Silver

by Chris Hammer

  ‘Yeah, tossers. And the locals are worse. Always talking about house prices, how much they’re worth, trying to get to the top of the pile. Mate, it’s like Game of Thrones up there. Mum can’t stand it.’

  The teenage shop assistant, feigning impossible levels of boredom, starts to pull the stainless-steel basket from the deep fryer, but George intervenes, doing it himself, hanging the basket over the fryer to drain, then does the same with the chips, knocking the basket a few times to release excess oil.

  ‘Won’t taste as good as it used to,’ says George.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Used to fry it up with beef lard. Huge white blocks of it. It’s all canola oil now. Healthier, they reckon, but bugger-all taste.’

  Martin thanks George and takes his food down to the beach. The lard may be gone, but so too is the butcher-paper wrapping. Instead the food is in an open box, inserted into a white paper bag to let the steam out, to retain the crispness. And whatever George says, it tastes just as good. It’s like the beach: you can rake it, but it’s still the same beach. He bites into the fish, batter hot and crisp, salty. His mouth fills with taste, his mind with memory. Still the same fish and chips, better than the new place.

  And as he eats, he’s back in the Settlement again, eating fish and chips on the couch, concentrating on the television, trying to ignore his father on his easy chair, wolfing down his burger, dripping grease, leaking condiments. And on the television, the news, the foreign correspondents, with their aloof objectivity, their unerring certainty, possessed of all the facts.

  Near the end, it’s often like this: his father becoming more immobile, less likely to be at the lifesavers pouring money into the pokies or spraying it around the TAB, more likely to be home, drunk and semi-comatose in his recliner, throwing cash at Martin instead, demanding takeaway. The two eat without conversation, with only the television news and his father’s mastication filling the silence. Martin learns the names of the correspondents, tracking their exploits, ingesting the evolving state of the world: the Soviet Union fragments, Nelson Mandela is released, Yugoslavia disintegrates into a mosaic of blood and atrocity.

  And sitting above the television, his talisman, miraculously unopened, the bottle of French champagne, its orange label like a rallying flag, the promise of a better life to come, assuring him that one day he too will travel the world and wear a wrinkle-free blue shirt with epaulets, like James Bond, except with a typewriter instead of a gun, a microphone instead of a silencer, a flute instead of a martini glass. He will quaff champagne from bottles with orange labels, toasting his elevation above the sordid banalities and emotional quicksand of Port Silver.

  His phone chirps, pulling him back to the present, to his half-eaten lunch. It’s a text. Mandy. Beachside cafe, please come now.

  chapter twelve

  The Beachside Cafe is not beachside, it’s on the boulevarde, albeit on the eastern side of the street. The only view of the surf, as Martin later discovers, is through the window above the urinal in the men’s toilet. It’s an undecided establishment: lacking the pretension of its neighbour, the Che Bay Cafe, but certainly more ambitious than Theo’s. Its interior is seaside casual: polished concrete floor, wooden tables and old fishing nets strung from the roof. It has a chalkboard menu: order and pay at the counter.

  Mandy is waiting for him with an apologetic smile. Winifred Barbicombe is here, but with no smiles to spare. Liam is asleep in his stroller, not in child care after all. As soon as Martin enters, he knows something isn’t right.

  ‘What is it?’ he asks, taking the seat left vacant for him. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing too serious,’ says Mandy.

  Martin looks to the elderly lawyer. Winifred doesn’t speak.

  Mandy sighs. ‘The police are getting desperate, chasing shadows, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s when they’re the most dangerous,’ he replies, winning a nod from Winifred and a scowl from his partner.

  ‘Nick Poulos rang me from the lifesavers club,’ says Winifred, voice sombre. ‘He says the police have been down there asking about Mandalay and Jasper Speight. It looks like they’re trying to build a motive for Mandalay to kill Jasper.’

  Martin stares at Mandy, his voice a whisper. ‘What happened? Why there?’

  ‘Jasper and I had a tiff at the club a few weeks ago. Some do-gooder must have told the police.’

  ‘A tiff?’ echoes Martin, the word as unwelcome as a second cousin. The only tiff he’s ever heard of is a lovers’ tiff. Everything else is a fight or an argument or a disagreement or a blue. ‘What happened?’

  ‘We were having dinner. I thought he was a nice guy. He was renting me the townhouse, helping with the paperwork on Hartigan’s. He’d already told me he knew you, that you were school friends, that he loved reading your articles. I wanted to make friends, connect with the community. He seemed very sincere, telling me about the need to preserve some of the local environment. And then he put his hand on my leg. I asked him to remove it and he did. And then he put it back, tried moving it higher. So I stood up and poured a jug of beer over his head.’

  ‘Right,’ says Martin, supressing a smile.

  ‘And gave him a free character reference.’

  ‘Go on,’ says Winifred.

  Mandy shrugs. ‘I told him to fuck off. That’s all. I didn’t threaten to kill him or anything like that.’

  ‘Everyone in the club saw it. Heard it. You humiliated him,’ says Winifred.

  ‘He deserved it. What did you want me to do?’

  Martin feels a sense of betrayal, his old friend making a move on Mandy, yet that’s not what he says. ‘You didn’t overreact?’

  She looks at him with astonishment, the heat in her voice replaced by ice. ‘Fuck you.’

  Too late he remembers this morning, her simmering displeasure at his evening at Vern and Josie’s. He back-pedals. ‘I’m not saying you were wrong. But you know …’ He trails off and she fixes him with a stare that could extinguish Chernobyl.

  ‘What? I know what? That he was going to end up dead on my floor?’

  Winifred intercedes, like a rugby referee heading off a brawl, addressing Martin. ‘What about you? Have you discovered anything useful?’ The tone of her voice suggests she isn’t expecting much; she just wants to move the conversation on.

  ‘Yeah, maybe I have.’ And he recounts his morning while Mandy bores holes in his head with her eyes: the cheese factory, Hummingbird Beach and his encounter with Tyson St Clair.

  The mention of Doug Thunkleton horrifies Mandy, after his on-air prosecution of them in Riversend. ‘That arsewipe? In Port Silver? He’s not looking for me, is he?’

  Martin reassures her he isn’t.

  Winifred is intrigued by the plans for the north shore of the Argyle. ‘So you think Jasper Speight’s death may be linked in some way to these development plans?’

  ‘It’s possible. There’s no evidence, but these projects, the money involved must run into the hundreds of millions of dollars. That’s a lot of motive.’

  ‘It is,’ Winifred responds, steepling her hands as she ponders his information. ‘Can you keep on that, Martin? See what else you can find out?’

  ‘Sure. Have you spoken to Montifore?’

  ‘Only briefly. Why?’

  ‘The photo in Jasper’s hand. Did they tell you what it is?’

  ‘Yes, you were right. It’s a postcard—of a Greek Orthodox saint.’

  ‘What was written on it?’

  ‘Nothing. It was blank.’

  Martin frowns. A blank postcard, held in his friend’s death grip. Why? ‘Who was the saint?’

  ‘St Myron of Crete. It was printed on the back, in Greek and English.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Myron the Wonderworker. You ever heard of him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I googled him. A third- or fourth-century orthodox saint. Bishop of Crete,’ Winifred says. ‘Any ideas why Jasper had it with him? Wh
y he might have wanted to show it to you?’

  ‘None whatsoever. His mother said he collected postcards but wasn’t religious. It’s a mystery.’

  ‘Fuck,’ says Mandy softly, interrupting them.

  Ivan Lucic is standing at the door. The sergeant approaches, speaks to Mandy, his voice almost gentle. ‘Come on. Let’s go.’

  Winifred stands, preparing to leave with her client. ‘Martin, tell Nick what’s happened, keep him up to speed, okay?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Good. And keep going with your inquiries.’ She turns to Mandy, who’s still seated, looking distraught. ‘Come now, Mandalay. The innocent have nothing to fear.’

  But Mandy doesn’t stand, not yet. Instead she turns to Martin. He can see the distress in her eyes. ‘Liam. Can you look after him?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She hands him her car keys, tells him where she’s parked the Subaru, says that all of Liam’s necessities are in a sports bag. ‘He’ll be hungry when he wakes. There’s a bottle made up in the stroller and a container of mashed vegies. And I bought a backpack for you two, a baby carrier, so you can take him for a walk. It’s in the back of the car if you want to try.’

  She’s trembling as she stands. Winifred and Lucic and Martin remain still as she bends and gently kisses the forehead of her sleeping son. She straightens, eyes moist. ‘Take care of him, Martin. Please take care of him.’

  And then they file out, the lawyer, the policeman and the suspect, the eyes of the cafe following them, the gossipmongers flexing their tongues, leaving Martin alone at the table, Liam oblivious in his slumber.

  Liam wakes as soon as Martin takes him from the stroller, emitting a piercing cry of need. Martin feels a moment of panic, of rampant inadequacy, before slipping the boy the bottle, instantly pacifying him. He breathes a sigh of relief. But what happens when the bottle is gone? He lowers the now-pliable child into the baby carrier and straps him into place. Then he carefully lifts it, manoeuvring Liam around until the boy sits squarely on his back, the carrier low so Martin’s hips can take the weight, tightening the waist strap first, then adjusting the shoulder straps. Satisfied, he crouches awkwardly, keeping his back erect so he doesn’t tip Liam forward, and fetches the sports bag from the back of the car: bottles, nappies, wipes. There is so much stuff.

  Walking down The Boulevarde, he can hear the boy snuffling in his ear, chugging on his formula, happy with this new adventure, with the height and the sense of movement. Clever Mandy, she must have known her boy would like it. Martin likes it too; so much better than a stroller. Passing women beam at him, projecting approval. Liam chortles, Martin smiles; Liam gurgles, Martin makes stupid little noises over his shoulder. But when Liam drops his bottle the howl of dismay drills directly into Martin’s left ear, penetrating his skull. He squats to fetch the bottle, but a young mother, holding her own child by the hand, gets to it first. She returns it to Liam and smiles indulgently at both of them. ‘There you go.’

  Martin heads for the beach, figuring the boy might like the waves and the seagulls. But first he calls back into Theo’s, asking the truculent teenager to fetch George Tomakis.

  ‘Martin. Back so soon? And who’s this fellow?’

  ‘Liam. My partner’s son.’

  ‘Looks like trouble to me,’ says George, smiling broadly. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘The Greek community here in Port Silver. Is it very large?’

  ‘Nah, five or six families. Hardly qualifies as a community.’

  ‘Anyone from Crete?’

  ‘Crete? Don’t think so. A couple of Cypriots up in Longton, that’s about it. Why?’

  ‘You ever heard of St Myron the Wonderworker?’

  George laughs. ‘Nah. Sounds like the name of a band. St Myron and the Wonderworkers.’

  ‘Thanks, George.’

  At a picnic table above the dunes, under the shade of a Norfolk Island pine, Martin gently lowers the backpack. Liam, teat of the bottle still in his mouth, examines Martin quizzically. Martin props the carrier on the ground and balances it with one hand, Liam’s chubby legs swinging free. With difficulty, Martin removes his own shoes. Inside the sports bag, Martin finds a hat for the boy and sunscreen. Mandy has thought of everything. Liam laughs and squirms as Martin spreads the cream on his face, as if it is some sort of tickle game. Martin finds himself talking to the boy, laughing and playing along.

  Then, while Liam is still occupied with his bottle, Martin rings Nick Poulos. The lawyer answers promptly enough. ‘Martin?’

  ‘Nick. The police have hauled Mandy in for more questioning.’

  ‘Really? The altercation with Jasper at the lifesavers?’

  ‘I’d say so. Can we meet?’

  ‘Of course, but I’m not sure when. The inspectors are in town. I could be some time.’

  ‘Inspectors?’

  ‘Fishery inspectors. They’re checking catches. I’m at the harbour.’

  ‘Doing what? Kerb crawling for clients?’

  ‘Wharf crawling. It’s a living.’

  ‘Terrific. You and the seagulls. But listen, there’s a couple of things you might be able to help with. Do you know how I can contact Jasper Speight’s former wife? Susan, I think her name is.’

  ‘Not off the top of my head, but I can find out. What’s the second thing?’

  ‘Have you ever heard of a saint called Myron the Wonderworker, from Crete?’

  Martin’s ear fills with laughter. ‘Not ever. You’ve got the wrong Greek. I don’t know any of that Orthodox shit.’

  ‘Just asking. I’m on Town Beach. I’ll walk around and see you soon.’ Martin ends the call.

  He hoists Liam onto his back once more, but before leaving the shade of the trees, he googles the Greek saint. The internet informs him that Myron was born around 250 AD and could indeed work wonders: whipping up barrels of wine and walking on water like a poor man’s Jesus. Martin ponders what the distinction might be between a wonderworker and a miracle worker. He reads that the saint’s day falls in August, and considers if that holds any significance, but can’t think of what. Elsewhere he finds a curious report stating that just a few years ago the saint appeared in the dreams of local parishioners requesting to be taken from his grave, so the congregation disinterred his relics and put them on display inside a glass case.

  Martin reads the article again, then looks out across the white sands of Australia, at the hedonistic beachgoers, and wonders what possible relevance a third- or fourth-century Greek holy man could have to Jasper Speight’s death.

  The beach is well populated, the temperature approaching its early afternoon peak. People are spread across the sand: the young and the carefree, the old and the careworn. As a kid this was his unacknowledged sanctuary, taken for granted. The beach. He looks at it now, sees it as the European backpackers must, values it anew. He walks towards the waves, giving Liam—riding high—a better view. A sea eagle comes gliding into sight, wings rigid, riding the thermals above the beach.

  Martin points. ‘Bird, Liam. Bird.’

  Liam makes some guttural approximation and whacks him in the back of the head with his plastic bottle. Having finished his formula, the child has found another use for it. Clop. He hits Martin again, this time laughing with glee as he does so.

  ‘Liam. For fuck’s sake.’

  Clop. Laughter.

  Martin swings his arms up and behind him, trying to reach the boy, to catch hold of his arms, but the position of the baby carrier is such that Martin can’t reach far enough back. Liam squeals with delight at this new development in his game. Clop. Clop. Clop. A blow for each hand, another for Martin’s head.

  A small group of backpackers in their board shorts and bikinis have stopped marking out a volleyball court in the sand and are pointing, laughing at the show. A grinning young woman advances, holding her phone out before her, recording the scene, fodder for social media. Clop. Clop. More squeals of laughter from Liam. Martin, realising he’s about to g
o viral, swings his back to the amateur cinematographer and starts unbuckling the carrier.

  ‘No, no,’ protests the young documentarian. ‘Is very funny. Again.’

  But Martin lowers the carrier to the sand, sitting it upright, kneeling next to it and steadying it with his hand to prevent it toppling. Liam’s eyes are alive with mischief. He’s holding the bottle by its teat, swinging it back and forth, giving Martin’s arm a whack for good measure. Martin smiles. Unlike the hits to the head, this is neither irritating nor painful, so he plays along, making wild faces as Liam whacks him once more.

  ‘He is so cute!’ exclaims the bikini girl, reaching them. ‘So adorable!’ She is no longer filming. Martin takes the bottle from Liam and the boy looks unsure, uncertain if this is a continuation of the game. Martin releases the boy’s straps, eases him out, lifting him up for a cuddle. ‘Can I hold him?’ asks the girl.

  Martin is about to decline when he hears raised voices, the air suddenly blue with profanities, the calm shattered. He and the girl turn. Across the sands advance two young men, pushing and jostling and swearing. One of them is Royce, his sunnies still precariously in place. The fight is escalating, the pushing replaced with punches, the four-letter words exclamations rather than insults. The sunnies go flying. Royce’s opponent, just as big and just as muscly, with a surfer’s mop of blond hair, is smiling viciously, goading Royce. There’s more contact, the sound of skin on skin, knuckle on bone, surprisingly loud.

  ‘Hold the boy!’ Martin instructs the girl, handing Liam to her. ‘Stop it! Stop it!’ he shouts, moving forward. They lurch towards him, suddenly he is very close; he can hear their breathing, smell their sweat. ‘Stop it!’ he shouts, waving his arms. But all he does is distract Royce, who begins to pivot, realises his mistake too late and cops a left hook. He staggers, knees flexing involuntarily. ‘No!’ yells Martin, unable to move any quicker in the sand, protestations in vain: the follow-up right catches Royce square in the face with a sickening sound of flesh squelching and bones cracking; a spray of blood flies out, red across the golden sand, spattering against Martin’s shin. Royce’s knees give way altogether and he falls, unconscious before he hits the ground with dull certainty. ‘No!’ says Martin again, unable to believe what he has seen, unable to believe it cannot be undone. ‘What the fuck?’ he demands of the aggressor, who is standing victorious, legs wide and eyes wild, like a gladiator. ‘You can’t do that.’