Dark City Blue: A Tom Bishop Rampage (15 page)

Cooper smoothed out the towel until there wasn’t a crease or a crinkle to be seen. He then searched the room for anything made of glass. Already he’d collected a couple of old beer bottles, a bottle of rum and an unopened bottle of vinegar, all of which he’d put to one side and out of the way. When he was done searching, he placed all the empty bottles in the middle of the towel; as careful as if he were wrapping a baby’s nappy, he brought all four corners together, making a kind of hobo pouch. This he swung around his head, bringing it down on the table hard and fast. When he dragged the pouch from the table and let it hang by his knee, small shards of glass poked through and sparkled in the light.

‘I’m not going to lie to you. This won’t be over quick,’ Cooper said.

He stepped back and swung. The pouch of glass hit Bishop’s face; it was softer than he expected, but the glass tore at his skin, studding his cheek like diamonds.

‘I’m going to make you beg,’ he said with a grin as he circled Bishop. ‘Big, tough Tom Bishop begging for mercy. This is going to be fucking fun.’

Cooper stepped back and swung again. Bishop clenched his teeth, but nothing could prepare him for the searing pain as the pouch dragged across his chest, leaving a trail of twinkling splinters in its wake.

‘Beg, motherfucker. Beg like a fucking dog.’

Another blow struck the back of his head. Bishop clung to the arms of the flimsy chair. A stream of blood rolled down the back of his neck. For a brief moment, its warmth was comforting.

Cooper swung again.

Breath held. Fists squeezed. Teeth clenched.

The chair’s arms creaked.

Bishop wanted it over. The pain. The blood. The guilt. All of it.

Cooper swung the bloody pouch over his shoulder.

Bishop’s wrists fought to break free.

The pouch came down hard and more glass scraped his skin.

Bishop hoped his mind would cut out the pain or his body would go numb but with every blow the pain grew worse.

Cooper wasn’t a fit man and the beating had taken it out of him. He paused to catch his breath, wiped his sweaty face on his forearm.

‘You finished?’ Bishop gasped.

Cooper laughed, and kept laughing as he made his way over to the bench. He popped the lid off the bottle of vinegar and held it over Bishop’s head. ‘I don’t hear no begging.’

Bishop looked up. He saw three Coopers and focused on the one in the middle. ‘Do you really think you’re going to?’

Cooper emptied the bottle over Bishop. His body caught fire: every scratch, every open wound set ablaze. He slumped forward, blood drooling from his mouth.

He couldn’t take it anymore.

He mumbled.

‘The fuck you say?’ Cooper gloated. He leant in close. ‘You’re going to have to beg louder if you want me to stop.’

Blood rolled down Bishop’s chin. The words didn’t come easy. He mumbled again and Cooper moved even closer.

‘I’m listening.’

Bishop took a breath. Held it. Then with a yank of his wrist, he ripped the arm of the wooden chair clean off. A long, rusty nail stuck out at one end and he drove it into Cooper’s neck. The tip of the nail scraped his spine. His body convulsed and crashed to the floor with his hand on his neck and his blood pumping through his fingers.

It took Bishop a couple of moments to catch his breath, and a few more to pull free of the tape. When he tried to stand, the shards of embedded glass tore at his skin. He ran a finger down his neck and felt the tiny bumps of what used to be bottles and jars.

No backyard doc operates without a healthy dose of the knock-you-outs. Bishop checked all the drawers and found a smorgasbord of uppers, downers, sleepers and don’t-make-any-fucking–planners. Bishop opened a bottle of Brufen. He downed three dry and shifted his attention back to Cooper on the floor. His colour was fading and his leg twitching.

‘Call an ambulance,’ Cooper stuttered.

Bishop dragged a hammer off the bench and stepped toward him.

Cooper scrambled into the corner of the room and pushed up against the walls until he couldn’t push back any farther. Blood pumped through his fingers, slowly making him an island in a sea of his own blood.

Bishop’s hands trembled. The hammer tapped against his thigh. ‘You’re going to tell me where you’re meeting Rayburn. And I’m not going to lie to you. This won’t be over quick.’

Cooper told him what he wanted to know and then he died.

Bishop found his shirt and leather jacket where he left them. He picked up his .45, tucked it into his waistband.

He held out his hand. There wasn’t a shake or a tremor in it.

Everything was bright and washed-out and, once his eyes adjusted, Bishop saw that the Holden was gone. Stolen or towed? It didn’t matter. Wherever it went, it still had the body of Mickey Franks in the boot. He took Cooper’s car and headed out past Campbellfield and Thomastown and into the decay that ran along the Hume Highway.

Broken-down heaps lined the road. Some were stolen and dumped, others were no more than shells that had been stripped for parts. Beyond the edges of the road lay a sea of caravan parks that had grown to make one massive maze of portable homes. If you could see beyond that, and most people couldn’t, your eyes would be treated to a view of the endless desert which, in these last few hours of daylight, looked as if hell was just over the horizon.

The pain was back. Bishop ate three more painkillers, lit a cigarette and peered through the filthy windscreen. The rusted sign came into view. He eased off the accelerator and turned the car into the entrance of the Happy Times Caravan Park.

It didn’t take long to get lost among the caravans, most of which sat in ruin with their faded and torn awnings hanging over cracked windows and punched-in fibreglass walls. Every second lot was home to some sort of vehicle in need of wheels and a miracle and, judging by the sporadic numbers spray-painted onto the walls of various caravans, the lot number that Cooper had given him was farther up the path.

They’d see a car coming, so Bishop pulled over in front of a caravan with flat tires and climbed out. Apart from the odd grubby face here and there, the place appeared deserted.

Bishop pulled the shotgun out of the back seat and racked it. Spare shells went into his pockets as he moved off the path and between the caravans.

After fifteen minutes of stepping carefully through broken glass, Bishop found the meter box for Lot 67 and followed the cable to the mid-size caravan with one bedroom, a living room, half a kitchen, half a bathroom and a shitter. Nothing about it stood out.

Bishop pressed an ear to the wall: the low murmur of a television filtered through. He held his breath, crouched and peered through the dirty window. Rayburn was leaning back on a plastic garden chair, his crew around him: Warren to his left, Mick Evens to his right; next to him was the bouncer from the strip club. At their feet sat a couple of duffel bags that Bishop assumed contained cash amounting to somewhere in the vicinity of fifteen million dollars. Rayburn must have brought in the extra muscle, and was scraping the bottom of the barrel to have called Mick Evens.

His hands were covered in sweat. He wiped them on his jeans but it didn’t help. He raised the shotgun, taking aim at the closest, the bouncer. He drew a breath, exhaled and pulled the trigger.

The blast smashed the glass and filled the bouncer’s shoulder with buckshot. He hit the floor. Bishop racked the shotgun. Fired off another quick round.

Missed.

The others jumped for cover and returned fire. Smoke filled the caravan. Bishop hit the dirt. Inches above his head, bullets ripped through the wall like tinfoil. His ears rang. The exit holes grew closer. He flattened in the dirt. Bullets cut over his head.

The onslaught paused. Everyone reloaded. Bishop stumbled to his feet, ran around to the front of the caravan.

It was three-and-a-half against one, he had to play it safe. He slid into the dirt behind a rusted-out Ford, swung the shotgun over the boot and took aim at the door. For a few moments, all he could hear was the ringing in his ears and the muffled pounding of his heart.

Then, something else: a lock turning.

Bishop climbed to his feet, took aim and unleashed blast after blast into the caravan door, sending splinters of wood and plastic flying every which way. He kept firing until the shotgun was empty, then he tossed it and pulled his .45. He followed it toward the destroyed door, used the barrel to swing open what was left. The bouncer fell through onto the dirt. Dead as nails.

Bishop stepped inside. Gun smoke and dust burnt his throat. It was empty. The rear window open.

Fuck.

Bishop stepped over the bouncer and out of the caravan. He saw something in the corner of his eye.

Too late.

A bullet slammed into his shoulder and sent him flying to the ground; dust kicked up around him. He levelled the .45 with his good arm and sent three bullets in the opposite direction. All three hit the mark. Mick Evens cracked his skull on a rock when he fell but he was dead long before that.

Somewhere in the distance, a car roared to life. Bishop peeled himself off the ground and limped onto the path. The car skidded around a corner and came at him. Warren, behind the wheel, floored it.

Bishop raised the .45. It felt like a brick. He fired off five rounds.

The first two shattered the windscreen.

Another buried itself in the passenger-side headrest.

The fourth hit Warren in the shoulder, and the last buried itself in his neck. But the car kept coming. At the last moment, Bishop jumped out of the way.

The car rolled aimlessly past. There was no foot on the accelerator, no hands on the wheel. It pulled to the left, flattening what used to be somebody’s flowerbed and came to a stop in the lounge of some poor bastard’s home.

Bishop climbed to his feet and eyed the .45 in his hand: one round left. But before he could even think about his next move, Rayburn appeared out of nowhere and tackled him to the ground. His weapon bounced out of his hands. He reached for it. Dug his nails into the dirt: too far.

With each blow Rayburn dished out, Bishop saw a flash of white light. His nose broke in a different place than before. His right cheek caved in from three consecutive left hooks and somewhere along the way Bishop’s right eye swelled up and closed over.

He threw up a punch. Missed. Threw another. It bounced off Rayburn’s chin.

Bishop’s arms flailed about.

He needed something.

Anything.

Then his hand latched onto the badge on his belt. Rayburn was too busy making mincemeat of his face to notice him unclipping it. Bishop squeezed the badge and swung.

The tip of it slammed into Rayburn’s cheek. Bishop swung again and hit Rayburn’s temple. And again and again. Eventually Rayburn’s punches slowed until he stopped throwing them altogether. He moaned; it was a God-awful sound. Then, he fell facedown into the dirt and everything went quiet.

His badge and fist were covered in blood.

It took even more pain and effort for Bishop to make his way back to the bullet-riddled caravan and climb over the corpse of the bouncer. The duffel bags in the middle of the floor were nothing special, just a pair of generic green bags that could be picked up at most army disposals across the country. The two in front of him looked as if they were only a couple of days old. The folded creases from their packaging were still present but they weren’t as clean as they could've been.

He pulled back the zips and found the fifteen million dollars in carefully wrapped plastic.

Bishop stumbled out of the caravan with a bag in each hand. His body was failing him and he pushed the pain out of his mind in the same way he did when he was a boy and copping a beating from his old man. It worked, but not as well as he would have liked.

He shuffled along the dusty path for a few steps before he heard something behind him and stopped. Slowly, he looked over his shoulder and saw Patrick Wilson.

The bags slipped from his fingers. ‘Pat?’ Then he saw the revolver in Wilson’s hand. ‘Oh, Pat.’

‘I’m sorry, mate,’ Wilson said. ‘This wasn’t how it was meant to be. I wanted to bring you in. You were just too honest to be trusted.’

‘Or too clean,’ Bishop said.

‘There is no clean and dirty, not anymore. Only smart and dumb.’

Bishop had trouble breathing. ‘And you’re the smart one, are you, Justice?’

The word hung in the air and once it was out the reality of it set in.

‘It didn’t start off as …’ Wilson motioned around at the dead bodies around him, ‘… as this. I tried to make things better for us. We have to look out for our own, and you should understand that. When Sam Williams copped one in the gut, who kept his kids in school? Or when Aaron Burke passed away, his family were put out on the street. We have to look out for ourselves.’

‘Not like this.’

‘Oak Park was meant to be a quick standoff, get some publicity, something drastic to get the boss’s attention, then we get the resources we need. Money to pay for Kevlar and health care. I didn’t count on you going off half-cocked or Judge Jenkins killing that poor girl.’

‘I was right about Jenkins.’

‘Nobody cares about right anymore.’

Bishop mustered up a half smile. ‘I do.’

‘Sometimes, we have to take the wrong path so that we can do the right things.’

Bishop shook his head. ‘Not like that. You killed all those people, Chloe Richards, the Armaguard robbery, God knows who else. You’ve gone bad, mate.’

His voice filled with aggression, he pointed his tobacco-stained finger. ‘You’ve got blood on your hands too, don’t you forget about that.’

‘Trying to expose you.’

‘Look,’ Wilson said. ‘I begged you to leave, I begged you and now look, everything’s a great, big, bloody mess … But, I can help you.’

‘Like you helped Alice.’

‘I …’ He paused, took a breath. ‘I didn’t mean for that.’

‘You killed her.’

‘No, no, no. How many times did I tell you to lay off? How many fucking times? But no, Tom Bishop just does whatever the fuck Tom Bishop wants.’ He swiped the air and took a moment to calm himself down. ‘What happened was an accident. A regrettable accident, but still an accident.’

‘Regrettable? Alice was regrettable. My daughter, my little girl. I just found her, I had her only for a little while and you took her away.’ He couldn’t breathe. His voice shifted a couple of notches and the words came out through clenched teeth. ‘She loved you. You were her uncle and I know you loved her. And then you went and killed her, like she was nothing. And for what? She was worth more than that. She deserved more.’ Bishop started to cry and he didn’t care. ‘It was regrettable was it, Pat?’

‘Alright, alright,’ he said with his hands up in an attempt at being calming. ‘It’s okay. It wasn’t meant to be her. You’ve got to believe me on that.’

Bishop took a deep breath and wiped the tears from his eyes ‘I know,’ he said. ‘It was meant to be me.’

Wilson stooped his head, and saw the revolver in his hand. He tossed it aside and held his open palms toward Bishop. ‘We can still fix this, you and me.’ He pointed to the duffel bags. ‘Fifteen million dollars can solve a lot of problems.’

Bishop thought about the Patrick Wilson who pulled him out of protective services when he was a kid. The Patrick Wilson who forced him to finish school, coached him into the department. Patrick Wilson, the man Bishop had aspired to be. Then he looked at the man in front of him and realised he didn’t really know him at all.

‘You and me together,’ Wilson pleaded. ‘It’s only us left. With that money we can go back to being good cops.’

Bishop took the .45 from his waistband and let it dangle by his thigh. ‘Is that what you are mate, a good cop?’

‘Now Tom—’

Bishop hesitated, but only for a moment. Then he put one in Wilson’s chest.

The shots faded into the afternoon and everything fell silent. The .45 slipped from his fingertips to the ground.

He didn’t need it anymore.

Then Bishop heard the call for
help
.