The Hanoi Grift

Crime Fiction by Sean O’ Leary

Jason Gawn arrived at Hanoi airport from Saigon. He was hot and a little pissed off because on the flight the guy in the seat directly behind him had coughed every few minutes for the whole hour. You know these types of people. They’re nothing but peasants and reptiles is what he thought. And the flight seating was small and cramped like you wouldn’t believe.

He burst out of the customs area into the pick-up zone and bloody hell there were about one- hundred or maybe one-hundred-and-fifty people milling all around, talking loudly in Vietnamese and English and other languages. There was supposed to be a sign with his name on it to take him to the Airbnb. He had requested a driver as he heard taxis were, uh, how to say it, a bit unreliable. But there was a huge line of taxis waiting. People had signs up but not his name. His eyes searched and darted about. Where the heck was the guy? Then off to the right-hand-side a sign reading Jase Gorn. He waved, the guy waved back, and Jason rushed up to him. I’m Gawn, Jason Gawn.

‘I can take you,’ the small sturdy Vietnamese man said, ‘Please come with me.’

Jason followed him. Then the guy put a strong hand on each of his forearms, pointed down to the ground and said,

‘Wait here, don’t move, wait here.’

Jason nodded. The guy walked off quickly. Jason shook his head, put his bags down, rubbed his temples and put his hands through his floppy light brown hair. He was forty years old but fresh-faced, tall, a swimmer, and he had a wiry fit body. He’d stayed at an apartment in District 4 in Saigon that had a pool he could do laps in. It was stinking hot there but enjoyable. He rode around Saigon on the back of Grab (Like Uber) motorbike taxis. The breeze in his hair because he shook off the drivers when they offered him a helmet. What the hell he thought, he was traveling. From District 4 he could walk over a short bridge to District 1 and he ate amazing food from stalls and cafés. The people were charming. But here he was standing around like a stale bottle of piss.

He looked up and a black Honda four-wheel drive stopped in front of him. The driver waved at him and the rear hatchback door opened. Now, he felt better. He dumped his luggage in the enormous boot. Climbed into the back seat with his laptop bag, and said,

‘What’s your name, sir? I’m Jason.’

The driver took off and turned slightly to him, smiled and said,

‘Do you have plans, Mr Jason? What are your plans for Hanoi? Can I book you a tour? Can I drive you sometimes, please? Anywhere you want to go? You want to go to the Pagoda or Ha Long Bay? Take boat trips, eat street food. I can help you.’

Jason smiled, and said,

‘Yes, uh, I think so. I mean possibly.’

‘Girls, you like girls, Mr Jason?’

‘Probably not in the way you mean. I do like girls, though, ha ha.’

‘It’s OK, relax, the air-conditioner is on. Let me get to the freeway, then we can talk. You can think about what to do.’

Jason relaxed a bit more, put the laptop bag he had been hugging and put it onto the seat beside him. He had read about Ha Long Bay. He wanted to go there. He had read about other things too. He would ask the man about it once they hit the freeway. He had been to Saigon twice before and no one ever mentioned girls to him, not with that hint of things to come voice. He always assumed as Vietnam was a Communist country those types of things would be dangerous or even forbidden.

They reached the freeway and traveled at around 80km/h and the driver said nothing. Jason could see rice fields and they went over a long bridge and after half an hour, the motorbike traffic increased and there were shops and markets and stalls all along both sides of the road and the driver slowed to around 40 km/h and he said,

‘Tonight, there’s a street food tour. Do you want to go?’

‘How, er, I mean what time?

‘At seven tonight. I can pick you up from the Airbnb. I’ll drop you at the Opera House you can meet the host and the other guests, it takes around two hours, there are many stops at street food stalls, maybe six or seven, you will eat like a king, no?’

‘Uh, hmm, my first night. I might like to…’

‘How many nights you have in Hanoi?’

‘Five.’

‘Only five. Mr Jason, you want to see as much as you can.’

‘I do. Yes, I do. Why not. What’s your name again?’

‘Ok, ok, I’ll pick you up at seven on the dot, is that right, on the dot?’

‘Ha Ha, yes, that’s right, on the dot.’

They drove through increasingly more crowded streets and at times Jason thought it was a miracle the driver didn’t hit anyone or maybe just lightly clip a motorbike and tip it over but he liked it, no he loved it here. So different to Sydney. All the traffic chaos but everything worked somehow.

They pulled off the main road and drove down a side street that was a tight fit and bloody hell, the four-wheel drive squeezed through streets to the sound of continuous car horns, always beep beep. Two short beeps and another two and he smiled, almost laughing at how it all worked.

They drove beside a lake and Jason said,

‘Is it West Lake? Are we close?

‘No, this is Truc Bach, Mr Jason, it is a small island, very small on the edge of West Lake,’

There were lanterns strung up alongside the lake and in the surrounding streets, it was beginning to get dark, he imagined it would be a beautiful sight when they came on. They pulled one street back from the lake and turned into a side street and stopped out the front of what was an apartment building. A young Vietnamese guy strolled out from a small office beneath the stairs leading up to the front of the building. The driver got out and they spoke quickly in Vietnamese and Jason waited. The young man pulled the door open and leered into the car. That’s what Jason thought, that he leered, with a hint of something that Jason couldn’t quite get. Couldn’t place. The driver said,

‘Alright, Mr Jason, please get out. This man will help you with your bags and open the door, give you a key.’

Jason got out and waited for the young guy to help him with the bags but he only stood there, grinning now. Jason went to the boot and pulled his rucksack and another bag out. The driver yelled out.

‘I’ll come back at seven.’

The other guy lifted his t-shirt up to show his stomach, there was a small trail of hair from his belly button down. He looked at Jason and pointed through the garage to a lift. Jason saw some motorbikes for hire and thought he might do that while struggling with the bags, his laptop bag across his chest. The guy swaggered past him, pressed the lift button, and said,

‘Press three, get out, apartment seven.’

Jason got in the lift. The guy turned and walked away. He pressed three and waited as the lift took him up. He got out, found number seven through what was a fire door and pushed it open, walked in and it was fine. Just like the photos. A near to new apartment and ridiculously inexpensive compared to Sydney or Melbourne. He put everything down. The key and a note about what to do were on the table. He shut the door and locked it. It was 6.15 pm.

***

At five minutes to seven, Jason walked to the lift, there was a sign saying it was out of order. He walked through the fire door and down the stairs where he discovered the real entrance complete with a reception area. He walked down the stairs out onto the street. The guy from the little office walked out, he lifted his t-shirt up again, to show the flat stomach and the snail trail of hair down his gut. James lifted his t-shirt to show his bare, hairless stomach. The guy looked at him, and said,

‘Ok,’ and nodded, ‘Ok.’

It was weird.

The black Honda four-wheel drive arrived and the driver, a different guy, waved, signalling to the back door and Jason got in and closed the door. The driver said,

‘I’m Mike.’

‘Jason.’

‘We go to the street food tour now. I think there are four of you including the guide.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Relax, it’s a cool night and there is a breeze, have you got a jacket?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll play some music for you.’

The familiar sounds of the Rolling Stones came through the speakers, Paint it Black. Jason loved this track, they couldn’t have known, of course, but the blood started coursing through his veins a little bit faster. He half-wished they were going to some loud pub with more Stones music and a few drinks. Some pretty girls.

***

The driver edged his way out onto the street, they curved around the lake and then found a bigger street, with loads of neon signs. Jason saw A Ha coffee and Starbucks and lots of little coffee shops with neon signs in Vietnamese he couldn’t understand. There were bakeries and the always constant beep beep of the cars and motorbikes and they drove slowly and he took it all in. He saw a Highlands Coffee sign, they were all over the place in Saigon. He had noticed that the small coffee shops, the local ones, sold nothing else but coffee and tea. No food. In Saigon whenever he ordered coffee, they gave him iced tea. Ying and Yang.

They came to a big intersection, the cars and motorbikes going slowly but the traffic was tight so tight and people seemed to just walk out into it without care. But again, everything worked. Mike the driver said,

‘This is the Old Quarter, the lake is Hoan Kiem Lake.’

Jason took it all in. There was a pagoda in the middle of the lake. There were cafés and businesses and souvenir shops and they were driving ever so slowly,

‘Not far, soon,’ Mike said but Jason didn’t mind, it was beautiful and fascinating and the best part. It was so damn different to Sydney and Melbourne. Organised chaos he thought but it only seemed that way to him because it was his first time in the city. Locals laughed at the thought of it. It was hectic for sure but if you lived it day in and out, it was nothing, only life.

‘Here we are, Mr Jason. Please get out.’

He unlocked the back door and Mike said,

‘There, there, see the girl with the long black hair and the long black coat.’

‘Yes.’

‘Please close the door.’

He did and walked over to the girl who was somewhere between he thought twenty and thirty. She was Vietnamese and had a bright, fresh face, a little red at the cheeks. He said,

‘I’m Jason.’

‘Jason, hi, there are three others,’ and she pointed at an Indian girl and a tall, angular, white man and a young girl most likely only eighteen or nineteen.’ Come, now, we go,’ she said without introducing names or anything like that.

The first stop was uneventful, Jason tried to make conversation. The Indian girl was from San Francisco. She was married and in Hanoi for four days, and she said she aimed to eat everything in sight. Her collar-length hair was wet like she just stepped out of the shower and her plain face came alive when she smiled and she was quite beautiful. The tall white man only ate and the young girl, also beautiful, only gave up that she was from Beijing. They ate Papaya salad and tapioca dumplings and dried beef with filter dough cake. Jason took a photo of the address it was 57 Dinh Tien Hoang Street. The papaya salad had been particularly fresh and delicious. When they started to walk off, following the guide, the young girl said to him.’

‘What’s your name?’

He told her and said,

‘Are you in Hanoi on your own?’

‘Yes, I’m staying at a guest house in the Old Quarter.’

They kept walking and at the next place they ate a local dish of Mungbean Sticky rice with braised eggs and cinnamon sausage and they ate it standing up on the street. People moved all around them, yellow lanterns hung high in the middle of the street, and there was chatter from people, and they all agreed it was delicious, only the tall white man grunting instead of talking. They stopped again and after a few minutes directed by the guide found a new stall and ate dried fish balls, again standing up, the young girl from Beijing said to him,

‘At the finish would you like to go to the night market? I want to go but not on my own.’

‘Yes, of course, great, we’ll do that.’

The last stop was a donut shop at 16 Dinh Liet Street and after that they all said goodbye and it had been quite fun Jason thought. The young girl from Beijing took his arm and said.’

‘My name is Mei.’

‘Right, Mei, do you know the way?’

‘Yes, but we have to stop at my guest house for a short break. I want to get a jacket. It’s so cold.’

‘Alright.’

‘Follow me.’

She took off walking fast and he followed her and they wound their way through the labyrinth of streets that was the Old Quarter and he had no idea where he was but didn’t mind. He was travelling; it was an adventure. They walked up some steep wooden stairs in a quiet street, away from the main noise. He followed her up and they went into a small lounge area. There was no reception desk or anything, and it looked like someone’s house. The girl stopped and turned around, smiled, and said,

‘It’s a Homestay, you understand.’

‘Ah, yes, right good.’

‘I’ll make you a drink.’

‘Thank you.’

She was gone nearly five minutes and brought back a glass filled with juice and handed it to him,

‘Please enjoy.’

He tasted it and said,

‘Wow, what is this?’

‘You know Kumquat?’

‘Yes.’

‘This is Kumquat and honey juice, very popular in Vietnam, especially here in Hanoi my host tells me, please drink.’

He drank the slightly orange-coloured juice and it was deliciously sweet and sour and he drank the whole glass.

Waited.

His mouth started to feel dry and he got up. Started looking around for a kitchen, for a sink to get some water. He walked down a small hall, feeling a little dizzy, found the kitchen, then got a searing pain in his stomach, bent over, and felt dizzier. Stood halfway up, made it to the sink, and heard the girl behind him say,

‘Are you alright sir?’

‘No, no. It might be the drink, I, ah,’ and he stumbled a bit and bent over and he heard the girl laugh and say,

‘Does this help?’

And she pushed him over onto the wooden floor with her foot. The floor felt cool against his face. She put her face down beside his, and said,

‘Are you tired sir?’

‘Why did you, why…’

‘Some questions have no answers,’ she said and laughed and he heard a man’s voice say,

‘How is he?’

‘Finished,’ and he blacked out.

***

When Jason woke up. His mouth was dry. He couldn’t quite open his eyes, but the pain in his stomach was gone, that was something good at least. But his arms were tied to the bed by rope, loosely tied, so he could move his arms. They were tied to the steel bed. There was no bedhead. He lay flat and his feet were tied to the bottom of the steel bed. He started to open his eyes, there was a dim yellow light from a single bulb above his head. His eyes gradually got conditioned to the light. He realized he was naked and his heart started to beat fast. He lifted his head slightly and saw the guy from the little office at the Airbnb who lifted his shirt to show that snail trail of hair again and Jason looked away and then back again. The guy’s t-shirt was still lifted and he said,

‘Ok, Ok, ha ha.’

Jason closed his eyes again, thought, shit, shit, what is happening here? Oh my God. What have I done?

‘Open your eyes,’ the guy said.

He did.

‘You’re in trouble.’

‘What?’

‘You were caught with an underage girl, you understand?’

He spoke perfect English and smiled continuously.

‘No.’

‘Yes, the girl from the street food tour. You raped her.’

‘No, no.’

‘Wait, ‘he said, ‘wait some more.’

He walked to the door of the small room, opened it and left.

Jason could see his jeans and jacket hanging over a chair. His passport was in one front pocket, his wallet in the other. If he could. He slowed his thinking. There must be a way. They were so close. He thought he could take the young guy in a fight because he was bigger and stronger than him. But how?

The door opened and a uniformed policeman walked in. He wore long pants and a short-sleeved shirt. Jason knew he was a cop. He had seen the uniform before in Saigon. He closed his eyes and breathed in and out. He was sweating even though it was cold. A sheet covered his nakedness.

The cop said,

‘You understand who I am?’

Jason nodded.

The cop knelt and showed him his mobile phone.

‘Please look at these photos.’

Jason looked with dread and there they were, photographs of him in bed with the young Chinese girl from the street food tour. He was variously on top of her or behind her naked body, holding her wrists or with his hands at her neck or over her mouth. He wondered how they’d done it. Maybe it was part Photoshop, partly arranged from when he was unconscious. He knew what it meant for him or he thought he knew. The cop said,

‘I am a policeman from the Vietnam People’s Public Security, you understand?’

‘Yes, but, but, I’m not in a police station.’

The cop slapped his face swift and hard, and tears came to Jason’s eyes, then the cop hit him again, this time with a backhand and Jason started to cry. The Viet cop said,

‘You know what they do to rapists in jail here? What they do to old men raping young girls. The law means that’s where you go, for a long time.’

Jason closed his eyes tight. His life was over, that was all he could think of, it was over. The two men left the room. Jason wanted more than anything to put his clothes on, to leave and never come back, never leave Sydney ever again.

He lay still for what he thought might be an hour, an hour-and-a-half. They came back in. The young guy from the apartments and the cop talked loudly in Vietnamese and the young guy came to the bed and he got a knife from his back pocket and cut the ropes from the bed. First the arms and then the legs, and said,

‘Don’t move, don’t move, not yet.’

Jason lay still. The young guy took his clothes from the back of the chair. The cop stood, smoking now, smiling at Jason. The young guy threw his clothes on the floor next to the bed, and said,

‘Now, get up, get dressed, now.’

Jason moved his arms about slowly and drew his legs up to his chest.

‘Now, get dressed, now.’

He got up out of the single bed, naked, embarrassed, and scared, slowly reaching for his underwear and pants. When he put them on, he could feel the wallet and his passport in his pants. He put his T-shirt on and then the jacket. He couldn’t see his shoes and socks anywhere.

‘Sit on the chair,’ the young man said.

He did.

The Viet cop went to a cupboard and took out a thick book, like an old Sydney phone book and he smashed it over the back of Jason’s head knocking him to the floor. Then smashed it down onto Jason’s stomach, turned him over smashed the book into his kidneys. The cop pulled him up, pushed him onto the chair, and laid into him again across the head with the book. Jason moaned out loud, he had tears streaming down his face. Then it stopped. The cop put the book away. Jason fell back into the chair, his head dropped onto his chest. The cop lifted Jason’s head up by the hair on his forehead and said,

‘This is what is going to happen.’

Jason said and did nothing.

‘You’re a rapist, a paedophile but there is some hope for you.’

Jason made no sense of it. Touched the wallet and the passport in his pants, some part of his brain still hoping to get away from these men.

‘You’re going to carry something for us, from here to Sydney. You will stop in Bangkok, and bring something more along the way.’

‘What?’

‘You’re going to be a courier for us, if you don’t, you’re going to jail. You’ll probably never get out. It will be hell on earth for you.’

‘What? I…what’d you mean?’

‘You’re going to carry packages for us from here to Bangkok and then as I said, you’ll get another package in Bangkok and go to Sydney with it. We’ll show you how to do it. The baggage handlers are paid off. The customs officers at the check-in will ignore the stuff you carry with you.’

Jason got it. Blackmail. But would they let him go, it seemed, preposterous, yet… and the door opened and the tall white man from the street food tour came in and said nothing, sat on the edge of the table, and the cop said,

‘Andreas here will be your escort, make sure you don’t try and run off and remember we have the photos, there’s nothing you can do.’

Jason dropped his head onto his chest. The tall white man hadn’t spoken on the tour and still hadn’t said anything. Was he Australian? Jason could offer him money. His father was wealthy. He could tell him his father would pay anything for it all to go away. When they were alone, yes, hope, he had some hope. Then the tall white man spoke.

‘Clean him up.’ He was Australian. ‘He stinks, we need to move soon, make it happen.’

The young guy from the apartments led him to the bathroom, he had a shower. In the shower, he thought it was over then he got his courage up. He felt a little better. His clothes were in the bathroom. The young guy had left them in there. But three against one. They had passed a set of stairs on the way to the shower.

Jason got out of the shower, dressed quickly, and held the passport in his hand inside his pants. He took the wallet out of his pocket and checked the zipped-up section where he kept a second credit card. It was there. They had left his passport and wallet alone as they knew they had him cold. He had nowhere to go. No shoes or socks. No contacts. His heart beat fast, then faster still. He held his breath, then breathed out twice, three times, in and out. He opened the door. The guy was right outside, Jason said,

‘Can I get something to eat?’

‘Soon,’ the guy said, ‘soon. Now come, back to the other room.’

They passed the stairs and Jason pushed the guy with all his might, and he tumbled down the steep stairs. Jason ran down the stairs after him and heard the door to the room behind him open as he kept stumbling down the stairs The young guy struggled to get up. Jason hit him in the face. He wanted to stomp him into the ground but went for the door handle. It opened. His heart beat fast again, so fast he thought it would split open but he ran out into the street, it was night time. He ran as fast as he could all over the place seeking an escape route. It was pitch black, there were no street lights, and he didn’t know if it was late at night or early morning. He was in bare feet. He ran down a small laneway fast, looked around then decided to jump a fence about fifty metres ahead.

He ran to it, jumped up and hauled himself over the six-foot wooden fence. He landed on some broken glass cutting his feet but he didn’t make a sound. He sat against the fence breathing hard, then stopped, calmed himself to make no sound. He waited. He was in a backyard, with no lights on in the house. He heard the tall man and the cop talking then nothing. He hadn’t heard what they said. He waited for what he thought was about five minutes then he picked up a couple of pieces of the broken glass and put them in his jacket pocket. Found an old wooden box to stand on to help him over so he wouldn’t make too much noise. He slid back over the fence into the laneway. He chose to keep walking straight ahead, away from the room where he had been tied up. He walked slowly trying to work out how he was going to get out of this thing.

The tall white man stepped out from a small enclave and grabbed him by the jacket at the throat and pushed him up against a brick fence, started choking him hard. He was taller and broader across the shoulders and chest than Jason and Jason felt himself getting a little dizzy. He fought against the man but he was too strong and Jason wilted. The man eased his grip, and said,

‘You going to behave now?’

Jason nodded his head, put his hands in his jacket pockets, grabbed a piece of broken glass in each hand and struck out at the big man, cutting his cheek and forehead. The man reeled back, Jason kept coming forward and the man recovered slightly and tried to grab Jason but Jason slashed the glass across his throat. Blood spurted out of his neck, the man put his hands to his throat. It was too late for that. Jason pushed the man and he fell over. The blood kept spurting from the puncture in his throat and Jason heard him gurgle blood in his throat and then it was over. Jason stood back unbelievingly and the man stopped moving and lay still. Jason slammed himself against the brick wall, waited for a sound, any sound from anywhere.

Nothing.

He went to the man and started to take off his running shoes and socks. He was panicking like crazy when he did it, hoping no one would come past and see it. He went back into the dark against the wall and put them on. He got back up and reached into the dead man’s jacket pocket. Took out his mobile phone, turned and walked towards the building where the room he had been held captive in was, stopping about twenty metres from it. The door at the base of the small building was closed again. He slumped down onto the ground.

After a minute or so he checked the mobile phone, it had no lock on it. He went to Google. He had remembered the address of the first stop on the street food tour because he had taken a photo of it—to remember, so he could tell friends at home. Now, he checked on Google Maps to find out how far away from it he was.

It was a forty-minute walk. He followed the directions and walked in a southerly direction, after ten minutes the street lights came on and he felt slightly better. He had killed a man but banished the thought from his mind. He needed to get to the airport to buy a ticket to Sydney. His mind ran through the permutations of it all. He figured the guy might be a cop but he and the other men in on the con were acting outside the law. The photos wouldn’t matter if he could get out of the country. They wanted him as a courier. Figuring he might get back and forth through customs a few times (the photos holding him to them) before he got caught and then he would be done.

He stopped when he was fifteen minutes away. The street lights were on and the street was clear. He sat down in a laneway in the gutter and took the phone out. He heard a scrambling noise to his left, looked that way as a rat ran straight up his leg, past his torso, and bit him in the side of his face. He smashed it with his fist and knocked it away but two more ran across his chest, he jumped and yelled out at the top of his voice.

‘Jesus.’

‘Hell.’

What else could go wrong? He felt his cheek. It was bleeding.

He went back close to the main street, to the street lights. Again, he tried to breathe and took deep breaths. He could make it. He knew he could. He found Scoot Airlines on the stolen mobile and booked a seat from Hanoi to Sydney. The flight was due to leave in three hours from now. As long as he got there an hour before departure, he should make it through customs and onto the flight.

He walked some more and found a quiet café where he ordered an Americano coffee and three croissants. The woman spoke English and said,

‘You are cut,’ pointing to his cheek, ‘I’ll get a napkin.’ And she did and the small kindness almost reduced him to tears but he didn’t show it, only thanked her. He checked his clothes for blood or dirt but he had come away from the fight to the death with a bruised throat and nothing more. He still felt like crying. But inside he also felt strong. He was so damn happy he had pushed that leering guy from the apartments down the stairs had punched the prick in the face. He still recoiled in his mind at the thought of the guy lifting his t-shirt, showing his snail trail of hair, saying, ‘Ok, Ok,’ in that little room and laughing. That was motivation enough to do anything, anything, to get out of there. To beat the guy from the apartments, and, so far, he had beaten him.

He waited until it was two hours before the flight, then gambled and ordered a Grab taxi from the mobile phone and waited on the street outside the café, it was 5 am. Getting closer to dawn. The flight was at 7 am. The sole woman in the café smiled at him and waved when he looked back. The Grab taxi arrived and he got in. The guy said,

‘Where you from?’

‘New Zealand.’

‘What’s your name?’

He didn’t answer the driver, who said again, ‘What’s your name?’

‘Steve.’

The mobile phone he had stolen from the man began to ring. His heart rate sped up. The driver said,

‘Steve from New Zealand, yeah, I like that. The guy was small and bald and driving very slowly, too slowly Jason thought. The driver turned back to him and said,’

‘I think you might be an Australian.’

Jason said nothing. The man started fiddling with his mobile phone while he was driving, he stopped and turned to take a photo of Jason and Jason opened the door and ran quickly away from the car. The driver sped off.

Had he been too paranoid? He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything anymore.

He walked on for twenty minutes and found himself near the apartment, near the Airbnb at West Lake. He knew the way to the airport from here. It was almost 5.30. He had to go. He had to get there.

He went to the apartments and walked slowly to the basement. He had seen motorbikes for hire when he had arrived last night. They were there. No one was in the office. It made sense that the guy from the office wouldn’t be there but out looking for him. The motorbikes had serial numbers on them like S32 and E34. He went to the office and opened a desk drawer, but there was nothing, then the top drawer. The keys were there. There was a padlock key too for the chain around the bikes. He undid it and dragged the chain away from the bikes. Chose the first one and got on, put on the helmet that sat on the seat, used the key, and it started. He rode out, not seeing anyone and found the main road. Not far now. Not far. He could do it.

He made it to the freeway without incident. The helmet would provide him with a hidden identity until he reached the airport. It started to rain as he drove into the domestic terminal car park, fearful the men would have the international one blocked. He paid for five hours at a machine. Walked into the terminal. He looked shabby but not so you’d wonder if he had been in a fight, just a little bedraggled that’s all. He walked from the domestic terminal to the international terminal and found the Scoot check-in. He walked towards the queue and there was the guy from the apartments right in front of him now. Leering at him again. The guy didn’t say anything, only stood there, his hands in the pockets of his old black suit pants, and a dark blue t-shirt on. Grinning.

Jason wanted to smash his face into a pulp but kept walking straight past him. He couldn’t do anything here because of all the cameras. Jason walked to the queue and shuffled slowly to the front of the line.

The girl at the counter said to him,

‘You’re bleeding,’ and Jason smiled and said in a slightly cracked voice, ‘It’s fine, it’s fine.’

‘Would you like some tissues, it looks quite deep.’

‘Yes, yes, thank you.’

She bent down beneath the counter and brought out a box, which she placed in front of him. He took a dozen or so and stuffed them in his pocket, saying,

‘Thank you, you’re very kind.’

Once he was checked in, he walked towards the customs entrance. He was sweating badly, felt it trickling down his back. He was so tired, nearly exhausted. The cop from the little room stood in his way, but not in uniform, no one else around him and Jason understood at that moment, he wasn’t a cop. He was a criminal who had a cop uniform but not here. Here he was nobody. He was dressed in a white short-sleeved polyester shirt with little brown sailing ships on it and wearing brown cotton pants and black runners. He had gang tattoos on his forearms and he said to Jason,

‘Too many cameras. You think you’re safe.’

Jason smiled at him and started to walk past him but the man put a strong hand on his chest and said,

‘Be careful in Sydney. I know members of the 5 T gang. They will be waiting for you.’

Jason shrugged, leant down to the side of the man’s head, and said,

‘Fuck you.’

‘As soon as you get off the plane, they will know you have arrived. They will be waiting.’

Jason kept walking. Walked through into customs. They will be waiting he thought. Jesus, will it never end? Would they seek revenge for the death of the tall white man? Did they even know he was dead? There would be a million questions running through his mind all the way to Sydney. He had to hold up. They might still try to kill him somehow. He couldn’t break down and tell himself it was over, not yet, maybe never.

Bio: Sean O’Leary is a Melbourne writer of crime and literary fiction. He has published five short story collections, two novellas and four novels as well nearly fifty short stories in crime and literary journals. He likes to walk everywhere, take photographs like a madman and write like a demon. He does some drawings and thinks test cricket is the greatest game of all.

You can find him on his Website. Here he is on Facebook Instagram 1: @oleary4119
instagram 2: @point_and_shoot_88

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