by Gordon Reid
‘Children?’
‘All outside at the time, playing with Nutty. As for everyone else, they were on the verandah. Most hit by flying boards, or glass. The house blew out on one side. The western,’ she added.
‘And you?’
‘Blown off the verandah, straight down the steps. Jumped up and saw Robyn, curled up, gasping. Both arms over her belly. As if holding the child, protecting her. Searched around, checked everybody—’
‘Where is she?
‘Robyn? In the morgue, mate. They’re waiting for you. To make a decision. Funeral arrangements.’
‘The baby?’
‘In a crib, doing fine. No damage at all, they think. You want to see her? They’ll get her for you.’
He did not answer. He didn’t want to see the child. He didn’t want to see anyone ever again.
‘The other kids?’
‘Wendy and Terry? They’re with Muriel. Said she’d take the baby too, when she comes out.’
‘She can keep her.’
‘Hey, don’t be that way. Your little girl’s not responsible for anything.’
‘If she’d not been pregnant—’
‘Yeah, well, she was pregnant, happily pregnant.’
They fell silent. A nurse came and a nurse went.
‘Laura was cut up a bit,’ Chook said.
‘Laura?’ He had to think.
‘Hit by flying glass. Had her back to it at the time. Copped it in the head and neck and on one ear. Nearly cut it off.’
‘What?’
‘Her ear. They were able to stitch her up. Has a big surgical pad taped to her head.’
‘Yeah?’
‘She’s taken time off, so I’m running the shop. I hate paperwork.’ Chook was trying to make conversation. ‘I give it all to Dave. He’s very grateful. Takes it as an act of faith. In his ability, that is. He’s only a clerk. I don’t know how he came to be a cop.’
Becker did not reply.
‘They grilled him,’ Chook said, ‘the local cops. Thought he might have been responsible. He knew the time and place. He has a craving, you know.’
‘Yeah?’
‘For nicotine, chews it all day, drives me mad. Sometimes I wish he’d smoke instead. Stop all that chewing, like a cow.’ A nurse came in pushing a trolley. He didn’t do it, though. Didn’t tip anyone off. Dave is too stupid to be nasty. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. Goes on marches.’
‘Marches?’
‘To save the planet.’
Conversation fell flat. They watched as the nurse took his temperature and blood pressure and pulse. She looked very young, probably not long out of school. A trainee. She said nothing and he said nothing, while she notated on a chart. Then she went out with the trolley. Becker lay there, eyes almost closed, looking like he was going to drift back into sleep. Not real sleep, but some sort of incarcerating daze. Chook shook him.
‘Wake up. Don’t give up. You have a daughter, remember. Her name’s Roberta. She’s quite beautiful.’
Becker was not listening.
‘They let me pick her up,’ Chook said. ‘In the nursery. She smiled at me. I wondered why she was smiling at me, an ugly bitch like me. Then I realised. I was smiling at her.’
Becker blinked, shook himself out of it.
‘He did it,’ he said.
‘Who did what?’
‘Bert, I showed him a copy of the letter.’
‘What letter?’
‘Addressed to Caitlin.’
‘Who is this Caitlin?’
Becker did not bother to explain. His head ached. His ribs ached, his left leg in a splint. Each time he tried to move, it hurt like hell.
He remembered now. He had not shown Bert the letter. The old bastard had refused to look at it, but he’d told Bert what was in it. Something about a mountain. Someone getting killed on top. A Jap soldier, spilling his guts. No, that was not it. Mount Elephant, that was it.
‘He knew Bob’d be there. Knew the time. Did it to kill him. Kill us all.’
‘Kill who?’
‘Old Bob.’
‘No, no, mate, the local cops have interviewed him. When they heard it, he and Ray came running. I was there, I saw them. Ray was the first one in, helping people out.’
‘When I get out of here, I’m gonna to kill ’im.’
‘You ain’t goin’ anywhere, mate. You’ve got a broken leg. It’s in a splint.’
‘Ah, Jesus.’
‘They’ve put a guard on your place,’ she said.
Becker did not answer.
‘What do you want done with the house?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s busted. It blew out one side, the western. They must have placed it under the living room, by the old fireplace, almost right under the table. Laden with food.’
‘Burn it,’ Becker said.
Late that day, the local police came and interviewed him. He was out of bed and doing some physio, trying to get used to crutches. His leg had been put in a cast that morning. His hearing was better, but he could not help them. One of them was the sergeant named Jack Jackson, the one who’d arrested Barnes. The other was a detective inspector named Quinn, or Quinlan, Becker was not sure. Who said very little. Contented himself by leaning against a wall and sniffling, and scratching, and frowning, and wriggling and exhaling. As if he’d run a long way. He had strangely round eyes, slightly protruding like intrusive nobs. And thin, black hair, slightly greying. And slightly distraught.
‘What’d they use?’ Becker asked.
The detective looked as though he were going to answer, but changed his mind. He seemed to be the kind of man hard to get information off.
‘Gelly, by the look and smell of it,’ Jackson said.
‘Gelignite?’
‘Yeah, two or three sticks. Wired,’ he added. ‘The Army’s had a look at it. Found some bits.’
‘Bits?’
‘Of a mobile phone. Cable too.’
Becker was still shocked, but not medically shocked. He was not deranged or terrified. He felt nothing but sorrow. He wanted to get out of this kind of life, where you can be wiped out at any minute by people you do not know. They could be friends or neighbours. Or people who came out of your past, looking for you. Like figures in a dream, which does not make sense. Is not meant to make sense.
‘What’s happened to Barnes?’
‘In this hospital,’ Jackson said. ‘In the mental health unit.’
‘What’s he got to say?’
‘Nothing intelligible. Reckons you’ve always had it in for him.’
‘Did he do it?’
‘Can’t see how he could. He was in here at the time.’
‘He could have arranged it.’
‘By phone? He didn’t have a phone. We took it away from him. So we could trace the calls he made that day, when that old man was killed in your car.’
‘Who did it?’
The detective inspector said: ‘Your neighbour says he saw two blokes at your place one day, when you were absent.’
‘What neighbour?’
‘The old bloke with the cattle dog.’
‘Two blokes?’
‘With a van. Electricians from Griffith.’
‘How did he know they were from Griffith?’
‘There was a sign on the side, Terracini Electrics. And a phone number.’
‘Terracini? What was the number?’
‘Same as the one that called Barnes just before you were shot at on the road.’
‘Barnes’s wife—,’ Becker said. He wanted to say that it must have been revenge. Trying to kill him because of the caper with Angelina Cosco. Except that he could not remember her name. He gave up.
‘What did they say?’
‘Thei
r radiator happened to boil at that point. They had to get some water. So they went into your place and got some from a tap. They knocked on the door first, but no-one answered.’
‘And Barnes? The phone call? Highway?’
‘They say that was some personal matter, nothing to do with you and that old guy in your car.’
‘He was a witness to a murder.’
‘Keaton? Yeah, we know.’
‘You think they did it?’
Jackson shrugged. ‘Why would they use a van with their own name on it?’
‘Why would they want to kill me? Kill my wife, my friends?’
‘Any ideas?’
‘Cosco,’ he said. ‘I helped the Feds to get his daughter out of Griffith. Maybe they think I’m hiding her.’
‘Cosco? He’s dead.’
‘Maybe it’s the family, for revenge.’
The plainclothes man had a different idea.
‘Maybe you were not the target? Maybe it was your mate.’
‘What mate?’
‘The tall one that looks like a woman.’
‘She’s a cop, you know.’
‘A Federal cop, yeah. For a cop, she’s pretty hairy.’
‘Hairy?’
‘You know, hair-raising. Takes risks. Bends the rules. Likes to set people up, likes planting a bag of coke on someone.’
‘She didn’t plant anything. Barnes’s wife knew what was in it. She asked for it.’
‘Some people don’t like his or her ethics.’
‘She gets results.’
‘Yeah? Well, maybe someone doesn’t like him or her.’
Yes, Becker thought, Chook does take risks, and bends the rules. Plays around with lives. Like that caper in Griffith, very clever. Now Cosco was dead. And Barnes was in a psych ward, no doubt still raving about everyone bein’ against him. Still couldn’t think too well. Wished he were dead some days. Why was he there? He had accepted a bag of coke, but he had not been charged. They had compromised him just in case the caper with Angelina did not work, Chook had said. But it did work, Becker had protested. Yeah, well, Chook had said, rolling a reefer and lighting up and stretching her legs one day at the Hovell. She did not care who knew. By now she was some sort of law unto herself in Wagga Wagga. Why? Becker had insisted. Chook had just shrugged: No reason at all. Then, why don’t you get him out of there? She’d shrugged again as she’d studied the toe of her boot. As if it was one one of the great questions you never dare to ask yourself. Then she had smiled, just a flicker. He’s there, she had said, because he wants to be there. Why? Becker had said again. Look at it this way, if you were married to Maria Terrachini, would you want to be in a nice cosy place where everyone treats you with respect? Listens to your every complaint? Takes you seriously? Or would you want to be at home with Maria? Screeching her head off at you every day of the week?
Chapter 31
Next day was Thursday. Bob Elliott was to be buried that day at eleven o’clock. Chook offered to take him. Becker knew he should attend, but he was afraid to go. His left leg was now being in plaster. The fibula was broken, but it was a stable fracture. Which meant he could put some weight on it if he wore a boot, a lightweight canvas thing. He could have used crutches, but he found them too difficult. So he did not go to the funeral. In a way, he was glad. He could not face Muriel, not yet. She would blame him for the disaster. Robyn should never have married him. So he let it slide, did not go, telling himself he was not capable. Muriel would understand. Her religion made her understand. But, at heart, she would know he was afraid to face her. He didn’t know how she would know. But she would know. If he were any sort of man, he’d get up and go, no matter how much it hurt. But, he knew, he was not any sort of man.
He did nothing on Friday, except exercises with a physiotherapist. And when she’d gone, he kept trying. Determined to learn to walk with crutches, even though they hurt his right shoulder, the one that had taken a bullet one dark night back in Sydney years ago.
On Saturday, Chook drove him out in the office car, a medium-sized Mazda sedan, the one Laura Langley drove. She was a major in the Army’s legal service in Sydney on transfer to the Federal Police. To get more experience in crime, real crime. She’d got sick of driving a desk, preparing briefs for court-martials. Soldiers hitting officers, getting too drunk to go on parade, selling Army equipment to criminals, that sort of thing. She was still shaken. Had never expected anything like this. The Army was much quieter, safer. She might go back there, take it easy for a while.
It was a shock. The eastern walls were more or less standing, so was most of the roof. The western side was blown out, boards flung across the verandah, across the lawn. Windows blown out, broken glass everywhere. Chairs tumbled and tilted and upside down, even on the lawn. Someone was going to pay for this. Becker did not know how he was going to do it. He was up against big and ugly and mean forces. They might be big, but he was going to get even one day. One way or the other.
There was a blue and white plastic ribbon around the whole house, or what was left of it. A sign saying: Police Line Do Not Cross. Chook lifted the ribbon and they went up the side steps. Robyn had been blown down those steps, headlong. Instinctively hanging onto her belly, trying to protect the child. Not her head. That was a mistake. Or not a mistake, depending on how you saw it. Protecting herself or the child within.
The living room was open to the sky. Much of the ceiling and the roofing iron had been blown upwards and then had crashed down. Floorboards lay everywhere at any angle. Some intact, others split and jagged, lying criss-crossed on exposed bearers. That’s where Becker had fallen on the girl. They had to step carefully from one bearer to another or on some uncertain tangle, to get around. The kitchen wall had blown inwards, around the stove, the refrigerator, the cupboards. The bathroom was intact, useable, and in the last room on the western side, the laundry, the locker was steady and safe and unbroken and probably unbreakable. He thought of the Winchester stowed in there. Perhaps it would come in handy one day.
They were about to check the three bedrooms on the eastern side, when someone spoke outside. Or shouted or yelled or cried, aggrieved.
‘I never done it!’
They hobbled and slipped and stepped their way back to the verandah. Bert Henschke was standing at the bottom of the steps, his dog at his heels. It was snarling quietly, curling its lip. They were strangers. It did not like strangers. Bert and the dog came up the side steps, gingerly. As if anything could happen at any time. Like a wall coming down. Becker went out, too quickly, the crutches slipping and sliding on the debris. Chook took one arm and helped him out, so that they were all on the verandah, the dog too. The dog didn’t like what he smelled. He could smell the anger. Becker raised a crutch like a spear, went for Bert. The dog went for Becker. Bert stepped back, startled. His hair was a fright, so was his face. He looked tired and deranged, just hanging on. Hanging on to his reason and the dog.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I never blew you up!’
‘Who said you did?’
‘All because of Bob Elliott. I never blew ’im up.’
‘Because he got the money? Caitlin’s money? Instead of your old man?’
‘It weren’t my flamin’ idea!’
‘Whose idea was it?’
Becker got down the steps, on one crutch and hanging onto a post. He went for the mad old bastard.
‘What are you trying to say? You know who it is?’
‘Wouldn’t do nothin’ like that. Just ’cause that feller got everythin’.’
‘You know who did it, don’t you?’
‘Ah, shit, I dunno.’
‘Tell me, tell me!’
‘Ah, Christ, ah Christ, ah—’
‘I’m gonna kill you,’ Becker said.
The dog barked again.
Chook intervened, pull
ing him back. Becker elbowed her away.
‘You killed her, you fuckin’ mad bastard!’
‘Eh?’
‘You killed her, because you didn’t get it, didn’t you?’
‘Eh?’
‘Didn’t get what Caitlin got!’
Chook tried again. ‘Leave it,’ she said.
‘So you got even, didn’t you?’
The dog was struggling against the collar, the black belt and old clasp and studs and the grease and hair and the hands of time.
‘You killed her son, didn’t you? Killed his daughter. You killed my wife!’
‘Harry, take it easy!’
‘I’m gonna kill him.’
‘Take it easy!’ Chook was holding him, keeping him back.
Old Bert was pop-eyed. ‘Never done it,’ he said.
‘You blew up this house, didn’t you?’
‘No, I never!’
‘You spiteful old bastard—’
Chook hit Becker, on the right shoulder. His bad shoulder. Not hard, though.
‘Stop it, Harry.’
‘What?’
‘Stop it, he didn’t do it!’
‘What?’
‘Tell him, Bert!’
They calmed down, stepping back, relaxing. The dog relaxed, sitting. Bert’s hand still on the collar. Its eyes flicking this way and that, the way dogs’ eyes flick and fix and dart and see everything in a flash. Scanning the surroundings, for danger, for food.
‘What?’ Becker said again. His heart was pounding. He wanted to kill Henschke, but he could not. The dog would kill him for it. Then Chook would kill the dog. And where would all that all end? He gulped air. The crutch was beginning to slide. He was beginning to slide.
The old man looked around, his face screwed up in a mad sort of smile, as if about to burst. ‘Two blokes was ’ere,’ he said. ‘Coupla days before.’
‘I know that.’
‘Electricians.’
‘I know that. In the house?’
‘Eh?’
‘Did you see them in the house? Under the house?’
‘Out on the road, when I seen ’em.’
‘What doing?’
‘Sittin’ there.’