by Ben Hobson
‘He’s not dead.’
‘Yeah, well …’ her husband stopped. ‘Wonder what’ll happen to his crops.’
She laughed. ‘I imagine they’re toast. You want them, do you?’
At the sound of her laugh he gripped his teeth together. ‘What’re you laughing for?’
‘You want to smoke it?’ she asked. She couldn’t help herself now. ‘Or do you want to start dealing?’
‘Well, his sons’ll be too busy looking after him, so somebody’ll need to help.’
She kept right on laughing.
‘Shut up,’ he said. ‘I could do it.’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘Where do you get off?’
‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Seriously. Give it a shot. Drive out there and start running the business.’
‘Shut the hell up, Sharon,’ he said, getting out of bed quickly. He went into the bathroom, slammed the door. A petulant child chucking a tantrum.
She thought she’d say so. ‘You done with your tantrum then, you big sook?’
The shower came on. Somehow his impotence was worse than anything. He was so weak. Couldn’t even stand up to his own wife. Just whined and complained about everything until somebody fixed it for him. It made her sad. She was done blaming him.
‘You know what?’ she yelled over the sound of the running water. ‘I’m done with it.’
No telling if he could hear her or not. So she opened the door a crack. The sound of the fan sucking up steam.
‘Can you hear me?’ she yelled.
‘What?’
‘I said, that’s it. I’m done with it.’
‘With what?’
‘I’m done with Ernie, with all that.’
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Sure.’
‘I’m serious.’
‘You got about as much chance of standing up to Ernie as I do running his business, Sharon. Some people just aren’t born for certain stuff and we aren’t born for that. We just gotta make life as good as we can for ourselves and that’s all. Nothing else we can do.’
She stood letting the steam swish against her. Could feel some of her resolve being drawn from her, like her husband held a syringe.
‘Yeah?’ she finally said. ‘Well, I’m still done.’
She breathed hard, the moist air filling her lungs, her mouth. ‘I gotta go in to work today.’
‘So go.’
‘Jack quit yesterday, I need to cover his shift.’
‘Why’d he quit?’
‘Because I’m a corrupt, worthless bitch, I guess.’
She dressed in her uniform, strapped the Smith & Wesson to her waist, the badge to her hip. She tucked her shirt into her pants. Put on the blue tie. She looked at herself in the mirror. Some pride in her appearance today. Her face bore her years and she was proud that she was still here, still alive. Every line a smile. Wasn’t that what they said? She looked away. Lot of garbage to make people feel better about having wrinkles.
Roger was still showering, maybe too cowardly to come out and see her off. Over the sound of the water, she heard the phone ring again. She rushed back to the kitchen to answer it. Maybe Peter needed her.
‘Hello, Sharon speaking.’
‘Wornkin?’
It sounded like Brendan Cahill’s voice, but much softer than usual. ‘That you, Brendan?’
‘Yeah. Listen—’
‘How’s your father doing?’
A pause. Then, ‘They say he’ll be alright. Listen, we need you to do us a quick favour.’
What courage she’d had she felt slowly seeping away. A big puddly mess when confronted with the reality.
She said, ‘Yeah?’
‘You heard about the fire?’
‘Why I asked about your dad.’
‘Right. Well, Vernon Moore’s the bloke that lit it.’
Her stomach lurched. ‘You sure about that?’
‘Positive.’
‘So you want me to arrest him?’
‘And keep him there for us. We’re coming into town now.’
‘Who?’
‘Me. The boys from Melbourne. You met them.’
‘Yeah, I remember them,’ she said. ‘Hold him for what?’
‘You know for what.’
‘What’re you going to do to him?’
‘Just bloody get him, would you? You don’t need to worry about it.’
Sharon said nothing, just listened to the sound of her husband in the shower.
‘Alright,’ she finally said.
‘We’ll be there in twenty. Can you have him in twenty minutes?’
‘Give me an hour.’
‘An hour?’
‘I have to get down to Port Napier—’
‘Oh right, he lives there, does he?’
Immediately she regretted mentioning it. ‘Yeah. He lives there.’
‘And we’ll meet you at the station, then?’
‘Okay. We can meet there.’
‘One hour, right?’
‘Alright, alright.’
Brendan hung up, leaving Sharon with the receiver droning in her ear. She kept it there a moment before gently replacing it. She returned to the bedroom and put on her black boots. Spared the bathroom a glance before walking down the hallway and out the door.
She was at the front desk, sipping a cup of tea, when Robert came into the station. If Brendan was keeping to the time they’d agreed on, he and Melbourne would be here any moment. Robert was hobbling as fast as his old years would let him, his world-weary smile burrowing into his face. The wisps of white hair he combed every day stuck out from beneath his policemen’s cap. He took it off on entry, held it before him politely as he addressed her.
‘I thought young Jack was in today,’ he said. He walked to the counter, rested his hands on it, the cap still between his fingers.
‘Jack’s having a day,’ she said.
‘Why’s that?’
Sharon took another sip of tea and put the cup down. ‘He’s just not in. Neither are you.’
‘What do you mean?’
She smiled, doing her best to hide her nerves. ‘Go home, Rob. Take the day off. Go see the festival with your kids.’
Sharon could see, plain as day, that this idea delighted him. He probably didn’t have many Boolarra Festivals left in him, and found working them, with his old legs, a burden. Why hadn’t she thought about that before?
‘You can’t work all day by yourself,’ he said. The old man’s sense of duty and propriety, and maybe his misguided, old-school sense of honour, would not allow him to simply take her orders. He’d never disrespect the office she held, but he was a man and she a woman. This was him holding the door open for her. It was sweet, in its way. She liked doors being held open for her. Nice that somebody did.
‘Sure I can. I’ve done it before.’
‘There should be more of us, though, working the festival. Shouldn’t there? I can just stay until the parade is over,’ Robert said. He tapped his hand on the counter as though he had ruled a judgement and that was that.
‘Robert,’ she said. ‘Go home. I’m your boss and I’m telling you to leave.’
He regarded her. It felt to her as though he were reading her mind, seeing right through her, her skin somehow translucent. Knowing all she did, understanding her fears. But he just said, ‘Thanks, Sarge.’
She nodded. ‘No need to thank me.’
‘You know my grandson is playing Joseph?’
‘On the church ute?’
‘Yeah.’ Robert’s eyes went up to the ceiling. He returned his gaze to her before saying, ‘He kept trying the beard on at home and telling his mother it was itchy. She was going to make him wear it but I said there was nothing in the Bible saying Joseph had a beard. So he’ll be the first beardless Joseph up there.’
Sharon looked at the clock on the wall, looked at the door.
‘You waiting for somebody?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Just wondering how long I’ve got before
I need to get down there and cordon off the street.’
‘I should stay, Sharon.’
‘Robert …’
‘Right, right,’ he said. ‘Alright. So I’ll see you down there?’
She nodded. He turned and ambled to the door. Brendan opened it for him, stepping aside to allow him exit.
‘Good to see some young folk still have their manners,’ he said. He gave Brendan a clap on the shoulder before leaving.
Brendan’s shoulders were even more slumped than usual and there was a look in his eyes that suggested he hadn’t slept. Or had smoked his own supply.
‘You got him then?’ he said.
She nodded. ‘You mind just making sure Robert has gone?’
Brendan gave a smirk. ‘We were wondering who that car belonged to. Thought I’d come in and make sure everything was all sorted before letting Melbourne in here. You tell him to go home?’
Sharon nodded.
‘Good, that’s good. So,’ he said, ‘the old man’s back there, huh?’ He leaned over the counter and indicated the cell, bloodlust in his clenched teeth. ‘I’ll go get Martin and Judah.’
When Brendan left, Sharon stood quickly and half jogged to the door and put the deadlock in place. She turned and slumped down, her back resting against the door, knees up to her chest. She waited for the door handle to twist. She waited for the banging to start, the Smith & Wesson in her shaking hands.
Footsteps. The handle twisted, then again. Brendan shouted, ‘Sharon. You in there?’
When she didn’t answer he said, ‘What gives? You in there?’
She could hear muffled voices behind Brendan’s, questioning his power, his methods. Sharon looked at her shoes, the scuffed leather of them. An age since she’d polished them. This decision of hers had come out of nowhere and now that she’d made it, and was following through on it, she found herself strangely peaceful, despite whatever consequences awaited.
‘You lot aren’t coming in,’ she said.
Nothing for a moment. Then, through the door, ‘What did you say?’
‘I said you’re not coming in.’
The door handle twisted again. ‘Is this a joke, Shaz?’
‘No. No joke.’
‘Are you for real?’
The door handle twisted and held––someone on the other side trying to force it.
‘Bloody hell, Sharon. Come on,’ Brendan said. The door handle almost came off with the jiggling.
Then a different voice at the door. Sharon thought it sounded like Martin, the younger one.
‘Sharon. How we going in there?’
‘I’m good, thank you.’
‘So what’s going on?’
Sharon let the gun rest on the floor. ‘You’re not coming in to beat on that old man. Not today. I’ve had enough of it.’
A moment, then, ‘You seemed eager enough to go along with it the other night.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘So why the change of heart?’
A deeper voice from behind Martin’s, cursing.
‘Don’t think you’re busting in here, either,’ she shouted. ‘The door’s reinforced.’
Martin laughed. ‘With what?’
‘With steel.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘It’s a police station door. Built to withstand a bit.’
‘Lying,’ Martin said again. ‘This isn’t reinforced.’ His fingers rapped on the door. ‘Nothing goes on in this town to warrant a steel door.’
Of course she was lying. It was just a wooden door. She said, ‘It was a gift from Frank when this place was built.’
‘Who’s Frank?’
‘Ask Brendan.’
‘I’m not asking Brendan, I’m asking you.’
‘Down at the hardware store.’
The voice retreated and Sharon could hear the men conferring on the other side, Brendan’s voice rarely loud enough to penetrate the door.
‘I have a gun, too, in case you forgot,’ she shouted.
‘Forget what? That you’re a cop?’ It was Judah this time, his voice closer to the door than she’d expected. It startled her. ‘I guess I did forget there for a bit. First time you’ve really acted like one. More’s the shame.’
‘You’re telling me,’ she said.
‘What did you say?’
‘It was nothing.’
A loud sigh. ‘We’re coming through this door and having at that old man whether you like it or not.’
‘You bust in this door and I’ll shoot you.’
‘You won’t shoot.’
‘Aggravated assault, forced entry. Intent.’
‘You won’t shoot.’
‘Yeah? You betting your life on that?’
‘You won’t.’
‘Do I sound like I’m joking?’
Footsteps, someone doing something. No part of Sharon believed the three of them had given up. In the distance the sound of a car boot being slammed. Sharon checked her service weapon. Made sure it sat right in her hands.
The sound of shotgun shells being loaded, harsh and loud in the otherwise silent morning, gave her warning enough to get out of the way. She scrambled for the wall. No sooner had she moved than an explosion slammed into the door handle. Wood splintered, shards flew. Sharon, on her knees, felt something strike her in the back. She held her ringing ears, lay belly-down on the floor like a snake. She looked up as the door opened, swinging freely. In stepped the three, Judah first, with the shotgun up. Upon sighting Sharon he hurried over and kicked the pistol from her, like it was nothing, and flipped her onto her back. She felt as small as a beetle, belly exposed.
Judah’s foot lifted and smashed down onto her stomach. She doubled up but he kicked her chest, her breasts. Deep into her side, into her ribs. One boot landed on her nose. She was whimpering. Trying and failing to get to her knees and crawl. He kept on stomping and stomping. Every kick an invasion. She had never felt so helpless.
She looked at the eyes of him through the pain and saw only demons. He stood on her hand, raised his other foot and slammed it down. She felt something in her wrist snap. She tried to prise his foot off it. She was desperate, an animal caught in a trap. Daisy caught in her father’s grip, head about to come off and roll about on the floor.
Judah was watching her, laughing.
Then Martin was shoving him off her, and Brendan was looking shocked.
Martin said, leaning over her. ‘You alright there, Sharon?’
She could only gasp for breath and moan.
Brendan said, ‘Shouldn’t hit a woman.’
‘Women shouldn’t be in jobs rightly held by men,’ Martin said. ‘She acts like she’s got balls, she’ll suffer the same as one who has.’
She heard Brendan make a disbelieving noise. The pain was now throbbing deep in all her parts. She kept gripping her head, hurting her dangling wrist.
A strange pride in her, though. That she’d taken it so far. That she was still lucid.
Martin, without removing his eyes from her, said to Judah, ‘You break her wrist?’
‘I think so,’ he said.
Martin leaned lower—she could almost smell his breath. If she’d had anything left she would have struggled away from his face.
‘You know,’ he said, ‘I almost admire you for standing up for that old man. Shows something, I guess. Not many would’ve done that.’
She decided to try out her mouth. Managed, ‘Don’t condescend to me, you little shit.’
This made him laugh, and clap his hands on his knees. She thought for a minute he was going to muss her hair, like he was patting a dog.
But instead he straightened and nodded to Judah, who lowered his shotgun and pressed it on her stomach. The steel was cold through the fabric of her uniform. Would she see the muzzle flash? What do you know of your own death when it comes?
Brendan said, ‘I’m going to get the old man.’
‘Good idea,’ Martin said.
‘We’ll take him s
omewhere else, right?’
‘Just go get him.’
Brendan hurried to the door leading to the cells. He opened it and went inside.
Martin said, ‘You go get that wrist seen to once we’re gone. Don’t let it heal all on its own. It’ll heal wrong. You won’t get full range of movement back. You know all that?’
Sharon nodded dumbly, all fight in her gone. The steel of the gun still on her stomach. Her head on the chopping block. Daisy in her father’s hands accepting her fate.
Brendan returned from the cell, his face confused. He said, ‘There’s nobody in there.’
‘What do you mean?’ Martin asked.
‘I mean,’ Brendan said, turning to look at Sharon, ‘she’s been lying to us. She never got the old man.’
For a moment Sharon was relieved that they’d discovered her deception. As though the worst of it was over. With her lame wrist cradled to her chest she waited and then Judah kicked her in the guts again. It forced the wind from her. As she hunched forwards his fist smacked into her nose. She flew back, head hitting the linoleum floor, hard concrete beneath. Through the haze another kick to the gut. Her hands now barely moving to cover herself. Shaking as she was pummelled all over and she knew for sure she was about to die.
She pictured Daisy again. Her final moments and she was focused on a chicken. It almost made her laugh as Judah kept at it, the other two trying to drag him off her. She wished to God she’d acted. Maybe that moment in time had cemented her character in all else. She’d never acted. This thrashing, her death, wasn’t the same. She’d changed things. She’d done something good for bloody once.
Then suddenly the beating stopped. Sharon lay on her stomach, swimming in agony. She was crying, breathing with difficulty. Hard to fathom her wreck of a body.
Through the pain she heard Martin say, ‘Was that worth it?’ He leaned closer to her. ‘We’re still going to get the old man. You taking this beating hasn’t changed a damn thing.’
She said, through blood and pain, ‘The trick is, you gotta be careful, and calm. Get their heads right off quick.’
Martin looked baffled. As well he might.
Brendan’s voice then, from somewhere else. She tried to see where but attempting to focus her eyes hurt, caused only red.
‘Reverend Kelly came to visit Moore when he was in here last night,’ said Brendan. ‘Says so in here.’ He waved the visitors’ log.
