Secrets always come out. He could hear it now: ‘Did you hear about Billy O’Shannessy? He found this stash, enough to stay drunk for six months, and returned it to its rightful owner, an Abo bloke who’d come in from the bush.’ He’d be regarded as the ultimate fool, a laughing stock among the city derelicts who equated honesty with a characteristic most often found among the mentally retarded.
Billy made his way back to the nearest telephone booth in Macquarie Street and put a call through to Mission Beat, instructing them that he’d wait for them at the Botanic Gardens gate across the road from the State Library. Williams, he told the operator, was completely out of it, probably in a coma, and they’d need an extra person to help carry the stretcher.
The woman on the switch at Mission Beat had a high-pitched and whingeing quality to her voice and Billy heard her sigh heavily on the other end of the phone. ‘We’re short-staffed, the volunteers only come on after five, you’ll have to help with the stretcher.’
‘Nah, I’ve got a crook leg,’ Billy said, in a coarser accent than his own. He’d done enough for Williams without having to hobble along holding on to one end of a stretcher.
The woman at the other end of the phone gave an audible sigh, ‘Hang on a moment,’ she said. A couple of minutes later her voice came back on the line, ‘It will be about half an hour, wait at the gate.’ The phone went dead.
To Billy’s surprise, the van did arrive half an hour later and Billy explained that the bench on which Williams lay was a hundred metres or so inside the park. The driver, a fit young Maori in a red and black Canterbury Crusaders’ rugby jersey, nodded and then turned to a skinny bloke beside him who looked as if he might be on drugs. ‘You git the stretcher out the back, hey.’ The young bloke started to get out of the van. ‘Nah, wait on, lemme park first, hey.’ The Maori indicated to Billy to step aside and pulled the van up onto the pavement before reversing to get as close to the gate entrance as he could.
The young bloke got out and approached the back of the van. ‘Gidday, mate,’ he said, smiling at Billy and offering his hand. Long strands of dirty, sandy-coloured hair fell to his shoulders and his small goatee was decorated with several pimples on the right side of his mouth. Heroin usually brought out pimples so he was probably on a methadone program and attempting to stay clean. His yellow cap was turned the wrong way round in the current fashion. Billy ignored his outstretched hand, which the kid didn’t seem to mind. ‘Helpin’ yer mate out, that’s good,’ he said, nodding his head several times. ‘No worries, we’ll take care of him.’
Billy grunted, resenting the kid’s cheerful outlook. He was supposed to be a miserable prick, wasn’t he? He noticed that he wore long sleeves, buttoned at the wrist, another sign that he was concealing needle scars. Alcoholics hated heroin addicts and he’d been robbed on more than one occasion by dead ringers for this bloke. Billy thought about the money in his briefcase and what this bloke might do to him if he knew about it.
The young guy threw open the back of the van, which contained no surprises for Billy, who’d been a passenger in it on more than one occasion. A brown padded vinyl bench ran down either side with a stretcher hooked onto the inside roof by means of several brackets. The interior was designed to be hosed clean with a minimum of fuss and Billy’s nostrils were immediately assailed by a strong smell of disinfectant.
The bloke on detox, for that’s how Billy now regarded him, started to pull at the stretcher, which refused to budge. Then the Maori came around, ‘Nah, it’s clupped at the back, you got to git in an’ unclup it.’ Not waiting for his helper, he jumped into the back of the van and unclipped the stretcher, pushing it from his end so that it protruded out of the back of the van for the youngster to pull it free.
‘You new to this work?’ Billy asked.
‘Yeah, doing three months’ community service.’ He laughed, ‘Could be worse, a mate of mine’s digging out blackberry bushes for Woollahra Council on South Head, bloody hard yakka.’
He’d been right, the young bloke was a junkie.
The driver jumped from the back of the van. ‘Righto, let’s go fetch your brother.’ He turned to Billy, ‘My name’s Hopi.’ He indicated his assistant with a nod of the head, ‘This is Jimmy. You show us where to go, hey.’
Billy led them into the Botanic Gardens, down the main path and then they branched off on to a smaller path leading to the giant Moreton Bay fig. Billy was conscious of the magpies carolling in the big dark tree silhouetted against a washed and clear summer sky.
They reached the rock pool and Billy led them around the back. ‘He’s round here,’ he said, pointing. Then he saw that Williams was missing.
‘You sure that’s the bench?’ Hopi asked.
‘Yeah, yeah, quite certain.’
‘Lotsa benches in this place, hey?’
‘No, not around here. He was out to it, comatose. I shook him, shouted at him, he didn’t move. He can’t have gone far.’
Hopi shook his head. ‘Mate, I can’t leave the van on the pavement, I’ll get a ticket.’ He removed a slip of paper from his shirt pocket and unfolded it. ‘Says here the client is reported as being unconscious.’
‘That’s right, he was.’
‘It’s the rules.’ The big New Zealander shrugged.
‘It’s the rules. We’re allowed to take him in without his permission if he’s unconscious. If he ain’t, he’s got to agree to come.’ He spread his hands and smiled, ‘Which he can’t if he ain’t here. Sorry about that.’ He nodded to the young bloke, then jerked his head, indicating they should leave.
‘Wait on!’ Billy cried, ‘He could be lying somewhere close by, in the bushes.’
The Maori looked back and said, not unkindly, ‘You find him, call us again, we’ll come for sure.’
Billy walked over to the bench and sat down, panicstricken. He had the best part of five thousand dollars in his briefcase and its rightful owner had disappeared.
Technically he’d stolen the money. His leg hurt and he needed a drink badly, he couldn’t remember when he’d been this sober this late in the day. Somehow he had to find Williams, track him down and give him back his money. It wasn’t his responsibility what happened after that, he’d done his best, even called the drunk wagon on his behalf.
Billy rose wearily from the bench and made for the Moreton Bay. Its dark-green foliage reached almost to the ground, and if you didn’t mind the bat shit, its semi-dark interior was an ideal place to sleep it off. Williams would have come around, seen the tree and had the nous to crawl into its safety. He was from the bush, he’d have a strong sense of survival.
Billy made his way over to the big old tree and dipped in under the low-hanging foliage to stand in the dark, moist-smelling shade. He waited until his eyes had adjusted before looking for Williams. The giant tree had enormous surface roots that acted as buttresses and could easily hide a man from view. Billy could hear the fruit bats squeaking in the branches overhead as he walked slowly around the tree, looking between the buttresses, certain that at any moment he would find the stockman. But there was no sign of Williams.
Billy searched the Gardens for another hour. He asked several gardeners but only one of them could remember seeing a black man in a red tartan shirt and that was earlier when Williams had first entered the Gardens. Billy crossed over to the Domain and asked a group of derelicts who had settled in to the late-afternoon’s drinking session under the trees. They all knew Billy and extended an invitation for him to join them. Alcoholics pride themselves on being social, almost a brotherhood, it is what separates them from the heroin addicts and they’ll happily share a bottle with a mate who happens to be skint. Most of them had been helped at one time or another by Billy. Then Billy saw Casper Friendly was among the group, but much to his relief he’d passed out on the grass. He lay on his stomach, his head cradled in his arms. Williams’ bottle of scotch had caught up with him.<
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Billy described Williams and several of them laughed and shook their heads. ‘Yer lookin’ for a fuckin’ boong, mate!’ called out one of them, a man named Lofty Mayne. ‘Whafuckinfor?’ This provoked more drunken laughter.
‘He needs a spot of help,’ Billy replied.
‘Ah, forget the bastard,’ Lofty said, ‘Here, Billy, have a drink, no good helpin’ them black bastards!’
Billy pointed to the unconscious Casper Friendly, ‘He’s an Aborigine.’
The men in the group all looked at the albino. ‘Who, Casper?’ Lofty said, turning back to Billy.
Billy nodded.
‘Nah, he got hisself scrubbed white, that’s different.’ This provoked a howl of laughter among the group, several of them reaching out and patting Lofty on the back.
‘Garn, ’ave a drink,’ Lofty said, pleased with himself.
‘No thanks, some other time,’ Billy began to walk away.
‘Hey, Billy, c’mere,’ Lofty shouted, beckoning Billy with a wave of his arm.
Billy stopped, ‘What?’ he said, turning.
‘That fuckin’ Abo yiz looking for,’ Lofty grinned, ‘I reckon he’s fell down some steps, them black bastards can’t hold their grog! Always fallin’ down steps. No fuckin’ steps in the desert when they go walkabout, see!’
Lofty’s attempt at a joke set off another gale of laughter among the drunks. ‘C’mere, siddown, ’ave a drink, whazzamatter?’ he repeated.
Billy was sorely tempted, but the presence of Casper Friendly and the possibility of him waking up and being curious as to why Billy was looking for Trevor Williams decided him against it. ‘Another time. Got to go, mate.’
‘Ah, fuck yiz!’ Lofty called after him. ‘Too good fer us, is yer? Fuck off then!’
As the day wore on, Billy’s paranoia increased and while he told himself that apart from the almost three glasses of scotch he’d consumed in the morning, his head was clear as a bell, the only problem was that he couldn’t get it to ring, to make any reasonable decisions.
He sat down on a bench outside the Art Gallery, both elbows resting on the briefcase on his lap, his hands cupped under his chin. He watched as several late-afternoon runners passed by on their way to Mrs Macquarie’s Chair, doing the loop around the Gardens. A group of middle-aged Japanese tourists was coming out of the gallery in a neat formation, giggling and chatting loudly. Billy thought how nice it would be if he didn’t have to think any more and could simply follow the little Jap bloke holding the flag. He’d have a nice hotel to go to, with tucker laid on, a soft bed with clean sheets, and the bill paid in advance. He was exhausted, feeling a little dizzy, and realised that he couldn’t remember when last he’d eaten.
For the umpteenth time, he reviewed his options. Now it occurred to him that Williams himself might report the stolen money to the police when he sobered up in the morning, citing Casper or Billy as two people who’d seen the stash in his possession. The police would have no trouble picking Billy up and, of course, they’d find the money in his briefcase.
The more Billy thought of the pickle he’d put himself in, the more he became convinced that unless he got to Williams first, the case against him was open and shut. No magistrate or judge would believe that he’d acted in good faith. If he’d had to handle a case like this when he’d been a practising barrister, he wouldn’t have given his client any chance of winning. He’d make him plead mitigating circumstances, an act committed while under the influence, citing the fact that his client had no previous record. The best he would have hoped for was a shorter sentence. Sitting on the bench outside the Art Gallery, the afternoon drawing to a close, Billy could hear the cell door at Long Bay clanging shut behind him.
He’d already thought about giving the money to Con for safekeeping but decided against doing so. Con was his friend, though it was a friendship that had never been truly tested. The cafe owner might well baulk at the idea and Billy wouldn’t blame him if he did. Even if he agreed to keep the money in safekeeping while Billy tried to find Williams, if things went wrong, and the lawyer in Billy told him that they invariably do, Con would be an accessory to the crime too. Furthermore, Billy would be totally discredited and no longer eligible as Con’s sponsor and character referee, a fact which might well prevent the owner of the New Hellas Cafe from bringing out his wife-to-be from Greece.
Billy had been among the homeless for four years and he’d always told himself that the decision to cut all his previous ties was in the interest of all concerned, that by leaving his wife and the daughter he loved he’d made it easier for them to get on with their lives without the daily reminder of the past that his presence brought them. He was not to be trusted and he was best being on his own, well away from anyone he could hurt. The loneliness that had followed had been of his own making, a punishment he repeatedly told himself he deserved. But now, for the first time, he realised that there wasn’t anyone whom he could trust and no one who would trust him. He had gone beyond aloneness and severed even the most tenuous connections of his life.
It was growing dark when Billy finally rose from the bench. Despite his state of anxiety he was hungry, which was probably the cause of his dizziness so he decided to make his way to the food van in Martin Place.
It was only an eight-minute walk from the Art Gallery to Martin Place and Billy arrived before the van had drawn up for the evening meal. A number of people had already gathered and were waiting in the fronts of shops and banks, most of them male. He recognised one or two faces but, apart from a brief nod, there was no contact, which was the accepted convention. The young blokes who came in for a free feed were usually pretty aggro and it wasn’t a good idea to look them in the eyes. Anonymity was the unspoken code among the homeless.
Billy found a seat and, placing his briefcase on his lap, kept his eyes on the ground. A young bloke came up to him and asked for a light.
‘Don’t smoke,’ Billy said, not looking up.
‘What’s with the handcuffs?’ the teenager asked, pointing to the briefcase.
Billy put his finger up to his lips. ‘Shush!’ He looked left, then right, and in a loud whisper said, ‘Blueprints, mate. Atomic bomb.’ Tucking his head into his shoulder, he repeated the look to each side. ‘You haven’t seen any Chinese, have you?’ He lowered his voice even further, ‘They want them urgent, they’re going to blow up the White House.’ Billy pulled the briefcase tightly to his chest, a look of alarm on his face. ‘You won’t tell them, will ya?’
The young bloke turned his head to one side and, pursing his lips, made as if to spit at the ground near his feet. ‘Fuckin’ schizo!’ he said, moving away.
The food van had arrived and people were starting to walk up towards it. The Just Enough Faith van was one of several around the city, most of which were run by religious organisations, although not this one.
Just Enough Faith was run personally by Jeff Gambin and his wife Alina, who came about as close to being modern-day saints as was possible in today’s iconoclastic world. They financed the van and bought and prepared its daily fare from their own resources and, in addition, worked to rehabilitate and help the homeless and the destitute. No one needing food or help was ever turned away and they would feed around six hundred people a night. When asked what sort of people came to the van they would tell how their youngest client was just four months old and their oldest ninety-five. The food dispensed free from the van was well prepared with a wide choice and was generally regarded as better than that placed on most tables at home. Not all homeless people were alcoholics and food was an important factor in their lives and so the vans, just like restaurants, were given a rating: Just Enough Faith being the best and the so-called restaurant for the homeless, Our Lady of Snows, near Central Station, regularly voted the worst. Billy not only used Just Enough Faith because of its convenience and the quality of its food, but because Martin Place was well lit and there
fore less dangerous.
After the incident with the teenager, Billy’s knees were shaking so violently that he dared not rise. He sat a while longer until his beating heart had slowed and most of the street people had been served. The ruse he’d used with the young bloke always worked, because, apart from the drunks, the addicts, pensioners and street kids, the square on any given evening would contain its fair share of schizophrenics and mentally disturbed who’d been freed from government institutions and allowed to re-enter the community to swell the ranks of the hopeless and homeless.
People moved quietly up to the queue, where the unspoken aggression in the air seemed to dissipate. There was no pecking order as might be expected, with young blokes asserting themselves and pushing to the front. It was first come, first served, everyone acting decorously, choosing their meal in an undertone and then finding a quiet place to eat it. Food remained the only sacred factor in their lives.
‘Good evening,’ Jeff Gambin called to Billy. ‘How are you tonight, Billy? Nice of you to drop by.’ Gambin, a Tibetan, was educated in India and later at Cambridge and, recognising Billy for a cultured man, always treated him like a gentleman.
‘Good evening, Mr Gambin,’ Billy answered, for although Jeff Gambin regarded him as a familiar, he was careful not to take the compliment for granted.
‘Nice pot of Irish stew going. You always seem to enjoy it?’
‘Yes, thank you, that will do nicely,’ Billy replied, not really fussed about what to eat.
‘We’re moving, Billy, been kicked out of Martin Place,’ Jeff Gambin said, handing Billy a brimming plate.
‘Oh, kicked out, why is that?’
‘The Olympics, can’t have people like us messing up the centre of the city.’
‘But the Olympics are in four years!’ Billy exclaimed.
‘Get us used to going elsewhere,’ Jeff Gambin shrugged. ‘Get us all accustomed to going elsewhere, somewhere out of sight.’ He always included himself and his wife when he referred to the homeless. ‘Have they told you where?’
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