by Judy Nunn
Giovanni believed him. Even Harry would not accuse his wife of attempted murder unless it were true. And Maudie herself would not attempt murder without good reason. Not that Rico had lied. By the time he had staggered home he had been so weakened from loss of blood that he had passed out almost immediately. But, before he had, he had muttered, ‘I kill you, Harry Brearley.’
‘Come along, Gee-Gee.’ Harry could read Giovanni’s hesitation. ‘Your brother’s insane, you know that as well as I do …’
Giovanni was not hesitating, he was merely changing his mind. He had been prepared to kill Harry Brearley. He was glad now that there was no need. He did not want to wear the guilt of another man’s death. But Harry had wronged the Gianni family. Vengeance was called for.
‘You thought this was a gun, yes?’ he repeated, holding up the steel pipe. He gripped it firmly and tapped it against the palm of his other hand. ‘It is not a gun, but it is a powerful weapon. It can do much damage. It can break a man’s knees. It can make a man a cripple. Just like Rico.’
Harry started to back away. Despite his moral weakness, Harry Brearley was not a physical coward, but there was such menace in the Italian, such murder in his eyes as he slowly advanced that Harry found himself unable to hold his ground.
‘This is wrong, Giovanni,’ he stammered. ‘This is wrong.’
‘You are frightened, Harry Brearley. It is good that you are frightened. You have reason to be. Take off your coat.’
Dumbly, Harry obeyed, his eyes never leaving the steel pipe. He felt sweat beading his brow, and his heart was pounding. Damn it, he thought, he wasn’t going to beg for his life. He glanced quickly from side to side, looking for a weapon.
‘Good,’ Giovanni said as Harry dropped his coat in the dust. ‘Now we fight.’ And he tossed the steel pipe into the scrub.
Harry’s eyes followed the pipe’s brief arc through the air and, as his ears noted the dull thud of its landing, his courage returned. He added up his advantages, studying Giovanni as they slowly circled each other.
Harry was a big man, at least two inches taller than the Italian. His shoulders were broader, his body denser, his reach longer. Yes, he thought, the advantage was certainly his. Giovanni would regret his sense of honour and fair play. He would regret having discarded his weapon.
Harry was so busy making comparisons that he missed the opening move altogether.
Giovanni feinted to the left and before Harry could see where the blow came from, he felt the Italian’s right fist slam into his solar plexus. He grunted and staggered backwards, badly winded, but he fought against dropping to his knees. It had been a lucky blow, that’s all. He shook his head and gasped the breath back into his lungs.
The next punch landed on his jaw and he felt it crack. Only seconds later came a blow to his temple and he felt the moist trickle of blood seep from above his eye as he tried to marshal his strength. If he could just purchase a hold on Giovanni, he thought. If only the man wasn’t so fast.
But Giovanni knew better than to risk getting within Harry’s grasp. At least, not until he had weakened the big man.
As the lightning blows landed, Harry’s extra bulk proved a liability. It was bulk born of the easy life and no match for Giovanni’s fast, honed reflexes. The more Harry tried to dodge, the more the Italian was there before him. Even when he did manage, just the once, to lock Giovanni in an embrace, it was impossible to wrest the man to the ground. He was simply too strong.
Harry, desperate now, backed away into the scrub, blow after blow raining upon him as Giovanni closed in for the kill. His jaw was dislocated; he couldn’t see out of his left eye, and his three cracked ribs were aching.
‘Enough,’ he gasped, shaking his head. ‘Enough.’ The fight was over. Harry was more than willing to admit defeat and declare Giovanni the winner. He tripped, fell backwards and remained on the ground, his chest heaving, one hand in the air. ‘No more. No more. You’ve won.’
‘Stand up.’ Giovanni grabbed him by his collar and dragged him to his feet.
Through a veil of blood and sweat and dirt, Harry could see the Italian’s eyes. Only inches from his, they burned once again with murder and revenge. Jesus Christ! he thought, the man’s as mad as his brother—he’s going to kill me. Fear rose in him again.
Giovanni released Harry’s collar and prodded him in the solar plexus with his forefinger. ‘You are frightened?’ he asked in a whisper. Harry stared back at him. ‘You want to live?’ Harry nodded. ‘How much do you want to live, Harry Brearley? Eh?’ The voice was harsher now and the finger continued to prod so that Harry gasped involuntarily as the pain stabbed through his ribs. ‘This hurts, eh?’ Prod. ‘Tell me how much you want to live, Harry.’ Prod. ‘How much?’
Harry backed away further into the scrub. ‘Let me go, Giovanni.’ He tried to keep his voice steady but he couldn’t, he was terrified. ‘Let me go.’
‘How much, Harry? How much do you want to live?’
Giovanni had finished with Harry Brearley. He wasn’t going to kill him; he wasn’t even going to bother hitting him again. He had intended to torment him, to make him beg for his life but, as Harry once again tripped and fell backwards to grovel in the dirt, there seemed little point. The man’s terror was enough. A constant humiliation, it would live in his memory. Giovanni required no more. He watched Harry for several seconds, snivelling in the red dust, then he turned and walked away.
Everything happened very fast then. The realisation that he was not going to be killed brought a surge of relief flooding through Harry. But an instant later, when Giovanni turned his back, Harry’s relief turned to hate. No one humiliated Harry Brearley! Harry was consumed with a murderous rage. Feverishly he looked about for a weapon.
Five yards away in the scrub lay the steel pipe. He crawled to it, picked it up and rose to his feet. Mustering the last of his energy, he charged at Giovanni, screaming like a wounded animal.
Giovanni had heard Harry scrabbling around in the dust behind him, but had thought nothing of it. He hadn’t even bothered to turn around. The man was defeated. It was only when he heard the roar and turned to face the charge that Giovanni recognised the danger. Like a wounded bull summoning its last ounce of strength, Harry had covered the several yards at speed. The steel pipe, brandished high and already on its descent, had behind it the desperate power of a killing blow.
As the pipe arced down towards his skull, Giovanni threw himself to one side, instinctively putting his hands up to ward off the blow. The pipe missed his head by a hair’s breadth and he landed heavily, jarring his shoulder and grazing his cheek on the parched, stony ground.
Harry staggered, off-balance, and turned to attack again before the Italian could get to his feet. But as he raised the pipe, Giovanni sprang from a crouching position and, both hands clasped, he swung his double fist up and under Harry Brearley’s chin like a club.
The big man’s head snapped back and he fell heavily to lie deathly still in the dirt.
Giovanni stood rubbing his shoulder. It hurt. He touched his left cheekbone. That hurt too. And there was blood trickling down the side of his face—he must have cut it when he fell.
He wondered if he’d killed Harry. He knelt and examined the battered face. It certainly looked lifeless. Was his neck broken?
As he started to edge his hand under Harry’s neck, he felt the carotid artery throbbing beneath his fingers. The pulse was strong. It would take a lot more than a brawl to kill Harry Brearley. Giovanni was relieved. Harry’s death would have complicated things.
He fetched the horse and trap and hauled Harry up onto the front seat. It was not yet mid-morning but the sun was fierce. Left unconscious the man would bake to death. He must take him home to Maudie.
MAUDIE HAD BEEN watching anxiously from the front balcony of the hotel for nearly an hour now. It should have taken Harry no more than thirty minutes to return with the police. She hadn’t worried at first. It might have required a little extra time to round
up Baldy—Sergeant Bob ‘Baldy’ Hetherington was a slow mover at the best of times. But after a full hour had passed, she had become uneasy. And Jack was getting on her nerves, badgering her about the events of the previous night. She decided to send him on an errand to the farm five miles out of town where she bought her egg supplies.
‘But I got two dozen last week,’ he argued.
‘So? I want you to fetch some more.’ She tucked the money into his pocket and handed him the egg bag stuffed with soft rags. ‘And make sure you walk the Princess back, please, I don’t want them smashed like last time.’
‘We never buy eggs two weeks in a row.’
‘We do now. Come along, I’ll help you saddle up.’
Something strange was definitely going on, Jack thought. She never helped him saddle his horse. He’d been saddling the Princess on his own for a full year now.
‘They’ve probably run out of eggs,’ he muttered sulkily as she led the way downstairs. ‘They’ll think I’m mad coming two weeks in a row.’ But Maudie didn’t answer as she marched him to the stables.
She looped the egg bag around his neck. ‘Now don’t forget, wrap each egg separately,’ she said as she did every time he rode to the farm. But her instructions were automatic, Jack could tell she was distracted. She was getting rid of him, he knew it.
‘Hell, Maudie! Why won’t you tell me—’
‘Do as you’re told,’ she ordered. ‘And don’t swear.’ He was about to say something but she didn’t draw breath. ‘And walk the Princess. All the way, please. There and back.’
‘But why—?’
‘Go!’ she barked. ‘Now!’ And she watched as he defiantly raised a trot from the old mare and rode out of the open gates.
Maudie went back upstairs and out onto the front balcony of the hotel where she stood watching down Hannan Street. What had happened? Had Rico Gianni been lying in wait for Harry? Somewhere between the hotel and the police station had there been a madman lurking in the shadow of a building, a knife in his hand?
An hour later Maudie’s mind was running riot. She told Alice and Betty she was going out and ordered them to keep the doors locked. She donned her bonnet and, as she did up the ribbons at her throat, she cast a final glance through the balcony doors to the main road. Amidst the general mid-morning traffic, Black Bess was trotting down Hannan Street.
Maudie ran out onto the balcony. There were two men in the trap. But Harry wasn’t driving. The one with the reins in his hands was Giovanni. And beside him … Well, she knew it was Harry, but she couldn’t see his face. He was slumped over, leaning against the Italian. And people in the street were pointing and muttering to each other as the trap drove past.
Maudie ran back into the bedroom, throwing her bonnet aside as she dived for the rifle stored beneath the bed. What have they done, those Gianni brothers, her mind screamed. Have they killed him? Have they killed my Harry?
GIOVANNI TURNED INTO the street beside the pub and drove around to the back of Maudie’s. He had intended to leave Black Bess and the trap, with Harry in it, outside the front doors but the looks he was attracting from the passers-by decided him against it. People might demand that the police be called, and this was between him and Harry. And Maudie too, he supposed.
‘What have you done to him?’
There she was. On the back steps. Rifle at the ready. Giovanni wasn’t surprised. It was a good thing in a way. Better he deliver his message to Maudie than wait for Harry to gain his senses.
‘If you’ve killed him I’ll shoot you dead, Giovanni, I swear I will.’
‘I have not killed him.’
Harry moaned gently. He had been gradually regaining consciousness during the drive home.
‘See for yourself, I have not killed him.’ Giovanni pushed Harry away. Not roughly, but the weight of the big man’s body toppled him from the trap and he landed heavily on the stony ground.
‘Oh, Jesus!’ he cried out, instantly jolted into consciousness. He raised himself painfully onto one elbow.
‘Harry!’ Maudie ran and knelt beside him. ‘God Almighty!’ she exclaimed, staring at his bloodied face. ‘What happened? What has he done to you?’
‘Leave it, Maudie.’ Harry’s voice was cracked and barely audible as he muttered through broken teeth, trying not to move his dislocated jaw. ‘A fight. He won. Get me inside.’
Giovanni had jumped down from the trap. Maudie rose slowly to face him. Just as slowly, she raised the rifle. Giovanni was standing no more than six feet away, Harry on the ground between them, and she raised the rifle until the barrel was pointing directly at the Italian’s chest.
‘What right do you people have?’ Her voice was shaking with outrage. She stood as tall as Giovanni and she faced him as a man would face a man. ‘What right? Your brother tries to murder my husband. He smashes my hotel. And you! You, Giovanni, Harry’s friend! You drag him back to me half dead. What right do you think you have, you Giannis?’
‘We have the right of honour.’ Giovanni looked directly at Maudie. ‘Your husband is a liar and a thief.’
There was something in Giovanni’s eyes that caused Maudie a moment’s hesitation.
Harry squirmed himself into a sitting position on the ground between them. ‘Don’t listen to him, Maudie,’ he muttered painfully. ‘Crazy dagos.’
Maudie looked down at Harry, confused. But Giovanni took no notice.
‘Our family is ruined,’ he continued. ‘We are ruined because your husband betrayed us. In my country Harry Brearley would be a dead man.’ Giovanni felt a resurgence of his anger but he fought to quell it. ‘Then would come a vendetta between our families. Our sons would kill each other, there would be much bloodshed.’ He shook his head. ‘It would be a bad thing. This is Australia. We must not let it happen. But I tell you …’
He glanced down briefly at Harry, then back to Maudie, and his voice was merciless. ‘If one of your family ever again wrongs a Gianni that man will be a dead man. I will kill him.’ He walked away and Maudie stood motionless watching him.
From down the street, the Princess plodded towards Maudie’s and the warm comfort of her stable. Jack saw Giovanni stride out of the yard and was about to call to him when the Italian turned back.
‘You Brearleys keep away from us!’ he yelled. ‘You keep away, you understand?’
Jack forgot about the preservation of the eggs and urged the Princess into a trot.
‘From this day the Giannis and the Brearleys are nemici!’ Giovanni shouted. ‘Nemici, you understand! We are enemies!’ He stormed from the yard and took no notice of the old white horse as it trotted up to the gates.
Jack reigned the Princess to a halt. In the dust before him, bloodied and beaten, knelt his father. And Maudie, rifle in hand, stood beside him.
Giovanni left Maudie’s and started to walk home, but several blocks down the street he had a change of heart and headed for the Golden Mile instead. It was a blistering hot February morning and, by the time he reached the outskirts of the town and could see the dumps and the poppet heads in the distance, sweat beaded his brow and his shirt clung to his chest. But he felt good. He had made his decisions.
The slate was clean. He could start anew. Whether his brother would be able to put Harry Brearley’s betrayal behind him was another matter, but Giovanni would worry about that when the time came. It would be a while before Rico would be capable of taking any form of action, the injury to his shoulder was so severe. It was not, however, irreparable. He was weak. He had lost a lot of blood, but the bullet had gone clean through.
Giovanni was thankful that he had been spared the role of executioner. Now his main priority was to find a job, and the sooner the better. Until Rico was once more physically fit, it was Giovanni who would be the sole provider for the family.
He could get a job timbercutting, he supposed. But he was a miner, not a timberman. His work lay beneath the ground. Employment with one of the big mines would be the perfect solution. But he was awa
re that his chances were not good. Very few Italians were employed by the big mines. The language barrier was the common excuse but Giovanni and his friends knew that it was really ethnic discrimination. The underground bosses stuck to their own kind.
Then the thought occurred to him. There was one underground boss who might give him a chance. Evan Jones. Evan was underground boss at the Midas. And not only was Evan a good man, Giovanni had sensed from the very beginning that he had little time for Harry Brearley. Surely he would be sympathetic to the Giannis’ plight.
So Giovanni changed direction and headed for the Golden Mile. It was Sunday. He would not wait until Monday morning to line up with the others seeking work. He would visit Evan at his home. He would personally put his case to the man.
As he stood looking out over the Golden Mile, wiping the sweat from his brow, Giovanni thought of Caterina. In his mind, he rehearsed the scene ahead. He would not look at her. He would greet her briefly then he would turn his full attention to Evan. Perhaps Evan would suggest they retire to discuss their business in private. That would help. Perhaps Caterina would be tending to household chores or playing with little Briony and unable to lend her attention to Giovanni’s visit. That too would help.
As he approached the house he noticed that Evan’s horse was not tethered out the back. Nor was young Paul’s pony.
Perhaps there was no one home, Giovanni thought as he knocked on the door. But he knew, before she opened it, that she was there.
‘Giovanni!’ She stood before him, the air was filled with the smell of baking bread and suddenly her hand was upon his cheek. ‘You’re hurt!’
He’d forgotten the cut on his cheek. The congealed blood formed a vivid track down the right side of his face.
‘What has happened?’ she asked, alarm in her eyes, the touch of her fingers soft on his skin.
Nothing could have stopped him. He took her face in his hands and kissed her. One frozen moment of shock, then her lips parted and she returned his kiss. He gathered her in his embrace and, for several moments, the world could have been watching, but neither of them cared.
