by JR Carroll
‘Well, baby doll,’ he said, patting her leg, ‘least we’re still here to tell the story.’
Amy turned to him with a faint, mirthless smile, one side of her mouth turned down. But she still didn’t say anything. Tim put it down to shock. He removed his hand and put it back on the wheel.
In a little while they passed through the small town of Wyndham. The late sun was casting long shadows of trees across the road—always disconcerting. Tim blinked, concentrating harder. Only forty kilometres to go. He turned onto Barragate Road, then Towamba Road—last leg of the trip. At the junction was the general store, which had been there for at least a hundred years. The last chance saloon for all essentials.
Tim pulled in out front and killed the engine. Amy maintained her silence. She seemed locked into a world of her own—apparently unaware that they’d stopped.
‘Hey,’ he said softly.
She looked at him with her pale blue Gwyneth Paltrow eyes.
‘Come on,’ he said, smiling—but not overplaying it. ‘Time to pay our respects to His Worship.’
The store was of the old-world variety, packed to the rafters with hardware, tools, drygoods, household items, sturdy outdoor clothing, fishing tackle, groceries, bottled water. There was also a range of locally made gourmet products: preserves, chutneys, bread, confectionery. It also had the only telephone in the district. Anyone needed to make a call, they came to Gus’s store and used his 1980-vintage wall phone, complete with scratch pad and pencil dangling on a string alongside. And since there was no mail delivery hereabouts, the store also served as an unofficial post office.
Whenever Tim came through the fly-wire door to be confronted with the wondrous array of provisions, he imagined the pioneers with their bullock drays calling in for their pots and pans and sacks of flour before pushing on into the great wilderness—it had that kind of feel to it. It was a step back through time.
The store had been run forever by a disapproving octogenarian named Gus. He was a local fixture and a sort of unofficial councilman for the entire valley. Gus was often referred to as the mayor. Seemingly without ever leaving his post, he knew everything that went down hereabouts.
Tim and Amy stood at the counter, surveying the stacked mass of goods, much of which bore brand names that had ceased to exist long ago. It all seemed haphazard, quite chaotic, yet no doubt Gus could put his hand on anything a customer wanted straight away. No sign of him right now, however. Tim pressed the worn-down brass buzzer on the counter, connected by wires that made their way through the guts of the store to a residence out the back where Gus lived alone. Apparently his wife had died decades ago.
Eventually Gus appeared, weaving through racks of King Gee overalls and clusters of kerosene lanterns hanging from the ceiling. His expression didn’t change when he saw Tim. Tim had never seen Gus smile. Amy thought he was a grumpy old bastard, and he was, but Tim had time for him. He had a story to tell, no doubt. And there was a sense of humour buried in there, somewhere.
‘Afternoon, Gus,’ Tim said.
‘Afternoon yourself,’ Gus said in his friendly, gruff manner—though one could never be sure how much ‘friendly’ it contained. Seemingly aware of her dislike of him, he barely acknowledged Amy, giving her only the slightest nod. She believed he was a misogynist, but Tim wasn’t so sure. He thought Gus was uncomfortable with women rather than disliking them.
‘So … how’s business of late?’
‘Business never changes,’ Gus said. ‘Like me. Man might as well be a wooden Indian.’
Tim, nodded, smiling. This was the standard rigmarole.
‘Old Kaw-Liga,’ Tim said, referring to the Hank Williams song from the fifties.
‘That’s right,’ Gus said. ‘Made of knotty pine. That’s how I feel most of the time.’ He looked out the window at the gleaming silver Kluger. ‘Got yourself a new conveyance?’
‘Yeah,’ Tim said. ‘Only had it a month or so.’
‘Not even run in,’ Gus said. ‘What is it, a Humvee? All those off-road war wagons look the same to me.’
Tim smiled at the very idea. ‘No, mate—she’s a Kluger.’
Gus frowned. ‘Kluger. Sounds German. No time for Germans.’
‘Not German. It’s a Toyota—Japanese.’ Soon as he said it, Tim realised his mistake. Too late.
‘Don’t talk to me about the Japanese,’ Gus said, spitting the word. ‘Not after what they did to my brother, Tyrone, God rest his soul, at Hellfire Pass.’
Tim was nodding, tight-lipped. He wasn’t about to say anything to encourage Gus down that road. Amy, meantime, was inspecting the jars of fancy preserves and whatnot.
‘They beat him half to death when he fell down on the job,’ Gus said. ‘Died the next day from dysentery and starvation. Weighed sixty-five pounds by then.’ A dark shadow crossed his face as he reimagined the ordeal his brother had gone through. ‘Like to have seen ’em try it in a fair fight. Tyrone would’ve taken a dozen of ’em, one hand tied behind his back.’
It was a long time ago, Gus, Tim thought. World’s moved on a bit. Words he’d never dare utter.
‘True enough,’ he said, to fill the space. He allowed a respectful moment or two to pass before changing the subject. ‘What about Malcolm? How’s he going?’
‘Who could possibly say,’ Gus said.
‘Think I spotted him in the bush once,’ Tim said. ‘Last time I was here. But I wasn’t too sure.’
‘If he doesn’t want you to see him—you won’t.’
‘Right.’ Tim turned to Amy. ‘Anyway … must press on. We’d better have some of Mrs Brennan’s sourdough bread. And a couple of dozen of the spring water. Anything you want, baby?’
Amy had collected several jars of chutney and jam. ‘I’ll have these,’ she said, dumping them on the counter. Tim selected four loaves of the bread while Gus hefted two shrink-wrapped twelve-packs of water from a stack and put them with the rest.
‘Anything else you need?’
‘Should just about do,’ Tim said. He shelled out some cash. Gus worked it all out with a notepad and pencil, then made change from an ancient wooden drawer, worn smooth and blond.
What remained was a ten-kilometre drive down a dirt road. After fifteen or so minutes, about four kilometres from Tim’s place, among trees so tall dusk seemed to have suddenly come down, he slowed at a small cabin set back a way from the road, half concealed in shrubbery.
He left the motor running while he looked at the cabin.
‘No signs of life,’ he said.
‘What would you expect? It looks deserted,’ Amy said.
Tim got out and opened the back of the car. Amy watched him pick up a dozen of the water bottles and two loaves of bread. Then he made his way to the cabin.
Malcolm—the only name he was known by, other than Mad Malcolm—was one of the original settlers of the Pericoe Valley. He was a disturbed Vietnam veteran, suffering from what would nowadays be diagnosed as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder—PTSD. But whatever name you gave it, Malcolm was one screwed-up motherfucker. When everyone else pulled the pin, he stayed on. He was such a loner he probably didn’t even realise they’d all gone. How he survived, Tim didn’t know. There was no sign of a vegetable garden, no chickens, nothing. Not even a dog. He was never seen at the store. He had no car. The only explanation was that he lived off the land, hunting the feral pigs or rabbits or whatever else came under his gunsights. Tim had heard the occasional rifle shot ringing out in the woods, and he always assumed it was Malcolm snaring his dinner. In his mind’s eye he had visions of a demented wildman, a frightening vision of tangled red hair wearing a loincloth made from animal hide, and bare feet: a modern-day William Buckley, the escaped convict who lived with Aborigines for half his life.
The cabin was a well-constructed, solid little dwelling built from logs that had been split in half with an axe. Mortar was a rough mix of mud and grass, similar to that used in the old wattle-and-daub pioneering days. You could imagine a family of
gnomes living in it. There was a front window that, in Tim’s experience, always had a cloth blind of some sort.
Tim knocked a couple of times. No answer. He rapped again, waited a minute. Then he put the water and bread on the ground in front of the door. He had never expected anyone to open it.
This was part of the ritual whenever Tim came to the valley. He had got into the habit of leaving these offerings for Malcolm for reasons he couldn’t properly explain. As he left the property, Tim stopped in his tracks. He had that unmistakeable feeling of being watched. He turned around, but saw nothing. No sign of life anywhere. He scanned the bush. It was all quiet and still. Not even a bird breaking the silence. Still he felt eyes on him. There had been something …
‘Mission accomplished,’ he said, climbing back aboard the car.
‘I don’t know why you bother,’ Amy said.
‘Neither do I,’ he said. ‘Guess it gives me a nice warm feeling—you know, reaching out to help the dispossessed and alienated.’
‘Lawyers don’t do that,’ she said. ‘At least none that I know.’
‘I realise it’s dead against the code of ethics,’ he said. ‘But what the hell.’
‘Like leaving out cake for Father Christmas,’ she said. ‘But at least he gives you something in return.’
‘Amy,’ he said, turning towards her as they trundled down the dirt road, ‘I hate to be the one to tell you, but … there is no Father Christmas.’
Amy laughed, and at that moment, in his peripheral vision, Tim noticed a dark blur flash in front of the car. Instinctively he hit the brakes, but too late. Thump. Amy let out a shrill cry. Tim pulled up.
There was blood on the windscreen.
Shit.
‘What is going on!’ Amy shouted, no hint of a question in her tone.
Tim got out of the car and saw a writhing kangaroo on the verge of the road behind them. It was thumping its tail furiously on the ground. Tim approached the animal and, sensing his presence, it started freaking out, trying to drag itself out of harm’s way, back to the safety of the bush.
Blood was spattered over the grey fur on its chest—a great deal of blood, coming from its mouth. Tim took a step closer. The kangaroo’s leg twitched as it scraped at the dirt with its front paws. It was not long for this world.
There was only one thing to do. Tim found a dead branch just off the road. He advanced on the desperately struggling animal, trying to get behind it so it couldn’t see him.
‘What are you doing?’ Amy screamed at him. She too had got out of the car.
‘It’s dying, Amy. I have to put it out of its misery.’
‘No!’
‘I have to! You can see he’s had it! Can’t just leave him here like this, can we?’
He stepped closer to the stricken kangaroo, which suddenly convulsed violently, desperate to escape its fate.
‘Don’t you dare!’ Amy screamed.
Tim froze, the branch raised above his shoulders. He turned and looked at her. Amy was, he was discovering, much more squeamish about cruelty to animals than to humans. Violence against people didn’t seem to bother her much. But then, he thought, maybe that wasn’t unusual, since people are so often responsible for their own grief, through stupidity, greed, whatever, but animals can’t be blamed for their plight.
Astonishingly, Amy had once been romantically involved with a gangland figure, a hardcore criminal named Lance Delaney, who had done time for fraud, violent assaults, armed robbery, car theft and, finally, murder for hire. That was before Tim came along and stole her away while Delaney was upriver, doing penance for a murder he claimed he didn’t commit. It was one of several, but he never faced charges for the others.
Tim couldn’t believe it when Amy told him about Lance. What Amy, a diplomat’s daughter with a degree in anthropology and a respectable job as a radio announcer, was doing with a dirtbag like Delaney was one of the world’s great mysteries. When he put the question to her later, she said it was a buzz being around him. ‘Lance isn’t all bad. He can be sweet and charming. He has charisma. He has dash. He doesn’t just sit in a corner and behave himself. But I don’t expect you to understand,’ she’d said pointedly. She even attended court as a supporter during one of his trials, and visited him in prison couple of times, until Tim drew a line. Sweet and charming Lance Delaney was not. Narcissistic, cunning and manipulative, yes. And what was this ‘dash’ that was so appealing? All it meant was a willingness—a desire—to live outside the law instead of holding down a real job.
*
‘Amy,’ he said, ‘for Christ’s sake, get a grip! Turn away!’
Miraculously, after a moment’s hesitation, she obeyed.
Tim dispatched the kangaroo with a single, sickening blow to the skull.
2
From his earliest days, Dieter Mankovicz—aka Cornstalk—had only known an itinerant, shiftless life. It was in his DNA.
His father, Bruno, was a post-war immigrant from Hamburg, northern Germany, who, as a teenager, moved into low-level street crime in the Marrickville area of Sydney. Bruno was often beaten up by cops and sent on his way, because they couldn’t be bothered with him. Life was a lot simpler then. When he was old enough, he got a job as a wharfie, which opened up all kinds of career opportunities, none of them above board.
Bruno Mankovicz became a member of a gang of dock workers who pilfered imported goods—prized items such as spirits and cigarettes—from containers and sold them in pubs from Five Dock to Balmain and all points west. When the gang members were busted by the dock police, they bribed their way out of trouble. Police were never reluctant to put out their hands.
He also bashed people up—people who needed a beating. Bruno didn’t mind a stoush, especially with a bellyful of beer or schnapps. A blue in a pub was a normal occurrence for him.
When he was twenty, he married a local girl from a poor family, and immediately set about making her pregnant. He wanted a large family of sons around him, to look after him later. Dieter, the second born, came along on Christmas Day, 1959.
The family lived in a series of rented houses throughout the western suburbs and their possessions were few, and cheap: second-hand furniture, a beat-up old car. Every time they moved to a new place it was the same drill: they’d pay rent for two, three months, establishing goodwill, then let it go for months on end, long as they could string it out. Then they’d do a midnight flit. Dieter had clear memories of riding in the back of a moving van with the rest of his family in the dead of night, making their getaway. He never asked questions. He understood this was the way the world worked—at least his corner of it. And his old man always managed to find them somewhere else to live for a while before the pattern was repeated. By the time Dieter was nine, he’d been to half-a-dozen schools.
Then Bruno lost his job at the docks. No longer was he bringing home presents for them, or meat and sausages from a pub raffle. He worked at a variety of dead-end jobs: car salesman, warehouse foreman, pub bouncer; anything that came his way. Yet, for someone who had trouble paying rent, he always seemed to have plenty of cash on him.
As a young lad at primary school, Dieter joined a gang, which he soon took over by beating up the boy supposedly in charge. This gang terrorised other students, robbing them of money and valuables and bashing them for the fun of it. They’d also take ‘prisoners’ and hold them hostage at their headquarters, threatening them with torture, including branding with a red-hot wire.
At about the age of twelve, Dieter discovered the pleasures of sex. He was tall and good-looking, his hair an unruly mop of blond locks; girls were also attracted to his rebellious spirit and daredevil attitude. He’d do anything for a dare. By age fourteen, he was more sexually experienced than many adults. When one girl complained she’d been held in a shed and interfered with by Dieter and another boy, he was questioned by police and while no charges were laid, he was expelled from the school.
At his new school, one of his teachers said he had a h
ead full of cornstalks. From that day on, he was Cornstalk. He didn’t care; in fact, he liked the name because it set him apart. He soon formed his own gang. They terrorised other boys, molested girls, stole from local shops and ran wild when they should’ve been at school.
Then Cornstalk was done for theft of a bicycle. He was driven to a police station by two brutish cops and put into a room by himself. Another cop, a heavily built sergeant, came in, sat down and began asking him questions. He had some papers and a pen in his hand.
‘What’s your name?’ the cop said.
Cornstalk didn’t answer. He’d already made up his mind he wasn’t going to cooperate.
‘I asked you a question, sonny,’ the cop said.
Cornstalk just stared at him. He wasn’t scared, exactly, even though he knew these bastards would give him a hiding.
‘Strong, silent type,’ the cop said. ‘How old are you?’
‘Fifty,’ Cornstalk said on a sudden impulse.
The cop leaned over and slapped his face. The sound echoed inside Cornstalk’s skull. The cop gave him a backhander to go on with.
‘Fucking smartarse,’ the cop said. ‘Do you realise how miserable I can make your life, son?’
‘I don’t care,’ Cornstalk said. It was the one true thing he told them all day.
‘You don’t care. You will care by the time I’m through with you. You’ll be crying for your mummy and daddy. Your arse’ll be so sore you’ll have to stand up to shit, for a month.’
‘I don’t care,’ Cornstalk told him.
‘What’s your address?’ the cop said.
Silence from Cornstalk.
‘What’s your address?’
‘Haven’t got one.’
The cop sighed. He studied Cornstalk, trying to assess how much he would have to hurt him to make him play ball.
‘Listen and listen good,’ the cop said. ‘You’re a minor, and that means one of your parents has to come down here and bear witness, and cart your arse away once we’ve finished with you. Understand?’