by Peter Temple
‘You may want to be in protective custody,’ said Cashin. ‘You may want to sit around and tell us about the Companions camps, those golden days. You looked really fit in the photographs. Took a lot of exercise then, did you, Mr Vallins? With the boys?’
‘There’s nothing I want to tell you,’ said Vallins. ‘Not a single thing. You can go now.’
‘Bit of a hermit here, are you, Mr Vallins? All alone in this place for Anglicans in need?’
‘None of your business. You know the way out.’
Cashin looked at Dove. Dove didn’t seem happy, he was scratching his skull. Did scalps still itch without hair? Why was that?
‘Fine,’ said Cashin. ‘On our way then. We’ll leave you to think about how your friends Arthur and Robin were tortured. Robin’s was nasty. Had something hot shoved up him. The knife sharpener. Know that thing? The steel? They think it was heated over the gas ring. Red hot. Came out the front.’
Vallins’ face screwed up. ‘What?’
‘Tortured and killed,’ said Cashin. ‘Bourgoyne, Bonney, Pollard. We’ll find our own way out then, Mr Vallins. Good night.’
Cashin walked. He was at the door when Vallins said, ‘Please wait, detective, I’m sorry, I didn’t know…’
‘Just stopped by to keep you informed of the mortality rate among people like you,’ said Cashin. ‘Offer extended and refused. That’s on record. Good luck and sleep tight, Mr Vallins.’
They were in the entrance hall, Cashin in front, then Dove, Vallins a pace behind.
‘I think you might be right, detective,’ said Vallins, high voice. ‘Do I need…’
‘I know what you need, Duncan,’ said a voice from above, from the gallery. ‘You need to repent your filthy life and die at peace with the Lord.’
CASHIN COULDN’T see the man. The light from the sitting room was too feeble.
‘Who is it?’ he said.
He knew.
Someone laughed, not the speaker. ‘Cops,’ he said. ‘I can smell cops, filthy stinking, rotten cops.’
Cashin looked at Dove. His eyes were on the gallery, he was pushing back his overcoat with his right hand, Cashin saw the spring-clip holster, the butt, Dove’s reaching fingers.
Bangs, bright red muzzle-flash.
Dove went backwards, spun around to face Cashin, Cashin saw his glasses glint, saw Dove’s open mouth, his hands coming up to his chest, he was falling sideways.
‘ONE DOWN!’
Cashin saw the fusebox on the wall beside the stained glass window. He went for it, two paces, dived, clawed at it with his left hand, off-balance, going down, saw the flash at the edge of his vision, felt a knife slice across his back below the shoulderblades.
‘TWO DOWN!’
Coal dark. He was on his knees, his whole back seemed to be on fire.
Shit, he thought, I’ve taken one.
‘Please!’ shouted Vallins. ‘I’ll give you money, I’ve got money!’
Cashin put out a hand and found Dove’s shoulder, the feel of cloth, touched his face. He was breathing. He crawled across, heard Dove’s small snoring noise. He felt for Dove’s holster, slid his hand down his body.
Empty.
Jesus, he got the gun out, dropped it. Where?
‘COMING FOR YOU, BOYS!’
The squeaking voice.
Cashin was groping frantically, the marble floor was ice-cold.
‘Please!’ shouted Vallins. ‘Pleeease!’
‘First you must repent, Duncan,’ said the deeper, calmer voice.
Cashin was crawling fast, there was a door to the right of the stairs, he needed to get there before they switched on the mains, they’d seen him switch off, they’d find it, you never went unarmed, you never needed the fucking thing until you needed it so badly that your teeth ached.
He crawled into a wall, stood up, went left, groping, knocked over something, a table, an object hit the floor, smashed.
Bang, gun-flash. From half-way down the stairs.
Cashin found a deep recess, found the door, found the doorknob, twisted, the door opened, he was inside.
A scent. A faint, sickly perfume.
Don’t close the door, they’ll hear the click.
He was feeling light-headed. He walked into something solid, thigh-high, turned right, felt his way, it was the back of something, it went on, it ended, a post, carved, he put out a hand and touched a wall.
A pew. This is a church. A chapel. That’s the smell.
Right hand on the wall, he took a step, felt something, knocked it off its mounting. It hit the floor, a loud noise, he stopped.
‘Over there,’ said the first voice. ‘He’s over there. He doesn’t have a gun.’
‘Blow this cop away,’ said the high voice. ‘Blow his head off.’
‘No, get the other cop, Justin. We’ll let this one bleed out. He’s a lamb of God. I’ll pray for him.’
Cashin heard a whimpering, a terrible sound, fear and pain combined.
He was trying to become accustomed to the dark, he was blinking, trying to blink quickly, but he couldn’t, his eyelids were too heavy. Loss of blood? He put his right hand under the overcoat, felt his back.
Wet. Warm.
He felt the need to sit. He put out his hand, found the back of a pew, leaned against it, urgency gone, it didn’t matter. He was going to die here, in this ice-cold and sickly-sweet room.
No. A way out of here. Find the door. Follow the wall.
His eyes weren’t working. He was underwater, black water, not water, something thicker. Blood. Trying to move in blood. Water and blood. Diab and Dove, he’d killed them both. He couldn’t feel his toes move. Couldn’t feel his legs. Couldn’t breathe. He took his hand off the pew and he felt himself falling, saw something, a pole, tried to grab it.
It was loose, fell with him. Something hit his head. Terrible pain, then nothing.
HE WAS IN the hospital, something cold on his face, they wiped your face with wet towels, it was someone speaking loudly. Not to him. It wasn’t close, it was the radio, the television…
Cashin didn’t open his eyes. He knew he wasn’t in hospital, he was lying on something stone hard. A floor. An icy marble floor. Everything came back.
‘Do you remember what you did to me, Duncan?’ said the voice. ‘How I cried out in pain? How I asked for mercy? Do you remember that, Duncan?’
A silence.
I’m alive, Cashin thought. I’m lying on the floor and I’m alive.
‘I was so happy when I found out you’d become a priest, Duncan,’ said the voice.
Jamie Bourgoyne. Except he was now his dead cousin, Mark Kingston Denby.
‘We’ve both given ourself to the Lord, Duncan,’ said Jamie. ‘It changes everything, doesn’t it? I was a sinner. I’ve done bad things, Duncan. I’ve caused terrible suffering to some of God’s creatures. You’ll understand that, won’t you? Of course, you will. You didn’t come to the Lord with a pure heart either.’
A sound of agony.
‘The little children, Duncan. Do you think about what our Saviour said? Answer me, Duncan.’
Words, a burbling of words.
‘Duncan, our Lord said, Suffer the little children to come unto me. What a wonderful thing to say, wasn’t it, Duncan? Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of God.’
The scream filled the chapel, filled Cashin’s head, seemed to enter his ear from the marble floor.
‘Can I?’ said the high voice. ‘Give me a chance, Jamie.’
‘Soon, soon. I must prepare Duncan. Duncan, the word suffer, what an important word it is. The word suffer. In both its meanings. Speak to me, Duncan. Say Suffer the little children to come unto me. Say that, Duncan.’
Cashin realised that his eyes were working, there was light. It was candlelight, it moved, flickered, shadows on the wall, they hadn’t bothered to switch on the lights, they had lit candles, Dove was dead, they thought he was dead too, or dying quickl
y. Bleeding out.
Bleeding out.
Vallins was croaking something, trying to form the sentence.
‘A child,’ said Jamie. ‘Duncan, a little boy. Did you ever feel any regret? Any remorse? I don’t think so. You and Robin and Crake. I was so sad to hear Crake died while I was in jail. The Lord wanted me to minister to Crake too.’
‘Give me a go,’ said Justin. ‘C’mon Jame.’
Cashin tried to raise himself, he had no strength in his body, he could not move, he should lie here, they would kill Vallins, then they would go. He could hold his breath. Jamie didn’t care about him, didn’t hate him.
‘And in those days shall men seek death,’ said Jamie, ‘and shall not find it, and shall desire to die, and death shall flee from them. I had to go to prison and live with bad people before I understood those words. Do you understand them now, Duncan?’
‘Please, please, please…’ Groans, wretched and terrible sounds.
‘I often wanted to die and I couldn’t, Duncan. Now I know that the Lord wanted me to live with my torment because he had a purpose for me.’
‘Let me, Jame, let me,’ said Justin. ‘I am he that liveth, and was dead, and behold, I am alive for evermore, Amen, and have the keys of hell and of death. Do you know those words, Duncan? St John the Divine. The keys of hell and death. The Lord has given them to me. Is this hell for you, Duncan? Is this?’
I just lie here, thought Cashin. I’ve killed Dove, they’re torturing a man to death. If I live, what’ll I say to Singo? Never mind Singo. To Villani. Fin. Birkerts. I’m a policeman, for Christsakes.
‘The Lord wants you to know the meaning of pain, of pain and fear, Duncan,’ said Jamie. ‘He wanted Charles to know that too because of what Charles did to me. And your friend Robin. Do you know, I never forgot your faces, you and Robin? They say children don’t remember people. Some do, Duncan, some do, they see them in their nightmares.’
A shriek, a pure scarlet spear of pain.
‘Courage, Duncan. Robin didn’t have any courage, he was lucky we were so rushed. And Arthur Pollard. I didn’t know about Arthur, but in prison the Lord brought me together with a man, a very sad person, and he told me about Arthur.’
‘Please, Jesus, ah, ah…’
‘I looked for some to have pity on me but there was no man, neither found I any to comfort me,’ said Jamie. ‘They gave me gall to eat, and when I was thirsty, they gave me vinegar to drink. Duncan’s thirsty, Justin, give him a drink.’
A sound, a gurgling sound, coughing, choking.
‘There, that’s better, isn’t it?’
Silence.
‘All done, Duncan, you can’t make any more noise now, can you? You look like a pig, Duncan. Are you saying a prayer in your mind? To the beast? You can only pray to the beast, can’t you? Here Justin, the Lord wants you to send Duncan to meet his king the beast.’
Cashin pushed himself to his knees, lifted his head, heavy.
Flickering yellow light. A thing was on a bare stone altar, a pink fleshy thing tied with rope, trussed like a piece of meat for roasting. It was bleeding everywhere, blood was running down it in streams.
Two men were standing at the altar. The short one on the right was holding up a knife, the candlelight played on the blade. The other man, taller, was holding the thing, Vallins, holding his head, Cashin could see it was his head, the man, Jamie, was holding Vallins’ head by the ears, the hair and the ears, he seemed to be kissing Vallins’ head…
No.
Cashin shook his head, he didn’t ask his system to shake his head, it shook his head. He tried to stand up. There was something on the floor, a pole, no… yes, a pole with a cross at the top, a brass cross with pointed tips, not arrowheads.
No. Not arrowheads.
Diamonds, yes, diamonds.
He put his hand on it, tried to grasp it, he had no grip, he could not quite feel it.
He grasped it and he stood up, he surprised himself, he was upright and he had the pole with the cross in his right hand.
He was looking at them.
They weren’t looking at him. They hadn’t heard him.
‘Go to the eternal fires, Duncan,’ said Jamie. ‘Send him, Justin.’
‘No,’ said Cashin.
They turned their heads.
Cashin threw the pole with the brass cross. It hung in the air. Justin turned, the long knife in his right hand.
The diamond-shaped tip entered his throat, in the hollow, between the clavicle bones. It stuck there, fell back. He raised his hands to his throat, embraced the holy spear, took a step, uncertain step, his left leg abandoned him, he fell, his feet slid on the cold hard floor.
‘Under arrest,’ said Cashin, thick tongue.
Jamie was holding the head of Vallins, looking down at Justin. ‘Justie,’ he said. ‘Justie.’
He let go of the pig-tied Vallins, went to his knees.
Cashin could see only the top of his head.
‘Justie, no,’ he said. ‘Justie, no, Justie, no, no. Justie no, my darling no, Justie, no, no, nooo…’
Cashin walked back the way he had come. It seemed to take a long time to reach the chapel door. He crossed the entrance hall to the switchboard, found the mains switch.
The sitting room light came on.
Dove’s pistol was lying almost at his feet. He bent to pick it up, fell over, got up, tried again, reached the weapon. He didn’t look at Dove, walked back to the chapel, through the door, found a light switch, walked down the central aisle, stopped three or four metres from the altar.
Jamie was hunched over Justin. There was blood everywhere. He looked at Cashin, stood up, the knife in his hand.
‘Under arrest,’ said Cashin.
Jamie shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I have to kill you now.’
Cashin raised Dove’s pistol, aimed at Jamie’s chest, you aimed for the broadest part, he pulled the trigger.
Jamie cocked his head like a bird. Smiled.
Missed him, Cashin thought. How did I do that? He couldn’t see Jamie properly, the gun was too heavy, he couldn’t hold it up.
‘The Lord doesn’t want me to die,’ said Jamie. ‘He wants you to die because you took Justin from me.’
He took a pace towards Cashin, held out the knife. Cashin saw the light on it, saw the blood. His legs were going, he couldn’t stand any longer, he was going down…
The knife, Jamie’s eyes above it, so close.
‘Now you must pray to your father who art in heaven,’ said Jamie.
‘Our father,’ said Cashin.
‘SURE YOU don’t need a hand with that?’ said Michael.
‘No,’ said Cashin. The small bag was almost weightless—toothbrush, razor, pyjamas, the things his brother had brought to the hospital. They stood waiting for the lift, awkward, shoulder to shoulder.
‘I’ve got a new job,’ said Michael. ‘In Melbourne. A small firm.’
‘That’s good,’ said Cashin. He had dreamed about Dove, walking down a street with Dove, and then Dove’s face had become Shane Diab’s.
‘Start in a fortnight. I thought I might come down for a week or so. I could help you build. Not that I’ve ever built anything. I’ve got some gym muscles though.’
‘No experience necessary. Just brute strength.’
The lift came, empty. Inside, they faced the door.
‘Joe, I want to ask,’ said Michael, eyes on the floor indicator panel. ‘It’s been on my mind…’
‘What?’
‘Going there unarmed. That wasn’t a self-destruction thing, was it? I mean…’
‘It was a colossal stupidity and arrogance thing,’ said Cashin. ‘That’s my speciality.’
‘There’s something else,’ said Michael. ‘I talked to Vickie, Mum put her on to me.’
‘Talked about what?’
‘She says to tell you you can see the boy. She’s told her partner he’s your child.’
Short of breath, Cashin said, ‘She’s told
the boy?’
‘Yes.’
The lift stopped, the door opened, Villani was there. He shook hands with Michael. They went through the sliding doors, down the ramp and along the side of the building. It was between showers, big jagged holes blown in the clouds, a sky to eternity.
‘See you in a few days,’ said Michael.
‘Buy some gloves,’ said Cashin. ‘Work gloves.’
Finucane had parked the vehicle behind Villani’s. He came to meet them.
‘G’day, boss,’ he said. ‘Feelin okay?’
‘Fine,’ said Cashin.
‘Get in for a minute,’ said Villani. ‘And you, Fin.’
Cashin got in the passenger side. The cop car smell.
‘You look like death,’ said Villani. ‘Are you telling me they don’t have those tanning machines?’
‘I was shocked too.’
‘Anyway, pale or not, you and Dove, you’re a charmed fucking pair,’ said Villani. ‘That’s charmed, not charming. He’s coming out next week. Clotting power of a lobster, the doc says.’
‘A lobster?’ said Finucane from the back. ‘A lobster?’
‘That’s what he said. Listen, Joe, stuff to tell you. First, Fin’s got some sense out of that loony Dave Vincent. On the phone, mark you. Fin’s got his notebook. Speak Fin.’
Finucane coughed. ‘He was at the camp the night of the fire,’ he said. ‘Called Dave Curnow then, the name of his foster family. He says he was supposed to go to some concert thing but he was planning to run away and he hid. Then two men arrived and they took a body out of the back of the car. Small body, he says.’
Cashin was looking at the road, not seeing the traffic.
‘They took it into the building where the boys slept. Then they left and he says he saw flames inside the building. He ran away and he slept on the beach and the next day he hitched a lift and he was gone. Ended up in WA, a boy age twelve.’
‘What did the autopsies on the dead boys show?’ said Cashin.
‘Local doctor did them,’ said Finucane. ‘I gather that’s the way it was then. Smoke inhalation killed them.’