The Holiday Murders by Robert Gott Page B

shot her. Her eyes moved. I shot her a second time. I didn’t want to leave her in agony.’
    They’d all be better off dead , Jones thought. They offered nothing. Further down the page, Jones was surprised to read a diatribe against John Dedman, the government minister who’d become the grim face of austerity. Truth ’s correspondent was silly with indignation, calling Dedman ‘Deddy Christmas’, and mocking his regulations regarding pink icing, Daddy Christmas, short-tailed shirts, victory suits, and domestic servants. ‘This country just won’t stand for it. You really must be drunk with power, or totally deaf, dumb and blind if you can’t sense the signs of rising public indignation.’ Jones read these words twice over, and noted the name of the journalist who’d penned them. Someone who wasn’t afraid to attack the government in print might be useful.
    The cup of tea was plonked down pointedly on top of the article that he was reading; when Jones picked up the cup, the owner reclaimed his paper with the aggressive proprietorship of a man reclaiming stolen goods. Jones felt a surge of anger, and threw sixpence on the counter, daring the man to demand more. Clarry seemed about to, until he caught the look in Jones’s eye.
    Jones sat at a table facing the woman. She stared glumly at him before producing something approaching a smile, as if she might possibly summon the energy to turn one more trick. Jones looked away. He felt that a mere glance from her would be enough to spread the infections she was no doubt rotten with. The walls of the café were plastered with propaganda posters that were a bit more robust than the ‘Make-Do and Mend’ and ‘Loose Lips Sink Ships’ variety. These were uncompromising examples of the art form. The most startling was a bright-red poster, so heavy with text that Jones stood up to read it. ‘ Everyone a Spy ,’ it said. ‘ Everyone a Killer’ .
    The owner was watching Jones, and the woman was watching his cup of tea. The contorted face of a Japanese man stared out at Jones, and below him the text was florid: ‘They smiled, bowed, scraped, and though we tolerated them, we hated their obvious insincerity, their filthy tricks of snide business. We’ve always despised them! Now we must smash them!’
    Jones put his hand up under his shirt and ran his fingers across the still-raw tattoo. Japs. He hadn’t given them much thought. They were sub-human. He didn’t care if they and the National Socialists shared a common enemy . Ptolemy Jones would no more take orders from a Jap than he would from a Jew.
    His tea was tepid, and a smell of rusty pipes rose from it. He took a sip, pushed it away, and stood up to leave. He crossed to the counter, and said calmly, ‘I’d like my sixpence back. The tea was shit.’ The owner handed it over without a word. Jones noticed that his hand trembled slightly as he propelled it across the counter. This gave him pleasure.
    ‘I like the poster,’ Jones said. ‘I don’t like the whore.’
    The woman stood suddenly. But before she could say anything, Jones took two steps and pushed the flat of his hand hard into her face, and she fell heavily against the wall.
    ‘Next time I come here,’ he said, ‘she’d better not be here.’
    ‘Next time?’
    ‘There will be a next time. I like it here. It has potential. I like it.’
    Jones left, feeling as if he’d found his Munich beer hall. This would be the ideal meeting place for the Party. Magill’s house was too poncy, and he wasn’t convinced about Magill anyway. All that art palaver made him want to punch someone. He’d wager Magill had never been in a fight in his life. One day, this disgusting café would be a shrine — the place where National Socialism took root in Australia. The thought was erotic, and he felt his cock swell. He couldn’t fuck that whore, though. He needed someone clean.
    He headed for East Melbourne.
    -7-
    Constance Thorpe put down the telephone. ‘Mary