by Paul Howarth
* * *
For five hours they hauled the captives north, the woman flagging and falling and being yanked up by her chain, Rabbit begging in broken English for their lives. Noone simply ignored them. Eyes fixed indifferently ahead. Many times Billy readied himself to speak up on their behalf but the words withered on his tongue. It was pointless. Noone would not be swayed, and Billy would only mark himself out. He hoped that at least the woman might be spared. She hadn’t done anything except fall for the wrong man.
In a nondescript patch of scrubland no different to any other, Noone called a halt and they dismounted and the pair were released from their neck chains. The woman tried to run immediately. Jarrah tripped her and dragged her back to the group; the others gathered round. Rabbit spoke to the woman tenderly. Billy had no idea what he said. Rabbit pleaded: “Is Rabbit fault, Marmy. Not she. Not she,” and Billy tried to conjure some sympathy in Noone’s stare, some hope for them, but the truth was there was simply nothing there at all.
“Hold him firm, the pair of you. Percy, get the gin.”
Jarrah and Pope pinned Rabbit between them by his arms. Percy grabbed the woman, her hands shielding her belly, her feet shuffling backward through the dirt. She began shouting, as did Rabbit, while calmly over both of them Noone said, “I am very disappointed, Rabbit. After all I have done for you—I made you a man. You might have told me about the child, but instead you sneak out in the night like a rat. That is unacceptable. I will not allow such behavior to stand. Percy, please step aside.”
Percy let go of the woman and before she even knew she was free Noone had drawn one of his revolvers and put a round directly through her hands and into her gut. She looked down at the wound, bewildered. Blood seeped between her fingers and she patted it, as if trying to keep it all in. Rabbit screamed and began thrashing but the two troopers held him fast. He looked at them imploringly. His former colleagues, his former friends—they wouldn’t meet his gaze. The woman let out a wail of mourning that filled the plains, sky, and earth, then Noone abruptly silenced her with a bullet to the head.
She crumpled to the ground and lay motionless, and Noone turned to Rabbit, only upright thanks to the two troopers pinning his arms, staring at his fallen lover, his mouth agape and webbed with strands of spittle in a long and silent cry.
“Gentlemen,” Noone said, “it’s been a pleasure,” and in one fluid motion, a quick three-beat movement as precise as a conductor’s baton stroke, he shot Pope, Rabbit, and Jarrah plumb through the forehead, so swiftly they fell as one, their arms interlocked, first to their knees then pitching forward, facedown in the dirt.
Noone holstered the revolver.
“Dig the hole,” he said.
* * *
That evening they camped in the same stand of brigalow as they had the previous night, sitting around the same campfire, three men instead of five. Numbly Billy stared at the empty spaces where Pope and Jarrah should have been, the low fire flickering, his food untouched in his lap. Noone and Percy chatted while they ate, like this was a normal day for them, which Billy realized it probably was. He hated the both of them, for dragging him out here, for getting him involved—all he wanted was to leave.
Noone had made him take turns on the shovel when Percy needed a spell, jamming the blade into that rocky red earth, turning out soil onto the mound. Noone smoked and watched and ambled back and forth; the bodies bled out where they lay. Flies hummed, birds waited, Billy waist-deep in the hole, mud-smeared and sweat-slicked, cupping his nose with his sleeve against the smell. One of the bodies had shat itself. He didn’t know which one. Grimly he went on digging, still trying to process what he’d just seen. He couldn’t explain it—murdering his own men, loyal for all these years—other than the fact Noone was fucking crazy, and treated killing like a game. But what he kept coming back to, as he dug out their grave, was the fact he’d shot the woman in her stomach first. He’d killed the baby, deliberately. He’d wanted Rabbit to see, and maybe Billy too. Again he thought of Katherine, pictured her alone in the house with Noone. Pregnant. He could have done anything, to her, to their child. And Billy wasn’t there.
“Why’d you do it?” he asked now, in the moonlit clearing, a lattice of shadows from the leaves. “Why’d you kill your own men?”
Noone sighed like it was just one of those things. “I already told you, the Native Police has served its purpose, its time is almost up. Besides, it has become too difficult in the current climate to do the job properly, as one must. I do not intend being the last man standing. Percy and I are headed for a new assignment on the coast. Fun as this has been, it is time for a new challenge, and to reap the rewards of all I have sown.”
Billy scoffed and said, “What sort of an answer is that?”
“Do I have to spell it out for you? I suppose I probably do. Those men, fine troopers though they were—what was I to do with them? I can hardly take them with me, so what else? Retire them? How? Where to? They are neither suited for white society, nor can they go back to their tribes; frankly I doubt their tribes even exist. Think of them like workhorses that have reached the end of their useful lives. It’s kinder to simply terminate them. Makes things easier all round.”
“But . . . they’re not horses. They’ve been with you for years.”
“Exactly. And consider the things they have seen, the things they know. I am to be promoted, Billy. Chief inspector, and not before time. I cannot run the risk of any scandal. There is a different sensibility on the coast. You should be thanking me, for it is your reputation as well. And besides, now you know what will happen to you and your young family if ever you decide to turn.”
“Have your eye out before you opened your mouth anyway,” Percy snarled at him, patting the Hawken rifle at his side.
“Come back when your balls have dropped.”
“Boys, boys,” Noone said, smiling. “We’re all on the same side here.”
When the hole was ready they’d dragged over the bodies and one by one slung them in. Echoes of his parents, of that day he and Tommy had done this exact same thing. Now it was this little shitstain Percy he crabbed to the graveside with, the boy panting and straining, barely the strength to hold his end. In they went, the four of them—five, Billy corrected himself. A tangle of limbs and bodies that at first came almost to the lip, until Percy climbed on top and like a child crushing sandcastles, set about stomping them down.
The sun was low in the west when they rode away from that place, the broken ground smoothed over and level and covered with rocks and loose grass, the only sign of what had happened here the many bloodstains on the ground, dark pools and drag marks trampled by hooves and boots, though within a few days they would be gone too, dried by the sun and buried beneath a skin of windblown dirt.
That night Billy lay awake among the brigalow, listening to the crackle of the campfire and the constant rustle of the trees. His thoughts swamped by Katherine, and their baby, if there was one, if Noone’s story was real. He’d never felt anything so strongly in his life: a physical aching to get back there, twisting his insides; to be with her, protect her, to claim what was his. Tomorrow. Once Noone had said he could leave. These two fuckers lying snoring across the campfire . . . he could kill them both and be done with it, he realized. He was fully dressed, boots and all, his revolver strapped to his belt. Cast off the bedroll, jump up to his feet, two quick shots and it would be done. He’d be rid of Noone forever, the curse he’d put on Billy’s life, and his brother’s; if he could find him, Tommy could come home. He could bury the bodies out here and no one would ever know. He fingered the revolver restlessly. The breath surging out of him, heart hammering in his chest. He lifted his head and chanced a look, saw the outline of Noone through the flames. He was lying with his head in the crook of his arm, facing Billy, the two dark pits of his eyes, no telling if he was awake or not. Billy eased himself back down, let go of the gun, told himself it was safer not to, better to bide his time. It didn’t feel any safer.
All night he lay listening to Noone’s breathing, unsure if he was watching, too afraid to fall asleep.
Chapter 11
Henry Wells
He’d not yet reached the doors of the courthouse when he heard his name being called, echoing over the hubbub in the grand central stairwell, its wide stone staircase spotlit by shafts of smoke-filled sunlight through the tall arched windows above.
“Mr. Wells, sir! Mr. Wells!”
Henry paused in the bustling lobby and turned to find a figure running down the stairs. A reporter, probably. Henry hadn’t wanted the Clarence murder case when it was given to him, nobody did, but it was doing his profile no harm at all, both with the public and at the bar. He waited for the man to catch up—warm air teasing through the main doors behind him, the clatter of George Street trams—then noticed with a start that it wasn’t a reporter at all but the judge’s clerk. Henry cringed. Had he done something wrong, he wondered, said something untoward in the courtroom? Conducted himself out of turn? Perhaps he’d simply forgotten some papers, though the boy carried nothing in his hands. He slid to a halt in front of Henry, gasping every word.
“Mr. Wells, sir . . . it’s . . . the jury. They’re ready . . . to come back.”
“But that’s impossible.”
“The judge told me so himself, sir. You don’t know where Mr. Hugill went?”
Henry took a long time to answer. “Try the robing room,” he said.
The boy scurried off. Henry couldn’t move. It had barely been ten minutes—which must mean they were sending Brooks down. The evidence was so overwhelming, surely to God they couldn’t be about to turn that man free. Of course they could. There was always a risk. But still, ten minutes! One man’s life, and the worth of another, decided before Henry had even managed to reach the street.
Up the sunlit staircase he trudged, swirling with hope and dread. There was a scrum of people from the balcony to the courtroom—clearly word had got around. Henry pushed his way through and walked along the aisle and found Hugill already seated at the front. The defense counsel grimaced sympathetically. Henry took his seat. Waiting, while behind him the gallery filled. He hadn’t lost a case so far in his short career. Surely he couldn’t lose this.
The judge arrived, the prisoner was brought back in. Brooks looked ashen. A meek and cowardly stare. Henry eyeballed him but couldn’t catch his gaze, then in came the jury, a sullen shuffle to their seats. The judge asked for their verdict, the foreman rose, the room held its breath.
“Not guilty.”
Pandemonium in the gallery. Shouting and clapping and hats thrown in the air. The judge ordered the prisoner’s fetters removed and, dumbfounded, Brooks stepped down from the dock. The jury was dismissed, the courtroom slowly emptied, Hugill patted Henry’s shoulder as he passed. A man came in and began sweeping up peanut shells and orange rind from the floor, the hush of his broom on the boards, as Henry sat there numb, the only one left in the courtroom, unable to bring himself to leave.
* * *
Two bottles of wine over dinner was never going to be enough: with his hands in his pockets and collar upturned, Henry rolled between the sly-grog shops of the Frog’s Hollow slums, his polished shoes sinking into the oozing mud, bypassing gambling houses, red-lit doorways and opium dens, brushing off the whores and spivs, drinking himself into a stupor until finally, long after midnight, he felt an urge for home.
It was a short walk to the boardinghouse. Henry tripped coming into the building, his laughter echoing through the empty lobby, the rug pattern blurring beneath him in the dim lantern light. He hauled himself up the stairwell, gripping the smooth wood banister, his muddied shoes scuffing stair to stair, to the first-floor landing, where he hovered by his front door before slipping his key back into his pocket with a wanton smile. What was the use in pretending? This wasn’t why he’d come back—who was he even pretending for?
Along the landing he shambled, to another near-identical green door. So much of his life he had kept hidden—at least now he was beginning to admit to himself what he was. Ever since that Sunday when his father, with a stern shake of the head, had confronted him with the rumors of his deviance, his sickness, and for the first time in his life Henry had found the strength not to deny it, instead sitting straight-backed and silent as if saying, Yes, this is me, here is your son, the two men staring hatefully at each other while his mother clutched her chest, then his father pronouncing him banished from Sydney society like some fucking Shakespearean king, forcing Henry to move his pupilage up here, to Brisbane, where he’d spent the last three years trying to prove himself; or rather, to prove that bastard wrong.
He knocked on the door and waited. Glancing down into the lobby, over the rail. A scrabble of locks and he jerked to attention, turned to find Jonathan standing there, a maroon robe over his pajamas, bed-tousled hair, squinting into the dim light.
“Henry? What is it? Are you all right?”
Henry leaned against the doorframe. His speech came mumbled and slow: “It was the Clarence murder trial today. I lost.”
“Oh, dear. I’m so sorry.”
“Were you sleeping?”
“Of course, it’s after two. Where have you even been?”
Henry waved a hand, meaning out, and slurred, “It was a fucking travesty. That bastard should have swung.”
“The Hollow, I’m assuming? Am I wrong?”
Henry shrugged and Jonathan grimaced; he didn’t approve of Henry’s excesses. But the longer they stood there together, Henry looking at him dolefully, big sad bloodshot eyes, the more Jonathan’s expression softened, until he held the door open and stepped aside, saying, “Come in, before somebody sees you in this state.”
Henry wobbled into the apartment. Like his own, it only comprised two rooms: a bedroom and a living room; meals were provided downstairs, and there was a shared bathroom at the end of the hall. He flopped down onto a dark-mustard-colored sofa, tipped back his head, and watched Jonathan lighting the lanterns, rekindling the stove, putting the kettle on to boil, a womanly fussing that made Henry smile.
“You know, you really should be more careful,” Jonathan said. “I mean it—what if someone had recognized you?”
“Half the city is doing something. I’m hardly the only one.”
“Yes, but lesser things have ruined a man. You’ve enough secrets as it is.”
“I’m tired of keeping secrets. Let them see me for who I am.”
Jonathan laughed. “You’d be run out of chambers faster than a dog chasing cats, and you most certainly would never take Silk. The only Queen’s Counsel I know are respectable married men with families and children and houses in the suburbs, who keep their predilections discreet.”
“Well . . .” was all Henry said, knowing he was right.
Jonathan made two cups of sweet tea and sat next to Henry on the sofa. Henry shrugged out of his coat and warily took a sip. His hand was trembling slightly. His knee bounced up and down. But the tea was warm and comforting, and steadily he calmed. He glanced across at Jonathan. “Ask how long it took them.”
“How long it took whom?”
“The jury, to reach a verdict, ask me how long.”
“All right—how long?”
“Ten minutes. Less. I hadn’t even time to reach the courthouse door.”
“It sounds like you stood no chance.”
“Probably not. They called me Judas in the courtroom. And here this man beat another to death with his fists and was cheered when he was set free.”
“Will you appeal?”
“They won’t want me to, I am sure, but I don’t see that I have any choice. It is a manifestly unsafe decision. The judge should have intervened.”
“You mustn’t take it personally, Henry. I’m sure you did all you could.”
“But I do take it personally. And so should you. If it had been you or I killed by that man, Jonathan, or a Chinaman or an Afghan, or anyone else who doesn’t fit, do you honestly think the verd
ict would have been any different? You’ve just said it yourself: we should hide like mice in our holes hoping no one will notice what we are. Nonsense. The law is the law, and all men should be equal under it, including Clarence, especially him.”
He shook his head and finished his tea. Jonathan took the cup and returned it to the sideboard, perched on the sofa again. “Well, you should do something about it then. You obviously feel very strongly. Take the cases nobody else wants, force them to change.”
Henry puttered his lips dismissively. “Then I would be ruined. I’d lose every one.”
“Not necessarily.”
“I have ambitions of my own, Jonathan.”
“I know you do, I’m only saying—”
“Anyway, why is this on my shoulders suddenly?”
“You’re angry, that’s all. I’m trying to help.”
“I’m angry because I lost today.”
“If that’s how you want to see it.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning you’re also angry because you care.”
“Of course I bloody care. That verdict was a disgrace.”
“I agree.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
Henry smiled ruefully. He sank back into the sofa and let his head fall, turned it sideways to look at his friend. Jonathan sitting primly with his knees together and hands clasped, square-shouldered in his robe, tufts of pale hair visible beneath the collar of his pajama shirt.
“Sit with me,” Henry said, and Jonathan laughed.