Free Cross Off by Peter Corris Page B

too bad. He pissed and saw the blood in his urine. The bitch had got him hard in the kidneys. Tate had had worse before and wasn't troubled. The pain in his balls had eased. He washed his face and combed his hair, re-hung his camera. There were grass and dirt stains on his clothes, particularly the knees of his trousers, and a few scratches on his face. He put on his sunglasses and baseball cap, and joined the crowd on the wharf. A number of the passengers were drunk, several were badly sunburned and a couple of young children were loudly fractious. Tate's magazine was still on the seat where he had left it. He settled down under a canvas awning, quiet, unobtrusive.
    The ferry pulled away from the dock and Tate experienced a mild relief. He doubted that Dunlop would have had time to get a message through to stop the sailing, but now there was ninety minutes ahead. How badly had he cut Ava? Would she die? Tate doubted it. A tough old bitch. But they were up to buggery in the scrub with no-one around. How long would it take to get help? Could be hours. Nothing to be done about it. If there was trouble at the marina he'd deal with it then. His car was there and he had a knife and a gun.
    The noisy children were placated. Passengers drank, dozed or conversed quietly. Tate forced himself to relax. He bought a can of mineral water at the bar and followed his usual practice of thinking things through logically. First, the diabetes. He'dmissed an insulin injection and had a bad hypo. What to do? He injected half of his customary pre-lunch dose and trusted that it would counteract the big sugar load the Coca-Cola had put into his system. If he had no trouble at Port Douglas he could do a blood test and make further adjustments.
    Next, he turned to the problems he'd created for himself. He didn't waste time in self-criticism. He'd got turned-on and had made a mistake. Okay. And the woman had got lucky. And Dunlop was very good. The more he thought about it, the less it looked like a failure. He'd found out why Ava had dobbed Belfante and Frost in and
maybe
he'd thrown a big enough scare into her. Recalling the way she'd fooled him, pretending to be unconscious, letting him fuck her, Tate doubted it. She was game. But, at least for starters, he could argue that he'd taken the second option and settle for the lower fee. It was a possible solution. That was fine except that she'd seen him and maybe Dunlop had, too. That was going to put his peaceful retirement in Tasmania at risk. They'd have to go.
    Vance didn't see Grant Reuben for a few days and he kept clear of Frost. He had a lot of time to brood. He didn't expect Shelley to visit him in Long Bay. The shit had hit the fan when he'd been arrested. It all came out—his marriage to Ava, his business, associations, reputation, criminal record. By then, Shelley had had the baby, a boy, and was living in the house Vance had bought in Terrigal. It was little more than a suburban bungalow, a few blocks from the beach, but Shelley loved it. The corner block wasbig with trees around two sides and there was a large park across the street. She said it
felt
like the country and that was certainly true for Vance who spent as little time there as he could. Trees gave him the creeps.
    He was still fond of Shelley and the dark-eyed baby was unmistakably his. He wished he could feel more for him, little Peter. But Vance was surprised to find himself a traditionalist. Peter was a bastard and that was that. A son, but not a son. He couldn't tell his mother about him, couldn't be proud. If he could marry Shelley, even after the event, it would be different. No hope of that. A lot of his time and energy went into concealing the existence of Shelley and Peter from Ava and, for that matter, from everyone else. His business, already hit by the recession, suffered.
    He spent most of his time in the city and a lot of it with Ava. At least he could get it up with her again and they had some good old romps, like