Between Jill and the double doors, however, lay the giant, making animal sounds on the floor. To get past him, she'd have to step on his back. She considered a running jump, trying to clear his mass to reach the other side. But even if she could manage the leap with the pain in her ribs, the thought of him grabbing her ankle in mid-air and hauling her back down terrified her. She couldn't make herself seriously consider it as an option. That left straight ahead then. Could there be another fire exit somewhere?
Fire exit. Fire. That's it, she thought, turning back into the corridor. She scanned the wall she'd been pinned against, and spotted the object that had dug into her spine. The fire hose. Next to it, a small perspex box housing the fire alarm button. She looked down; within sixty centimetres of the fire hose, the biker's meaty head rolled around the floor. Jill noted with revulsion that his cheek was lying in a pool of his own vomit.
Taking a deep breath that felt like swallowing crushed glass, Jill stepped within easy reach of the leviathan on the floor. She smashed the box with the heel of her hand, and instantly the fire alarm boomed unbearably loud from all sides.
Crouched forwards, more from pain than to hide, Jill shuffled towards the front of the club. Someone killed the music and hit the lights. Some of the blinking patrons shielded their eyes, while others held their ears. They lurched to their feet, trying to figure out what to do. The alarm made it impossible to hear anything else. She had to get to the door before any panic started. She couldn't bear to be immobilised again. Her heart was a budgie bashing around in her chest.
Staff in black aprons now moved through the crowd. Efficient and coordinated, they looked like they were herding cattle.
A female staff member with a face full of piercings motioned the group nearest Jill towards the front of the club. Jill managed to slip between some low chairs and a cluster of staggering suits, all clutching Coronas. If she could just keep moving quickly, she could negotiate a fairly clear path to the exit. She tried to jog a couple of steps, and stifled a scream when her broken rib stabbed her insides. She hunched a little lower, one arm across her gut.
Maybe thirty steps and she'd be out of here. The front of the club opened completely to the street now; the blare of the fire alarm and the lights and noises from the road merged at the doors, marking the threshold of safety.
Twenty steps, ten. Right behind her, the mob from the club surged forwards, some laughing, others complaining about having to evacuate. Almost there.
She stopped. Straight ahead, directly in her path, stood the speed dealer from Wollongong. The fresh-faced college fitness the girl had radiated just two years ago was long gone. Her arms were scrawny and marked with bruises; her eyes, locked with Jill's, were hooded with hate. She smiled coldly and looked to her left, showing Jill her fate. Three fat bikers leaned against the folded-back doors.
Jill knew what she'd do if she was them. One blow would knock her out; the movement of the crowd would cover the action, and no-one would notice a doped-out mini-skirt being poured into a waiting car.
She swayed where she stood, considering her options.
'Not feelin' the best myself.' The suits had caught her up, and a short, dark-haired man was at her side, an arm snaking around her waist. Even over the fire alarm, Jill thought she could hear his shiny suit swoosh as he walked. What remained of his hair was slicked back, gold flashed at his neck and wrists.
'I'll give ya a hand, luv.' He smiled at her. 'Let's get out of here and figure out where we're all going next.'
In the few seconds she'd stood immobile, the crowd had reached her. Jill looked around wildly, caught up in a wash of beer breath and cologne, heels and hairspray. The group carried her along, a human tide that spilled out the doors of the club. The wave swept her past the gorillas at the door and spilled onto the pavement, overflowing into the street.
Car horns sounded and people yelled and whistled. A tubby girl, heels in hand, climbed on top of a traffic signal box, gyrating in green Lycra, while her hooting girlfriends tried to pull her back down. Jill looked to the right and saw a group of young men kicking water at each other in the El-Alamein fountain. She saw the white helmets of four mounted police riding up Darlinghurst Road. The sirens of the approaching fire brigade joined the cacophony.
Jill walked left, away from what was fast becoming a street party, and within a hundred metres reached the front of the cab rank. She ignored the stares of the cabbies standing at the sides of their taxis, and got into the back seat of the first cab. When she sat down, her vision darkened as a bloom of pain burst in her chest. She put her head between her knees. She heard the cab door shut, and the world went blessedly quiet.
'You have money?'
She heard the cabbie from the front. She pulled a fifty from her purse and gave him her address, then let her head fall back onto the seat.
'You no do spew in my cab.'
Jill closed her eyes.
17
'How do you know Honey didn't set you up?' Scotty was sprawled full-length along one of Jill's chocolate leather sofas, his huge bare feet hanging over the edge, soles pointing towards the ocean.
Jill made a noise of impatience. 'Why would she?' she said. 'No, Scott, it was just the wrong place, wrong time. I could tell by their faces that they were just as shocked to see me as I was to see them.'
She was lying on the matching sofa, her feet pointed towards her kitchen. It was a damp Thursday afternoon; a warm drizzle rendered the Maroubra sands wet concrete.
'What's Honey's real name anyway?' Scotty wiped orange fingers on his board shorts, dropping his empty Twisties packet on top of the Mars Bar wrapper on the coffee table. Jill had to look away to stop herself getting up to clean the mess.
'She was born Matthew Hudson. Had a full sex change when she was eighteen, changed her name to Honey Delaney. She's now twenty-seven. Minor possession charges, solicitation, one assault charge.'
'Assault?'
'Yeah, a trick didn't pay. She put him in hospital. Broken jaw, fractured eye socket.'
'Nice friends you have. Now she can add two broken ribs to her list.'
Jill shifted, and winced with the movement. 'I told you I think I was just unlucky running into them. I saw the dealer recognise me.'
Scotty yawned and stretched, then propped himself up on his elbow, face serious. 'What are we gonna do about these arseholes anyway? I know you said you don't want to go after them, but we can't just leave it like this.'
He had been furious when Jill had told him that morning what had happened at the club. He was on his feet and half out the door to find the offenders, and she'd had to beg him to stop. How would she explain to the squad where she'd been and what she'd been doing there? She didn't want the inspector knowing she was out at night with Honey Delaney, and she didn't want Elvis to find out about any of it. Not that he probably didn't know already. She didn't believe Elvis's brother was the only member of his family connected to the bike crew.
Jill grimaced as she forced herself to sit up. Her ribs were taped. The doctor had told her there was little else they could do. She was not to run, ride or exercise, and he'd given her the week off. But it was time to work.
'So what's for lunch?' Scotty rubbed his stomach. He blocked the cushion she threw at his head. Although Scotty had tried to put it off, Jill had insisted they travel out to talk to Detectives Richard Harris and John Jardine about the Rocla and Manzi murders. An hour later saw them bumper to bumper in traffic on Anzac Parade.