Gary found a convenience store in Bondi that was still open and bought dry cat food, a big bag of kitty litter and a litter tray. He toted those purchases and the cat in its carrier up ten flights of stairs to his apartment.
As soon as he released the cat from captivity, it screeched, savaged his couch with its claws as if it was an ancient enemy and disappeared under the sideboard. He already liked its style. "We'll get to know each other later, OK?"
After setting up the litter tray in the bathroom, and putting food and water in bowls in the kitchen, he flopped onto his bed and stared at the ceiling, not sure whether to replay the violence in the beach house or force it from his mind.
As it turned out, his mind insisted on replaying the whole fiasco with forensic clarity. He remembered shooting Hatchet-face and Merton, and discovering Patrick Arnott dead on the floor. Could he have avoided that carnage? He didn't see how. But Madeline Arnott hired him to find her son. Now she had no son and Gary couldn't even tell her that without exposing himself to a murder charge. That was an appalling outcome. The sooner his memories of the beach house faded the better. But he sensed it would be a long while before they did.
Eventually, his mental cogs stopped spinning and he fell asleep. But sleep was no refuge because he dreamt that he was trapped in a burning house and forced to run around looking for an exit. His clothes caught fire and he woke screaming. It was several hours before he went back to sleep.
Dawn threw a stun grenade through the window. Then it sent a riot squad into the bedroom to beat him around the head with truncheons. Eventually, he stopped trying to sleep and wondered again if he could have avoided the bloodbath in the beach house. His stale brain kept dismissing arguments that exonerated him. The only way to stop burning mental rubber was to get busy. He climbed out of bed and slouched into the living room to find the cat. After scouting around, he dropped to his knees and looked under the sideboard. The cat peered out with frightened eyes. He didn't blame it. However, in the bathroom, he saw it had done its business in the litter tray and buried it under a large mound. Well done.
After cleaning up the tray, he showered and dressed before turning on the television to discover the mayhem at the beach house was big news. After the opening credits of the Channel Eleven Breakfast News, a bouffant and buck-toothed news announcer appeared and said: "Homicide detectives are investigating the deaths of three people found in a burnt-out beach house at Forresters Beach last night. The Breakfast News chopper has reached the scene and can provide exclusive live footage …"
The program showed an aerial shot of the beach house, now a smoking ruin, and a line of fire trucks parked on the road outside it. Tiny figures in bright fireproof uniforms moved about in front of the building.
The preternaturally chirpy announcer continued in voice-over: "… A police spokesman said this morning that the Fire Brigade was notified about the fire shortly after eight o'clock last night. The first units to arrive found the beach house already well alight. After putting out the blaze, they discovered three badly burnt bodies and called the Homicide Squad.
"The police spokesman said the owner of the property was Mr Robert Merton, an accountant who acts for some of Sydney's wealthiest people. He said it will take some time to identify the bodies and ascertain the causes of death. However, it is believed that Mr Merton was among the dead and pistols were found near the bodies. Channel Eleven will monitor this story and keep viewers informed about the latest developments."
Gary turned off the TV and wondered how long it would take for the solicitor, Terry Burke, to find out that Robert Merton - Patrick Arnott's boss - was dead and phone Gary. It didn't take long. Gary had just started eating muesli at the kitchen table when his mobile phone made his crotch tingle.
He answered the call. "Hello, Gary here."
"Gary, it's Terry. Have you seen the news?"
"About Robert Merton? Yes, just saw it on TV. Seems he died in his beach house with a couple of other people."
"Yeah, and pistols were found. There was obviously foul play. Then the whole place went up in flames. Someone obviously wanted to destroy the evidence. You got any idea what happened?"
Gary did not intend to tell Terry what transpired at the beach house, or even that Patrick Arnott was dead. While a policeman, Gary learnt the biggest reason why criminals ended up in gaol - after keeping incriminating evidence - was blabbing to friends about their misdeeds. Terry was a good friend and a trustworthy guy. But there was no point testing his loyalty, particularly when the stakes were so high. Anyway, it would be unfair to burden Terry with such dangerous information. Better to give him what politicians called plausibility deniability.
"Nope, zero."
A suspicious tone. "You sure?"
"Yes."
"It's bloody odd that the employer of the guy you're trying to find dies in a shoot-out in his beach house."
"Of course it's bloody odd. That's why I'm going to ask the police what happened and whether Patrick Arnott was involved."
"You mean, you still haven't found Arnott?"
"Correct. I've got nowhere. In fact, I'm close to throwing in the towel."
"Maybe he died in the beach house."
"That thought has crossed my mind. But I've got no idea. Don't worry, I'll ask the police if there's any link with him."
"OK." A long sigh. "Madeline will get hysterical when she hears about this."
Gary felt guilty about not telling Madeline Arnott that her son died in a shoot-out at the beach house. But, if he did, she would still get hysterical and then report everything he said to the police. His reward for being a gentleman would be to have a Homicide detective - maybe even Karen - knock on his door and arrest him for murder. No point being nice if your reward is 20 years behind bars. No thank you. Indeed, he would dump Madeline Arnott in Terry's lap.
He said: "I'm sure she will. That's why I think you should contact her. Tell her I'm checking to see if there is any connection between what happened at the beach house and her son."
"You don't want to talk to her?"
"My plate's full and you know her a lot better than me. You can handle the hysterics."
A sigh. "OK, I will."
Gary felt relieved. "Thanks."
A long pause. "Are you sure you've got no idea what happened at the beach house?"
"Why would I know anything?"
"It's the sort of crazy shit you'd get involved in."
"Lots of people get involved in crazy shit - don't point the finger at me."
Another pause and Terry said, doubtfully: "Sorry."
Gary hung up and slowly ate his muesli, hoping to hear no more about the beach-house deaths and the Trewaley file. Those hopes were soon dashed.