BECKER

by Gordon Reid

  ‘In their vehicle?’

  ‘Yeah, then one got out and went to the ’ouse.’

  ‘We know all that. What did he do?’

  ‘Couldn’t see f’the trees.’

  ‘Did he climb under the house on this side? Your side?’

  ‘Couldn’t see.’

  ‘You could see the van all the time?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘When the man got out of the van, was he carrying anything?’

  ‘Could of.’

  ‘What sort of thing?’

  ‘Could of been a can.’

  ‘A can?’

  ‘To get the water.’

  ‘They could have had sticks of gelly in it, couldn’t they? And a phone and a battery and a lot of electrical gear. They were electricians. They could make a bomb.’

  Bert didn’t know. Chook shrugged.

  ‘As the cops say, Why would they use a van with their own name plastered all over it?’

  Becker did not know. He was beaten. If the Terracinis did not do it, then who else? Who hated him enough to do such a bad thing? Deliberately killing or wounding a lot of innocent people to get at only one man, himself?

  Bert released the dog, which wandered off, sniffing. Searching for scraps. Bits of food lay here and there. A dropped plate in a corner, a crust under an upturned chair.

  ‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘Ray’s got somethin’.’

  ‘Got something?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Got what?’

  Bert twisted and turned, his feet not moving. He was like a gnarled old tree that seems to have legs, but somehow could not get going.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Didn’t say.’

  ‘Where is Ray?’ Chook said.

  ‘Gone.’

  ‘Gone where?’

  Bert shrugged. ‘Griffith.’

  ‘Why’s he gone to Griffith?’

  ‘T’see a bloke.’

  ‘What bloke?’

  ‘Dunno. Might be somethin’, but.’

  ‘What do you mean somethin’? A contact?’

  Bert did not answer. Just looked around. Then looked at Blue. Blue had found some chicken bones. Chewing noisily, snap, snap, crack.

  ‘When’ll he be back?’

  ‘Later.’

  ‘How much later?’

  ‘Didn’t say, exactly.’

  Chook’s phone went off. She put it to an ear.

  ‘Yeah?’ She listened for a few seconds. ‘Who? Who did you say? Giuseppina?’ Listened some more. ‘Giuseppina who? Ray? Ray?’ She looked at the others, shrugged. ‘He hung up.’

  ‘What did he say?’ Becker asked.

  ‘Her name’s Giuseppina.’

  ‘Who did he mean?’

  ‘Didn’t say. Sounded in a hurry. And scared.’

  ‘He’s in Griffith?’

  ‘Didn’t say that.’

  ‘Is he coming back?’

  Chook didn’t answer. ‘Giuseppina?’ she said, as if to herself.

  ‘Giuseppina who?’

  ‘I think he meant the lady,’ she said. ‘The one they call La Donna.’

  Chapter 32

  It was now Friday, the day of Robyn’s funeral. He got up early and got himself discharged from hospital and went out ot the farm and got to work. Dragged out whatever he could carry, using only one crutch. And one hand. Hopping on the other foot. At about nine o’clock, he noticed something sniffing at his plastered heel. It was Blue. Behind him was Bert. They soon got on top of the problem. Knocking down any hanging iron and loose timbers up top and dragging them out to a spot on the western side, the dog watching. Hank joined them and then Lucy Beerbohm and her partner from up the lane, gathering any valuables. Cars stopped now and then and watched, then drove off. At twelve, Becker called it a day. The church service was set for two o’clock. He and Bert were having a beer on the verandah when Chook turned up.

  ‘Any word from Ray?’ she asked.

  Bert paused, thought about it. Then shook his head.

  ‘You worried?’

  ‘Should’ve ’eard b’now.’

  ‘Did he say he’d be home yesterday?’

  ‘Sort of. Y’never know.’

  ‘Comes and goes, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Always been like that, bit of a law unto ’isself.’

  ‘Well—’ Becker finished his beer. ‘I’ve got to get ready to go, Bert. That’s been great.’

  ‘Yeah, well—’ They both stood. Strangely, Bert held out a hand. They shook. ‘Never been invited to a party before,’ he said. ‘Not ’ere, anyway.’

  A figure was approaching. They could make it out through the young pepper trees.

  ‘This looks like Ray,’ Becker said.

  ‘Ain’t Ray,’ Bert said. ‘Ain’t ’is walk. More like Jase.’

  ‘Jase?’

  ‘Jason, they call ’im. Might ’ave some news.’

  Bert walked out slowly in his stumbling way to meet the boy at the fence. He was a grinning redhead with hair all over his face. Becker went into the house, searched around for the makings of a sandwich. Chook had brought fresh bread and milk. He’d begun to eat, when she called from the verandah.

  ‘It don’t look good,’ she said. ‘Tell him, Jase.’

  Bert and the boy were standing at the bottom of the side steps. The boy looked about twenty. He was one of those simple fellows who would always look young and silly, even when he was an old man.

  ‘Tell ’em,’ Bert said.

  ‘Gone,’ the boy said.

  ‘Gone where?’

  ‘Just gone. Was havin’ a beer with him at this pub in Griffith an’ he wanted a leak. Waited a while. Never come back. Looked for him high an’ low. Looked out the back. No sign, nothin’.’

  ‘You had a car?’

  ‘Yeah, wasn’t there, but.’

  ‘The car?’

  ‘His ute was there. He wasn’t, but.’

  ‘Reported this to the police?’

  ‘Nah.’

  ‘They’ll find him, Jace.’

  ‘Ah—’

  Obviously, he didn’t like reporting anything to the police.

  ‘I’ll call ’em,’ Chook said.

  ‘Chook will look after it,’ Becker said. ‘Hope nothing’s happened to him.’

  ‘Might ’ave,’ Bert said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Bert was standing the way he used to stand at the fence, arms crossed, head up and looking at the sky. Or, not at the sky but at something beyond the sky, where all would be revealed. But usually it wasn’t. Looked as though he were thinking about something deep, something confessional. To get it off his chest. He’d stop breathing for a few seconds, then explosively change his mind. Gasping, like a lawn mower you can’t get started. Then, at last, he punched at the ground, or stamped on it. Two or three actions all at once. Hard to say what he was doing, throwing himself around like that, indecisively. Like a string of firecrackers going off, bang, bang, bang, one after the other. Jumping all over the place. Scaring the wits out of the kids. Everyone laughing. Suddenly he gasped.

  ‘It was Ray!’

  Becker and Chook stopped dead in their tracks. ‘What do you mean?’

  He did not reply. Becker could only guess.

  ‘Ray blew the place?’

  ‘Nah, not ’im. Wouldn’t do nothin’ like that!’

  ‘What the hell do you mean?’

  ‘Told ’em.’

  ‘He told someone?’

  ‘Could’ve.’

  ‘Could’ve told who?’

  ‘They was ’avin’ a drink an’ they got talkin’.’

  ‘Who got talking?’

  ‘Ray and these blokes in Griffith.’


  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Last week, after you told’s about the party.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Said he ’ad a neighbour that ’ad a nice place. Said you was gonna ’ave a birthday.’

  ‘And a party?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And lots of people?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Becker was disgusted. ‘Ah, shit! Ah, shit!’

  Chook stepped up, fists on her hips.

  ‘Ray knew the day, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And the time? One o’clock?’

  ‘Yeah, reckon.’

  ‘Who were these blokes?’

  ‘Ah, dunno. One was called Dom.’

  ‘Dom? Just Dom? Was it Domenico? Domenico Gotto?’

  ‘Could’ve been.’

  ‘The fucking idiot.’

  ‘Who is he?’ Becker asked.

  ‘One of Ray’s suppliers,’ Chook said. She turned back to the young bloke. ‘And he talked? This Domenico?’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘Who did he talk to, Bert?’

  ‘Dunno, I don’t fuckin’ know.’

  Chook seized him. ‘Where is this Domenico?’

  ‘Don’t know. Don’t fuckin’ know.’

  The boy piped up. ‘In Griffith. The cops’ve got him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  Bert was swaying, arms crossed as if rocking a baby to sleep. As if he knew something awful had happened. Or was about to happen. His eyes were closed now, shut tight. He began to sing to himself. It was a slow, crooning song, a song without melody or even rhythm, but was a song of his body. The kind of song you would hear from a witless child in torment. Then he began to cry. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m fuckin’ sorry.’

  Chook said: ‘It ain’t you fault, Bert.’

  ‘Didn’t mean ’im to tell no-one.’

  ‘They were after me,’ Chook said.

  Becker said: ‘After you?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m pretty sure.’

  ‘Because of Cosco?’

  ‘Something like that.’ She got to her feet. ‘So now we know. See you at the funeral, Harry.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Out to Griffith.’

  It was a good service as far as funerals go. Becker drove himself. It was awkward, but he managed. The BMW was automatic. He did not have to use his left foot, so he managed well enough. Robyn had a lot of friends. She was the kind of woman who could not walk down Baylis street on a busy day without stopping several times to chat to passers-by and those in shops she knew or strangers looking lost. She’d have to stop to ask if she could help. The church was half full. Muriel sang her heart out, and the priest was at his best. He had bright, shining eyes. Much like her father’s eyes, when first Bob had seen her holding a damask rose in her father’s garden in Lockhart forty years ago. They sang heartily and thankfully for her life and gathered outside afterward, shaking hands and speaking low.

  There was no funeral procession. Only Becker and Muriel were at the burial at the lawn cemetery out by Lake Albert. As well as Chook, who’d turned up late, on her Harley. Robyn had not indicated what she wanted if she died. Not even told her mother. Becker had thought cremation would be best, short and clean. It wouldn’t be final if she were buried, at least not to him. She’d be there in the ground, thinking about him. But Muriel had objected. Did not want her daughter to go to the flames.

  So they went to the cemetery and saw her lowered down. He stood there, thinking he was now the loneliest man in the world. If he’d been there alone, doing the job alone, he would have felt comforted. But he was standing there, watching with only three other humans and two funeral men and a grave-digger leaning on a tractor, waiting. Becker felt embarrassed, as if watching someone cleaning up after a traffic accident. Fascinating, but nothing to do with him.

  Walking away, Becker asked, ‘Any news of Ray?’

  It was now close to four o’clock. There was to be no wake.

  ‘They found him, the Griffith cops,’ Chook said. ‘In a ditch, face down.’

  ‘Drowned?’

  ‘Head bashed in.’

  ‘Jesus. Did you talk to this Domenico bloke?’

  ‘Tried, but got nowhere.’

  ‘What are the local cops holding him for?’

  ‘Nothing much, association with known criminals. Unexplained income.’

  ‘Scared?’

  ‘Not scared at all. Just sat there smiling at me and the locals, smiling like a bloke who agrees with everything you say, and knows you’ll never break him. Like a bloke that says you’ll never win. Because they are going to beat you. They’ll always beat you.’

  They had reached the car park.

  ‘Does Bert know?’

  ‘Called there on the way back.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He didn’t say anything. Sat down, put his head in his hands and cried again, but not so loud this time. It seems he’s had three wives and seven kids over forty years. Ray was the last of ’em. At least the last one who’d speak to him.’

  That night Becker himself cried. Chook was there, sitting with him in the lamplight. They’d eaten some stuff they’d picked up in town. Roast chicken they could not reheat and some salad in bowls. And had had a couple of beers. Suddenly the tears began to roll, so he got up and went to bed. Chook said she’d sit up with the Winchester. He was dozing off when he felt her get into bed with him. When she put her arms around him, he tried to push her away, embarrassed. It was like being held by a man.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘It’s all right.’

  Chapter 33

  The next night, Saturday, he stayed in the ruins, alone. Someone had to keep an eye on the place. The evening was cool, trucks grinding past on the long trip from Wagga to Adelaide, 900 kilometres across one short stretch of Australia. He had no power. It had been cut off, probably by the fire brigade. He found a hurricane lamp and lit it. Then he sat in the soft yellow glow, a rug wrapped around his shoulders, eating some cold ham and chicken and salad and rice and dry biscuits and cheese. He sat in the gloom and the distant stars, looking at him through the roof. A soft south-westerly was coming through the walls and holes and the emptiness of a house, which was not all there. He would start cleaning it out tomorrow. Clear out the wreckage, build a heap until he decided what to do. Rebuild or demolish? He had little to build for now. His great rural dream had failed.

  After a while, he decided there was nothing to do but to go to bed. The main bedroom had suffered little damage, only a few cracks in the walls. He undressed by lamplight down to his underwear. He might have to get out quickly if he heard something in the night. He was sure there would be a disturbance. A footstep, a gasp, a cry or some sort of moaning, if only the wind. He thought he heard footsteps outside. He listened for a while, ears wide open. Then he heard a car door slam. Or a truck door, or a van door. Hard to tell. Then an engine started. The sound died away. He got out of bed and found a torch and checked around. Could see no difference, but it was hard to see in the dark even with the torch. So he went to the storage cupboard in the laundry. It was a big locker, hard timbers. Unbreakable. Untouched by the explosion.

  He unlocked it, reached for the Winchester, loaded it, seven 30-30 cartridges. Even took the box with him, placed it on a bedside table. Propped the rifle against the wall by his head. Turned down the light, and waited.

  Becker used to be like this in Canberra. He’d thought he’d got over it, fearing death at every turn. He’d been getting somewhere with the farm, with Robyn, with her children, and one of their own on the way. Now he was afraid again. Someone was out there, thinking about him. And he could do nothing about it.

  He snapped awake. Someone or something was in the hous
e. A light was dancing around, a torchlight. The steps came closer, crushing and wobbling on the boards they’d put across the bearers, uncertainly and yet safe enough if you were careful. Becker reached for the rifle. He even put a hand to the lever action, ready to pull it down, load a round. The steps stopped, the light came up off the floor and hit his eyes. It held for a moment, as if pin-pointing. He didn’t know whether he was going to be confronted or be shot, bang. Straight through the heart.

  ‘There’s blokes,’ Bert said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Down the road.’

  ‘What do you mean? How many blokes?’

  ‘Dunno, got a truck, but.’

  ‘You mean at the highway gate? Not the lane gate?’

  ‘Highway.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Two or three.’

  ‘Duffers?’

  ‘B’the sound of ’em.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Heard the chain drop.’

  ‘They cut the chain?’

  Becker was out of bed by this time.

  ‘Give me some light.’

  Bert flashed the wardrobe and the chair where he’d thrown his clothes and his boots on the floor. One normal, one canvas. He pulled them on and picked up a torch and then the Winchester. They found their way to the front door. ‘Where’s Blue?’

  ‘Down b’the fence. Told ’im to shut up an’ keep watch.’

  They walked down and hobbled down to the creek, then got across the weir or causeway or casual pile of rocks and moss and lichen and sticks and leaves and whatever else had gathered there, both blocking and not blocking the seeping stream in which there was very little water now, it not having rained much throughout spring. But there was still hope, because it was only September 1996. They managed that without using the torch. But with a hand from Bert. And got off the weir and sneaked and crept across the paddock and watched. Searching for shapes in the moonless night. And joined Blue at the fence. They opened the gate carefully—not a sound, not even a snort or sniffle from Blue. And slipped in. Feeling for the ground with their feet. The only light being the light of the stars and the afterglow, which, way out there on the everlasting plains on a clear night, is almost as bright as day. But only on the horizon. Right around, it glowed. As if the sun were trying to get around the whole globe from all directions at once and failing feebly. But you could see shapes against the pale, almost blue, light on the horizon in each direction. And occasionally and suddenly, against the lamps of some thundering Christmas tree, a great B-double heading for Adelaide and all points west. And you could see shapes now and then, human shapes. Darting and not darting like unseen gods in an underworld of ghostly illumination.