one, abandon, abandon, received? Please roger that.’
Cashin slowed, in the bend now.
Red glare. Cruiser taillights.
Stopped.
Cashin braked, the Falcon’s back wanted to slide away, he had to go with it, straighten out gently.
‘Fucking hell,’ said Dove. ‘Sandwich one, abandon, abandon, I say again, abandon. Roger that, roger that.’
Cashin stopped behind the Cruiser, couldn’t see anything. Three doors open.
‘Let’s go,’ he said, something badly wrong here.
Dove was around the car first, Cashin bumped into him, they almost fell, both blind in the pouring rain.
A vehicle had slammed into the traffic lights on the wrong side of the road. A ute. He could see three or four figures, milling about.
Gunshots.
Someone shouted: ‘PUT THE FUCKIN THING…’
A shotgun fired, the muzzle flame of a shotgun, reflected by the wet tarmac.
‘DROP IT, DROP THE FUCKIN GUN!’
‘BACK OFF, BACK OFF!’
Two more bangs, handgun, tongue-tips of flame, quick, SMACK-SMACK.
Silence.
‘Fuck,’ said Dove. ‘Oh my sweet fuck.’
Someone was moaning.
Hopgood shouted, ‘KD, GISSUS THE FUCKING SPOTLIGHT!’
A few seconds and the light came on, the world turned hard white, Cashin saw the broken ute, thousands of glass fragments glittering on the road.
Three men standing. A body behind the ute, a shotgun beside it.
He walked across the space, wiping rain from his face.
Lloyd and Steggie, guns out, pale faces. Steggie’s mouth moved, he was trying to say something. Then he was sick, a column of fluid. He went to his knees, to all fours.
‘Get an ambo!’ Cashin shouted. ‘Maximum fucking speed!’
He went to the person on the ground, a slim youth, his mouth was open. He was shot in the throat. Cashin saw a glint of teeth, heard a gurgling sound. The youth coughed, blood poured out of him, ran in the road, thicker than the rain.
Cashin took the youth’s shoulders in his hands, raised him, knew he was going to die, felt it in the thin arms, the little shakes, heard it in the rasping sounds.
‘The fucking idiot,’ said Hopgood from behind him.
Cashin let the boy down. There was no help he could give. He got up and went to the ute. The driver was pinned by the steering wheel and the dashboard, his face covered in blood, blood everywhere.
Cashin put a finger on his neck, felt the faintest pulse. He tried to open the door, couldn’t. He went to the other side. Dove was there. The passenger was another boy, he had blood flowing from his mouth but his eyes were wide.
‘Oh fuck,’ he said softly. He said it again and again.
They got him out, laid him down. He would live.
The ambulance arrived, then another, the second with a doctor, a woman. She’d never done gunshot but it didn’t matter, it was always too late.
When they lifted the boy, Cashin saw a shotgun in a black puddle beside him, single-barrel pumpgun, sawn off.
The driver was still alive when they got him into the ambulance. The cops stood around.
‘Nobody touches anything here,’ said Cashin. ‘Not a fucking thing. Close the road.’
‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’ said Hopgood. ‘This’s Cromarty, mate.’
VILLANI put the tape in the machine and gave the remote control to Hopgood. ‘This is the media conference two hours ago,’ said Villani. ‘Be on telly at lunchtime.’
The assistant crime commissioner’s pink baby face appeared on the monitor. He was prematurely bald. ‘It’s my sad duty to report that two of the three people involved in the incident outside Cromarty late yesterday have succumbed to injuries received,’ he said. ‘The third person has a minor injury and is in no danger. The events are now the subject of a full investigation.’
A journalist said, ‘Can you confirm that police fired on three young Aboriginal men at a roadblock?’
The commissioner remained blank. ‘It was not a roadblock, no. Our understanding is that police officers were fired upon and responded appropriately.’
‘If it
Cashin slowed, in the bend now.
Red glare. Cruiser taillights.
Stopped.
Cashin braked, the Falcon’s back wanted to slide away, he had to go with it, straighten out gently.
‘Fucking hell,’ said Dove. ‘Sandwich one, abandon, abandon, I say again, abandon. Roger that, roger that.’
Cashin stopped behind the Cruiser, couldn’t see anything. Three doors open.
‘Let’s go,’ he said, something badly wrong here.
Dove was around the car first, Cashin bumped into him, they almost fell, both blind in the pouring rain.
A vehicle had slammed into the traffic lights on the wrong side of the road. A ute. He could see three or four figures, milling about.
Gunshots.
Someone shouted: ‘PUT THE FUCKIN THING…’
A shotgun fired, the muzzle flame of a shotgun, reflected by the wet tarmac.
‘DROP IT, DROP THE FUCKIN GUN!’
‘BACK OFF, BACK OFF!’
Two more bangs, handgun, tongue-tips of flame, quick, SMACK-SMACK.
Silence.
‘Fuck,’ said Dove. ‘Oh my sweet fuck.’
Someone was moaning.
Hopgood shouted, ‘KD, GISSUS THE FUCKING SPOTLIGHT!’
A few seconds and the light came on, the world turned hard white, Cashin saw the broken ute, thousands of glass fragments glittering on the road.
Three men standing. A body behind the ute, a shotgun beside it.
He walked across the space, wiping rain from his face.
Lloyd and Steggie, guns out, pale faces. Steggie’s mouth moved, he was trying to say something. Then he was sick, a column of fluid. He went to his knees, to all fours.
‘Get an ambo!’ Cashin shouted. ‘Maximum fucking speed!’
He went to the person on the ground, a slim youth, his mouth was open. He was shot in the throat. Cashin saw a glint of teeth, heard a gurgling sound. The youth coughed, blood poured out of him, ran in the road, thicker than the rain.
Cashin took the youth’s shoulders in his hands, raised him, knew he was going to die, felt it in the thin arms, the little shakes, heard it in the rasping sounds.
‘The fucking idiot,’ said Hopgood from behind him.
Cashin let the boy down. There was no help he could give. He got up and went to the ute. The driver was pinned by the steering wheel and the dashboard, his face covered in blood, blood everywhere.
Cashin put a finger on his neck, felt the faintest pulse. He tried to open the door, couldn’t. He went to the other side. Dove was there. The passenger was another boy, he had blood flowing from his mouth but his eyes were wide.
‘Oh fuck,’ he said softly. He said it again and again.
They got him out, laid him down. He would live.
The ambulance arrived, then another, the second with a doctor, a woman. She’d never done gunshot but it didn’t matter, it was always too late.
When they lifted the boy, Cashin saw a shotgun in a black puddle beside him, single-barrel pumpgun, sawn off.
The driver was still alive when they got him into the ambulance. The cops stood around.
‘Nobody touches anything here,’ said Cashin. ‘Not a fucking thing. Close the road.’
‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’ said Hopgood. ‘This’s Cromarty, mate.’
VILLANI put the tape in the machine and gave the remote control to Hopgood. ‘This is the media conference two hours ago,’ said Villani. ‘Be on telly at lunchtime.’
The assistant crime commissioner’s pink baby face appeared on the monitor. He was prematurely bald. ‘It’s my sad duty to report that two of the three people involved in the incident outside Cromarty late yesterday have succumbed to injuries received,’ he said. ‘The third person has a minor injury and is in no danger. The events are now the subject of a full investigation.’
A journalist said, ‘Can you confirm that police fired on three young Aboriginal men at a roadblock?’
The commissioner remained blank. ‘It was not a roadblock, no. Our understanding is that police officers were fired upon and responded appropriately.’
‘If it
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