Truth

by Peter Temple

  ‘You follow her?’

  ‘I got in the car and drove around the corner. She was gone, she could have been hiding.’

  ‘Tell them at the station?’

  ‘They said they’d put out an alert for her.’

  ‘What the hell have we done to deserve this?’ Villani got out his mobile, walked through the house into the back yard, stood in the gloom, made two calls.

  Laurie was in the kitchen. ‘Anything?’ she said.

  ‘Everybody’s looking for her. If she’s walking around, they’ll find her.’

  ‘What?’ Corin in the door, in pyjamas.

  ‘I went to pick up Lizzie at St Kilda police station,’ said Laurie. ‘She ran away.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Oh, half an hour ago.’

  ‘How long was she there?’

  ‘Hours,’ said Villani. ‘I had a lot on.’

  ‘Jesus, Dad, why didn’t you ring me? I’d have picked her up.’

  ‘Didn’t think a bit of reality would hurt her,’ said Villani.

  ‘You stupid bastard,’ said Laurie. ‘Call yourself a father?’

  He felt no anger, just a variety of contempt. ‘Listen, if you didn’t spend half your life in Queensland fucking bloody cameramen, this wouldn’t have happened.’

  Laurie turned to Corin, ‘Go to bed, darling.’

  Corin looked at Villani, held up her hands, ‘Dad, I said I’d look after her.’

  ‘I know,’ said Villani. ‘I know.’

  ‘If they find her, wake me,’ Laurie said, disgust on her mouth. ‘If you can be bothered.’

  Villani went to Tony’s room in the back yard, had to wrench the door. The room held the smell of a cigarette smoker’s kiss. He felt his way to the bed, clicked the lamp. The bulb fizzed, electrocuted itself. He took off his clothes, lay on the bed naked, chest tight.

  Think about something else. The smoke, it dated from the night Vic Zable got it in the carpark at the Arts Centre, the day Cashin’s brother tried to kill himself. How long ago was that? Six, seven months? It was winter. Cashin slept in this room. But before that they drank two bottles of red, both given the smokes away, smoked most of a packet, talked about the job, life, the choices, the fuck-ups…

  He woke, sat upright, no sense of place, put his feet on the floor.

  Where?

  He remembered, and he lowered his forehead into his hands, rubbed his eyes with his thumbpads.

  It was 7.15. He went into the day, hot already. Laurie’s car was gone. Corin was gone, bed made. He showered, shaved, dressed, packed his bags, took everything he still wore, threw the rest in the big bin. Then he drove away, stopped at the milk bar to buy cigarettes.

  ‘Smoking again?’ said the owner. ‘Work getting ya?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Villani. ‘Having so much fucking fun it makes me want to smoke.’

  In the car, smoking, no joy in it, he rang Kiely’s mobile.

  ‘They get anywhere on IDing the second bloke?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Kiely. ‘Got his prints from Kidd’s place.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Villani. ‘Anyway, someone gave Kidd up. So first we need to scope ourselves. Every last person who could have done that. All calls out from the time Tracy ID’d him. That’s home, wife, children, the girlfriend, the boyfriend, the lot. Put Burgess to work.’

  Kiely coughed. ‘Ah, this’ll take a while.’

  ‘Of course it’ll take a while. Everything takes a fucking while.’ He felt Kiely’s hatred enter his ear like warm olive oil.

  …two still unidentified men died when their car crashed and exploded on the Western Ring Road just after midnight this morning…

  He headed for Essendon.

  IN THE big dim corrugated-iron room, light from the dirty clerestory windows, people skipping, on the bags, in the ring, Villani warmed up shadowboxing at the mirror, no skipping, he could not do that, he could not bear the jolting of the flab. He went on to the speedball, the double-end bag. Stopping, he felt weak in his legs and arms, his hands and elbows and shoulder joints hurt.

  He caught the eye of Les in the ring, big sparring gloves on the rope, a tall, white, tattooed kid was getting out, blotches on his arms.

  ‘C’mere,’ Les said, beckoned with a glove.

  Villani went across the cracked concrete, it held the sweat of sixty years.

  ‘Where you bin?’ said Les. ‘You look like shit.’

  ‘Work,’ said Villani. ‘Work and sleep.’

  ‘Fucken tub of lard,’ said Les. ‘Lookit your legs, fucken cellulite.’

  ‘Just two, three kilos,’ said Villani. ‘Drop it any time I like.’

  ‘Get in here, drop it with me,’ said Les. ‘Let’s have a little touch-up, sixty-six next birthday, how’s that suit you? A bit young for you, cop bastard?’

  If he invited you, you had to. Otherwise the place became less welcoming, you had to think about another gym, but there were no other gyms like Bombers except a place in Richmond that was even more clubby, it didn’t welcome refugees from Bombers.

  Les’s amateur record was fifty-one fights, thirty-eight wins, a lightweight, eleven TKOs, he never knocked out a single man, he didn’t have the punch, but no one ever knocked him out either. He was a no-nonsense fighter, he wasn’t a dancing fool or a slapper. In the pros, his career was short: eleven and four, lost his last three, knocked out twice in a row. The second time, he woke up in the ambulance. And he then showed that he wasn’t stupid. He gave it away and began another life: a stablehand, track rider, assistant gym manager, trainer, up at four, bed by nine.

  Villani put on a headguard, approached the ring, bugger mouthguard, he wasn’t going to be hit in the mouth.

  Les pointed at his mouth. ‘Got the falsies now? Don’t need teeth?’

  Villani went to his bag, found the guard, God knew what germs it harboured.

  Once, in the early days, he watched Les sparring with a man thirty kilos heavier, a full head and shoulders taller, a North Melbourne football star, a man who fancied himself as a fighter, now a legend, you heard him on the radio talking about the good old days, how tough it was, the blokes he’d flattened. Les was hitting him at will, not hard, stinging him. The man lost control, the red mist, forgot about boxing and went for Les, tried to grab him. Les moved back, stood flatfooted. He hit the man in the face two or three times, then in the ribs, both hands, four or five punches so fast you couldn’t distinguish them.

  The man dropped his arms, sagged, staggered away trying to breathe, hung onto the rope to keep upright, dry-retched.

  ‘Don’t open up like that, mate,’ said Les, ‘somebody’ll hurt you.’ He beckoned to his next partner.

  In the ring now, Villani went straight for the small lean man, Les had contempt for any messing about, had no time for circling and waving. ‘Save that for when you’re in the shit,’ he said.

  Les stood, perfect stance, thin white legs, little white socks, hands not moving, mouth running, watch me, watch me hands, jeez you’re lookin slow, sonny, so fucken slow, watch me…

  They exchanged feints, Villani got caught in the face, not hard, get yer hands up, not fucken Ali, picked up his hands and took a left and a right in the bottom ribs, it hurt, Les started taking him right, not his good side, he never had a good side, he got a left hand in, Les blinked—hey, hey, hit an old man, typical fucken cop.

  He met Xavier Dance at Bombers, he would have been nineteen then. Dance was a year or two older, a good boxer, stylish, but he had rushes of blood to the head, lost his concentration. Also he didn’t like being hurt. There was still cop boxing then, they fought for the cop title twice, one-all, Villani thought he’d done enough to win the second one. Matt Cameron, the boss of the Robbers, was there that night, he came around and said, ‘Ever think about the Robbers? You might be a handy bloke.’

  ‘C’mon,’ Les said. ‘The right, fatarse, all you ever had.’

  ‘Fuck you.’ Villani pushed a few, Les blocked, backed off, stepped in, jab, jab
, jab, then his right hit Villani in the face.

  Being welcome at Bombers meant being serious about training and boxing and not minding being told by Les what you were doing wrong, why it was he was able to hit you so easily, you fuckhead. He walked you around, smacked you a bit, it didn’t hurt much but it was tiring and, even when you were smart to it, after a while it upset your feet, you lost balance, and then he gave you his left hook to the head, to the body, a good punch, not weakening much as the years passed.

  ‘So fucken slow, fatty,’ he said now.

  They feinted and feinted, Villani went forward, kept his elbows tucked in, tried to push Les back, Les darted left, Villani followed, gave him a flurry of punches, all blocked, Les fooled him, came in, poked him in the solar plexus with a short right hand, hit him in the ribs with a left, pain.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Villani. ‘Take it easy. I’m tired.’

  ‘You girl,’ said Les. ‘You cop girl.’

  It wasn’t amusing. He stalked Les, legs heavy, breathing hard after less than a minute. He never caught him, made a few swipes, lost concentration, tried to take his head off.

  ‘Jeez, we’re a fighter now?’ said Les. ‘Wasted my time. Technique, sonny, technique or you’re just an arsehole in a pub.’

  Villani started boxing because he wasn’t brave, because his father always acted as if his oldest boy was brave and his oldest boy knew he wasn’t. That haunted him. He thought boxing might give him courage. It didn’t but he loved it from the start—the exercises, the drills. And most of all the sparring, the fighting. In the ring, in the thrall of adrenalin, looking over the fence of your fists into the stone eyes of the other man, a great calm took you.

  There was nothing else, a world stopped. Just the two of you, the smell of glove leather, of resin, of the salve, you were in a dance, hypnotised by each other. In the ring, time became elastic, it extended, contracted, extended. You felt alive in a way you never felt otherwise. There was a sense of order, there were rules, there was clear intent, ways and means, there was discipline and power. You felt little pain, your concentration on your opponent was total. He was your universe. He was you and you were him.

  Les stopped walking away, came at him, at his face and body, up, down, four, five, six, seven punches, a sequence done ten thousand times, Villani covered, going back, flat-footed, hands too high for a second, just off balance.

  The left hand dug into his right armpit, a sharp pain went through his body, Les’s right banged into his head, water in his eyes.

  Villani shook his head, dropped his hands, panting, nauseous, spat his guard. ‘Happy, gramps?’ he said. ‘Let you hit me a few. Nanna-nap time now?’

  Les patted him on the arm. ‘Not too bad,’ he said. ‘For a fucked old cop. Still got a good right, feet work a bit.’

  Out of the ring, Les said, ‘You want to train here, it’s two days a week minimum or fuck off. And don’t shit me about work. On the television, all bloody actors, that’s what you cop pricks do.’

  In the car, his mind went to the Prosilio girl. Her body already so marked by life. Did she start out like Lizzie, a loved child? Who would tell her father his little girl was dead? Fucked to death in a palace.

  Lizzie.

  Prim little girl with pigtails, she sat on the couch in the old sitting room, before the renovation, didn’t watch television, she drew pictures in her big book. He remembered putting her to bed when she was little. First the dolls had to be put to sleep, one at a time, she had about twenty. It took so long he couldn’t bear it, he called for Laurie to take over.

  Fussy child, she wouldn’t eat meat, wouldn’t eat fish, didn’t like foods mixed on her plate, lifted her upper lip in distaste, showed gum, tiny white stubs, provisional teeth.

  It always pissed him off. Corin and Tony had eaten everything.

  Jesus, Stephen, don’t make an issue of it. It’s a phase, some kids are like this.

  Not in my day.

  Well, maybe trained killers aren’t the best role models for parenting. Not a barracks we’re living in here.

  Knockout punch. He couldn’t defend his father, his own upbringing. He wouldn’t know how to begin. He’d never thought of Bob as a father, more a dominating older brother, a much, much older brother who could stop you dead with a look, move a hand in a way that suggested he could backhand you into oblivion. He never did that, he never hit any of them. He didn’t have to.

  Paul Keogh’s grating voice on the radio:

  …Keystone Cops events in South Melbourne late last night ended in two dead on the Western Ring Road. I’m reliably told that the prime suspects in the Oakleigh massacre escaped from a block of units in Roma Street while police watched. Yes, people, the place was under high-tech surveillance. Brilliant or what? On the line, we’ve got the head of police communication, hello Geoff Searle.

  Morning, Paul.

  This South Melbourne thing, that’s a major cause for concern, isn’t it?

  With respect, Paul, things happen in police operations no one can control, this was a Suspects escaped while you watched, that’s it, isn’t it?

  I can’t comment on what happened except to say that our officers behaved with the utmost professionalism and…

  C’mon, Geoff, how sick are you of serving up that old line? Utmost professionalism my bum, not to put too fine a point on it. Two murder suspects escape while you’re watching and then they die as a result of a high-speed pursuit…

  Paul, there was no high-speed pursuit, that’s just wrong…

  I can’t expect you to come right out and say what you and I both know, can I? That this South Melbourne cock-up is par for the course, isn’t it? What do you say to the rumour that the suspects were tipped off from inside the force?

  I say simply ridiculous, Paul. Simply ridiculous. There is absolutely…

  Let’s see what the listeners think, Geoff, let’s open the lines and…

  With respect, Paul, I haven’t come here to take part in talkback, I have no authority to do that.

  Oh sorry. My mistake. I thought you spoke on behalf of the force? Haven’t you just been speaking on behalf of the force? Who exactly do you speak for, Geoff?

  COLBY WAS at the window, he went back around the desk. He moved like a young man, he behaved like one too, lived in a highrise in Docklands with his new wife, a real-estate agent, young, blond, pregnant, it was said.

  ‘Terrible shitstorm this,’ he said. ‘Hear that fucking Keogh?

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That kind of thing is not what the leadership wants to hear around election time.’

  ‘What leadership is that?’

  ‘All the leadership. I thought I was giving off the signals last night. To a bloke knows me a bit. Sit.’

  Villani said, ‘I listen to advice and I use my judgment.’

  ‘With shit like this,’ said Colby, ‘you would say the sensible go is call the Soggies, they remove the back wall, simultaneously doing their rope trick, what’s it called?’

  ‘Rappelling.’

  ‘Yes, that crap. They grab them, excellent, Oakleigh massacre, men held. If they kill the targets, right pricks, wrong pricks, it’s their fault, you walk away blaming gun-crazy gymrats.’

  ‘Over the years,’ said Villani, ‘I’ve gained the impression Homicide’s business is catching people who’ve killed other people. Putting them on trial.’

  Colby put his hands behind his neck, rolled his head on the thick trunk, eyes on the ceiling. ‘Right, well, there’s Homicide’s saintly business and then there’s your career,’ he said. ‘Mr Barry this morning, 6.45am, I’m just back from my twenty-k run, you understand. Feeling perky. He says Gillam rang him and expressed his happiness about Homicide. And guess who rang fucking Gillam?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘To be clear here,’ said Colby, ‘your thinking was, we’ll just sit and watch, the whole thing will open like a flower?’

  Villani said, ‘You know what my thinking is, boss. They should worry about who g
ave up Kidd and his mate. That’s what they have to worry about.’

  ‘It’s you I’m worrying about,’ said Colby. ‘Sucked in by this high-tech crap, Crucible bullshit. Ten million hours of fucking phone taps, you can sit there watching exciting vision of arseholes in cars, scratching their balls, doesn’t matter that it adds up to a pint of warm piss.’

  Villani had nothing to say because to some extent it was true. The new world of surveillance was intoxicating, seeing the city from on high, zooming in on alleys and back yards, following pursuits as they happened.

  ‘And at the end of it,’ said Colby, ‘we say fuck to the high-tech, we go jumping over walls and running after a certified ex-SOG psycho who’s quite happy to shoot cops. Fucking pig-stupid or what?’

  Eyes locked.

  Villani said, ‘I’m sorry. Had some really bad examples to follow. Dumb turkeys jumped on moving cars.’

  Colby’s phone murmured. He agreed with the caller five or six times, deferential, hard gaze always on Villani, marbles expressed more meaning. He said goodbye, put the receiver down.

  ‘There’s a feeling you should be less visible on Oakleigh, Metallic, for a while,’ he said.

  ‘Whose feeling is that?’

  ‘Just accept it.’

  ‘I’m guilty of something, am I? Fuck that.’

  Colby pulled an ear, a dried apricot. ‘Think, son. Strategise. We are in a delicate phase. The present lot are now dying fish, Orong’s eyes are glassing over. But they’re still hoping, still paranoid about bad news. On the other side, Mrs Rottweiler Mellish’s got her whole kennel out sniffing for damaging shit.’

  He gazed at Villani. ‘You, for example, are damaging shit.’

  ‘Damaged,’ said Villani.

  ‘Yes. Both. Second, Gillam’s going to the feds, heaven help the fuckwits, average IQ drops even lower. Mr Barry steps up, acting chief commissioner. I hear that. But not until after the election. So the mick’s got to suck both sides of the street.’

  ‘I’m slower than usual,’ said Villani.

  ‘Why’s Barry holding your dick, taking you to meet the glitterati?’

  ‘Tell me, boss,’ he said.