by Paul Howarth
They filled their boots with steak, beer, and whiskey, and tore up the little town, falling in with other cattlemen and drovers smashing their checks. Jack seemed to know everyone. A small place, the bush, for these men. Later, he took Tommy to the brothel, told him which was the best girl, and Tommy admitted afterward she’d been his first. Jack bought cigars, and once Tommy had recovered suggested he take another turn—second time was a charm, in Jack’s view. But the girl Tommy had been with was busy with another man; drunk and besotted, Tommy barged into the room, interrupting a horse wrangler in full flow. The wrangler took exception to the intrusion and the two of them were properly brawling by the time Jack dragged Tommy away. They left the brothel laughing, Tommy yelling to the upstairs windows that he’d be back the following night, he and Jack staggering down the street together, arms round each other’s shoulders, a bowlegged swaying dance. Back in the hotel they drank until Tommy passed out at the table; when he woke birds were already calling the dawn. He crawled up to his bedroom, threw himself on the bed, and slept long into the afternoon, then woke drenched in sweat and smelling faintly of piss. He cleaned himself up groggily. Tipped half a pitcher of water down his throat. When he’d changed he went along the hall, knocking on doors. Neither Jack nor Arthur answered; Tommy found Jack in the bar. He was eating a cooked chicken leg and drinking a pot of beer and looked as fresh as if last night hadn’t happened at all. He laughed when he saw the state Tommy was in. Said to sit down and get something to eat. Instead Tommy went to the counter and asked the barman if he’d seen Arthur around. He looked up but went on drying the glass in his hand, said he’d seen him early that morning, heading out along the street, carrying his bag in one hand and his bedroll tucked under the other arm.
“Sorry to be the one to tell you this, friend, but word has it your blackboy skipped town.”
Part II
1897
Seven Years Later
Chapter 15
Henry Wells
On the porch of a fine white Queenslander house in the north-Brisbane suburb of Spring Hill, Henry Wells stood holding the front doorknob, listening to their voices, watching their blurred outlines through the colored window glass. They hadn’t noticed him, he could still leave, though he knew that he wouldn’t; he never did. Every evening after work he had the same thought, yet every evening he went in. He closed his eyes briefly, turned the handle and cracked the door, and announced to his family that he was home.
Laura came to meet him, baby Audrey clinging to her hip. She kissed his cheek and, one-handed, helped him off with his coat and hung it with his hat on the stand. Supper wouldn’t be long, she told him, why not enjoy a drink in the lounge—always the same routine. Dutifully he did so, sliding his feet into a pair of house slippers and pouring himself a large sherry that he threw back in one, then another that he nursed by the fire. Outside, dusk was falling, the last strains of pink in the sky. Henry watched his neighbors passing back and forth on the street, noticed a scruffy man he didn’t recognize glance admiringly at the house. He liked that people did that. Liked that the house attracted looks. It was still only a stepping-stone. What he wanted—once he’d made it, once Queen’s Counsel was his—was a house by the river, in Hamilton or Ascot, one of those lavish hillside mansions they were building up there. It wouldn’t be long, hopefully. A couple more years at most. He would place an announcement in the newspaper, perhaps commission a photograph too, and send a copy to his father: look what I’ve become.
Now that would be a photograph worth paying for. The only other two Henry had wasted his money on stared back at him from the mantelpiece like a rebuke: a yellowing print of Laura’s parents, taken just before they died (though from the look of them in the photograph you’d think they already had), and another of Henry and Laura on their wedding day, Laura’s smile barely hidden, Henry staring petrified down the camera lens as if into the barrel of a gun.
A black-haired boy poked his head into the living room. Sipping his sherry, Henry turned. “Ah, Theo, there you are. How was your day? Are you well?”
The boy only stared at him. Eyes as dark as coals.
Henry forced a chuckle. “Very well, have it your way. We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, but you can come in, no need to hide out there in the hall.”
The boy shook his head determinedly and ran from the doorway. Henry sighed. Sometimes he could not believe he was his son. He spoke only to his mother. Henry doubted he’d ever even heard him laugh; for a while, he’d feared the child was mute. But it was the way Theo looked at him that was most unnerving. Like he knew everything, like he saw into Henry’s soul. He tipped back the sherry and went to pour another but Laura called that supper was served. Henry set down his glass very carefully. And here we go again.
* * *
She was putting the children to bed when he pulled on his coat and wrapped around his scarf; he’d told her he was going to the club. Without calling goodbye he stepped into the cold gray evening, nearing full darkness now, and hurried through the picket gate and along the street toward the tram. He crossed the road without looking and was nearly hit by a passing carriage. The driver swore at him. Told him to open his bloody eyes. On he strode, almost running now, the excitement too much to contain; an electric tingle fizzed through him, churning his stomach, tingling down his spine. He’d suppressed it all through supper, once the idea had taken hold, now his thoughts spiraled wildly ahead: down into the city, through the streets, the lobby, up the stairs to that faded green door . . . too distracted to notice the stranger following him, the same scruffy man he’d seen earlier, admiring the house from the street.
Jonathan still lived in the boardinghouse, and for Henry coming back here always felt like coming home: now that they were over he saw those days for what they were, the happiest of his life so far. Giddily he bounded up the stone staircase, the smoothed-away divots as familiar as palm-lines, and marched along the landing to the door, where he knocked and stood waiting, straightening his tie, smoothing his hair, restlessly tapping his thighs; it had been almost a month. Music was playing inside. Sounded like Mozart: brass gave way to strings. Henry knocked again and heard laughter, footsteps approaching. The door opened and the laughter ceased.
Jonathan wore slacks and a black velvet smoking jacket and cupped a large glass of brandy in his hand. He was smiling back into the room as he opened the door; the smile faltered when he saw Henry there.
“Oh, Henry, I . . .”
Another man was with him, sitting on the sofa, watching them over the backrest. “You have company,” Henry said, and Jonathan turned as if surprised.
“Yes, this is . . . this is Rupert. Will you join us? Please, come in.”
Rupert saluted with his brandy glass. A ridiculous rat-faced grin.
“No, I’ll leave you to it. Sorry to have disturbed.”
“Henry, please.” Jonathan edged out into the hall, so close they were almost touching, easing the door to. He lowered his voice: “You’re being unfair.”
“How?”
“He’s only a friend.”
“I’m sure he is.”
“Well, it’s not like I was expecting you—where have you even been?”
“Busy.”
“And I’m supposed to sit here waiting, am I? On the off chance you grow bored of your perfect family and decide to come round?”
“Now who’s being unfair?”
“You made that decision. Nobody forced you. Certainly not me.”
Henry scoffed. “You really think I had a choice?”
“Yes, you did. As do we all. Your life is your own business, you told me; well, I’m allowed my own life too. You decided your career was more important. I’m not just some rent-boy you can call on when you’re bored of playing house.”
Henry didn’t answer. He trotted down the stairs, the cold whisper of his shoes on the stone, the music carrying faintly from above. Jonathan leaned over the railing and called to him but Henry didn’t l
ook up: out onto the front steps, where he stood sucking in the cold night air. Jonathan’s door slammed, the sound echoing through the empty stairwell behind, and Henry tipped back his head and exhaled. Friends—not likely, it was obvious why that little rat-faced bastard was there. He and Jonathan had never openly discussed it, the terms of their relationship, what was allowed, but he’d always assumed they were faithful, at least. Surely Jonathan understood that Laura didn’t count.
Henry paused on the street, wavering. Angry, frustrated, humiliated. He could always go to the Hollow, he thought, like in the old days, but alcohol would only numb him, wouldn’t offer any kind of release. Another possibility occurred to him. That word Jonathan had used: rent-boy. He had never actually tried it but knew of a few places men like him went to meet, and there was something rather thrilling about the idea. An eye for an eye, so to speak. If he was recognized he would plead ignorance, pretend he was meeting a client or simply deny he was Henry Wells at all. He wasn’t that famous anyway. Not yet.
Henry set off walking. A figure ducked out of the alleyway behind him and followed along the street.
The pub stood on the corner of two dimly lit roads and was unremarkable in every way: Henry wondered if he had the right place. From the pavement opposite he watched patrons come and go, all of them men, but there was nothing unusual about that. He crossed the road and walked beneath the awning, peering through the steamed-up windows at men drinking, smoking, playing dominoes and cards. It looked a rough establishment. Not the kind he was used to at all these days. Coarse men in coarse clothing stained and sweaty from their work. But then he wasn’t used to soliciting—nothing about this felt right.
He removed his tie and scarf, rolled his shirtsleeves, roughed up his hair, and hesitated with his hand on the doorplate. Behind him a figure stood watching from the far pavement, the same spot Henry had just been. Henry pushed open the door, and went inside.
Heads turned when he entered. A noticeable pause, then the chatter resumed. He bought a beer at the bar and took a seat at a corner table, his back to the wall, a view of the whole room. He was shaking. Couldn’t stop his leg from bouncing up and down. The air thick with tobacco smoke and mumbled voices, every now and then a burst of laughter, the floor sticky under his feet. Henry didn’t know what to do with himself. He didn’t know how this worked. Every now and then he caught someone staring, but there was nothing inviting in their expressions, and again he wondered if he’d come to the wrong place. They didn’t look the type, truthfully. He would drink his beer quickly, he decided, then leave.
The door swung open and the man from the street corner walked in. He stood on the threshold, surveying the room. Short and fair-haired, his face freckled and piebald from too much sun, dressed much the same as the others in here: dirty trousers, yellowed shirt, a ragged woolen patchwork coat that fell almost to his heels. The drinkers looked him over then went back to their beers; the man’s gaze found Henry and stayed there. Henry shivered. He could certainly do better than this grub. Incredulously he watched the stranger approaching and prepared to turn him down flat.
“Mr. Wells, sir? I hope you’ll excuse me. Might we talk a moment, please?”
Henry was taken aback by the accent—he spoke like an English gent. At the mention of his name his thoughts turned immediately to blackmail, but there was something in the man’s demeanor than didn’t fit. He looked frankly terrified. He picked furiously at his nails. Henry guessed his age at roughly forty but he may have been younger—clearly he’d led a hard life. There was an odor of filth and alcohol about him, it must have been weeks since he’d bathed. He reminded Henry of the young men he encountered when he first visited them in jail: anxious, sad, lonely, desperate for Henry’s help.
“How do you know my name?” Henry asked.
“I will explain myself—please, may I sit down?”
“Why? What do you want?”
“Only to talk. And perhaps the comfort of a drink.”
“Talk about what?”
“I have a crime to report, Mr. Wells. A most terrible, terrible crime.”
“Then the police will be glad to hear it. Leave me alone.”
“I know who you are,” the man persisted. “I’ve seen you in court. All those trials you have won—you’re not afraid of them, are you, the authorities; black or white, you are only interested in seeing that justice is done.”
The praise mollified Henry. He leaned back in his chair. “Still, a crime must be reported to the police, which I am not, as you are evidently well aware.”
“I can’t go to the police.”
“Why not?”
He glanced over both shoulders. “Because it’s the police who did it.”
“All right, I’ll indulge you—did what?”
“Slaughtered a whole tribe of Aborigines, way out in the bush. I would guess about a hundred. Not even the children were spared.”
“How on earth do you know this? Who in God’s name are you?”
The man snorted bitterly. “Sadly nobody, not in His name, not anymore. But I am trying, Mr. Wells. I am trying to make amends. I was a missionary, you see, once upon a time. My name is Francis Bean and I know what happened to the Kurrong people of central Queensland because I was there, I saw it, saw them burning with my own eyes. And I did nothing except run and hide and have been hiding ever since. Until now. Now I am here to tell you the story, so that you can set matters right.”
There was a long silence between them. Henry sighed and told him to sit down. Bean’s face unknotted with relief and he threw himself into the other chair, knocking the table and spilling Henry’s beer. Bean looked at the spillage greedily. He touched a finger to his cracked lips. “How about that drink first?” he said.
Henry bought him rum, the cheapest they had, then went back and bought another after Bean threw the first one down his neck. He nursed his own whiskey thoughtfully, turning the tumbler back and forth, making a ring pattern on the table in the pool of spilled beer.
“You said you were there. Does that mean you were involved?”
Bean shook his head, swallowing. “We were witnesses. We’d met them before and then saw the aftermath. Like I said, we ran.”
“So you didn’t see it happen, this . . . slaughter?”
“You doubt me, sir?”
“I am a lawyer. I believe in facts.”
“If you’ll just let me tell you—”
“In a minute. First I want to know what I’m dealing with here. Who is this ‘we’ you keep referring to?”
“Myself and my dear friend Matthew. Although not anymore.”
“What does that mean? Is he dead?”
“We are no longer on speaking terms, I am sorry to say.”
“Do you know where I can find him?”
“We parted ways some time ago. I have lost track of him since.”
“So there’s nobody else who can verify this story you’re about to tell me? It’s your word and nothing more?”
“They had two young brothers with them—McBride, their names were—from a town called Bewley way out west. Their family was murdered. Perhaps they’re still around. There were a couple of other white men, but I never got their names.”
McBride rang no bells for Henry, though it should have done. A family murdered in the outback ought to have made the press. He folded his arms doubtfully. “So it was a reprisal killing? But you said the police were involved?”
“The Native Police, yes.”
“I see. Do you know which officer was in charge?”
Bean glanced at him fearfully, eyes dancing around the room. “Noone. Inspector Edmund Noone.”
Henry nodded. “I’ve heard the name.”
“He’s here!” Bean hissed. “In Southport, just down the coast!”
“All right, calm down. Tell me, why are you only speaking up about this now? Why didn’t you report it at the time? What do you have to gain?”
“Only to assuage my conscience, Mr. Wells.
I did try to report it back then, told the local magistrate, though clearly nothing was done. Truth is, I was terrified, and weak. I had nothing with which to fortify myself . . .” He ducked his head conspiratorially. “Any chance of another drink?”
While standing at the bar, Henry glanced over his shoulder at Francis Bean fidgeting in his chair and wondered if he wasn’t being played. But then it seemed a lot of trouble to go to, just to con him out of a couple of drinks. The barman brought their glasses, caught Henry staring, asked him, “That fella bothering you?”
“No, not exactly. You ever seen him before?”
“If I had I’d have slung him out on his arse. We don’t like that sort here.”
“What sort’s that?”
“Them without money to pay.”
Henry returned to the table. Bean went to pounce on his rum but Henry pulled it away. “Listen,” he said. “I’m going to hear your story but there are a few conditions first. No more drinks after this one. This is your last, understand? And tomorrow, assuming I believe you, I want you to come to my chambers and we’ll do all this again, but formally, a proper written record that you have signed and sworn. I am of course familiar with the Native Police. I know the kind of men they were, how they operated, but that was a long time ago; they are all but defunct these days. There might simply not be the appetite for investigating this sort of thing. So I make you no promises. I will hear you out and that is all. If I think you are lying to me I will stand up and leave and if you follow me again I’ll have you arrested, are we clear?”