As his feet hit the ground on the other side, the water in the pool began to ferment. White froth rose and as Harry headed for the door he saw a green Formula One car accelerating out of the water, low-slung, with small lizard feet on the sides whirling round like rotary whisks. He kicked off and slipped in the loose sand. From far behind him he heard the roars and from the corner of his eye he saw the raised bonnet of the racer. He was up again, sprinted the few metres to the door and grabbed the handle. For a fraction of a second Harry’s mind dwelt on the possibility that the door might be locked. The next moment he was inside. A scene from Jurassic Park appeared at the back of his mind and made him bolt the door behind him. Just in case.
He unholstered his gun. The damp room stank of a nauseous mixture of detergent and rotten fish.
‘Harry!’ It was McCormack on the radio. ‘First of all, there is a simpler route into where you are now than straight through that beast’s food bowl. Secondly, stay right there, nice and calm, until Lebie’s walked round.’
‘Can’t hear . . . bad re . . . ion, sir,’ Harry said, scratching a nail across the mike. ‘I’m . . . go . . . n alone.’
He opened the door at the other end of the room and emerged into a tower with a spiral staircase in the middle. Harry guessed that the stairs led down to the underwater tunnels, and decided to go up. On the next landing there was another door. He peered up the stairs, but there didn’t appear to be any more doors.
He twisted the handle and pushed the door open carefully with his left hand while keeping the gun trained ahead of him. It was as black as night inside, and the stench of rotten fish was overwhelming.
Harry found a light switch on the wall inside the door, which he operated with his left hand, but it didn’t work. He let go of the door and took two probing steps forward. There was a crunch beneath his feet. Harry guessed what it was and retreated soundlessly to the door. Someone had smashed the bulb in the ceiling. He held his breath and listened. Was there someone else in the room? A ventilator rumbled.
Harry slipped back onto the landing.
‘McCormack,’ he whispered into the mike, ‘I think I’ve found him. Listen, do me a favour and call his mobile phone.’
‘Harry Holy, where are you?’
‘Now, sir. Please, sir.’
‘Harry, don’t make this a personal vendetta. It’s—’
‘It’s hot today, sir. Will you help me or not?’
Harry heard McCormack’s heavy breathing.
‘OK, I’ll call now.’
Harry nudged the door open with his foot and stood legs akimbo in the doorway, his gun held in front of him with both hands, waiting for the phone to ring. Time felt like a droplet that would never fall. Perhaps two seconds passed. Not a sound.
He’s not here, Harry thought.
Then three things happened at once.
The first was that McCormack started talking. ‘He’s switched off . . .’
The second was that Harry realised he was silhouetted against the doorway like a wild creature in flight.
The third was that Harry’s world exploded in a shower of stars and red blotches on his retina.
Harry remembered fragments of Andrew’s boxing lessons from their drive to Nimbin. Such as that a hook performed by a professional boxer is normally more than enough to knock an untrained man unconscious. By moving his hip he gets the whole of his upper torso behind the hook and gives the punch so much power that the brain short-circuits instantly. An uppercut placed precisely on the point of the chin lifts you from the floor and sends you straight into dreamland. For certain. Also a perfect straight right from a right-handed boxer leaves you poor odds for being able to stand upright afterwards. And most important of all: if you don’t see the punch coming, the body won’t react and swerve away. Just a minor movement of the head can considerably soften the impact of a punch. It’s very rare for a boxer to see the decisive blow that knocks him out.
The only explanation for Harry not being unconscious must therefore have been that the man in the dark had been standing to Harry’s left. Because Harry was standing in the doorway he couldn’t hit him in the temple from the side, which according to Andrew in all probability would have been sufficient. He couldn’t throw an effective hook or an uppercut as Harry was holding his arms with the gun in front of him. Nor a straight right, because that would have meant standing in front of the gun. The only option remaining was a straight left, a punch Andrew had dismissed as a ‘woman’s punch, most suited to irritate or at best bruise an opponent in a street fight’. Andrew may have been correct about that, but this straight left had sent Harry flying backwards down the spiral staircase where his back had met the edge of the railing and he had almost flipped over.