by Peter Watt
‘Have an accident?’ he asked after he’d ordered a beer from the buxom barmaid.
The man did not look at Harry. ‘What’s it to you, cobber?’ he replied.
‘I reckon you might have got it in Hyde Park a few weeks back,’ Harry said, and this time the man turned to stare at him, fear flickering in his eyes.
‘Are you a copper?’ the man asked, gripping his beer.
‘I was,’ Harry replied. ‘But now I work for Major Duffy – the man you tried to kill, Micky.’
Micky reacted fast, tossing the remains of his beer in Harry’s face, and bolted for the door. Harry wiped the liquid from his eyes and decided that at his age it was not worth a foot chase through the winding alleyways of the Rocks.
Harry pushed his way out of the bar onto the sunlit street and stood for a moment looking up and down the tangle of laneways. Micky was not to be seen, but at least Harry knew he lived nearby. It was only a matter of returning to the gym and making a few telephone calls to round up some friends to assist him in his search of the surrounding tenement flats and boarding houses.
*
‘Bloody good news,’ Sean said when Harry relayed that he had identified his assailant. ‘But we will need to pick him up ourselves. I don’t know who to trust amongst the coppers any more.’
‘Sergeant First Class Ward we can trust,’ Harry said. ‘We’ve both known him for years. He and I were constables together before the last war. I have a beer with Keith from time to time, and I know he has a strong dislike for Preston.’
‘Okay, we get a confession out of the man you found and hand him over to Ward,’ Sean said.
‘Sounds like a plan,’ Harry agreed. ‘I have a couple of the boys on standby for a sweep tonight. I have a pretty good idea where our man lives.’
‘I will come with you,’ Sean said, and Harry shook his head.
‘You don’t need to be around when we catch up with Micky,’ he said. ‘There is the law and there is justice, and they are not always the same thing. I intend to make sure Micky gets the justice he deserves, and that may mean stepping outside the law.’
‘I will leave it to you then,’ Sean said. ‘Just make sure that when you hand him over to the police he can still walk.’
Harry grinned, rising from his chair and putting on his hat. ‘By this time tomorrow my old cobbers in the force will be knocking on Sir George’s door at his fancy mansion to ask him a few embarrassing questions.’
Sean watched with slight trepidation as Harry left the office. Finally, after so many years, Sir George Macintosh might be brought to justice. But he knew Harry was good at what he did, and wondered if this was the breakthrough he had dreamed of for so many years. Sean had once loved Sir George’s sister, Fenella, but she had been viciously murdered in Los Angeles, before the last war. Sean knew in his gut that Sir George had ordered the brutal killing, but nothing could ever be proved. At least now he could use the law he had worked with for so many years to finally make Macintosh accountable. Sean knew that it would be a long night as Harry hunted down the suspect. He just hoped he did not hurt him too badly.
*
Patrick Duffy had cried when he left Sydney on the train. Tom had seen his tears but was awkward in what he should do. He knew that the boy must be missing his mother, and that he had been shunted from person to person since they had been separated. Eventually the tears subsided, though, and by the time the train reached Brisbane, Patrick seemed to have his feelings under control.
Patrick met Jessie in Brisbane for a brief moment at the railway station. She had a uniform on, and was introduced as Tom’s own daughter. In Patrick’s opinion she looked too old to be a daughter. Daughters were children like himself and it did not make much sense to him that she should be a grown-up. She was very nice, though, but before long they were on another train with the inevitable crowd of soldiers in uniform, cigarette smoke and clatter-clack of the great metal wheels on steel tracks. Whistles blew and coal smoke billowed past the window, giving off an acrid smell. Days seemed to stretch endlessly for the young boy, until they arrived in Rockhampton and Tom and Patrick left the train to be met by a tough-looking young man in a car. He was introduced as one of Tom’s employees, and they drove on rough, dirt roads across endless plains as the sun slowly sank before their eyes.
They camped out the first night on the side of the track, and Patrick liked that. He had a vague understanding that the tough-looking young man had once been a soldier and had been wounded in some place called Tobruk.
Eventually the next day, after travelling over roads barely discernible in the scrub, they came to a single-storey house with a big verandah in the middle of a vast plain.
A pretty lady rushed up to Uncle Tom, kissing and hugging him when he got out of the car. Before Patrick knew it, she had turned her attention to him. She did not try to kiss or hug him, though, but bent down and looked into his face with a sweet smile.
‘I am Abigail,’ she said gently. ‘Welcome to your Uncle Tom’s house. I know you and I will become good friends.’
And so Patrick Duffy had arrived in the land of his Uncle Tom’s ancestors, where he settled in remarkably well. His first friend was a young Aboriginal boy whose father worked as a stockman on the property. The boy spoke little English, and Patrick spoke no words of his new friend’s language, but this did not interfere with their friendship.
Days turned to weeks and Abigail would insist that Patrick do school lessons, as well as her supervising domestic matters around the sprawling homestead on the brigalow plains.
‘He is a grand boy,’ Abigail said one evening after Tom had returned from a day of mustering cattle. The two of them sat enjoying the serenity of the dying day on the verandah. ‘He is very intelligent, and I noticed that he sometimes changes from English to the local indigenous language. I will miss him when his mother finally comes to reclaim him.’
Tom gazed out over the scrub. The dust that had been stirred up by the hooves of the cattle had finally settled, and the beasts were in the yards awaiting shipment to the meatworks on the coast. ‘What if she does not survive?’ he said quietly, sipping his cup of tea. ‘What happens to Patrick then?’
‘Oh, that goes without saying,’ Abigail answered. ‘We adopt him.’
‘But we are not married,’ Tom said, and when he glanced at Abigail he thought he saw a flicker of challenge in her eyes.
‘Well, Tom Duffy, why don’t you do something about that?’ she said.
‘Are you proposing?’ Tom asked.
‘I think that since we share the same bed you should make an honest woman of me,’ Abigail laughed.
‘I suppose I should marry you,’ Tom replied, and took another sip of his tea. ‘What do I need to do?’
‘You leave everything to me,’ Abigail answered, ‘as you have proven to be the least romantic man I have ever known. I think I should have the marriage banns posted in the church.’
‘You know,’ Tom said with a smile, ‘I have never even asked you if you are a religious woman.’
‘I am a Methodist, and I believe that you are a Roman Catholic,’ she said. ‘But we live in a part of the world where God is with us every day the sun rises. I think our religious differences do not matter here, but I would still like to be married in my church.’
‘Makes no difference to me,’ Tom shrugged. ‘Just so long as you do not disapprove of the boys having a piss-up here, to celebrate our union.’
Abigail leaned over on Tom’s shoulder. ‘I love you, Tom,’ she said. ‘I think I started to love you when I was nursing you in the Gulf.’
‘I have no idea how such a beautiful woman as you could love me,’ Tom said, taking her hand, ‘but I’m very grateful you do.’
‘You do not see you through my eyes,’ Abigail said with a sigh.
Just then Patrick appeared. He had been exploring the scrub near
the homestead and was streaked with dirt, and his feet were bare. He looked exhausted.
‘Patrick, you are to go inside and have a bath before supper,’ Abigail said firmly but not unkindly.
‘You look like you’ve had quite an adventure, son. Where did you go?’ Tom asked.
‘I went a long way to a place near the road over there,’ Patrick said, gesturing vaguely west.
Tom knew he meant the road to Glen View. ‘Were you on your own?’ he asked. The boy was only new to a land where it was easy to get lost and die from exposure.
‘No,’ Patrick said. ‘I met a very old man. He said he was one of the people who lived here, and said he knew you, Uncle Tom.’
‘Did he have a name?’ Abigail asked.
‘He said his name was Wallarie.’
The hairs on the back of Tom’s neck stood on end.
Twenty-six
‘I think Patrick must have heard the name of Wallarie from his Aboriginal playmates,’ Abigail said. ‘Even I know of his reputation as the boogieman around here. The old women tell children who are being naughty that Wallarie will come for them in the night.’
Tom was not convinced. She had been born in England and the mysticism of the Outback was not her heritage. ‘I think it is time that Patrick had a day or two away from his schooling to go to Glen View,’ Tom said. ‘His grandmother was Kate Tracy, and she was the daughter of Patrick’s namesake who was as a brother to Wallarie in the old days out here when Patrick and Wallarie were hunted in the Gulf country. I think Wallarie has a connection to him.’
‘Tom, do you really believe in such things?’ Abigail asked. ‘The people of this land do not have our Christian beliefs.’
‘I believe that the spirit of Wallarie is now our guardian angel,’ Tom said. ‘He kept me alive in two wars when by all accounts I should have been killed. I know of others in the Duffy clan who also believe in his power.’
‘From the way you are talking we should be married in one of those stone circles I have seen in the bush,’ Abigail said, shaking her head.
‘It would be cheaper to do so,’ Tom slowly smiled. ‘Not such a bad idea.’
Abigail punched him in the arm. ‘Tom Duffy! How dare you even suggest that. A proper wedding is something every girl dreams of.’
‘Okay, a church it is,’ Tom said with a chuckle. ‘But I am going to take Patrick to a special place.’
‘What special place?’ Abigail asked.
‘I cannot tell you,’ Tom sighed. ‘It’s men’s business.’
The next day Tom had the sulky hitched and he and Patrick drove the distance to Glen View Station. There he was met by the manager, Ross Woods, who was a friend of Tom’s.
‘Tom, you old bastard,’ he said. ‘It’s been a while since we last saw you. Sorry to hear about your arm.’
‘Yeah, a bit of a bugger but we get issued with two just in case we lose one,’ Tom answered. ‘I brought another Duffy here for you to meet.’ He turned to Patrick. ‘This is Master Patrick Duffy whose grandmother was Kate Tracy.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Master Patrick,’ Ross said. ‘You have an impressive heritage.’
Patrick looked gravely at the station manager. He did not know what he meant, but he was smiling and the boy decided he must be a good man if Uncle Tom was friendly to him.
‘How about you two come in and have a cuppa,’ Ross said.
Tom and Patrick followed the station manager inside the house where a young Aboriginal girl dressed in a long white dress smiled shyly at them. Tom thought she was probably around fifteen years of age.
‘Mary, fetch tea and cold water for our guests,’ Ross said, and she departed the room to carry out the request.
Over tea and freshly baked scones, the two men chatted about cattle prices, the weather and the problems of labour shortages due to the war’s demands for manpower. Patrick eventually asked to be excused and wandered out into the yard where he saw an old gnarled bumbil tree standing alone. Its green foliage provided shade over the dusty yard and Patrick was drawn to it. When he was under its shade he saw a butterfly fluttering on the ground. It appeared to be injured. Patrick scooped it up in his hand. ‘Broken butterfly,’ he said softly in sympathy for the delicate creature’s suffering. After a moment its wings ceased moving, and Patrick instinctively knew the life had left it.
He knelt down and scraped out a tiny grave with the pocket knife that Tom had given him. ‘Poor butterfly,’ he said after he had buried the insect. ‘You are gone.’
‘Its spirit gone up in the sky,’ a voice said behind him, and Patrick turned to see his Aboriginal friend Wallarie sitting cross-legged a few feet away. He was naked except for a human hair belt around his waist, and in that were tucked a couple of small, hardwood clubs.
‘All things go away from this earth but live in the sky,’ Wallarie said.
‘Patrick, you should come inside,’ Tom called from the verandah.
‘Tom, he a good man,’ Wallarie said. ‘Tomorrow he take you to the place where we will meet again.’
Patrick looked over to Tom on the verandah, and when he turned his head back to speak with Wallarie, the old man had disappeared. Puzzled, Patrick walked back to the house, and when he reached Tom he said, ‘Wallarie said we would meet him tomorrow.’
Tom stared over his head at the bumbil tree. ‘When did Wallarie tell you this?’ he asked.
‘Just now,’ Patrick replied. ‘He talked to me under that tree. Did you not see him?’
Tom experienced the same eerie feeling he always had when Wallarie was around. He placed his hand on the boy’s head in an affectionate manner. ‘You know, Wallarie will always protect you,’ he said. ‘Maybe tomorrow I might even get to meet with my old friend again.’
Patrick hoped so, because Wallarie had once asked him if Tom could bring baccy – whatever that was.
That evening, when Patrick was in bed, Tom and Ross shared a bottle of whisky in the kitchen, as geckoes scurried along the walls, issuing their bird-like chirping challenges.
‘What do you know about Wallarie in these parts?’ Tom asked Ross as he poured the golden liquid into a couple of glass tumblers.
‘I remember him – as do the other old-timers around here – but the young ones don’t,’ Ross said. ‘He still frightens the blackfellas who work on Glen View. They reckon they see him in the bush when the curlews cry. They say he is an apparition of death, and you can’t get any of them to go on up to the hill for anything. They avoid that dried-up creekbed down in the scrub, too, where I heard his people were massacred way back last century. It’s said he once roamed Queensland killing whitefellas with your namesake, and I believe he was some kind of relative of yours.’
‘My grandfather,’ Tom replied, taking a swig of whisky. ‘He was shot down by the coppers up in the Gulf country. His father, Patrick Duffy, is buried on Glen View – along with a few more of my mob.’
‘It’s no secret that you have been trying for years to buy Glen View,’ Ross said.
‘Don’t worry, cobber,’ Tom said. ‘If that ever happens you can stay on as manager, and I might even give you a raise.’
‘Thanks, Tom,’ Ross said, lifting his tumbler in a gesture of a salute. ‘That would be something. I am sure Wallarie would be pleased to know the land was back in the hands of one of his mob.’
Both men fell silent as a great moon rose over the brigalow plains and the curlews commenced their mournful song. Tom was sure that it meant someone was going to die, but in time of war that was inevitable.
*
When Sean Duffy received the news that the suspect in his attempted murder was in police custody at Sergeant First Class Keith Ward’s station, he knew that he would have to identify the man and hope that he would confess. Harry had told him that Micky Slim had refused to divulge who had hired him, but he did confess to stabbing Sean in self-
defence.
‘Whoever put him up to it,’ Harry said, ‘has got him more scared of talking than facing a possible attempted murder charge.’
Sean caught a taxi to the inner city police station, where he found Sergeant First Class Keith Ward talking heatedly to Detective Sergeant Preston. He had a feeling of foreboding; why was Preston at the station?
Preston saw Sean and turned his attention to him.
‘You here to identify your alleged attacker?’ he questioned.
‘That is why I am here,’ Sean answered.
‘Well, go ahead,’ Preston said with a smirk. ‘He is still hanging in his cell.’
‘What do you mean, hanging in his cell?’ Sean asked, and noticed the dark expression on Keith Ward’s face.
‘He went and hanged himself an hour ago,’ Preston answered. ‘It seems he must have had a guilty conscience. Some crims are like that. He is all yours now.’ Preston placed his hat on his head and walked out of the station.
‘What the hell happened?’ Sean asked in a furious voice. ‘How could your man hang himself?’
‘Sorry, Major Duffy,’ Ward replied. ‘We are shorthanded, and I was on desk duties. Preston arrived and said he was to question the prisoner, but some time later he came to tell me that he had found the suspect hanging from a blanket that Micky had torn into strips and used as a means of strangling himself on the bars. I have informed the coroner and the matter is now out of my hands.’
‘How long was Preston with him?’ Sean asked, and he could see a flicker of guilt in the station sergeant’s eyes.
‘About twenty minutes, if I remember rightly,’ he replied.
‘Plenty of time to kill someone,’ Sean said.
‘Are you implying that Detective Sergeant Preston murdered my prisoner?’ Ward asked. ‘That is a serious accusation against a respected policemen.’
‘You bloody well know he murdered the man,’ Sean said.