by Noel Beddoe
‘You know perfectly well that I don’t have the power to do that. You know as well as anyone how the system works. I make a case to a superior. If sufficient weight is given to what I’ve written resources are allocated. If they make a case the thing might go to The Department of Public Prosecutions, who’d need to be satisfied of the possibility of a conviction on the basis of what was provided. That’s the system. Beautiful system. I’m proud to be a part of it.’
‘And what chance, do you think, is there that that process will be gone through and something might come of this … gesture of yours?’
‘That’s the point, Michael. The outcome is not for me to decide. I’ve got my place in it all. Just as you had your place.’
‘Gordon!’ Michael says, and he says it quietly, but with intensity. For a moment Gordon realises that he is looking into the eyes of a very dangerous man.
‘So,’ Gordon says, ‘you did what you did. I intend to do what my responsibilities dictate.’
‘You do understand that the first thing you have to establish is that your Mr Rodriguez actually is dead. Not comfortably at home in Portugal somewhere, using an assumed name, drinking his fill of cheap wine every night and happily beating his wife and children. The DPP would need to be satisfied that could be established to convince a jury beyond a reasonable doubt. Then that he was murdered. Then you need to establish that I knew he’d been murdered, and prevented investigation. Gordon, I’m very fond of you. I’m deeply fond of your family. Truly, all I can see of this quixotic gesture is deep personal conflict, which will cost you considerable professional embarrassment. I do hope that you’ll think very, very deeply before continuing. I have nothing to fear. I have nothing to lose. But I suspect that you may have a very great deal to lose. I do very, very strongly urge you to think deeply.’
‘You’re saying to me things I’ve said to myself. I lie awake at night and think this over. And this is where I get to: Tonio Rodriguez was murdered. A man called Lupce Valeski said to me, “Who says there was a murder?” I’ve tried not to know it, but that hasn’t worked for me. I’ve spent a few days on Cringila Hill all these years later and I know there was a murder. You are a far better detective than I would ever imagine I could be. If I know it, so did you.’
‘Well, I’d have to say that the way you describe my position sounds pretty reasonable.’
‘But a man was killed. I’m in agreement with his son – he was not, probably, much of a man. But our system says he is worthy of the same concern as anybody else. We play our part in the process. If we set ourselves up as …’ Gordon tries to reject the word that comes to him but eventually can’t find a replacement, and goes with it, ‘… God, then society won’t work.’
‘What? It works now, does it? Let’s, for the sake of discussion, believe your basic hypothesis: who would have been better off if your Mr Valeski had been prosecuted and gone to jail? The little boy who’d have lost the financial support and guidance of his grandfather? The community, the disadvantaged, worthy, underprivileged community who’d have lost the support provided by a pretty effective leader? The widow who at least then would have not to experience a life of degradation and fear? Mr Rodriguez, who, may I point out, was dead, and somewhat beyond caring what was done on his behalf? Who’s to say that what we’ve got isn’t the best available outcome from a very disturbing situation?’ Michael leans back in his chair, his knees comfortably crossed, his folded hands on a thigh. ‘Anyway, you’ve made your decision, I take it?’
‘I’m going to do what I’ve got to do.’
‘Very well. Now we’d best let your wife get back to the demands of her day. I’ll give you this undertaking: I’ll mention this conversation to no one. Good luck, Gordon. Not just with this, with everything. Best wishes for the rest of your life. I’ve been very, very fond of you.’
May is waiting for them at the car. Michael gives her a cheery smile, reaches out a hand, squeezes the one she offers him in return.
‘Now, May,’ he says. ‘Remember this – you are always welcome here. Always, whatever transpires. Never forget that. I will always get a start of joy in my heart if ever you ring to say you’re coming.’
May nods, helps Gordon into the car. She backs carefully out onto the Jamberoo Mountain Pass. As they commence their descent Gordon looks back and sees a tall old man standing with his dog, holding the broad gate that soon will bar entrance to his property.
May is precise in her driving, slowing for the blind corners of the Pass, keeping carefully to their side of the narrow road. They make their way off the escarpment, slide through foothills where the rainforest has been stripped away to make pasture, head between the rolling paddocks of dairy country.
Quietly, May says, ‘You’ve accused Michael of something?’
‘I’ve told him something that I’m going to do, May.’
‘You believe he’s done something wicked?’
‘Wicked? Oh, well, it’s in the eye of the beholder a bit. But I can’t think of another thing to do, if I want to think myself worthy of your respect, yours and our daughter’s.’ He glances at the countryside. ‘Or my own, as far as that goes.’
Quietly, May says, ‘If you do something to hurt Michael, I’ll leave you.’
They stare ahead, then, until they reach the intersection where they’ll make a right turn to approach the village of Jamberoo. They crest a hill, slide down beside the public school. Jamberoo oval is ahead, on their left. ‘When we get to the oval,’ Gordon says, ‘I think it would be good to turn in, and park the car.’
May drives to the fencing that edges the oval, pulls on the hand brake, turns off the ignition. They sit for a while, listening to the throb of silence that surrounds them. Jamberoo oval is a broad, deep park with, mature European trees at its northern and southern ends. From where they are Gordon can see through trees to a tennis club in the distance, the walls of the swimming complex, the clubhouse for the bowling greens. There are houses on a hill overlooking the park and the quick-running clearwater creek that becomes the Minnamurra River further down through the hinterland. In front of their car a flock of big, white birds potters around the grass. Their heads are down, their wings folded behind themselves as they seek out grass seeds. They remind Gordon of little old men who have their arms crossed behind themselves as they stumble along.
‘Well,’ May says, ‘at least we have some nice white cockatoos to watch while we sit here.’
‘They aren’t cockatoos. They’re corellas. Can you see the narrow band of red at the front of their necks? And they haven’t got the heavy crests cockatoos have.’
She turns her head, watches her husband for a while, then she says, ‘Why, you’re right, Gordon. They are corellas. They are not cockatoos. You are right. I am wrong.’
Gordon hears a mad cawing and a flock of yellow-cheeked black cockatoos flies into their vision from the west. They head on through the sky, their big wings beating slowly. He says, ‘Bad weather coming, up on the escarpment. That’s what people would say about the black cockatoos coming down.’
‘Is it?’
‘That thing you said. Leaving. You must know, after a thing like that’s been said, nothing ever is going to be the same again. This is the second conversation like this I’ve had today, this one with me saying that, the other with it being said to me.’
‘You went up there to tell Michael you were going to do something involving him. Don’t tell me he’s done something wicked. He hasn’t. He couldn’t.’
‘I’ve got to do my duty, May.’
May now stares ahead through the car’s windscreen. Her shoulders slump; how terribly tired she seems. He watches her clasp the palm of a hand across her eyes.
She says, ‘My life doesn’t work for me anymore, Gordon. Once it did. Now there’s too much in it. Everything seems an intolerable burden, even the smallest things, even things once I’d look forward to.
Everything’s a terrible strain. There’s so much to do, everything exhausts me, even to think of doing it. Once when I thought that there was something wrong with my living I’d put something else into it. Now it seems to me that I need to take something out. That’s all that’s going to help.’
‘I’ve got a report to write and I need to get that done soon. Then there’s the surgery, and getting over that. I think we then need to have a talk, and work some things out, make some decisions.’
‘I think we were going all right. Not too badly. Then this thing happened to this boy called Abdul Hijazi and I got excited, I suppose I saw the situation as a chance for me and I had no choice but to try to take. I wonder, if that hadn’t happened, would we be talking to each other like this?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps not.’
‘A butterfly flaps its wings beside the Amazon and there’s a landslide in Thredbo.’
‘What?’
‘It’s just something someone said to me once. Someone on Cringila Hill.’
‘How can a butterfly start a landslide?’
He smiles, but not as though he finds anything to be funny. ‘You’re right,’ he says. ‘One can’t. It was a stupid thing to say.’ He sighs. ‘I think I know what you’re going to do, May. Know this, I love you very much, and it was very, very good for me that we shared the life that we did.’
May inserts the car key into the ignition, watches the oval a little longer. ‘It was good, wasn’t it, what we did?’ she says. ‘Finding each other and helping each other to believe in themselves and building what we did, with a child, and a home?’
‘Yes,’ he says ‘It was very good.’
Chapter Thirty-one
Dimce feels apprehensive as the daylight dims. He wonders when he will see Cringila Hill again in the light and thinks it possible that he never will. He feels sad and excited and frightened and tired all at once.
He has told his mother that Feizel will be going into Wollongong to the bus station and arranged to meet her later. He’s relieved when she agrees because it will be easier to do what he needs without her there.
He goes out into the cold half-light, opens the little wooden doorway under the house that will give him access to the area between the foundations. He finds a large biscuit tin, draws it out, shuts the little door with care, positions the tin next to the front gate. He goes up into the house, then, to wait. When he sees the old Volvo come easing along the street he goes into the kitchen. His mother is there, working on a sheet. She holds the steam-puffing iron up, frowns at Dimce. ‘Feizel’s here,’ he says to her.
‘Ah,’ she says, and nods.
He reaches across the ironing board and places his cupped left hand against her cheek, feels how tough it seems. He reaches forward and she turns a cheek, permits him to kiss it. ‘See you in town.’
He walks to the door then, turns, looks awhile at his mother, then scoops up his one piece of luggage. He leaves the house, trots down the stairs and the short pathway. Dimce nods at the boot. He drops his bag inside and then returns to the gate for the biscuit tin. ‘Shit I didn’ sell,’ Jimmy says.
Feizel nods and executes an elegant turn, heads to the end of the street where Dimce has lived his life, heads down Cringila Hill. At its base he turns left, not right towards Port Kembla as Dimce had expected.
‘Feizel, are you clear what’s in the tin?’ Jimmy says.
‘Sure. Ya tol’ me.’
‘Not gonna take it inta Port, drop it, get it outta the car?’
‘Nah,’ Feizel says, and smiles. ‘Is cool.’
Dimce thinks about that, the confidence of his friend. This occupies his thoughts as they reach the edge of the steelworks, wait for traffic lights, turn north.
‘Tha’s an interestin’ thing, how relaxed you are,’ Dimce says. ‘Not like you used to be. Tell ya another thing. Coppers got no interes’ in me no more. Went in, ya know, gonna say, “This where ya can find me in Queenslan’,” don’ wan’ they should be doin’ a big search, makin’ a fuss if they wan’ me for somethin’. Got police from New South come see me, I’m helpin’ ’em, not gonna do my image no harm up there.
‘That Winter, he ain’t there, got some big operation comin’ up. So I spoke to that Grace. He is blasé blasé, sure kid, whatever ya reckon. Not like before when they’re all over me, what colour wassa van, what wassa wheel hubs like, what sorta gun, revolver, automatic, take me over an’ over. Been thinkin’ ’bout that. Now here you are, so confiden’ an’ cool.’ Dimce watches the empty paddocks opposite the steelworks roll by his window in the gloom. ‘Is like I don’ matter too much no more. Like they know a whole new shitload of stuff. Like someone tol’ ’em somethin’. An’ here you are, king o’ the castle.’
‘That right?’ Feizel says with a smug smile, so relaxed, so confident that, suddenly, this is what Dimce knows – his friend is a police informer.
‘Feizel,’ Dimce says, ‘you take care. Take care what you get yourself inta. Water’s gettin’ deep an’ dark all of a sudden, seems ta me. You don’ wanna finish like Abdul.’
‘Yeah, well, them guys organised that about Abdul, they got plenny on their minds, I can tell ya. If not now, soon. An someone else …’ He frowns in the darkness ahead. ‘Italian guy. He gonna have plenny for himself ta think about, pretty soon.’ He nods. ‘They come lookin’ roun’ down here, come lookin’ for trouble, givin’ me grief, I can tell ya this … maybe they gonna get a bit more than they thought was gonna happen.’
They’ve passed the northern entry big trucks use to get into the steelworks. They pause for traffic at the roundabout at the bottom of Swan Street. Dimce says, ‘Feizel, don’ tell me ya got a fucken gun!’
Feizel doesn’t reply.
‘Oh, shit! You know what you gettin’ inta?’
‘World changed, Jimmy. World changed night Abdul got shot. Nothin’ gonna be the same.’
‘Where ya get this fucken gun?’
‘Lil fren of yours. Spent lots a time standin’ in his backyard at night with sailors, it seems, them sailors waitin’ for their turn wit’ his mother. See, they don’ make too much money, them sailors, way Piggy tells it. They can sell a gun, their kids get to dress warm for the winter. Sell two guns, kids get nice presents at Christmas. What we gonna do wit dem guns they sell us? Why would they give a shit?’
‘Two guns. You got two guns!’
‘Was the deal the Pig brung me. He’ll get ’em but is one each. He come see me, right boat’s in town. He’s got that cash you give him, gonna buy nice clothes, get a haircut. I give him some money. Lil cunt …’ Feizel chuckles. ‘Good as his word. We packin’. Did he keep some my money for hisself, well as what he bought for hisself? Don’ care. He took all the risk of cartin’ stuff roun’. He was quick. I couldn’ believe how quick it was done. Ship hits town, he sees me, he’s on it, is back.’
‘Piggy? You got a gun for Piggy? What, you crazy?’
‘Nah. One these times could be a big asset. I mean, ya know, that Piggy, he don’ give a shit. He got somethin’ ’bout hisself, that lil Pig fella. ‘’Member how he come runnin’ up wit’ dat baseball bat he had, down there on the parkin’ lot? ’Member how his face look when he saw was all over? Tell ya how he look – disappointed, is what. See, he angry, that Pig. Got anger in him. Sometime the bomb’s goin’ off, he gonna give someone a big shock. Anyway, what you care? You goin’ ta Queensland.’
‘Yeah, well, you two is frens of mine. I worry.’
‘Relax. We jus’ movin’ wit’ the times. An’ don’ worry ’bout ole Feizel an’ them dudes done that ta Abdul. Ole Feizel is takin’ steps to take care of hisself.’
They pass the southern caryards into the CBD. Feizel takes a left, heads up to the bus station, parks the car. They get Dimce’s luggage and head into the fluorescent-lit waiting room.
Inside, Dimce looks at the silent figures who ar
e scattered on seating. They have curious stares for him. He feels uncomfortable, exposed. ‘This ain’t my scene, Feizel, bein’ in here. Gonna go wait outside.’
Dimce totes his heavy bag to an area of shadow on the cement, drops it. The young men stand side by side, the bag between them, their hands deep in the pockets of their jackets. Headlight beams sweep over them. A taxi pulls up in front of where they are. When a door opens Dimce can see his mother counting out cash from a purse. A swarthy taxi driver sits with his hand out. When the fare is paid the mother drags from the back seat a sports bag that is filled to bulging. She drops the bag by Dimce’s feet.
‘Is for you,’ she says. ‘Take it wit’ ya. Thought maybe you gonna wanna buy a car, maybe put down money for a flat.’ She’s close to him in the semi-dark. Wind comes rattling from the west, gets around a corner of the squat building, finds them. ‘I figure, I try give ya this home, you ain’ gonna take it. Gotta take it now, or you be sen’ an old woman walk roun’ Wollongong inna night wit’ all dat, gonna put me in danger. So you take it, Dimce. Always what I meant, you get that.’
He thinks for a while about what’s been said. ‘Okay, Mama. Least I don’t gotta worry ’bout that an’ you no more, you havin’ that inna house. Better I keep it safe.’
‘An’ now. Come kiss your mama. Then I’m goin’ inta room we drove pas’, dat room back there. Cos when you leave I’m gonna be cryin’ an’ you not gonna see dat.’ They hold each other then, tightly, almost as though in anger, and he kisses her clumsily, first getting her nose then her cheek. She draws away, nods, leaves him.
‘That bag’s got in it what I think,’ Feizel says, ‘better you have in there as well a nice Russian automatic, take care of youself, anyone gettin’ any ideas.’
‘I can take care of myself.’
‘Changin’ world, Jim. Is what I’m tellin’ ya. New ways. An’ now, here come someone else. You got another visitor.’
It takes Dimce a little while to recognise the young man who strides confidently through the spill of light back towards the street. He has on tight, new jeans, a blue spray-jacket. His hair is freshly barbered. When he’s near, Dimce gets the strong smell of aftershave. He says, ‘Piggy?’
