Kal

by Judy Nunn

  ‘Well of course it’s about gold,’ Paolo said a little impatiently. ‘That’s the town’s industry, its livelihood.’

  Jack joined in the argument. She’d fired him up and he’d forgotten that she was a young girl who had annoyingly interrupted their conversation. ‘Kal’s about more than gold. Far more. We’ve grown since the goldrush days. We’re a city surviving in the outback. I was born in Kal, but I’m not here for the gold. I’m not a miner. I’m here because I love the place, it’s unique, and one day people will come from all over the world—’

  ‘Of course they will. They already have.’ Once Briony got going it was difficult for anyone to get a word in, and the fact that both men were arguing with her only encouraged her more. ‘And why? For the gold, that’s why. Because they’re greedy, that’s why. And greed creates violence.’

  Paolo gave in, to shut her up more than anything. ‘All right, all right, every town has its good and bad. Let’s leave it at that.’

  ‘You’re wrong, Briony,’ Jack said, ignoring Paolo’s attempt to halt the discussion. ‘There are people who come to Kal not for the gold at all. They come because it’s Kal, a place like no other. A goldrush town that will never die.’ He could have been his father speaking, Jack suddenly realised.

  How many times as a child, he wondered, had he heard his father talk of his visions for Kal. It saddened Jack to think of the empty shell the man had become. But Harry Brearley’s dreams had not fallen on deaf ears. Jack, too, had visions for Kal.

  ‘So how do you explain the violence?’ Briony brought the argument around full circle and Jack was stumped for an answer.

  ‘Human nature, Briony,’ Paolo said. ‘It’s as simple as that.’

  ‘That’s not fair.’ Briony looked annoyed.

  ‘What’s not fair,’ Paolo laughed, ‘human nature?’

  ‘You’re patronising me.’

  ‘Rubbish, I never patronise you. I get annoyed with you, but I never patronise you.’ Paolo’s smile faded. ‘I do think it’s human nature. It’s sad but true, I think. Perhaps one day the Aussies and the Italians will be friends. And then, who knows, they may band together and turn on somebody else.’ Paolo picked the plate of scones up from the verandah. ‘It’s human nature, Briony, it’s not just Kal.’ He thought of Ira Rubenstein. ‘They hate the Jews at Harvard,’ he added.

  ‘Well, human nature’s sure at work right here in Kal,’ Jack said as Briony gave up the argument and pushed the swinging seat until it squeaked. ‘There’ll be full-blown riots any day now. The town’s going mad.’

  Paolo offered him the plate of scones but Jack shook his head. ‘No thanks, mate, they’re covered in ants.’

  Carmelina moaned as his hands found her breasts. They fondled with urgency but there was no pain. He was not twisting her nipples until she wanted to scream. And his mouth on hers was forceful but his teeth were not biting her lips and drawing blood. Louis must have taken some laudanum too, she thought. It was going to be one of their nights of true love-making. And, as she drifted in her world of delight, Carmelina gave herself to him, wholly, with such pleasure, as she had in the past.

  It was only when he was climaxing that she realised something was strange.

  ‘Oh, you’re good, so good,’ he grunted, ‘so good, so good.’

  Louis never grunted when he climaxed, and he never spoke to her. Never once had Louis said a word in his final moment of pleasure.

  He collapsed, his energy spent, and rolled off her, gasping for breath.

  Carmelina came out of her cloud and looked at the face beside hers. It wasn’t Louis she saw. A stranger lay beside her.

  It was a dream, she thought. She was having a dream. ‘Who are you?’ she murmured to the young man in her dream as he rose and started to dress.

  ‘Louis sent me. Do I pay you or the madam?’

  ‘Louis?’ The cloud was lifting and all of a sudden Carmelina knew this wasn’t a dream.

  ‘Louis Picot,’ he said, buttoning his trousers. The girl kept staring at him. ‘You’re Carmelina, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I’m Carmelina.’

  Her voice was distant and her eyes were clouded. Was she ill? the young man wondered uneasily. ‘Shall I pay at the door?’

  ‘Yes, pay at the door.’ Again the voice was distant, a monotone, and as he sat to pull on his boots, she started to moan. An animal sound, like a creature in pain. The young man fled.

  From behind her desk, Ada counted his money. ‘Everything satisfactory?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’ The young man had never been with a whore before. It had been Louis Picot’s idea.

  At Restaurant Picot the previous night, the young man had been drunk and bemoaning his predicament. He’d gone off to the war and his sweetheart hadn’t waited, he complained, and it had been so long now since he’d been with a woman …

  ‘Try Red Ruby’s,’ Louis had advised. ‘Early tomorrow evening, before the place gets busy. A girl called Carmelina.’

  It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but the girl’s moans had unsettled the young man and now he couldn’t wait to get out of the place. ‘Quite satisfactory,’ he said to the madam.

  ADA HADN’T AT all approved of Louis undermining her authority. She interviewed and vetted every girl who worked under her roof, she told him, and if Carmelina wished to turn professional, which Ada didn’t believe for one minute, then it was only proper the girl should observe the customary procedure.

  ‘It’s all right, Ada,’ Louis had said, attempting to mollify her as she glared at him through steel-rimmed glasses, lips tightly set in disapproval. ‘Carmelina is perfectly ready. I think she’s looking forward to a little variation; she’s a very sensual young woman.’ He gave his most charming smile. ‘And if she doesn’t enjoy the experience she can always leave. The decision is hers.’ Ada’s lips remained set. ‘I’ll send over a client tomorrow, early,’ Louis said, ignoring her, ‘and we’ll see how she goes.’

  Ada knew better than to argue, but she was piqued. This was no way to do business. The girls at Red Ruby’s were professionals, hard workers who gave good value and earned good money. This was just another game between Louis and his mistress and Ada found it deeply offensive.

  She had been forced to accept the loss of a room when the lovers used the brothel for their assignations. She had kept her mouth shut when Louis demanded one or two of her girls for their added pleasure. But she hadn’t liked it.

  If Louis had paid like a client, Ada wouldn’t have minded. She had margins to maintain, a reputation to uphold and, boss or not, Louis Picot was eating into the profits. Now it appeared, for the titillation of his mistress, he was offering her clients the services of an amateur. It wouldn’t do, Ada thought, it simply wouldn’t do at all.

  It was not Louis’s intention to titillate Carmelina, nor did he think she would make a good whore. More was the pity, it would solve everything if she did. It was simply the most expedient way to rid himself of her.

  Louis had always believed in signalling his intentions. Loudly, clearly, to ensure no misunderstanding. But, whenever possible, he made it a habit to avoid personal confrontation.

  When the young man had gone, Ada waited for half an hour for Carmelina to appear. Clients were already arriving, the girls were chatting and drinking with them; it was going to be a busy Saturday night.

  It was just as she’d suspected, Ada thought, the girl was not interested in business. She had not douched herself and reported for duty. After her ‘adventure’, the girl had simply left through the back door, scarf over her head, as she always did, and disappeared into the night. Ada signalled the maid to clean the room.

  The scream, only seconds later, was blood-curdling. McAllister, seated as always at the bar, sprang to attention and disappeared through the door to the rooms out the back. The screams turned into hysterical sobbing as Ada ordered her girls to stay with the clients. ‘It’s nothing, I assure you,’ she said. ‘The maid is prone to fits, that’s all.�
�� The girls looked bewildered—it was the first they’d heard of any such thing—but they did as they were told and poured the men fresh drinks.

  Ada went through the door to the back. The maid was on her knees in the passageway, weeping loudly. ‘Be quiet!’ she ordered, ‘the clients can hear you!’ The sobs subsided to a whimper and Ada joined McAllister in the red-shuttered room.

  Carmelina was lying on the bed, her eyes staring up at the ceiling. She had cut her throat with the jagged edge of a broken hand-mirror and the walls were sprayed with her blood. In the rose-coloured light through the shutters, the whole of the room seemed red with her blood.

  Ada and McAllister stood for a moment, surveying the scene, before Ada sprang into action. ‘Call the police,’ she ordered McAllister. ‘Make sure you speak to Baldy Hetherington, nobody else.’ Then to the maid, ‘Lock this door and say nothing to the others.’ The maid pulled herself to her feet. ‘Control yourself, girl, and go about your duties,’ Ada commanded before returning to the lounge to reassure the whores and the clients. There’d been a little accident, she told them, nothing to worry about.

  This was the worst possible thing for business, Ada thought. They needed to tidy it up as soon as possible.

  ‘A SIMPLE SUICIDE, Bob,’ she said half an hour later when Inspector Hetherington was making his report. ‘A lover’s tiff, I have no doubt.’ She kept her voice to a whisper so that his two offsiders shouldn’t hear as she added, ‘The girl was Louis Picot’s mistress; they occasionally used one of my rooms.’

  Ada held all the aces and she knew it. Louis Picot was a powerful man and Baldy Hetherington, nearing retirement, wanted no trouble. He’d keep his report simple for all concerned. For himself and for Louis and for Ada too. Enough money and favours had gone Baldy’s way over the years to put him in Ada’s debt.

  ‘We’ll take the body to the morgue,’ he said.

  ‘Out the back way?’

  He nodded. ‘And I’ll inform the girl’s family.’ Ada was relieved. Business would not be disrupted after all.

  IT WAS NINE o’clock in the evening and Rico was just about to leave for the Sheaf Hotel when there was a knock at the door. It was Inspector Hetherington.

  ‘Mrs Gianni … Rico,’ he said, ‘I won’t beat about the bush. I’ve got some bad news for you.’

  Teresa’s hand went to her throat. ‘Salvatore,’ she breathed, fearing the worst.

  ‘No, it’s your daughter Carmelina.’ Baldy had his eye on Rico Gianni. He’d brought two burly officers with him for backup and he hoped there’d be no trouble. ‘I’m afraid … she’s dead. Suicide.’ He looked at the madman, wondering what Rico was going to do. But there was silence.

  Rico had heard the words. ‘Your daughter is dead.’ That’s all he’d heard. Someone had killed his daughter. Someone had killed his Carmelina.

  Baldy watched as Teresa crossed herself and whispered, ‘Suicide.’

  ‘Yes,’ Baldy said. ‘Tragic thing.’ Rico was standing motionless. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Rico was thinking, who? Who killed my Carmelina?

  ‘But why?’ Teresa was shaking her head, dumbfounded with shock. ‘Why?’

  Baldy gave what he hoped was a caring shrug.

  ‘Where?’ Teresa asked. ‘Where was she when she …’ Teresa couldn’t bring herself to repeat the word, even saying it seemed like a mortal sin.

  ‘At Red Ruby’s,’ Baldy answered after a moment’s pause. This was the news which would inflame the Italian, he thought, his daughter dead in a whorehouse.

  ‘Red Ruby’s? The brothel?’ Teresa’s voice was incredulous.

  Still Rico said nothing. The man looked as if he hadn’t heard a word.

  But Rico had heard every syllable. His daughter was dead in a whorehouse. And, in his head, a voice was saying ‘someone has defiled my Carmelina’.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ Baldy heard himself saying. Rico’s silence was worrying. ‘Her body’s at the morgue, the doctor’s making out his report. If you’d like to come down and see her …’

  ‘Yes, soon,’ Teresa said numbly. ‘Soon.’

  Baldy started out the door, but decided on a warning before he left. ‘I know this has come as a terrible shock, but I want no trouble, Rico, you understand?’

  Inside Rico’s head was a simple plan. Someone had killed his Carmelina, someone must die. But who? Maybe the whole town, Rico didn’t care, he’d kill whoever was necessary. But he realised that a reply was expected of him. He must put Baldy’s mind at rest.

  ‘Trouble?’ he asked. ‘You will get no trouble from me, Inspector. My daughter was a bad girl. A whore. She was found in a brothel.’ He looked at his wife, but she was frozen in horror. Then back to Baldy. ‘I wipe my hands of her. My daughter deserved to die. You will get no trouble from me.’

  Teresa saw the murder in her husband. She knew he was playing a game. The moment the policemen left she begged him, ‘Rico, no! Don’t seek revenge! She killed herself, you heard him say it. There is nothing you can do! Nothing!’

  ‘Someone defiled my Carmelina,’ he hissed. His eyes were black with rage and Teresa, desperate, grabbed at his arm as he walked to the door.

  ‘No! No killing, Rico!’ He threw her aside and she fell to the floor. ‘She killed herself,’ Teresa screamed. ‘You heard him! There is no one upon whom you can seek your revenge.’

  ‘A man defiled my daughter! That man is dead!’ He stormed out of the house.

  Teresa scrambled to her feet and ran after him. ‘But what man, Rico? What man will you kill?’

  ‘Every man in that whorehouse!’ he roared.

  ADA HERSELF HAD removed the blood-stained sheets, the maid had refused to re-enter the room. McAllister was scrubbing the walls and Ada inspecting the damage. ‘The mattress and pillows are ruined,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to take them out the back and burn them. Do it in the morning when the girls are sleeping.’

  It was only minutes later, when she’d returned to her desk, that the doors of the brothel smashed open and the crippled madman stood there.

  ‘Which of you killed my daughter?’ he roared.

  Even in her fear and alarm, Ada cursed herself. How could she have been so stupid? She’d known that Carmelina was the daughter of the crazy Rico Gianni. She should have insisted that Baldy post guards at the door.

  There were only three men in the lounge, chatting to the girls; and three others in the rooms out the back. It was still early for a Saturday night; the pubs had not yet closed.

  Rico dived for the nearest man. ‘Was it you?’ he screamed, grabbing him by the throat and hurling him across the room. The man’s body crashed into the bar, bottles and glasses smashing to the floor around him. ‘Was it you?’ He grabbed another.

  The girls were screaming. They backed up against the wall while the man he’d attacked struggled, winded, to his feet.

  ‘Did you kill my daughter?’ Rico was throttling the second man.

  Ada raced out from behind her desk. ‘Nobody killed your daughter!’ she yelled. ‘Your daughter killed herself!’

  McAllister appeared from out the back, behind him a half-naked girl and a fat man rapidly pulling on his trousers.

  ‘Someone defiled my Carmelina!’ The fingers were like a vice around the man’s neck and the breath was rattling in his throat. Rico threw him aside like a rag doll and turned to grab the next. But the terrified man had joined the girls against the wall. Only McAllister appeared prepared to take on the madman. He grabbed a bottle from behind the bar.

  ‘Which of you defiled my daughter?’ Rico screamed.

  ‘Louis Picot!’ The words were out before Ada could stop herself. She knew she was digging her own grave the moment she said it, but she couldn’t stand by and let this maniac wreak havoc. ‘Louis Picot was your daughter’s lover. He’s been her lover for years.’

  Everyone froze for several seconds, seconds which seemed like a lifetime. McAllister by the bar, the bottle in his hand, the girls huddled against the wall
, the fat man clutching his trousers. And, in the centre of the room, standing over the man who lay gasping for breath, Rico Gianni.

  Louis Picot! Rico could see him—rich, handsome, debonair, silken-voiced. ‘You must work hard for Mr Picot,’ he’d always instructed Carmelina. ‘Mr Picot, he pays you good money.’ It was always said with great respect.

  Then, a moment later, Rico was gone, the doors crashing loudly behind him. Ada’s mind raced. What should she do? If she called Restaurant Picot to warn him, Louis would know it was she who had given Gianni his name. She might as well suicide herself. She called Baldy Hetherington instead.

  But Inspector Hetherington was not at the station. ‘He’s been called out to a bit of trouble in the centre of town,’ the charge-room officer told her. ‘Shall I give him a message?’

  Ada thought quickly and simply said, ‘Tell him Rico Gianni is looking for Louis Picot.’ That would do, she thought, as she hung up the receiver. If Baldy got there in time, then Louis was saved. If not … well, neither she nor Baldy could be held responsible for the attack of a madman.

  THERE HAD BEEN trouble threatening in the centre of town, but Baldy and his men had it under control. A couple of young Aussie blokes, drunk, had been thrown out of Maudie’s for fighting. Maudie and Jack ran a tight ship and they wouldn’t have brawls in their bar. The boys had staggered a few blocks north and thrown a rock through a merchant’s window.

  ‘Go home, dago!’ the boys had yelled. They hadn’t taken into consideration that the merchant’s shop was opposite the Sheaf Hotel.

  Several Italians came out onto the pavement and a street brawl started, the yells of ‘Dago bastards’ attracting the attention of a few other Aussies who joined in the fight. By the time Baldy Hetherington and his men got there it took them a good five minutes to quell the brawl. Order was restored and four men arrested, including the lads who’d started the fracas. But, as the crowd disbanded, fuses were short and men were still muttering, frustrated, longing to fight.