Drainland (Tunnel Island Book 1) (18 page)

T
he sun passed
like lightning across the face of the wave. As the ocean rolled towards her, Romano dove down into it and felt the cool water pass through her hair. She kept swimming. Out in the calmer water, she let herself float in the current. The air was warm and the island stretched out along the coast like a lush panorama.

Romano stared at it.

It was what it was.

A nightmare wrapped in a bright vision.

At the pub on the headland, Romano relived her first week on Tunnel. She sat in the same beer garden with the same drink and blew secondhand smoke out over The Strip.

It would never change.

She ignored it.

Her plan was to get good and loaded, but even after a couple of drinks, the buzz never arrived.

She ordered another.

Something was up.

“You missed a busy day at the office.”

She looked up. Chandler stood by her table, his usual jug and glass routine underway.

“Am I interrupting?”

She kicked the other chair out for him. He eased into it.

“What did I miss?”

“You know, Denny actually did a little police work today. He locked a pimp up in the station for a spell. Not sure what that was about. He let the bloke go, but it was something. You coming in tomorrow?”

“Probably not.”

“What about next week?”

“Maybe. I’ve got some things I want to check in the files.”

“Good,” he said.

They sat there for a while in the dank heat and sipped their beers. Every so often, Chandler turned and watched the television. He had money on the races. Random nags. All losers. He was completely drunk already, so the conversation looped around. Romano grew tired of it.

She got up. “I’m off. I’ve had a few but I’ve been taking them slow. You want a lift?”

Chandler took the betting slips from his pocket and tossed them on the table. “Yeah,” he said.

As they drove the esplanade down towards the suburbs, Romano gripped the wheel. “You were right about all that the other night. The whole time, I guess. Thanks for looking out for me. For what it’s worth.”

Chandler stared out his window. He didn’t look too hot. Sickly, sweating, nauseous.

“I mean it,” she said.

“I heard about it. People talk.”

“What are they saying?”

“It’s just talk,” he said. “Nothing lasts forever over here.”

R
omano stood in her kitchen
, and even though it was late and hot, she washed the dishes. As she worked, the sweat started to drip from her brow into the heated water. It distracted her.

She let her mind wander.

There was a switch inside her. It had always been there.

It felt turned over now.

Taradale, in the earth tunnel, blood sprayed across her hands and face, that was always with her. It was in her. She couldn’t retell the story yet—not even to herself—but something about it felt sated that day. Finished, even. There was no wiping it off. The other bodies, Frith, his wife, they were just details added to a pile. Just memories. Extra history. It was more, that’s all. The priest had it right:
We’re all the same, we’re all alike. We’ll all burn together.

“Not tonight,” she said.

Romano thought it over while she cleaned. As the sun rose, she wept, but the crying jag didn’t contain an ounce of remorse.

Those people had deserved to die.

All of them.

Instead, she cried for herself, and for her own nightmares, and for all the horror and ghosts carried forward, and for everything left to come.

H
arris let
himself into the surf club early. He checked the milk in the fridge, took a plate of sandwiches out and unwrapped them. He cleared the tables from the hall.

Dev arrived.

“Going to be another quiet one,” he said. “Tony says he can’t be fucked. Heard some chatter about him, actually, but we’ll see.”

Dev dressed the snacks table, carefully shimmying the biscuits from their packet. Harris went to the kitchen sink and filled the urn. Out the window, he watched clear skies out over a dark sea. Then they set up the chairs in a circle.

After a time, the usuals filed in:

Peter Simmons had a freshly shaved head.

Noel Chandler looked about the same.

A new kid came along for his third go.

Dev called the meeting to order and they were about to get down to it when the rear door slammed opened and closed.

Dev craned his neck around. “Tony?” he called.

Laura Romano walked in.

She was in a bad way. Jonesing hard. Sweat dripping. Eyes like lava. Harris figured her for three or four days sober, cold turkey. It was the wrong way to do it, but that seemed like her approach to most things.

“Come,” said Dev, waving her over.

She sat on the far side of the circle, away from the rest of them. She kept her eyes averted.

“We were just about to start,” said Dev. “Maybe you want to go first.”

Romano shook her head.

“All you have to do is introduce yourself,” he said.

She didn’t move.

They all sat there and watched her.

Finally she shivered, as if shaking something off.

“This is ridiculous.”

They all waited.

She looked up, her eyes terrifying now. Endless.

“Fuck you,” she said. “You all know who I am.”

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ach month
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I
ain Ryan grew
up in the outer suburbs of Brisbane, Australia. He predominantly writes in the hardboiled/crime/mystery genres and his work has been previously published by Akashic Books Online (New York) and Crime Factory (Melbourne). Four Days, his first novel, saw release in November 2015 via
Broken River Books
.

P
raise for Four Days
:

"
O
ne day
, someone will come up with a word which goes deeper and darker than 'noir', and it might fit this debut novel. For now, the French word will have to do. If you are a fan of the genre, read this book. It won't take you very long, but it will leave its mark.
" -- 
David Prestidge, CrimeFictionLover.com 

"
R
ead this
, and thank me when it's on your best-of-the-year list. A hell of a debut." --William Boyle, author of GRAVESEND and DEATH DON'T HAVE NO MERCY

"
I
ain Ryan has learned
the lessons of the modern maestros James Ellroy, Ken Bruen and James Sallis, but his poetry and cadence is completely Australian." -- Peter Doyle, author of THE BIG WHATEVER and CITY OF SHADOWS

"
P
ure in its darkness
, and perfect in its terror, Four Days is a brilliant debut." -- David Whish-Wilson, author of ZERO AT THE BONE and LINE OF SIGHT

"
T
here are
many Australian crime novels waiting to be written. With the publication of Four Days, there's one less. Finally, noir fiction that does justice to the sleaze and corruption of Queensland in the eighties." -- Andrew Nette, author of GHOST MONEY and GUNSHINE STATE (forthcoming)