen had gone. On the path, Dolores Brook had her arms across her grandfather’s body. Her face, smeared with his blood, was turned towards Paxton. Enraged, she was calling his name while her hands pressed down on her grandfather’s wounds as though she believed she could stop his fading life from escaping.

Benjamin Brook’s head turned to one side and for one lingering moment, he stared at Paxton. His eyes carried a mix of recognition and bewilderment and Paxton was flooded with an ache that overrode the pain from his wounds. The old man with the gun had been right, he thought. This is true horror. It comes unheralded and unhurried. And inexplicable.

The sound of Dolores Brook’s voice began to recede.

I’m falling, Paxton thought. He tilted his head back and felt on his face the caress of a cool zephyr drifting in from the sea. I’m falling, he thought.

Paxton was aware of a blueness which caught him, cradling him so he would not fall past the point from which he could never come back. There were objects around him, but they were of darker hue and lacked distinct edges and they drifted into each other. He knew he was there for only brief intervals and, at those times, could sense something else was there too. Often there would be movement washing around him. Then the darkness would return.

Sometimes he felt that there had been another existence before this, but he told himself that he’d think about that later. Now would do for now. At other times, he felt there was a form near him, waiting for him to wake. He decided that it could be, and rightly should be, Gretchen.

But if it’s you, Gretchen, he wondered, does that mean I too am dead? I have been with the dead and dying before, as I was this time with the Old Man.

This may be my own death, so here among the ghosts, I must declare myself. I am Paxton. I have been a soldier in different lands, and was known in these by any name I chose.

I am also the man on whom some wit bestowed the title of Lost Property Paxton. And I am the one they called the Broken Bottle Butcher.

For more than a while, Paxton floated with the objects in the room, blending with them. With great effort, he tried to separate the sounds. The air-conditioning was easy, or so he thought at first, but he had to admit that it could’ve been something else.

There were electronic sounds. Beeps. Reassuringly regular. Well, he convinced himself that they were reassuring.

Among his many shapeless drifting thoughts, he heard the sound of machinery shift through the spectrum until it became the engine of a truck and then he was out there again, way out there, on the long central bench on the tray of a lorry as it rumbled along a rutted road which cut through another land where he didn’t belong. Just another one.

His knees were clamping the stock of a rifle. Its muzzle pointed skyward as he pressed the weapon’s front sight into his shoulder, hungry for that discomfort. The skin of his face was masked with a thin film, a greasy amalgam of air and earth and tiny creatures crushed by his passage.

It was hot. Not like the blue room where he lived now. That was comfortingly cool. There were others with him, but he couldn’t tell whether they were in the blue room or on the truck, and that meant he couldn’t tell where he himself was. His mind wrestled with the puzzle, and his first crystal clear thought came.

All of us on that truck had sat leaning forward, shoulders hunched, he recalled, in the manner of the exhausted and the defeated. It was a bad day when we wouldn’t meet each other’s eyes. We shared the same sense that not all the dying had been done. We were not wrong.

I must leave all that behind, Paxton thought. It’s one dark corner of many in the same dark house. If I don’t leave it again soon, I’ll be here forever. Besides, I have a new defeat to wrestle with. It must take its place among the other defeats, the ones so implacably embraced.

At times, as he drifted in the blue room, Paxton felt that something had control of his body and was twisting and kneading deep in his fibre. He couldn’t resist as this force spilled through him. It had hold of his arms and his legs. It hurt and he could do nothing to stop it. I must wake, he told himself. See who it is. But he still feared that it would be someone already dead and that would mean he’d joined them. Old Ben might be there. What would either of us say?

Paxton awoke many days along the track to the future, when the people who operated the blue room decided it was time. But they didn’t let him wake fully and, for a day or two or a hundred more, he drifted in and out of controlled sleep. His mind churned, growing impatient at his helplessness. He didn’t speak and he couldn’t see clearly, but he knew the room periodically was brighter and his head and shoulders were propped up by pillows and the tube was no longer in his mouth, although the drip-feed was still in his arm. Soft gauze protected his eyes and from behind this, he could gaze out into a blurred world.

He knew there had been someone sitting in the chair at his bedside much of the time. Was this a danger, should he pretend to be asleep? He tried to look through slitted eyes, but his attendant was just out of his line of vision. Finally, he managed to turn his head and hold it there for a fleeting moment before the pain forced him to roll it back. He’d seen enough, and grimaced and closed his eyes. There was a chuckle, followed by a voice not heard for a time.

I’ll come back when you’re in a better mood, the visitor said.

Paxton did not respond and the visitor squeezed his left arm gently and said: Don’t leave town. If I say I’ll see you soon, I might not keep that promise. Let’s just say I’ll see you soon enough. The chuckle came again as Paxton drifted down into the blue.

There were other visitors and they bore questions. Paxton sought refuge from some by feigning semi-consciousness. For others, he murmured the answers he preferred, disappointingly dissimilar to the ones they desired. They said they’d come back when his mind was clearer. Everybody was on hospital time, and everything would get its turn.

He drifted in and out of sleep, his thoughts a confusion of remembered fragments. Slowly he began to take notice of his surroundings. There was constant noise and bustle. It was easy to hide.

The surgeon was an earnest man. He settled into the chair at Paxton’s bedside and leaned forward, pressing the palms of his hands together, with his fingertips near his chin, as though in prayer.

You’ve had the computed tomography, he said. "That’s a CT scan. And the electroencephalogram, which tells us about the electrical impulses in your brain and how your grey matter is working. However, we’re having some difficulties correlating some aspects of your condition. The effects of such severe head trauma are many and varied. Have you heard of the Glasgow Coma Scale?

Paxton shook his head. The pain made him wince.

The surgeon smiled in sympathy. Until you heal more, you may find a wink is as good as a nod.

He paused and tapped his fingers against his chin before continuing. The Glasgow Coma Scale helps us to determine the extent of a head injury. It encompasses things such as opening your eyes, responding to touch or some other physical stimulus, and answering questions. Scores range between three and fifteen points. If you’re below eight points, there’s a suggestion of serious brain damage.

How did I go? Paxton asked.

The surgeon studied Paxton for a few moments. You were under sedation for a long time -- in what the media love to call an induced coma -- and your functions now seem to have rebalanced quite exceptionally. In the beginning, we thought you were as good as dead. Later, we thought you might live, but with some severe residual effect. You surprised us. You got yourself through when all the betting was that you wouldn’t.

"You did the work, doctor; I just lay here.

The surgeon smiled, but there was little warmth in it. Yours is one life that could be measured in microns, Mister Paxton. A micron is one millionth of a metre. Just a few of those separated you from death. Or the other ghastly alternative. The best way I can put it is to say that the bullet skimmed your skull, burning away bone as it went. Strictly speaking, we can’t call it a penetrating injury. However, there were secondary wounds to your head and these were penetrating.

Secondary wounds?

The bullet disintegrated when it hit the brick wall behind you and a number of fragments ricocheted into the back of your skull. The pieces were very small, microscopic really. Much of their energy had dissipated after striking the wall, but they still penetrated.

Those prickling needles in the back of my head, Paxton recalled.

Interestingly enough, the surgeon said, our main concern was not the bullet fragments, but the tiny particles of brick and the dust that came with the ricochet. They damaged tissue and there was a danger of infection. We were pleased to get that under control.

I take it that the bullet fragments will stay there, Paxton said.

The surgeon nodded Removing them would entail too high a risk. They’re yours for life.

How long is that life likely to be, doctor?

I don’t want to sound callous, but I wouldn’t have a clue as to that. We can add up all your wounds, or look at them individually, but we can only guess at the long-term effects on your brain. There have been fractures and tissue trauma and penetration and there was considerable blood loss, although your shoulder wound was responsible for the really serious bleeding. By the way, how does that injury feel?

Paxton grimaced. I won’t shrug. It hurts to do that. How long is that likely to be the case?

As we age, our repair mechanisms slow. I imagine that over time there’ll be some relief from the pain and as for the movement restriction, it may never entirely go away. Are you right-handed?

I’m ambidextrous in a lot of things.

The doctor arched his eyebrows. Well, that shoulder injury will almost certainly require further attention.

And the head?

We’re working with the unknown. We often say that head injuries appear far more dramatic than they in fact are, but in your case, after looking at you and the results initially, we could’ve been forgiven for switching off the lights and going out for a cup of coffee.

I don’t believe you thought that for a minute.

The surgeon smiled again. We’ll keep our own counsel on that. All through your long spell of sedation, there was a great deal of brain activity. But after the initial shock, an unusual pattern formed, and most significantly, there was no sign of distress. Can you remember what was happening inside your head? Do you remember having any dreams?

I don’t dream.

Whatever the matter, I don’t think the signals we were getting had anything to do with dreaming. Your mind was very busy and your recovery seemed to improve with that activity. A colleague went so far as to say that while everyone in the room was working little miracles on you, perhaps you yourself were trying to work some small miracles of your own.

There was a long pause. The surgeon stared at the floor, stroked his chin and then looked up again and shook his head slowly. The man is tired, Paxton thought. I could give him more.

The surgeon stood up suddenly, signaling the end to his inquiries. A colleague with great needlework skills has sewn you up exquisitely and time will tidy the task, he said. You’ll never be pretty, so you’ll just have to look around for an appropriate beholder.

He leaned forward and lowered his voice. You’ve no atrophy due to muscle disuse and, for that, we must thank the physiotherapists at this hospital as well as those rather peculiar practitioners – masseurs or whatever they were -- who materialised here not long after your admission.

He arched his eyebrows in inquiry.

They’re from a group in which I had an involvement across many years, Paxton said.

Originally from Japan, someone suggested.

Yes, originally.

Whatever the case, they kept your muscles working when you were under sedation and they’ve got you up and walking well since you rejoined the land of the living. Are they still seeing you?

Every day.

Excellent. There was a bit of friction in the beginning regarding their status, but the Brook name was used like a bludgeon and everyone quickly went quiet. I think we finally classified them as a visiting support group. That seemed to satisfy all.

He offered a twisted smile. I’d suggest that you don’t stress your muscles until you’re sure they’ll take the load under less controlled conditions, he said. But I’m sure you’ll try to rush things, so I’ll say no more on that. We’ll give you a few words on self-care and keep you under observation for a little longer before setting you loose with the wish that you have more friends than foes out there.

Thank you for all you’ve done, doctor.

The man nodded, more to himself than Paxton, and then, without another word, stood, turned on his heel and stalked off. Paxton locked his hearing on to the sound of the man’s squeaking shoes until it faded away.

Mark that down as the last easy interrogation, he thought. It’ll get tougher from here. He was back in an unfriendly world. He’d talked a little with the registrar and slurred that he wasn’t yet ready to speak to the police, or anyone unvetted, for that matter. How long that would hold was anybody’s guess.

The man who’d stood vigil and said he’d be back soon enough reappeared a week after the surgeon’s bedside visit. That was soon enough, he insisted.

John Ridley, Paxton said when he awoke to find the big man sitting in the bedside chair. You never miss the opportunity to be a baby-sitter. What does it take to make you stay away?

Ridley was still carrying too much weight, Paxton judged. There was a drunk’s nose and hooded eyes below thick brows and thinning hair. He was resting his elbows on his knees and holding up his chin with a brawler’s big hands. He wore a quality shirt with a silk tie and an expensive suit, which he made look cheap. The smile was broad and that didn’t necessarily bode well.

I’ve always taken an interest in your career, Ridley said. If we can call it a career.

He wagged his finger. You know you’re not supposed to be running around with firearms. My former colleagues must take a very dim view of that.

It wasn’t my gun,’’ Paxton said. I don’t have a gun. It was the Old Man’s; registered in his name. I was fetching it for him."

Ridley laughed. Now you’re being technical. I suppose you’ll tell me you’re not at all familiar with the workings of such things.

How could I be? The law says I’m not allowed even to touch.

Some people will do more than ask politely.

The answer will be the same. Paxton looked gloomily around the room. I need answers, too. I’m isolated in this place. Nobody’s talking to me.

Ridley nodded. The staff here has been told not to discuss certain matters, either with you or each other. And I won’t be chatting until you’re good and ready to get well and get out of here.

He heaved a sigh and looked around as though making sure he was not being overheard.

I’ll make this brief, he said. The jacks are about to make their move on you. They figure you’ve had enough recovery time and they don’t want to see you slip away. They’re not going to be polite, Pax.

How much time do I have?

Not enough.

The bell-wethers came a few days later, and Paxton instantly and secretly dubbed them Hector and Jekyll. They did a very ordinary variation of the good cop/bad cop routine, with Officer Hector taking the role of Mister Hyde, while Officer Jekyll assiduously studied blisters on his hands, explaining several times that he’d got them when gardening at the weekend. Officer Hector-cum-Hyde did the heavy lifting.

You’re familiar with the kind of weapon Benjamin Brook owned? He asked.

Paxton nodded. It was a Ruger GP-100. The .357 magnum stainless steel model with a four-inch barrel.

You seem very familiar with it.

Mister Brook told me the specifications. It’s a Category H weapon; quite legal.

Hector turned to his companion. Mister Paxton knows all the buzz words.

Jekyll continued to study his blisters and said nothing.

Hector continued. It’s unusual for a bodyguard not to have some kind of device to protect his employer, wouldn’t you say? Especially a not-very-good bodyguard.

I’m not a bodyguard; I’m a personal assistant.

The policeman raised his eyebrows. And I take it that you were assisting, in a personal manner, on the day of the offence when you decided to carry Mister Brook’s gun to him.

Paxton remained silent. The policeman smiled. The weapon was in your sole possession when you were trying to deliver it to the soon-to-be-deceased. And it seems that it was deliberately discharged while in your hands. We all know about that awkward triangle of you, weapons and the law, Mister Paxton. It would be wise for you to avoid carrying even a nail file. There could be a charge in this.

Paxton’s face was deadpan. I’m sure you’ll do whatever you think is right.

Hector pursed his lips and glared. But of course you’re the martial arts maestro. You don’t need artificial add-ons. You’re a walking weapon, isn’t that the term? This explains your attitude, no doubt, which is that you’re talking to a couple of idiots. One dumb copper with a puerile patter and another even dumber one obsessing over some blisters.

I’m not dumb, Officer Jekyll said in mock protest. And I’m especially not dumber than you. I’m just talking about the blisters so Mister Paxton will think I am. How am I doing?

Hector raised his eyebrows again. How is he doing, Mister Paxton? Are you convinced this man’s an idiot?

Paxton said nothing. The policeman pressed on. You’ve a long history of problems with firearms. It goes right back to your army days. And that crew you ran with before you so wisely left this town didn’t have an aversion to useful appliances. It’s a long time ago, but we don’t forget.

He’s been reading, Paxton thought. This is file talk; he’s too young to have first-hand knowledge of any of that.

Paxton looked him in the eye. The army stuff is a matter of record. I came out of that looking pretty good, he said, and his mind added silently: not that I should’ve.

Hector’s tone grew harsher. Of course. In the end, you and your friend were turned into heroes. How does that happen, Mister Paxton? You were guarding an armoury and you and your dumb mate handed over fifty-odd rifles and some bazookas to unnamed parties.

You make it sound simple. It was an armed raid.

Hector snorted. What was your nickname after that? Lost Property Paxton? That must’ve been embarrassing. He laughed heartily. At least your moron mate had the decency to get himself killed shortly thereafter.

The jibe stung, but Paxton kept his face emotionless.

Hector looked disappointed. So, are you going to be my hero, Mister Paxton? Are you going to tell me things?

I don’t remember much.

You don’t seem to have trouble remembering how the army exonerated you.

That’s long-term memory. I have trouble with the short term.

Hector’s upper lip trembled momentarily. You don’t want us to give you something to remember us by. You’re not my hero, Mister Paxton.

I doubt very much that I’m anybody’s.

For a brief moment, they locked eyes. Paxton took up the challenge. Is this about me or about Benjamin Brook’s murder? If it’s about him, you might be better off looking for the shooter. How hard is it to catch a geriatric on crutches, whether armed or not?

Officer Jekyll stopped studying his blisters and raised his head. We don’t have to look. We know where he is. The last time we saw him, our old friend was in the fridge at the morgue and wasn’t getting any fresher. Nobody’s come forward to claim the body. We don’t wonder. But we do wonder if we’ll ever close the case.

Nobody’s telling me anything, Paxton said.

Nor should they. There’s a suppression order on the release of any information concerning him. Some people seem to think that, dead or not, Old Man Brook still has clout.

Thank you, John Ridley, Paxton thought sourly, this is one thing you should’ve allowed me to prepare for.

What about his back-up man?

Hector snorted. You mean his personal assistant? He’s gone. Probably to Chile or some other comfort zone. It’s easy to get to from here and it gives him a big continent in which to lose himself. But you’d know that.

There are a lot of places like that.

It’s a language thing. Our friends way over there, Hector waved his arms to indicate some distant land, "tell us the shooter was a Spanish national. So we’d guess his personal assistant was simpatico, as we non-Spaniards say. There’d be too much heat in Europe, too many checks. Chile would look good to me. Then maybe Argentina, or even north to Colombia. They say there’s always room for one more man and one more gun."

He looked away glumly. He didn’t leave by plane. All the airports have been checked, so he’s gone by sea and I’d say he’s long been where he was going. A bit of money beats borders. Makes them porous, as our politicians like to say.

He regarded Paxton keenly. I suppose you don’t know any Spaniards, or why one ancient Spaniard should come from the other side of the world to knock over one ancient Australian. There wouldn’t have been much distance left in Benjamin Brook, anyway. Appreciate our position. As close as Dolores Brook was to the action, she didn’t get a good look at the back-up man. She saw the shooter, sure enough, and you, but she was trying to protect her grandfather and wasn’t even clear about there being someone else there. That leaves you. You saw him. Tell us you never forget a face. Talk to us for a short while, or we’ll talk at you for a very long time.

Paxton shook his head and said nothing. I’ve known a few Spaniards, in a few places, he thought, but their argument would’ve been with me, not the Old Man, and our differences were never enough to merit murder.

It’s an international thing, with a whiff of the political about it, Officer Hector said. Do you think we could sell that to the spooks? They might put you somewhere uncomfortable for a long time while they organised a lot of difficult questions and then keep you an even longer time while you failed to organise the answers. They wouldn’t be as nice as us.

Paxton did not respond. The two policemen wore identical quiet smiles. After a full minute’s silence, Hector held up his hand.

I can see you’re dying to talk to us, and we just know you’re not going to say anything silly like how the spooks can’t do things like that. They can, I promise you. Times have changed. They can do anything they like and what they really, really like is buggering up somebody’s life, or in your case, a nobody’s life. We just whisper the word ‘security’ and the saliva flows.

From the policemen, there was more. Multiple threats and a solid pledge that Paxton would have a police escort upon discharge from hospital. Think it over, Officer Hector said, be our friend and we’ll be yours. And don’t entertain yourself with the idea of being unavailable for a frank exchange of information.

While they threatened, Paxton did his calculations. I’ll need the passport and bundle of cash I’ve stored away, he thought, and I can access my rainy-day account when well clear of the country. First, take a holiday package to Vanuatu with a return ticket. Declare the cash to Customs. Just tell them it’s for the casino. At Port Vila, let the air ticket lapse and find another door -- an exit that will become an entrance to some other world. Go through the wormholes, perhaps to the endless spread of Africa, where there’s always work for people like me. Or Iraq. There are big paydays for riding shotgun on convoys in the cities of the damned.

Hector and Jekyll rose to leave at the precise moment that Ridley arrived. At the door, the three men shuffled awkwardly as they moved past each other, the policemen appearing anxious not to come into physical contact with the new arrival. Hector swung his head back to glare at Paxton.

A man is judged by the company he keeps, he said gruffly.

Ridley wagged his finger at the officers. The man’s a hero, gentlemen. It’s a long time ago, but it’s in the books.

Yesterday’s hero, Hector sneered. Yesterday is the truthful part of that.

Ridley chuckled. Just like you hope you’re today’s heroes, boys. Every age gets its own kind. We’ll see if you’re in the queue when they hand out the medals.

He watched the duo go down the corridor and then held up a bulging plastic shopping bag.

Just some walking-out clothes for you. I think they’ve burned what you were last wearing. I just dropped around to your place -- I mean the Brook place -- and got them from your room. At least, I hope it was your room. It was very neat. Very military. You should talk to someone about that.

Paxton was impressed. How did you get into the house? It’s got a state of the art alarm system.

Ridley nodded. It certainly does. But I got past it in the old-fashioned way. No electronics needed. I had a chat with a man in a security uniform and convinced him I didn’t mean a lot of harm. He was very obliging.

Paxton was looking at an angle through the open door. Along the corridor, Hector and Jekyll were deep in conversation with the registrar. There was much nodding, the passing of a card from Hector to the doctor and then a vigorous farewell handshake.

It’s time for me to be out of here, John, Paxton said. Grab the registrar while he’s still in the neighborhood and we’ll talk times.

Anytime was a good time, according to the registrar, although it was probably prudent for Paxton to stay a few more days to make sure he was up to it.

In the meantime, could I have the police barred from visiting me? Paxton muttered. Say that they’re causing me distress or something.

Ridley chuckled and nodded. A good idea, but I reckon you’ve used up all your banning rights with that episode concerning Dolores Brook. You slept through it. She was banned from your room, and then the whole ward after some . . . Well, inappropriate behaviour.

What did she do?

She was very loud, I’m told, and very unkind with what she had to say about you. Apparently, the word ‘love’ was not used, but ‘kill’ was. I don’t think she really wanted to put a pillow on your face, but then again, maybe she did. That was very early in the piece. Surprisingly enough, she later faced down the hospital when they tried to stop that creepy Japanese double from coming in and playing with your body. You should check to make sure none of your bits is missing.

The registrar wore the look of a man wondering what in God’s name was going to happen next. He compressed his lips and shook his head ruefully.

It’s most unfortunate. The late Benjamin Brook was a great benefactor of this hospital. A very generous man.

Suddenly, he laughed. Well, you have your arm in a sling, and we may well find our arse in one.

He grimaced good-naturedly. The surgeon is satisfied with the state of your scratches. Generally, they’re healing well, he says, and I bow to his judgment. It’s a slow mend, but that’s what happens with men of your age. No offence meant.

The registrar added that he’d often seen much worse head trauma after a road accident. As for the shoulder wound, no bone had been hit, but the tissue had been torn badly and Paxton would need to treat himself with a good dose of care.

I believe that you’re a karate expert?

Paxton winced when the man said expert and he mumbled that he practised a little of the art.

Well, he could forget that, the doctor said firmly, for quite a while, and maybe forever. There was scar tissue from the skull graze, he added, and a furrow in the hair, and a larger area where he’d been shaved around the wound. It certainly was not a good look, the doctor conceded, but better than having the hair undisturbed and a bullet in the brain.

Just keep monitoring both wounds; even well past when you think there’s no need. Treat yourself with tenderness; tell yourself your brain needs to know you care. As far as the scar goes, your hair will grow around it and that’ll help, but I suggest that at first you have some kind of headwear. Not a hat, because the band might be an irritant. Something soft. Maybe a headscarf. A bandanna. That sort of thing.

Ridley laughed. Any resemblance to a superannuated road manager for a rock band is purely coincidental.

The doctor looked at the furrow and shook his head again. You’re a very fortunate man. A few millimetres to the right and you wouldn’t be here.

And a few millimetres to the left and I wouldn’t be here, either.

I guess there’s always more than one way of looking at things.

What’s the prognosis? The surgeon was reluctant to guess.

That may not be known for months, even years. You could have long-term problems thinking clearly. Headaches. Dizziness. You may become confused, suffer memory loss . . .

Paxton cut in. Are you telling me the good bits first?

I’m sorry. You have my sympathy, but I don’t have a definitive answer to what will happen to you. In a very small percentage of cases, epilepsy can develop.

Paxton’s breath came out in a long, shuddering sigh. He looked first at Ridley and then the registrar.

I have in the past contemplated becoming a vegetarian, he said, but never a vegetable.

The registrar looked bemused, and gave a short laugh that was quickly swallowed. Paxton could check out in two days, he said, seeing as the hospital now couldn’t do anything he couldn’t do himself.

The doctor had best tell the police, Paxton suggested. He could do with transport after being discharged.

Ridley looked puzzled and Paxton explained: That’s an interview I want out of the way. Then I can get on with my life.

Promptly at six o’clock the next morning, Paxton swung his legs out of the bed. He walked unsteadily down the deserted corridor to the showers and fitted the selected pieces of plastic to keep his wounds dry. All the time he tested his muscles by stretching and flexing. Showering and dressing took a lot longer and was more difficult than he’d expected. Everything seems to be working, he thought grimly, but I’m slow. Perhaps perilously so.

He cast aside the sling. Better to go without that from the beginning. Start as I mean to continue.

A nurse with end-of-shift eyes directed Paxton to the duty bureaucrat. The man was entrenched behind the ward counter, wearing his first-light temper and determined to have no truck with other early risers. He was a tall thin man, all gristle and gripe, dressed in crisp light blue, with body movements suggesting he was held together by pure high tension. There was cropped red hair and too-white skin and a face set with a smile that wasn’t.

Sure, he had Paxton’s personal effects; wasn’t it hospital policy to keep valuables in a safe place to avoid theft or loss? Not that that was likely at this hospital, he added curtly. But Paxton couldn’t have those effects until he’d signed the discharge statement. The man in blue pulled a form out of a folder, ran his eye over it and then sighed deeply. It says here you’re to be discharged tomorrow.

Just pretend I’m here, Paxton suggested. In spirit, I will be.

The man switched to the standard-issue stony face. We don’t do things that way here, sir. I need you to fill out the detail on this replacement statement . . . And this waiver form and, if you wouldn’t mind, this short questionnaire on your stay with us. We don’t demand it, but we do appreciate it. Meantime, I’ll tell doctor that you’re leaving us.

That’s really not necessary.

No trouble at all, It’s early, but like always, he’s in the office and I’m sure he’d like to pop down and say goodbye. And, he