by Duff, Alan
The plastic wrap Johno had cut open with a Stanley knife was tucked down the sides of the trolley. The smell of Frederick’s clothing on his person kept making him gag. He had filled the two empty vodka bottles he found in Frederick’s trolley, one with the battery acid provided by Kanohi, and one with water.
Where Tahu had dropped him, the city’s tall buildings were at his back as he walked, pushing his trolley, towards a growing view of the north shore across a stretch of harbour, ferries coming and going, big container ships, a cruise liner and always the harbour bridge and soon the opera house.
Pedestrians, ordinary citizens at the end of their nine-to-five day, gave him a wide berth, some indifferent, some wary, others staring with naked contempt. They could have been customers of his bar who would soon be sitting out in the beer garden remarking on the waterfall, or eating his Wednesday night barbecue. Danny’s Drawings meant precisely nothing now.
Every once in a while Johno stopped and, in keeping with his act, took a swig from the bottle of water. A woman, mid-twenties, attractive, stopped in front of him. She had one of those faces you just know belongs to a nurse. She took his hand and said, ‘Have a good day, sir.’ In her palm a two-dollar coin, same as Danny used to give the homeless.
‘Thank you.’ He was surprised at how deftly he took the money. And the hat-tipping gesture, as if he’d spent all his life outdoors living rough. She wouldn’t have seen how moved he was because he wore sunglasses, with big white plastic frames, found among the trolley’s contents.
He had but three days of facial hair growth, unlike Frederick’s long, thick beard and tangle of hair. Couldn’t get it all right the first time, and anyway Frederick died clean-shaven in that last gesture of serene farewell, which Johno now better understood. He wore, of course, his own underpants and socks, and a clean T-shirt to put a layer between his upper body and Frederick’s putrid shirt. How did body odour live so long?
Countless citizens went by, vehicles moved in traffic-light surges. Ferry and ship horns bellowed. But further down the hill in this part of town it was a lot quieter than the city centre, a little pocket of relative tranquillity.
A small aircraft trailing an advertising banner crossed the sky; he couldn’t make out the wording and wondered why it would fly this late on a dying evening. Perhaps making its last run for the night? Maybe the pilot liked being up there free and alone.
The wheels creaked, more so when he turned off into Dawes Point Park. He scanned the area for the expected sight of those who looked much like him. Not a one, not at first glance.
He sat down on a bench. The one thing he’d refused to include in his act was smoking. As an avowed reformed smoker he couldn’t have stood a single puff. So he just sat there. He made one little mistake — if anyone had bothered to observe him — in looking at his watch, an ordinary Seiko that cost a hundred bucks years ago. But did a homeless person own a watch and what reason would he have to be interested in the time of day?
Late autumn evening is what Frederick would have noticed. About half an hour of light left. Enough to see that the huddle of three figures had stopped conferring and were heading in his direction. Drunks. Frederick might have been watching for Danny to sneak out during a week evening. Johno knew he sometimes did.
‘What’s your problem, guys?’ He spoke in his natural voice, which he suddenly thought might have been right out of context, suspiciously so. He didn’t need attention of any description.
‘You,’ said one of them. ‘This is our park. Now fuck off.’
Be prepared. But smarter to play weak. ‘Got nowhere else to go.’ Plaintive but not too much so.
Danny used to say drunks were his biggest danger. Yet he’d managed to keep them at bay. Three men peering into his trolley and eyeing him with the territorial attitude of dogs, or any kind of predator.
One reached a hand to grab one of the bottles. Johno jerked his trolley back and said, ‘Don’t touch.’ That was his back-up bottle: plan B spelt F for failure if he succumbed to being vengeful. Yet he knew it was where he was headed, but a second away from exploding.
‘All right, matey,’ said the denied man, from a mouth full of missing and nicotine-rotted teeth. ‘We’ll touch you.’
Out of an inside pocket of Frederick’s coat Johno produced some twenty-dollar bills. ‘Will this sort it? A hundred bucks to say leave me alone.’ In the same moment he yanked the trolley from a booze-thirsty hand.
‘All right, givvus the money.’
‘Only if it’s my park for tonight.’ Johno changed his voice to sound less like his own. Or maybe it did of its own accord. As if Frederick were pulling the strings.
‘Why? You mug someone? Think the cops would never come looking here in Dawes?’
‘Mug someone? Never!’ A waft of stench came off Frederick’s clothes. How had Danny managed to sit with him for hours on end? Was this outrage his or Frederick’s?
‘My mother died and left me some money.’
‘A hundred fucking bucks?’
‘No. The rest is in the bank. I’ll give you more.’ Not duplicity, not with this trio. Just getting rid of them, possible witnesses. Which meant he was moving to the other decision, plan B.
‘There’s others hang out here,’ said one. ‘They won’t want you around either.’
‘Well, I don’t have any more money. Not on me.’
‘We’ll be back tomorrow for the big instalment,’ said another.
‘Nah. Don’t believe him. He’s a fucking retard. You’re mental, aren’t you, mate? You stole this hundred bucks, ’cept it was more and you’re trying to fob us off. Think we’re stupid?’
Time to go on the offensive. ‘Got a big knife in my pocket. You just try me.’ He had found the knife in the trolley. ‘Now take a fucking walk.’
He watched them leaving the park but looking round at him, like scared-off dingoes in an outback documentary. They’d be back.
Danny’s plane still spiralled downward. Johno was going down with him, his mind made up.
Chapter forty-five
Shane left the Park Hyatt Hotel opposite Dawes Point Park with two heavy-set men, and immediately one of Danny’s paintings came into Johno’s mind, of possibly these exact same men kicking a young man on the ground, their gold jewellery exaggerated under his son’s brushes. Could this be them?
It was when they laughed that Johno knew madness. It was all he could do not to walk up and throw the acid in their faces, then carve them up with Frederick’s knife. How appropriate, how just.
But fucking Shane laughing, too? No, he mustn’t lump Shane in with these two. He was going along with the act, had to bring them across the street to where his car was parked and Johno just nearby.
One of them was saying, ‘You tell that Tito we got things to talk about.’
‘Oh? And I’m not privy to this, huh, conversation?’
Liar, liar, pants on fire, Shane’s lovely mother used to say to them. So they’d never felt comfortable about telling lies and even now, Johno acting out a bizarre role, and Shane playing his essential part, it didn’t seem right. But then again they couldn’t have had a higher, even a holy, cause.
Johno pushed his trolley slowly forward, the hard rubber and plastic wheels creaking on the pavement. He stopped, took a swig from his water bottle. Resumed walking. His teeth had clenched.
He reached the pair just as they parted ways with Shane. As Shane got into his car he made eye contact with Johno, holding his gaze a few seconds more than he should. Then the words Johno hadn’t planned just came out: ‘Why do sinners’ ways prosper?’
One man, mildly puzzled, asked the other, ‘He talking to us? Nah.’ Looking at Johno as they would at any homeless person pushing a supermarket trolley: he didn’t exist.
‘I am,’ said Johno. ‘I said, “Why do sinners’ ways prosper?”’
‘Sinners? Us? You hear that, Mickey?’
So now Johno knew who was who. Mickey was as Shane described: dangerous. On a
short fuse. Johno would have him before the burning set off his bomb, no problem. Images came then, of Mickey the first to be in unimaginable pain from acid in his face, his eyes. Pete next. The knife — Frederick’s weapon — cutting, plunging, drawing out their suffering.
They came to a halt, mid-stride, in unison.
Pete said, ‘We got a poet in our midst, Mick.’
Mickey, amused, said, ‘You call that “our midst”? A bloke living like that, on the streets?’ The contempt came then.
‘Despair not feast on thee.’ Johno took off the sunglasses and dropped them in his cart. He hadn’t planned it like this, speaking as though Frederick were reincarnated and with his own turmoil added. He’d intended to get them to make a confession — if he could find the words to provoke it. Through a hole in the pocket of Frederick’s big old coat, he had already turned on the tape recorder strapped to his waist. The police had no idea where he was. Tahu had come by a convoluted route to throw off — or expose — any police tail.
‘Jeezuz, we got one here,’ said Pete.
‘How about we give him a little lesson in the ways of the world?’ said Mickey, not to his pal but with a grin at Johno. ‘That sound like a good idea, buddy?’ He looked at his friend, then back at Johno. ‘See, we’re not the sort of blokes you can eyeball. Know what I mean?’ Turned to Pete and said, ‘Can you believe it? This cunt is staring daggers at us — complete fucking strangers and he’s giving it the full glare?’
Johno stared harder. Mickey’s mouth nearly fell open. ‘You want a fucking slap? Be more than a slap, you keep looking at us like that.’
‘He’s just a homeless retard,’ said Pete dismissively. ‘And that McNeil’s a fucking retard, too. Thinks he’s a Family favourite, the arsehole.’
And Mickey, a moment more interested in the Shane topic, said, ‘You were the one got him a you-know-what. I should’ve asked him did he walk around packing heat now like some wanna-be Eyetie gangster who’s a fucking Aussie.’ Johno happened to know Mickey referred to a gun, the same silencer-fitted weapon Shane had offered him this morning but he’d declined. Shooting this pair would be too quick. Danny’s end wasn’t quick. His plane was in a long, terrifying dive according to the police, and an autopsy confirmed. Autopsy? On his kid? Caused by these men — and the other whom Shane had shot dead. You sent my beautiful, gentle, talented boy into a nose-dive?
Felt the involuntary clenching of teeth again.
‘My name is Frederick.’ Johno removed the heavy coat, made weightier by years of accumulated dust and grime, placed it across the trolley.
‘Hey, Freddie. How ya going, you stupid deranged chook?’ Pete again.
‘Frederick, eh?’ Now Mickey advanced on Johno, just a couple of steps, a little signal to his pal to do same. ‘You sure it’s not Pope Paul? Or maybe the King of the World?’
‘I am a king,’ said Johno. ‘Of sorts.’
‘Of sorts?’ Mickey incredulous again, gives a this-can’t-be-true-and-yet-it-is look. His next few steps a shuffle, of expensive shoes over tarseal. Stopped just short of the trolley.
‘Like what sort, exactly …?’
‘King of Love, sir.’ Not Johno’s words, they just came.
‘Oh, Jesus Christ, Mick. We got one here. Let’s go.’
‘Love for who?’ said Mickey. ‘Not the world, surely? I mean you can’t love the whole fucking world. Though they do, these types. Don’t they, Pete?’
Pete, who kind of chuckled but was getting uneasy, too, said, ‘Stop wasting your time on this bum, Mick.’
‘Won’t take long,’ said Mickey.
‘Love for a dear young friend.’ Johno tipped his hat back the better to reveal his unbending will that this exchange was going to run the course he’d set.
‘One of his street mates must’ve died,’ Pete said. To Johno: ‘You lose one of your hobo mates?’
‘He was more than a mate,’ Johno said. ‘And he wasn’t a hobo.’
‘I think Pete meant loco,’ said Mickey with a sneer, tapping his head.
‘A big loss to Sydney city,’ said Pete. ‘Another loser gone. Boohoo.’
‘He wasn’t a loser.’ Might as well have been Frederick speaking — the raspy smoker’s voice, the fearlessness.
‘No? Your friend wasn’t a loser? Was he some sort of king then?’ The trolley moved with Mickey’s weight pressed against it. ‘So what would you call this dead friend? A fucking winner? Did he have one of these too?’ Hit the trolley with his hand. The wires hummed briefly; the plastic sheet gave the slightest crackle.
‘No. No, he didn’t,’ Johno said. ‘In fact, he owned a very nice apartment in the city.’
That produced another kind of look between the pair. The perplexity of the stupid, Frederick might have called it. Or the flowery Dixon.
‘Make up your mind,’ Pete said. ‘He lived on the streets? Or he lived in this fairy-tale apartment castle?’
‘It doesn’t matter. You thick-head thugs wouldn’t understand.’
‘You what?’ Mickey’s hands went to the side of the trolley.
‘He’s not blind, Mick,’ Pete said. ‘Can see we’re not exactly seventy-kilo weaklings.’ Laughing.
But Mickey didn’t laugh. ‘I know you’re only a crazy, homeless loser,’ he said, ‘but you better say sorry or I’m gonna smack you — hard.’
‘Like you did my friend?’
‘What’s he saying here, Pete?’ Mickey turned to his mate, but Johno wanted both of them facing him. Knew how to get that done.
‘He’s saying …’ Johno said to the closing night, the streetlights now on, ‘that his friend was not only murdered, but tortured first.’
The bombshell. But not the explosion.
‘Yeah …?’ Mickey. And Pete coming up right alongside him.
‘Fancy ganging up on a hopeless homeless bloke like me.’ Johno clicked his tongue. ‘Same as you did to the young man, eh? But three of you? Three tough guys against a gentle young man?’
Two jaws fell at the same time.
Johno lifted the bottle.
‘Verily I say unto you …’ Saw the relief.
Pete said, ‘He’s just crazy. Says this to everyone.’ There was uncertainty in his voice, though.
‘Oh yeah?’ said Mickey. ‘How would he know that much?’
He turned back to Johno. ‘Who you been talking to in your demented head, Freddie boy?’
‘Same person I’ve been talking to for many weeks now, Mickey,’ said Johno. ‘Tito. I know that name, too. Tito Costa?’
‘That fucking Shane wanting to know every last detail, and now this idiot?’ said Mickey. ‘What gives here? Who are you, pal?’
The two men moved right up to the trolley.
‘My friend’s name was Danny Ryan.’ That more than stopped them in their tracks — dropped the fucking sky on their ugly heads.
‘And you are who …?’ Mickey’s voice choked by disbelief.
‘Frederick. Today, this day, I am Frederick,’ said Johno. ‘Would you like a drink?’ He took the cap off, deliberately dropping it into the cart, held the bottle away from him.
‘Look. Fred—’
‘It’s Frederick.’ Johno stopped dead again. ‘Like it was Danny, not Daniel.’ Waited. ‘Danny-innocent-Ryan.’
He saw himself as if in a movie, holding tightly onto the bottle of acid, his arm flung back. His senses were so heightened he not only saw Shane’s car return on his left, but heard, to his right, the starting of an engine, by its sound a heavier, diesel-driven vehicle. Tahu.
What would the action be called? Sluicing? Sluicing battery acid right across their eyes. In this brief film sequence the two brutes fell to the ground screaming — screaming. As men blinded will do.
Yet one of the pair was talking. About what he and the other and Tito Costa had done. Not a confession as such, but it should be enough to convict them.
Except Johno had decided that the moment they were through he was going to do it and to hell with the
consequences.
But a van pulled up, and out the door came two figures as hulking as the two who should be on the ground writhing in agony. They lifted the trolley and Johno said, ‘Careful. Don’t drop a thing.’
Tahu and Dixon Kanohi put the trolley into the van, rough men using gentle hands, and Dixon flicked Johno a grim smile. Two other Maori men leapt from the front, moved with swift menace towards Mickey and Pete.
As he climbed into the van, Johno heard behind him the familiar sound of fists on flesh and bone, cries of pain. But it all went silent when he hauled the van door closed. He looked out the side window and there was Shane, with an arm out his lowered window. The darkness hid most his features but it could be no other.
Shane nodded. His window went up. The night claimed him. A justified murderer was maybe free. His victim would turn up tomorrow with a note explaining who he was. Shane would be free and yet still in a prison of a different kind.
He might store Frederick’s coat somewhere, ditch the other stuff with the trolley, no more of those eerily creaking wheels too close in sound to a dirge. His hand loosened its tight grip on the unused bottle, his other fell onto Frederick’s coat, fingers running over the material, as if it were alive, as if it were Danny’s hair. Johno took the hat from his pocket, placed it on the head of his son’s image in his mind. Made a little adjustment, to recreate how Danny had worn it. The plane had crashed. No more suffering, kid.
About the Author
Alan Duff was born in Rotorua in 1950. He has written novels, including Once Were Warriors, One Night Out Stealing, What Becomes of the Broken Hearted?, Both Sides of the Moon, Szabad, Jake’s Long Shadow, Dreamboat Dad and Who Sings for Lu?, the novella State Ward, several children’s books and a number of non-fiction works. Once Were Warriors won the Pen Best First Book of Fiction Award and, as well as What Becomes of the Broken Hearted?, was made into an internationally acclaimed film. Duff was the driving force behind the Books in Homes scheme, which aims to break the cycle of illiteracy, poverty, anger and violence among underprivileged children by providing books for them to own.