Dangerous Days 2 - Paddle Hard: Dangerous Days, #2

By J. William Turner

Having survived the blizzard together, and settled their differences, Wesley, Graham and Scott are a tight group. They are going on an overnight canoe trip on a lake in the following January with Wesley's teenage cousins, Dwight, Linda and Kim Hill. Dwight is still upset over the homicide death of an adult friend and mentor. Wesley's uncle and aunt hope that the campout will help him grieve. But Dwight has a terrifying secret about the killing that he has kept to himself, until they are confronted by the violence of the drug trade whilst on the lake. For the next fourteen hours, the six kids play an overnight game of cat-and-mouse whilst being hunted in a classic contest between good and evil

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. William Turner
• Release date: Aug 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9781465850980

J. William Turner

J. William Turner (aka James Turner) was born in Reading, England, forty miles west of London, in the late 1950's, and migrated with his family to south-eastern Australia in the mid 1960's. The youngest of three children James spent the last seven years of his education at a boys' private school in the coastal city of Geelong. During his time here, he became a senior N.C.O. in the school's army cadet unit, having undergone basic, practical military training for promotion, on a regular army base for two weeks in 1971, as a fourteen-year-old, at the end of the nineth grade. After finishing the twelfth grade, he attended university to study science, but discontinued his course after two years. In the early 1980's James gained his private pilot licence, was a volunteer operational member of St John Ambulance for ten years, and travelled to many parts of inland Australia and overseas, including two visits to the U.S.A.. He also penned the initial draft of Storm Ridge, the first of the four installments of Dangerous Days, in 1979, loosely based on a similar school hike he did in 1970 as an eighth-grader. Later, in 1989, Paddle Hard was drafted, based on an actual murder in Geelong in the mid 1970's, and his own experience at canoeing. Another ten years later, he drafted Outback Heroes after several visits to several parts of the vast Australian outback. Enemies Within was written just four years afterwards to give closure to the unanswered questions in Outback Heroes, and is set back in London, near to his ancestral roots. James has always liked putting pen to paper, and has had two articles published in Australian aviation magazines (1996 and 2008). Over a six-month period from January to June, 2004, James wrote the first three stories of another, four-part, fictional autobiography, yet to be published, entitled Blades, about the traumatic and difficult teenage years of a 'top-gun' helicopter pilot named Julian. Set in the late 1990's, in Darwin, Melbourne, the central Australian outback, and southern California, Blades also reinroduces the three main child characters from Dangerous Days, now adults aged in their late-twenties, and their relationship with Julian. These three stories are entitled Street Kid, High Country, and California Dreaming. The final story, Aftermath, was completed in two-and-a-half months just midway through 2008, to bring Julian's life story almost to the present day.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1 - ANOTHER DAWN

Saturday, 23 January 1982 - Saturday morning had dawned sunny with clear skies, but was cooled by a southerly wind. All of us in south-east Australia were expecting a warm, windless afternoon and night, to be followed, on Sunday, by scorching, hot-northerly winds from mid-morning onwards. So said the morning weather forecast on the radio of my father’s Range Rover as the vehicle cruised down the Princes Highway towards Geelong. The forecast had been preceded by updated reports of the week’s two, major news stories; the bashing to death of a policeman near the alpine resort town of Bright, and a callous murder in Geelong. Bernie Luscombe, the middle-aged proprietor of a large, city, video arcade, had been found shot in the head behind his office desk on the previous, Tuesday evening. The police had no motive, weapon or suspects. We showed little interest in what was becoming old news. Less than half an hour had passed since we crossed the Westgate Bridge, and with only a few other cars on the road in Melbourne, our journey from Brighton had been quick.

Graham, Scott and I were sitting together in the rear seat. Mum and Dad sat in the front. On the roof, two Canadian canoes were securely tied. We boys had been eagerly looking forward to this excursion since early January. My grandfather had decided to hold a gathering over the Australia Day weekend at his home in Ocean Grove. It was to be attended by my immediate family, my Uncle Paul Hill, Aunt Kath and their three kids, my cousins, Linda, Kim and Dwight, who everyone called DC.

Canoeing on the lake was our main topic of conversation. Many birds lived there, and I was anxious to practice wildlife photography with my expensive, new camera; a reward from my school’s Board of Governors for saving the lives of my ten classmates in the blizzard. When asked by the Chairman what I would like, I told him that my ambition was to find a career involving photography, once I had finished the next four years of secondary school, followed by tertiary studies. So, on Speech Day at the end of the year, I received the camera gear from the Chairman and Reginald Oswald, my despised headmaster, together, in front of the entire student body, their parents, staff, distinguished guests, and, most importantly, my proud mother and father. I remember smiling broadly at the Chairman when I shook his hand. At Oswald, however, I merely glared and scowled. That he had clearly read my mind, and knew the contempt I felt for him, I was in no doubt, just as I had intended.

I opened the padded camera-case, and fondled my camera, while Scott and Graham looked on with interest and mild envy.

If I get only half a dozen good pictures this weekend, it’ll be worth it, I said.

Scott chuckled. He just wanted to do as much canoeing as he could, having never done it before, and asked Graham for his opinion.

He only shrugged slightly in reply, but I knew what was really on his mind.

It’s seeing my cousin, Linda, isn’t it, I interrupted with a laugh. You like her.

Graham leaned forward in his seat, and turned to look at me defensively. We’re just friends, that’s all.

Scott, though, had become curious about my cousins, and asked for details.

DC was fifteen, and a real cool guy. Linda was fourteen, and Kiem-Lien, sixteen. We called her Kim, for short. She was a Vietnamese child-refugee, an orphan, evacuated from Saigon, now called Ho Chi Min City, just before the war ended in 1975. My uncle and aunt adopted her just after her tenth birthday. Her English had become excellent by then, and she liked living in Australia. In fact, she still does.

But Scott was more curious about the other boy. Why do you call him ‘DC’?

His real names are Dwight and Cuthbert, which he hated, and I mean really hated. So he told us, at the age of five, to call him ‘DC’ before he started school.

Hey! What a maniac! Dad exclaimed loudly as he looked in his rear-vision mirror.

We looked back through the rear window. Two hundred metres behind, and gaining rapidly, I saw a bright-purple panel van, with an orange-coloured, plastic canoe on its roof. Closely pursuing the panel van was a police patrol car, its blue warning lights flashing and sirens screaming. In only a few seconds, the panel van was behind our Range Rover. It swung hastily into the right-hand lane, and roared past, followed two seconds later by the police car, its deafening siren echoing throughout our vehicle. We were all suddenly excited, and I reacted quickly, spurred on by a massive dose of adrenaline. With my camera already out and adjusted, I took three snapshots in rapid succession as the two vehicles passed.

I wonder what they want them for, my mother thought aloud.

Probably traffic offences, Dad guessed.

Nah, I reckon they’re wanted criminals, said Graham.

They must have done something really bad to drive that fast, Scott added.

Ah, who cares, I shrugged. At least I’ve got some great action pictures of the chase.

We continued to watch the pursuit keenly as the two vehicles sped away quickly. The panel van and police car were half a kilometre ahead of us when the chase became sinister. We saw the back door of the panel van open, followed by several puffs of smoke. One of the blue lights on the police car stopped flashing. It began swerving wildly from side-to-side, and then ran off the edge of the road onto the grass verge, and narrowly missed a tree, before coming to rest just short of a fence. The panel van continued on without slowing down.

We all viewed the shooting with disbelief. Our hearts were pounding, as Dad stopped the Range Rover on the shoulder of the road. You kids stay inside, right!

He walked quickly to assist a very shaken, but unharmed, policeman from the shot-up vehicle. The damage shocked the rest of us. The police car had suffered six hits. A front headlight was shattered, as was a blue roof-light. The right-front tyre was blown out. The radiator was hissing steam, and leaking water. Worst of all was the pair of bullet holes in the windscreen. I raised my camera, and took three snapshots; two of the damaged car, and one of my father talking to the policemen.

Dad then returned promptly to the Range Rover, and resumed his seat behind the steering wheel. He told us that the officer was not injured, just scared by what had happened, and that we were to be on our way as he had already radioed for help.

Did he tell you anything about the man who shot at him? I asked hopefully.

Dad shook his head, looked back at me slyly, and said in a teasing voice, Who was that I saw photographing all the action?

I glanced down at my camera, feeling satisfied, but pretending to be embarrassed to hide my intense thrill and excitement at what I had witnessed. They were good pictures, which I needed it to go with the other ones I took of the chase.

Dad chuckled quietly at my photographic enthusiasm, unaware of my intense arousal at the whole incident, and started the engine, just as I was quite surprised at just how big a buzz I had received from it. Our vehicle accelerated away from the scene, and we continued the first part of our journey into Geelong to meet up with our extended family. The morning sun reflected off the water as we crossed the Barwon River, and entered the city’s affluent, southern suburbs. The Hills’ house in Highton was less than a five-minute drive from the bridge, and Dad coasted to a stop by the front gate, probably the last time he would do so as they would soon be moving to a house near our's in Brighton. Kath and Paul Hill saw the Range Rover arrive, and came out to greet us. The adults kissed and shook hands, and then they welcomed me.

Hi Wesley, my aunt kissed me on the cheek, enjoying your school holidays?

Yes thanks, Aunty Kath, and I can’t wait to get on the lake today.

Good for you, Wes, my uncle added, holding out his hand to greet me.

Paul looked across at my friends. Graham, he knew already, but I had to introduce Scott to my aunt and uncle. Paul then invited us inside to find his kids. We entered the house, and followed the sound of a Bruce Springstein tape into the family room where Linda and Kim were sitting. We greeted each other warmly, and Scott seemed instantly mesmerised by Kim’s appearance. She really was a beautiful girl. Her dark, almond eyes contrasted sharply to Scott’s round, pale-blue ones. He could not stop looking at her, almost to the point of staring, and he swallowed hard.

At that moment, DC appeared in the doorway. He was blond, like Scott, and although a year older than the three of us, about the same height. But his tight T-shirt and football shorts revealed a much stronger and athletic build by comparison.

My mother saw him first, and smiled broadly. Hello DC. How are you?

Fine thanks, Aunty Pam. Hi, Uncle Frank.

There was no expression on his face or in his voice as he spoke. He seemed almost sullen, which was totally out-of-character, even when my dad greeted him and introduced Graham and Scott.

His answer was mumbled and terse. Yeah, hi guys.