White Throat

by Sarah Thornton

  ‘Matty. I need to talk to you,’ she said softly. ‘I need to apologise. I mean I do apologise. I’m sorry. I’m just so…’ Her arms raised halfway and flopped by her sides again. ‘So sorry. About everything.’

  Torrens screwed the cap back on the water, slowly, blinked twice, searching her face. Blinked again with ferocity.

  ‘I’ve hurt you. I know that. I lied to you and I used you,’ she shook her head, scarcely able to understand how she’d got to this point. ‘I’ve…well, I’ve ruined everything.’

  Torrens said nothing but when she looked at him she thought his eyes were glistening. A big man with a soft heart.

  Her apology was genuine, more than he could know, but she had come here inside his shed to get something. She wanted his expertise and experience, a second perspective on her precarious position from someone who knew about these things. And, she admitted to herself as he stood there in the backlight in his footy shorts, huge tree-trunk thigh muscles, shoulders the width of a single bed…She wanted the security, the comfort of facing whatever was coming with a man like Torrens at her side.

  All of this was true. But now, standing in the cloistered heat of the shed, an ocean of distrust floating between them, she didn’t want anything from him. Nothing at all. She just wanted to go back to how it was before. Before she’d betrayed him. Just for tonight at least. Pleading with him was not the answer, so she picked up the footy, handballed it to herself a couple of times.

  ‘Skip the pub, come up to the house for dinner,’ she said.

  He looked up at her, a slight change in his expression. He wanted to, she could see that. It was pride or mistrust or both that were stopping him. She couldn’t blame him. But he was going tomorrow—she must not waste this moment.

  ‘Listen mate’—using her coach’s voice—‘I’ve got two T-bone steaks and a six-pack inside and I’m not letting you leave until you’ve eaten your forty per cent.’ She handballed the footy to him.

  He caught it.

  The man in the black BMW eased himself back in the seat. He’d been promised the call to proceed could come through at any minute. He’d need to pick his moment, there’d be no rushing into it, especially with Chrysler-man hanging around. Whether that was a problem or an advantage he couldn’t tell yet.

  He could see the Chrysler near the corner at the intersection of The Esplanade. He’d parked in the next cross street, further behind a row of scraggly banksias. He watched. Through the leaves and the yellow pincushion flowers he could just see the driver’s door and front tyre. He set up his motion-activated video camera on the dashboard and wished he’d brought more than a packet of barbecue chips and a Coke. This might take some time.

  CHAPTER 16

  The steak sizzled and spat in the pan. Clem gave it a pat with the back of the spatula. Somewhere approaching medium. She scooped it out and sat it on a plate to rest, began piling lettuce, chopped tomato and spring onion next to it, with a few slices of avocado, a splash of Greek dressing and a dollop of last night’s leftover potato salad.

  She got out another plate and made a bigger salad with two large scoops of the leftovers, took a sip of red wine and stood watching the other steak for a few more minutes. Torrens liked his twice dead.

  Her thoughts kept hovering back to the meeting with Fullerton. He would have to be weighing up his options. Getting rid of her would be one of them, but she was clinging to the notion that two deceased WAGSS coordinators within a month of each other would not be his favoured scenario. It was a slim hope. Killing her was probably a safer bet.

  She flipped Torrens’ steak again, took another swig. To be thinking like this, assessing the likelihood of being murdered, it felt as if she wasn’t in her own body, as if she was trapped inside some unconscionably violent video game.

  She plated Torrens’ piece of rubber and sat down at the table, under the old-fashioned oyster light, speckled with deceased mosquitos, the big man opposite.

  ‘Here you go.’

  His eyes lit up. ‘Now that’s better than the Katinga Arms and that’s sayin’ something,’ he said, sawing into the slab.

  Torrens was one of those sunny souls, unable to maintain rage with any stamina. It made it hard to imagine his days as a standover man. What Clem could imagine was an impressionable fifteen-year-old, a child looking for a father figure, finding it in Sinbin Schenko.

  As if he’d read her thoughts he said, ‘Sinbin could cook too. So many things in common, you two.’ He jammed in a mouthful of meat and waved the empty fork at her. ‘In some ways, you’re the new Sinbin.’

  ‘That’s a backhanded compliment, if ever I heard one.’

  They ate in silence for a while, then Torrens sat back in his chair. He took in Clem’s face as she looked up. ‘Did I ever tell you about when I went and saw Sinbin after I got out of the slammer? You know, when he was crook?’

  ‘Don’t think so.’ Clem took a discreet sip of wine.

  ‘I went there to tell him I was going straight.’ There was a long pause as Torrens seemed to gather himself to tell the story. ‘Sick to the stomach thinking about it, cos here he was with the cancer and everything, and me bailing. But man, when I got there, God he was so sick—skin and bone, bald as a bandicoot, no eyebrows, not even his stupid moustache to poke fun at. I bloody cried at the sight of him, right then and there.’

  She placed the glass down gently on the table.

  ‘Sinbin told me to stop embarrassing myself. Ha ha,’ he chuckled softly. ‘But yeah, in the bed he was just so…small…nothing left. The bastard cancer took it all. Even his voice—used to be he had this booming foghorn set of lungs on ’im and now it just sounded like he was choking and it was all he could do to get the words out.’

  Torrens was staring at the table, distant, like he wasn’t in the kitchen, he was sitting by Sinbin’s bed and Clem was looking down at them both from the ceiling.

  ‘Yeah well. Sinbin knew he was on the way out, not long for this world. I’d been there a while, hadn’t said nothing to him about my plans yet, in fact I was bloody feeling like I couldn’t do it, like I’d be letting him down when he needed me most. And then, all of a sudden, he looked me in the eye and said, It’s time. Just that, Jonesy, nothing more, just those two words. Then he fucking closed his eyes! I’m sitting there—no idea what the hell he meant. Thought it might be the morphine—he’d said a few loopy things—but I was shittin’ myself that he was gonna say it’s time for me to take over or something, you know, take over the business. So then next minute, he opens his eyes again,’ Torrens widened his eyes, re-enacting the scene, ‘and says, Time you made a name for yourself, Matt. Make your own life.’

  ‘Those were his actual words, Jonesy, his actual words,’ he said, staring into space like he still couldn’t believe it. ‘And I was so honoured, fucking honoured, to receive them, even though I was feeling sick to my gut about what he might say next. Last thing I wanted was to take over Sinbin’s operation—or start me own for that matter. I’m no leader, Jonesy, never wanted to be the boss of anything. And besides, after being inside…man, I wanted out, I just wanted out. Didn’t want nothing more of that life. It was fucking scary in there, Jonesy, really fucking scary. A man my size and I was scared! Soft, eh? But on the outside, in the country, I was a big fish in a small pond, see. And all these city thugs, the bikie heavies and their goons—they were everywhere. Organised, and everywhere. Any one of ’em could’ve taken me out with a shiv for no other reason than the signal it would send—showing the rest of the mugs inside how even a big man like me could go down, so don’t try it on fuckers, don’t even think about it.’

  It was real. She’d been inside too; she knew what it was like. But she’d never known this brand of fear, the fear that Torrens described—being the biggest, the most obvious target in a shooting gallery wholly composed of violent men.

  ‘Anyway, old Sinbin must’ve known what I was thinking because he laughed then—thought it was funny that he’d scared me, the mongre
l,’ Torrens chuckled, shook his head. ‘See, he knew me. Knew me since I was fifteen and loved me like a son, and so he did the opposite, the exact opposite to pushing me into shoes he knew wouldn’t fit. I remember his words: Go straight lad. Do some schooling. Get a job. Buy a house. Find a nice girl. Have a family. In that order, mind, and then he waved his scarecrow finger at me and smiled.’

  Torrens put his cutlery down on the table, cleared his throat, sat for moment. Then he got up, went to the sink and tore off a sheet of paper towel, dabbed his eyes and stood there, his back to her, head lowered, leaning his hands on the sink. The air outside had cooled to that serene kind of mild. A curlew howled into the night. He turned back towards the table.

  ‘But for Sinbin to say it—to tell me to go and do what I wanted most, what I’d always wanted, if I’m honest…For old Sinbin to say them words. Well. I could’ve lay down and died with him there and then, a happy man. A happy man.’

  Clem was silent, staring at the fridge; speckled rust blots creeping up from the bottom like a rash. Silence seemed the only thing. Torrens’ loyalty, his love, was too big for the kitchen. She’d not experienced anything like it, the way it consumed the space around her, enveloping her.

  She swallowed, found her voice. ‘I’m glad you didn’t. Kind of like having you around.’

  ‘Yeah well, I got a grand final win under me belt now!’ he grinned. ‘Wouldn’t have missed that for quids!’ He came back to the table and made another attack on his dinner. ‘Did I ever tell you about that first time I turned up at training? Remember that day, Jonesy?’

  ‘I was there,’ she said, smiling.

  ‘Yeah, but you don’t really know what was going on in my head, eh? See it wasn’t just Joey Conti I’d smacked around. There was others too, or their cousins or mates…Broken arms, holding their head under water, faces into concrete…all of that,’ he said, his face grim, volume lowered as if speaking of it somehow repeated the offence.

  Clem always found it hard to imagine that much violence in Torrens.

  ‘So I’m there, waiting for training to finish, sitting in my ute, the guys are streaming out to the carpark laughing and joking… until they saw me, and just like that’—he clicked his fingers—‘all of the chatter dried up and they’re making a beeline for their cars, trying not to look my way, pretending I wasn’t there. I felt like walking away, driving off and not coming back. Actually, that’s not true—at first I just wanted to smash their smug little coward faces in.’

  ‘Jesus, Torrens.’

  ‘Yeah nah, but that’s how it was right? Been living that way for years, just came naturally. But it was like Sinbin gave me the okay to start a new chapter. So, I waited until you came out—this coach lady everybody was talking about—and there you were, tiny little thing next to all the blokes, backpack over your shoulder, and you were on a beeline too, weren’t ya? Ha ha, avoiding everyone, heading straight for your car, ya bloody hermit!’

  ‘Yep, sooner I could get away the better,’ said Clem.

  ‘But I was nervous as all hell. You’ve got no idea. I mean I didn’t know how you might take it, me just rocking up like that. But there was no two ways of going about it, so I walked up and asked you straight if I could join and you said, was I willing to put in the hard work to get fit?’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Yeah!’ he shouted gleefully. ‘Here I was, years inside, right, with nothing but weights and shit—that’s all I did, worked out. Mate, I came out solid as a fucking wrecking ball and here’s this jumped-up midget of a sheila saying was I gonna work hard to get fit!’

  She laughed. ‘I told you to do three laps of the oval if I remember rightly.’

  ‘And I said I didn’t have me running shoes…’

  ‘And I said, “Well, do it in bare feet then!”’

  ‘So I did it—the three laps—and you had your flaming stopwatch on, so I was friggin’ pushing hard, going for it—and man, I was muscle fit but I was no way running fit, me lungs were on fire after the first lap.’ He nodded. ‘But there you were, with your fucking stopwatch, and me running like me whole future depended on it!’

  Clem took another sip, smiled wryly from behind the glass. ‘I didn’t even have it on.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I didn’t have the stopwatch on.’

  ‘No way!’ he said, eyes wide, fork suspended in the air.

  ‘What did you think? Six foot six and built like a brick shithouse—no specialist ruckman in the team—you think I gave a rat’s how fast you could run?’

  Torrens dropped the fork. ‘Oh you mongrel!’ he said, indignant but unable to smother a laugh. ‘And you put me through that?’

  ‘Yep. I was going to get you into shape regardless of how quick you were. But I knew I couldn’t do anything if you weren’t willing and determined enough.’ She sat back in her chair, her gaze fixed on him. ‘That’s what I was measuring, mate: your ticker, not your bloody duck-paced running.’ She paused, hands resting on the edge of the shaky red table in the poky little kitchen. ‘Turns out you’ve got the heart of a lion.’

  Torrens was still. There were tears welling in his eyes again. In her eyes too, for that matter. This bloody lump of a man. He’d come to her for so much more than just footy. And they’d worked together. She’d given up her time to do extra conditioning sessions. He’d landed the first honest paid job of his life. And later, when she needed him, he’d helped her out. They’d been a little team of two for a while there, battling their separate demons together. She realised now that for him it was not just the premiership but the respect of the rest of the team, the whole town, that had changed him, cleared his self-doubt, his disgust at what he’d done for so many years, the person he’d been. But now, after all that, after everything the Cats had achieved and everything the two of them had faced down together—she was selling out. It made her ache inside.

  Torrens put his knife and fork down, rested his hands on his thighs. ‘Jonesy. This Melbourne thing. I can’t…well it’s just…’

  He looked like he’d been smacked in the guts with a cricket bat. But it wasn’t a muscled bikie or some other crim, it was her, Clementine Jones…Jonesy, wielding the bat.

  They washed up together. Torrens cracked another beer and they went outside on the deck. The moon was up now and shining a white pathway across the Great Sandy Straits right up to the backyard. They reminisced about the premiership game and the after-party antics she’d missed, with the whole town packed into the Arms, flowing out onto the street, filling the steps in front of the post office, players sleeping in the front bar, Dave, the publican not bothering to kick them out, throwing blankets over them. The town had buzzed and hummed, flitted and soared in the clear skies above the paddocks and hadn’t come down for weeks.

  It was like old times with Torrens, only it wasn’t. They were skirting around the thing that had come between them.

  They went back inside and Torrens boiled the kettle, said it was time to get back into the training routine—‘You should know better than offering me another, Jonesy. Three light beers a week, tops,’ he said earnestly, fumbling around in the cupboard for mugs. She was pretty sure he’d put away a six-pack of heavies so far this afternoon.

  They sat with steaming cups of tea and, in the silence, the fear she’d felt in the mayor’s office made its way to the surface. It was time to tell him.

  She put her mug down, her hands in her lap and began retelling it all: the audio recording, the meeting, the look on Fullerton’s face when he saw the cuts on her hands, her accusation, his denial, her ultimatum. Or was it a threat? A threat to a killer. Good one, Jones. Torrens closed his eyes. He shook his head, sighed, but said nothing.

  ‘So, what do you reckon then?’ A queasiness churned in her stomach.

  ‘Well.’ He leaned back, scratched the back of his head like he was assessing the tread on a set of tyres. ‘I’d say you’re squarely in the shit, Jonesy.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Her voice was squeaky.r />
  ‘Ah-huh. Don’t have to be a bloody genius to guess this mayor bloke needs you silenced.’

  Clem had been clinging to the hope that perhaps she’d misread the situation. Still, she refused to take his comment at face value. ‘Silenced? That’s a bit extreme isn’t it?’

  ‘He’s the killer, right? Or he’s part of a plot to kill?’ he snorted. ‘You know it. You fucking told him you know it. And, as if that wasn’t enough, you went and threatened him, you bloody numbat!’ He waved his hand up once, let it flop.

  ‘So what do I do? I mean, in your professional opinion,’ she added hastily. ‘Not asking for help or anything.’

  ‘Only one thing you can do.’

  She waited, hoping for a miracle.

  ‘Get out of town. Hide. I know just the place. Little country town, starts with K.’

  ‘But he’d follow me there.’

  ‘Don’t stay at your place, then. Stay with me or some other place out of town.’

  ‘Melbourne would be better.’

  He frowned. ‘Yeah, could be. But big cities are good places for crims too. Plenty of connections there, people to sniff you out, little hidden-away places for doing the deed.’

  And then, like a tree crashing through the ceiling, the thought entered her head and she wished it would crash straight back out. Had Torrens done the deed? She’d only seen his potential—from that first moment in the carpark when he rocked up and asked if he could join training. She’d never asked about his background, never found out what he’d been inside for—or what he hadn’t been inside for but should’ve been. But now for the first time since they’d met, she wondered if Matthew Torrens might himself have taken a life. She grabbed at her mug, took a hasty swig of tea and hoped the thought didn’t show on her face. She put the mug back down heavily.

  ‘Yeah well, I can’t go. House-sitting contract doesn’t end for a few days yet,’ she said.