by Peter Temple
‘Don’t he mind the gun?’ asked Rex Tie.
‘Can’t hardly hear it over there,’ said Tony. ‘He’s ready. Light’s flashin.’ He raised the pistol above his head, waved it. The boy’s right arm went up and down. Tony fired, a flat smack.
Tom set a nice pace, about what you’d expect for a frontrunner over 1400 or 1600 metres on a country track. The straight was about 350 metres. When they came around the turn, you could see that the going was soft and that the horse was not entirely happy.
But the going wasn’t going to stop Slim putting on a show. At the 300-metre mark, you could see Tom urge the horse with hands and heels. It didn’t require much. With every appearance of enjoyment, the horse opened its stride, lowered its head and accelerated home. They went past the post flat out.
We stood in silence watching the boy, standing upright in the stirrups, slow the horse down.
Harry took off his hat and scratched his head. Cam was looking for a cigarette. Their eyes locked for a good three seconds.
‘What’s it say?’ asked Harry.
Cam found a cigarette and lit it with his Zippo.
‘For a stayer,’ he said, ‘smokin.’
15
Drew poured some red wine into our glasses, leant back and put his stockinged feet on the coffee table. ‘You want my advice?’
Harry and Cam had dropped me off at home but I didn’t go in. I’d been brooding all the way back from Hardhills and I felt the urge to talk to Drew. Once upon a time we’d talked to each other about all our problems.
I found him eating takeaway pizza over a pile of files in front of the fire in his house in Kew. The children were nowhere to be seen.
I said, ‘Well. Yes.’
‘Drop it. Forget Danny ever left the message. Take the gorilla’s advice about this Bishop too. You’ve touched a nerve somewhere.’
‘If I hadn’t been three-quarters pissed years ago I’d have tried to find out more about Danny’s movements the night of the hit-and-run,’ I said. ‘I might have kept him out of jail.’
Drew chewed for a while, studying the flames. Finally he said, ‘Bullshit, mate. Even if you’d been stone-cold sober and at the top of your form, it would never have occurred to you. You’d have pleaded him. You had to plead him. Since when do lawyers go looking for other explanations when the Crown’s got a case like that? Don’t kid yourself. There was no negligence there. There’s nothing owing on your part.’
We sat in silence for a while, looking at the flames. A wind had come up and every now and again it made a hollow sound in the chimney.
‘Remember that week fishing on the Delatite?’ Drew asked. ‘I reckon that was the best holiday of my adult life.’
‘You’ve never said that before,’ I said. ‘We caught about three fish.’
‘Didn’t matter a bugger. It was great. It’s all the kids seem to remember of their entire childhoods. Apart from the times I’m supposed to have been awful.’
I never thought about that trip. I’d curtained it off. It was the last holiday with Isabel.
‘It was good,’ I said. ‘Like being a kid again.’
‘Can’t get enough of that.’ Drew shifted in his chair. ‘Listen, Jack, Danny was probably knocked for some drug scam. This other bloke, from what you say, was a candidate for doing something unpleasant. If there are feral cops involved, the next thing is that you have an accident.’
I nodded. I knew he was right. It was too late to do the right thing by Danny McKillop. The guilt that had taken me to Perth was pointless. With a sense of relief, I held out my wine glass.
‘We’ll just finish this drop in here,’ said Drew, ‘and then I want to show you a little 1978 shiraz off vines that were ninety years old then. Client gave me a case.’
I ended up sleeping in the spare room.
I put in the next day at Taub’s, cutting a taper on and hand-morticing the legs of the boardroom table. It was soothing work for someone not feeling all that flash. Charlie didn’t make tables any more unless he had to. Having me around meant he didn’t have to. ‘A table is pretty much a table,’ he said. ‘When you can’t make a complete ruin.’
My cabinetmaking began as a kind of therapy on my way back from self-destruction. I can see that now. At the time it just seemed to happen. I noticed Charlie’s workshop while looking at the old tailor’s shop that is now my office. I went in on impulse. Sunlight was slanting in through the high windows, the air smelled of wood shavings and linseed oil and Charlie was at his workbench whistling while carving the back of a reproduction George III mahogany chair he was making to fill a gap in what the antique trade calls a long set. In that moment I fell in love with the idea of being a cabinetmaker. No such thought had ever entered my mind before. I knew absolutely nothing about woodwork. I went up to Charlie and said, ‘I’ll pay you to teach me something about making furniture.’
Charlie had given me his interested look and said, ‘Three things let me tell you. Number one, see a doctor. Number two, I’m too old to have an apprentice. Number three, you haven’t got enough money.’
After I moved into my office, I began to hang around Taub’s, making myself useful where I could. Charlie seemed to like the company. And he couldn’t stop himself showing me how to do things.
Just before 4 p.m., the phone rang. It was switched through from my office. It was Mrs Bishop, Ronnie’s mother.
‘Mr Irish,’ she said, ‘I’m sorry to bother you but I’m so dreadfully worried about Ronnie. I’ve been going over everything in my mind and I remembered him making a phone call. Well, I went to the phone, it’s in the passage, and looked at the little pad I keep there and there’s two numbers written down. By Ronnie.’
I said, ‘Good work, Mrs Bishop. Numbers mean anything to you?’
‘No. I don’t know them. I was going to ring them, but then I thought I’d ask you first. Should I tell the police? Would they be interested?’
‘Let me ring them first,’ I said. ‘The police often take some time to get around to things.’
I took down the numbers and went around to my office. I had a feeling about the first number. My scratchpad was beside the phone and on it a number was circled.
The first number was Danny McKillop’s.
I sat down and dialled the second number. The phone rang two or three times and then a voice said, ‘Father Gorman’s residence.’
It was another sour day, full of wind and rain. It took a long time to get across the city to the address Father Rafael Gorman had given me. The urban planners wrecked the traffic flow when they turned Swanston Street, once Melbourne’s spine, into some kind of half-baked pedestrian mall. Urban planners are people who know best. They should make them all marry social workers.
I sat in the jams and listened to Claude Haynes, the afternoon man on the ABC, interview the Premier. Like most men on the ABC, Claude had started out to be a clergyman but tossed in the frock after going a couple of rounds with God in the seminary. I don’t know whether the experience of the religious life left these people sadder but it certainly left them believing they were wiser than anyone else.
‘Premier,’ Claude said, making it sound like an assumed name, ‘the Opposition leader says you and your Planning Minister, Mr Pitman, are turning the State into a paradise for carpetbaggers and quick-buck artists. How do you respond to that?’
‘With a smile,’ said Dr Marcia Saunders, no trace of amusement in her voice. ‘Mr Kerr has no commercial experience and no commercial sense. He wouldn’t know a carpetbagger from the chairman of the Reserve Bank.’
Claude said, ‘Mr Kerr gave AM a list of what he called “Projects for the Pals” this morning—Yarra Cove, the Footscray Sportsdome, the new privately run remand centre and several others. He says they are all being developed by government pals. Are the developers your pals?’
‘Mr Kerr should know about pals,’ Dr Saunders replied. ‘He’s got where he is because of pals. If he’d had to rely on brains or ability, he’d still
be teaching geography in primary school.’
With the delighted air of someone who thinks he’s trapped Wittgenstein in a logical error, Claude said, ‘That doesn’t answer my question: Are these developers your pals?’
There was a long silence. Then Marcia said, voice laden with menace, ‘Mr Haynes, you shouldn’t act as a frontman for these has-beens. If Mr Kerr has any evidence of favouritism, he should produce it. Let me assure the people of this State that this government doesn’t do favours. It assesses projects and people purely on merit. It follows all processes and procedures to the letter. The developments you’ve named are both sound commercial propositions and job creators for this State. The people behind them are highly experienced and astute operators who can be relied upon to do a good job. Are you suggesting anything to the contrary?’
Claude cleared his throat. ‘But are some of the developers supporters of your party?’
You could hear Marcia’s sigh. It combined disbelief with contempt. ‘Are you and Mr Kerr proposing that supporters of a governing party should be excluded from commercial life?’ she said. Each word was coated with scorn.
Claude’s tone went sugary. ‘I think you’re shooting the messenger here, Dr Saunders,’ he said. ‘I’m merely—’
‘Don’t try to hide behind the messenger argument,’ snapped Marcia. ‘You media leftovers from the sixties are seldom merely doing anything. But you might try to make your agenda a little less obvious.’
It went on like this. Claude kept trying to wrap himself in the rags of his dignity and Marcia kept tearing them off. I enjoyed Claude’s discomfort but there was something chilling about Dr Marcia Saunders, PhD in physical education from the University of Kansas and former stockbroker. She wasn’t the same person who’d smiled down from the election billboards.
After half an hour of traffic snarl, I’d had enough. I did a savage left turn in the face of traffic into a one-way street. One crime led to another, I had a few altercations and near-misses but I got to Father Gorman’s address near Albert Park Lake with all the paint on.
I parked in a no-parking zone. Col Boon could knock a fellow cop and get the pension, he could beat parking tickets on this Celica.
Father Gorman’s address was an oddly tapering new building. The tenants weren’t short of space: there were eight floors and only six brass plates on the plinth outside. The one for the sixth floor said: Safe Hands Foundation.
The name meant something to me. I remembered as I reached the glass doors: Ronnie Bishop had once worked for the Safe Hands Foundation. Helping homeless children, his mother had said. Trying to root them had been the view of his former neighbour in Morton Street.
Thc tenants were fussy about who came to visit them. A security man with a snub nose, pale eyes and skin the colour of dirty underclothing kept me captive between two sets of glass doors while he wrote down my particulars on a clipboard. A tattoo peeped out from under his wristwatch. He wasn’t too flash at writing.
Then he wanted my driver’s licence.
‘I’m not trying to cash a cheque here, sonny,’ I said. ‘Just phone the man.’
Tight little smile. ‘The body corporate lays down the security procedures.’ Flat Queensland voice. Pause. ‘Sir.’
‘This isn’t Pentridge,’ I said. ‘Didn’t they retrain you for this job? Just phone.’
He held my gaze briefly, but I’d got him in one. ‘I’ll check,’ he said.
He made his call, came back, let me in, escorted me to the lift, up to the sixth floor, rang the bell on one of the two doors in the foyer, waited until a handsome dark youth opened the door. Through all this, he said nothing and exuded hatred.
‘Come this way,’ the youth said. His hair was drawn back tightly in a ponytail and he had the superior and slightly miffed manner of the waiters in most Melbourne restaurants.
I followed him through a large, elegant room and down a passage lined with framed architectural drawings to a teak six-panel door. The youth pushed open the door.
The voice from within was rich, warm and full of authority. ‘Thank you, Francis. Do remember to knock next time. Mr Irish, come in. Oh, Francis, bring us a pot of coffee, there’s a good boy.’
Father Gorman was coming round from behind a rosewood table with a column and platform base. On it were three or four files, a desk blotter and a fountain pen. He was a large man, probably in his sixties, big shoulders, crisp grey hair with just a hint of a wave brushed back, even features tanned the colour of milk fudge. He was wearing a navy-blue, double-breasted suit over a brilliantly white shirt. His tie had what looked like tiny camels on it.
He held out a hand. It was a surprisingly hard hand for a man of the cloth.
‘Pleasure to meet you, Jack,’ he said. ‘Let’s sit down.’
He led the way down the long panelled room to a setting of club armchairs and two sofas around a low military chest. A butler’s table with bottles and decanters stood against the inside wall, which was covered with paintings, mostly landscapes. French doors in one exterior wall gave on to a terrace. Deep windows in the other provided a view to the Westgate Bridge and beyond. The beyond was dark with rain.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ he said, gesturing with both hands at the room, the view. ‘I thank the Lord for it every day. And I thank Joseph Kwitny, the foundation’s benefactor whose generosity allows an instrument of the Lord’s will to live and work in such splendour.’
I got the feeling he had said this piece before but he said it very well. I sat down first and he took a chair beside me, close enough to lean out and touch.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘and what part of Ireland do the Irish come from?’
‘Not a well-known part,’ I said. ‘The Jewish quarter of Hamburg. My great-grandfather’s name was Isadore Reich. He ran away to sea and jumped ship in Melbourne. When he wrote his name down as I. Reich for his first employer, the man pronounced it as I. Rish. That’s what he became. Irish. I’m thinking of changing it back.’
Father Gorman laughed, a sound of deep enjoyment that washed over you, made you want to laugh with him, made you happy that you’d amused him. And while he was laughing, crinkles of pleasure around his eyes, he leaned over and touched my arm.
‘Don’t you ever do that,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t be able to tell that wonderful story any more. And you’d be hurting the whole line of dear departed Irishes.’ He leaned back and put his hands in his pockets. ‘Well now, Jack Irish, what can I tell you about Ronnie Bishop?’
I had told him on the phone that Ronnie was missing. ‘Why did he ring you?’ I asked.
‘Why, he wanted to come around and see me. I hadn’t seen him for years. I’ve known the lad a long time, you know.’
‘I gather he once worked for the foundation.’
‘Briefly. He wasn’t really suited to the work. Not that I say that in any detrimental sense, mind. It’s special work, dealing with the young in distress. Not everyone has the gifts needed.’
‘And did he come around to see you?’
‘Of course. We talked for an hour and then I had to go to a meeting. That was…’ He raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘That was last Friday.’
‘How was he?’
‘Well, Jack, what do you know of the man’s situation?’ He fixed me with a look of inquiry that said ‘Let’s trust each other.’
‘I gather he’s HIV-positive.’
Father Gorman took his hands out of his pockets, sat forward, put his fingertips together. The nails were manicured. He had a slim gold watch on his wrist. Dark hairs fought to get out from under it. He looked out at the view. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘He told me that and I felt his pain and anger. And his fear.’
He turned his head to look at me, a clear, steady gaze.
‘I’m interested in why he came to Melbourne. Did he say anything about that to you?’ I asked.
‘I assumed he had come to see his family. He said he was staying with his mother.’
There was a sound at the door
way and the youth came in carrying a tray with a tall silver coffee pot. The small cups chattered as he dropped the tray on the table from a height of at least two inches.
‘Ah, Francis,’ said Father Gorman. ‘We may have to send you to waiter school. Perhaps in your home country.’ He was smiling broadly, but there was an edge to his tone, a hint of autumn on a warm wind.
The youth gave him a glance of pure malice, tossed his ponytail and left. Father Gorman’s eyes followed him. ‘Rescued from a life of abuse and poverty,’ he said. ‘But still uncertain of what the Lord wants for him.’
I thought the Lord probably wanted a good swift kick up the arse for him, but I held my tongue. Father Gorman poured coffee. We both had ours black and sugarless. It was very bad coffee. I went back to Ronnie. ‘He was working for the foundation when he testified against a hit-and-run driver,’ I said.
Father Gorman took a sip of coffee. ‘I recall that well, yes. A tragedy. Lovely young woman.’
‘Did Ronnie ever say anything about his testimony?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Did Ronnie ever talk about what happened that night?’
Father Gorman put his cup down and inspected me. ‘I suppose we talked about it at the time. It would have been odd not to. Is there some reason why I should recall such a conversation?’
‘Not if you don’t. Did Ronnie mention when you saw him that the hit-and-run driver was out of jail and had been in touch with him?’
Father Gorman shot his left cuff to look at his watch. ‘Jack, my heavens,’ he said. ‘I’ve a speech to deliver. I’m going to have to be dreadfully rude and cut short our talk. No, I can’t say that he did mention anything like that. Would the man want to harm him?’
‘I don’t think so. I think he wanted something else.’
He frowned. ‘And what could that be?’
‘It’s not clear. Have you any idea who Ronnie might turn to if he wanted to hide, Father?’
