by Peter Corris
‘At the back,’ I whispered. ‘He’d go from the garage to the back door.’
‘Where’s Clinton?’
I didn’t answer. Instead I got going around the back, hoping to be able to size up the situation before Wes barged into it, charged with emotion and a good chance to get himself shot. We stopped dead when we rounded the back of the house. Lights were blazing in a glassed-in sun porch and we could see two figures, distorted and unclear through the dirty louvres, standing in the middle of the room. Both were tall and heavily built, but it wasn’t difficult to pick out Clinton. He was the one with the gun in his hand. The gun was pointing at the middle of Kinnear’s chest.
I held Wes back with one hand. ‘This is dodgy. That pistol doesn’t need much of a pull.’
‘God damn you for letting him get it.’
That was helpful. We crept closer to the back door and could hear what was being said inside.
‘I know you gave her the steroids, Ted,’ Clinton said. ‘I fucking know!’
‘I didn’t, Clint! I swear I didn’t.’
I felt Wes react as Clinton swiped Kinnear across the face with the pistol and then had it quickly poised again. ‘You’re lying.’
Kinnear reeled back under the blow but he didn’t fall. It seemed to galvanise and embolden him. ‘Well, fuck you, Clint. What if I did? She begged me for the stuff. She knew she wasn’t good enough to make the Institute unless she got stronger. I just did what she wanted. You could’ve done with a dose of the same at the time. You’re a fucking fat pig now, but.’
I expected Clinton to hit him again but he didn’t. Instead, still moving with athletic grace, he got behind Kinnear.
‘Outside,’ he said quietly.
‘Why?’
‘I’m going to execute you and I’d rather do it outside.’
‘You wouldn’t.’
‘I will. I’ll kill you and then myself. And I don’t want to die in your filthy fucking house. Move!’
He clouted Kinnear on the side of the head with the pistol. Not hard, but enough to jolt him, then he shoved him ahead. Instinctively, Kinnear pushed the door open and stepped out into the yard. Close behind, Clinton kicked him precisely in the back of the right knee. Kinnear collapsed on the broken cement path. Then Clinton saw us. He didn’t hesitate. He moved forward, grabbed Kinnear’s collar, jerked his head up and rammed the pistol into the base of his skull.
Wes stood and extended his hand. ‘Clinton, don’t do it, son. You’ll ruin your life for this old . . .’
‘Stay there, Dad. My life’s over, good as. It just didn’t work out.’
‘That’s crazy. Think of your mother and your sister.’
There wasn’t a lot of light in the yard but I could see the tears on Clinton’s face. ‘All I can think of is Angela and how this bastard killed her.’
It was impossible to tell whether he’d cocked the gun. If he hadn’t, it wouldn’t fire and we could get to him in the time it’d take him to cock it. But if he had, he could do what he threatened in a matter of seconds.
Kinnear was petrified but he managed to turn his head slightly towards us. ‘Do something,’ he pleaded.
‘They can’t,’ Clinton said. ‘Goodbye, Dad.’
‘Clinton. No, boy, no.’
The guttural Aboriginal voice was firm and arresting; Clinton turned to look but kept both hands in place. Joe Cousins and Kathy Simpson stepped into the patch of light coming from the porch.
‘He killed Angela, Mr Cousins,’ Clinton said. ‘He’s admitted it.’
‘Don’t let him kill you then,’ Joe Cousins said. ‘Give us the gun.’
He moved forward, almost casually and, strangely, Kathy came with him. For no good reason, it struck me that she was the only fair one among us. She seemed to glow in the faint light and she was making murmuring noises of comfort directed towards Clinton and he wavered. It could have been the presence of someone young like himself, or maybe the authority Joe Cousins was exerting or both, but Clinton relaxed his grip on Kinnear’s collar and let him sprawl forward. Beside me, Wes relaxed as Cousins took the pistol from Clinton’s hand.
‘Good boy,’ he said. Then he bent, placed the gun to Kinnear’s temple, fired and blew the top half of his head away.
25
Clinton moved to grab the gun, probably still intending to kill himself, but his father clipped him with a short right that buckled his knees. Wesley held him. Clinton struggled but then sagged and burst into tears. I took the pistol from Cousins who was standing calmly by. Then both men comforted Clinton as he cried his young heart out.
Kathy Simpson stood with her hands up to her face. She was shaking. I’d taken the gun by the barrel. I laid it down on the steps and put my arm around Kathy’s shoulders.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. I thought I should bring Mr Cousins. I didn’t know what was going to happen.’
‘No one did, Kathy. You did the right thing. Mr Cousins stopped Clinton from shooting him.’
‘But . . . but Mr Cousins . . .’
‘It’s better this way,’ I said. ‘It won’t be too bad. I’m going in to phone the police. You come in and sit down, or make some coffee or something. It’s a hard thing for a youngster like you to see, but you’ll get over it. Just come inside and don’t look.’
In fact we all went inside and they sat around the laminex kitchen table in silence while I phoned the police. Kathy drank a glass of water but didn’t make coffee. I doubt that anyone would’ve drunk it. It wasn’t a time for routine gestures.
Joe Cousins was composed and dignified and Wesley had trouble concealing his pleasure and relief. Clinton had calmed down. He sat beside his father, staring straight ahead as if there was something interesting written on the wall. His mouth moved as he muttered something but I couldn’t catch what it was.
‘I never shot a gun like that before,’ Joe Cousins said. ‘A hand gun I mean. It’s easy isn’t it?’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Too easy.’
A police siren sounded and he sat up straighter in his chair with his gnarled boxer and axeman hands clenched in front of him.
‘Listen, Joe,’ I said. ‘Don’t say a word to the cops. Don’t say a single word until you’ve got a lawyer right there with you.’
Cousins almost smiled. ‘Okay. Yeah. Things’ve improved that way. We’ve got some bloody good lawyers now.’
I met two uniformed policemen in the driveway, identified myself and the other parties dead and alive and told them the bare minimum, using the most neutral language I could command. I showed them the body and the gun but refused to say anything about who had done what to whom. The younger of the two cops was inclined to be aggressive but the older one knew the drill. He went into the house and observed the silent foursome sitting around the table.
‘Wait for the D’s,’ he said to his partner. ‘Let them handle it. It’s not as if we have to chase after anyone, is it, Hardy?’
‘No. We’re all here. Or nearly all.’
‘What the fuck does that mean?’
‘It’s a long story,’ I said.
As soon as the story broke, Rex Nickless rang me to say that he wanted nothing further to do with Clinton or with me. He considered our account closed. I reminded him that there was a Camry sedan belonging to him parked in a Parramatta street.
‘You’re a bastard, Hardy.’
‘How’s your wife?’ I said.
He laughed. ‘We’ll work something out.’
‘I’ve also got six thousand dollars of your money that didn’t get spent.’
There was a pause and I could imagine him thinking about it, calculating whether it was worth recovering and what my terms might be.
‘Use it to defend the Abo,’ he said.
Joe Cousins pleaded not guilty to murder on the grounds of diminished responsibility. He was brilliantly defended by a black barrister in front of an all-white jury. Wes and I gave evidence that Kinnear had admitted supplying the steroids that
had killed Angela Cousins. Quantities of the stuff were found in his house along with other evidence of drug dealing. Cousins was convicted of manslaughter and sentenced to seven years’ imprisonment, eligible for parole after three. He declared himself well satisfied with the result.
The death of Mark Alessio remained a mystery. It was possible that he’d found out about Kinnear’s involvement and that Kinnear had run him down. Possible, but impossible to prove. The vehicle that had killed him was a station wagon and the police questioned the witness in an effort to establish if Kinnear’s station wagon filled the bill. The witness couldn’t be sure and forensic examination of the car failed to confirm the suspicion.
For a time, Clinton Scott was a lost soul. Wes and Mandy did all they could for him but something vital in him had been damaged. He made an effort to stop drinking and lose weight but failed. He lost all interest in sports and never came near the gym. I asked Wes about him from time to time and got negative replies until one day he showed me a newspaper photograph of a noticeably slimmer Clinton sitting cross-legged in a group being addressed by a shaven-headed Asian wearing a yellow off-the-shoulder robe.
‘What’s this?’ I said. ‘I have to say he looks a lot better.’
Wes shook his head resignedly. ‘He’s become a vegetarian. He’s studying Eastern philosophy.’
‘It could be worse.’
‘How.’
‘Western philosophy.’
I was in trouble myself, of course, for not reporting the loss of my pistol and the consequences that flowed from that. I pleaded incapacity through injury.
I was disqualified. I appealed and the case comes up for a hearing in a couple of weeks. My injuries healed and I tried to settle back into a routine of regular work in the gym, but my resolution wavers. I miss too many sessions too often. Ian Sangster expressed no sympathy when I told him about my lapses.
‘What’s the point of making a great corpse?’ he said, lighting an unfiltered Chesterfield.
I stayed in touch with Kathy Simpson, reassuring her that nothing that had happened that night in Parramatta was her fault. She seemed to accept it eventually. Her graduation comes up about the same time as my licence disqualification hearing.
