Dust Off the Bones

by Paul Howarth

  “There’s the police barracks in Boulia, or just hold him here and send word.”

  They both watched Tommy. He threw down his cards, won the hand, roaring while the other players groaned. Jack noticed the lice twist and burrow in the tangle of Ames’s beard. “All right,” Ames said, nodding. He spat on his hand and offered it; Jack did the same and they shook.

  Jack said, “We’ll get him when he goes to the dunny, catch him with his pizzle in his hand,” and the old man was racked with laughter that collapsed into a cough. Jack clapped him on the shoulder while he recovered himself, then offered him another beer for the wait.

  Chapter 19

  Billy and Katherine McBride

  A little before sunset the coach trundled up the track and halted in front of the Broken Ridge homestead. The door opened and with great effort Magistrate MacIntyre heaved himself from the carriage, which groaned and rose on its axle once he was out. He glanced at the house above him then reached back inside for an ivory-handled walking cane, told the driver he wouldn’t be long. He shuffled forward, then with a grunt of displeasure planted his foot on the staircase, his cane alongside it, and slowly began to climb.

  Billy was alone in what used to be the library but now doubled as his billiards room, when Hardy knocked to say the magistrate had arrived. Billy thanked him and threw down his cue and managed to fluke a ball in. He snorted. He still wasn’t any good at billiards, didn’t even much care for the game, but everyone seemed to be playing it these days. In the homes of other graziers, in the city clubs, billiards had a habit of cropping up. He’d felt inadequate refusing, even more so not having his own table when people visited the house. So he had ordered one from Alcocks and at great expense had it brought out, and still that fluke was the best shot he’d played all day. He stubbed out his cigar and made for the door. He wondered what MacIntyre wanted—maybe he would fancy a game.

  The magistrate had collapsed his bulk into one of the drawing room armchairs and from the way he struggled to rise when Billy entered, looked like he might have wedged himself in. “Don’t get up, Spencer,” Billy said, striding across the room, shaking his clammy hand. He was flushed in the face, his brow was beaded, and he finished every breath with a wheeze. Billy flopped onto the sofa, hooked his ankle onto his knee. “You run here or something?” he asked.

  “I swear them steps are getting steeper, Billy. It’s every time I come.”

  “Next time we’ll have a boy carry you. You want a drink? Something to eat?”

  “Whiskey if you have it, maybe some cake?”

  Hardy was waiting in the doorway. Billy nodded, and he left the room. Billy went to the sideboard and poured them each a whiskey, handed one to MacIntyre; they touched glasses and, smirking, Billy toasted the magistrate’s health.

  “So,” he said, sitting down again, “what’s this about?”

  MacIntyre gazed admiringly around the room: the polished furniture, exotic rug, the vases, silver, gold. “Seems you’re faring all right, anyhow.”

  “We’re getting by.”

  “I’ll say. It’s been a while, Billy. Not seen you in town.”

  Billy shrugged. “I’ve a station to run, can’t be spending my nights drinking in the Bewley Hotel anymore.”

  “Wouldn’t kill you,” MacIntyre said. There was a knock at the door and the girl came in with a tray bearing two slices of ginger cake topped with a dollop of thickened cream. She handed them out and had not left the room before MacIntyre tore into his portion, attacking the thing like it had done him ill. Billy set his plate on the side table and waited, MacIntyre glancing up from his gorging, crumbs and cream coating his mouth. He pointed at the cake with his fork and spluttered, “You want to get stuck into this. Best damn cake I’ve had in months.”

  Billy ignored him. “So you’re missing me, is that it? That’s why you came all this way?”

  MacIntyre shook his head, swallowed. “It’s not me I’m telling you for. People can get an idea about a fella if he thinks he’s too good for their town. Which maybe you are these days, but it doesn’t hurt to show your face once in a while.”

  “What do I care what they think of me down there?”

  “You will if you ever need them. If you wanted them to side with you, let’s say. The thing about John Sullivan, Billy, heartless bastard though he really was, is that he knew how to give people the impression he cared. Wouldn’t have pissed on them if they were burning, yet they treated him like a king. Donations to the church and all that horseshit, you know what I mean. It’s a question of reputation, which can be worth a lot out here. More than money sometimes.”

  “All right,” Billy said vaguely. “So . . . I’ll take a trip to town.”

  “Good lad, good lad. Here—you planning on eating that?”

  Billy handed over his plate and MacIntyre devoured that portion of cake too. He wiped his lips with a napkin, missed the corners, cream gathering like spittle, then washed it down with the whiskey and sighed. Billy braced himself.

  “So, there’s something else I need to talk to you about.”

  “I figured. Trouble?”

  “Might be, aye.” MacIntyre sniffed and contemplated his whiskey. “I’ve had a telegram from Brisbane. Colonial secretary’s office, no less. Ordering me to look into what happened to your family, hold a proper inquest, and not just the murders neither—I mean what came after, with the blacks. Seems someone’s kicked the nest hard enough to get a reaction on the coast, and you know what those bastards are like. Apparently there’s a witness reckons he saw what went on.”

  “What went on with what?”

  “The natives. After.”

  “What fucking witness?”

  “There’s no name yet, but I’ll find out soon enough. Some lawyer’s bringing him out on the train.”

  Billy had flushed a deep crimson. He was sitting very still. “What the hell is this, Spencer? What’s going on?”

  He raised his hands. “Just what I’m telling you. And I don’t have a choice about it, neither. An order comes from the top like that, it’ll be my neck if I don’t follow it through. Like I said, someone’s been stirring. Got their attention too.”

  “But who—” Billy checked himself. “It’s not Tommy, is it? This witness?”

  “What makes you ask that?”

  “Because every other witness is dead.”

  MacIntyre sipped his whiskey, let the silence run. Billy’s gaze slid away until it was dancing about the room, flicking madly over the walls.

  “Do we have anything to worry about?” MacIntyre asked.

  Billy blinked and came to. “How d’you mean?”

  “Well, if there is a witness, what might he have seen?”

  “Nothing. Don’t you already know what went on?”

  “I know what was in Inspector Noone’s report, and them testimonies you and your brother swore. Aside from that, I don’t really want to hear another word.”

  Billy froze at the name. “Does he know yet? Noone?”

  “I expect so. He usually does.”

  “About this witness, I mean—that it wasn’t me who turned?”

  “Ah, don’t worry about that, Billy. You’re both on the same side here. As am I, incidentally, or else I wouldn’t have come. Besides, Edmund Noone is a different man these days: got himself a nice little posting on the coast, heading for a career in politics, so I hear.”

  “Will he come? For the hearing?”

  MacIntyre laughed. “He’ll have to! It’s him it’s all about!”

  “I thought you said it was the murders and everything?”

  “Let’s just take it one step at a time, shall we? That testimony you and your brother gave—you’ll stand by it, swear to it in court?”

  “’Course I bloody will.”

  “And what about Tommy? You heard from him at all?”

  “No.”

  “Well, that makes it easier. The fewer the better as far as I’m concerned. Them Brisbane bastards’ll be w
atching my every step here, I’ve a good idea that’s what this lawyer’s about. So I’m going to have to do things properly, or make it look that way at least. Which means we have to tread bloody carefully, and make sure you all have your stories straight. Might be a good idea to have a read of that testimony again, and Noone’s police report, refresh your mind a bit.”

  “You don’t think I remember it all exactly?”

  “Hell, Billy, not like that. What I mean is to get the little details clear in your memory: how many natives were there, what time of day, what weapons were they carrying, that kind of thing. Plus there’s the business of what came after, what you lot did—it’s all in the police report, but since I’ll need you to confirm under oath that you agree with what it says, you may as well have a read of it first.”

  “Fine.”

  “Look, there’s really nothing to worry about. These inquests are a formality more often than not. I just need to know that you’re not planning on saying anything that’s not in them papers. If there’s a problem, I want to hear it now.”

  Billy shook his head. “No, nothing.”

  “Good. Because memories can be slippery as fish, in my experience. Once you have them out the water, it pays to get them good and clubbed.”

  Billy frowned at his meaning: What was he on about, fish? He asked, “When is this hearing anyhow?”

  “Next month sometime. The exact date’s not been set. I’m supposed to do some investigating beforehand”—he raised his glass, almost empty—“which in its own good way this is, and them others will all need time to travel out.”

  Billy’s attention drifted to the French doors and the sunset glowing pink through the voiles. “It’s not a girl, is it? The witness—it’s not a young native girl?”

  “I told you, there’s no name yet. And spare me the details, I don’t want to know about any girl. Just stick to what’s in them papers and I’ll make sure everything works out fine. Which I’m sure you’ll be only too willing to thank me for, once all this is put to bed.”

  The old judge was grinning wantonly. He motioned for a refill, but Billy only glared. “You’d best not be threatening me here, Spencer.”

  “No, lad, no. Not at all. But it’s like I said earlier, a man’s reputation counts for a lot in these parts. The last thing I’d want is for this inquest to cause you any harm. I remember all too well how it was for your father when his luck turned—I’d hate for you to end up the same way.”

  “I ain’t nothing like him.”

  “Of course not. And I’m not your enemy here, neither. All I’m asking is that if I look out for you and your family this time, which I will, then one day you’ll see your way to doing the same for me and mine. I’ve a retirement pot that needs taking care of. All contributions gratefully received.”

  Billy didn’t answer, didn’t refill his whiskey glass. He rang the bell and without waiting for the magistrate to lever himself out of the armchair, without shaking his greasy hand, sprang to his feet and marched out of the drawing room, instructing Hardy when they crossed in the hallway to show their guest the door.

  * * *

  From William’s bedroom window Katherine had seen the magistrate arrive at the house, then after half an hour leave again, hobbling down the steps with his walking cane, heaving himself into his carriage and trundling off along the track. He’d looked anything but happy. Unlikely he’d brought good news. She wondered if the missing stableboy had been stupid enough to go to the law, though surely he knew he’d get no justice there. Or here, obviously—nobody had seen him since the flogging in the yard. It pained her that Billy had run him off like that. The boy had been with them for years.

  She turned from the window and checked on William, sleeping in his bed, the sheets pulled tight around his chest. He’d not been right since. Sweating a fever constantly, cuts to his hands and face. For three days now he’d refused to leave his bedroom, not since it happened, save that first evening when he’d sat slumped at the dining table with his head in his hand, pushing his food around the plate, Billy asking in all seriousness what was wrong. He still wasn’t eating properly. Showed no interest in his piano or books. He’d been getting the most terrible nightmares, waking petrified and slick with sweat; last night Katherine had slept in the room with him and had been jolted awake by his screams. She’d sat him upright and talked to him and he’d stared through her like she wasn’t there. At least now he was resting peacefully. Progress, of sorts. On her way out of the room she paused, stroked his hair, lightly smoothed down the sheets.

  The maid was tidying the drawing room, collecting whiskey glasses and crumb-scattered side plates and loading them onto a tray. Of course there would have been whiskey. Not a day went by that Billy didn’t drink. And always the best, the same labels John had bought. That wasn’t the only similarity. The way he dressed, how he spoke sometimes, how he treated his men; her first husband had beaten his share of servants too. Billy was twenty-nine but acted forty, and despite their success moped about like a put-upon mule. He was never happy, never satisfied, and was a shadow of the man she had married: the rough-talking stockman trampling his own path through the world, taking shit from no one, particularly her father; oh, the glory of his expression when Billy had pinned him against that wall. And now look at him. Whiskey glasses and cake crumbs after a visit from the judge; that ridiculous billiards table he had bought. She noticed the ashtrays were empty. A wonder there’d not been cigars.

  The maid told Katherine that Billy was outside, a wall of warm air hitting her as she opened one of the glass French doors. Out she stepped, onto the verandah, the crimson sky already sliding into dusk. Hardy hadn’t lit the outside lanterns yet. Might have been leaving Billy in peace. That was another decision they had argued over: getting rid of poor Benjamin so he could bring in a white butler, but by the time Katherine had found out about it, Benjamin was gone and it was already too late.

  She heard a cough from round the corner, a hock and a spit; noticed a plume of tobacco smoke drifting on the air. Slowly she walked along the front of the house and around to the side verandah, where she found Billy leaning on the railing, watching the fading sunset, the dim outline of the ranges in the faraway west. His head hung when he saw her. Another drag on his cigarette. He was smoking in that old style John had taught him: hand cupped, thumb and forefinger pinching the end. She stood alongside him, said, “So, what did he want?”

  “Who?”

  “I saw the carriage, Billy.”

  He sniffed, drew on the cigarette. “He reckons I should go to Bewley more often. Apparently they’re starting to turn on me in town.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m too up myself for their liking, Spencer says.”

  “Maybe he has a point.” She’d said it lightly, teasing; Billy glared at her side-on. Katherine said, “And? What else?”

  “There was nothing else.”

  She looked at him doubtfully. Billy only shrugged. On the railing beside him was a full tumbler of whiskey; he drank then offered it over, and Katherine took two sips: one that set her mouth on fire then another to put out the flames. But God, it was good whiskey. She felt the flush rising, handed back the glass.

  “I thought it might have been about the stableboy. He’s still not come back.”

  “He can please himself what he does, he ain’t welcome here.”

  “He’d be perfectly entitled to report you,” she said haughtily, and Billy laughed like this was a joke. She didn’t push it. They’d already had this argument, and Billy still couldn’t see what he’d done wrong. He was protecting their son, he’d insisted; wouldn’t she have done the same thing? Katherine lowered her voice and told him, “William’s sleeping, anyway. Let’s hope he has a better night.”

  “Boy has a fall and you treat him like he’s lost a bloody leg.”

  “He’s still terrified, Billy. Not that you would know. Nightmares, fever—he’s hardly stopped shivering since.”

  “He’s so
ft as horseshit that one. Needs a good shake.” She turned away and Billy protested, “Look, one day this whole place will be his to run, and those men n’all. He can’t afford to stand there crying when he falls off his horse.”

  “He’s not even seven years old. A child. None of that’s his concern.”

  “Well it should be. The boy has it too easy. When I was his age—”

  “When you were his age you could barely spell your own name, I’d bet. He’s a gifted learner, Billy. Mr. Daniels told me so himself.”

  “Aye, and that teacher’s another one could do with knowing his place.”

  “At least he encourages him. You humiliated William the other day. He’s so desperate to please you and look what you did. You’re too hard on him by far.”

  “And you’re too soft. Filling his head with dreams.”

  “What dreams?”

  “That learning’ll get him anywhere. That books can teach him about the world. That he doesn’t have to work for nothing because the work’s already been done . . . that playing the bloody piano is more important than riding a horse.”

  “I never told him any of those things. I’m just trying to give him the kind of opportunities the two of us never had.”

  “The two of us? Grow up poor now, did you?”

  “Billy, don’t.”

  “What? How many nights have you gone to bed hungry in your life?”

  “And how many nights were you forced to lie under a man who repulsed you? A man twice your age, grunting in your face, between your legs, and all with your own father’s blessing, because since when does the woman get a say? We’ve both suffered, it’s not a competition to see who’s had it worse. All I’m saying is that William shouldn’t have to—don’t you agree?”

  Billy was quiet a moment. He sipped his drink, mumbled, “The boy needs to learn how to become a man.”

  “A man like you, you mean?”

  “Of course like me. You got someone else in mind?”

  “You could just let him be himself.”

  “He’s an embarrassment, a joke among the men. All of them laughing at him, even the bloody stableboy was joining in!”