BECKER

by Gordon Reid

  Goodbye, he said. Not to the house, but to his second wife, Robyn the Good.

  Chapter 34

  He moved in with Hank and Anika. He hadn’t wanted to do so, but it was for the best. He could keep an eye on the property from one side, especially on the cattle. After that incident with the duffers, he was anxious. The local police had not been able to locate them. They must have come from far away. The police checked with every local hospital and doctor, but no medical help had been sought by the young fellow who’d been bitten. The dog’s teeth must have gone in deep, cutting to the bone. He would be at risk of infection, perhaps amputation, if he left it too long.

  Becker had not decided what to do with the property. If he were to keep the cattle, someone had to live on it, keep an eye on them. Bert had offered to watch the place from the other side. He was now grumpier and less articulate than ever, deeply hurt that his last son had been murdered by some scum of the earth for asking too many questions. But he didn’t blame Becker or even Chook. It was part of living, in Bert’s opinion. The bastards always beat you in the end.

  Devenish, the architect, had advised rebuilding. He could design a simple house, quite commodious for a reasonable fee. It would be modern from the ground up, built to the highest possible specifications. Becker was not certain. Still did not know what to do, stay or go? There was always the problem of Roberta, who had a cot in Muriel’s room. She was a good baby, who never cried and drank all her milk and blew bubbles. If you said ‘Booh!’ to her, she’d smile and say ‘Booh!’ back at you. Or, at least, she’d try.

  Chook had been sour when she’d heard about the boyfriend, as if she’d been betrayed, misled, or led on, used. She’d snarled, when Becker told her. He did it gently. They were having a couple of Jacks at the William Hovell. On the floor by her chair was her helmet. This was about a month after the disaster. They’d been talking about Dell.

  He was walking fairly well now. The canvas boot had been removed and he could put weight on the ankle still in plaster. He had short Canadian crutches now and used them. Or used only one. Or he did not bother. He had another two weeks to go before the plaster came off, possibly longer. Possibly four weeks.

  ‘So that’s why she’d been avoiding me?’

  ‘Take it easy. Did she say she loved you? She was probably fascinated. I mean, what a great story to tell all her friends.’

  Chook was still snarling.

  ‘Story is right. I told her my life story, she wrote it up. The horror my father saw in Odessa, when the Germans and the Rumanians hauled out the Jews and the Communists, shot them in the streets, left the bodies propped up against walls and fences. He saw what happened in Aleksandrovsky Prospekt, where about four-hundred people were hanged. At another place, columns of hostages were either shot or burned alive. He saw such sights, the bodies burning. He had to. His mother had been killed in the shelling before the Germans broke in. Each day, he stuck with his father. He had to, no-one else would look after him. His father was a policeman, who had to do as the invaders demanded. He joined in these outrages. He helped to burn the hostages. He helped to kill the victims. If he’d refused, he too would have been shot.’

  ‘How old was the boy, when he saw this?’

  ‘Ten or eleven.’

  ‘Did he have to shoot anyone?’

  ‘If he did, he never told me.’

  ‘The poor kid.’

  ‘When the Russians came back, the same fucking thing happened—only it was the pro-Germans and any sort of Fascist, who were killed that time. His father was condemned as a collaborator, and shot. Why did they collaborate? Ukrainians had no reason to love the Ruskis. Do you know, in the thirties eight-million Ukrainians died as a result of the forced collectivisation of the farms. Eight million! That bastard Stalin did it. Then, the long, slow and degrading conditions after the war. They starved, my father and mother. They were street urchins, homeless. They stuck to each other, they had no-one else. They had to eat raw potatoes and garbage, whatever they could find. Even rats, sometimes uncooked. After the war, they tried to get out, right out, out of Odessa and out of the whole Ukraine. He was nineteen by then, she seventeen.

  ‘They tried to get on a boat, flee to Turkey, anywhere. It took years and years. My mother had to prostitute herself to get to Istanbul. They were there a long time. Mother worked in a house of an old man. She did the cooking and cleaning, then she had to get into bed with him now and then. She told me all this before she died. He was quite kind to her. He found jobs for father, working at street cleaning, then on the waterfront cleaning and scouring boats. Then in 1959, they got on a fishing boat, thinking it was going to Greece, but it went to Cyprus. They landed at Limassol, still under British control. Put in a camp. At least they had food and medical help. Then, someone decided to send them to Australia.

  ‘They reached this country in 1960. They struggled again, but in better conditions. A Greek gave them some work in a shop. They worked, they worked hard. He was a storeman, she a cleaner. They got together some money, had a few rooms somewhere in South Melbourne. In 1963 they had a child, me. For a while we were happy, relatively happy. Things looked up. Eventually, they scraped enough money together to buy a little stone house in Hawthorn. I went to school; I had warm clothes and good food. Then, in 1975, Mother died, cancer. It was a slow and awful death. Now it was just me and Father.

  ‘It was a bad time. He was angry and lonely and always struggling to make himself understood. His English was bad, it still is. He’s become a total loner. He works alone, at a night job, an awful job. But, at least he’s still alive. When I was eighteen, I couldn’t take it any longer, the sheer misery. I was angry and alone, the butt of jokes about my height. And my skinniness. And my resentfulness. So, I lit out and joined a gang of bikies. I think you know the rest. I told all that and much more to the little bitch—but not so savagely.’

  Becker couldn’t help smiling.

  ‘Serves you right. She was not in love with you. Just fascinated.’

  ‘I thought bloody journalists were supposed to do some digging, talk to people, find the facts and produce deathless prose—all their own work! But what did she do? Nothing! She took it down with that little recorder of hers, word for word, then claimed it was all her own work! And got a fucking distinction for it!’

  ‘Calm down, people are looking at you.’

  ‘Ah, shit on ’em.’

  ‘You’re hurt, I know. These beautiful young things, they like to play with you, don’t they?’

  ‘Little bitches, I’d like to piss on the lot of them.’

  It was late afternoon. Chook raised a finger. Bruce came over.

  ‘A Jack, if you don’t mind, Bruce.’

  The barman looked at Becker, who nodded.

  Bruce went off as silently as a mouse. He was always on duty, except when he was not. He worked in shifts, which seemed to change every time you saw him. Chook was sure Bruce had a problem. He kept glancing at Chook as though he wished she were a man. A man who knew all about it.

  ‘He has a problem,’ she said. ‘Asked me all about it.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Whether he should have an operation.’

  ‘What kind of operation?’

  ‘Apparently he’s a bit of both.’

  ‘Bit of both?’

  ‘Male and female.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘I said it was up to him. Apparently he thinks I’m a kindred soul.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘I’ve had an operation,’ she said. Then added: ‘But not the kind he’s thinking of.’

  ‘What kind is that?’

  ‘He wants to be a woman.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘I said to forget it. Unless he wants to get the rough end of the pineapple.’

  ‘You said that to him?’


  ‘He should know being female is not all it’s cracked up to be.’

  ‘You’d rather be a man?’

  She shrugged. ‘Too fucking late for that, isn’t it?’

  Neither spoke for a moment. It was getting on for four o’clock. The bar was starting to fill up. The tradesmen would be soon knocking off for the day. They would be followed by the clerks and other professionals like the bank staff and the teachers. Then the rest after shops closed. The day had begun to close down. Suddenly, it all came out.

  ‘You’ve been wondering about me,’ Chook said. ‘Haven’t you?’

  ‘Have I?’

  ‘Been wondering all sorts of things. For example, what I did with you know what.’

  Becker almost said, ‘Bodies?’ In fact, it did come out, but only in a stumbling sort of whisper. No-one in the room would have heard.

  ‘Yeah, well, it’s best you don’t know.’

  ‘And the other things?’

  ‘Whether I am a bit each way, anatomically.’

  ‘You mean a—’

  ‘Hermaphrodite? No, no, not at all. No—’ The whiskey came. Chook nodded. Bruce slipped away.

  ‘Whenever I see your baby,’ she said, ‘I know what’s wrong. I want a child. A child, who’d be my child, someone to love and fondle and help and watch and guard and encourage. Preferably a girl, who’d grow up the way Dell has grown up. I suppose that’s why I fell for her. She has everything. She has it now. But I? I don’t have what she has.’

  ‘Youth, you mean? Beauty?’

  ‘A baby factory.’

  ‘A uterus? You mean you don’t have one?’

  ‘Correct, they took it out.’

  ‘Who took it out?’

  ‘The doctors at the Austin Hospital, after I was rescued by the Feds.’

  ‘In Melbourne, when you were young?’

  ‘Yeah, I had a hysterectomy just before I turned twenty.’

  ‘Hell, Chook.’

  ‘I was as sick as a dog, rotten with disease. I had blood poisoning. They had to do it immediately.’

  ‘Gee, I’m sorry.’

  ‘So am I. I’d fucked up my life good and proper.’

  ‘How long were you in hospital?’

  ‘Nearly four weeks. I was riddled with disease. I’d been bleeding badly because of what that bastard did to me. Tore me to bits inside. As well, they feared blood poisoning, among other things. They had to fix that before they could do the op. They cut it out, my baby factory. Then I was taken to that place out at Greensborough, the rest home. Where the shrinks worked on me, and the psychologists and the physios and the social workers and the rest. They fed me well, a glass of wine with dinner each night. Treated me like I was worth saving. Treated me like I was a woman, even though I didn’t have a uterus. As if they wanted me to get better. Become someone different. Someone better than the piece of shit I was or had been. The old man with the bow tie came now and then, smiling. For progress reports, he said. Held my hand one time. He said, Anastacia, you’ve had a bad time, but you are going to make it. Never give up, my dear. Never give up. It was a nice speech. I heard a few months later he had died. I cried then. I still don’t know his name, except I called him Roof. He asked me to call him that. I said, ‘Why?’ ‘Roof as in Rufus,’ he said. He might have had red hair at some time, but his hair was silvery when I knew him. Thinking about it later, I was sure that Red was his son. They’d killed Red. For some reason he must have thought I was worth saving. He’d told me get out, run for it. But I’d not been able to run. Not then.’

  ‘What was Red’s name?’

  ‘I never found out.’

  ‘What did people call him?’

  ‘Just Red.’

  ‘And what about your benefactor? The old man?’

  ‘I think his name was Redmayne.’

  ‘You think’

  ‘A nurse said to me one day, ‘Your friend is in the building.’ ‘What friend?’ I said. ‘Mr Redmayne,’ she said. So, when he came in, I said ‘Mr Redmayne?’ to him. And he smiled and patted my hand. And said he’d found a spot for me. In Canberra.

  ‘Why all the secrecy?’

  Stacey took another swig of Jack. Thought about it.

  ‘In the Feds, we don’t have names, only code names or numbers or tags. Out in the field, you’re in a world, where no-one knows who you are. You’re trying to look like a someone you’re not. Like a tax consultant or a real estate agent or a barmaid with big ears or a fitter and turner in a sweater shop in a backstreet where they don’t fix motor vehicles—they remake them with a different plate. At the same time trying to save this fucking country from all the cheats and liars and political manipulators and thieves and crims and moral maggots, who’d like to take over. But maybe that’s what I like about being a Fed. I’m someone at last, even if I still feel like a piece of shit at heart. I like the work I do—no uniform, no identification in any way. And I don’t have to call in every time I’ve carried out an order and ask: What do I do now, boss? They give you a lot of leeway, let you decide for yourself. I can sit in a bar and let people stare at me and think about me and try to guess who or what I am. I don’t tell ’em. I let them stare and wonder. Then I think back at them: You don’t know me, pal. But I know you. So let’s leave it at that.’

  Chapter 35

  Becker did not know what to say. In a way, there was no need to say anything. It explained a lot about Chook, why she was aggressive and resentful, so pissed off with the world. And yet determined to do something to put it right, if only to catch the scum and the creeps and the vile bastards who lived off others. And especially those who had killed Polly Politis in Canberra. The only person she had really loved, she’d said at Evelyn’s funeral. And now, those responsible for killing Robyn the Good.

  It explained why she behaved like a man, working out in gyms and building up her body and her effectiveness. Her fierce handshake, her kick-arse mentality. And why she let her jacket hang open, zipped only at the last inch or two. So everyone in a bar could see the butt of a Colt .38. Everyone in Wagga now knew she was a cop of some sort. And wondered why cops hung out in the Commonwealth Building. Pretending to be inspectors, who chased free-loaders on pensions.

  ‘So, now you know why I can never have kids,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry, Stacey.’

  ‘So am I.’

  They sat there a while, not speaking but relaxed, as if something had changed their world. Although neither knew exactly what.

  ‘I’m taking some time off,’ she said.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘You don’t need to know.’

  ‘South?’

  Chook nodded.

  ‘You’re making this personal?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. Leave it to the right people.’

  ‘They do it by the book. That’s too slow for me.’

  ‘You’ve got more information?’

  ‘I think I know who La Donna is.’

  ‘Ray said Giuseppina.’

  ‘Yeah, Giuseppina.’

  ‘You know her other name?’

  ‘I’ve been given a name.’

  ‘Who by?’

  ‘Silvano.’

  ‘Silvano Cosco? In hospital? You believe him? He’s crazy.’

  ‘Yeah, he sure is, but maybe not all the time. Keeps saying some guy in Melbourne did it.’

  ‘What guy?’

  ‘Salvatore somebody.’

  ‘You mean he was not responsible?’

  ‘Oh, he was responsible, no doubt about it. But he’s in denial.’

  ‘Salvatore who?’

  ‘Our people in Victoria have done some checking. They looked up every name in Melbourne that includes Giuseppina. It’s quite easy with the electoral rolls and a computer.
They came across one married to a Salvatore.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Salvatore Pisano. It turns out that this guy has had a stroke. He can’t speak.’

  ‘Yeah? That’s why people have to talk to his wife?’

  ‘And that’s why they call her La Donna.’

  ‘But, it may be someone else named Pisano.’

  ‘Listen, mate, that creep, Adams, phoned someone in Melbourne early that evening before Polly and Evelyn were killed. We checked his calls next day. One of them went to a house in Richmond. That house is owned by Salvatore Pisano. That’s more than a coincidence.’

  ‘If he’s had a stroke, he may be dead. She may be running the whole show.’

  ‘In that case—’ Chook leaned across. ‘I’ll kill her instead. I’ll kill her real slow.’

  ‘Jesus, Chook, you’re mad.’

  ‘I’ll cremate her.’

  ‘Cremate her?’

  ‘Yeah, alive. I want to hear her screaming.’

  ‘Oh, Christ, don’t do it.’

  ‘Just a thought.’

  ‘Don’t do it. They’ll catch you one day. The police, I mean.’

  ‘Ah, fuck ’em.’

  ‘Maybe the Feds would cover up for you. Keep it out of the papers. But the State cops won’t. They don’t like you.’

  ‘Ah, fuck ’em.’

  There was a pause. Chook was tapping her unfinished whiskey on the table, thoughtfully.

  ‘Why are you really doing this, Stacey?’

  ‘For Robyn. For Polly.’

  Becker was going to say that revenge breeds revenge. She was playing games with the Mafia. They would kill her, one way or other, one day. No matter how long it took.

  She seemed to guess his thoughts.

  ‘Not a word to anyone, Harry.’

  He did not reply.

  ‘Remember,’ she said, ‘you owe me one.’

  He didn’t reply to that either.

  ‘When are you going?’

  ‘Today.’ She tossed down the whiskey, the last drop.

  ‘It’s gone four already. It’ll be dark before long.’

  ‘Good, no-one notices a dyke on a bike in the dark.’