The Worm King Read online

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Handrail

  Oh, these unholy desperate measures we’ve arrived at, caught in a land of night on night where the mad abound and fools run free.

  So sayith the Lord.

  ‘Captain?’

  ‘Yes, Winston.’

  ‘How much longer should we wait?’

  Forsyth checked his watch: quarter past twelve. Snow was fifteen minutes late. You’d probably have to excuse anything up to an hour late given current driving conditions, so they may still have some standing around to do.

  Waiting, waiting, waiting. The prospect he might not show up at all hadn’t been considered a likely option, but here they were, outside the “Big Yass” furniture shop on the main street of Yass and it was fifteen past twelve and counting.

  ‘Longer,’ he growled. The grit in his throat made speaking unpleasant although this didn’t seem to worry Winston or Lord Brown. Winston only sounded more gravelly, and dwarfish, as though he’d just crawled out of the ground. And Lord Brown probably sounded pretty much like that from day one. Astrid began coughing, then the Hat. Francesco and Wiremu stood silently either side of Astrid, at the head of the group. Two hurricane lanterns were placed out on the road in front of the showroom and should’ve been visible for nearly a hundred meters in either direction. They were open for business.

  No wind blew and the air felt thick, almost murky, but perhaps less so than two or three days ago. Still, you’d struggle to get wildly excited: 4 degrees above zero and pitch dark in the middle of a summers day. Not exactly picnic weather.

  Forsyth’s role was purely as observer so he waited at the rear with Winston, the Hat and Brownie. When the Hat had stopped coughing he said, ‘This feels like a scene from one of those old westerns with John Wayne, where he’s waiting for the baddie . . . whatever he’s called, the evil cowpoke or whoever, to ride into town.’

  ‘Did the Duke do one like that?’ asked Winston. ‘Set in Aussie, and all at night? I can’t recall if he did.’

  ‘And in the winter,’ Forsyth added, rubbing his bare hands together before jamming them back into his pockets. Thick gloves made reaching for one’s pistol slower unless you’re outside for a lengthy period, in which case you’ll need the gloves to stop movement seizing up.

  ‘And with cannibals?’ continued Winston sceptically.

  ‘Yes,’ replied the Hat. ‘I believe he did. John Wayne and this sheila—can’t remember her name but she had jai-normous norks—anyway, it’s called “Cannibals at Kangaroo Junction”. Saw it at least . . . well, once, I think.’

  ‘What was that?’ said Astrid. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Canapés,’ fibbed Winston. ‘Hatsy just said he’s at a junction in life where he’d fancy some canapés. How ’bout you?’ Forsyth couldn’t help smiling despite the tense wait. Astrid wasn’t happy with Winston & Co and had already asked Lord Brown to leave—which he’d refused to do—because he was intoxicated.

  ‘This is extremely serious.’ She faced them again, hands on hips. ‘And I think we’ve had enough of those little prayers too, thank you very much.’

  ‘Verily,’ promised Lord Brown, which made Astrid frown even more.

  ‘Headlights,’ called Wiremu.

  Exactly twelve thirty-two in the afternoon. The light clarified into two sets, so more than one car.

  ‘Now? Wiremu asked.

  ‘No, wait,’ said Francesco.

  The first car, a beat-up old Hillman with Henry at the wheel, stopped directly in front alongside one of the lanterns. The second pulled up a good seventy meters short. Strange, because there was no shortage of parking space. The dazzling headlights made the model hard to tell but Forsyth thought it was the same lime-green Falcon that Dick and Bob had at the truck depot.

  ‘Now?’ repeated Wiremu, more urgency.

  ‘Yes,’ confirmed Francesco. ‘Go!’ And it was done. Wiremu disappeared and a moment later they heard the furniture shop front door slide open. The Māori was unquestionably the best Forsyth had ever seen at navigating his way around in the dark without a torch.

  Henry stepped from the Hillman and waved to everybody (Astrid in particular) then looked up the road, surprised the second vehicle had stopped so far back. Henry’s companion emerged from the passenger side, also called a friendly hello and waved, then both men leant on the roof of their car, staring back at the Falcon. They exchanged quiet words, not threatening or dangerous, more apprehensive.

  It was Snow alright. He’d left the engine running and climbed out, his profile obvious even at this distance. He walked around the front to the passenger’s rear door. If he’d wanted to remain unseen he could’ve easily gone around the back of the car out of the headlights. He wore a greatcoat with suit trouser bottoms tucked into boots, just as he had done at the rat-burning episode behind the Hyatt. Apart from Winston, Snow was the first person he’d seen in ages not wearing head covering of any type.

  Snow bent and looked in the Falcons back seat, leaning against the window frame, but whether talking or not they couldn’t tell. He straightened. It crossed Forsyth’s mind he might not have brought the twins this time either—there could be four armed men crammed in the rear, ready to jump out and spray the whole scene. Lo and behold, Snow opened the door and out climbed one small figure, then another. No mannequins this time, thank goodness.

  Wait on? What was that . . . a rope?

  ‘Mother of god,’ murmured Francesco. He’d seen it too: the girls’ hands were bound in front, and each also had a rope tied to their necks. A fourth individual stepped out behind the girls, holding the ropes, dragging them back. Bob of the Bonfire. Dick walked around to the driver’s side and reached in, switched the engine off, then the headlights. The four figures disappeared.

  A sharp, high-pitched scream came from one of the twins. ‘Quick,’ cried Astrid, ‘We—’

  ‘No!’ ordered Francesco, grabbing her shoulder. ‘Wait.’ He was right, they wouldn’t get there in time to do anything and this had trap written all over it.

  A full minute passed before a light finally reappeared beside Snow’s car. The four figures were upright, and obviously still moving, which eased Forsyth’s pulse somewhat. They began shambling forwards.

  The girls’ profiles looked odd: humpbacked in some way. No one had mentioned they were severely deformed and he was sure it would’ve cropped up if they were.

  Astrid gasped and Francesco tightened his grip on her shoulder.

  ‘What the hell . . . ’ muttered Winston.

  Snow was in the lead holding a torch, followed by Bob, then the twins. ‘Francesco! Astrid!’ one of the girls shouted.

  Snow turned on her. ‘Quiet!’ he snarled.

  As they approached, Henry called out: ‘Hey there, Mr Snow. You didn’t say anything about that.’ Snow pointed a finger at him, clenching his teeth. Henry got back in the car without another word, closed the door, and his companion did likewise.

  When the entourage was ten meters distant Astrid broke free, and ran forward, but Dick immediately held up his hand shouting, ‘Stop!’

  She stopped.

  Dick turned to the girls and with his index finger pointed at the ground whilst twirling it around, indicated they do a little pirouette, so everyone could see their backs.

  Their hands were handcuffed at the front. Bob led them by a pair of ropes, approximately two meters in length. Each rope was fastened to the butt of a machete tied to their backs, blades hanging loosely down. Their profiles had looked unusual because the handles protruded up past their shoulders, which kept their heads pushed forward. This strap-and-brace arrangement, made with what looked like two over-sized leather belts, held the shaft of the machete, where blade joined handle, tightly against the back of each girl’s neck. A strip of material had been wrapped around the base of the blades as skimpy protection where they came in contact with skin.

  It was patently obvious if any pressure was applied to the machete handles, the widening blades wou
ld slide up and immediately begin sawing into neck as they were pulled free. The curved edge of the metal glistened wickedly.

  Worst case scenario, both girls panicked and ran from Bob in different directions. He’d looped the ropes around his wrist so would just have to stand there and hang on. Even if Forsyth shot him, he’d only have to thrash on the ground a few times waving that arm and it would do terrible damage to the girls. And with no medical help nearby . . .

  ‘Are you alright?’ Astrid called desperately.

  ‘No!’ the pair replied at virtually the same time. Both looked frightened yet strangely classy, even elegant, which might’ve had something to do with the designer matching coats and hats they wore under the harnesses.

  Snow held up his hand, grinning, as though the whole machete setup were merely a boyish prank. ‘Get back!’ He nodded at Astrid, then pointed at the twins. ‘Don’t get too close to Bob there. He might start hauling those lines in.’ Forsyth began edging away, moving out of the light.

  ‘You agreed we’d all come unarmed!’ cried Astrid. ‘We have!’

  ‘What about him?’ said Snow, pointing his torch directly at the Captain.

  ‘He’s an observer! To make sure it’s all above board,’ she answered lamely. Everyone stared at the handles poking up behind the girl’s shoulders, jiggling like mini-portable guillotines. It had been Astrid’s suggestion to title him as observer with the idea the semantics would trick Dick into letting them have a weapon, when Dick wasn’t supposed to be allowed one himself. Forsyth had expressed some scepticism with this angle but went along with it nonetheless on the basis he’d no intention of giving up his weapons anyway.

  Snow shook his head, perplexed. ‘They aren’t weapons, they’re . . . garden tools, if anything. And it’s to make sure you don’t take the girls away without authorization, as you attempted last time. It’s merely a safety harness my assistant Bob strung together.’

  Snow wasn’t bad with semantics either.

  ‘Captain?’ he said pleasantly, ‘it’s good to see you again.’ He paused, touching a finger to his lips as though remembering something important, then walked around Francesco and in a flash was right there, inside Forsyth’s personal space. He spoke quietly, so Winston and perhaps Lord Brown would’ve been the only other people near enough to hear:

  ‘Hey, I’ll get ’im to yank one of those ropes as hard as he possibly can. Really rip into it. I reckon it’ll whip her fuckin head right off. What do you think?’

  Snow’s breath carried an unpleasant, pepperminty aroma and his eyes had that intense, wide-eyed stare usually reserved for photos of serial killers, pyromaniacs and school teachers. His teeth were marked with intense red stains at the gum edges and Forsyth wondered, without truly wanting to know, what the monster had been eating.

  Dick stepped back several paces, continuing in a substantially louder tone. ‘So what do you reckon, how about putting that gun down then, Captain?’ When he smiled the red stains became far more visible so you wouldn’t call it a nice smile, by any stretch of the imagination. ‘There’s no need for all that carryon. And the knife please. Yes, that’s right, the knife too. Put them both down on the ground. And your other gun, and ammunition, or do I have to search you?’

  Forsyth shrugged and reached into his tunic to remove the spare glock from its shoulder holster and place it on the ground along with his primary sidearm, extra clips and knife. There were flecks of foam at the corner of Snow’s mouth; he was excited, and overly confident. He didn’t conduct a full body search so completely missed the 4-inch auxiliary blade strapped to the inside left leg.

  Snow picked up the pistols, clips and knife and sauntered back to stand beside Bob, giving him the knife. The mongrel probably had the audacity to come unarmed: he knew two machetes would be quite enough. With just a couple of garden tools he’d traded his way up to now having a gun in each slimy hand. He would’ve stepped out of that Falcon immediately knowing he had the edge. Forsyth couldn’t help conceding a degree of brilliance, and had to admit Snow was a magnificent tactician. The savagery of it flew past anything they’d expected and caught them completely unawares, possibly even leap-frogging a Ruarangi Special in terms of sheer brutality. In the same way they’d armed the fuel truck, Snow had armed the twins. He’d set them to self-destruct as soon as those ropes were pulled then tied the trigger to that crazy bastard Bob.

  Bob, who drooled with delight: ropes in one hand, knife in the other. A 5cm trail of mucusy dribble dangled, swaying from his chin. He shouted some unintelligible sentence at Winston and jabbed the knife in his direction. Forsyth winced, remembering the graphic description Winston gave of stabbing Bob in the face with a wine bottle.

  ‘Friend of yours?’ drawled the Hat.

  Winston wisely kept his mouth shut.

  The single, positive aspect of this ugly turn of events was it confirmed their risk assessment had been correct and he felt more confident in the course of action they’d set themselves on. Snow was clearly insane. In no way could his tactics be condoned as normal from a government official. Not just because all the lights had gone out for a few months.

  Surely not?

  Dick asked about the fuel, and Francesco told him there were two ways they could go: through the showroom and directly out back to the loading bay, or down the main street a hundred meters, take the first left then another quick left down a side street which took you to the rear of Big Yass Furniture. One route was approximately a hundred and twenty meters, the other nearly a kilometer. Snow unsurprisingly opted for the shorter.

  Lord Brown picked up one lantern and the Hat the other. Astrid and Francesco held torches so they led the clumsy procession, while Snow, Bob and the twins entered the showroom last. Astrid waited at the door then trained her beam on Bob and the girl’s feet to light a path through the scattered furniture.

  All non-involved personnel had been moved from the showroom four hours ago, into a vacant store three doors west. As a precaution, they’d voted to leave a team of spotters in the office to shout a warning if someone tried to slip in the back way, should they manage to sneak past Wiremu in the loading bay.

  Forsyth hoped those hiding in the office had the good sense to keep their heads down. Near the middle of the room where the jumble of furniture was thickest, an angry growl froze Francesco in his tracks. He and Snow swung their torches in the direction of the sound, but saw nothing. A muffled shout came from the vicinity of the office although Snow still probed for the origin of the growl and didn’t appear to hear it. Without warning, a snarling blur sprung at Bob’s face: an angry, furry ball of claws and gnashing canines. Bob must’ve thought he’d stumbled on a wolverine.

  Āmiria had opened the office door to see what was happening as soon as they’d entered the showroom, and the dog immediately escaped. Peanuts liked the twins because one time at Mulloolaloo they dished him up an entire manky chub luncheon roll. He saw the twins and remembered the chub, then detected a particularly nasty vibe between the Chub-girls and the man holding their leads. Dogs are tops on vibes, and the spaniel could see No-lip-one-eye had the bad kind in spades. Then Peanuts thought about the chub again, before finally coming back to the vibes and deciding something really must be done about it because the Chub-girls looked terribly frightened, whereby he leapt up and ripped a sizable hunk from No-lip-one-eye’s snout, hopefully seriously hindering his sniffing ability.

  Bob slashed wildly at the dog but never made contact although for several frenzied seconds Peanuts actually hung off his nose. The dog sped off, disappearing into the maze of furniture. Pandemonium erupted. Some of the shouting was Forsyth’s because pandemonium can on occasion be your friend. Astrid and Francesco kept their torches on the twins but Snow’s beam zipped hither and thither in all directions. Bob clutched a hand over his torn hooter which drew the ropes taut but not enough to pull the machetes up past their protective wraps. One of the twins stepped towards Bob, and her line slackened, so she pulled her sister in too and both
lines went slack.

  Forsyth saw a window.

  It wasn’t a big chance but definitely there, peeking at him through the chaos. If he could wrest those ropes from Bob’s hand, staying out of the way of the knife, then attempt to use Bob’s scrawny frame to block any shot from Snow, with any luck it’d give Francesco a chance to grab Snow which you could see he was itching to do. Bob stood a fraction out of range for a kidney punch so the next best option was a spear-kick to the goolies, which Forsyth drove home with the sort of precision and vigor any State of Origin player would’ve been proud off. Bob doubled over, cradling his mashed nuts.

  He grabbed for the ropes. And missed.

  ‘Get ’em!’ yelled Āmiria from behind a divan to his right. Snow’s beam turned on her and the others who’d unwisely left the office. A shot exploded, reverberatingly loud in the confines of the showroom.

  ‘Stop!’ shouted Snow with impressive authority. Forsyth’s first thought was he’d plugged Āmiria because she wasn’t visible, then he saw the smoking glock pointed at the roof. ‘Bob!’ he called, ‘Stop!’

  Bob straightened, holding his crotch and glowering through a single hate-filled eye, the knife drawn back like he was ready to spring forward and start stabbing whatever got in his way. The ropes were wrapped tight around his left wrist, barely any slack in them. With great effort, he held himself in check. Again, a brilliant move on behalf of Snow. If Bob killed the girls in rage, or even by mistake, Snow’s advantage would be in tatters: down to two pistols and surrounded by an angry group in the dark who’d quite probably get him from that distance. He swung the gun onto Forsyth and should’ve pulled the trigger there and then, but hesitated.