by Peter Temple
He sliced bread, it was good bread gone a little stale, he cut three slices, went to the toaster.
Silence.
He looked up, Corin was drying her hands.
‘What?’ he said.
‘I can’t talk to her,’ said Corin.
‘Your mum?’
‘No. Lizzie.’
‘Since when?’
‘Since a long time. She’s a stranger.’
‘Say this to your mum?’
‘Dad, you are so out of touch with this family.’
He depressed the toaster lever.
Corin said, ‘Saw her yesterday near the market. Three-thirty, around then.’
‘Yes?’
‘With streeters. Shitfaced. She’s crossed over, big time.’
There had been a previous episode of wagging school. How long ago was that? Months? A year?
‘I thought this stuff was over?’ said Villani. ‘I thought she’d settled down.’
‘No, Dad. The school wants to kick her out.’
‘Well, Jesus,’ said Villani, ‘I don’t know this.’
Corin was putting her plate and spoon away. Silence.
‘Why?’ said Villani. ‘Why was I not told?’
‘Dad, you only sleep here, you pass over this house like a cloud shadow.’
Corin left the room. He waited and he heard the front door close. She’d always kissed him goodbye. She’d never gone out without a kiss. Or had she? Perhaps she’d stopped long ago?
The toaster clicked, toast shot up. He removed the slices, burnt, wrong setting. He gave them to the bin.
He went down the passage and opened Lizzie’s door, it was on the cool side of the house, the room dark, air dead, heavy with breathed air, sour, and faintly sweet. A small, curved, broken ridge rose from the landscape of the bed. He could see a thin arm, fallen to the floor, elbow joint white as an old bone, fingernails almost touching the carpet.
The room was a tip—clothes, bags, shoes, towels, no floor visible.
He went to wake her and then he could not bring himself to. Let her sleep, I’ll talk to her later.
He closed the door and left the house. He knew he was being weak. He knew he should have woken her, talked to her, showed concern, put the hard word on her. What the hell was Laurie doing in Queensland while her daughter was running wild?
At the gate, he leaned out of the car window and cleared the mailbox: junk, bills.
IN THE ghostly city, he saw the newspaper bales being dumped, the lost people, the homeless, the unhinged, a man and a woman sitting on the kerb passing a bottle, a figure face down, crucified in a pool of piss, the unloaders of fruit and vegetables, men lumping pieces of animals sheathed in hard white fat and shiny membrane, a malbred dog in a gutter, eating something, shaking his grey eusuchian head. As he crossed the bridge, the mist opened and showed a skiff thin as a pencil, two men drawing a line on the cold river.
Parked, the world waiting for him, every minute would be taken, he sat head down. Laurie had begun to go on the two or three-day advertising shoots around the time she fell pregnant with Lizzie, she didn’t tell him until she was more than four months. It wasn’t until Lizzie was about five that it occurred to Villani that she looked like neither of them.
He hadn’t been much of a father to her.
He hadn’t been much of a father to Corin and Tony either. He’d never given any thought to being a father. He wasn’t ready for marriage, never mind children. He went to work, paid the bills. Laurie did the take and fetch, the school stuff, the worrying about temperatures, coughs, pains, sore throats, a broken wrist, tooth knocked out, parent-teacher meetings, reports, bullying. She told him, he half-listened, made sounds, went out the door or fell asleep.
He’d looked after kids. He’d had his turn. All the years seeing to Mark and Luke, see to was his father’s term, you had to see to the horses, the dogs, the chooks—helpless creatures, they suffered, they died, if you didn’t see to them.
Mark got his mother’s genes, a teacher’s genes, not the genes of Bob Villani, brumby-hunter’s son left school at fourteen, found a home in army barracks, found his vocation in killing people in Vietnam. Luke was another matter. His mother was a bike called Ellen. Bob Villani bunned her in Darwin. Just before dark one July day, she arrived at the farm in a taxi, tight pants, red-dyed hair.
They were alone, the two of them, Bob was on the road, he was driving Melbourne–Brisbane then, gone the whole week, came home, five or six beers, four eggs scrambled, half a loaf of bread, he slept face down till around nine on Saturday. Mark went into his room every ten minutes from sunrise, looked for signs that he was breathing, studied him for signs of waking up.
Monday morning, Bob Villani left before dawn, blast on the airhorn at the gate, money on the kitchen table.
‘He’s not here,’ said Villani.
‘When’s he comin back?’ she said.
‘Not sure,’ said Villani.
She looked at Mark behind him, back at Villani. ‘You his kids?’ she said, she had a grating voice.
They nodded. She waved the taxi away.
‘Brought your half-brother,’ she said.
Luke came out from behind her, a fat little shit, long hair. For the first three days, he whined, she smacked him, he howled, she kissed and hugged him, he started whining again.
Bob Villani came back on Friday night just before nine. Mark and Ellen and Luke were watching the snowy television. Villani was making a model plane on the kitchen table. He caught the sound of the rig five kilometres away, the downshifts climbing Camel Hill, the chatter of the jake brake as it slowed on the steep slope before the turn-off from the main road. And then the airhorn, long and lonely, hanging in the aching-cold black.
He went to open the gate, waited in the dark, shivering, the mover came around the bend like a building. It slowed, inched through the gate, towered above him, he closed the gate, walked down the drive.
Bob was out of the truck, stretching.
‘Where’s Mark?’ he said.
‘There’s a woman here,’ said Villani. ‘Ellen. With a kid.’
Silence. Bob put a hand through his hair.
Deep in the night, the sounds from his father’s room woke him. He thought his father was killing Ellen. It was the first time he ever heard fucking.
Mark woke. ‘What’s that?’ he said. ‘Stevie, what’s that?’ He was a boy who frightened easily.
‘Nothing,’ said Villani. ‘She’s having a bad dream. Put your head under the pillow.’
On Monday morning, Bob Villani took Villani and Mark to school in the truck, they rode like gods, they looked down on tiny cars, utes.
‘They staying, Dad?’ said Mark.
‘We’ll see,’ said Bob. ‘Keep an eye on Tomboy, Steve. Off his feed.’
When they got out, Bob gave Villani the thumbs up, said what he always said: ‘Carry on, sergeant-major.’
On the Friday, when Luke was asleep, Ellen walked to the farm gate, a tradie gave her a lift to Paxton. She was never heard of again, not by the boys—not a letter, not a postcard. Villani and Mark came home from school, found the boy snailed on his bed, keening, snotted cheeks.
Looking at Luke, weeks after his mother had shot through, Bob Villani said, ‘And the bloody taxi driver reckons I owe him sixty bucks for taking her to Stanny.’
It came to Villani that, in never giving a thought to being a father, he was just being his father’s son. All of Bob was in him: the big hands, the hair, the delegation of responsibility, the eyes that saw everything through crosshairs. Everything except the courage. He didn’t have that. He had learned to behave as if he had it because Bob Villani expected it of him, took it for granted. He had joined the cops because he didn’t have courage, started boxing because he didn’t have courage.
Never take a backward step, son. Bad for the soul.
Bob Villani’s terrible injunction had been at his throat all his life.
Villani raised his head. Wint
er, standing in front of his car, head forward, peering.
He got out.
‘Worried me there, boss,’ said Winter, a reed-thin man with a moustache grown to hide an unpredictable upper-lip twitch, some nerve short-circuit, two threads coming close, arcing.
‘Meditating,’ said Villani. ‘Going inward. You should try it.’
In the lift, he said, ‘Getting home before they’re asleep?’
‘Trying, boss, yeah.’
‘Well, bear in mind the clients are the dead,’ said Villani. ‘We are the living. Although it may not always feel that way.’
‘Staying level’s my aim, boss.’ Winter’s gaze was down.
‘And that’s a receding target around here,’ said Villani.
They arrived, Winter stood back. He was Singo’s last recruit, a CIB junior. Singo had broken the rule that Homicide only took senior detectives. Senior detectives brought with them attitude. Singo wanted people in whom he could instil attitude. His.
At his desk, the trilling, the incoming paper. Soon, two calls on hold, two people outside. The morning went, he ate a salad roll at 11.30, standing at the window, phoning Laurie. Wherever she was, Darwin, Cairns, Port Douglas, she didn’t answer her mobile. He sent an SMS: Call me.
What was Birkerts doing on Oakleigh? Why hadn’t Dove reported?
Phone. Tomasic.
‘Thought I should let you know, boss,’ he said. ‘Oakleigh, there’s an electronics outfit around the corner. They just got back from a trade show thing, looked at their security set-up.’
‘Yes?’
‘Got a camera, triggered by sensors. Covers 90 degrees. They’ve got vision of the street. Vision Sunday night, early Monday morning.’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s 2.23am, a vehicle. Then opposite direction, vehicle, 2.51am.’
‘Get it in here,’ said Villani. ‘Maximum speed.’
THE VEHICLE in the frozen frame was a blur, red-tinged. In the top right-hand corner of the picture, a display said: 2.23.07.
‘A Prado, I’d say,’ said Tomasic. ‘They all look a bit the same.’
2.51.17: vehicle, opposite direction.
‘Prado again.’ said Tomasic.
‘Petrolhead?’ said Birkerts.
‘Just an interest, boss.’
‘Let’s see it coming and going,’ said Villani.
They watched at different speeds.
‘What’s that in the background?’ said Villani.
‘Can’t say, boss.’
‘Street vision, please, Trace.’
On the big monitor, the overhead view of Oakleigh moved from the house across the tin roofs to the corner, changed to an eye-level view.
‘Left,’ said Villani. ‘Stop.’
It was a long low building with showroom-sized windows.
‘Run the tape,’ he said.
The Prado, turning left…
‘Stop,’ said Villani. ‘Back slowly…stop.’
Silence in the room.
‘In the window,’ said Villani. ‘Numberplate light reflected.’
‘Missed that,’ said Birkerts. ‘Fuck.’
‘See what the techs can do,’ said Villani. He looked at Birkerts appraisingly.
‘Tommo, tell Fin we want all light-coloured Prados on the tollway from, oh, 2am to 3am, both directions,’ said Birkerts.
‘Yes, boss.’
‘And the prints in the place,’ said Villani. ‘What the fuck’s going on there?’
Birkerts put his head down. ‘I’ll check. Boss.’
Villani got back to the work. Life went on. Life and death.
Colby’s words:
…stuff like this, the media blowies on you, bloody pollies pestering, the ordinary work goes to hell. And then you don’t get a result quickly and you’re a turd.
The post-mortem on the naked woman in her pool in Keilor said fluid in lungs greatly in excess of what drowning required. What did that mean?
A level-six resident of the Kensington Housing Commission flats found on the concrete five metres from the base of the building. Dead of injuries consistent with a fall from that height. Wearing panties, a bra and a plastic Pope John Paul mask. Male.
In Frankston, in a house, a girl, unidentified, around fifteen, strangled. Two unidentified males said to live there missing.
Somali youth stabbed in Reservoir. In the back with a screwdriver, into the heart. Phillips head. Dead on arrival. Sixty-odd people at a social gathering.
The radio:
…hoping for a wind shift as firefighters battle to keep the blaze from breaking containment lines above the towns of Morpeth and Paxton…
He found his mobile, went to the window, saw the liquid city, the uncertain horizon. It took three tries.
‘It’s me.’
‘What?’
‘You going now?’ He knew the answer.
Throat clearing. ‘Nah. Took the horses over to old Gill. Put them in with his. He’s got a set-up sprays the stable. All day you have to.’
‘You better get in there with them. You and Gordie.’
Bob’s hard laugh. ‘No, mate, no. Gordie’s got an old firetruck. Full. Be our own CFA.’
‘That’s going to save my trees?’
‘It comes, son, only the good Lord can save the trees.’
‘First mention of him I’ve heard from you.’
‘Figure of speech. Make it Father Christmas.’
‘I’ll ring,’ said Villani. ‘Answer the bloody phone, will you?’
‘Yes, boss.’
His mobile rang.
‘I came home,’ said Corin, no breath. ‘Lizzie comes out with this creature, he’s old, filthy, dreadlocks, tatts on his face, between his eyes and she’s got a bag, and…Dad, all my money’s gone, four hundred and fifty bucks and my iPod and my pearl pendant and my silver bracelets, she’s been through Mum’s things, I don’t know what she’s taken and…’
‘Stop,’ said Villani. ‘Stop.’
He heard her quick, ragged breathing.
‘Now we will take a few deep breaths,’ he said.
‘Right…yes.’
‘So. Slowly in, slowly out. Let’s do that. In…’
They did four, he heard the calm come to her.
‘Right,’ she said. ‘Over that now. I’ll kill the little bitch.’
She was part her mother and she was part Villani. Bob would be proud, he would like the kill part, he knew when it was time to put something down, he took the old dog away and shot it, buried it, they never found out where.
‘Darling, I want you to wait there,’ he said. ‘Someone’ll ring soon. Give them descriptions of Lizzie, her clothes, the bloke, anything that’ll help pick them in the street, in a crowd. The bag she’s carrying, don’t forget the bag.’
‘Okay,’ said Corin, brisk, composure regained. ‘Fine. Should I ring Mum?’
‘We’ll reel Lizzie in first, no point making your mum sweat in Darwin. Wherever she is.’
‘Cairns, Dad, Cairns.’
‘I’ll write that down. You shouldn’t keep that much money in cash, that’s not smart.’
‘Gee, thanks, Dad. I’ll write that down.’
‘Tried ringing Lizzie?’ He realised he didn’t have her mobile number.
‘It’s never on,’ said Corin. ‘Anyway I don’t want to talk to her. You ring her.’
‘Give me the number.’
‘Don’t you have it?’
‘Somewhere. Give it to me.’
Villani wrote it on a card, put it in his wallet. ‘Wait for the call, love,’ he said. He tapped Lizzie’s number. Not switched on.
Sitting for a few moments. You could not do this like a civilian, you needed the brothers. He calculated the price, punched the numbers, identified himself.
Vickery came on, the harsh cigarette voice, ‘Stevo. What can you do for me, son?’
Villani told the story.
‘Touches everyone this shit,’ said Vickery. ‘I’ll get the word out there.
Someone will ring your girl shortly. Number?’
‘In your debt,’ said Villani when he had given Corin’s mobile number.
‘Mate, we’re all in debt to each other,’ said Vickery. ‘Brothers, good times and bad. Know that, don’t you?’
He was talking about their meeting, about Greg Quirk.
‘Indeed I do. Call me direct?’
‘Give me the number.’
Villani gave it.
‘Get together for a gargle, you and me and other old comrades,’ said Vickery.
‘We will,’ said Villani.
The phone, Tomasic, another hoarse voice.
‘Boss, the window reflection, the techs got the first two numbers off the Prado.’
‘I’m switching you,’ said Villani. ‘Don’t go anywhere.’
He pressed buttons. ‘Ange, take Tomasic off me for Tracy.’
Pause.
‘Trace, Tommo’s got two rego digits from the Oakleigh Prado. A little chance here.’
‘On it, boss,’ she said, a lilt of joy in her voice.
Sitting back, the adrenalin surge, he felt for a moment that he belonged in Singo’s chair: Stephen Villani, the boss of Homicide. Someone who deserved to be the boss of Homicide.
A moment.
TRACY IN the door, alight.
‘Boss, the numbers, a Prado on the tollway, the time’s right. We match a James Heath Kidd, 197 Cloke Street, Essendon.’
Tracy was clever, overworked, not a sworn person. At any time, she could tell them she was going elsewhere. He feared that. She had been in love with Cashin, everyone knew it, Cashin knew it and it scared Cashin.
‘A likely person,’ said Villani. ‘Let’s look at his abode.’
‘Ordinary house with garage, shed, that kind of thing.’
‘Can I get a chance to initiate something?’ said Villani. ‘Feel like I’m the brains of the outfit?’
She smiled her downturned smile, left. Birkerts appeared.
‘Cloke Street from on high, detective,’ said Villani. ‘High and well away, going somewhere else. Spook the cunt, they will patrol the Hume until they retire.’
Birkerts inclined his head.
‘And have the Salvos take a walk around there,’ said Villani. ‘In minutes, no buggering around.’
He sat for a time, got to work reading the currents. It did no good to create more urgency than was useful. Save a level of excitement for the Second Coming. Singleton. The master’s voice.
