Kal

by Judy Nunn

  Amongst them was young Salvatore Gianni. As he and his friend Alfio were crossing the street to help the merchant board up his window, Teresa arrived, breathless. She’d run all the way from the house. Tears streaked her face as she ran and she ignored the curious glances of the people she passed in the street.

  ‘Salvatore,’ she panted. ‘You must stop your father. He’s gone to Red Ruby’s, he says he’s going to kill them.’

  ‘Kill who?’ Salvatore rested a calming hand on Teresa’s shoulder. ‘Calm down, Mamma.’

  ‘The men who defiled his daughter. He says he will kill every man at Red Ruby’s’

  ‘Carmelina?’ Salvatore supported his mother as she slumped onto him, about to fall. ‘What has happened to Carmelina?’

  ‘She killed herself.’ Teresa started to sob, deep racking sobs which tore at her chest. ‘They found her at the whorehouse. And Rico has gone there to kill.’

  Salvatore’s face was flushed as a sickening anger rose in him. His sister, dead in a whorehouse? His reaction was exactly that of his father. A man had defiled his sister. Someone had killed Carmelina. He muttered to the merchant, ‘Look after my mother, take her into the shop.’

  ‘Go after him, Salvatore!’ Teresa cried as the merchant half-carried her inside. ‘Go after him! Stop him from killing!’

  Salvatore stood for a moment on the pavement. His eyes reflected the madness of his father as he stepped off the kerb and strode down the centre of Hannan Street.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Alfio called to him.

  ‘To find the man who raped my sister.’

  Salvatore’s calm reply chilled him, and Alfio knew he could do nothing to stop his friend. He raced into the Sheaf Hotel. ‘Somebody help me!’ he shouted. ‘Salvatore is going to kill a man.’ The Italians crowded around him and he blurted out what he knew. ‘Somebody raped his sister … she was found dead in a brothel’

  Within seconds, the news fuelled the anger that simmered amongst the Italians. An Australian had raped and killed the virgin daughter of one of their own. It had to be an Australian—no Italian would do such a thing. Men streamed from the hotel, brandishing bottles and broken glasses. Alfio himself was caught up in the frenzy. He’d intended to stop his friend. But the others were right, he found himself thinking. The Aussies had gone too far. This was war. He too grabbed a bottle and joined the throng.

  RICO HAD TURNED into Hannan Street and, far ahead, he could see Restaurant Picot. There was a crowd pouring out of the Sheaf Hotel next door to the restaurant and men were marching towards him down the centre of the street. He could hear their distant massed voices, but he paid no heed. All he could see was the restaurant which bore the name Picot.

  ‘Louis Picot, come out and die!’ he roared into the air and he kept roaring as he lumbered towards the restaurant. ‘Louis Picot is a dead man!’ he chanted. ‘Louis Picot is a dead man!’

  At Maudie’s, several men, including Snowy and Mad Tom, had taken their beers out onto the pavement to escape the heat of the bar. They were confronted by Rico Gianni on the opposite side of the street and his threat was clearly audible. ‘Louis Picot is a dead man!’

  Snowy raced inside. ‘Rico Gianni’s on the warpath,’ he announced urgently. ‘He’s belting up the street yelling that Louis Picot is a dead man.’

  Many of the men in the bar brought their beers out onto the pavement to watch the action. They had no intention of stopping Gianni—that was up to the coppers. Besides, no one liked Louis Picot. But it wouldn’t hurt to wander up to the restaurant and watch the sport, they thought.

  Further up the street, however, they spotted the band of Italians, obviously angry and marching their way. Word passed back to the other men in the bar. Were the Italians out for a battle? Well, if they were, the Aussies were ready and would meet them head-on. Men armed themselves with bottles and stepped into the street.

  From behind the bar, Jack yelled, ‘Leave it alone, Snow!’ but his friend wouldn’t heed the warning. Like the others, Snowy had been busting for a fight. Jack watched him and Mad Tom join the march. Bloody fools, he thought, the whole town’s gone crazy.

  Jack would have none of it. He stayed behind the bar serving beers to the few remaining drinkers—several elderly men who’d decided they were better off keeping well away from any trouble. The men sat by the windows observing it all and giving a commentary on the proceedings while Jack hoped it wouldn’t be too long before the coppers arrived.

  A little while later, Jack overheard the old blokes talking about Rico. ‘He’s probably killed Louis Picot by now,’ one of them said. ‘That’s what he was yelling he was going to do, and you can’t stop that crazy bastard.’

  ‘Yeah,’ another agreed. ‘I’ll bet you a quid Rico kills Louis. He was headed for the restaurant.’ And the old blokes started laying their bets.

  The restaurant, Jack suddenly realised. His father was at the restaurant. And if Rico Gianni was bent on murder, the first man he would kill would be Harry Brearley. Poor drunken Harry would be no match for the mad Italian. ‘Take over for me, Sid,’ Jack called to the barman as he ran out into the street.

  Rico had taken no notice of his countrymen storming down the centre of Hannan Street. He’d stuck to the pavement, still roaring Louis Picot’s name as the throng of twenty or so passed him by.

  Salvatore had seen his father and tried to fight his way back through the Italians. But he was no longer their leader and the rape of his sister no longer their cause—they’d forgotten their purpose and he was dragged along with them as they surged ahead. They could see the Aussies down the street and were bent on war.

  By the time Salvatore had struggled back through the throng, Rico had reached the restaurant. ‘Louis Picot is a dead man!’ he yelled as he walked up the steps to the main doors.

  It was busy in Restaurant Picot. Downstairs, the booths were full, the barmen were serving as fast as they could and the drinkers’ lounge was a flurry of waiters.

  Upstairs, in the salubrious surrounds of the restaurant proper, no sign of haste was evident. That wasn’t the style of Restaurant Picot; elegance, as always, was the order of the day. At candlelit, linen-clothed tables, diners chatted quietly while dinner-suited waiters poured their wine and, in a corner of the dining room, a chef carved sides of beef on a silver-topped, heated trolley. In the centre of the dining room, on a marble pedestal, was a huge floral display of dried banksias, wattles, Kangaroo Paws and boronia.

  Harry Brearley and Louis Picot walked leisurely among the tables, greeting a diner here and there, ensuring that all was in order. Nowhere was there a hint of the bustle of industry which always prevailed in the kitchen.

  When a pair of drunken louts had smashed a shop window on the opposite side of the street and the sounds of a brawl had ensued, Louis had ordered Harry Brearley to ring the police. He would not suffer the noise of the common herd disrupting his diners. It was insufferable. Those bloody Italians! He reminded himself to dismiss the manager of the Sheaf in the morning; if the man couldn’t control the pub, then Louis would find someone who could.

  When the police had broken up the brawl and made their arrests, the crowd dispersed and Louis breathed a sigh of relief. But, now, barely fifteen minutes later, the sound of angry voices once again rose from the pavement and Louis looked down from the balcony to see men storming out of the Sheaf.

  He stepped back inside, closing the French windows as he did, annoyed because it was a hot night and they needed what little breeze the open windows afforded.

  ‘Keep them shut,’ he ordered Harry Brearley, ‘and turn up the gramophone.’ Johann Strauss’s ‘Tales from the Vienna Woods’ swelled as Louis went downstairs to once more call the police. Baldy Hetherington would barely be back at the station by now, he thought irritably. The police should never have left. The town was a madhouse tonight. It was hot, it was Saturday, the pubs were full, and violence was rife in the streets of Kal.

  Harry was not about to miss out on the specta
cle. He stepped onto the balcony, closing the windows behind him, and looked down the street to where the Aussies and the Italians were about to clash. He was too engrossed in the impending fight to see the familiar figure below, lurching up the steps to the entrance.

  The telephone was at the front desk beside the main staircase and, as Louis picked up the receiver, Rico appeared at the open doors.

  ‘Louis Picot is a dead man!’ he bellowed, his voice echoing throughout the restaurant.

  Louis dropped the receiver, his mouth dry with fear. There was nowhere for him to run. His way was barred—a maddened bull filled the doorway.

  ‘Come out and die, Louis Picot!’

  Louis realised that Rico hadn’t seen him, huddled by the desk.

  ‘Louis Picot is a dead man!’ the lunatic chanted as he stormed towards the bar at the back. ‘Louis Picot is a dead man!’

  People screamed and ran for the doors as Rico cut a swathe through the lounge.

  Galvanised into action, Louis dived for the doors only to be blocked by the diners and staff who were also rushing for safety. He fought to get through. Too late. Lurching about, throwing tables and chairs aside in search of his victim, Rico had turned and seen him.

  Louis raced for the staircase. There was a gun in his office at the top of the stairs.

  UPSTAIRS, THE DINERS were restless. The Strauss waltz still played on the gramophone, but the uproar below was clearly audible. Everyone remained seated, however, considering it bad form to show any interest in a street brawl.

  Out on the balcony, Harry Brearley had also heard the madman’s roar. He’d recognised the voice. Harry was no fit opponent for anyone these days, let alone Rico Gianni, and he knew it. Fear clutched at his chest. But Rico was after Louis Picot. Perhaps, Harry thought, if he stayed on the balcony …

  When Louis Picot appeared at the top of the stairs, wide-eyed with terror, the diners could no longer ignore the commotion. Waiters hovered, unsure what to do. Several men rose from their tables, protectively edging their wives towards the staircase railings. Others, unwilling to show their consternation, refused to budge but sat warily watching.

  Louis threw open the doors to his office. There was no time to lock himself inside, he could hear the Italian behind him. The gun, he needed the gun! He pulled open the top drawer of his desk and grabbed the Belgian .25 calibre automatic.

  At the sight of Rico bellowing for Louis Picot, the diners panicked. As Rico lunged forward, they scrambled for the staircase, knocking each other over in the rush.

  Suddenly a shot rang out and Rico staggered backwards into the dining room, glasses and crockery smashing as tables overturned. He crashed into the marble pedestal and fell to the floor amongst the debris.

  Over the final chords of ‘Tales from the Vienna Woods’, men yelled and women screamed. There was a stampede on the staircase, as diners, chefs, waiters, kitchen staff, all fled for their lives. A woman fainted and fell down the stairs. Others trampled over her in their panic whilst her terrified husband tried to lift her to her feet.

  ‘Grab an arm each,’ a welcome voice said. It was Salvatore attempting to climb the stairs in pursuit of his father but held back by the crowd. The two men carried the woman out onto the street.

  On the balcony, quaking with fear, Harry was the first to notice the fire. The dried flowers had been ignited by fallen candles and were burning rapidly. Harry had contemplated jumping from the balcony rail, but had been too frightened—he’d break both his legs, he was sure. But, anyway, it was safe now to go inside, Rico Gianni was dead.

  ALL LOUIS PICOT could feel was the cold sweat of relief. He’d shot the Italian dead. He’d hit him in the chest, he knew he had, but shakily he raised the gun again, just to make sure.

  The growl that came from Rico’s throat was like that of a wounded lion. He’d felt no pain, just a thump in the chest; he’d been winded, that was all. He launched himself at Louis.

  Louis fired wildly. One of the last of the men scrambling for safety was shot in the side and two others helped drag him down the stairs.

  Rico felt another thump, in his shoulder this time, but it meant nothing as he grabbed Louis around the throat and lifted him from his feet. ‘Die, Picot!’ he screamed.

  SEVERAL BLOCKS DOWN Hannan Street, the riot was in full swing. Close to forty men had met head-on and fists were smashing into flesh and bone. Men grunted and wrestled in the dust, legs kicking, fingers clawing, and many were bloodied from broken bottles. Two men lay unconscious on the road, but, as yet, no one was dead. They’d forgotten why they were fighting. The Italians were no longer avenging the rape of a virgin daughter, the Aussies were no longer fighting for their jobs; they were venting their mutual antagonism, the years of hostility and conflict, in the heat of the Kalgoorlie night.

  Jack Brearley crossed the street and ran along the pavement to avoid the fracas. He was past the riot and a block from the restaurant when the shots rang out.

  At first they all thought it was the coppers shooting into the air to get their attention.

  Men stopped to see where the gunshots came from and it was Snowy who yelled out, ‘Fire!’ Several more punches were thrown but it wasn’t long before the riot disbanded and the men started towards the restaurant where the fire’s glow could be seen through the windows.

  RICO HAD RELEASED his grip. Why kill Louis quickly? he thought. The man should die slowly, in fear and agony. He let Louis’s body drop to the floor and watched as he crawled towards the stairway, gasping and whimpering like a puppy.

  The blaze was growing now as the tablecloths ignited. The silver-topped trolley in the corner had overturned and methylated spirits was slowly leaking from the heaters. Soon the place would become an inferno.

  Out on the balcony, Harry Brearley had wet himself. The Italian wasn’t dead! Harry looked over the balcony. He had to jump, he told himself, but he was frozen to the spot with terror. He cried out to the people below but there was pandemonium in the street as the rioters joined the hysterical crowd from the restaurant and no one heard him.

  Suddenly he saw Jack dodging amongst the crowd. Again Harry cried out but Jack neither saw nor heard him.

  ‘Have you seen my father?’ Jack was asking. ‘Have you seen Harry Brearley?’

  A man was tending to his wife who’d fainted. ‘He was upstairs the last I saw,’ the man said and, as Jack raced for the doors, he was joined by Salvatore.

  Relief surged through Harry as he saw Jack and a young man enter the restaurant. Jack would save him, he thought, as he peered through the windows at the fire which now raged inside. Hurry, Jack, he prayed, hurry!

  THE HEAT IN the restaurant was intense, but Rico didn’t notice it. He grabbed Louis’s shoulder and turned him around, forcing him back against the railing. Once again, he held him around the throat. But not too tight this time; he didn’t want Louis to die too quickly. Make it slow, make him beg, make it hurt. He lifted Louis’s body a little, off his knees, and bent his head back over the railing.

  ‘You killed my Carmelina,’ he said. ‘Which way would you like me to break your neck?’

  ‘I love Carmelina, I swear it!’ Louis blubbered, his arms flailing uselessly out to the sides, trying to grab at the Italian’s wrists. ‘I want to marry your daughter. I love her, I swear!’ Rico’s shirt was saturated with blood. Louis knew he’d hit him in the chest, so how was the man still alive?

  ‘So you leave her dead in a whorehouse. That is the way you show your love? Shall I break your neck this way …’ He twisted Louis’s head to the left.

  Carmelina dead in the whorehouse? But he’d had nothing to do with it, Louis thought—someone else had killed the girl. ‘It wasn’t me,’ he begged, ‘it wasn’t me, I had nothing to do with it, I swear!’

  ‘Or shall I break it this way?’ Rico twisted Louis’ head to the right. ‘You tell me, Louis Picot. You tell me which way I should break your neck.’

  As Louis’s head was forced to the right, he saw a shape th
rough the fire, a frightened face at the windows. ‘Harry!’ he said, with all the voice he could muster. ‘It was Harry Brearley.’

  Rico paused for a moment. He’d intended to play with the man for several minutes before breaking his neck.

  ‘Harry Brearley …’ Louis gasped. This was his chance. Everyone knew of Rico’s hate for Harry Brearley. ‘Harry Brearley owns the brothel. He made your daugher a whore. It was Harry—’

  Louis Picot had cheated himself of several minutes of life. Rico broke his neck in a second.

  The fire was raging now. Any minute, Harry thought, petrified as he saw Rico toss aside Louis’s lifeless body, any minute Jack would appear.

  Yes, there he was! Jack, with the young man at his side, had appeared at the top of the stairs, behind Rico. But Rico had turned towards the windows and, through the flames, his eyes had met Harry’s. And Harry knew he was dead.

  In that very instant the methylated spirits ignited. A wall of flame divided the men and they could no longer see each other.

  Harry finally found the strength to jump. There was still a chance, he thought, and he grasped the balcony rail.

  Behind Rico, a voice yelled, ‘Papa!’ but Rico didn’t hear it as he charged through the wall of flame. No fire would stop him now. Harry Brearley was about to die and Rico Gianni screamed his name.

  Salvatore started towards the flames but Jack Brearley held him back. ‘Get downstairs!’ he yelled. ‘The whole place is going up!’ and he dragged Salvatore down the staircase as the fire raged behind them.

  In the street, people looked up in horror as the balcony windows shattered. A figure was astride the railing, apparently about to jump, when a ball of fire that was a man smashed through the windows.

  ‘Die, Harry Brearley!’ The madman’s scream hung in the air and sheets of flame burst from the window as Rico flung himself upon Harry. Locked in a fiery embrace, they crashed through the railings and plummeted to the pavement below.