by Gordon Reid
She’d been back in Canberra, not so much to pick him up, but to see some people in Federal Police headquarters and report on what was or was not happening in Wagga. In which someone at a table had suggested, with the lopsided weariness of anyone who thinks too much, that she take Mr Keaton back to Wagga to see what the reaction, if any, might or might not be. She’d not been happy about this idea, warning there might be unforeseen consequences.
Becker picked up his dish and went into the kitchen.
‘How is he?’ Robyn asked.
‘Pretty well out to it. Contented, I’d say.’
She was dying to ask, he could see.
‘That business in the park,’ he said. ‘I overreacted. I’d seen some bastards, young blokes probably still at school, going around and whacking old people—’ This was a lie, but he’d had to think of something. ‘Just sitting in the sun, and I saw them coming, and felt sure they’d spot Buster.’
‘Buster?’
‘Yeah, well, that’s what I’d known him by in Canberra.’
‘You knew him in Canberra?’
‘I used to sit in Garema Pace and have a late lunch. He’d come and chat and try to get two dollars out of me.’
‘You are very kind, Harry.’
‘Ah, he’s a bloke, who’s got nobody now and likes to talk.’
‘Yes,’ she said. Thinking.
‘I’ll take him back, when he wakes up.’
‘Oh—’ she said, and put the last of the pie back in the refrigerator. And turned and said: ‘Harry, I knew him.
‘You knew him?’
‘A long time ago—’
‘Yeah?’
‘In Wybilonga.’
‘Yeah?’
‘When I was at school there.’
‘How old were you then?’
‘Ten,’ she said. ‘Almost eleven. He was such a nice man, young, new to teaching. I think Wybilonga was his first posting, or perhaps the second. They send them out into the bush, don’t they? The new teachers. If they are single,’ she added.
‘Something happen, Rob?’
‘There were only two classrooms, and two teachers. Thelma Danby was the head. She was a cranky old lady, most probably because some of the kids used to muck up. And most probably she saw and had long realised she would never get out of a such a position. Always on the outer. A spinster, she was. With horn-rimmed glasses and a mole on her chin. Hairy in some lights.’
‘So?’
‘No-one liked her, but everyone liked Mr Keaton. He was young and enthusiastic and had everything to look forward to. Good at sports and always a sharp retort if you tried to be cheeky with him. Or, make everyone laugh. And always addressing us by our first names instead of the last, not crabbily as did Miss Danby, glaring at us over her glasses, if we said or did anything out of place.’
She paused, thought about her next words.
‘One day I had to stay back, write out fifty times: Procrastination is the thief of time. I hadn’t done my homework for Miss Danby. Twice I’d failed to meet the deadline. I was sitting there when he looked in and said: ‘How’s it going, Robbie?’ ‘Good,’ I said. ‘I’ve done twenty-eight.’ ‘Don’t let me interrupt you,’ he said. ‘I’ve been instructed by Her Majesty to see you pay your penalty.’ ‘Excuse me, sir, what’s happened to Miss Danby?’ I asked, looking up and at the same time still writing. ‘She’s gone to Wagga’, he said. ‘Had to see a doctor.’ So I pressed on, thirty-three, thirty-four times.’
‘And?’
Robyn was leaning against the refrigerator, arms folded and looking down, penitently. He waited, leaning on the bench, legs crossed, in effect standing on one foot. And watching her. Something was wrong, he knew.
‘He was softly whistling a tune and looking out a window. It was that lovely one: ‘Singing in the Rain with Gene Kelly and Donald O’Conner and Debby—’
‘Reynolds,’ Becker said. He used to watch a lot of TV with the Indians with whom he had lived in Canberra. No-one said a word, while they watched. The Indians couldn’t understand a word of it. They didn’t laugh, even when O’Connor did his famous dance on the furniture and the walls. Trying to make them laugh.
‘He went on like that, his feet starting to move. I was watching with one eye and at the same time pressing on, thirty-seven. And trying not to chuckle. Then he began to dance.’
‘He danced, while you were trying to write out fifty times?’
‘Quite good too. I heard later he’d been on stage before he got the teaching diploma. Amateur stuff, town halls and such. Well, suddenly he went the whole way, singing and dancing in the rain. Even taking off an imaginary hat and bowing to me. I was so delighted I jumped up and ran to him.
‘He grabbed me and we danced, back and forth across the room, it being one of those old-time demountables, an iron-pot stove in the corner for winter. Which I think it was. We danced, and danced, chuckling and laughing like mad. Delighted, I was.
‘We stopped. He stood still, looking at me—admiring me, I know. And thinking about me. I was still laughing, it being so wonderful, a teacher doing such a thing, quite out of the blue. Then he kissed me.’
‘He kissed you?’
‘Yes, full on the forehead. I was startled, I pulled away, but he enfolded me in his arms and kissed my neck and—and—’
‘He did something?’
‘He held me. I could feel his hand running over my back. I started to struggle. He was saying, “I love you, Robinski—” He used to come out with funny names like that. “You are quite the most beautiful girl, I’ve ever seen.” I was becoming panicky. I didn’t know what to do, I began to cry. I tried to back away, my bottom stuck out, trying to get away. I thought he was going to touch it.’
‘He touched you?’
‘No, well, not quite.’
‘Jesus,’ Becker said.
‘He stood back. Must have realised he’d gone too far. Had not been able to control himself. He looked shocked, genuinely shocked, as shocked as I.
‘He let me go and said, “Oh, oh—” He looked horrified, no doubt of the possible implications. I was only a girl, aged eleven, tall for my age, and pretty to some extent, I suppose. I started to cry, itchy tingles coming to my lids. I blinked. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Please believe me, Robyn, I did not mean to touch you. I didn’t mean it,” he said again.
‘Then he walked away backwards, to the door. And said there was no need to finish the fifty. I could finish them at home. He would swear I’d done them all at school. I stood there, hurt and crying, somehow blindly gathering up my books and pen and started for the door. My head was down, afraid I’d cry like a baby. I did manage to hang onto some measure of control.
‘I passed within inches of him at the door. And walked out and ran all the way home, my school bag rattling, both crying and not crying, ashamed of what had happened. And what I had done.’
‘What you had done?’
‘Yes, that’s how I felt. I had done something bad. I knew. I had led him on, dancing with him and laughing with him and dancing with him. And being happy with him for the first moment in my life. You see, Harry, I was in love with him. I’d dreamed of dancing with him, cuddling with him, kissing him. He was quite good looking then.’
‘These things happen,’ Becker said. ‘Did you tell anyone?’
‘Not at first, not that night, nor the next day. But on the next weekend I was so guilt-stricken Mother noticed and said, “Whatever is ailing you, child?” I thought about it for some minutes, eating an apple which was not ripe and bitter and uneatable, but I deliberately ate it. I suppose I wanted to make myself sick.’
‘What did you say? To Muriel?’
‘I told her. She was horrified. I tried desperately not to make it sound worse than it was. But I’m not a good liar, Harry. She sat me down and squatted in front of me
and looked deeply into my eyes, her fingers tight on my arms and asked. I could not get out of it then. I told the truth, essentially. Suddenly, she was holding me in a crushing embrace, stroking my face and expecting me to burst into tears. But I could not, not really—’
He moved in and held her, an arm about her shoulders. She was close to crying.
‘You don’t have to say anything, Robbie.’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘No, you don’t. It’s all over now.’
‘No, no—’ She was gasping against his chest. ‘I have to tell him.’
‘Tell him what? That old derelict? What the hell have you got to tell him? Now? After what is it? Twenty-five years? What can you tell him?’
‘Who I am.’
He held her back, looking in her eyes.
‘Are you crazy?’
‘No,’ she said, rubbing her nose, searching for a tissue. He picked up from a box on the bench. And waited until she had picked up a little.
‘I told my mother, who told Miss Danby, who told my father, who wrote to the District Inspector in Wagga, who called my teacher to come and see him. And fired him on the spot, so we heard when a new teacher came, Miss Prince. Not more than eighteen, her first job. Much to our relief, she turned up after a few days of having to put up with Miss Danby doing both classes—chaos breaking out in whatever room she was not.
‘The poor man, we heard, when I was a lot older and was at Wagga High, had escaped a day in court, and perhaps a term in jail. The Inspector had hushed it up the best he could. But that man never worked again as a teacher.’
‘Cut out, you mean?’
‘The last we heard of him, he was clerking in woolsheds out west. During the season,’ she added. ‘God knows what he did during the rest of the year.’
‘Ah, Jesus, Rob, Rob, Robbie.’ He kissed her on her head. ‘It’s not your fault. These things happen.’
‘It is my fault. I should have kept quiet about it. I’m sure he would never have done it again. He did not assault me. He cuddled me. I was embarrassed and tried to push him away. I’m sure his action was quite spontaneous. He apologised immediately.’
‘Oh, you never know. That type of bloke—’
She sighed.
‘No, Harry. You are an outraged husband, hearing this. My father was an outraged father. But I have always felt guilty about it. Here, now, I have everything, and that poor man has nothing. And another thing, when Mother asked me if he had touched me, I thought she meant anywhere at all, so I said Yes. He had touched me. We were dancing, but that was not what she meant, was it? He did not touch me there. Which was what she meant, wasn’t it?’
He patted her. ‘Come on, Rob, forget it.’
‘No, no, I did a bad thing. I ruined him. I’m going to speak to him. And apologise.’
Becker jumped back. ‘Apologise for what? No, don’t! He probably doesn’t remember a thing. His memory’s gone now, lost to booze and bad food. They’ve tried to help him in Canberra, fixing him up, feeding him, giving him a new leg, pumping vitamins into him, trying to bring back something of the man that was—’
‘Is he still asleep, I wonder?’
She had moved to the door.
‘Rob, I’ll take him back now.’
‘I’ll have one word.’
He tried to stop her, but she would not be restrained.
Buster was sitting up, trying to get out of the easy chair, outdoors style, thick cushions tied on. At the same time stretching.
‘Mind, I’ll help you,’ she said, a hand out. ‘Had a good sleep, have you? Harry’s going to drive you back now, but before you go—’
He stretched, holding onto her hand.
‘By gee, that was a funny sleep. Not the usual jumble you can’t make head or tale of, but quite clear. Thinking about times long ago. Think I was a teacher then. Don’t know what happened to that, but moved about. Saw the country. The beautiful country. You have a lovely place here, Mrs Becker. Nice to think about what has been, ain’t it? Yeah—’
He stretched some more, moved a foot heavily.
‘Mr Keaton,’ she said tentatively, ‘you were a teacher at Wybilonga school, twenty years ago, weren’t you? Do you remember? Wybilonga? Out past Lockhart, a small place with tall concrete solos and the old bush pub?’
‘Wybilonga?’
‘It was a two-room primary school. I was one of your pupils.’
‘Were you?’
‘Robyn Elliot. Do you remember?’
Becker was whispering: ‘Leave it, Rob. He does not remember.’
‘And we danced one day? Singing in the Rain? And you were Gene Kelly? Do you remember that?’
‘He doesn’t remember, Rob.’
‘Singing in the Rain? By gee, that was an old one.’
‘Do you remember?’
He hesitated, thinking. Or trying to think. ‘Could have. Used to like dancing. Ah, well,’ he said, looking around again. ‘You’ve done me a power of good, both of you. It must be that pie of yours, Mrs—’
‘Becker, but I was Robyn Elliott. You remember at all?’
‘Can’t say I do.’
‘Okay, mate, let’s get going.’
So they went.
They’d just passed through Yarragrundry, which is not a town but a spot on the map with a few farms among desultory gums, when a four-wheel drive came up behind. But instead of passing on the right, it shot up on the left. Gravel and dust flying. Too late, Becker realised why it was coming up fast on the left. Buster was sitting on the left.
‘Look out!’ He tried to push Buster down. Buster did not react. He was not old in years, just faded and, for once in a long time, happy.
Suddenly, one shot, straight through the left-hand window. Through Buster’s head, past Becker’s nose and out the right-hand window. Glass flew everywhere, both side windows smashed. Something wet hit Becker’s face. Blood, he thought, Buster’s blood.
He jammed on the brakes.
The four-wheel did not stop. It skidded back onto the bitumen, stones flying, one or two hitting the BMW. Then accelerating hard along the bitumen toward, but not necessarily to, Wagga.
Becker grabbed the Smith and Wesson under the seat, jumped out, sighted up, knelt down and, with both hands, fired, hitting something, he was pretty sure, doing some damage, which might help to identify the vehicle—if they ever found it. At the same time, trying to make out the number. He got off three or four shots and gave up. The big vehicle was out of range, and pretty soon around a bend and out of sight.
Becker pulled out his mobile and called triple zero. It was not much use. The vehicle, a big, fat Toyota Land Cruiser, he thought, would not have gone into Wagga, where the police, having picked up his call, might have been waiting. It would have dodged into some back road, and found its way back to Griffith or wherever it had come from.
He looked in at Buster. It had been a quick death, straight through the left temple. Apart from a dribble, there was little blood. Buster looked at peace. As if suddenly, after a contented day, he had nodded off.
Becker stood by the BMW, leaning on it in fact, holding and wiping the left side of his face, where it had been hit by shattered glass, but only skin-deep. And holding the Smith and Wesson. He did not bother to hide it from the gaze of those who slowed to have a look. Nor did he move when he heard the first siren. But he did reach in and flash the lights of the BMW as the first patrol car slowed to a stop.
The driver looked across at Becker, swung around and stopped. A door opened and Barnes got out, adjusting his cap and his belt, dangling with the usual gear that a uniformed cop has to carry—handgun, taser, baton, pepper spray, handcuffs, gloves, torch, two-way radio—and walked up like the little schoolyard bully he was. Swinging his arms importantly, his head down. He always walked with his head down, never up. As if he were goin
g to charge you like a bull. A come in fighting sort of approach.
‘So you got him?’ Becker said.
Chapter 23
At first Barnes just stood there, gaping. Then something must have clicked in his brain. By this time, it must have been in pretty bad shape, things having gone wrong day after day.
‘What?’ he said.
‘I said, You got him.’
‘Got who?’
‘Got the old guy.’
‘What old guy?’
‘The one with the hole in his head.’
‘What the hell are you talkin’ about?’
‘The one in this car. Leaning against the window, shattered.’
‘This window?’
‘No, the other. Take a look.’
Barnes didn’t move. Maybe he didn’t like being told what to do, not by Becker, anyway. He stood there, gaping at him.
‘The bullet went in that side and came out this,’ Becker said. ‘I ducked back when I saw what was going to happen, but he ducked forward. And copped it.’
At last Barnes went around. ‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘Who done this?’
‘I thought you’d know,’ Becker said.
‘Me? Why’d I know?’
‘You seem to have some nasty friends,’ Becker said.
‘You tryin’ to give me more shit?’
‘Nothing compared with what you’re going to get,’ Becker said. ‘We have company.’
Another siren and then yet another. A patrol car came around the bend, followed by an ambulance.
‘Anyway,’ Becker said, ‘why aren’t you in jail?’
‘What?’ Barnes had come back to the driver’s side.
‘For receiving a packet of coke.’
‘Me, coke? What are you talking about?’
‘I hear that the Feds found half a kilo on you.’
‘What? Eh?’ Barnes went white and then red and finally grey. As if his heart had stopped. His pokey little eyes seemed to jump out of his head. A hand went to his sidearm, then changed its mind. He both gaped and gasped.
‘By Christ, you bastard, you set me up. They told me that bitch got it from you.’