Origin

by Greg McLean

  He heads back to his quarters one evening before dinner – mind whirling with paranoia of being caught out, but also returning to the way the man had slumped to stillness beneath him just as his sister had, the power he’d wielded – when he hears something behind the shearing shed. It sounds like a calf whining like they do when lost from the herd.

  He’ll get the blame if it’s found there lifeless. He’ll just have to hope there’s food enough left for him after checking it out. As always, a day out in the saddle makes him hungry enough to even eat Baitlayer Tuck’s food. How that bastard ever got such a cushy job —

  He turns the corner and stops dead. The figure against the wall, thrusting, senses him and glances behind. It’s Opey, holding a calf by the head. Before he can cover himself Mick gets a glimpse of his shining cock half inside the calf’s bulbous nose. ‘Shit!’ Opey bleats, pulling up his drawers, and Mick turns on his heel. The calf whinnies and bolts into the night, seeking the cries of its mother. Opey runs around the corner after Mick.

  ‘Wait. Wait!’

  Mick rounds on him. ‘You sick bastard!’ Opey cowers before his raised fist, but he doesn’t hit him. He’s too shocked.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Opey blubbers. ‘We’ve always done this on the farms. Doesn’t harm ’em.’

  ‘You farmboys get sucked off by your animals? What the hell’s wrong with you?’

  ‘Just the calves. The newborns. If you get ’em up the nose it’s like a woman . . . if you go deep enough, they lick your knob and —’

  Mick shuts his eyes. ‘Get the fuck away from me.’

  ‘Mick, please! Don’t tell anyone.’

  ‘You said everyone did it. What do you care?’

  ‘I meant back on our farm.’

  ‘Jesus H Christ.’ Mick starts to walk back to the buildings as Opey grabs him, losing hold of his pants. They drop and he trips at Mick’s feet.

  ‘Please, mate.’

  ‘Get your stinkin’ hands off! Ya sick poofter!’

  ‘I know it’s wrong. I just can’t stop. I think, I’m not going to do it again. Then it gets in me head. And I can’t stop thinking about it.’ His words sink deep into Mick. Because he can’t stop thinking about the man he’d killed either: that look in his eyes at the end.

  ‘There’s just things . . . things you shouldn’t do, Opey.’

  ‘I won’t again. Okay?’ He looks a right mess as he pulls up his pants and stands there, bottom lip blubbering out.

  On any other day Mick might smile. Instead he just nods: he won’t tell anyone. But that’s it. When Opey walks towards him, he turns his back on him. Leaves him standing there.

  As Mick enters the mess hall Cutter’s watching from the back table, a ghost of a smile on his face. Then Mick sees the two policemen standing at the trestle table, talking to Cunningham and Blackall. They turn expectantly when he walks in.

  Mick pauses, then, despite the cold sweat shrivelling his balls, heads over. Fixes a smile. ‘So you heard about all the bestiality here too, then.’

  They don’t respond, but Opey, coming in after him, stays near the door.

  ‘Mick, get over here,’ Cunningham says. ‘Fellas want a word.’

  ‘Understand you were in Moira few nights back,’ one of the coppers says. He looks about forty, beefy and out of shape. He turns away to blow his nose.

  ‘Is that what that shithole of a town was called?’ Mick says, smiling.

  ‘I grew up there,’ the other cops says. He’s younger, acne scarred and thin lipped, his gaze like a heatlamp.

  ‘Oh. Nice place, really, I s’pose.’

  The young cop stares at him. ‘What you doin’ out there?’

  ‘Went for a drink.’ Cunningham rolls his eyes. ‘Why did you go there? And how the hell you’d get that far, anyway?’

  ‘In Simmo’s ute,’ Mick says, pointing over at the station hand. His hands don’t shake a bit. ‘Thought it was okay to stretch me legs, boss.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Cunningham says, ‘but Moira’s a fair way —’

  ‘Why Moira?’ the senior cop asks. ‘Why not Nildon? Or Wills?’

  There’s a chuckle behind Mick somewhere. He knows it’s Cutter and ignores it. ‘Just wanted to see a bit more of the country. Why you asking?’

  ‘You had an altercation with a Brian Seacombe during the afternoon. Is this correct?’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A fight. The publican said he asked you to leave.’

  The younger policeman’s stare bores into him. Mick can feel the other men in the room sitting hushed, listening in. ‘Nah, nothing like that. Fella got a bit pissed off when I called Aussie Rules a fairies’ game. Said it was aerial ballet. Wasn’t trying to offend the bloke, just don’t care for it, meself. He tried to welch on his round so I called him on it. You don’t welch. You’ve been to a pub, right?’

  Not the best question to ask. Their gaze steels.

  ‘Why were you asked to leave?’

  ‘Fella must like that pansy sport too. You come all this way to ask about me leaving a pub?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Cunningham asks, ‘what’s this about?’

  ‘Mr Seacombe was supposed to phone his family that night,’ the older policeman reads from his notebook. Takes a moment to dab his nose again. ‘He missed an appointment the next day and hasn’t been seen since. The publican – probably the highlight of his week – remembers a young fella having an argument and then leaving. Tall kid, dressed like a jack. Didn’t take us long to track you down. Says Mr Seacombe left a few hours later, about eight. He hasn’t been seen since.’ He searches Mick’s face for a reaction.

  If they’d found the body they would have arrested him already. He’s about to shrug and repeat his story when Opey cuts in: ‘We were gone well before then. What time’d we pick Mick up, Merce? Five, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Huh?’ Mercer says across the room. ‘Oh . . . yeah. About five. Come straight back here.’

  The older policeman glances over. ‘Opey? Jesus, you were there?’

  ‘Well, yeah. You never asked that. Visiting me aunt. Bet Old Bob doesn’t remember seeing me come in earlier.’

  ‘Short-sighted bastard,’ the policeman says. ‘Gave us a good description of this one because he hadn’t seen him before. Stood out like a sore thumb. Michael drove back with you, then?’

  ‘Yeah, we left him at the pub for a bit. Visited me aunt. We was gonna come back for a quick drink but he comes waltzing out and tells us he pissed off the barman. Says they’re all poofs inside anyway. So we had a laugh and left. But this was still early. About five, right?’ he asks Mercer. The stockman nods.

  ‘Fuck’s sake,’ the whippet cop says, glaring at Opey. ‘Coulda saved us some time.’

  ‘Well, hang on a minute,’ Cunningham says. ‘You thought Mick was up to no good? Just because they had words about the footy? Jesus, Robbo. It’s a big bloody country. People go missing all the time. Especially dumb city bastards thinking they can drive wherever they like.’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ the older policeman sighs, hacks up a ball of spit that sounds like a piece of lung. ‘We reckon the bloke’s probably run off the road somewhere, maybe took a wrong turn out into the desert. Wouldn’t be the first time. Was drunk as a dildo when he left. We’re trying to work out what direction he would’ve gone.’

  Mick shakes his head. ‘We’d just talked about how bloody hot it was. Told him to take his jacket off then. Bloke looked at me like I’d told him to walk naked through the pub. Said he had an “image” to maintain. Fucked if I know what he was on about.’

  The policeman closes his notebook. ‘Who knows, maybe he’s still sleeping his drunk off somewhere.’

  ‘Maybe his wife’s a bitch and he didn’t want to call her,’ Mick offers.

  The senior cop doesn’t react, just turns to Cunningham. ‘Thanks for your help. And Opey, next time, mind speaking your tongue a bit sooner?’ The young cop glares at the jackaroo.

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  Cutter’s
frowning up the back but Mick barely registers him as the police leave. He grabs some food and heads for a table, sits looking at his hands, surprised he can still breathe. He waits for one of the cops to turn at the last minute with some offhand question that unravels the whole thing. Surprisingly, neither does.

  ‘The older one’s Roberts,’ Opey says quietly, sitting next to him. ‘Poor bastard, always sick. Talk is he has the cancer. Probably why he don’t have much patience. On his way out. But it’s the other one gives me the willies. Kravic. Me family’s had a few run-ins with him. Something wrong with that bloke. Like a pigdog when he gets hold of you. Gunning for the boss’s job, I reckon. Too ambitious.’

  Mick glances sidelong at him. ‘Thanks, Opey. But you shouldn’t’ve —’

  ‘I know you didn’t do anything,’ Opey scoffs. Looks at Mick like it’s the craziest thing in the world to suggest it. ‘Like with Bullet. But people hold grudges out here. They think you done something, you’re treated like that forever. Like I said, my family’s had some problems with the cops. Nothing we did wrong. Just a dispute with our neighbours: relatives of Kravic. And we’ve got shit for it ever since. So they can go to hell.’

  ‘Pretty smart.’

  Opey grins. ‘I might surprise you, Micky. So . . . we okay?’ His smile slips a little.

  Mick looks at him, then away. ‘We’re even.’

  Mercer slops down next to them with a huge plateful. ‘So, where were we on the weekend?’ he asks, takes a huge bite of bread and butter. ‘Ya have any more luck with the ladies this time, Mick?’

  ‘Eat shit, Merse.’

  Mercer grins, tufts of food like mould on his teeth. ‘Nah, fuck the pigs. Not gonna make their jobs any easier.’ He leans in. ‘Roberts’s been hounding me ever since a hash charge when I was fourteen. One fucken mistake. Just ’cause I’m a boong, I reckon. Don’t fuck up too much and you’ll get backed against those cunts every time.’

  Mick nods. Finally looks up to Cutter still staring at him across the room, that knowing look on his face.

  Mick had been questioned by the police before. He knew to just play it straight. If they had anything concrete they’d take you into custody without further ado.

  Not long after his father killed the slow man outside his house that night, the town’s policeman – a huge-gutted man named Vic Winston – returned with a Brisbane detective to interview Mick again. Vic apologised to Mick’s father for putting his family through this, but they were stuck in the investigation and needed to clear up a couple of things.

  ‘So, you thought the man was a foreigner, right?’ the detective had said to Mick. ‘But now you don’t think so.’

  ‘I didn’t get a good look,’ Mick said. ‘I thought because of his car.’

  ‘Which you first said was a black Cadillac, but now’s a dark Holden.’

  His father butted in then, and asked why they had to go over this again. You try rememberin’ everything when somethin’ like that happens.

  ‘Are you okay to talk about this, Micky?’ Vic asked.

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Anything you can remember of the bloke? His boots, hat? Clothes he was wearing? You said he didn’t say anything, but maybe —’

  ‘I can’t remember. Just what I said before. He was wearing a hat. And, um, boots.’

  ‘Gloves?’

  The man said it casual but Mick still paused. Sensed something. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Now, you say the man left. But when you got to the lake he came back again. Are you sure it was the same man —’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ his father said. ‘Why gloves?’

  The detective lowered his notepad and sighed. ‘Because what we don’t understand is, we’ve analysed the walking cane and the only fingerprints on it are your son’s.’

  ‘So the man wore gloves. Why’s that so fucken hard to believe? He set out to kill a kid.’

  ‘Calm down, Jim,’ Vic said. ‘We’re not saying anything —’

  ‘Well, you’re doin’ somethin’. Otherwise why ask the damn question?’

  ‘Because we’re trying to determine if the man who first spoke to your children is the same man who returned,’ the detective said. ‘If he was wearing gloves when he first pulled up —’

  ‘Was it the same bloke?’ his father asked Mick.

  ‘I . . . dunno,’ Mick admitted. ‘That bit happened real quick. Then he belted me with the cane. I woke up later.’

  ‘So the man took your cane,’ the detective said. ‘Hit you with it. But didn’t leave any fingerprints. And you can’t remember the first man wearing gloves.’

  ‘So he put them on in the car,’ his father said in frustration, then stopped. ‘Wait a minute. You know there was a man, right? Johnno Thornton verified the Holden passing by —’

  ‘Yes, we cleared that,’ the detective said.

  ‘What do you mean cleared?’

  It was Vic’s turn to sigh. ‘That was that retard Trevor Balliss, over in Conullan. Probably why your son thought he was foreign. Don’t speak too well. He started work at twelve forty-five at the cheese factory – which would’ve been not long after your little girl died.’ He says that quietly, respectfully. ‘So he couldn’t have taken her to the mine shaft in time.’

  ‘But you never mentioned —’

  ‘We only just tracked him down. Description of the cars made it a bit hard. It was Trev alright, at the start. Says he offered a lift to them. But they ran off. We think: he’s harmless. Mind of a child. Can’t have been him, and the times don’t match anyway – his employer’s cocksure when he started. So we start investigating someone else being the second man at the lake. And then Trev tails it – so maybe it was him after all. Times are wrong, maybe. If Mick’d seen him wearing gloves the first time, maybe we could go back and crack the employer. Bloke could be covering, though others at the factory vouch Trev was there too. It’s a confusing one.’ He shrugged, looked weary. ‘But then again, maybe us talking to him’s just scared him off. I’ve known him for years. Never put a foot wrong. I’d be mighty surprised it was him come back to the lake.’

  His father stayed quiet through all this. His face grey in the afternoon light coming through the kitchen window.

  ‘So that’s why we’re trying to verify if it was Balliss your son saw return,’ the detective said.

  All three men were now looking at Mick. He felt the force of their gaze but didn’t waver, despite the shot of ice through him. ‘I heard footsteps. Then the man grabbed the cane from my hand. Hit me. Everything went black for a bit. Then I remember . . . her screaming as he dragged her away. At me to save her. But I didn’t. I couldn’t get up . . .’ He looked miserably at his hands, so steady even then.

  ‘It’s alright, son,’ Vic said. ‘That’s what we thought. We’ll look for Balliss. Keep it quiet so’s not to tip him off. If he’s the one, we’ll get it out of him. Sorry to disturb you, mate.’ He patted Mick’s father on the shoulder, and then he and the detective left.

  His father sat at the table. Mick stayed silent next to him, waiting for him to say something, that ice inside spreading. Then his father stood and removed his belt. ‘You’re gonna tell me the truth,’ he said, as the policemen’s car pulled away outside. And then there was only the sound of his mother calling feebly from the bedroom, asking what the men wanted, the whips of the leather through the air.

  Mick runs his hands up his scrawny side as he walks, feels the ridges of scars etched up the side of his ribcage and back. If his father couldn’t crack him, nothing could.

  Though Cutter’s bringing him close.

  Coming back from the 500 game having lost just enough of his pay for it still to have been fun – although the awkwardness now between him and Opey made things a bit shitty – he finds the shooter standing beside the jackaroos’ quarters smoking. Mick would have to brush past, so he stops.

  ‘G’day,’ Cutter says and takes a drag, gives a sidelong smile.

  ‘Get the fuck outta —’<
br />
  ‘Ya know, when a man lies you cun see it in his face,’ Cutter stands his ground. ‘Was watching you the whole time the cops were talkin’. I could tell Opey was lyin’ about being with you. It dun’t surprise me. He has a beef with coppers. Any chance to mess with ’em, he’d take it.’

  ‘I said —’

  ‘We both know you come home alone. So you were lying too, at least about that part.’ He cocks his head as if studying him. ‘But I couldn’t see it in your face.’

  Mick says nothing.

  Cutter pushes off the wall. ‘Reckon you fucked up this time. The dog’s one thing – no one can prove that. But a salesman from the bug city, Micky? With a wife and family? Don’t thunk people are gonna come lookin’?’

  ‘I didn’t do anything.’

  Cutter leans in close, squinting. ‘See, you say that and . . . nothing. Like you believe it yourself.’

  ‘Get the fuck away from me, psycho.’

  The shooter smiles. ‘There’s that anger again. That’s what you gotta control, boy. ’Cause that’s your tell. It makes you do bad things, don’t it, SC?’

  ‘Keep pushing me and see what I can do, cunt.’ He should stay quiet. Should say nothing. But he can’t help himself.

  Cutter just laughs. ‘Gonna gut me too? Or you just puss and wund after all?’ He pats Mick’s cheek playfully. ‘Guess we’ll see soon, hey Scareda’cunt?’

  And it’s just like the camp again, when Sammy and the other boys pushed and pushed him, and he’d taken it for so many years, tried to hide the anger inside him – to never let what he’d done to his sister happen again, to hurt someone else so bad. But then it’d been too much, and he ended up beating Sammy and his big fucken mouth with a stick, standing over him and hitting again and again, until he knocked one of the boy’s eyes out and it’d hung like a wet testicle off his face. Old Tommo had sat him down afterwards with the blood still on his hands and said, There’s a darkness in you, son – imagine, a blackfella telling him he’s too dark – he said, I seen it in men before and it rots ’em from the inside. I told ya, you do violence here, you have to leave. Ya need to be out in the world wit’ you own people. Wit’ men who’ll put you in yer place. Mick had looked up at the old man and said that he didn’t want to go, this was his home now. He’d gone to Ma Tikalee and Aunt Jacklyn, pleading. But the next day he’d been driven to the train station with his swag and that was the last he saw of all the blackfella bastards he’d realised too late had become his family. And he’d sat on the train staring out the window, remembering them, then cutting each one from his memory like they were dead.