Blood Junction (24 page)

“What, now?”

“No.” He sighed as if dealing with an idiot. “Tomorrow. Christmas Day.”

“Mightn’t it be a bit hot for a traditional English lunch?”

His hand slipped off the door. “We can’t not have it.”

It seemed best to humor him. “Okay.”

“Got to deliver it.” He started nodding. She was reminded of a toy dog in the back of a sedan. “Or Jed’ll hang himself. That’s
what Abos do, you know, when they’re incarcerated. Hang themselves.”

“You’re going to take him Christmas lunch?”

“Jail foods’ terrible. A hanging offense.”

“Why can’t his family?”

He blinked at her. “Come again?”

“It’d save you running around like meals on wheels if his family took it?”

“He doesn’t have any.”

She felt as though he’d punched her in the stomach. “Hell,” she said. “I’d forgotten he was a stolen child.”

“How’s your head … still ache?” he said after a while.

“Better since I took some more Disprin. Thank you.”

“So polite. So marvelously English. India, the jewel in the crown.” He gave a deep chuckle. “I’m drunk, you know. Absolutely
rat-arsed. That’s what Christmas is for, isn’t it? All good men and all that.” He reached out and made to run a finger over
her upper lip but she jerked her head and moved away, and he stumbled after her. “Stop moving about, woman,” he slurred.

“I’m going to bed.”

“Can I come too?”

She stopped and looked at him, her face impassive. “You can’t be serious.”

“Why not?”

“Do you really think I’d find a drunken slob like you attractive?”

“I’m not that drunk,” he insisted. “And I’m not a slob.”

She simply raised an eyebrow in return.

He caught her upper arms in his hands, pulled her towards him.

“Don’t.”

“I bloody will,” he murmured, and bent his head to hers.

His kiss was hard and demanding.

She could taste bourbon and woodsmoke, overlaid with anger, and a petal of rage unfurled inside her. She’d had enough of anger
in her life. So she bit his lip.

Mikey reared backwards, a hand to his mouth.

“The difference between men and women never ceases to amaze me,” she said coolly. “Men don’t have to love someone, or like
them particularly … or even be sober. But you’ll still sleep with them.”

He blinked owlishly. “Either you’re saying you don’t like me, or that you’re a cold fish. Which is it? I can’t work it out.”

“Men aren’t as fussy as women.”

“I’m extremely fussy,” he protested.

“I am too. Goodnight, Mikey.”

A clap of thunder woke Mikey in the middle of the night. He lay there with the consciousness—it felt worse than his hangover—of
having made a terrible mistake. He got up. He felt shaky and slightly sick. He held out a hand, studied it. It shook a little,
and he stared at it as if for the first time.

He couldn’t remember going to bed. He probed cautiously at his memory as he watched the tremors in his hand, but couldn’t
get any further than the taste of India’s lips. Then it all went blank. Had he passed out as he kissed her?
Had
he kissed her?

Absently he rubbed his mouth, felt his swollen and bruised lower lip. Yes. Yes, he had kissed her all right, and she’d bitten
him. He’d deserved it.

He could feel a dark cloud of self-disgust gathering inside him. Mikey ran a hand over his face, groaning to himself.

A drink will take the edge off the way you feel.

But he didn’t want one.

Mikey pulled on gym shorts, running shoes and a T-shirt, and ran seven Ks across the bush. He ran all the way to the base
of the hills, startling a flock of cockatoos on the way, and looked back at Cooinda, twinkling through the darkness.

When he ran into the backyard his body was dripping with sweat and his head was clear. He took a shower, dressed in the darkest
clothes he could find, then headed for the kitchen to wake India.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” she asked for the third time. “It’s barely two in the morning.”

“It’s Christmas Day. It’s a perfect idea.”

“What’ll happen if you get caught?”

“I won’t.”

They were driving southeast through Cooinda. There was no traffic. The town was asleep.

Mikey cleared his throat noisily. “About last night—”

“You were drunk.”

“Yes.” He stared rigidly ahead, forced the words out. “I behaved badly.”

“If I’m not embarrassed, you shouldn’t be.”

“But honestly—”

“Okay, okay, apology accepted if it makes you feel better.” She sounded snappish.

God, she was hard
, he thought.

Mikey used headlights until they neared the clutch of houses in Jangala Vale. Then he doused them and did a U-turn before
parking, so the car faced towards town. He left the keys in the ignition. The digital clock told them it was two-thirty in
the morning.

They struck out across the bush together. A quarter moon supplied sufficient light. Mikey carried a big bolt cutter and a
hunting knife. India had a heavy cosh of Whitelaw’s. As they walked, he noticed how little noise India made. She seemed to
avoid dry twigs and leaves with uncanny instinct, while no matter how hard he tried he crashed along beside her like a giant
wombat.

It took them fifty minutes to get to his lookout on top of the ridge. They crouched low, staring down a rock-strewn slope
towards the murky shape of Karamyde Cosmetics. Lights were off in every window, except the reception area. Spotlamps illuminated
the car park and front of the building. Mikey scanned the area with his binoculars. No activity anywhere. Just two guards
in the gatehouse, nursing white plastic cups and smoking.

He hunkered down, felt India do the same. He watched the guards. One of them started to laugh. The other reached for a bottle—it
looked like Scotch—on the windowsill and topped up their cups. His movements were unsteady, and Mikey gave a little smile.
They were celebrating Christmas. Maybe it wouldn’t be as difficult as he’d thought.

He jerked his head at India and they started down the slope. Towards the bottom he slipped, sending an avalanche of loose
rocks tumbling. He froze and flicked a look at India, who stayed motionless, waiting to see if the noise had attracted any
attention. Silence.

Cautiously they crept towards the perimeter fence. When they neared it, Mikey squatted on the dirt again and raised his binoculars.
The guards were still drinking and smoking. He scanned the fence carefully, checking for cameras. He couldn’t see any, but
that didn’t mean they weren’t there. He watched the guards for another two minutes. Not once did they show any interest in
anything aside from their little party.

It was now or never.

Mikey rose and approached the fence. He picked up a handful of dust and threw it at the mesh. There was a sharp fizzing sound,
then silence. He gave a low groan. An electrified fence. He flapped a hand at India, telling her to stay where she was, and
skirted the perimeter, searching for a circuit box. When he eventually neared the car park he paused, concentrating his senses
on every detail around him. He was conscious of a gentle breeze. The sweat trickling down his back. He couldn’t see a circuit
box anywhere. Shit. He’d bet his last dollar it was in the gatehouse.

He backtracked to India, whispered his plan.

“No way,” she hissed at him.

“The only way,” he whispered back.

They had to wait thirty-five minutes for one of the guards to make a move. India watched as he stumbled out of the gatehouse,
his hands already fumbling at his flies. She saw the big shadow that was Mikey slide around the gatehouse wall. The guard
was oblivious.

Crouching low, India moved rapidly towards the gate. When she came to a low shrub opposite the gatehouse, she pressed herself
against the ground, straining for the slightest sound. She thought she could hear the guard urinating, and held her breath.

There was a muffled thud and a groan, then the sound of scuffling.

India raised her head. Mikey was heaving the guard’s inert form behind the gatehouse. The scuffing stopped. Silence. India
lay still and waited. She shivered, not from cold but from fear.

Come on, she thought.
Come on
.

The minutes ticked past. Three. Five. Ten. When the second guard stepped outside, his footsteps seemed inordinately loud.
“Curtis?” he called. “You all right?”

A long groan answered him.

The guard moved carefully around the gatehouse. “Curtis?” he called again.

Another groan.

“Piss artist,” the guard grumbled, and as he rounded the gatehouse, his back turned towards her, India sprang to her feet
and raced as quietly as she could for the open doorway.