Curly Flat Out - Ep 13
Dicey slice
I came to with someone dabbing at my face. In my semi-conscious haze I heard the soothing whisper of a Florence-Nightingale-like nymph caressing my face and suggesting we do something very non-sterile in the supply cupboard. I drifted on that fantasy for a while, then opened my eyes to a law enforcement nightmare.
It was a scene out of Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome, without the little guy on top of the big guy - everyone in black battle outfits, standing rigid in a circle and sneering at me. My naughty nurse turned out to be a stubbly bloke chewing gum and pulling medical supplies out of a pocket in the arm of his jacket. When he saw I was awake, he pulled away a gauze pad covered in streaks of red and yellow and zipped up his stuff.
Another one with a Bond-bad-guy scar across his cheek stepped forward. “Sit up, Mr Gibson.”
I wobbled up to a sitting position and looked around, waiting for the room to stop seesawing. A small infirmary the size of a lounge room, me sitting on a raised examination bench, a desk, a hospital bed and buckets of paramilitary testosterone. I rubbed my jaw, and my hand came away yellow, the remnants of our cunning disguises. There was crowd noise outside, so I was still at the ground, minus a good patch of facial skin, by the feel. “You know who I am then. What are you - extras from GI Joe: The Musical? And where’s my mate John? Big bloke. Sweats a lot?” Jeez, it hurt to talk, jaw-wise.
“That’s a lot of questions.” Scarface said.
“Requiring a lot of answers. How long have you guys been on these guys?” I said.
“Mate, you’re in no position to ask for anything.” It was Medico. “I’d cancel my dinner plans.”
A chuckle went around the room. Shit, I counted seven of them. Then Scarface said, “We’re holding you on suspicion of terrorist activity, aiding a terrorist enterprise…
“Aiding?! I was trying to crash-tackle the guy. Shouldn’t you be out doing the same to the other three?”
“… associating with known terrorists…”
“Known! No one knew diddly, besides us. Got some ID, by the way?”
“You want to know who we are?”
“No - I have an interrogation fetish.”
Scarface didn’t move. “You’ve heard of the Yanks’ SWAT squads?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, well we’re not them.”
“Right. Counter-Terrorism Branch, are you?”
He came over and eyeballed me. “Oh, you know aaaall about that do you? Not the kind of information Mr Joe Public has a need for.”
“Spare me, Captain Fantastic. You and your action figure mates have already talked to Cricket Australia about me, someone’s already been through the security footage - or they’re doing it now - so you know I didn’t come in with our friend Mr Allah Akbar, and that I was trying to stop the little freak from pushing the button.” I gave my jaw a rest. By their silence I knew I’d guessed right. “So I assume nothing blew up?”
“As far as anyone out there knows, our man was just a drunk fan,” Scarface said. “He yelled something, approached the players and was dealt with by security. No panic situation. No terrorist incident.”
“So the Test carries on as normal. Jesus - and about 300 members are switching to lemonade as we speak.” That finally got smiles out of them. “What are these guys about? What did he yell?”
“ASIO’s checking into it. It was Indonesian; they think ‘God is great. In God’s name we avenge our glorious brothers.”
“Charming. So why aren’t you out after the other three.”
“Two,” he said. “And we’ve got ‘em seven minutes ago. Liquid explosives, guns, the lot.”
I processed a bit more. “Brothers?… Oh, Christ on a bike - the Bali bombers’ executions.”
A knock and two large men in suits appeared in the doorway. Scarface smiled at me. “Give the man a banana. Now the AFP want you. Something about you cowboys dicking up their investigation.”
Investigation. That was rich. They’d had no clue - then been one loose wire away from mass carnage. Now they were masters of the universe.
The suits dragged me to an adjacent meeting room, and Gacy’s eyes went round when he saw my face. I discovered he’d only been a few steps behind me in our dash through the Members’ Stand, and he’d had his own set of anti-terror fellas to deal with.
The AFP suits made us run through everything we’d done since I got that call from Parnell three weeks ago. Again. And again. Every suspicion we’d had, everything we saw, every bowel movement we’d dropped. They threatened us with everything from control orders to tax audits to not qualifying for the dole. Come to think of it, that was the greatest threat of all.
A tick under four hours later, when we were climbing the walls quicker than Cirque Du Soleil on meth, they got bored and four regular cops took us away.
This time there was no chance of being a big screen hero - they marched us to some sort of tradesman’s entrance near a loading dock. At least there were no handcuffs this time. No need - the cops had guns.
I turned to Gacy. “So, you glad I got you into this?”
“Yeah - come on a case, see Australia, get kicked out of the best grounds in the country.”
Nearly at the loading dock, we chuckled and paused to let a group of tradies finish showing the security guy their passes and inside their toolboxes.
Looking on the positive si… Holy shit. The guy with the beer guy and the blue overalls. It was one of the Bobs - I was positive. But there was something weird…
No time. The utility belt on the cop next to me. I grabbed at it, managed to unclip the folding knife and flick it open as I lunged at Bob the builder and slashed him hard across the stomach.





