by Peter Temple
Walking back in drizzle and wind, Dove said, ‘Cooling-off period my arse. This thing’s in the freezer and it’s staying there. Still, I escape the fucking Whaleboners’ Tavern.’
‘Whalers’ Inn.’
‘That too.’
On the station steps, Dove offered a long hand. ‘Strong feeling I won’t be back. I’ll miss the place so much.’
‘So good, the whale steak, Miss Piggy’s coffee.’
‘Aunty Jemimah’s.’
‘You feds are trained observers,’ said Cashin. ‘See you soon.’
DEBBIE DOOGUE was sitting at the kitchen table, school books spread, mug of milky tea, biscuits, cartoon show on television. The room was warm, a wood heater glowing in the corner.
‘This’s the place to be,’ said Cashin.
‘Want tea?’ she said.
She was a pale gingerhead, ghosts of freckles, her hair pulled back. She looked older than fourteen.
‘No, thanks,’ Cashin said. ‘Full of tea. How’s school?’ It was a pointless question to ask a teenager.
‘Okay. Fine. Too much homework.’ She moved her bottom on the chair. ‘Dad’s in the shed.’
Cashin went to the sink, wiped a hole in the fogged window. He could see rain speckling the puddles in the rutted mud between the house and the shed. Bern was loading something onto the truck, pushing it with both hands. He had a cigarette in his mouth.
‘He’s worried about the stuff your mum found,’ said Cashin, turning, leaning against the sink.
Debbie had her head down, pretending to be reading. ‘Well, had to dob me, didn’t he?’ she said.
‘What’s to dob? I thought it wasn’t yours?’
She looked up, light blue Doogue eyes. ‘Didn’t even know what it was. She just gave me this box, said, hang on to this for me. That’s all.’
‘You thought it was what?’
‘Didn’t think about it.’
‘Come on, Debbie, I’m not that old.’
She shrugged. ‘I’m not into drugs, don’t want to know about them.’
‘But your friends are? Is that right?’
‘You want me to dob in my friends? No way.’
Cashin stepped across, pulled out a chair and sat at the table. ‘Debbie, I don’t give a bugger if your friends use drugs, wouldn’t cross the road to pinch them. But I don’t want to see you dead in an alley in the city.’
Her cheeks coloured slightly, she looked down at her notepad. ‘Yeah, well, I’m not…’
‘Debbie, can I tell you a secret?’
Uneasy, side to side movements of her head.
‘I wouldn’t tell you if you weren’t family.’
‘Um, sure, yeah.’
‘Keep it to yourself?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Promise?’
‘Yeah.’
The inside door opened violently and two small boys appeared, abreast, fighting to be first in. Debbie turned her head. ‘Geddout, you maggots!’
Eyes wide in their round boy faces, mouths open, little teeth showing. ‘We’re hungry,’ said the one on the left.
‘Out! Out! Out!’
The boys went backwards as if pulled by a cord, closed the door in their own faces.
Debbie said, ‘I promise.’
Cashin leaned across the table, spoke softly. ‘Some of the people selling stuff to your friends are undercovers.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Understand what that means?’
‘Like secret agents.’
‘That’s right. So the drug cops know all the names. If your friend bought that stuff, his name’s on the list.’
‘Not my friend, her friend, I don’t even know him.’
‘That’s good. You don’t want to know him.’
‘What would they do with the names?’
‘They could tell the school, tell the parents. They could raid the houses. If you were on the list, they could knock on the door any time.’
Cashin rose. ‘Anyway, got to go. I wanted to tell you because you’re family and I don’t want to see anything bad happen to you. Or to your mum and dad.’
At the door, he heard her chair scrape.
‘Joe.’
He looked back.
Debbie was standing, hugging herself, now looking about six years old. ‘Scared, Joe.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘I bought the stuff. For my friend.’
‘The girl friend?’
Reluctant. ‘No. A boy.’
‘From a Piggot?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Which one?’
‘Do I have to say?’
‘I won’t do anything. Not my line.’
‘Billy.’
‘You tabbing?’
‘No. Well, just the one, didn’t like it.’
He looked down, looked into her eyes, waited.
‘Smoking?’
‘No. Don’t like it either.’
A chainsaw started outside, the roar, bit into something hard, a savage-toothed whine.
‘They won’t, will they?’ she said. ‘Tell on me? Come here?’
‘Out of my control,’ Cashin said. ‘I can talk to them, I suppose. What do you reckon I could say?’
She gave him some hints about what he could say.
Cashin went out to the shed, mud attaching itself to him. At the back, in the gloom, Bern was on his haunches, applying a blowtorch to an old kitchen dresser. Layers of paint were blackening and blistering under the blue flame. The smell was of charring wood and something metallic.
‘I smell lead,’ Cashin said. ‘That’s lead paint you’re burning.’
Bern turned off the torch, stood up. Paint flakes were stuck to his beard stubble. ‘So?’ he said.
‘It’s toxic. It can kill you.’
He put the torch on the dresser. ‘Yeah, yeah, everythin can kill you. How’d you pricks manage to kill those kids?’
‘Accident,’ Cashin said. ‘No harm intended.’
‘That Corey Pascoe. He was in Sam’s class. Bound for shit from primary.’
‘Bit like Sam then.’
‘No harm in Sam. Led astray. You talked to Debbie?’
‘Gave her a message, yeah.’
‘What’s she say?’
‘Seemed to get it.’
Bern nodded. ‘Well, you can only fuckin hope. I’d say thanks except I give you that wood. Dropped it off today. There’s a bloke there, helpful.’
‘Dave Rebb. Going to help me with the house.’
‘Yeah? Where’d you find him?’
‘In a shed over at Beckett. Mrs Haig. A swaggie.’
Bern shook his head, rubbed his chin stubble, found the paint flakes and looked at them. ‘Point about swaggies,’ he said, ‘is they’re not real strong on work.’
‘We’ll see. He’s giving Den Millane a hand, no complaints so far.’
‘Seen him somewhere, I reckon. Long time ago.’
They walked to the vehicle. Cashin got in, lowered the window. Bern put dirty hands on the sill, gave him a look.
‘I hear someone punched out that cunt Derry Callahan,’ he said. ‘Stole a can of dog food too. You blokes investigatin that?’
Cashin frowned. ‘That right? No complaint that I know of. When it happens, we’ll pull out all the stops. Door-to-door. Manhunt.’
‘Let’s see your hand.’
‘Let’s see your dick.’
‘C’mon. Hiding somethin?’
‘Fuck off.’
Bern laughed, delighted, punched Cashin’s upper arm. ‘You fuckin violent bastard.’
On the way home, the last light a slice of lemon curd, Cashin reflected that his lies to Debbie would probably keep her straight for about six months, tops.
Still, six months was a long time. His lies generally had a much shorter shelf life.
FOR REASONS Cashin didn’t understand, Kendall Rogers wanted him to be in charge of policing the march.
‘I’m on leave,’ he said.
‘Just be an hour or so.’
‘Nothing’s going to happen. This is Port Monro.’
It was the wrong thing to say.
‘I’d just appreciate it,’ she said, not quite looking at him. ‘It would be a favour to me.’
‘Favour, now you’re talking. The favour bank.’
The demonstrators assembled at the post office in the main street. Kendall was at Cashin’s end, Moorhouse Street. Carl Wexler was handling traffic at the Wallace Street intersection, not a taxing job at 11 am, winter, Port Monro. He was making a big thing of it, studied movements, like an air hostess pointing out the exits. Cashin thought it was easy to pick the blow-ins, those who had bought into Port at a high price and now wanted the drawbridge up. They had good haircuts and wore expensive outdoor clothes and leather shoes.
At the march’s advertised starting time, the fat photographer from the Cromarty Herald was looking with sadness at the crowd, about thirty people, more than half women. The primary school came around the corner, all in rain gear, a multicoloured crocodile led by the principal, a thin balding man holding the hands of a girl and boy. The children carried signs written on white cardboard and tacked to lengths of dowel, no doubt a full morning’s work in the art class:
KEEP AWAY FROM OUR MOUTH
DONT SPOIL OUR BEACHES
NATURE’S FOR EVERYONE NOT JUST THE RICH
Three shire councillors Cashin knew arrived. The Herald reporter got out of his car and signalled to the photographer, who went into sluggish action. Then two small buses banked up at Carl’s end of the street. He directed them on with flourishes. A minute or two later, the occupants came back, walking in a group—about thirty people, all ages from about fifteen. To one side was Helen Castleman, talking on a mobile. She put it away, came past Cashin, gave him a nod.
‘Good day, Detective Cashin.’
‘Good day, Ms Castleman.’
Cashin watched her talking to the organiser, Sue Kinnock, a doctor’s wife. She’d come to the station to show the shire permit for the march. ‘We’ll assemble at the post office, march down Moorhouse Street, cross Wallace, turn right into Enright, left into the park,’ she’d said.
The sunlight had caught the pale yellow down on her cheeks. She had big teeth and a clipped way of speaking. Cashin put her down as the Pommy nurse who got the Aussie doctor, to the envy of her better-looking colleagues.
She came over with Helen Castleman. ‘I gather you know each other, detective. Helen’s WildCoast Australia president in Cromarty.’
‘A person of many parts, Ms Castleman,’ said Cashin.
‘And you, detective. One minute, you’re homicide, the next you’re crowd control.’
‘Multiskilling These days we turn our hands to anything. How’s Donny?’
‘Not good. His mum’s worried about him. How’s your investigation?’
‘Moving along. The way this parade should be.’
‘The Channel 9 chopper’s on the way, they’re giving Bobby Walshe a lift. If you don’t mind, we’ll wait for them.’
‘A reasonable wait I don’t mind,’ said Cashin. ‘What’s reasonable?’
‘Fifteen minutes? They’re landing on the rec reserve.’
‘We can do that.’
Helen Castleman went over and helped a young man in a green WildCoast windcheater organise the marchers: children in front, the rest in ranks of five. She stood back and took a look, went over to the school principal. They talked. He didn’t look happy but agreed to something. Helen chose six kids and eight of the oldest locals. They were arranged in two rows, four adults and three children in each, holding hands. Then came the school crocodile and the other marchers.
When he was finished, Helen went to Sue Kinnock. Sue raised her loudhailer. ‘We’ll be off in a few minutes. Please be patient.’
A helicopter thrummed over, dropped below the line of pines. The occupants arrived soon after in one of the small buses. Carl waved them through. They parked outside the library. The door slid open and Bobby Walshe got out, followed by a young man in a dark suit. Cashin saw a woman in the front seat move the rearview mirrow to fine-tune her lipstick.
Bobby Walshe was in casual gear: light blue open-necked shirt, dark blue jacket. He kissed Helen Castleman, he knew her, you could see that by the way they laughed, the linger of his hands on her arms. Cashin felt envy, shook it away.
‘Right everybody,’ said Sue Kinnock, amplified. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. Banners up, please. Thank you. And ready, set, off we go.’
Cashin looked across the street. Cecily Addison was lecturing Leon, a hand raised. Leon caught Cashin’s eye, nodded in a knowing way. The vinegary couple from the newsagency were in their shop doorway, mouths curving southwards. Triple-bypassed Bruce of the video shop was beside saturated-fat dealer Meryl, the fish and chip shop owner. At the kerbside bicycle rack, shivering in yellow teeshirts, three young women, the winter staff of Sandra’s Café, had an argument going. The spiky-haired one with the nose rings was taking on the others.
Outside the Supa Valu supermarket stood seven or eight people in anoraks, tracksuits. An old man in a raincoat had a beanie pulled over his ears.
Cashin walked along the pavement. ‘Didn’t know we had so many cops,’ said Darren from the sports shop. ‘Out in force.’
It began to drizzle at the instant the marchers broke into thin and ragged song: ‘All we are saaaying is saaave our coast.’
The children had gone by when two men came out of the bar of the Orion. Ronnie Barrett and his mate, a slighter shaven-headed figure in a yellow and brown striped tracksuit, small tuft of hair on his chin.
Barrett came to the pavement edge, made a megaphone with his hands: ‘Fuck off wankers! Don’t give a shit about jobs, do ya?’
The other man joined him, ‘Rich bastards pissouta Port!’ he shouted. He took a step backwards, then another, unbalanced, almost fell over.
Cashin saw Barrett gesture at someone in the march, step off the kerb, all drunken belligerence. His companion followed.
A man stepped out of the column, a black beret on the back of his head, said something to Barrett.
Cashin got moving. Carl Wexler was trotting down the street, a TV cameraman behind him. They weren’t close when Barrett lunged at the marcher with his left hand, trying to hold him for a punch.
The marcher, loose-looking, took a step forward, allowed Barrett to touch him. Barrett swung with his right, the man was inside the fist, he blocked it casually with his left forearm, stood on Barrett’s left foot and hit him under the chin with the heel of his right hand.
It wasn’t a hard blow, there was contempt in it, but it knocked Barrett’s head back, and the marcher’s left hand punched him in the ribs, several quick, professional punches.
‘Break it!’ shouted Carl.
Barrett was down, making sounds, his friend backing off, no more interest in a fight.
The marcher turned his head, looked at Cashin, went back into the ranks, expressionless, adjusted his beret. An old man next to him patted him on the arm.
The march had stopped. Cashin turned his back on the camera, he didn’t want to be on television again. ‘Let’s get moving here,’ he said loudly. ‘Move on, please.’
The crocodile moved.
‘Arrest, boss?’ said Carl.
‘Who?’
‘The greenie.’
Cashin stood over Barrett. ‘Get up and fuck off,’ he said, ‘See you again today, mate, you’re sleeping over.’
To Carl, he said, ‘It’s over. Back to work.’
At the park, Sue Kinnock stood on the bandstand and made a short speech about people despoiling the beauties of nature, not wanting Port Monro to end up like Surfers Paradise. Cashin looked at the storm clouds boiling in the south, saw the cold drizzle falling on umbrellas, on dozens of little raincoat hoods. Like Surfers Paradise? Please God, could the weather part of that be arranged?
Sue Kinnock introduced Helen Castleman.
‘A
s you may know,’ Helen said, ‘WildCoast is dedicated to preserving what remains of Australia’s unspoilt coastline and to keeping it open to everyone. We came here today to say: If you want to stop developers ruining everything that makes your place special, well, we’ll stand with you. We’ll fight this project. And we’ll win!’
Loud applause. Helen waited for silence, nodding.
‘And now I’d like to introduce someone who identifies with our concerns and who’s made a huge effort to be with us today. Please welcome the leader of Australia’s newest political party, someone who grew up in this area, Bobby Walshe of United Australia.’
Walshe stepped up. The crowd was pleased to see him. Sue Kinnock tried to hold a big golf umbrella over him. He motioned her away, said his thanks, paused.
‘Silverwater Estuary. Wonderful name. Brings to mind a place where a clean river meets the sea.’
Walshe smiled. ‘Well, the reality is that Silverwater Estuary will end up as a place where a landscape and an ecosystem have been wrecked in the name of profit.’
He held up a newspaper.
‘The Cromarty Herald is pretty excited about the project. Two hundred and fifty new jobs. How can that be bad? Well, let me tell you that these people always get the local paper excited about creating jobs. New jobs. It’s the magic phrase, isn’t it? Justifies anything. But all over Australia there are once beautiful places now ugly. Hideous. Ruined by projects like Silverwater Estuary.’
Bobby Walshe paused. ‘And the developers and the local papers sold every single one of these projects as a job creation scheme.’
He ran fingers through his wet, shiny hair. ‘We also have to ask what jobs did they actually create? I’ll tell you. Jobs for part-time cleaners and dishwashers and waiters. Jobs that pay the minimum wage and come and go with the seasons and airline strikes and events thousands of kilometres away.’
Applause.
‘And while I’m at it, let’s talk about so-called local papers. Local? No, they’re not. Take this newspaper.’
He waved the Cromarty Herald.
‘This local paper is owned by Australian Media. The head office of AM is in Brisbane. That’s pretty local, isn’t it? The editor of this local paper arrived three months ago from New South Wales, where he edited another AM local paper. Before that he was in Queensland, doing what he’s been sent to Cromarty to do. And what’s that?’