Beneath the Willow

by Michael J Murphy

  He peeled himself off the wall and began to shuffle towards Ronnie. An image of a woman in the middle of the road entered his peripheral vision; her face was tortured with anguish, and her lower limbs were sprawled in hopeless resignation as she cradled the limp body of a child. Her screams were barely audible through Frank’s shattered eardrums, only the sight conveying her loss.

  The bomb, which the brown suited men had planted, was a crude but effective combination of dynamite and long fuse. It had nearly demolished Ron’s place, as well as the neighbouring dwelling.

  With the bell of the fire brigade ringing in the distance, Frank slumped to his knees, just short of a motionless Don Ryan. Hammer was flat on his back. His white shirt was soaked in blood, and his chest was impaled by a splintered window frame. Frank watched on, his numbed brain unable to comprehend what he saw. His gaze switched from the lifeless body to his boss. Ronnie knelt with his fists clenched tight against his temples and his chin tucked into his chest.

  ***

  Frank woke, but struggled to open his eyes. They closed and then slowly re-opened, while he fought the heaviness of concussion and his desire to sleep. He tried to focus on the two figures directly at his side. Their image became clearer with each attempt to stay awake.

  A soft murmur of voices crept into his consciousness at the same time as a skull-splitting pain, reminded him of the explosion. He recognised his father and his familiar but muffled voice that urged him to rest.

  ‘Mum, Dad, where am I?’ shouted Frank. His injured eardrums prevented him from gauging the volume of his own voice.

  ‘Hospital, dear,’ replied Grace. She put her mouth close to his ear and then kissed his forehead gently. ‘What happened Frank? They tell us you were near an explosion.’

  Barely able to hear and with a headache that throbbed at the base of his skull, Frank stared back at his mother, confused, while scenes of what had taken place gradually came to his mind’s eye. The sterile environment of the hospital unsettled him further.

  ‘Grace,’ said Albert, ‘he can’t hear, let him rest. We will come back tomorrow.’

  ‘Can’t we stay?’ she replied.

  ‘It’s pointless, luv. Sleep is the best thing for him, the doctor said so himself.’

  Torn between a mother’s instinct to nurse her child, and the practicality of her husband’s words, Grace reluctantly got up to leave. A pang of sadness made her turn suddenly for one last word, only to see Frank already fast asleep. As a tear rolled down her cheek, Grace leaned over and kissed her youngest son on the forehead—like she had before adolescence had brought on all of its awkwardness. She brushed his hair with her fingers as she pulled away, and felt a heaviness develop around her.

  Albert and Grace left the ward and stepped into a large hallway, typical of many hospitals. The light was dull and the air cold; it felt like it conflicted with the purpose of healing. They turned right for the main entrance and passed a man who was dressed neatly, of medium build, and in his mid to late thirties. He spoke with the doctor who had looked over Frank’s chart only moments before.

  The Millers continued on towards the main doors of the hospital, but Albert stopped after he had felt a hand on his bicep.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ said a soft male voice.

  Albert turned and noticed it was the man who had been conversing with the doctor. ‘Yes?’ replied Albert quietly, mindful of the hospital patients.

  ‘Mr Miller, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Detective William Tyrell, Mr Miller,’ said the policeman. He displayed his credentials and then nodded to Grace politely.

  ‘How may I help you, Detective Tyrell?’ asked Albert calmly. Little alarm bells gave off a quiet but distinctive ring in the depths of his awareness. Grace was nonplussed, and stared at the detective. She smiled politely, but was at a total loss as to why he had introduced himself.

  ‘Just a routine follow-up in regards to the explosion your son was caught up in,’ said Detective Tyrell. He reached into his coat pocket and produced a pencil and notebook. ‘Could I ask a couple of quick questions?’

  ‘Certainly, but I’m not sure how much help I will be,’ replied Albert. He anticipated the need for comfort and took his wife’s hand in his. ‘From what I have been told Frank was in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  ‘Yes, like I said, just routine. How is your son?’

  ‘Knocked about… but all right thank you Detective,’ replied Albert, a little more defensive than before. ‘He is heavily concussed and his hearing isn’t good… burst eardrums from the explosion, the doctor told us.’

  ‘How old is Frank?’

  ‘Just turned fifteen.’

  ‘Donald Ryan, Mr Miller. Does that name mean anything to you?’

  ‘No, can’t say I have heard that name,’ replied Albert. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Unfortunately, Mr Ryan was killed in the blast.’

  ‘Oh, that’s terrible,’ gasped Grace. ‘His poor family.’

  ‘Tragically, a young boy was killed as well,’ added Detective Tyrell.

  Grace Miller let out a high-pitched shriek. She caught it by placing her hand to her mouth. Albert pulled her in closer.

  Detective Tyrell made a couple of quick notes in the small book he carried. He surmised, as he wrote, that Mr and Mrs Miller were your average, law-abiding couple. Mr Miller’s answers were honest and forthright, the trace of defensiveness understandable considering the circumstances. Their son, however, puzzled him. At first glance, he appeared like any other teenage kid, but what was a kid from a nice family doing anywhere near Donald Hammer Ryan, let alone the other injured man who had left the scene? Witnesses described him as someone who looked a lot like Ronnie Symonds, and after a bit of digging, the detective discovered that the terrace house gutted in the explosion belonged to him.

  Albert watched Detective Tyrell make notes. He had the distinct impression that these enquiries were anything but routine, and decided that the less he said from now on, the better. At least until he had a chance to talk to Frank.

  ‘Detective Tyrell.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Miller,’ replied the detective, looking up from his notebook. ‘Sorry about that, I need to keep notes, not as sharp as I used to be.’

  ‘Could we continue this at another time?’ asked Albert. ‘It has been a tiring day for my wife, and I think it would be best if I get her home.’

  ‘Certainly, Mr Miller, you have been most helpful. You can come down to the station; I will need to speak to Frank when he is discharged any way.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ replied Albert sharply.

  ‘I will need to speak to Frank, after the doctors give the all-clear, of course.’

  ‘You’re not suggesting Frank had anything to do with this, Detective?’ Albert Miller’s voice was restrained, but had a bite in its delivery.

  ‘Not at all, Mr Miller,’ replied Tyrell, calmly. He absorbed Albert’s aggression. ‘I will be interviewing everyone who was at the scene at the time of the explosion.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Albert. ‘You’re just doing your job. I apologise for my tone, like I said, it has been a long day.’

  ‘I understand completely,’ replied the detective. He offered his hand for Albert to shake, before he excused himself and walked away to intercept the doctor he had spoken with before.

  ***

  Apart from feeling upset after her son was injured in the explosion, Grace Miller was tense. Her nerves were stretched tight after the unexpected encounter with the detective. Her mood was jittery. Each sound, in an otherwise quiet hospital, was louder and more intrusive than it actually was.

  With her arm linked in her husband’s and her face angled towards the floor, Grace made for the hospital’s main entrance with quickened steps and shortened breath. She had tried at first to avoid, and then out-run, a wave of emotion that began with Archie’s departure. Slowly but surely, it had gathered itself to gain strength, and reached a point where conta
inment was no longer an option, only escape.

  Grace broke away from her husband and let out a small and muffled cry as she began to run down the cold and sterile hallway. One hand was clasped to her mouth, the other over her stomach. Desperate and ungainly, she struggled feverishly with the heavy door that barred her escape. Her only thought was for the wall of emotion that cascaded from behind; it threatened to her engulf her in a flood of her own fear.

  Albert reacted immediately, and was able to catch up with his wife. He covered the ground between them quickly and placed his arm around her shoulders. He did his best to comfort Grace as she sobbed uncontrollably in his arms, his heart ripped apart by his wife’s agony. He knew, through his own darkened moments, exactly where this outpouring of feeling was coming from.

  For Albert, the head of the family, his role was clear. He must be the one immovable figure in a howling gale; the person that could be clung to when the hurricane of change threatened to move and displace his family, like it would trees in a wild storm.

  ‘It’s alright, luv,’ whispered Albert, as he calmly opened the door. He noticed a bench to his right on the hospital verandah, and gently steered his wife towards the small stone slab. He spoke gently to her as he did.

  ‘Frank will be fine, Grace, everything will be fine,’ said Albert. He knew that Frank’s condition, although very upsetting, was only part of the reason for his wife’s loss of composure.

  ‘What is happening, Albert; Frank hurt, the police?’ cried Grace. Her tortured sobs were replaced by sniffles; her nerves, which had been wound tight, were released by the outpouring of emotion.

  As Grace calmed, a soft glow of embarrassment crept across her face. She realised the scene she had created. ‘I am sorry for how I behaved, Albert, I lost control,’ said Grace with more composure. She was raised not to put family or personal issues on display, where they could be viewed by a conservative and disapproving public.

  ‘Think nothing of it, Grace,’ said Albert. He passed her his handkerchief. ‘No one noticed. Are you all right?’

  ‘Much better,’ replied Grace. ‘But I still feel foolish, carrying on like that, when poor Frank is injured and in pain. I’ll be back first thing in the morning with something nice,’ she continued cheerfully. ‘Maybe I could bake some scones for him; that will lift his spirits.’

  ‘Frank would love that Grace,’ replied Albert, which brought comfort to his wife. Albert pondered the likelihood of Frank’s accident being a case of simple misfortune. Saddened by what he had witnessed, he did not want to dwell on the matter. He knew his wife would want to deal with what had happened in her own way, so Albert changed the subject by suggesting they walk home; Grace agreed at once.

  An image appeared in Grace’s mind of a wounded Frank that unexpectedly morphed into Clarence, alone and afraid. It made her gut taut like a weighted rope.

  ***

  The night was balmy, which made access to the ward easy, by way of a window left open in hope of a cooling southerly change. Aware of the need for stealth, but desperate to get his message across, the lone figure moved slowly past several beds in the hospital ward. Assisted by moonlight, he limped forward, slowed by a slight but consistent pain in his hip. It was the result of a deep laceration sutured by a backyard doctor in the cellar of the Dry Dock Hotel.

  Ronnie Symonds paused and scanned the row of beds in search of Frank; his attention was diverted momentarily by the silhouette of a nurse who walked on the other side of a glass-panelled door. Confident the threat of detection had passed, Ron Symonds began to move in Frank’s direction. As he did, he retrieved something from his pocket, fully aware that he must act swiftly. Crouched at the side of Frank’s bed, Symonds placed his hand firmly over Frank’s mouth. It snapped the patient out of a deep and peaceful sleep.

  Frank was startled, and fought as hard as his weakened body could under his attacker’s grip. He succumbed quickly when he recognised his boss’s face, illuminated partly by the lunar glow.

  The patient in the next bed stirred but didn’t wake, reminding Symonds that he could not afford to be discovered. He placed a finger to his lips for silence and then grasped Frank by the wrist. Roughly, Ron placed a piece of paper he held in the palm of Frank’s hand and then leaned over to position his mouth within an inch of his apprentice’s ear. He began to speak slowly, but with enough volume to overcome any misunderstanding.

  ‘Read this, then destroy it, destroy it—understand?’

  Ronnie stood up and held his thumb up as a signal for comprehension. After he received a nod from Frank, he made a quick exit just as the nurse on duty entered at far end of the ward.

  ELEVEN

  The walls of the small interrogation room were a pale green, like moss that had dried hard on a sun-baked rock. The ceiling—once white—had turned a yellowy-grey from years of tobacco smoke, blown in the air by handcuffed citizens.

  While Frank was not handcuffed, he was certainly being questioned, and as he sat on a timber chair, alone, except for a bare table, his mind spun like a top. He tried to take in all that had happened in the last three days.

  The shock of seeing Don Ryan lying dead on the street, impaled by a piece of timber, had shaken Frank Miller. The excitement and exhilarating rush that had come with his new-found profession suddenly took a cold and sobering twist. Frank’s steady rise under Ronnie’s tutelage, the responsibility of dealing with large sums of cash, and the overall trust his boss had placed in him, had established him as a mostly unseen, but important part of the business. It had sent his self-belief sky-rocketing, and infused him with a euphoric sense that he couldn’t be touched.

  The euphoria was now checked, but not extinguished; a thin but permanent crust—imperceptible but life altering—had formed over his resolve after a heated exchange with his father. That had been the case for Frank after each obstacle or challenge he faced in his new trade; absorb it, then deal with it, just like he was on his first trip to the police station.

  His hearing was still affected, so he had been forced to write some things down for the detective, such as name, address, and occupation. But as disoriented as he was, he still remembered Ronnie’s advice. He told the constable at the scene of the explosion that he knew nothing. After Ronnie’s visit during that night at hospital, his line of reply had remained constant, and he admitted to police that he knew Ron Symonds, but only through doing the odd job for extra money. A bit of house maintenance here and there, as he had intended to attempt on the day of the explosion. Frank had frustrated the constable, then the sergeant, and now, the detective. His unwillingness to talk had stalled proceedings and brought him to his current impasse.

  Frank heard the metallic sound of the heavy bolt being unlatched on the other side of the door, and he prepared himself for further questions from the detective. He recited what had been on the note that Ron had delivered to him. ‘I pay you a bit of cash to do odd jobs on my properties. Nothing more. Keep it simple. Never explain yourself. You knew Hammer to say hello, that’s it.’

  The door opened and Frank took a deep breath. He exhaled slowly and steadied himself for the detective’s next round of questions. The constable opened the door and stepped to the side to allow the person behind to enter the room. Frank felt his confidence return, and was ready for what was to come, but was completely shocked to see who had entered the small dull room in the policeman’s place.

  ***

  ‘Are you sure this is the right thing to do, Detective?’ queried Albert Miller. He fidgeted in his seat across from Detective Tyrell, who was seated behind his cramped, but organised desk.

  ‘I admit it is unorthodox, but I, and forgive me for saying, you have gotten nowhere with young Frank so far,’ replied Detective Tyrell.

  Albert Miller, sat upright in his chair, offended at the detective’s intrusion into his personal life; the ‘gotten nowhere’ remark stung. The father of four took the comment as a summation of his fifteen years as Frank’s father, not, as the detective int
ended, a note on what had transpired these last days.

  ‘Mr Miller,’ said Sergeant Hobbs, from the side of Detective Tyrell’s desk. The sergeant spoke firmly, but without aggression, and looked Albert straight in the eye. ‘We firmly believe that Ronald Symonds and his former associate Don Hammer Ryan ran everything in Balmain from illegal gambling to protection rackets and black-market trading.’

  ‘Now, Mr Miller,’ began Detective Tyrell. He leaned forward in his seat to engage Frank’s father, and regained his ascendency in the process. ‘We do not believe that your son had anything to do with, or was a target, for that matter, of the bombing.’

  ‘I should hope not,’ retorted Albert, shocked by the gravity of the statement, not the statement itself. ‘Should I be getting Frank a lawyer?’

  ‘Mr Miller, if I may,’ said the detective. He raised his hands like a preacher would in an attempt to subdue Mr Miller, but in doing so, showed his first signs of impatience through his voice. ‘While we don’t believe he is involved, it is my gut instinct, my police officer’s voice, if you will, that tells me that Frank knows a hell of a lot more than he is letting on about Ryan and in particular Symonds, and… what they may get up to on a daily basis.’ Tyrell calmed his voice and continued. ‘We want to help Frank, Mr Miller, and no, he doesn’t need a lawyer, but we want to know he is on our side.’

  Albert Miller’s shoulders slumped. He resigned himself at that moment to all the doubts and questions that had plagued his mind these past months. All the issues he had promised to engage, but failed to pursue. He reassured himself that his status as Frank’s father would be enough to ensure honest and reliable answers, even when those answers were unnervingly calm and confident.