“I never saw him nailed up. A singular moment in human history, but I had retired to my workshop feeling curiously sick and exhausted. While they were nailing the Nazarene to a cross I was busy cutting leather to repair sandals.”
Sparks bounced brightly off the cobbles as I discarded the end of Adolf's last cigarette. “So, then, I had become an eternal. But flesh ages, corrupts and decays. And it can be damaged.” I gave him a pointed look. “However, I possess an instinct: I always know when I need to leave a shell and seek out a new one, like a hermit crab finding a new home. For without a shell, I would just be a lost soul, a blind and mewling, intangible thing cast upon the wind.
“I spent the first few centuries making myself a very rich man, bequeathing wealth from shell to shell. Then one day I gave it all to the Church. But God obviously recognised a bribe when He saw one and I remained here on Earth. I spent the next few lives in debauchery thinking, Why bother?
“I became a sheep. Some men become wolves, and others shepherds, but most are content to be sheep.”
I squatted on my haunches beside the mortally wounded carcass of Hubert Schmitt, a shell of less than seven years. I felt no sentimental attachment to it.
“This country will rise like a phoenix from the ashes, and I shall be at its head. A wolf in the guise of a shepherd. There will be no weak leaders procrastinating, just a select cabinet of men who will crush all before them with an iron fist. I have observed people for two millennia, I know how to manipulate them; tell them what it is they want and then promise it to them. Give them words like bones to dogs. Words are power.
“You've seen all these disaffected young men, standing around in small knots on street corners. Revolution is in the air. They are waiting for someone to come along and guide them.” I pinned a medal to my chest and patted it significantly. “A war hero, perhaps.”
He opened his mouth to speak. Nothing came out. I squatted closer. He lifted a hand and beckoned weakly.
I knelt and put an ear to his lips. “It’s no use,” I said, “I cannot hear what you are saying.”
His left arm shot out and clasped me behind the head. He dug his fingers into my neck and gripped tightly. I screeched in pain and surprise as Adolf brought our faces together in a passionate embrace, mouths mashing, tongues entwining. Then he fell back, panting, dark blood bubbling on his lips. His head struck the icy ground.
He must have known then that it was all over. Fingers of ice would be entering his belly; that welcome, numbing coldness that flowers in the chest.
Adolf’s amber eyes stared into the milky opaqueness overhead, as though waiting for the enduring chill to overtake him.
I stood sharply and raised a foot to plant a kick, then lowered it and laughed. “My God, but you are a plucky fighter, Herr Hitler. No one has ever tried that before.”
I recovered my composure, for he had shaken me.
“I was at a church service, and in the pulpit was a real fire and brimstone preacher as they say in that part of the world. He told his congregation that when they have children, that they were giving God a lever, a hostage, that no matter how much love and devotion they poured into that child its fate was in the hands of One higher. I saw it all then: you threaten someone through their children and you have a terrible power over their heart and soul. And what do I see all around me? Despised and feared wherever they settle? The Jews. The Children of God. Doomed as I to be strangers and migrants and outcasts, forever misplaced. They will be my hostages.”
“You're mad,” Adolf whispered.
“You think so? Maybe I am. But if so, the world is an asylum. I won’t be short of volunteers to my cause.”
“Burn in hell.” Adolf's final breath rattled in his chest.
I nudged the corpse enviously, then looped the rucksack over one shoulder and began to trek back to the gasthaus. I knew I would find at least a handful of men there who would listen to my politics.
****
sandcrawlers
Robert Hood
The person responsible, the murderer, has his life ahead of him.
How he faces this life is something I cannot answer.
But he will always be hunted and haunted.
Mrs Elizabeth Schmidt, Sydney Morning Herald, 16 January 1965
****
“I worked for him, you know.” He leaned his balding head toward me and his prominent upper lip twisted at one side. “Askin. Back in the sixties.”
“Yeah? Big deal, eh?”
“For a while there I was his main man.”
The disco music was too loud, the beer too expensive, and this particular corpse stank of chain-smoking, month-old sweat and urine. He’d limped over and plopped himself next to me out of the blue, but I didn’t want to move because where I was gave me a good view of Arnold Karroll, who was drinking his third gin and tonic at a table near the jukebox. His wife thought he was having an affair with “some tart” and wanted to know who it was. I hoped he was just drinking. Better for her and easier for me.
The bloke who’d sat at my table wanted to talk and ignored me when I told him to piss off. He pointed at a framed photograph hanging on the wall behind us. Despite myself I looked. It showed a tall, badly dressed dude — one-time proprietor of this place — shaking hands in a posed manner with the long-gone State Premier. There was a horse in the background. An unclear pen scrawl read: “Best wishes to Tom, who could run a good race. Bob.”
“Made some decent money back then,” he went on. I sipped unenthusiastically at the beer, wishing I didn’t have to involve myself in this. Surely I had better things to do. But Arnold Karroll’s wife Lillian was an old friend who’d asked a favour — and offered a large fee for me to oblige her.
My unwelcome companion shifted on his bar-stool, fingers tapping out a rhythm on the table’s Formica top. “S’pose you were into all that hippy stuff, eh? Spaced-out like the rest of them?”
I looked at him but said nothing. He took this as confirmation. He was, I guessed, considerably older than me; the bags under his eyes and the sallow grubbiness of his skin suggested he hadn’t taken much care of himself over the years.
“While that lot was sniffin’ doss sticks and sproutin’ all that shit about peace and love, I had a good time with rake-off workin’ for good ol” Bob on the rackets, collectin’. That’s how he got in, you know? Sucked the cocks of the SP bookies. They were scared shitless the TAB’d be the end of ‘em.”
“Look, mate, I’m not much interested in political history. I’m busy.”
He sneered. “Busy? Doin’ what? Perving on that guy over there?” He took a big swig of his beer. “Why don’t ya just make him an offer? He fucks cheap.”
I stared at him.
“Sure,” he said, “Amateur meat. Comes around here all the time.”
Poor Lillian. Even news of some gay affair would’ve been hard enough on her; but Arnie was working the game. How would she handle that?
“Prefer pussy, meself,” the drunk added. “Most of the time. Younger the better.” Something about the tone he’d adopted made me glance into his eyes. They were looking past me, at Arnie, and for a moment a sense of recognition came over me, like a chill draught. I couldn’t quite define it.
“Back then,” he said, talking more to himself than to me, “I took the birds, any way I wanted. Just took ‘em.”
“That right?”
He grinned. A sort of self-satisfaction that was deep and cruel shimmered over his lips. I felt recognition again, this time more defined. “I was bad, back then,” he said, pleased to be able to say so.
“Not anymore?”
He glanced across the bar as though he thought someone might be watching him. He smelt like misery. “Accident...put me outta the real game.” He thumped against his leg. “Arsehole kid’s fault. Then I got done by the cops in ‘78. Intimidation and robbery. Once you’ve been inside, they’re on ya back, all the time.” He grinned, mischievous. It looked silly on a face so wasted by failure.
“Still a bit grubby,” he whispered, “But I stay away from that stuff. The good stuff. Too old maybe.”
“Or too scared.”
His eyes bored into mine, indignant but knowing the truth of it. I saw the truth as well, cold and empty like a back street at three in the morning. It was a truth I’d lived with for nearly two decades.
****
January 1965. I was fifteen and looking greedily toward my sixteen birthday. Sixteen was a sort of landmark, I thought. A frontier.
It was a particularly hot summer. Fires in the National Park made sunset spectacular, if you were interested in sunsets. I wasn’t. Life was girls, money and getting my own way. That’s all.
Early Sunday afternoon, 10th January, and I guessed what my father was up to. Fussing about with his shoes and his summer coat, which he wore whenever he went out, no matter how hot it was. Counting and re-counting his money. Shoving it all out of sight whenever Mum wandered past, and trying to pretend he was reading the Sun-Herald.
“Cup of tea, Patrick?” Mum said at last.
“What?” he started. “Tea? No, no.”
“Beer then?”
“No.”
Then, without a pause, she said, “I wish you wouldn’t, Patrick Crowe. It’s not safe.”
He dismissed her with a wave of his hand, dropping the pretence that he wasn’t going anywhere. “The cops don’t care.”
“There was a raid the other day out at Lane Cove. I read about it in the paper. Don’t tell me they don’t care!”
“They get paid off, for Christ’s sake. The blokes that run it pay dummies to get arrested. Never the players.”
“It’s wicked. What sort of example is this for Michael?”
“It’s life, Pam, that’s all.”
He left at about two, walking down the street with his light coat and his hat and a look of predatory innocence on his face. I snuck out the back and followed him, catching up once we were out of sight of the house. “You can’t come, boy,” he said as I trotted up to him. He scratched at his balding head. “Won’t be home till late.”
“I want to go.”
“Forget it. It’s business.”
“It’s two-up,” I said. “Don’t bullshit me!”
He smacked me across the face. “Watch your mouth!”
“Why can’t I go?”
“You’re too young.”
“I’m nearly sixteen.”
“Isn’t there something real grown-up you should be doing then?” he snorted.
He watched me head off home around the corner, then ducked away quickly; but I wasn’t so easily put off. This was a matter of pride. “Bugger you!” I muttered at him, though he couldn’t see or hear me, and ran to Kirrawee station in time to meet the train he’d catch at Gymea. He didn’t notice me, but I watched him board the last carriage, as he always did.
When we got to Cronulla station, he got off and so did I. The wind was up, though the afternoon was still pretty warm, and it pushed across our path as Patrick walked northwards. It was quite a hike. Tailing him was easy, hinting of the endless surveillance jobs I’d take on in later years, most of which were much less exciting because by then the novelty had worn off. By the time we got to the edge of the reserve behind Wanda Sands, beyond the high school, I was feeling pretty cocky. He hadn’t noticed he was being followed.
The two-up game was on a patch of compacted ground near a sandpit, along a winding path off Captain Cook Drive. Every now and then a car would come along the rough track and I’d have to jump off into the low miserable-looking scrub until it had passed. I lost sight of Patrick, but figured it didn’t matter because the path would lead me right.
A big bloke in dark glasses appeared suddenly. He had a heavy tubular torch on his belt, hanging there like a bludgeon. That’s probably what he used it for too. I wondered if he had a gun. His arms were crossed and his mouth was hardened. “What do you want?” he growled.
“A bit of the action,” I replied cockily.
“Yeah?” His tight lips took a shot at grinning, though none of the rest of his face shifted at all. “The arcade’s that way.” He pointed back over my shoulder.
“The two-up, dick-brain.”
I thought I was being tough. The big bloke’s raised hand jerked down and forward and collected me backhand across my right temple. I fell over. Not so tough after all — just stupid.
“Sorry,” he said, “Slipped. There’s no two-up here, mate. You must be mistaking us for some bunch of crooks.”
I picked myself up off the ground, protesting, trying to come up with a reason why he should let me past. “Get lost!” he snarled. His tone was so coldly threatening, I began to back off, wondering if I could work my way around him through the scrub. “Me and my mates’ll be checking things out on and off,” he said suddenly. “If we catch you in there, they’ll be playing two-up with your balls!” He sounded like he meant it.
I moved backwards away from him until he was half-obscured behind the bushes. He was still watching me stonily. I gave him the finger, turned and ran head-on into an FJ Holden that was just bumping its way along the track. Its hood was suddenly there, shadow on the windscreen making the driver invisible — I leapt aside, tripping and rolling into spiky brown grass. The car stopped.
It was being driven by a young bloke, maybe twenty, maybe older. He had one of those gaunt faces that made it hard to tell. He stuck his head, scruffy blond hair and thick, pouting lips out the driver’s window. “What the hell you doin’, mate?” he said.
I looked up sourly from the scrub. “Getting a tan, what’s it look like?”
“Wouldn’t let you into the game, eh?”
“I got money,” I said.
“Too young.”
“Yeah? Well, bugger you!”
He was grinning as I dragged myself up. “Get in!” he said suddenly. I stared at him. “Damn it! Get in the bloody car!” It took me a moment to react, then I ducked around the other side and slipped in next to him. The interior smelt strange, as though chemicals had been spilt on the seat. I couldn’t place what kind. “What’s your name?” he said, grinding the gears.
“Mike,” I answered. “Yours?”
He smiled. There was a cruel cynicism on his lips. “You can call me Dean.”
“Like James Dean?”
“Yeah,” he grinned, “Like James Dean.”
The guard let us past, giving Dean a slight nod of recognition and me a wry smile. “They know you?”
He said nothing.
The game was already underway. About thirty blokes were crowded around a sort of clearing, yelling and swearing and jostling each other. There was an old shed to one side, mostly covered in bush and very temporary looking, with cars parked near it. Bits and pieces of rusting equipment were scattered here and there. I saw my old man and slumped down in the seat. Dean sneered. “Not getting spineless on me, are you?”
“I want to watch him,” I muttered.
He stopped the car alongside some others. “Watch then. I got business to take care of.”
Dean slipped out of the Holden and strode across to a group of men over in front of the shed — talking among themselves, gazing at the two-up occasionally, drinking from thin, dark bottles. One of them gave him something, something apart from a beer. It was a thick parcel; he held it up to his nose as though to savour its aroma, grinned and slapped the man on the back.
****
Dean was wiry and moved in a way that was sort of nervous. I was sure he wasn’t nervous though; it was just his manner. I became increasingly convinced of this as the afternoon wore on and turned into night. He was sharp and in command of the situation, but pretty much wound up. I never saw him really relax. He lost his temper easily — at one point knocking the front teeth out of some bloke’s mouth because the bloke accidentally shoved him. “Don’t touch me, you faggot!” Dean roared, swinging his fist.
People chatted to him politely, though I could tell they didn’t like it. But he was b
agman for some big shot who had a stake in the game and they had to put up with him. Once he referred to his boss as “Robin Hood”. “Hates gettin’ called that,” he said, laughing.
“Called what?”
“Robin Hood, you dick.” Then he added, “Wants to be called Robert.”
“What’s his real name then?” I asked, sipping at a beer he’d given me, not caring, just making conversation.
“None of your bloody business!” He shot me a look that froze my guts.
By the time twilight was thickening, the number of players had thinned out, though a group of them kept going, tossing like their life depended on how the coins fell. Maybe it did. Dean told me something like £10,000 had swapped hands already that arvo — but the really big numbers would come later, he reckoned, around seven. A couple of lawyers would turn up then, he said, and a well-known second-hand car dealer from over Parramatta way. Sure enough, though cars left now and then, and blokes would wander off down the track and disappear along the road in the direction of Cronulla, other cars started arriving and soon the numbers picked up again. When it got dark, the whole lot of them went into the shed, where there were fans in the roof, lights and ringside seating.
“You ever play?” I asked Dean.
“You kidding,” he said. “Think I’m a fool?”
Patrick had left long before this, still unaware that I’d been there with him. He was bewitched by the gambling, as he was by drinking, and I think he lost the lot — his money into the pockets of half a dozen other blokes, the contents of his stomach onto the sand. “Your old man’s a pisspot, eh?” Dean had said, watching him from a distance, as he heaved and dribbled. “You take after him?”
“Sure,” I’d replied, gesturing for another beer.
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