Man at the Window

by Robert Jeffreys

  ‘Carmody,’ the boy answered with some pride.

  ‘I hate him,’ Darnley announced. The boy was shocked. He had never heard anyone, any student or teacher, ever say anything but praise for Carmody. The boy looked closely at Darnley.

  ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s a prick. Thinks he’s boss of everything.’

  But he is, the boy wanted to say. He was puzzled. How could Darnley think like that? Darnley and Carmody were in the same stratosphere in the eyes of the second formers. He wanted to tell Darnley that, then he wouldn’t hate Carmody.

  ‘What did you do?’ Darnley asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘I don’t mind being here.’

  ‘You’re mad,’ Darnley said, smiling, as if he was saying, ‘You’re a good kid.’

  The boy shrugged and smiled.

  ‘You in love with Carmody?’ Darnley asked.

  The boy wondered if he was. He loved his father and mother, he wasn’t sure about his brother. He knew he loved Dianne Mullick, the daughter of a neighbouring farmer. He knew that he worshipped God because he went to church. But he did worship Carmody more than God, he decided. He wondered if that was bad. He would find out when he was dead.

  ‘I’m not,’ the boy said but Darnley had lost interest; he was picking threads from the narrow end of his tie to make it look shredded. It was against school rules and only the absolute worst kids wore their ties like that. Darnley could be the worst boy in the school, the boy thought, and only being in Form Four that was quite something. Darnley showed no fear, even when the police brought him back to the school. He had smiled and talked about ‘pigs’, and some said his father was in prison though others said he wouldn’t be allowed in the school if that were true.

  ‘He thinks I spoke to the police,’ the boy said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Carmody.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why does he think you did?’ Darnley asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I’ll ask him,’ Darnley said with no interest.

  ‘No. No. Please.’

  ‘Don’t you want to know?’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘You got a brother here, too, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Get him to sort it out,’ Darnley said.

  ‘Yes,’ the boy said but knew he never would, he would confide in Darnley before he would confide in his brother. ‘But he’s busy.’

  Darnley laughed. ‘Too busy to look out for you?’ he asked.

  ‘Very busy.’

  Darnley laughed again. ‘You got any money?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ the boy said quickly.

  Darnley laughed out loud, the boy smiled. He wanted to laugh like Darnley.

  ‘Quiet,’ was yelled through the door. Darnley made a wanking motion with his hand while staring at the door. The boy shuddered. He felt laughter rising in his throat. He had thought laughter had gone forever and began coughing and spluttering in confusion. Darnley looked at him and laughed out loud. The door opened.

  ‘That you, Darnley?’ a sixth former asked.

  Darnley looked around as though to say, ‘who else could it be?’

  ‘Why are you here?’ was snapped back at him.

  ‘Carmody,’ Darnley sneered.

  ‘Your father out of prison yet?’ the sixth former sneered back. Darnley took a quick glance at the boy. The boy saw Darnley was trapped.

  ‘He’s never been to prison,’ Darnley bit back.

  ‘Yeah. So what did you steal this time?’

  ‘Ask Carmody?’

  ‘He’s not here.’

  Darnley lowered his head and swung it from side to side like the boy had seen a bull do when teased.

  The sixth former turned his attention to the boy. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Carmody.’

  The sixth former closed the door, Darnley made a wanking gesture with both hands and arms as if he had a penis the size of a lamppost. Laughter broke in the boy’s throat. The door swung open. Darnley quickly dropped his arms.

  ‘We know who you are, Harper. You disgust us.’ The door closed. The boy’s insides twisted, his breathing stopped. Darnley looked at him in alarm.

  ‘Hey. Hey. Harper.’

  The boy saw Darnley crossing the corridor towards him before a black river caught him.

  Forty-six

  Day 19

  Taylor’s Farm

  6.10 p.m. Thursday, 12th November 1965

  Cardilini experienced surges of emotion as he drove from Leggett’s house. I’ll get these bastards, kept running through his mind. The road took him to the town bridge crossing the river to farmland. He knew the shot hadn’t come from there, then corrected himself – he suspected it hadn’t.

  The bridge had seen better days. Its triangular timber supports stretched to the meandering river some 60 feet below. The road base was made up of timber sleepers lying end to end from one side of the bridge to the other. Some sleepers were loose and bounced up to meet the tyres of Cardilini’s car, slapping and thudding as he passed. The result was a very noisy crossing. The car bounced from the bridge onto a single-lane bitumen road. Cardilini cruised slowly, avoiding the steep gravel banks of the road while he searched through the bordering gum trees for sign of a homestead. He saw one sheltering in a grove of tall gum trees surrounded by sheds and rainwater tanks.

  Cardilini turned left off the bitumen onto a gravel road. A cyclone gate blocked the way.

  He got out of the car and opened the gate, noting the name ‘Taylor’ painted on a tin plate. He drove through and closed it before continuing.

  Stubble from a recently harvested wheat crop stretched out on either side of the driveway. The car bumped over corrugations in the gravel before the road smoothed and snaked into the grove of gums. Cardilini pulled the car up in front of the house which was of the same vintage and design as the Leggett house. He lit a cigarette and considered the possibility that he was about to encounter another branch of the Leggett family.

  He stepped onto the broad front verandah and rapped on the flyscreen door, which, like the Leggett’s, also hung loosely in its doorframe.

  ‘Come in,’ was yelled from the depths of the house. Cardilini entered and pulled the flyscreen door to behind him. He walked the length of the corridor and stood at the entrance to the kitchen where a man and a woman sat at a scrubbed timber table with large mugs in front of them.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ the man asked in surprise.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Cardilini from the East Perth branch. I just wanted to confirm the information you provided regarding the use of firearms on the property.’

  ‘Oh. For Christ’s sake. Are you all bloody dense?’ the man snapped. He was wizened and balding but had bright blue eyes and a lopsided, cheeky grin.

  ‘It can appear that way,’ Cardilini conceded.

  A tall, austere and handsome woman with hair tied back in a tight bun said, ‘Well, you better have a cup of tea. We were expecting someone else. Sit down. Sit down.’ She went to a kitchenette for another large mug.

  ‘Yeah, well, I’m Taylor. This is my wife, Mrs Taylor,’ Taylor said and held out his hand.

  ‘Cardilini. Thanks, sorry if this is a trouble.’

  ‘No trouble.’ Mrs Taylor poured from the teapot. ‘Milk?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘So, what do you want to know this time?’ Taylor asked.

  ‘The report stated that a stray .303 fired from this side killed the teacher.’

  Taylor and his wife shared an irritated look.

  ‘The fact of the matter is .303’s aren’t used over here. Too bloody dangerous.’

  ‘The coroner bel
ieves the shot came from here.’

  Taylor snapped back, ‘Well he’s a bloody idiot.’

  Cardilini nodded. ‘The school community believes it also. So what do you think’s going on?’

  ‘No idea. The roo-shooter is going to trap the roos further north, from now on. At one of the dams. Suits us, right Missus?’

  ‘Suits us. Going to keep the roos from the feed along the river. Suits us,’ Mrs Taylor agreed.

  ‘Too right,’ Taylor confirmed. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘The police didn’t take your rifle?’ Cardilini tried to ask casually as he sipped his strong tea.

  ‘Why would they? It’s not going anywhere. They did take my word though.’

  ‘You told the police it would be impossible for the shot to come from this side of the bank?’

  Taylor reacted affronted. ‘No. I never said that. I said, and Digger the shooter confirmed, that a shot from this side of the river was not in any way connected to Digger shooting roos.’

  ‘You had only one man, Digger, shooting that night?’

  ‘You can speak to him. He butts and skins the roos. Sells the meat for pet food and the skin to a fella in the city. Occasionally he’ll put a joey in the chook pen, if one’s in the mother’s pouch. Digger’s a bit of a softy, isn’t he, Missus?’

  ‘He’s a bit of a softy all right. We give them away as pets. Wouldn’t be surprised if they end up in a stew, though,’ Mrs Taylor said.

  ‘Nothing wrong with kangaroo stew,’ Taylor confirmed.

  ‘Did Digger say he heard any other shots that night?’

  ‘You can ask him. He’s in the shed. He’s also a bit of a mechanic.’

  ‘A local?’

  ‘Of course. Finish your tea and we’ll go over,’ Taylor said.

  ‘And tell Digger afternoon tea doesn’t last all day,’ Mrs Taylor added.

  Cardilini and Taylor smoked as they walked across the yard of hard-packed white sand towards one of the sheds. As Cardilini inhaled, the heat of the afternoon gave the cigarette an acrid taste. Not like smoking on a winter’s day, Cardilini thought. The shed was timber-framed with walls of vertically placed planks. A weathered, corrugated iron roof, rusted red at the edges, seemed to hold the structure together. A tall, thin man in overalls was bent over the wheel arch of an old Humber, his head and arms buried within the engine bay.

  ‘Digger. Another policeman. A detective sergeant, from the city this time.’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ came from the engine bay. ‘Can he fix carbies?’

  ‘Can you fix carbies?’ Taylor asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Seems he can’t.’

  The overalled legs firmed on the ground and Digger pulled his torso from the vehicle. He had dark hair, a tanned and lined face, dark eyes and was missing several top teeth. He observed Cardilini and gave a nod to Taylor. Then he pulled a rag from his pocket and wiped his hands slowly.

  ‘The missus wanted to inform you that afternoon tea doesn’t last all day.’

  ‘Tell her I’m sorry. Got busy.’

  ‘He drank your tea, anyway,’ Taylor said indicating Cardilini.

  ‘From the city?’ Digger asked.

  ‘Cardilini. East Perth.’

  ‘An Itie,’ Digger said.

  ‘Itie and Scot. You got a problem with that?’ Cardilini asked.

  ‘The Scot part of it,’ Digger said with a knowing look to Taylor.

  ‘Hilarious,’ Cardilini replied. ‘Do you use hollow-point bullets?’

  ‘I have, why?’ Digger asked as he finished wiping his hands and looking sideways at Cardilini.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Crocs. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Where do you get them?’

  ‘I make ’em,’ Digger said throwing his rag onto the Humber running board.

  ‘How?’ Cardilini asked. Digger looked to Taylor who shrugged to indicate he had no idea what Cardilini was on about.

  Digger turned and walked into the shed. Cardilini turned to Taylor quizzically. The farmer indicated for him to follow. Digger reached into the back of a ute and pulled out several rounds. At a manual drill press, he set the bullet head up in a timber frame and clamped it to the bench below the drill.

  ‘That looks dangerous,’ Cardilini said stopping several steps away.

  Digger ignored the comment and lowered a narrow drill bit onto the tip of the bullet and slowly turned the drill. A thin thread of lead began to peel its way from the bit and bullet. Digger stopped after a number of turns, released the bullet and tossed it to Cardilini. The bullet had a neat hole down it’s centre.

  ‘That’s it?’ Cardilini asked.

  ‘That’s it.’

  Cardilini tossed the bullet back. ‘Thanks. You use them for roos?’

  ‘No need, besides it a makes a bloody mess.’

  ‘Okay. How many of you were shooting that night?’

  ‘Just me.’

  ‘I got the impression there’s often more than one shooter.’

  ‘There can be but not a lot of feed about for a few years so the roos don’t give birth. They can put it off you know. No feed means fewer roos, means fewer skins, means less money if you’re splitting it, which means I shoot by myself,’ Digger finished and Taylor looked to Cardilini to see how impressed he was with Digger’s logic.

  ‘Did you hear any shots the night the teacher was killed?’ Cardilini asked.

  ‘Apart from my own, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. Apart from them.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘A man was shot. If not by you, by someone else,’ Cardilini stated.

  ‘Oh, now it’s by me, is it? You can see how these boys work,’ Digger said to Taylor.

  Cardilini assured, ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘Yeah, well. Easy enough for you to say. But if people start thinking I shoot in all directions, I’ll lose a lot of work. Won’t I, Taylor?’

  ‘Yep. That could happen,’ Taylor confirmed.

  ‘Did you hear a rifle shot other than your own?’ Cardilini asked.

  ‘I must’ve, mustn’t I?’

  ‘Why must you?’

  ‘Because the fella got shot. Didn’t he?’ Digger said with a smile to Taylor.

  ‘Were you asked about the sound of another rifle that night by the police?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did you tell them?’

  ‘That sound can be funny,’ Digger said with another look to Taylor who was obviously enjoying the banter.

  Cardilini looked at the pair before asking, ‘Would a shot have been obvious if it came from this side of the river?’

  ‘Ah. He’s not as silly as the other ones,’ Digger said to Taylor.

  ‘Well?’ Cardilini prompted.

  ‘You’d think it would be. And yes, it is when you hear your mate make the shot, because he’s standing by you,’ Digger spelt out.

  ‘So it wasn’t like that, the shot you heard?’ Cardilini asked.

  ‘The shot I think I might have heard – if it wasn’t the funny sound the night can make – was not like that, no,’ Digger said seriously.

  ‘So, not this side of the river?’ Cardilini asked.

  ‘That’s where it gets complicated. Doesn’t it, Digger?’ Taylor asked.

  ‘Too right. It surely does,’ Digger nodded, confirming Taylor’s statement, then said, ‘See, you take a few roos out by the river, then the rest are bouncing off in all directions, then you need to catch them in the light. So I drive across to the rise and catch them with the spotty.’ Digger pointed west to the raised ground.

  ‘You had someone holding the spotlight?’ asked Cardilini.

  ‘No.’ Taylor shook his head. ‘He’s got it all rigged up.’

  ‘All rigged up. That’s right. I do it for mone
y, you see,’ Digger said.

  ‘Okay. So you’ve driven across to the rise, what happens then?’ Cardilini asked.

  ‘And I shoot two roos, frozen in the spotlight staring at it. Then I hear what seems to be a late echo. Only trouble is, I know what a .243 echo sounds like. I’ve heard it plenty of times. And this didn’t sound like a .243 echo.’

  ‘What did it sound like?’ Cardilini asked.

  ‘.303, .308. Take your pick,’ Digger replied.

  ‘Coming from the direction of the school?’ Cardilini asked.

  ‘That’s difficult to say because sound ca–’

  ‘… can be funny.’ Cardilini shook his head, exasperated, and asked, ‘Is it possible it came from the school?’

  Digger looked to Taylor, who gave a noncommittal shrug, then back to Cardilini. Cardilini, following their exchange, asked with some urgency, ‘What?’

  ‘I reckon that shot came from the school,’ Digger said.

  ‘You told the local coppers that?’

  Digger shrugged, ‘They didn’t believe me. They reckon I’m covering me arse.’

  Cardilini nodded smiling, ‘Thanks.’

  Back at the Humber, he held out his cigarette packet to Digger and Taylor while admiring the Humber’s running boards and the elegant sweep of the bodywork.

  ‘Nice old car,’ he said.

  ‘Piece of shit,’ Digger replied taking a cigarette.

  Cardilini drove to the front gate, feeling elated; he could finally close the trap on the bastards. The shot was definitely made from the school, just how he’d figured. McBride was right first up. Sheppard, Doney and Williamson were responsible – there was no doubt now.

  He knew why the local police wrote the report they did. ‘Sound can be funny,’ wouldn’t look very intelligent. He wanted to go to the local station but knew he could be risking too much already. He went home, satisfied, and decided to clean out the weeds along the side of the house. If there was enough light, he would prune that bloody tea tree.