Infinity Land

By Ethan Somerville

A powerful criminal organisation known as the Syndicate has managed to infiltrate the Australian government and re-introduce the death penalty. Serial killer John Allen Darkin, who left a bloody trail of thirty-six bodies across Australia, is sentenced to die by lethal injection.

Dana Neale swears that she will never forget Darkin, the man who murdered her husband. When he is executed Dana rejoices, hoping she that will finally be able to resume a normal life.

Two years later, assassin Michael Freeman is sent to Dana’s town to dispose of a retired politician who is threatening to betray a high-level member of the Syndicate. He prides himself on his cold, ruthless nature, but becomes involved with Dana and her son. He decides he wants a future with the Neales.

Unfortunately his work does not fit in with family life, and when he tries to break out of the Sydnicate, he is made to realise that he is simply another pawn in their evil schemes.

To make matters worse, Dana’s ex-boyfriend discovers that Michael is not all he seems, and threatens to expose all the dark secrets of his past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Storm Publishing
• Release date: Sep 6, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370887309

Ethan Somerville

Ethan Somerville is a prolific Australian author with over 20 books published, and many more to come. These novels cover many different genres, including romance, historical, children's and young adult fiction. However Ethan's favourite genres have always been science fiction and fantasy. Ethan has also collaborated with other Australian authors and artists, including Max Kenny, Emma Daniels, Anthony Newton, Colin Forest, Tanya Nicholls and Carter Rydyr.

Book preview

INFINITY LAND

BY

ETHAN SOMERVILLE

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SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

Storm Publishing on Smashwords

Infinity Land

Copyright © 2013/2017 by Ethan Somerville

www.stormpublishing.net

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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Prologue

Last Words of a Dark Man

With trembling fingers Dana Neale switched on the TV and stepped back, trying to settle her pounding heart and churning stomach. She wanted to watch the upcoming program as much as she wanted to hide from it. As the image of her enemy emerged from glassy darkness, she almost turned the machine off. No - I have to sit through this, she told herself.

John Allen Darkin’s straggly hair, shadowed eyes, thin nose, full lips and bristly beard were all a washed out green. The picture tube of Dana’s old TV set was on the way out, and she could only imagine the ashen colour of his face. What other shade could it possibly be? Her husband’s murderer was going to die in a couple of hours. Although he had professed indifference to the press, she could see his fear of death lurking like a hungry beast in the back of those shadowy eyes. He fidgeted constantly, glancing over his shoulders.

Good, Dana thought savagely as she settled into her favourite armchair. You deserve to be afraid, just like all your innocent victims were before you destroyed them!

A sudden, savage joy filled her. For once in this war-torn world’s miserable history, justice would be done You miserable bastard, she said out loud. I hope your suffering in Hell is long and painful. Clasping her hands in prayer, she gazed up at the lounge room ceiling. Dear God - please grant me that much!

Darkin had been a very thorough serial killer. Darren Neale’s mangled body wasn’t discovered until six grief-filled months after his disappearance. Dana still couldn’t recall those long, lonely nights without shivering and wrapping arms around her body in a vain attempt to warm herself. Not knowing, she had tossed and turned in the queen-sized bed, its wide expanse of cold mattress threatening to engulf her.

Where is my poor husband? she had fretted over and over again. What has happened to him? Why won’t he come home? Doesn’t he realise that I’m frightened?

She knew Darren had to be out there somewhere. Until a body showed up he was alive, that thinning thread of hope kept her going. Then police uncovered Darren’s car from the bottom of a ravine running alongside a lonely stretch of the Princes Highway. Because it had lain there for some time, vegetation had started growing over it. Forensic scientists checked it thoroughly, but only found a few threads and hairs. Darren Neale had not been inside when it flew over the cliff.

Now they had a lead, police scoured the surrounding area - and a few days later uncovered Darren’s badly decomposed corpse from a shallow grave.

Dana crumpled as memories returned, bringing their heavy luggage of tears.

An autopsy on her beloved husband’s remains revealed that he had been bashed first, then stabbed at least sixteen times, the weapon driven into his body so hard it had broken vertebrae. Then he was shot in the head and chest, both slugs still lodged in his flesh. As though punching and stabbing him hadn’t been enough!

But the police had no idea who killed Darren Neale until late one night, when a patrol operating along the Hume Highway south of Campbelltown, pulled over an old Holden and asked its dishevelled driver to submit to a random breath-test.

On screen, the re-enactment began.

The man, a bearded, unkempt fellow in a threadbare flannelette shirt and faded jeans, agreed to the officers’ request. He was counting into the machine when one of the other officers noticed his car boot hanging low, as though something heavy lay inside. He stepped closer to investigate and found streaks of red on the metal. It didn't take him long to realise they were smears of fresh blood.

Er - mind telling us what you’ve got in your boot? the officer asked the ragged driver.

The man licked his hips. I-I’ve just been k-k-k-kangaroo h-hunting, he stammered after a few uneasy seconds, his voice soft and flat. At the time both officers attributed the stutter to nerves, and were instantly on guard.

You must have been pretty lucky.

The scruffy man nodded. Y-yeah - sh-sh-sure. B-big red. I’m - I’m t-taking him home t-t-to cut up.

May we see your shooter’s licence?

The man fished it out of his wallet and showed it to the police. It was legal and valid.

May we take a look in your trunk - just a precaution, you know.

The man licked his lips. Uh - o-o-okay. He pushed a button to release the boot.

While one officer kept an eye on him, the other walked around the back, unlocked the boot and lifted it.

Inside, curled up on a sheet of plastic, lay the body of a young man. The cop recognised it instantly. Simon Jackson’s sightless eyes stared up at him from a pale, ravaged face. The twenty-three year old uni-student from East Sydney had been reported missing two days previously.

But his parents wouldn't be overjoyed by this discovery. Simon’s body was a bloody, mangled mess of stab and bullet-wounds.

As soon as he heard the boot creak open, the driver reached down beside him. The first cop reached for his gun, but the killer was faster and his weapon was already cocked. He brought up a double-barrelled shotgun and released its contents with a deafening roar. The blast flung the officer backwards, his face disintegrating into a bloody mist.

As soon as he heard the explosion, the other policeman drew his pistol and darted around the front. Wasting no time, the killer floored the Holden’s accelerator and screeched away. Standing over his lifeless companion the officer fired after the car, but the criminal roared off into the night.

Fortunately, the policeman was able to call another squad-car, tucked into a rest-area a couple of kilometres further down the highway. A road-block was organised, and the killer apprehended. The police had been fully prepared for a shoot-out, but the man came quietly, almost meekly - as though he knew further resistance was useless.

At first he refused to answer questions, remaining stonily quiet during interrogations. But when he realised the police had two murder charges pinned on him, his resolve crumbled. He knew he couldn’t worm out of them so he decided to shock everyone by revealing that Simon Jackson was actually his thirty-fifth victim, and the policeman an unintentional thirty-sixth.

He told the police; "I-I don’t b-believe it! I-I’ve b-b-been killing for years, and y-you n-n-n-never found me. S-some police f-force you are. M-m-more l-like a police farce."

Darkin then proceeded to outline his murders in explicit detail, starting with his first - committed when he was only a boy. Twenty-three unsolved crimes matched up with his testimony, many disturbingly similar. Then he led police to the burial-sites of eleven victims who had never been uncovered.

His hideous crimes shocked the nation, as well as the flat, dispassionate way he described them. Like most murderers he believed that if he co-operated with police, he would receive a reduced sentence.

But in this day and age killers were only allowed to live if they could be rehabilitated and returned to society as useful, stable people. There was no longer any such thing as a life sentence. All felons could eventually be set free, even killers. However, for those whose crimes were so gruesome and numerous, who in the old days would have been locked up for the rest of their lives, there was a new sentence.

Death.

Darkin vowed never to kill again, that he had learned his lesson. But the courts decided that even though he possessed a schizoid personality, he was still an unremorseful psychopath who killed for physical and mental gratification. If given his freedom he would return to a life of murder. Thus he had to die - a fitting end for Australia’s most diabolical serial killer.

Since the reinstatement of capital punishment five years earlier, seventeen people had been executed, all cold-blooded multiple-murderers. Darkin would be number eighteen.

However inmates were allowed to pick the manner of their death. Their choices were beheading, hanging, shooting, gassing, electrocution and lethal injection.

Darkin picked lethal injection.

...This interview was actually conducted three days earlier, but delayed so it would coincide with the eve of the killer’s execution. Here, in the Katingal high security block of Long Bay Gaol, we hope it will be revealed to the nation what demons motivated this man to brutally slay thirty six innocent people, including his own parents, for no reason. The Channel Nine newsreader’s handsome face disappeared, replaced by an attractive, thirty year old woman with short brown hair and dangly gold earrings. Mary Briggs was one of the best up-and-coming journalists in her field. Currently she worked for Sixty Minutes, but eventually hoped to host her own show.

Mr Darkin - on the eve of your death, do you feel any remorse for what you have done? she asked, her voice soft and pleasant.

As the camera cut back to him, Darkin twisted his lips into a thin, unrevealing smile, devoid of humour. He sat protected behind a sheet of bullet-proof glass. Since his apprehension, his life had been threatened by the families and friends of his victims, and the authorities didn’t want him killed before time. He bowed his head and stroked his moustache, his fingers strong and calloused after a lifetime of hard work and burying his victims. Manacles encircled both of his wrists, and were connected by a chain to his ankles. The fear cavorting behind in his eyes defied his emotionless mien.

R-r-remorse? he stuttered. Since his imprisonment, his speech-impediment had not improved, and Dana wondered if he’d had it all his life. The timbre of his voice also hadn’t changed since the early days of his capture; he still spoke with the same lifeless inflexions. Wh-why should I f-f-feel any re-remorse n-now? J-j-just because I’m g-g-going to d-die? He forced a laugh, a humourless barking sound. I-I-I n-never f-felt any r-remorse f-f-f-or what I did. N-not even the first time, wh-when I was t-t-t-twelve.

Twelve? Dana thought, aghast. Who the Hell kills when they’re twelve? She tried to imagine her son Sam murdering another boy, but couldn’t. Her sweet child didn't even get into fights! She slid to the edge of her seat without even realising.

The camera cut back to Mary Briggs. Despite her years of experience, her composure threatened to slip and reveal her revulsion for the creature she was interviewing. Dana knew exactly how she felt. She wanted to reach through that thick glass, lock her hands around Darkin’s throat and squeeze the life from him. She wanted to be the one who killed him. In doing so, she, an ordinary estate agent’s secretary, would realise the primeval lust for destruction that had controlled the mass-murderer’s life.

What possessed you to start so young? Mary asked. What darkness engulfed your soul?

The killer did not look impressed with her poetic description. Th-the f-first p-p-person I killed d-d-deserved everyth-thing I g-gave him. I h-h-had to kill him to sss-ss-stop the p-pain h-h-he was causing me. He smiled. And i-it f-felt ... good.

Dana felt anger uncurl. Had this disgusting maniac experienced pleasure when he killed her Darren? She clenched her hands into fists.

Mary frowned. What about all the others? Did they also deserve to die?

Darkin looked up at the ceiling. M-m-maybe th-the early ones d-did.

And the others?

Oh Hell - I d-did th-th-them in f-f-f-for the fun of it! He laughed again. On this night, he seemed determined to shock the millions watching. I l-liked the feel of m-my n-knife puh-plunging into their b-b-bodies, oh-over and over. I l-liked the s-sound it made. A-and I l-l-liked what c-c-came out of th-them ... buh-blood ... g-guts ... organs ... b-b-b-bones - et-et-etcetera. It j-just g-goes t-t-t-to sh-show that in-inside we’re a-all th-th-the sss-same. B-but I h-h-had to m-make sure th-they were d-dead, sss-s-so I shot them and then hacked them apart. I d-di-didn’t wuh-want any ch-chance of th-them ever c-c-coming back. D-d-dead p-people can’t huh-hurt you.

Some of your victims were stabbed more than thirty times!

Darkin shrugged. S-so I’m a p-p-perfectionist.

You monster, Dana whispered. She knew she ought to turn the set off, but was compelled by horror to keep watching.

Mary took a deep breath, fighting her anger. Unlike most serial killers, who hunt a particular group, you murdered people from all walks of life; male and female, young and old, black and white-

Darkin interrupted with a wicked smile; So I’m an e-e-equal o-opportunity k-k-killer. B-big deal.

Those people you murdered had lives of their own, families - children! Mary shouted. Darkin’s last comment had frayed the remains of her temper. People who loved them!

The murderer leaned back in his chair, his smile disappearing. G-good f-f-for them.

You don’t feel anything at all, do you? she queried, hoping to dig up some deeply-buried seed of compassion.

But if there was any humanity left in Darkin, it was beyond the journalist’s reach. Only - only th-that y-you will all f-feel j-j-joy at m-my passing. F-for without me wh-what is there t-to be a-a-afraid of? He laughed again, then suddenly, his humour turned to rage. "I h-h-hate your joy! He clenched his cuffed hands into fists. I h-h-hate your h-happiness! W-w-w-well l-let me t-tell you ssssomething, He shook the fist at the screen, M-m-my death w-will not ssstop p-people f-f-from killing. O-others will c-c-carry on my w-work. M-my legacy l-l-lives on f-f-for as l-long as the d-de-demented apes of m-m-mankind exist!"

Mary rubbed a hand across her forehead, distractedly brushing hair away. She smeared her make-up in the process, but didn’t notice. Dana knew that if Darkin was free, he would think nothing of taking the interviewer’s life. Don’t you fear for your immortal soul? she asked eventually.

Darkin barked again, flopping back into his seat. Wh-what soul? H-h-how can I fear f-for suh-something I d-don’t buh-b-believe in?

Well, what do you believe in?

Darkin smiled broadly, and Dana noticed that his teeth were in bad need of a brush and floss. Death-row killers didn’t care much about personal hygiene. Nothing. God - fate - reincarnation. It’s all shit. He looked up at the ceiling again.

Dana realised with a jolt that the murderer had just spoken without stuttering. Suddenly his face appeared horribly vacant - like the soul he refused to believe in had just vacated his body. A cold tremble scuttled the length of her spine. The answer was obvious; the killer had no soul. For who possessing God’s spirit could have murdered her beloved Darren?

Her late husband’s handsome image appeared in her mind, a lovely smile playing across his lips. He’d had both Nordic good looks and sensitivity – the ideal husband. Dana’s friends had commented on how wonderful he was - and how much they wanted to steal him away from her.

But Darren had been staunchly faithful. He’d only had a few faults. He talked too much and was a bit too fond of hunting and fishing. He had taken Sam into the bush on numerous occasions.

Dana still loved him with all her heart, and no other man could live up to him. In her mind, Darren Neale had become a god.

Tears stung her eyes. No - no! I will not cry! She ground her fists into her thighs. But the bodily function would not listen, and hot tears spilled over her cheeks.

Our - our lives are m-m-merely pin-pricks c-compare to th-the l-l-life of th-the universe, Darkin continued, his tone almost pleasant. A h-h-hundred m-m-million y-y-years f-from now, who’s go-going t-to give a f-f-fuck about any of th-this. We-we th-think we’re s-so important. W-well, I h-h-hate to t-tell you, we’re only sp-specks of sh-sh-shit on the ah-arsehole of e-eternity. He spread his hands. L-look at the e-e-entire sp-span of t-t-t-time and - and ask y-yourself wh-what have I a-actually done?

Mary looked down for a few brief seconds, trying to compose herself. We are running out of time, she declared eventually. Do you have any last words for us?

I c-c-came f-from duh-darkness, the killer answered. I was n-n-n-named darkness - I l-l-lived in darkness - and I will go i-i-into d-darkness. He gave another bestial leer, his eyes flashing, and then took a deep breath. His next sentence came out soft, almost beguiling. T-tell your fans th-th-that I only wuh-wanted to sh-share.

The reporter now appeared pale and sick - her colour mimicking Darkin’s. I ... see, she whispered after a pregnant pause. It was her turn to stammer. Th-thank you Mr Darkin.

Darkin inclined his head, smiling mockingly. M-m-my pleasure.

Two guards stepped forward and grabbed his arms, hauling him to his feet. They marched him from the room. Manacles rattled around his ankles.

Focus returned to Mary Briggs, now standing outside the gates to Long Bay Gaol with other reporters, and the usual crowd of pro-lifers and death-penalty supporters. Tomorrow morning at twelve am, this serial-killer will go to his death. I can honestly say that not one of us will be sorry to see him die. Thirty six victims have earned him the unholy right to lie beside such murderers as Ted Bundy, John Wayne Gacy and the ‘Rostov Ripper’, Andrei Chikatilo.

Dana buried her face in her hands. Darkin’s cruel words had done her more harm than good. Why had she bothered? Why had she honestly believed that he would say sorry?

Mum? a soft voice inquired. Wh-what’s wrong? Gentle fingers dropped onto a trembling shoulder.

But Dana couldn’t bear to meet her son’s concerned gaze. How had she done it all those years ago? How had she mustered the courage to tell the boy that his father was dead - murdered by a psychopath with no soul?

Sam Neale’s gaze strayed to the screen, now depicting the chamber where Darkin would meet his deserved end. It was a small room with a glass window, covered by a plain white curtain. At its centre lay a black vinyl table shaped like a broken cross hung with black plastic straps. The Kevorkian Suicide Machine stood on a shelf behind it; neat rows of plastic syringes containing tranquiliser and poison, and beside it an ugly black device with little lights and buttons on it, like a computer from the original Star Trek series.

A prison warden standing in the viewing gallery outside explained how the process worked. The prisoner is strapped to this table, which can be tilted up to face the viewing gallery. He demonstrated and then pushed the bench back down. A doctor wraps a blood pressure cuff around the prisoner’s right arm, and locates a suitable vein. A needle is inserted. The warden unwound a transparent tube from the suicide machine and carried it over to the imaginary victim. This tube is then screwed into the needle. This machine, he gestured to the device with the buttons, controls delivery of the necessary chemicals. The ‘Start’ button begins ‘Phase One’, which empties the first of the syringes and sends tranquillisers into the prisoner’s body. Phase two’ releases the Sodium Pentothal to paralyse the prisoner and stop his heart. By this stage the prisoner is already unconscious from the tranquilliser. It’s a perfectly painless process.

It should hurt like Hell! Dana snarled through her fingers.

Sam realised why his mother was so upset. He knelt down beside her, slipping one slender arm around her shoulders. After the discovery of Darren’s mutilated body, he had become a veritable pillar of strength.

It’s alright Mum, he whispered, also fighting to keep tears back. At ten he was a big boy, and big boys didn’t cry. He - he won’t be able to hurt us any more.

* * * *

Chapter 1

The Wages of Syn

Cameron Knife Roberti twitched the blind aside with one bony finger and peered nervously out of the grubby fourth-storey window. Below lay a rubbish-filled alley filled with reeking Otto bins, sleeping bums and stray cats. On more lively nights, men took local pros into the shadows for quickies, and junkies shot up under the streetlights. But on this cold Monday night in the middle of June, nothing of note stirred. The alley was eerily quiet and all the windows opposite closed and covered.

But that didn’t mean Knife wasn’t being watched. The streetlights were dim and few and far between. His twenty-seven year old heart racing with fear, Knife released the blind and sprang back a couple of feet. Images filled his mind of cold-faced killers training their high-powered sniper-rifles on him through the slats of Venetian blinds, from the tops of distant rooftops, and the shadows of dark street-mouths.

Calm down, ya stupid mug! he told himself as he dragged his wet palms down his Daffy Duck boxer shorts. If they'd been out there aiming at ya, your head would be splattered all over this room right now! He clapped his hands to his temples. They haven’t come for ya yet - you still have time.

The young man, his lanky body awash with apprehensive sweat, stomped across the untidy lounge-room and dropped into an armchair, springs worn and broken, arms slashed and comfortable.

His Kings Cross apartment was a conundrum. Knife made an excellent living selling drugs to kids. Because he had never become hooked himself, he had managed to save a lot of money. As a result his flat, built only a few years earlier to accommodate Sydney’s rising tide of poor, was an anachronism of ancient furniture and modern electronic equipment. A huge flat screen TV shared a wooden wall-cabinet with several different disc players, speakers big enough to be buried in and a hard-drive filled with pirated movies and TV-series.

However, because the eccentric species, "Bachelorus" occupied this flat, it was a cluttered pigsty. Clothes, porno magazines, newspapers and KFC containers still containing bones, littered the carpet. Dirty dishes filled the kitchen sink, and the fridge opposite - when Knife dared to open it - provided a safe haven for brightly-coloured organisms thriving in old Chinese food containers. The young man was still learning the painfully hard way that messes didn’t disappear if you ignored them. If anything, they grew bigger and spread like cancers.

The TV had been tuned to a pay channel that screened R and X-rated movies. Right now a mediocre horror flick called Driller Killer was screening - or rather screaming.

Inside a very well-equipped torture-chamber, a psychopathic killer did weird and wonderful things to young women with his Black & Decker tools. Either his equipment had infinitely-charged batteries or very long, invisible extension leads. Knife had seen the film four times and still couldn’t figure this detail out.

But now he didn’t waste mental energy on something so frivolous. He was a wanted man and that really bothered him. If the police had been after him, he would not have been so worried. Hell, he would have walked down to the local cop station - not far from his apartment-block - and handed himself over with arms spread wide.

The police force didn’t have much power over his kind. Even in this strict day and age, Knife and his mates could flog drugs out the front of pigsties if they wanted to. The cops would haul them in, and a couple of days later, the Syn would let them out.

Unfortunately, it was the Syndicate who were after him. Knife had made the critical mistake of earning its enmity. Unlike the police, the Syn didn’t put its enemies behind bars - it buried them under six feet of sod.

It had started innocuously enough. Now he knew who Bob French really was, Knife could clearly recall the fateful night he first met him. He mightn’t have been blessed with a particularly high IQ, but he did have a good memory.

A fresh shipment of coke had just arrived from Queensland, and Knife managed to appropriate a couple of keys from his Syn contact. He cut it with as much baking-soda as he could get away with and then separated it into different-sized baggies. He wanted to start selling his stuff as quickly as possible because he had just lost a couple of valuable clients. One junkie overdosed, another found Jesus and entered a detox clinic, and a third was thrown into gaol for breaking and entering.

On the evening of the fifteenth of April, Knife pocketed a couple of hundred-dollar bags and left for the Black Hole, a heavy-metal nightclub on Darlinghurst Street.

Founded in the eighties to cater for punks, skinheads, rockers and Bikers, the Black Hole had been in danger of closing down until a recent revival of interest in heavy metal. Now, grunge, death, black, thrash and all forms of hard rock and roll blared from its dark bowels. As Knife approached from Bayswater Road, he heard - or rather felt - the pounding of the latest woeful live band. A large crowd had collected outside the club’s double doors. Two bouncers, who looked like they drank steroid milkshakes for breakfast, made sure no undesirables sneaked in. Choosing only impossibly handsome guys and beautiful girls clad in the day’s fashion, they remained steadfast in their decisions, immune to bribes of money and drugs.

Fortunately for Knife they knew him, and to the consternation of the rejected many, they let him pass. But the dealer knew they would have let him in anyway - he fitted their interpretation of the modern metalhead.

In his black leather jacket, dark glasses, and hair slicked smooth with gel, Knife slid like a punkish barge through a seething ocean of multicoloured rockers. On the littered stage an aptly-named band called Stinkfinger bellowed a cheerful little ditty about axe-murder. Their music thundered from high-voltage speakers, pounding young eardrums into realms of terminal tinnitus.

Unfortunately for Knife he detested heavy metal. A rapper from way back, he forced himself to frequent places like this because they were nearly always full of junkies.

The hot air stank of beer and sweat. Girls with multicoloured hair whirled to the music, youths moshed and dived off the stage, and as Knife headed towards the bar, a young dealer tried to sell him some E from the latest tainted shipment.

You have no idea who I am, do ya? he asked the brat in an icy tone. He delighted in intimidating youngsters, and put his hands on his hips for extra effect.

Er- The kid looked stupid.

Go home to Mummy before I kick ya teeth in! He gave the kid a shove.

Arsehole, the boy muttered as he stumbled off.

Knife laughed. One of these days, when I rise higher in the ranks of the Syn, I’ll be able to treat everyone like that - not just two-bit ecky-peddlers!

Knife’s primary objective was customers, but he also had his eye on a date for the evening. Sleazy nightclubs like these were always crammed with underage teenagers. Although the scantily-clad whores of William Street would have been more than happy to stoop to his every twisted desire, he had a morbid fear of disease. He preferred to prey on young, clean girls. In fact, the younger the better. Because of his Syn connections, he had access to all kinds of illegal porn.

Then, across the floor he saw his dream-girl. Petite, small-breasted, long-limbed - and probably no more than fourteen years old. She thrashed with the best of them, her enormous metal earrings threatening to knock out innocent bystanders. A black vinyl dress hugged her slinky figure, and her hair, a bleached-blonde gorse-bush, whipped across her cheeks. She didn’t appear to be with a date as all the people surrounding her were girls of similar age. But none possessed her delightful innocence.

She tried to act as cool as her mates, but Knife could tell this attitude didn’t come naturally. She had never been here before.

Licking his full Italian lips, Cameron Knife Roberti moved in for the jugular bite. Few youngsters could resist his sweet talk. God only knew - the sweet little morsel might even be interested in a little nose candy.

But before he could shanghai the little blonde, a man stepped in front of him; a twitching, dribbling junkie with wide, desperate eyes. Gibbering, he grabbed Knife’s arm with a white hand and yanked him off the dance-floor. Knife - Knife! he mouthed.

Hey! Knife yanked his arm free and turned on the man. He was about to punch his face in when he realised that this was a druggie in dire straits - a man prepared to pay through the nose for coke.

A lazy smile spread itself across the dealer’s sleazily attractive features. That’s Mister Knife to you, punk.

Clad in scruffy denim jacket, black T-shirt, ripped Jeans and Docs, the junkie pulled a hand through his spiky hair. We - we gotta talk! He beckoned for Knife to follow him.

The music was giving the dealer a headache. Nevertheless, he looked over his shoulder for the little girl, torn in two directions. Should he go after her, or take up the junkie’s offer?

But when he saw his gaol-bait being escorted away by a shaven-headed surf-Nazi, he decided sex could wait. Pushing snot-nosed, E-dealers around was one thing - tangling with fascist bastards another.

Besides, he wanted to buy himself a new car.

Let’s go. Liking to be in control of the situation, he led the druggie out of the disco, and down the quiet corridor leading to the toilets and fire-escape. A couple of kids sat on the cool concrete steps smoking joints, and Knife casually shooed them away.

The music a tolerable throb in the background, Knife folded his arms with an impressive creak of leather and turned to the pathetic junkie. I’m glad I never got hooked, he thought again. For some reason drugs had never agreed with him. Mary Jane didn’t do much, H made him puke, and Snow gave him nosebleeds. All others were a waste of time and brain-cells.

Kn-Knife man! Am I glad I caught you! The druggie clasped his skinny hands together. I need some rock real bad. You sellin’?

Knife took an almost sadistic delight in stringing new blood along. Maybe. Who’s asking?

Muh - my name’s Bob French.

Who told ya about me, Frenchy? I don’t sell to just any slobbering, snivelling coke-head who comes crawling along, ya know.

French gulped and straightened, wiping his hands on his filthy jeans. Idly, the dealer wondered how someone so shabbily dressed had managed to squeeze past those continent-sized bouncers. But this thought soon disappeared. All he could think of was the money this desperate little creep was prepared to give him. Okay - I heard about you from Ginelli - he’s a mate o’ mine who hangs out with the Black Dogs. Know ‘em?

Knife made a non-committal noise. I know of 'em, he answered. The Black Dogs were a petty crime gang who operated in the Woolloomooloo area, trying desperately to attract the Syn’s protection. Knife had been forced to deal with them on a number of occasions, and found them very mediocre - not even worthy of the organization’s attention. They didn’t even have a professional thief working for them; someone who knew how to diffuse the sophisticated electronic alarms most places now possessed. They specialised in muggings, armed hold-ups, car-thieving and general thuggery. Ginelli, their leader, was a small, weaselly type with hair so greasy it was considered a fire hazard. Of the outfit he was the only one with any brains.

But just because French knew the leader of the Black Dogs didn’t mean he was trustworthy. Knife decided to toy with him some more. Gin and I are pretty close mates. But he never mentioned you to me.

Sweat gleamed on French’s brow as he hooked a long finger in the collar of his faded T-shirt. C’mon man! he whined, eyes full of pathetic need. I’m really hurtin’! I got money if that’s what’s worryin’ ya! He fumbled through his pockets for his wallet, almost dropping it in the process.

Knife was staring thoughtfully down at French, wondering how else to torture him, when greed finally took over. He thrust his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. How much do ya want?

French looked up, desperate hope leaping into his eyes. Then he ripped open his wallet and pulled out a couple of rumpled hundred dollar bills. As much as you can give me, man! He held them out with trembling fingers.

Knife twitched the notes from the junkie’s tenuous grasp. Then he slid an arm around the smaller man’s shoulders. I’ll take good care of ya, Frenchy, he purred as he pulled out a couple of paper-wrapped packets with exaggerated slowness.

French bobbed his head, eyes fixed on the little baggies as though they contained his life-force. As soon as Knife handed the packets to him, he turned and stumbled off, blubbering; Thanks man! Ya won’t regret this!

Knife watched him leave, smirking silently at the disgusting sight. Leaving the corridor he returned to the dance floor, thinking maybe he could acquire another date for the night.

As he was lounging against a wall near the bar, French approached him again. Knife noticed a remarkable change in the spiky-haired man. Gone was the slavering druggie, and in his place walked a confident youth, his eyes ablaze with fierce intelligence. The coke had transformed him into a different person.

Because Knife had done a little snow himself, he knew what French was experiencing. By now his nerve-endings would be buzzing with activity, filling his mind with all kinds of sense-heightened information. Everything would be so precise and easy to understand.

And everyone would suddenly be out to get you. Knife knew from bitter experience that coke-heads were notoriously paranoid. He’d been threatened by junkies heaps of times. Luckily, the Syn had stepped in to put the creeps out of action.

I just wanna say thanks, French began. Snorting, he dragged an arm across his red nose. Sorry I was such a sook before, but ... Jesus! I hadn’t had any blow for so long!

Knife smiled. That’s what I’m here for, Frenchy.

Can we go somewhere to talk?

Knife looked around, realising that he was surrounded almost exclusively by big, hairy men in black singlets. All the underage girls had departed. It was probably past their bedtime. He sighed. I suppose so.

They left the Black Hole, heading for a quiet pub a few blocks down. After buying a few beers, they settled in a smoky corner. Well - what d’ya want to talk to me about? Knife asked, although he already knew.

French took a deep breath, his eyes darting left and right, making sure no-one was listening. Then he took a gulp from his schooner, and Knife noticed that his fingernails were long and reasonably neat. He found this strange, because all the coke-sniffers he knew were nail-biters.

Wong, my last pusher, got iced, French began. He passed a couple of guys some bad shit.

Knife nodded. He remembered Wong well. The low-life bastard had cut his stuff with everything; baking soda, flour, sugar ... Ajax.

Anyway, a coupla guys went out lookin’ for him. They eventually cornered him in an alley and by the time they finished with him, his body was so badly mangled the cops had trouble pickin’ it apart from all the other rubbish lyin’ around!

Knife grinned. French’s description appealed to him. He liked violence - so long as it was not being perpetrated on him. Serves the cocksucker right.

Anyway, for a while I was able to score stuff at this place near Central, but then it closed down, and I had no-one to go to, French continued. I started gettin’ desperate, and then Ginelli mentioned you. His eyes grew misty, and if Knife hadn’t known any better, he would have thought the junkie trying to come onto him. I’m so glad I found you. He took a deep breath. Can - can I buy stuff from you on a regular basis?

Knife fingered his chin, pretending thought. He was starting to like this young man. He was intelligent, witty - and delightfully ingratiating. Knife realised that if he told French to jump off a cliff, he probably would. I suppose so. Now we’re here, how about ya tell me a bit about yourself, eh?

French eagerly complied, and an hour later over a game of pool, they were swapping secrets like old friends. Despite his addiction, he reminded Knife of what he believed he’d been like at that age; enthusiastic and eager to learn.

Afterwards, Knife forgot about the meeting. Then three nights ago he arrived home to find his front door splashed with graffiti. At first he thought that some Triad gang had spray-painted their name as a lark. But when he took a closer look, he realised that the blood red sigils weren’t Asian characters, but English ones. They spelled out;

S-Y-N.

Knife’s blood ran ice-cold as he realised what this meant. Somehow he had pissed the Syndicate off so much it now wanted to have him terminated. But what the Hell had he done? At the moment he couldn’t think of anything!

As he unlocked the door to his flat, an unemployed neighbour appeared, saw him - and slowly shook his head. He knew the untidy splatter meant he was staring at a dead man. Like the Mafia’s handful of bullets, the red SYN meant death - at any time, any place.

The answer to Knife’s question came two days later. As he paced his little flat he recalled the painful phone conversation.

His heart pounding, he scooped up his phone.

Y-yeah?

Hello Knife, Rocket-man began, his voice soft, almost gentle. Remember this?

On the other end of the line something clicked, and a recorded conversation began. Knife recognised it as part of the one he’d had with Bob French in that pub.

...You know Knife, you’re a pretty cool bloke. All of the other dealers I’ve known were real arseholes. They didn’t give a stuff about their customers, and always cut their drugs with so much shit it was like sniffin’ Equal.

Knife laughed modestly. Yeah well - I don’t want ta end up like Wong.

He deserved everything he got. A pause ensued, followed by the sound of pool-balls clicking together. So ... where do ya get your stuff from, Knife? It’s pretty good.

Seeing as you have so much experience of the local crime-rings, you probably already know who he is.

The balls clicked again. Spike? Gunslinger? The Bagman? Rocket-man?

Rocket-man.

Cool! I've heard that he can get practically anything! Golden Triangle links a mile wide! French lowered his voice to an awed whisper. Have you actually met him?

Of course - I see him all the time, Knife answered modestly. We’re the best of mates.

What’s his real name?

Jeez. Will ya look at this set up? ... I’m not sure if I oughta tell ya.

C’mon Knife - you can trust me! French crooned.

Okay. His real name is-

Abruptly, the tape cut off. ‘We’re the best of mates’, Rocket-man mocked. A drooling junkie shows you a little hero-worship, and you tell him your life story!

That’s no reason to have me offed! Knife whined.

Bob French was an undercover cop, you fucking moron! Rocket-man snarled. He was trying to track me down through you!

Knife’s blood ran ice-cold. A-a-a cop? he squeaked.

A wired cop, Rocket-man continued. Hence the recording. Through some more intelligent, less trusting employees, I learned of your stupidity, and managed to ‘acquire’ the recording before it could do me any permanent damage.

If everything’s alright, then why are ya having me killed? Knife shouted.

Because you’re a retard, Rocket-man replied evenly, and I certainly don’t want this kind of thing ever happening to me again. Next time I mightn’t be so lucky.

Knife started to shake uncontrollably. Come on man - I won’t do it again, I promise!

I know you won’t. Good bye Knife - I won’t be seeing you later. Rocket-man hung up.

Knife let the receiver fall and clapped his hands to his head, groaning and cursing.

Rocket-man had been right - Knife was an idiot. During his misspent youth he’d wasted a lot of time and effort trying to appear smarter than he really was. Through charisma, lies and exaggeration he’d managed to convince a lot of people that he was a genius, where in reality he was no more than above average. Apart from a talent for influencing people, he had nothing. He was impulsive, egotistical, trusting - and extremely vulnerable to flattery.

But he knew in his heart that French had been very good at his job. Except for a few tiny discrepancies, the cop had acted the part of desperate junkie to perfection, displaying an impressive knowledge of local crime-rings.

So what would become of him? Syn assassins could lurk anywhere. Knife knew of one dobber who had been killed in broad daylight while walking down Pitt Street. One second he was hurrying towards an important appointment at Circular Quay - the next he was twitching in a gutter, bloody porridge where his head used to be. The sniper had taken him out from the roof of the Commonwealth Bank building, of all places.

But not all Syn killers were so instant. Stories abounded of the psychopaths the organization employed to do their cleaning. They took pleasure in drawing the agony out, and Knife knew of men who had been drowned, stabbed, electrocuted, disembowelled, and thrown in acid - even skinned alive. But no matter what, the stoolies, squealers and grasses died painful deaths.

Knife could have tried to run from the city, but that would have been futile. The Syn could track you down no matter where you went. Its tentacles extended across Australia and into the nearby countries. For a simple criminal organization that had only come to power recently, it wielded enormous influence. But Knife didn’t want to think about where that frightening clout came from.