by Helene Young
‘That right? I didn’t know that.’ Noah was surprised he’d never heard it before.
‘Yeah, it was well before your time. He and a few blokes from some of the Brisbane teams used to come up and do training camps. Hugely popular with the guys – and the girls.’
‘I bet it was. Fresh talent in town.’
‘They treated ’em like gods. Everything was on tap. Here, put this on, if you like.’ Darryl tossed an old pair of overalls to Noah, then reached into the back of his covered ute and hauled out a ten-litre tin. ‘Comes in grey or grey. Your choice,’ he added.
‘Take the grey,’ Noah said with a short laugh.
‘He was good too,’ Darryl continued as he stirred the paint. ‘Great at motivating people even back then.’
‘Was he married to Beverley?’
‘I’m not sure. In those days the wives and kiddies didn’t travel with them. I mean, they all had to have real jobs back then. No big fat fees for spending hours in a gym pumping iron and primping in front of the mirrors. They drank like fish as well and smoked weed. Don’t think they would have done that with a wife in tow.’
‘No, probably not and certainly not with Bev there.’
‘I must have been twenty at the time. Just finished my apprenticeship, so, that’s thirty-six years ago. We’re about the same age. He hung around with a bloke from the other side of Bundy called Rod, um . . .’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Can’t remember his name. He’s big in construction now in New South Wales. He was a real arsehole, but Stirlo seemed to love him, despite the fact the joker couldn’t play to save himself. His parents were Russian. His mum didn’t speak much English and his father was only a bit better. Think they changed their name to fit in. Rod moved them south with him when he went.’
‘Rod Reeves?’ Noah asked, spinning the roller on its handle.
‘That’s him. Read about him in the news a while back. Some sort of match fixing scandal. I reckon he’s never changed. Arsehole through and through. Filthy rich, though, and if you believe the stories, he’s tied up with the Russian mob.’
‘Yeah, I remember him, he did some training with the footy team. Big bloke, quick with his fists and light on manners. I forgot he was Russian.’
‘Yep. You want to start at that end?’ Darryl pointed to the left. ‘I’ll cut it in once we’ve got the worst of it covered. Can’t have the mums seeing this when they drop their kids off this afternoon.’
‘Thanks, mate, appreciate it.’ They painted in silence while Noah digested the conversation. Rod Reeves was still a person of interest with connections in Bundaberg, his old stomping ground. His name came up from time to time in briefing notes to do with organised crime. It wasn’t just bricks and mortar sustaining Rod’s lifestyle, but money laundering and possible drug importation. He hadn’t slipped up yet, but he would. They always did. Noah had forgotten that Rod and Stirlo had been mates. Some loose ends were trying to tie themselves together, but it wasn’t quite happening.
‘So I can probably give you a Saturday and Sunday arvo if you like,’ Darryl broke the silence.
‘Great.’
‘Might help with this too.’ He patted his considerable girth. ‘The missus is always trying to put me on a diet. Hey, I hear there was another shocking crash on the road. Don’t know how you clean that stuff up.’
‘You get used to it. Goes with the territory. It’s the senselessness that makes me really angry.’ Some days running was the only way to stop him going crazy, that and the punching bag in the gym. He knew all too well what teenage grief felt like and Grant’s death had been just as senseless and just as debilitating as any of these road deaths. A waste of talent. He eased his grip on the roller as he dipped it in the glossy paint. If only it was so easy to paint over the ugly things in life with a fresh coat. If only scars that were hidden deep didn’t hurt so much.
‘Yeah, I bet it does.’
‘I was at one accident where two boys had gone through the windscreen. I know the others were in shock, but one of their mates in a car behind was recounting blow by blow what had happened and he was high as a kite and laughing.’ Noah stopped talking, continued rolling, stroke after long stroke, still able to recall the red mist of rage that saw him pin the lad up against the police car. If the paramedics hadn’t been there, he often wondered what he would have done. The line between right and wrong was wafer thin at moments like that.
‘I’m glad my two are grown up. They’ve settled down now, have kids of their own. Suppose I’ll start worrying about them soon. You seeing anyone?’
‘Nope, not after the last dating disaster. Women don’t want to be married to someone who’s married to their job.’
‘More to life than work, Noah. Nothing in this world like holding your baby in your hands when it’s still warm and slippery. You never forget it, never. No matter how much pain they cause you, there’s always some joy.’
‘How long have you and Maureen been married?’
‘Twenty-eight years this September. Got married the year Stirlo and his family moved here. He gave a speech at the wedding.’
‘Really?’
‘Yep. Beverley and Maureen became good friends. Still are. She reckons Beverley’s not well again. Might be that the cancer’s back.’ He shook his head when Noah stopped painting and looked at him. ‘Maureen’s not sure, but Bev’s in Sydney for treatment this week. Must be hard on Darcy.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Noah turned back to the wall. Disappointment settled in his gut. Maybe he was deluding himself about his place in Darcy’s world. Surely she would have mentioned something that important?
As the paint slid on, Noah had to admit there was still a lot he’d never told her. He’d never shared his doubts about Grant’s death and he sure as hell hadn’t shared his disgust at Stirling Fletcher’s actions. At nineteen he wasn’t mature enough to deal with his coach, his idol, falling off his grand pedestal. It had been a huge personal betrayal for Noah when he found out Stirling was giving his players drugs to improve their performance.
When Noah confronted Grant about the drugs, his friend had a different take on it. With the world at his feet and a stellar career ahead of him, Grant was prepared to do whatever it took to win. How much longer would their friendship have survived if Grant hadn’t died that night? Noah rarely considered that now, but it had plagued him in the aftermath of Grant’s drowning. He’d worn the guilt hard. Maybe he could have done more to prevent the tragedy. Maybe his argument with Grant was the catalyst that pushed his friend too far.
Darryl’s phone rang and he wandered away to have a heated discussion with someone about the colour of their bedroom walls. Noah’s thoughts returned to Darcy and the choices he’d made after Grant’s death. Should he have confronted Stirling and then gone to the authorities to report the use of illegal drugs? The answer was easy now. But back then, scared that he’d alienate Darcy and lose the girl he’d dreamed about for years, he’d taken the path of least destruction and left Banksia Cove to join the police force. Sixteen years on he was still trying to make up for taking the easy way out.
‘Bloody idiots,’ Darryl grumbled as he picked up his roller again. ‘They tell you they want one colour, you tell them it’s too dark, but they know best so you do it and they complain anyway.’
‘Guess you can’t refuse to change it either.’
‘Not if I want to keep my reputation and reputation is everything in this game.’
‘Everything in life, really.’
‘Speaking of which, my grandson was telling me about you reading them a story at school. That’s pretty impressive. He wants to be a cop now, just like you. We’ve never had a local copper so into the community side of his job before. It’s working.’
‘Except for times like this.’ Noah brandished the roller at the offending wall. ‘Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever make a difference.’
‘The bloody Larsens are ferals.’
‘Some of those kids are good. Look at Zeke.’
‘Zeke? The big one everyone thinks is on steroids?’
‘He’s not.’ Noah ignored the dart of anger that shot through him. ‘He’s been working out with me here. If he plays for the Stallions, he’ll go far.’
‘And if he doesn’t make the cut? He’ll end up glue sniffing in Hyde Park and that’ll be that.’
‘You ever heard of the program the Defence Force runs for enlisting those sort of guys?’
‘Defence? Why would they do that?’
‘If the boys don’t make the grade, they take it pretty hard. It’s like they’ve been thrown out, rejected by their tribe. Some bright spark realised the kids would make good recruits – they’re fit, dedicated, they’re in need of a community, a new tribe. Most of the teams have some sort of tie up these days. In the Defence Force the kids still get to play footy and they usually end up with a trade as well, sometimes a degree. Best way out of poverty that I know of.’
‘I didn’t know about that.’
‘Softly, softly, I guess. Navy seems to have the most success.’
‘So Zeke’s not taking anything?’
‘Nope. I’d bet my life on it. He’s just finished the selection process and they drug tested. He’s clean.’
‘Well, good on him, then. Hope he makes something of himself after his mother ran off and left him with that redneck father. Amazing the kid’s done as well as he has. Owes you a lot.’
Noah shrugged. ‘Part of the job. Just happy to see him avoid the troublemakers and —’ His phone rang on his utility belt. He managed to put the roller down without coating everything in grey paint and grabbed the phone. He walked away as he answered it.
‘Sergeant Moreton, Banksia Cove Police.’
‘G’day, mate. I thought you might like to know there were some boxes of stuff found this morning up along the beach near Middle Creek. Think they probably came from that yacht. Do you know where I can find the bloke who owned it?’
‘Great, thanks for that. Who’d you say it was calling?’
‘Steve. I don’t think we’ve met. I rang the cops in Bundaberg and they told me to ring you.’ The voice sounded educated but country, the vowels long and lazy.
‘Okay. I’ll come and collect the stuff. Whereabouts are you?’
‘No need for that. I’ll just drop them off.’
Noah’s neck was tingling. ‘All right. Do you know where my police station is in Banksia Cove? It’s easy to find.’
‘No, mate, don’t know where that is. No offence, but I’d rather deliver it to the bloke himself. There’s some valuable-looking stuff here. I’d rather give it to the owner.’ The mellow voice had an edge now.
‘Right. Good of you, mate, good of you. He’s resting at the moment. Doctor’s orders, you know how it is. They don’t want him too upset yet and seeing his gear might not be helpful. We can always photograph it and I’ll give you a receipt so you know it’s been catalogued.’
‘Give me that address, then.’
Noah recited the address for his office and gave the man directions.
‘And sorry, Sergeant, what did you say the man’s name was again?’
‘I didn’t. It’s not been released yet as we’re still contacting his next of kin.’
‘Next of kin, eh? Bet they’ll be glad he’s still alive. Catch you later.’
Noah frowned as he tapped the phone on his hand. How did that last comment manage to sound threatening? Someone was looking for the yachtsman and that put Darcy in harm’s way. Damn. He dialled her number, but it went to message bank. Zeke’s number rang out too. ‘Fuck it,’ he muttered. He’d have to find somewhere else to house Tyrone. Maybe a police cell was the best place for him after all.
Noah’s police radio buzzed with a request for assistance at a traffic accident.
‘Darryl, sorry mate, I have to leave you to it. Send me the bill and I’ll get it sorted.’
‘Yeah, no worries. I know where you live,’ he replied with a laugh and turned back to the glistening wall. Most of the offending scrawls were gone.
‘Thanks again. I owe you one.’
‘No trouble.’ Darryl waved his free hand in Noah’s direction and kept on painting. And that, Noah thought, was precisely why he loved this sort of policing. It was proactive not reactive. In Banksia Cove he was part of a community, not the heavy hand of the law descending on someone with a pair of handcuffs. The late nights, the anguish over senseless deaths, the annoyance of mindless vandalism like this paled against the glow of making a difference. What could be achieved by sitting down over a cup of tea with parents of difficult teenagers was staggering. Far better than juvenile detetion.
He tried Darcy’s phone again as he headed towards the accident where Tableland Road met the Bruce Highway. He got her voicemail again.
‘Call me. It’s about Tyrone.’
Even the familiar husky tone of her recorded voice sent a wave of longing through him. Why the hell did he think he could live platonically with Darcy Fletcher when all he wanted to do was get her naked and press his lips to the soft silky skin at the base of her throat? He groaned and shifted in his seat. Now was not the time to be giving in to wayward desire.
She’d slapped his face once and he’d never been stupid, or brave enough, to try anything again. The night of her school formal she’d been dressed in moss green with her waist-length hair piled on her head leaving her shoulders bare and smooth. He was pretty sure she’d invited him to the formal just to piss off Beverley. She was defiantly seventeen and adrift on a sea of hurt. Grant’s death had left a hole in her heart, but Stirling had ripped it out and kicked it into touch when he fled to Sydney.
That night Noah had wanted to do nothing more than comfort her, ease some of the anguish he knew was destroying her. But that kiss had almost blown him off his feet. Darcy followed it up with a stinging right-handed slap that seemed to echo in his head. ‘You’re disgusting,’ she’d raged at him. ‘I trusted you. How could you?’ A week later, she’d dropped out of school, got a crew-cut, dyed it black, pierced her tongue and left home.
For almost twelve months she’d refused to talk to him. He’d finally tracked her down when his sister caved in. He suspected Grace only gave him the address in Sydney because she was so worried about Darcy. The front door of the apartment didn’t lock so there was no stopping him when he got there. He’d found Darcy asleep on a mattress, her singlet and pants barely covering a thing. A tattoo of a snake slithered high up her inner thigh, disappearing under the elastic band of her underwear. He’d been disgusted at the blast of desire mixed with anger that blurred his vision. A stranger with a tattoo gun had touched her so intimately.
She’d cowered away from him when he’d shaken her awake. He’d checked her arms for track marks, relieved there were none. From the smell of her breath and the state of her skin, it was obvious she was killing herself with alcohol. That was many years ago now, but she’d never let her hair grow long again and as far as he knew a snake still coiled up her thigh.
He’d almost reached the intersection and he could see the two vehicles ahead with the flashing lights of the tow trucks and the paramedics. He clipped his utility belt around his hips and jammed on his hat. Enough ancient history for the day. He’d need to come up with another solution for Tyrone once he’d cleaned up this mess. A few hours wouldn’t make much difference.
12
‘No, Beverley,’ Stirling said. ‘I’m not happy about you being here at all. We’re divorced. You’re no longer part of my life.’
‘That’s right, but Amelia is half-sister to Darcy and that’s important to me if not to you.’
The wind was whistling up the street and through the double wrought-iron gates. Stirling knew his ex-wife would be freezing standing in the street, but he was petty enough to enjoy the moment of power. He had to give her full marks for tenacity though.
‘Is that Bev?’ Chantelle asked from behind him.
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, good.’ She leant around he
r husband and pressed the door release button on the intercom. ‘Hi, Bev. It’s open now.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Damn it, Channie, you don’t need to do this.’
‘No, I know, but I like to. She’s more of a mother than I’ve ever had.’
He snorted and walked away. He’d be late if he didn’t get moving. With all the crap in the papers about drugs in sport, he needed to keep a close eye on the squad. Last year it was inappropriate sexual behaviour so they’d brought in a raft of women to talk to the players about what was acceptable and what wasn’t. Next they’d got an ex-footballer with a clean-cut image. That had some effect, but at the end of the day some of these boys were straight from the wrong side of the tracks and it was only their ball skills and their ability to absorb pain that saw them hit the big time.
A natural footy player didn’t necessarily have academic skills, but he was happy to help those who did want to pursue a higher education. He remembered one young fellow who’d trained to be a pilot. He ended up sticking with footy and was a coach now, and a bloody good one. Stirling figured that guys like that would succeed at whatever they turned their hands to.
Ten minutes later, his immaculate suit buttoned across his still-trim waist, he kissed his baby girl goodbye, gave his wife an open-mouthed kiss because he could, and barely deigned to nod at his ex-wife. Bev smiled her secretive smirk that always infuriated him and blew him a kiss. She was more gaunt than he remembered. Maybe the cancer was back. He left with Chantelle’s tinkling laughter in his ears. They looked for all the world like three generations of the one family.
His phone was already ringing as he gunned his Mercedes down the winding road towards the club. He tapped the button on the control column.
‘Hey, where are you?’ It was his assistant coach.
‘Stuck in traffic. I’ll be there in fifteen.’
‘Okay, okay. Our meeting can wait until after training. There’s half an hour until the session starts. A few of the boys are here early. The stuff in the news is making them nervous.’