by Ben Hobson
‘What the hell’s going on here?’ he growled. Fists bunching, Vernon could see. Watching his brother, bleeding from the chest, his old man holding him up, and Vernon, behind, with a shotgun trained on the two of them.
‘You,’ Vernon said, doing his best to control his voice, ‘you’re the bloke I want to talk to.’
‘You put down that shotgun, old man, before I put you down.’
‘You come anywhere close to me and I’ll shoot.’
Vernon felt things spiralling further and further out of his control. Brendan appeared furious but didn’t move, just shifted his feet. The woman beside him, only just now recovered from her knock, shoved at him.
Vernon called out, ‘You know Caleb Moore?’
Brendan’s fists clenched at his sides. ‘That bastard who beat up on Mel? He deserves all he gets.’
Vernon watched Ernie’s head and noticed it rise up, maybe to look his eldest son in the eye. Brendan did not look at his father. Vernon said, ‘He’s suffered enough, alright? You need to quit.’
‘Or what?’
Vernon jiggled the shotgun. ‘You can’t see this?’
Brendan sneered. ‘You’re not going to shoot us.’
‘You tell me, Ernie,’ Vernon said, addressing the man’s back, ‘what you’d do for your kids. You imagine your boy in that prison getting beat and think on what you’d do to the bastards that hurt him.’
‘You mean like how you hurt my son here?’ Ernie said without turning. Sidney’s figure slumped lower.
‘The roo hurt him. I didn’t mean none of that.’
‘You’re the one put him there,’ Ernie said. ‘Just piss off.’
Vernon looked at Brendan again. ‘You going to stop?’
‘I’m not stopping nothing. I’m going to snap his other arm, I reckon. Yeah, Dad,’ he said, turning his eyes to his father. ‘I know I didn’t tell you what I was doing but I don’t give a toss because I’d still do it. That bloke, his son’—pointing a finger at Vernon—‘beat up on Mel. You know Mel?’
‘Shut up, Brendan,’ Ernie said, his voice low and measured. ‘I’m going to turn to face you, Moore, alright?’
‘Yeah. Turn around.’
Ernie wheeled and upon sight of Sidney’s face Vernon felt tremendous pressure in his gut, like he was about to throw up. He managed, ‘Listen. I’m sorry––’
‘Just piss off. Three times I’ve said it now. I’ll talk to Brendan about stopping.’
‘Yeah?’
‘This isn’t how you do things. You don’t come up to a man’s house with his son bloodied and just get your way.’
Vernon nodded meekly. ‘I didn’t see I had a choice.’
‘You could’ve just come up and talked to me.’
‘I didn’t know where you were.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘You heard your son, mate. I needed him to know I was serious.’
‘Serious says I’m coming for you, old man,’ Brendan shouted.
Ernie sighed. ‘I am sorry on my son’s behalf for what he’s done. But don’t mistake that for forgiveness,’ he said, and tilted his head towards Sidney. ‘I am not done with you.’
‘But you’ll get him to leave off my boy?’
‘I just said I will.’
‘Alright then.’ Vernon looked at Sidney. ‘You’ll be alright.’
‘Piss off, old man,’ Ernie said. ‘You take that car back to where you found it. And if you’ve screwed us …’
The implied threat was clear. They turned then and the two, father and son, shuffled up to the verandah. The young woman caught Sidney in her arms, who almost fell up the steps. Vernon watched them as he lowered himself into the car, gun across his lap, and shut the door. Ernie didn’t turn around. Brendan’s eyes never left Vernon. As his father passed he said, loudly, ‘What about the stuff, dad?’
Ernie stopped walking. Said, almost too quiet for Vernon to hear, ‘Melbourne’ll still want it, and that old man won’t do anything different than I told him. Will you?’
Ernie still didn’t turn around. They went inside. The pig swung. Vernon wound the window up and backed slowly down the driveway.
He drove the car back to his own and parked where he thought it had been. He studied his car beneath the glare of the one working headlight. He struggled with his next move. His car illuminated like some lantern in the dark. Upon exit the cold bit into him and he clenched his jacket tight around his middle. Some kangaroos bounded from him in the dark. He climbed in and started his car.
As the car began to inch its way along the dirt he felt it: it was closer to the road, moving like a slug. He got out and looked at the tyres. All four were deflated. He looked closer, hunching down on his legs, but in the dark couldn’t see for sure what had happened. But he knew. He’d seen students do it. All four flat meant it wasn’t some accident; they’d been slashed. The rubber like it had been melted. He kicked at them, swore, looked skyward. He’d have to take Cahill’s car. Nothing for it. No walking that distance, and nobody else’d be coming out this way. He’d have to explain. However many Melbourne was, the slashed tyres suggested they’d been and gone.
It was all useless. He’d done nothing right. Kelly had no clue what he was talking about. Ideals seemed to die in the arse when they were acted on. Despite his intentions he’d just made a mess of it. He wandered back to the busted car with the headlight, climbed in, and headed home.
TWELVE
SHARON WORNKIN
Sharon was seated in the same chair she had been the night previous, for her son’s eighteenth. Jack was still opposite her, but the others had left long ago. That was alright, though. The pickup time was an hour ago now, so even if they’d managed to stumble in the direction of the weed being sold, they wouldn’t have seen it. Sharon knew Jack had a baby on the way, with a wife he didn’t much care for, and assumed that the pub was his shelter. Maybe he’d end up too dependent on it, the drink, and this wife he didn’t like—Ruth?—would threaten to leave him if he didn’t sober up and fly straight. Think of the kids, she’d tell him, they look up to you now. And he’d sober up or he’d descend.
Could she look at herself with such bitter judgement? Maybe it would do her good.
She and Jack hadn’t spoken much since Robert and Trevor left. It was a little odd, being out with a bloke not her husband. She’d seen a few of the locals look at her twice. Didn’t spare a second glance at Jack, though. Roger wasn’t at home. He hadn’t said where he’d be. Just mumbled something as he’d walked out the door.
‘Well,’ Jack said finally. ‘Should be getting home, I guess.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Your old man alright, you staying out like this?’
Sharon nodded. ‘He doesn’t really care what I do.’
‘I’d care. I mean, if you were Ruth, I’d care you were out with some other bloke.’
‘You’re not some other bloke. You work with me, Jack. And twenty years too young to boot. Don’t get ideas.’
He laughed. ‘I’m sure he cares.’
‘He does, he does,’ she said, afraid she’d implied too much.
‘What’s he up to tonight?’
‘Off at a party.’
‘Living it up, hey? Good to be married to a sergeant’s wage, I guess.’
Sharon nodded. Truth was her husband really didn’t care about money. As long as he had enough for his booze, he was fine, and he earned enough at the quarry to cover that. He’d be fine without her. But he liked the power he found in her position. Like it somehow transferred to him. Which was why he’d told her to accept Ernie’s offer all those years ago. Why he got around pretending he and Ernie were old mates. Ernie played along with it. If only Roger knew how big a fool he seemed.
Jack said, ‘Ruth has been at me recently. I don’t get what her deal is. It’s not like I’m here every night.’
‘You’re here, what, three nights a week? At max?’
‘That’s right, that’s right,’ Jack said, a sli
ght wobble in his speech. ‘She’s bloody pregnant, but. Bloody hell, Sarge. Anyway. I don’t know about it. And she’s off to Berrambool tomorrow arvo, be with her folks. I should go home.’
‘You should go home.’
‘Maybe.’
‘You think she wants you home?’
‘I know she does.’
‘Then you should go. Be a good bloke.’
‘Maybe. Yeah.’
Still he didn’t move. They sat and listened to the jukebox. The publican, Dan, running back and forth from the bar to the restaurant counter through a swinging door that never seemed to stop. Long-haired farmers, still smelling of cow, seated at the bar, laughing, sloshing their beers. Shoving at each other. Swearing.
She was watching the door as they entered. Two blokes she’d never seen before rumbling to the bar, shoving the locals out of their way. The locals eyed them off, not drunk enough yet to take any serious offence. Sharon heard one of the farmers say, ‘Bloody hell, you right there, mate?’ under his breath, but the two blokes either didn’t hear or didn’t care. They were both dressed for the cold: thick jackets, wool collars. They only waited a moment before the bigger one slammed his hand down on the bar. Dan came running back to his new patrons. Soon they had a beer each and carried them to a table next to Sharon and Jack.
Sharon pretended to be immersed in her beer but Jack, possibly drunker than she or possibly more naive, had no such caution. He watched the pair without shame.
‘You blokes from around here?’ Jack said.
The bigger one, seated facing their table, said, ‘We look like we’re from around here?’
‘Just being polite, mate.’
‘Yeah. That’s what you’re being.’
The other man, who looked a little younger and was a lot smaller, regarded them both. His left eye was slightly lazy, focussed on the door instead of them. ‘We’d appreciate being left alone.’
‘It was just a friendly question,’ Jack said.
‘I get that. All the same.’ The younger one turned back to his larger companion.
‘Righto then,’ Jack said. He looked at Sharon, arching his eyebrows, scoffing under his breath.
Sharon kept an eye on the two men. They looked capable and mean. From Melbourne, probably. Ernie’s contacts? The bigger one kept glancing at her.
She was surprised when the young one turned around again and said, ‘Sorry for being short. It hasn’t been a great night.’
‘You can say that again,’ his friend said. He slurped at his beer. There were beer suds in his thick moustache he didn’t bother wiping.
‘You asked us a question––’ the smaller one said.
‘And you were rude pricks about it,’ Jack said.
He smiled. ‘You reckon we could ask one in return?’
Jack arched his eyebrows again. His one expression of disdain.
‘You wouldn’t know where we could find the Cahill residence, would you?’
Jack answered before Sharon could. ‘Why?’
‘We’re old friends of his. From Melbourne.’
‘Shouldn’t you have the address already then, you’re old friends?’ Jack said. ‘Or their number? Call them up. There’s a phone in here.’
‘We kind’ve want it to be a surprise.’
‘At bloody eleven?’ Jack said.
‘Jack …’ Sharon said.
The larger one said, ‘You know where they are or not?’
Sharon finally found her voice. A number of the locals were listening now. ‘We can’t be giving out information like that.’
‘It’s not information. Just a friendly question.’
‘We’re the police.’
The two men smiled at this. Jack extended a hand. ‘I’m Jack.’
Neither man moved to grip it. The younger one said, ‘You’re not in uniform. What are you doing here then?’
‘We had a party,’ Sharon said.
‘A party?’
‘For Easter.’
The older one snorted into his beer, sending more suds onto his moustache. ‘You cops have an Easter party? Does one of you dress up in ears and all that?’
‘Piss off,’ Jack said.
‘Was it you, princess?’
‘Piss off, I said.’
‘You telling me to piss off?’
‘With the bloody ears comment, is all. Take it easy, mate,’ he added as the larger one stood up. The other man raised his hand and motioned for the bigger one to sit back down, then turned to face them again.
‘So. We’d like to know where the Cahills live.’
‘Well, we can’t tell you,’ Jack said.
Sharon said, ‘Why do you really want to know?’
‘Just want to visit with them a bit.’
She knew why they wanted to visit. Something had clearly gone wrong at the drop-off. To avoid Jack learning too much she said, in as pleasant a tone as she could muster, ‘I could maybe drive you out there but I need to know you have a good reason to be visiting.’
‘These are not answers to my question,’ said the younger man.
Jack looked surly, his bottom lip up, like a scolded child. She prayed the liquid courage in him didn’t make him huffy, puff his chest up.
She took a moment before she said, ‘I need mine answered before I allow you to go visit them. We don’t know you from a bar of soap.’
‘Allow?’ the big one said. He stood up again, his hands clenched by his sides. ‘I’ve had enough of this. It’s been a bastard day and you’re just adding to it. I bloody told you, Martin, didn’t I?’ He grinned at Sharon. ‘Town full of little bitches. I told you.’
‘Yeah, you told me, big guy.’
Jack stood, wobbly. ‘You mind yourself there, mate.’
Sharon, raising an arm to motion him down, said, ‘Jack …’
‘What’s wrong?’ the large one said. ‘You mad I called her a bitch, or you?’
‘You call her a bitch again …’
‘You bloody dim to go with it then?’ The man’s grin widened, suggesting he’d enjoy facing whatever Jack might throw at him. Jack, for his part, did not seem to read the man’s expression.
Sharon said, ‘Jack. I can handle myself, thank you.’
He turned back to her. ‘You hear what he called you?’
The big one laughed. ‘Can’t even defend his woman without her go ahead. Under the thumb. You really are a little bitch.’
The strike was so fast Sharon barely saw it. Just the sound of a fist colliding with Jack’s face. Jack groaned, one hand reaching up to hold his ear. He gurgled a little. On wobbly feet, he careened into the wall. Sharon’s first thought was for her own preservation, so she scurried free from the tipping table. The larger man kept pushing at Jack, shoved his shoulder up against the glass window overlooking the main street. He grabbed Jack in a headlock. It wasn’t long before Jack started vomiting.
‘You mongrel,’ the man said, and pushed Jack down onto the floor, into his own mess. Onlookers were stepping back now. Nothing they’d not seen before. There were little bubbles in the spew as Jack struggled to breathe, his face pressed into the mess. Sharon wondered if he was actually crying.
The whole pub was silent bearing witness to this event. The jukebox droned sadly on. Some of them had huddled together to avoid the scene.
Sharon stepped forward—Jack’s whimpers hard to take. The younger one, though, shook his head, cautioning her to stop. He said, ‘Just tell us where the Cahills are.’
‘You need to let him go,’ Sharon said. She breathed in, raised her voice. ‘I’ll arrest you. Assaulting a police officer.’
The large one finally let go of Jack, who barely moved, just lay there in the puddle he’d created. The man brushed at the vomit on his jacket sleeve, looked disgusted. ‘Like to see you try,’ he said. She aimed to steady herself. She remembered her father throwing her into the shed, onto the grass.
‘You getting around me here doesn’t prove anything. The law is the law. I’ll
arrest you and you’ll be brought in.’
Martin said, ‘That’s all well and good, but it doesn’t change what we’ll do to him’—he nodded his head toward Jack—‘right now. I’ve done time before. I’ll do it again. So has Judah. Don’t mind forsaking the future for the now. Only way to live, really.’
Sharon finally said, ‘You lot are new here and I get you’ve had a bad day. My guy was drunk. Let’s call it even, done. Right now. You leave right now or I’ll have to arrest you.’
The younger one smiled. Then in a quick movement he jumped at her, snatched her head up, locking her beneath his arms. She fumbled with his arms, tried to pry them off. Seeing red, going dizzy.
Then, his voice quiet, near her ear: ‘You want me to beat on you a bit? Make it look good?’
She struggled to shake her head.
‘There’s two ways this can go. We can beat you and drag you outta here or you can walk out. Up to you. Not sure how much you’ve put over these people.’
There was a sound of more retching nearby.
Then the man said loudly, ‘What’re you all looking at? Never seen a bloke beat up a girl before?’
And then she was moving, the carpet beneath her eyes swimming. She heard people moving about, muttering. No telling if they’d bought it. She felt sick with herself. It wasn’t just the headlock.
They were driving in an old ute, a dual cab. Sharon in the back. The moustached one—Judah, she heard the younger man call him––was smoking with the window down. It made Sharon gag but she didn’t cough. She provided them with directions when necessary but otherwise remained silent.
She felt powerless again. No weapon to defend herself. Stupid, leaving it at home. These two men could do anything they wanted to her.
‘Sorry about all that back there,’ Martin, the younger one said, turning his head slightly to afford her a glance. She would have preferred him to focus on the road. ‘So you’re Sharon? Sharon Wornkin?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You’re the one Cahill’s paying off?’
The words were like bitter lemon.
Martin repeated, ‘Sorry about your bloke back there.’
