The Worm King Page 27

‘Yes, koalas. It’s bound to be that. Still, I’ll take a quick look. Shouldn’t be a problem hopefully. Then I’ll go to my room, get the others, and be back out and see you all in, say, twenty-five minutes or thereabouts.’

  ‘Well, I ’spose. Tell you what, how ’bout I come and take a look too, then I’ll come right back here.’ He smiled reassuringly at the young couple and child. ‘I need a stretch anyway. We don’t have big fancy rooms to stride round in, like you army fūllas there.’

  Hopefully he didn’t get in the way. Another shot rang out. Forsyth happened to be watching Murray’s weathered face at that exact instant, and he didn’t flinch. Not even the most infinitesimal twitch. It occurred to him the old farmer was probably a fairly tough old nut, and maybe he’d be slowing him down.

  The two men saw the glow of the bonfire and heard the high-pitched laughter within seconds of exiting the shack. At the rear corner of the hotel, they drew to a halt. The fog had grown patchy and there seemed no point going any further because it was obvious what was happening. Five individuals faced the flames, their backs to Forsyth and Murray. They didn’t need to go to any great lengths to remain hidden. Unless one of those by the fire turned, and glanced specifically in their direction, they weren’t going to see anything amiss, and even then, being that close to the fire the glare would be terrible so the chances of being spotted were virtually nil.

  Murray touched Forsyth’s arm and pointed. ‘That’s that Met bloke we told you about, at the front there. Not the one with the gun, the other one.’

  Snow was easy to pick out, and he suspected the man beside him with the rifle was the same one who’d poked his head out the door when the sewing issue came up. BANG! They were shooting at rats running from the fire. The gunman turned his head to one side and Forsyth thought there was something wrapped around his face, like a bandage, but couldn’t spot the harelip from that distance. BANG! He was the one doing all the laughing too.

  The three other men stood directly behind Snow and his buddy. They wore hotel uniforms, and whenever the gunman moved, they moved as well, obviously keen on staying to the rear of the field of fire. Snow pointed at a smaller pile of rubbish, thirty meters beyond the main blaze. His suit looked different from the time they’d met in his office: the trouser bottoms were tucked down into the top of boots. Previously he’d worn polished leather brogues; Forsyth remembered taking note of them whilst trying to work out that Aboriginal wine stain on the rug. Snow’s profile reminded him of a London skinhead, but with more hair. Menacing, angry and unpredictable with a smart hairdo. The gunman fired a shot in the direction of the smaller pile and the hotel staff hurriedly rotated. A flurry of rodents dashed from the burning pile to the non-burning smaller one. BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! The scream of dying rats mingled with Harelip’s laughter and the crackle of flames.

  ‘Stop!’ shouted Snow.

  He obligingly lowered the weapon.

  ‘Thank god for that,’ said Murray softly. ‘Could you see his harelip? Thought I might’ve been able to make one out.’

  ‘No.’

  Words were exchanged between Snow and his friend. Forsyth guessed he was telling the idiot to stop wasting valuable ammo on vermin.

  Yep, Harelip shouldered the rifle and began walking back towards the hotel. Hang on, not quite. He picked up a jerry can and returned to the small pile, pouring on a decent splash then going over to Snow. Snow took the drum, gave it a shake and handed it back. Harelip returned to the smaller pile, and tossed the whole thing on. The throw was good, and the can sat perched precariously on top. Next he moved to main pile, and shielding his face from the heat with his arm, grabbed a piece of partially burning garbage from the fringe of the flames. He trotted to the small pile and chucked it on.

  WOOOF! He backed away from the flames because the drum hadn’t gone up yet, then . . .

  WOOOMPfffh!! A lovely little fireball nearly fried the bastard but unfortunately he was quick enough to duck out in time. Now at a safer distance, Harelip raised the rifle, firing at wave upon wave of rats fleeing the freshly burning mound, laughing hysterically between shots, while Snow punched the air with a clenched fist. The three hotel staff cowered.

  ‘Sheeeee-it!’ exclaimed Murray.

  A frigid shiver tore up the Forsyth’s spine, chilling him to the core. How could these men be associated with the Prime Minister? And how did the new legislation Snow’s trying to shove through fit into the equation? Harelip circled the blaze, with the hotel men scurrying after. Snow followed casually. Soon they’d be firing back in their direction, so Forsyth touched Murray on the shoulder and sounded the retreat.

  Knock! Knock! Knock!

  A long pause. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Captain Forsyth here ma’am. Astrid?’

  ‘Yes!’ said a male voice instead, then silence.

  ‘I just met a friend of yours, outside. Winston? Do you—’

  ‘Oh God, I can’t believe he’s still here! Can you take us out there, please?’

  ‘Yes! Yes!’ the deep-voiced male urged. The dwarf had said Astrid would be with an Italian by the name of Francesco.

  After warning them to stand back, he kicked open the door, which popped like a blister, first go. The way the jambs overlapped made it much easier to break inwards than outwards. The woman stood shorter than she’d sounded; the man overweight, and swarthy, with a bull-neck and fists that’d make Tyson think twice. A putrid waft rolled from the room and Forsyth couldn’t help stepping back a half-pace.

  ‘It’s the toilet bucket,’ she explained. ‘They only give us a bucket to go in. We keep it shut in the bathroom but the smell still comes out. They used to empty it every day.’

  ‘This way.’ The pair followed without further explanation.

  They didn’t meet a soul on the walk to the restaurant, which seemed odd, given it was supposedly now in the lights-on phase. Perhaps everyone had their own individual light phases? Staggering it might make sense, in terms of power drainage. Earlier, when gathering blankets for the Brigadier and being allocated his room, he’d passed at least fifteen other . . . guests? You’d struggle to call them that because most were male and several clearly intoxicated. They sure didn’t look like regular Hyatt clientele, although there’d definitely been one family: an Indian man, his wife and three children playing in the foyer near the downstairs ballroom. Now they’d all disappeared without a trace, like they’d fallen down a hole.

  And how did the hotel even enforce the lights curfew? Probably didn’t have to: people were so desperate for direction they simply did what they were told and followed whatever orders thrown at them. That kind of sullen lethargy was much prevalent at Duntroon too. This depressing darkness had soaked into everyone like a cancerous rot.

  The restaurant still appeared closed. The lights inside were off and seating area empty, although a glow was visible around the edge of a rear door which more than likely led to the kitchen. It might be that they’re using the kitchen facilities, but getting people to eat in their rooms. Forsyth stepped over the threshold and stopped, waiting for Astrid and Francesco. ‘Hang on here for a moment, would you?’ As quietly as possible, he walked across the restaurant and halted at the bar, turned, paused, then hiked his backside up and legs over in one fluid movement. The bottle rack above the bar had already been cleaned out. He began checking shelves down near the floor, doing it by feel because the light in the hall didn’t penetrate this far. By good fortune, the second bottle he touched was full, and . . . yes! Just what the doctor ordered. So he stole it.

  Stole?

  No, of course it wasn’t stealing when one had an Order of Darkness tucked in one’s breast pocket, which to his way of understanding meant you could requisition whatever you liked, within reason. Bugger it, even the unreasonable stuff’s fair game these days. Would Duntroon forgive one more minor transgression? Sorry to mention it old boy, but you’re building up rather a stack of them there.

  Therefore he formally requisitioned the vodka, and hopped
back over the bar. Halfway to the door, he froze mid-step. Who was that!? A face peered at Francesco and Astrid, from alongside the pillar at the entrance. The person would’ve been close enough to reach out and touch one of them. Forsyth stepped around the pair and into the restaurant entrance, while the stranger backed rapidly away. He wore black and white checked pantaloons and a puffy chef’s hat.

  ‘Hello,’ rumbled Francesco, recovering immediately. The chef stared at the incriminating bottle but didn’t say a word. The prospect of confronting a thief in full army getup, plus a second robber the size of a tank, was obviously not high on his chefy list. Not to mention the little redhead, and redheads just always look angry, full stop. The chef sensibly shrunk into the background with his mouth hanging open and didn’t move, so they left.

  The lobby proved to be the busiest section of the hotel. Two men reclined on the leather sofa opposite the reception desk and another on a chair adjacent the sofa. All three wore heavy overcoats and their faces were streaked with grime, like they’d been shoveling coal. On first glance, Forsyth thought they might’ve been the ones assisting Snow at the fire, but their profiles were all different. The same bellhop stood in attendance, leaning against his empty trolley. A bookie would’ve taken odds he was superglued onto the damn thing. The chap on the chair began coughing, then pulled out a hanky and spat a phlegmy wad into it, triggering the sofa men into coughing fits too. No sign of the concierge.

  ‘Hello,’ Francesco said to the bellhop. The boy nodded, but didn’t offer a reply.

  He checked his watch: precisely two-fifteen in the afternoon. Through the glass front door, mist swirled with ill intent. Anyone seeking a sign the sun was reappearing wouldn’t find it today. He pushed the door wide and stepped onto the veranda, looking right, then left. Deserted. The lantern that’d been there previously was gone. Astrid and Francesco followed close behind.

  Apart from light escaping through the front door, the only illumination came from a chain of weak bulbs strung along the awning over the veranda, shrouding the hotel in an insipid glow which failed to punch far into the darkness. These lights hadn’t been on last time he was outside, and the mist looked a touch thicker too. No chance of seeing the front gate, or even the shack on the lawn, but the 4WD remained visible, and he could just make out the back of the old truck parked in front of it.

  A muffled shout echoed from around the side of the hotel. ‘I think that’s Dick,’ said Astrid with distaste. ‘At least, it sounded like his voice.’

  Snow was everywhere and in all the wrong places at once. Worst of all, Forsyth had the gnawing feeling the Prime Minister might know nothing about this new legislation, and Snow’s trying to do a shifty for some reason. Yet he was so brazen? That other bloke, Harelip, clearly had something to do with it. Hopefully they were both still around the back of the hotel, setting rats on fire, which raised a bunch of questions in itself.

  ‘I’m going to ask him where the twins are,’ said Astrid irritably, starting down the veranda steps. Forsyth grabbed her sleeve.

  ‘Wait!’ She tried to pull loose but he held on. ‘We’ll check the others are okay first, and see what they want to do. Maybe we’ll go and speak to Snow then.’ If she raced off half-cocked, it’d end up getting everyone in strife.

  ‘They have found my truck, and bought it inside,’ said Francesco, pointing at the vehicle parked in front of the 4WD. ‘There she is, see?’

  Transport. That may avoid having to use the vodka as a bartering chip, should the need arise to borrow Snow’s 4WD.

  Astrid frowned, but eventually saw the logic; the others didn’t take much convincing either, so two minutes later they made straight for the shack. The fog could’ve thinned a fraction because the building now shone faintly through the gloom. Winston was overjoyed to see the pair and wasted little time giving them an energetic account of his escape from Harelip and subsequent stay in the rubbish pile. Astrid, like Winston, seemed convinced Snow was in cahoots with Harelip and up to no good, especially after the disappearance of the twins.

  ‘There’s another thing,’ said Winston. ‘When Murray got back and described him, Scarlett here told us she saw a man with an eye patch that sounded like Harelip taking petrol from the truck out there, with a hose.’ He jerked his thumb in the direction of the vehicles. ‘As soon as I heard that, I thought, uh-oh, that’ll be Frankie’s truck, so I got her to show me, and sure enough, it was yours mate. ’ He shook his head.

  For Forsyth, that was the clincher. Only one avenue remained.

  Francesco held up his hands in disbelief. ‘So they take my truck, and we cannot leave except to walk, and we’d still have to get through the gate!’

  ‘Yeah, we’re pretty keen to move on if we can,’ declared Murray. ‘Trouble is, if we run outta petrol half a mile down the road, I reckon they probably wouldn’t let us back in. Not sneakin off like that. Then we’d be stuck out there with no car and bugger all tucker. Dunno which is worse: that or those funny buggers round the back.’

  ‘We have to go and speak to Dick, find out what’s going on,’ insisted Astrid.

  ‘That’s not a good idea. If any of your suspicions are correct, he’ll just lock you in that room again, probably the rest of us too, then it’ll be all over red-rover. There’ll be nothing we can do after that. We’ll be screwed.’ Forsyth paused, letting this sink in. ‘My suggestion would be to move to a safer spot first, then we’ll come back and ask him about your twins; just you and me, if you like.’

  Francesco nodded approval. ‘Yes, and I would like to come back too, and speak with Snow again. But next time I bring some friend with me.’ He socked his clenched fist into his palm and it sounded like a ham being smacked against a wall. Suddenly it dawned on Forsyth that Francesco and these Kiwis certainly won’t want to go to Duntroon; not after this brush with authorities. Duntroon had been his obvious backup plan should the need arise to retreat. More importantly, he’d be mad to return straight to Duntroon too. Not without better evidence against Snow. It’d be tantamount to deserting his post and the Brigadier would use it as an excuse to rip him a new one for sure.

  He implored the group to hunker down and promised he’d go and get things sorted, then be back in a jiffy. Furthermore, the aforementioned jiffy would be no longer than seven, or perhaps at most eight minutes, and they should all be ready to disembark post-haste on his return. He smiled reassuringly, and pulled an imaginary train cord. ‘Toot! Toot!’ Scarlett giggled but no one else laughed. Then, complete with bottle of grog and confident swagger, Captain Forsyth strode from the shack.

  The Brigadier would’ve thought the whole performance absolutely bang-on.

  The Smirnoff swung lazily from his left hand and the oily liquid contained within sloshed thickly at the bottles throat. He lifted it high, standing dead centre in the front of the 4WD, right between the headlights, which were off. Nobody moved on the hotel veranda and the front gate lights weren’t visible so conditions looked about as perfect as you’d get. The driver happened to be singing: the Irish ballad Danny Boy, which was a terrible shame because that’d always been one of Forsyth’s favorites and he was way out of tune, and making a terrible mess of it.

  He wouldn’t be able to see a thing. The windows had completely fogged up, so Forsyth rapped a couple of times on the hood then moved around to the driver’s door. The singing thankfully stopped, and the window wound jaggedly down. The man’s bleary, sour face protruded, immediately focused on the bottle, then a hand emerged, beckoning the vodka over along with some garbled, slurred instruction.

  ‘Righto. Here you are.’ He held the liquor out although not too close, so the driver had to reach through the window but still found it slightly out of range, so stretched even further, until his head stuck through as well. Step two: release your bottle. Before it was halfway to the ground, he’d grabbed the man by the hair with his free left hand and ripped the head down hard, cracking it against the lower window frame and shattering the cheekbone into god knows how
many fragments. The bottle cracked on the asphalt with a dull pop. His right hand swung up and around in a tight clockwise loop, pausing for a moment when the glock was positioned directly over the driver’s head and pointed straight down, then he shot him once through the temple.

  Hold him! Hold him!

  Check the veranda: still clear, and the front gate: zilch. The man’s death passed unobserved. You have to be careful when you take someone like this because you’re prone to shot yourself in the foot. Keep holding the head out, so it doesn’t drain inside the vehicle. The twitching faded to an odd spasm, then nothing. He tried opening the door but it was locked, so reached inside and fumbled around till finding the latch, then clicked it open. When he’d opened the door a few centimeters, he released the head and the corpse tumbled out of its own accord. The lifeless bundle of arms and legs crumpled to the ground. He knelt, and rolled it underneath out of sight which made him think that—

  Yeah it’s a job, so fuckin what?

  Think that it’s always been like this. No memory existed of anything else. You have to push down what you do so, so deep that no other memory of anything ever manages to survive. Deeper and deeper and deeper, right to the bottom, because that’s what they say works best and then they’ll say the only way to bury it that deep, is to whack more on top, so get back out there soldier! So you do it one more time, hoping this one won’t be as bad as the last. Eventually, relief emerges from continuation. Keep pushing it down, go on. The key was still in the ignition. It must’ve always been like this, surely. But the bags full, sir!

  Has it? Always?

  He’d figured on walking back to the shack and fetching the others then simply driving off. Yet, why walk at all? After a moments contemplation Forsyth bent down and dragged the body out from underneath, partly so it didn’t get squished, but more so as to take a shoe and sock off, then use the sock to wipe the splatter off the driver’s door, although the red paintwork would’ve made detection unlikely anyway. When completed, he chucked the sock under the vehicle, climbed in and pulled the door shut.