- 2 -
Ray Douglas fell through the screen door of his small portable home, located deep within a farm owned by one of his closest friends. Jack Welsh was a detective back in Adelaide before he retired. The farm that he owned was passed down through the Welsh family for generations. The homestead, a large colonial style building stood dilapidated and unwanted until Jack had retired. He packed up and moved out here the day after quitting the Police, living in the small portable while he renovated the main house. Jack Welsh had been retired for only three years before Ray showed up and much to Ray's surprise, allowed him to stay.
Ray stood shakily and lurched towards his kitchenette, kicking off his shoes as he went. He shook violently throughout his whole body, his hands twitching the worst.
Ray ripped the door of the refrigerator open only to realise that there was no alcohol here. He had been sober before tonight. He had quit drinking for the second time in his life on this farm, under Jack's watchful gaze. What would Jack think if he saw this, Ray thought. He would kick me out, he must kick me out.
Swallowing hard, Ray tried to organise his thoughts. He needed alcohol, now.
No, he needed to get help.
He needed to get help, for Rachel.
Ray held his head in one hand and leaned against the open fridge door with the other. The cool mist rising out of the unit chilled Ray and surprisingly, eased his terrible shakes.
Resigning himself to the notion that Jack would probably kick his arse out of the farm before sunrise, Ray set about trying to secure help for Rachel while he still had the ability to. He knew Jack would be harsh on him, he had seen him back in his police days. Jack Welsh had no time for drunks, and when Ray first arrived, off of his face on cheap bourbon, Jack had to knock him unconscious just to stop him tearing the place apart.
Swallowing the sadness of letting Jack down was made easier by the immediate distraction of helping his sister.
Ray shut the fridge and picked up the cordless phone from his kitchen's wall. In his drunken state he began dialling triple zero but stopped himself. There was no emergency here, at least not yet. Ray needed specialised help.
He dialled the number of another Police Officer he had known from before. Ray knew that John Brett would be at his desk still, even though it was past midnight. Brett had a knack for working all hours of the night.
“Hello,” a crackling voice erupted from the speaker in Ray's ear after only three rings.
“John, it's Ray.”
“Hello?” The voice erupted again, the signal wasn't strong.
“John, you there?”
“No, this is Detective Andrew Cook.”
“Shit,” Ray wiped his face with his hand before resting it on his hip. He knew Cook too, and remembered how much of an arse he was.
“What? Who is this?” Cook murmured over the line.
“Ray Douglas.” The line went silent, but eventually Ray could hear laboured breathing. “Hello? Cook?”
“I'm here.”
“It's Ray Do-”
“Yeah. I heard you.” Cook sounded nervous. Although, he sounded like he had long since accepted the fact that Ray would one day call him. “Jesus Christ, Ray do you have any ide-”
“Shut up and listen to me Cook. My sister Rachel is in trouble.”
“Oh, okay,” Cook hadn't anticipated this and the information left him stunned.
“Shit.” Ray rushed for the door of his house, remembering he had left the blood-spattered note in the console of his car.
“What? Ra-”
As he stepped out of the door, the phone crackled and Cook's voice disappeared. Ray ran down the short dirt drive in his bare feet and slid across the gravel when he reached the Kingswood. Ray opened the door and grabbed the note from the console, giving no regard to the sharp rocks under his feet.
When he got back to the door of the portable, Cook's voice emerged once again from the cordless phone, “-the fuck?”
“You there?”
“What is going on Douglas!?” The crackling voice was hoarse and strained.
“Listen to me. My sister Rachel is being held hostage. Somebody needs to go to the Port and meet up with the kidnappers by Friday night.”
There was silence on the line again and Ray sighed as he realised how paranoid he must sound.
“Where at the Port?” Cook's voice returned, unsure and distrustful. But he's still asking about Rachel, Ray thought, and that was all he needed.
Ray gave Cook the address and there was another silence. Cook knew the place well, he had a major drug bust there early in his career, one that cemented his reputation as a no-nonsense detective.
“Are you fucking shitting me?”
Ray wiped his face again and sighed, he had expected this.
“Douglas do you have any idea of the shit you've given this organisation? Do you!?”
“Cook, I'm not asking you to give two shits about me, I'm asking you to help Rachel!” Ray's voice rose suddenly and he had to struggle to keep his hands from shaking.
“Bullshit Ray! Bullshit! I don't think Rachel is in trouble, I think you're coming back from the dead to stir up a fresh new shit storm for me! And I don't fucking appreciate it, Ray. What was it, Ray? Three months? Three months from being discharged from the force before I hear you're already arrested for assault. It's not fucking funny anymore!”
“Fuck you Cook!” Ray retorted. “Do you think it was fucking funny when I shot Burgess? Did you see me laughing then, you mother fucker!”
“No Ray, I don't think that was fucking funny. You killed a fellow officer Ray. Hello? Do you remember that, Ray? Because I remember Burgess. He was a good man Ray.”
“No he wasn't.” Ray muttered his fresh retort. His mind had slipped back to the night, four years ago when he had opened fire on a fellow officer. Ray swallowed hard, recalling how much pain he had gone through to get sober and join the Police, only to have it all thrown away less than a year after his graduation, when he met Officer Burgess.
“You shut your mouth you dirty little shit.” Cook's voice echoed deep into Ray's head, “you didn't know Burgess.”
“I knew what he was capable of,” Ray replied.
“Bullshit, you only met him that night. The night you killed him.”
“I knew what he was capable of and I stopped him. Do you know what happened that night, Cook?” The conversation had calmed slightly and Ray sensed that Cook was curious about finding out the truth from Ray directly.
“I read your report, Ray. You think Burgess was about to open fire on some kid.”
“He was.”
“Well guess what? I don't give a shit. The kid had a knife and Burgess felt threatened, too bad if the little fucker got his head blown off.” Cook's cold reply left Ray fuming.
Once, a long time ago, Ray had been in that kid's position. Ray remembered his violent youth, he remembered being arrested for street brawls and public intoxication. Ray saw himself in that teenager and he had to protect that kid.
When Burgess raised his pistol and began yelling, the kid froze.
The knife in the kid's hand shook, the fingers so loosely clasping the handle that it could fall at any second, clashing safely to the pavement. The kid's brow dotted with sweat, his cheeks streaming with tears. Burgess continued to yell, he stepped towards the kid, his gun drawn, the safety off.
Ray saw Burgess' thumb cock the hammer and before he could think, before he could breathe, Ray had put a bullet through the back of Burgess' skull.
“You don't know shit, Cook.”
“What are you going to do, Ray? Kill me?”
“That's not a bad idea.” Ray's hands trembled violently and he had trouble holding the phone. His hands reminded him of the kid he saved, that night four years ago.
“Go have another drink, Ray. That's all you're good for these days.”
The phone clicked in Ray's ear and he threw it across the room, the plastic shell cracking against the thin wall.
Ray knew there was no booze in his portable home, but Jack kept some old port in his cellar. Hunched over the steering wheel of his Kingswood, Ray drove up to the homestead, his lights illuminating the old brickwork when he arrived.
Ray unbolted the door to the cellar, the entrance of which protruded from the side of the colonial stead. He knew he would probably be waking Jack with his late night activity but he had resigned himself to packing up and leaving tomorrow anyway. For all the good that Jack had done for him, for all the generosity in taking him in, Ray couldn't expect Jack to allow him to stay. Especially not after such a strong breach of his trust.
The first condition of Ray staying with Jack was that he quit drinking.
Everything was going well too, until Ray got that note.
“Fuck you Rachel,” Ray muttered under his breath as he felt his way around the dank cellar, cobwebs clinging to his face and dust clogging his throat.
Ray slowly stopped his pace and stood still and silent. He just realised what he had said and it sent a shiver up his spine. He had spent so long avoiding his responsibilities that he began to resent them. Instead of wishing that he was never born he was beginning to wish that Rachel was never born, just so he could be spared the pain of dealing with her.
That wasn't fair, not even in Ray's book. He could live with hating himself but he had to make sure he never let himself hate Rachel.
His hands rested on a large glass bottle which he lifted and shook. He could hear the liquid inside splashing around and the bottle felt heavy. Ray knew Jack kept Port in the cellar and after a quick sniff and taste of the contents, Ray confirmed the bottle contained the sharp fruity tang of the alcohol.
Later in the evening Ray lay sprawled out on the bonnet of his Kingswood looking up at the night sky. The empty bottle lay in pieces nearby, smashed on a rock by Ray; angry that he had consumed all of the booze inside. He was peaceful now though as he watched the Earth turn.
He saw the deep dark purple and black sky. The stars vibrant and dancing through his impaired vision. It was a clear and perfect night, no clouds and only the slightest breeze.
The sky was so vast, so deep. Ray raised his hand, trying to pluck a star from it's tangled web, but he couldn't quite reach.
Ray could see the stars moving in formation in a huge arc across the empty swirling night. When he rested his head against the windscreen his body began to move in wide sweeping circles too, his head spinning with the stars.
They were free, Ray thought, the stars. They had no responsibilities, no consequences to their actions. Stars could move and sway wherever they wanted. Stars don't have to live with their past.
Stars don't need redemption from their sins.
Ray thought about the life of the stars. Billions of years of pure energy, they flicker and glow. They rage and flare and eventually they die. When a star dies, it grows and consumes everything around it in a raging inferno.
Before it goes out, a star must destroy all it has created.
Ray sympathised.
But unlike the stars Ray needed redemption. He didn't know why, how or when, but he knew deep down inside of him, in his soul, if there was such a thing, he needed to be redeemed.
He couldn't tell if it was a religious thing, he was never a strong believer despite his mother being a Christian. Ray felt that redemption must come from somewhere external though, from others.
It couldn't come from himself, he thought.
Ray rolled onto his side, his thoughts now on Rachel.
Was she really in trouble? Cook didn't seem to think so. But what if she was? What if he could save her? Would that be enough for redemption? Would saving Rachel, in turn, save him?
The questions floated lazily through his mind, each one a step towards a decision he didn't want to make.
He closed his eyes and tried to block out images of Rachel tied to a chair, or bound in the boot of a car. Her mouth gagged and her hands handcuffed.
Ray recognised the handcuffs as his own.
The ones he had carried as a Constable. He walked towards Rachel and she walked past him, she didn't see him.
He was walking backwards when he bumped into something soft.
He turned so see a wiry man clutching his face. There was blood on his hands and Ray grabbed them.
The man's face, freshly revealed, was that of his father, his eyes missing from his head.
Ray turned and tried to run away from the ghoulish image when he saw his gun drawn.
“Check this out, Douglas.” Ray saw Burgess, his gun drawn, looking back over his shoulder and smiling a maniacal grin.
Ray stepped over to see what Burgess was aiming at and he saw himself lying on a hospital bed, only sixteen years old, tubes protruding from his throat.
“No, don't,” Ray tried to scream but he couldn't stop himself from shooting Burgess.
He couldn't stop himself from shooting Burgess.
Ray woke up in the dirt next to his car. The sun burning his bare back was momentarily eased by a passing shadow.
Ray looked up to see Jack Welsh standing over him, shaking his head.
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