The Broken Shore

by Peter Temple

  He tried to think about something else.

  Rebuilding Tommy Cashin’s blown-up house, lying ruined since just after World War I. How stupid. It would never be done, he’d waste his spare time for a while, then he’d give it away. He’d never done anything with his hands, built anything. How had the idea come to him?

  It had somehow developed on his walks with the dogs as they returned to the house in its tangled wilderness. And then one morning on the way to work he met Bern at a crossroads. A load of uncleaned old red bricks was on the back of his Dodge. Sitting beside Bern was a local ancient called Collo who cleaned his bricks, sat outside in all weathers covered in a grey film of cement dust, whistling through the gaps between his teeth, utterly absorbed in chipping at mortar.

  They pulled onto the verges, got out. Bern crossed the road, smoke in his mouth.

  ‘Bit early for you,’ said Cashin. ‘Pull down a house in the dark?’

  ‘What would you cunts know about honest labour?’ said Bern. ‘All got these fat flat arses.’

  ‘Student of arses, are you?’ Cashin said. And then he said the fateful words. ‘How many bricks you got there?’

  ‘Three thousand-odd.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘For a valued customer, forty a hundred, clean.’

  ‘Let’s say twenty-five.’

  ‘I’ll sell you bricks for twenty-five, I can get forty? Know how scarce old bricks are? Antiques, mate.’ He spat neatly. ‘No, you don’t know. You know fuck all.’

  ‘Say thirty.’

  ‘Whaddaya want with bricks?’

  ‘I’m fixing Tommy Cashin’s house,’ said Cashin. The words came from nowhere.

  Bern shook his head. ‘You’re another fuckin Cashin loony, you know that? Done at thirty. Delivery extra.’

  Now the bricks were stacked near the ruin.

  Cashin got up, pulled on clothes, made tea. On the edge of dawn, he set out for the beach with the dogs, a fifteen-minute drive, the last few on a dirt track. Under a sky of streaked marble, he walked barefoot on hard rippled sand against a freezing wind.

  His father’s view had been that you didn’t wear footwear on the beach no matter what you were doing there. Not thongs, not anything. If the sand was hot, well, shut up or go home. Cashin thought about the summers of having his soles burnt, cut from broken glass and sharp rocks. He must have been seven or eight when he stood on a fish hook. He hopped and sat down hard, tears of pain flowing.

  His father came back, lifted the foot. The hook was in the soft flesh behind the pad of his big toe.

  ‘No bloody going back with hooks,’ Mick Cashin said and pushed the hook through.

  Cashin remembered the barb coming out of his skin. It looked huge, his father took it between finger and thumb and pulled the whole thing through. The skin bulged before the eyelet emerged. He remembered the feeling of the length of pale nylon gut being drawn through his flesh.

  The dogs liked the beach, weren’t keen on the sea. They chased gulls, chased each other, snapped at wavelets, ran from them, went up the dunes to explore the marram grass and the scrub for rabbits. Cashin looked at the sea as he walked, his face turned from the grit blowing off the dunes.

  A strong rip was running parallel to the beach, just beyond the big breakers. They went all the way to the mouth of Stone’s Creek. The outgoing tide had divided the stream into five or six shallows separated by sandbars, perfect finger biscuits of different widths. This was where Cecily Addison told him Adrian Fyfe planned to build his resort.

  Hotel, golf course, houses, God knows what else. Brothel, casino, you bloody name it.

  On a wild polar day like this, the idea was lunacy.

  The dogs went to the first rivulet, wet their feet, thought about crossing to the first biscuit. Cashin whistled and they looked, turned, ready to go home for breakfast.

  When he had fed them, showered, found a clean shirt, he went in to Port Monro to clear his desk. There was no knowing how long the suspension would last. Forever, he thought.

  Outside the station, a woman sat in an old Volvo wagon, two young children imprisoned in the back. He parked behind the building and by the time he unlocked the back door, she had her finger on the buzzer.

  He looked through the blinds before he raised them: thirtyish, many layers of garments, weak and dirty hair striped in red and green, a sore at the corner of her mouth.

  Cashin unlocked.

  ‘Keep fucking easy hours here,’ she said. ‘This a copshop or what?’

  ‘Not open for another half an hour. There’s a sign.’

  ‘Jesus, like fucking doctors, people only allowed to get sick in office hours, nine to fucking five.’

  ‘Missed an emergency, have we?’ He went behind the counter.

  ‘I’ve fucking had it with this town,’ she said. ‘I go into the super last night, they reckon they seen me taking frozen stuff out of me trackie at the car. So I’m gonna walk around with fucking frozen peas down me trackie, right? Right?’

  ‘Who said that?’

  ‘The Colley slut, she’s history, the bitch.’

  ‘What did she do?’

  ‘Sees me coming in, she reckons I’m banned. Half the fucking town there, hears her.’

  ‘Which super are we talking about?’

  ‘Supa Valu, the one on the corner.’

  ‘Well,’ Cashin said, ‘there’s always Maxwell’s.’

  She thrust her chin at him. ‘That’s your fucking attitude, is it? I’m guilty without trial? On their fucking say so?’

  Cashin felt the tiny start of heat behind his eyes. ‘What would you like me to do, Ms…?’

  ‘Reed, Jadeen Reed. Well, tell that Colley bitch she’s got no right to ban me. Tell her to get off my case.’

  ‘The store has the right to refuse admittance to anyone,’ Cashin said. ‘They can tell the prime minister they don’t want his business.’

  Jade widened her eyes. ‘Really?’ she said, a grim smile. ‘Fucking really? Don’t give me that crap. You telling me I park a Mercedes wagon outside the fucking super the bitch would try this on? Reality fucking check, mister.’

  Hot eyes now. ‘I’ll note your complaint, Ms Reed,’ he said. ‘You might also like to take your problem up with the Department of Consumer Affairs. The number’s in the phone book.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘That is it.’

  She turned, walked. At the door, she turned again. ‘You wankers,’ she said. ‘Looking after the rich, that’s your fucking job, isn’t it?’

  ‘Got a record, Jadeen?’ said Cashin. ‘Any form? Been in trouble? Why don’t you sit down, I’ll look you up?’

  ‘You cunt,’ she said, ‘you absolute fucking cunt.’

  She left, tried to slam the door but it wasn’t that kind of door.

  Cashin went to his desk and worked through the papers in his in-tray, looked for matters that needed his attention. The dogs were walking around the enclosure like prisoners in an exercise yard, walking because it was less boring than the alternative.

  I’m not suited to this work, Cashin thought. And if I can’t handle this station, I’m not suited to any kind of police work. What else did Rai Sarris do to me? It wasn’t just the body. What neural cobweb did the mad prick cause to fizzle? Once I had patience, I didn’t get hot eyes, I didn’t punch people, I thought before I did things.

  Constable Cashin is good at dealing with people, particularly in circumstances where aggression is involved.

  Sergeant Willis wrote that on Cashin’s first assessment, showed it to him before he sent it. ‘Don’t get up your fucking self about this, son,’ he said. ‘I say it about all the girls.’ At his cubicle, he turned. ‘Course, in my day, a report like this, they’d say put the wuss on traffic.’

  Kendall arrived. She was making tea, her back to him, when she said, ‘The business in Cromarty.’

  ‘Yes. A monumental stuff-up
. I’m now on holiday. You’re in charge. The relief kid’ll stay on.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Who knows? Till ethical standards get the blame sorted out. It could be permanent.’

  ‘They the Bourgoyne ones?’

  ‘Looks like it. Them or someone they know.’

  ‘Good riddance then,’ she said.

  Cashin looked out the window at the sky, hated Kendall for a while, her quick stupidity. He saw the sparks, the crushed ute, the rain, the blood in the puddles. The boys, broken, life leaking away. He thought about his son. He had a boy.

  ‘It only looks like it, Ken,’ he said. ‘Nobody should die because we think they might have done something wrong. Nobody gave us that power.’

  You fucking hypocrite, he thought.

  Kendall went to her desk.

  He finished, took the files and his notes and went over, put them in her in-tray. ‘Pretty much up to date,’ he said.

  She didn’t look at him. ‘I’m sorry I said that, Joe,’ she said. ‘It just, shit, it just came out, I wanted to say…’

  ‘I know. Solidarity. That’s a good instinct. Call me if you need anything.’

  He was at the back door when she said, ‘Joe, feel like a bit of company. Well, any time. Yes.’

  ‘Take you up on that,’ he said, went out.

  He walked around to the Dublin. A new four-wheel-drive was parked outside and Leon had two customers, a middle-aged couple having breakfast. Soft-looking leather jackets hung on the backs of their chairs.

  ‘Takeaway black,’ said Cashin. ‘The overdose.’

  ‘Either you sit down or you get one of those vacuum cups,’ said Leon. ‘Polystyrene does nothing for expensive coffee.’

  Cashin had no interest. ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ he said.

  Leon went to the machine. ‘Your muscle boy was in yesterday. Very fetching but not keen on paying. Long and pregnant pause before he shelled out.’

  Cashin was looking across the street at Cecily Addison talking to the woman outside the aromatherapy shop. ‘He’s a city lad,’ he said. ‘They treat officers of the law differently there. Like royalty.’

  ‘Message received. Roger. Do you say that? Roger?’

  ‘We say Roger, we say Bruce, we say Leon, it all depends. Case by case.’

  Leon brought the container to the counter, capped it. ‘Bringing in reinforcements for the march?’

  ‘The march?’

  ‘Could be ugly. Feral greenies, rich old farts pulling up the drawbridge.’

  ‘I could be missing something here,’ Cashin said. He had no idea what Leon was talking about.

  ‘The march against the Adrian Fyfe resort? Been away, have we?’

  ‘Can’t keep up with events in this town. It’s all go, go, go. Anyway, I’m on holiday.’

  ‘Why don’t you try Noosa, chat to rich retired drug cops? It’s warm up there.’

  ‘Don’t care for the victuals in Noosa,’ Cashin said. As he said the word, he saw the strange spelling. ‘Listen, an ordinary old toasted cheese and tomato?’

  Leon raised his right arm in a theatrical way, drew fingers across his forehead as if wiping away sweat. ‘I take it you don’t require sheep-milk fetta with semi-dried organic tomatoes on sourdough artisan bread?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I suppose I can find a gassed tomato, some rat-trap cheese and a couple of slices of tissue-paper white.’

  Cashin bought the city newspaper and drove to Open Beach. One surfer out on a big, heaving sea. The headline on page three said:

  TWO DIE IN CHASE

  CRASH, GUNFIGHT

  It had happened too late for the previous morning’s newspaper. The three youths were much younger in the photographs. The captions didn’t mention that. And the reporter didn’t buy the interception line. It was a chase gone wrong. Luke Ericsen, he said, ‘apparently died in a hail of gunfire’. The conduct of seven officers was under investigation.

  Another story was headlined:

  UNITED AUSTRALIA LEADER SLAMS POLICE

  Bobby Walshe was quoted:

  Shock and grief, they are my emotions. Luke Ericsen is my sister’s boy, a bright boy, everyone had great hopes for him. I don’t know exactly what happened but that doesn’t really matter. Two youngsters are dead. That’s a tragedy. And there’s been far too many of these tragedies. Right across Australia, it’s a police culture problem. Indigenous people get the sharp end. Who needs courts when you can hand out punishments yourself? And I’m not surprised this happened in Cromarty. The present federal treasurer entrenched the culture there when he was state police minister. He helped the local police to cover up two Aboriginal cell deaths. I’ll remind him of that disgraceful episode in the election campaign. Often. That’s a promise.

  The toasted sandwich wasn’t bad. Flat and tanned, leaking cheese, something yellow anyway.

  Would Derry Callahan complain? Punched with a can of dog food. Cashin thought that he didn’t care. Hitting him was worth the damage to his fingers. He should have kicked him too, it would have been a good feeling.

  His mobile rang. It took time to find it.

  ‘Taking it easy?’ said Villani. ‘Lying on the beach in the thermal gear. The striped long johns.’

  ‘I’m reading the paper. Full of good news.’

  ‘I’ll give you good news. The pawnshop bloke, he’s ID’d Pascoe and Donny.’

  The surfer paddled on a great wall of water. It seemed unwilling to break, then it curled, he stood, an upsurge from a sandbar caused it to crash. He shot out the back, towed by his board.

  ‘I just talked to the commissioner,’ said Villani. ‘Actually, he talked to me. Non-stop. The spin doctors say we’re playing into our enemies’ hands. I think that means Bobby Walshe and the media. So it’s just Lloyd and Steggles suspended. You are no longer on holiday. And Dove’s coming back to you, he’ll be your offsider.’

  ‘What about the rest?’

  ‘Preston to Shepparton, Kelly goes to Bairnsdale.’

  ‘And Hopgood?’

  ‘Stays on the job.’

  ‘So the idea is to load the other ranks?’

  ‘The commissioner’s decision, Joe. He’s taken advice.’

  ‘That’s what I call leadership. In Sydney, the pawnshop, it was just Pascoe and Donny?’

  ‘Ericsen was probably waiting outside.’

  ‘So what happens to Donny?’

  ‘He’s still in hospital, under observation, but he’s okay, bruises, cuts. He’ll be charged with attempted murder, interview at 10 am, lawyer present.’

  ‘On this? Well, excuse fucking me, that’s a pretty thin brief.’

  ‘With luck, he’ll plead it,’ said Villani. ‘If not, we’ll see. You’ll see.’

  ‘This is the post-Singo attitude? Winging it?’

  ‘It’s what we have to do, Joe,’ said Villani, a flatness in his tone.

  THEY SAT in the interview room, waiting. Cashin hadn’t worn a suit since coming to Port Monro.

  ‘In a very short time, I’ve grown to hate this town,’ said Dove. His forearms were on the table, cuffs showing, silver cufflinks, little bars. He was looking at his hands, his long fingers stretched.

  ‘The weather’s not great,’ said Cashin.

  ‘Not the weather. Weather’s weather. There’s something wrong with the place.’

  ‘Big country town, that’s all.’

  ‘No, it’s not a big country town. It’s a shrunken city, shrunk down to the shit, all the shit without the benefits. What’s the hold-up here? Since when do you sit around waiting for the prisoner?’

  A knock, a cop came in, followed by the youth Cashin had seen in the passenger seat of the ute at the fatal crossroads, then another cop. Donny Coulter had a thin, sad face, a snub nose, down on his upper lip. It was a child’s face, scared. He was puffy-eyed, nervous, licking his lips.

  ‘Sit down, Donny.’

  Another knock, the door was behind Cashin.

  ‘Come in,�
� he said.

  ‘Helen Castleman, for the Aboriginal Legal Service. I represent Donny.’

  Cashin turned. She was a youngish woman, slim, dark hair pulled back. They looked at each other. ‘Well, hello,’ he said. ‘It’s been a while.’

  She frowned.

  ‘Joe Cashin,’ he said. ‘From school.’

  ‘Oh, of course,’ she said, unsmiling. ‘Well, this is a surprise.’

  They shook hands, awkward.

  ‘This is Detective Sergeant Dove,’ said Cashin.

  She nodded to Dove.

  ‘I didn’t know you lived here,’ said Cashin.

  ‘I haven’t been back long. What about you?’

  ‘I’m in Port Monro.’

  ‘Right. So who’s in charge of this?’

  ‘I am. You’ve had an opportunity to speak to your client in private.’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Like to get going then?’

  ‘I would.’

  Cashin sat opposite Donny. Dove switched on the equipment and put on record the date, the time, those present.

  ‘You are Donald Charles Coulter of 27 Fraser Street, Daunt Settlement, Cromarty?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Donny,’ said Cashin, ‘I’m going to tell you what rights you have in this interview. I must tell you that you are not obliged to do or say anything but that anything you say or do may be given in evidence. Do you understand what I’ve said?’

  Donny’s eyes were on the table.

  ‘I’ll say it again,’ said Cashin. ‘You don’t have to answer my questions or tell me anything. But if you do, we can tell the court what you said. Understand, Donny?’

  He wouldn’t look up. He licked his lips.

  ‘Ms Castleman,’ said Cashin.

  ‘Donny,’ she said. ‘Do you understand what the policeman said? Do you remember what I told you? That you don’t have to tell them anything.’

  Donny looked at her, nodded.

  ‘Will you say that you understand, please, Donny,’ said Cashin.

  ‘Understand.’ He was drumming his knuckles on the table.

  ‘I must also tell you of the following rights,’ said Cashin. ‘You may communicate with or attempt to communicate with a friend or a relative to inform that person of your whereabouts. You may communicate with or attempt to communicate with a legal practitioner.’