Matthew Flinders' Cat

by Bryce Courtenay

  ‘Approximately what time was that?’

  ‘It were one o’clock ’cause I heard the gun go at Pinchgut.’

  ‘So you got home, what, five minutes later?’

  ‘Yeah, I went to me mum’s room and the door was shut and I opened it real quiet and she was still asleep. When she ate some of the puddin’ I brung her from the van, it was half-past six and she went in her room with the brandy bottle. I didn’t worry because she’s a dancer, see, and she come back very late at night and she always sleeps ’til it’s arvo, I reckoned she’d wake up soon. So I put on the TV. At two o’clock I went to her bedroom again, she’s never slept this long even when she’s working. The brandy bottle was lying on the floor and I could see the syringe on the table and the lighter and the spoon, but then I seen there’s three caps left.’ Ryan looked to see if Billy understood the implication before he explained it. ‘You see, if she’d broke two caps to make three hits she’d ’ave wrapped the spare smack in silver foil, there shoulda only been two full caps on the table.’

  ‘You mean she took a full cap, that she didn’t split two to make three?’

  ‘Yeah, she musta got drunk and forgot or somethin’. When I touched her to wake her up she don’t move and she were cold. I shook her and shook her and put me hand on her heart, but she were dead like me nana said she would be.’

  ‘And so you decided to run away?’

  ‘She’d overdosed. The police always come when that happens. Monkey said if I didn’t come back, The Queenie and Mr Suleman would tell them about how I got the smack and they’d think I murdered me mum. But I didn’t, Billy, I told her it were too pure, she said that was cool, I was a good boy and she loved me.’ Ryan had started to tremble but he didn’t cry, Billy guessed he had just about used up all his tears.

  Ryan told Billy how he’d found some kids who said he could share their squat if he stayed in at night and minded their gear. ‘That was good, because the police and DOCS look for missing kids at night. I had the two hundred bucks the German gimme and I buried it the same place you done with me book under that big tree. I’d come every day and take enough so I could get something to eat ’cause I couldn’t go to the food vans, there’s always plainclothes there and also DOCS, they’s lookin’ for kids, but two days ago there wasn’t no money left.’

  ‘You hadn’t eaten for two days?’

  ‘This Abo woman, she was drunk, she gimme a hamburger and half a packet o’ Smith’s chips.’

  ‘If you hadn’t found me, Ryan, what were you going to do?’

  Ryan shrugged. ‘Like Monkey said, I was already a poofter, I was allowed ter go back to them.’

  ‘Ryan, why did you come to William Booth to see me and then run away?’

  He was silent for a while. ‘I dunno. I just got scared. I wanted to tell you everything, about me nana and me mum and what happened, but then I thought you wouldn’t like me no more now I was a poofter and maybe you didn’t like me anyway ’cause you went away.’ He shrugged. ‘So I ran away and cried a bit.’

  ‘You know they all talked about your singing in the chapel, it was beautiful.’

  ‘It’s no big deal,’ Ryan said. ‘Singing’s just somethin’ some kids can do.’

  ‘What’s the time, lad?’ Billy asked.

  Ryan looked at his oversized rubber-encased watch.

  ‘Ten minutes to seven.’

  ‘Heavens! Time to go.’

  ‘Where we goin’?’ Ryan asked.

  ‘Ryan, you have to go into hiding. I’m taking you down to the Quay, to Con at the New Hellas.’

  Ryan still looked doubtful. ‘Billy, you ain’t gunna leave me again, are you?’

  Billy was silent for a moment. ‘No, lad, I won’t do that, ever again, but I need to see some people today about the plan.’

  They made their way down to Circular Quay, where Con seemed overjoyed to see them and wanted to make Ryan a milkshake.

  When Ryan declined, he seemed upset, until Billy told him how he’d polished off all of Maria’s delicacies. ‘My wife, she like to cooks, all Greek women they likes to cooks. He patted his stomach. ‘She make you everything you wants, Ryan. You ask, she makes, fair dinkums, put down your glass.’

  Con turned to prepare a takeaway coffee for an early commuter and Ryan, giggling, turned to Billy. ‘Me nana used ta say that, it’s “put down your glasses!”’ Billy could see that he was beginning to warm to the Greek cafe owner.

  Con made a phone call home and announced that one of his daughters working in the back of the cafe would take Ryan to his Newtown house in a taxi. ‘Maria, she’s waitings at the gates.’

  ‘Can’t you come with me, Billy?’ Ryan asked plaintively.

  ‘Ryan, I’m sorry, mate. I have an AA meeting. I’m already five minutes late. It’s about staying off the grog. I have to go, lad, it’s part of my recovery. I’ll be back to pick you up at four o’clock.’ Billy placed his hands on Ryan’s shoulders. ‘Please, Ryan, don’t leave Con’s house on your own, it’s terribly important. Will you promise me?’

  Ryan nodded. ‘Yiz’ll fetch me this arvo, Billy?’

  ‘I promise, around four o’clock, it’s part of the plan.’

  ‘You haven’t told me the Trim story,’ Ryan said, desperate to delay their departure.

  ‘Two stories! I’ll start one when we see each other this afternoon,’ Billy promised.

  The AA meeting had already started when Billy entered the G’day Cafe but several of the men smiled and lifted their hands in recognition when he entered the room. Don did a silent little clap and then indicated a spare chair. After only three meetings Billy realised how important the fellowship was becoming. There was a genuine look of relief in the faces of the men who had seen him entering the room. The victory of his attendance was almost as much a confirmation for them as it was for him. It reinforced in their minds that the whole was greater than the sum of the parts and that they shared both triumph and disaster.

  Despite the joy of reuniting with Ryan, the boy’s terrible distress could easily have tipped him over the edge. Billy needed the constant affirmation of AA to stay sober. He was about to tackle something that he’d have had serious doubts about doing on his own when he’d been at the height of his legal career. If he weakened for one moment and had a drink, he would be responsible for ruining a small boy’s life. He would be repeating what he’d done to Charlie, and Billy knew he didn’t want to live if that should happen. If only the craving would go away, he thought, just for a little while, so that he could cram everything he needed to know and do into his head without being constantly distracted by the need for a drink. But he knew it wouldn’t. The odds he was taking on were enormous and, without the support of AA, he had no chance.

  It was pension day so after he’d shaved and showered at The Station he visited the bank at Martin Place and obtained five dollars worth of twenty-cent pieces for the phone. From a phone booth, he dialled a number.

  The phone rang a couple of times before it was picked up. ‘Good morning, Justice Eisenstein’s phone, Doha Jebara speaking.’

  ‘Yes, good morning, may I speak to Marcus, please. It’s Billy O’Shannessy here, I’m a barrister.’ Billy hoped by using the chief justice’s first name he would avoid the usual runaround.

  There was a moment’s hesitation on the phone and then the woman said, ‘He may have left for court. Just a moment, I’ll see if I can catch him.’

  It was the standard response, she wasn’t falling for the first-name ploy. Billy knew what was to come. She’d return to the phone in a minute or so with the usual regrets that she’d missed him, he’d be in court all day, did Billy wish to leave a message? If she was any good, she’d do a bit of research on Billy and she’d call him back later in the day to say that Justice Eisenstein had asked her to get more details. Billy would say he couldn’t discuss the matter on the phone and she wou
ld ask him whether what he had to say pertained to any ongoing matter in the courts or public inquiries. Billy would be forced to admit that this was the case. She would tell him, again politely, that the chief justice could not receive such information and that he should take it either to the police or to the ombudsman.

  Billy was relying heavily on a schoolboy friendship and the many years he and Marcus Eisenstein had practised together. It had always been thought in chambers that, of the two of them, it would be Billy O’Shannessy who would be the first to sit on the bench.

  To Billy’s surprise, the woman returned and said, ‘Just one moment, Mr O’Shannessy, I’m putting you through now.’

  ‘Billy! How nice to hear from you. Marcus here. How are you keeping?’

  Now that he was through to Marcus Eisenstein he wasn’t quite sure what to say. The judge knew of his circumstances and it showed some courage on his part that he had answered the phone. ‘Not too bad, thanks, Marcus. Thank you for taking my call, I’m sure you are busy.’

  ‘Got a bit on today, but how can I help you, Billy?’

  ‘Marcus, our worlds are very different now and I wouldn’t think of calling you if it wasn’t a matter of some urgency. May I see you privately?’

  Billy waited for the pause but none came. ‘Of course, how long will it take and how private?’ Marcus Eisenstein, as usual, cut to the thrust.

  ‘About an hour and very confidential.’

  ‘Tonight, six o’clock at my home. Will you be alone?’

  ‘No, I’d like to bring an eleven-year-old boy with me.’

  ‘In some sort of trouble, is he?’

  ‘It’s rather bigger than that, I wouldn’t bother you otherwise.’

  ‘Good. I look forward to meeting you, Billy. It’s been some considerable time.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Marcus, I appreciate your help.’

  ‘Haven’t done anything yet. Six o’clock tonight. Cheerio, Billy.’

  Marcus Eisenstein hadn’t changed, he still seemed to calculate the allocation of his time by the seconds. He was notorious for cutting short extraneous verbiage from over-loquacious barristers; on the other hand, he would take infinite pains with a witness who wasn’t articulate or who needed help. Marcus Eisenstein was known to be a no-fear-or-favour judge who put justice ahead of any other consideration. He was a constant thorn in the side of self-seeking and ambitious politicians and big business who thought they knew what was best for society.

  Billy was hugely relieved at the prospect of meeting the judge privately and, in particular, at six o’clock, which meant he would still have time to get to the AA meeting that night. The gods were smiling on him. If his preoccupation with AA in the light of what was happening around him seemed to verge on the obsessive, it was because Billy knew that he was capable of backsliding, that alcohol still had a tremendous psychological hold on him. He had always been obsessive about maintaining a set routine, but now it was critical.

  It was the first time since he’d fallen from grace that he had called a fellow member of the legal profession and he’d expected to be rejected. Even though Marcus Eisenstein had been a boyhood friend and close colleague, Billy had always accepted that friendship, professional or personal, needed to be nourished, and as he’d been the one to cut all his past ties, he had therefore no right to expect a favour or even recognition. If his wife and daughter were unwilling to speak to him, the judge had every right to refuse to take his call.

  Billy purchased half a loaf of bread and, seated on his bench in the Botanic Gardens, made up the day’s ammunition. Attempting to remember exactly what Ryan had told him, he began to write up his notes so he could present them to Marcus Eisenstein that evening.

  It was Billy’s obsession with order and detail that had made him such an outstanding lawyer, it was also the quality his peers thought would eventually take him onto the bench. His ability to replicate verbal evidence or an interview almost exactly as it had occurred was well known in legal circles at the time. Even though alcohol had partially destroyed his prodigious recall so that it wasn’t always spontaneous, it was still very effective. These days it would sometimes take a little longer, such as remembering where he’d first heard the name The Boys’ Boutique, but he knew that eventually it would come to him. Billy, despite everything, still trusted his mind to deliver the goods.

  Marcus Eisenstein would be able to read his notes and then, if he wished, cross-examine Ryan. Billy also knew that the judge would do so in the kindest, gentlest way. He knew Ryan sufficiently well to realise that the boy had done his crying and possessed a great deal of personal pride, so would answer the questions he was asked with honesty and courage and would hold back his tears in front of a stranger. This wasn’t necessarily a good thing, the tears of abused children, even in front of a judge, were always heart-wrenching and, in a lawyer’s book, generally useful.

  Billy spent the rest of the day as usual, except that he left the library at half-past three and took a taxi to fetch Ryan. They returned to the bench in the Gardens and Billy went over his morning’s notes carefully with the boy. Then he started telling the story of Trim and the wreck of the Porpoise.

  At a quarter to five they walked down to Cowper’s Wharf Road and found a concealed position where they could watch the entrance to the Flag Hotel.

  ‘Now watch very carefully, Ryan,’ Billy cautioned. ‘I want you to identify anyone who comes out that you recognise.’

  ‘There’s lotsa people round here I know,’ Ryan answered.

  ‘Yes, that’s possible, but we’re looking for someone you haven’t known for that long.’

  ‘Who?’ Ryan asked.

  ‘No, Ryan, I can’t tell you, you have to tell me, it’s part of the plan.’

  They hadn’t been waiting long when a taxi pulled up outside the pub and the driver sounded his horn. ‘Now watch carefully, Ryan,’ Billy urged, his hand on Ryan’s shoulder.

  A few moments later Marion came out of the pub and Billy felt Ryan start. ‘It’s her, it’s The Queenie!’ he said in a frightened voice.

  ‘It all begins to make sense,’ Billy said, half to himself. They watched the taxi move away and Billy took Ryan to sit on the edge of the Finger Wharf, where he continued the story of Trim on Wreck Reef. Later, they caught a taxi to Bellevue Hill, where Justice Eisenstein lived, Billy explaining on the way where they were going.

  ‘It’s very important that you try to answer the questions you are asked. Just tell the judge what you told me, Ryan. Don’t be frightened. Marcus Eisenstein and I went to kindergarten together and then to Sydney Grammar and university, and for years we were lawyers together. He’s an old mate and a very nice man.’

  ‘Can he put me in gaol?’ Ryan asked.

  Billy laughed. ‘No, not tonight anyway. I told you he’s a friend, who I hope is going to help us.’

  The taxi stopped outside a large and rather clumsylooking red brick mansion in Victoria Road where Billy had played so often as a child. He didn’t mention to Ryan that his own family home was only three doors down and an even more imposing edifice.

  Marcus Eisenstein welcomed them personally at the front door and led them directly into his study. Shortly afterwards, a maid brought in tea and cake and a bottle of lemonade for Ryan. Ryan was strictly a Coca-Cola man and Billy wondered for a moment if he would reject the lemonade. While he was a very nice child, he hadn’t acquired any of the social niceties and had a tendency to speak his mind. But Ryan accepted the drink without a word, though he declined the offer of cake. No doubt Maria had been plying him with her pastries all day.

  The judge’s study was lined with books, half of them covered in green or red leather, their titles and volumes stamped in gold. There was a library ladder in one corner of the room, and the parquet floor was covered by three large colourful Persian rugs. Each of the deep leather club chairs had a small table to match, and in
an area on its own there was a grand old desk with a green leather top and, behind it, a modern typist’s chair. It was the kind of study you might see in an English movie, and all it lacked was the ancestral portraits on the wall.

  ‘Well now, why are we here?’ Marcus Eisenstein asked, pouring Billy a cup of tea. ‘Though I must say it’s nice to see you, Billy. Help yourself to milk and sugar.’

  Billy, who was down to two teaspoons of sugar, thanked him again for seeing them. ‘I thought it might be best if you read my notes and then perhaps we can talk.’ The briefcase was still handcuffed to his wrist so he reached for the key around his neck, opened the handcuff and retrieved his notebook. Marcus Eisenstein didn’t remark on the shackled briefcase and accepted the notepad, which Billy had opened on the appropriate page. He read for a good ten minutes, occasionally grunting and glancing up at Ryan, finally returning it to Billy.

  ‘I’m glad to see you haven’t lost any of your skills, Billy, these notes are excellent.’ He started to question Ryan, asking him to elaborate on various aspects. It soon became obvious that he was impressed with the child’s intelligence and recall.

  Ryan had also managed to answer him with only an occasional tremor in his voice and only once had tears run silently down his cheeks.

  ‘Well done, Ryan,’ Marcus Eisenstein said at the conclusion of his questions. Turning to Billy, he said, ‘If you will come to my chambers tomorrow afternoon, I will have arranged for Ryan to be placed in safe custody with Mr and Mrs Poleondakis as a protected witness. As we have no case yet, I will get the necessary papers from Justice Wood. Unfortunately, the royal commission’s terms of reference only include the police and public servants and not members of the public. But I see from your notes that a Mr Alfred Petersen, a senior public servant in the Department of Community Services, may be involved. He would, I imagine, fall within the scope of the inquiry so Justice Wood will be able to justify Ryan’s protected witness status.’