by Paul Howarth
“I never had a chance to get up there, Tommy.”
“What you’re saying, it can’t be right.”
“I can assure you it is.”
“You got them two telegrams still?”
“No, but if you don’t believe me you can ask at the courthouse. That’s where they come. Honestly, I’d have helped her if I could; there just simply wasn’t time.”
Tommy stared out of the window, nodding minutely to himself, his jaw set and his eyes far away. He went slowly to the door and Shanklin rose, saying, “Hold up, now, hold up. You’re clearly not well yourself. Feverish maybe. That hand might be infected. I should take a look.”
“I’ll see about them telegrams.”
“Tommy, please. It won’t take long at all.”
He opened the door. Shanklin scrambled around the desk but Tommy was already outside. Their eyes met through the glass, then Tommy walked out into the blazing street and crossed to the other side, and from the direction of the hotel someone shouted: “Y’alright there, mate? Get a drink in ya, eh?”
He followed the narrow path between two squares of ruined lawn, grass as dry as kindling in a powdery red earth. The whitewashed courthouse looming ahead: sheer-walled, narrow-windowed, black-tarred doors riveted with metal plates; the stocks beside the entrance; a dusting of fresh sand beneath the splintered wooden cross.
Tommy reached the doors and halted. One was already open but the interior was pitch-dark against the sun. He set down the paper bag and waited; shapes emerged dully in the large hall. A guard asleep on a chair, behind him a short corridor lined with cells, where someone whistled an ebbing, haunting tune. To the left of the hall a young clerk sat at a desk, alongside doors to two further rooms: the courtroom itself and an office belonging to Magistrate MacIntyre.
Tommy stepped into the gloom.
The floor was flagstoned and dusty, no give underfoot. The clerk noticed him coming, looked up. There were no chairs inviting him to sit.
“Telegraph comes here, I heard?”
“Official use only. You’ll have to wait for the mail.”
“I’m not mailing nothing. John Sullivan sent me. From up Broken Ridge.”
Now the clerk set down his pen and leaned back in his chair. The wooden joins creaked. The whistling from the cells rose and fell.
“You new? Got a name?”
“Tommy McBride.”
The clerk’s eyes pinched. “As in them that were done by the blacks?”
Tommy nodded. “We’re working for Sullivan now, so can you—”
“Mr. MacIntyre’ll be wanting a word,” the clerk said. He angled his head toward the office and called, “Sir! Someone out here!”
There was a muffled response from inside the room. The clerk’s shouting also roused the guard. He tipped back his hat and peered at Tommy, yelled over his shoulder for quiet from the cells. The whistling paused, then took up again, as Tommy leaned over the desk and said, “There were two telegrams sent a couple of weeks back, both for Dr. Shanklin, came the same day.”
“About your sister,” the clerk said, nodding. “And wasn’t that a bloody shame.”
“You remember them?”
“Course I do. Had me back and forth to Shanklin like I was on a spring.”
“One followed the other, you’re sure about that?”
The clerk was nodding, but the office door opened before he could speak again. Magistrate MacIntyre stepped out. He was a big man, tall and broad, his buttoned suit jacket pulling at his gut, and ruddy in the cheeks, hair wild, like he’d just come through a sandstorm, or had been asleep.
“Sir, this is Tommy McBride,” the clerk said, pointing. “One of them that—”
“I know a McBride when I see one, Walter,” the magistrate said, barreling across to the desk. His accent was thick Scottish. He took hold of Tommy’s hand and flung it up and down. “Good to see you, lad, good to see you. Circumstances aside.”
Tommy had met Spencer MacIntyre no more than twice in his life. He’d once asked whether the name meant they were blood-tied, and while Mother had only laughed at him, Father had cursed and answered, “That snaky bastard’s no kin of mine.”
Now the magistrate took Tommy by the shoulder and steered him across the hall. The clerk and guard watched them go. There was a smell of drink on the man and a strong tang of sweat. He opened the office door, held it while Tommy walked through, then followed him inside.
“Best not to say too much out there, son. Walls are always listening in this place. Got eyes and mouths as well.”
The office was cramped and airless. A desk, chairs, bookcase, faded paintings on the walls, a couple of official appointments bearing MacIntyre’s name. The magistrate went around to his side of the desk, then thought better of it and came back again. He motioned for Tommy to sit, then did so himself, lowering his bulk into one of the flimsy wooden chairs, the two of them facing each other, knee to knee.
“Looks nasty,” MacIntyre said, nodding at Tommy’s hand. “What you done?”
“Ax slipped chopping wood.”
The magistrate smiled knowingly. “Quite a trick to be holding and chopping at the same time.”
“It was a hand ax. Splitting, I meant.”
“Don’t trouble yourself. You thirsty? Long ride down from Broken Ridge.”
Tommy shrugged. “Water, if you’ve got it.”
“Aye, son, aye.”
He lumbered out of the chair. There was a drinks tray on the cabinet, a pitcher of water alongside. MacIntyre poured the water, then a measure of whiskey for himself, handed Tommy his drink, and offered his glass for a toast. They touched. MacIntyre saluted. Gulped a mouthful, sank back down with a sigh.
“I’d expected you earlier. Once I’d heard what had gone on.”
He drank, watching Tommy over the rim of the glass, his eyebrows as thick and feathery as wings.
“Been busy,” Tommy said.
“Heard that too. Terrible business, of course.”
“Which bit?”
“All of it, boy, all of it.” He took another sip. “John send you?”
“Not exactly.”
“So you’ve come on your own account. I’d have thought your brother would be with you—you’re the younger, isn’t that right?”
“Billy doesn’t know I came neither.”
MacIntyre watched him severely. “Well, then, what’s this about?”
“I was just asking about the telegraph.”
“Oh yes, marvelous creation, a wonder of mankind. Soon there’ll be lines between every town in the colonies. Imagine it, a letter arriving in, say, Swan River, right after I’ve written it here. Be months on a horse before it got there—months!”
Tommy sipped the water, shifted in his seat. MacIntyre drank too.
“So you’ve a letter to send, have you, son?”
“I was checking on something, is all.”
MacIntyre slopped his tongue horselike around his mouth, leaned back, and folded his arms. “I’m on your side, you know, Tommy. Help you if I can. Consider me a friend of the family—I mourned both your parents when I heard what had gone on. We all did. Your mother used to work for me; she told you that, I assume. For Mrs. MacIntyre, I should say, over at the house there—till your father came along, that is. Now, there was a man liked to keep to his own, but I respected him, he had principles, however damn foolish they turned out to be.”
Tommy looked at him sharply. MacIntyre held up a hand, drank, winced.
“Hold on now, hold on. Let me finish at least. What I mean to say is that what happened at your place could have been avoided, I believe. There’s lessons to be learned. I said the same thing to your mother when she came in complaining about John and his patrols. I told her, ‘Liza, what d’you think it is keeps you all safe out there? It sure as hell isn’t blind luck that you’ve lasted this long.’”
“When was this?” Tommy asked him. MacIntyre waved a hand.
“Maybe a month or so back.
Couple of weeks before . . . look, what I’m trying to tell you is that whatever misgivings you’ve got about me, or John even, or any other folks in this town, aren’t worth shit against what you should feel about the blacks.”
“You don’t know what I feel.”
“I’ve a good idea, son. Why else would you be in here asking about telegrams?”
Tommy traced his fingertip around the edge of his water glass. “How d’you know what went on after?”
“Well, I’m the police magistrate. It’s only right that I’m informed.”
“So you know what we did?”
MacIntyre shuffled himself upright in the chair. “What I know is that a terrible crime was committed and that the Native Police were dispatched to pursue the suspects in accordance with the law. I have since learned the expedition was something of a success, and that justice has been rightfully served. The precise details of what happened will be a matter for the report.”
“You believe all that?”
“Every word. As should you. It’s the truth.”
“Horseshit, truth. Joseph did it and he wasn’t even there. They wanted the Kurrong gone, so we rode out and killed them. We bloody killed them all.”
The magistrate sat as calmly as if Tommy had reported a missing horse. He smiled wearily, then leaned close enough that Tommy could smell his liquored breath.
“Now, son, you’re going to have to be more careful running your mouth like that. There’s people on the coast would see you hanged for such talk.”
“I wouldn’t be the only one. There’s seven others would go before me.”
“You think so? Or would it just be you and your brother, on whose testimony the whole thing stands?”
Tommy looked down at his water. He raised the glass trembling to his lips.
MacIntyre said, “I had a reverend came to see me. Claimed to be, at least—fella can say he’s anything and no one’s any the wiser. But anyway, this man came in and sat in this very room, while Donnaghy out there removed his boy beyond our walls—the only natives allowed in my courthouse are them that are locked in the cells. The reverend sat where you’re sitting and he ummed and aahed about what he wanted to say, mumbling about these Kurrong and a man he’d met in the bush. Named him, even: Inspector Noone. Right away I warned him that he might be about to make a very grave mistake, and all the color drained from his face like he already knew this was true. Said Noone had warned him the exact same thing, but God had other ideas. ‘Well,’ I asked him, ‘who are you more afraid of?’ and he thought about it, then got up and walked right out the door, and we never saw him again.”
He paused, considered Tommy a moment, a faint smile.
“From the look of you, I’d say this story is ringing a few bells, so I really shouldn’t have to spell it out. But consider the warning I gave to the reverend—and your own mother for that matter—just as applicable to you. Be very careful what you decide to do next, Tommy. Not just in here, I mean in your life. For both yours and your brother’s sakes.”
“So you ain’t against any of what was done?”
“I’m against what was done to your family, that’s what I’m against. Remember, the law was with you. Who are we to question the law?”
“It wasn’t even the same blacks.”
“That’s a matter for the inspector’s report.”
“The report’ll be nothing but lies.”
MacIntyre drained his whiskey, stretched to place the glass on the desk. He righted himself, grunting, and said, “Son, I’m going to have to insist. I can’t have you speaking like this about an officer of the Crown. There’s allowances can be made on account of your situation, but if you’re not willing to take my advice, then I can’t help you. Think on it. You’ve seen it now, what’s out there: men like Noone, the Native Police, they’re all that’s keeping us safe. These natives . . . they’ve the Devil in them, Tommy, they’re naught but killers and thieves. If you still don’t believe me, ask John. Wasn’t two months ago he caught a nigger dragging two dead white boys at the end of a rope, right across his own bloody land! They’d been cut up and burned and all manner of things. Probably aiming to eat them once he got back to camp. That’s what we’re dealing with. There ain’t no other way.”
Tommy sat very still. The room leaned slightly. Air emptied from his lungs.
“Two dead white boys?” he croaked. “Dragged on the end of a rope?”
“That’s what he told me. Weren’t but a pair of young boundary riders from down Dubbo way. You understand what I’m telling you now?”
“What . . . what happened to him? The native Sullivan caught?”
“Bastard had a bloody revolver, Tommy. What d’you reckon John did?”
Tommy was nodding repeatedly. More of a tremor than a nod, and his face contorting somewhere between laughter and a most terrible grief.
“Dubbo,” he repeated. “From down Dubbo way.”
“Aye . . . look, are you alright there, son? You’ve gone a wee bit pale. Get you another water, something stronger maybe? When was the last time you ate?”
Tommy went to stand but couldn’t. His arm buckled beneath him and he fell back into the chair. The glass slipped and shattered on the flagstoned floor. On the second attempt he managed to stand and he lunged across the room. MacIntyre was calling to him but Tommy fell against the door. He took hold of the handle, then paused, and when he spoke it took him everything to keep his voice steady and low:
“That day Ma came to see you, when she asked for your help—did you tell him about her? Sullivan? Did you tell him she was here?”
MacIntyre nodded. “I might have mentioned it when I saw him but—”
Tommy opened the door. It clattered against the wall. The noise echoed through the courthouse and jerked the guard to attention and pulled the clerk from his seat. Tommy barreled out into the main hall. MacIntyre was shouting but Tommy didn’t hear him, his attention fixed instead on the bright shaft of sunlight falling through the front door and the whistling from the prisoner that squirmed into his head, a strange and eerie ditty, trilling up and down. He broke into a scrambled run, fleeing for the doors, reeled blindly into the light. With his hand raised against the glare he staggered along the front path, past the stocks and the sound of whip cracks and the screams of dying men . . . and women screaming also, babies crying, gunshot after gunshot and bodies falling down, down, down.
“You ready for that drink now, are ya? Get yerself a bloody drink!”
Father on the verandah, three holes in his chest. Drag marks where he’d crawled bleeding up the steps. He’d gone out into the yard to confront them, but it couldn’t have been Joseph he’d confronted because Joseph was already dead. Sullivan had caught him and put him in the ground, long before the mustering, before the sales, before sending that note to Father, before hearing about Mother’s betrayal. It was Sullivan. Sullivan had come to the house that day. The bastard had come to collect.
“Him and your mother had no right carrying on the way they did. Bloody well turned on me in the end. Lack of basic gratitude, of well-earned respect.”
Locke would have been with him. Same as the first time, over by the cattle yards. Father with his carbine and at least one of them armed, carrying Joseph’s revolver, wouldn’t have known it was Father’s old gun. They didn’t even know Joseph. He was new, they’d never met him: just another native they’d caught on their station, the only one they’d found after bringing in Noone. Then things had become heated and Father was too slow, three shots in him before he could react, and Mother on the verandah wondering what was wrong; they chased her to the bedroom and picked her off too, no other reason than to silence her, no other base intent.
“Was she raped? Well, how was she lying? What did they see?”
Mary in the bedroom now, hiding beneath the bed. Might have seen Locke and Sullivan, heard their voices. A five-shot, not a six-shot: only one ball left.
“Has she spoke? But she’s alive? You’re sure
?”
The dogs barking and lunging when they came back outside: Locke runs them through with his sword. Same quick thrust as he did in the bush, in and then out, flush in the neck, but not before one of them clamps their jaws on his hand.
“Bloody big snake with dog tooth that bugger.”
And how quickly those dogs were cremated, how quickly the bodies were put in the ground. Sullivan reluctant to send for Noone until the house had been cleared, covering his tracks as he went. He’d expected the brothers that night but hadn’t known what they would do, so he’d sent the watchman to meet them just in case. He wasn’t a permanent sentry. He was only there for them.
“The boss says get their guns so I got to get your guns.”
Noone had known. He’d known all along. No footprints, no evidence, neither Mother nor Mary touched. Two horses left behind, the house not ransacked.
“Strange for a man to be ambushed when he was already armed.”
So Sullivan had to pay him. And he’d fixed it so Billy and Tommy would come. Making them complicit in the lie and in the deed, offering them their lives back and drawing them so close they wouldn’t question him again.
“John has his own reasons for making you his boy.”
Joseph, Arthur, the Kurrong: all were innocent. Sullivan had been behind everything, twisting the murder to his own ends. An excuse to clear his station and the surrounding lands, to finish the Kurrong altogether, see the last of them burn. Noone and Locke in his pocket, Tommy and Billy too. All done on their testimony, in their family’s name. MacIntyre had judged it correctly, but he’d judged the wrong side.
“They’ve the Devil in them, Tommy, they’re naught but killers and thieves.”
Tommy stopped in the middle of the road, clutching his stomach, his mouth open in a long and empty howl. He arched his back and gazed pleadingly at the sky, the clouds, at whatever lay above, then trudged up the road to Beau and fell against him, his head on his rib cage, feeling the strength of him, the warmth. He unhitched the reins, dragged himself into the saddle, and circled the horse around. Gaunt faces watching him, in windows, in doorways. As he walked Beau toward the edge of town, he saw a girl step from the shadows in front of Song’s Hardware Store. She stood at the railing and spoke his name, but Tommy did not turn as he passed. He couldn’t bear to look at her. The way she’d said it—innocently, tenderly—it hadn’t sounded like his name at all.