The Five Gates of Hell by Rupert Thomson

guinea-pig. If someone had an idea, they always tried it out on old Scraper. He was one of those people who’d do anything. He had a slack smile that covered both pain and pleasure, so you couldn’t tell what he was feeling, you couldn’t tell the difference. If you’d told him to cut his head off, he would’ve done it, and that smile’d still be on his face afterwards. As for PS, he was nuts. He’d do it for a dare. Just as long as you didn’t make him take those phones off his head. It was no consolation to hear that Scraper and PS had done the shark run, no consolation at all. He wished he’d never asked.
    They were walking along Five Dock Road. Trees lined one side, the grey grass of a park between. Dockyards on the other. This was the east end of the harbour, more than a mile from the bridge. The water stopped here. Half a dozen bays of stagnant, black water, the surface smeared with oil slicks, condoms, orange peel, insults hurled at the water by the land.
    They passed a row of padlocked gates: ALLIED COAL. PIONEER CEMENT. STERLING SHIP REPAIRS AND ENGINEERING. They paused to watch a crane sink its jaws into the open hold of a ship and rise again with a mouthful of coal, dust spilling from between its teeth, grey against the brown night sky, then Tip nudged Nathan in the ribs, held his watch up, and they hurried on.
    They turned down an alley, crossed a narrow iron bridge that spanned a canal. The canal had smooth, concrete banks and held nomore than a couple of feet of water, water that was sealed in by a lid of green slime. Metal spars stuck out, like the elbows of people who’d drowned. They climbed over a gate and suddenly they were walking on grass. A breeze clattered in the palm trees that bordered the canal. The grass sloped down to a wall of loose rocks. Beyond the rocks lay the harbour.
    â€˜This is the place,’ Tip said, and Nathan, who’d been hoping they’d never arrive, began to shiver.
    As he looked round he saw several figures moving towards him. They fanned out in an arc, ten-feet gaps between them, like a net trawling for fish. The net closed and suddenly Vasco was standing in front of Tip, black leather coat and a cigarette in the shelter of his palm. He pulled on the cigarette and in the brief red glow Nathan saw the faces of the Womb Boys: José PS Mendoza, Cramps Crenshaw, Slim Jimmy Chung, Jed Morgan, Thomas Baby Vail, two others he didn’t know the names of, and the ghost of Scraper O’Malley, half his face caved in, inlaid with silver from that fast car’s fender. They were all there, passing a bottle around. Scraper drank too, twisting his mouth away from the wound.
    Vasco spoke to Tip. ‘It’s almost eleven. What kept you?’
    â€˜Trains’re fucked up.’ Tip took the bottle and swallowed a mouthful, then he wiped his lips on his sleeve.
    Why had he lied? Maybe, Nathan thought, because you didn’t mention things like family to Vasco. He wouldn’t’ve known what you were talking about.
    Vasco pulled on his cigarette again, let the breeze haul the smoke across his teeth. He turned to Nathan. ‘You’ve got a pretty bad reputation.’
    Nathan looked at his feet.
    â€˜That stuff you’ve been doing, you’ve been doing it at God camp. God don’t like that, Christie. I don’t like it either.’
    â€˜I got into his bed, that’s all. I thought –’
    â€˜That’s all.’ Vasco laughed, and two or three gang members joined in.
    â€˜I was sleepwalking,’ Nathan said.
    Jed stepped forwards. He was wearing a T-shirt that said SUICIDE PACT on the front. On the back it said YOU FIRST. ‘You were what?’ he said.
    â€˜I was sleepwalking.’
    â€˜Bullshit.’
    â€˜I was. I’ve been sleepwalking for years. Ever since –’
    â€˜Ever since what?’ Jed had come a step closer. Nathan could see the dead flakes of skin on his