An Iron Rose

by Peter Temple

  ‘Don’t know if there’s a sensible answer to the question,’ he said. ‘What’s it matter anyway? Made his choice. You make your choice. Serious choice, but just a choice.’

  ‘His wife says he was often depressed.’

  He gave me a look that said he’d met smarter people.

  ‘Could be said about half the people in the line of work- more. Not shuffling bloody paper, y’know. Pain and suffering and bloody dying.’

  A fat pink woman in a lime-green towelling tracksuit, large breasts swaying and bouncing out of control, lurched around a corner. ‘Gidday, Dr Crewe,’ she panted.

  Dr Crewe touched a finger to the brim of his tweed hat. ‘Don’t know what they think they’re doing,’ he said. ‘Do herself a lot more good jumping up and down naked on that miserable bloody shopkeeper she’s married to.’

  I rolled up my right sleeve. The day was clear, almost warm. I’d left my jacket in the car. ‘Didn’t surprise you?’

  ‘Too late for surprises. Precious bloody little surprises me. What’s that on your arm?’

  I looked down. ‘Burn.’

  ‘Burn? What kind of work d’you do?’

  ‘Blacksmith.’

  He nodded. ‘Reasonably honest trade.’ Pause. ‘This interest in Ian Barbie, say it again.’

  I told him about Ned’s visit to Footscray.

  ‘Sure he went to see Ian?’

  ‘The receptionist remembered him. He didn’t have an appointment, said it was a private matter. She told Ian and he saw him after the next patient. He was with Ian for about ten minutes.’

  Dr Crewe didn’t say anything for a while. Out on the calm water, a man in a single scull was sitting motionless, head bowed, shoulders slumped, could be dead. Then he moved, first stroke slow and smooth, instantly in his rhythm, powerful insect skimming the silver surface. At the end of each stroke, there was a pause, missed in the blink of an eye.

  ‘This Ned,’ he said. ‘Any drug problem there?’

  ‘No.’

  We walked in silence for perhaps fifty paces. ‘Ian had a drug problem,’ I said.

  He didn’t say anything, didn’t look at me. We passed a scowling group of seagulls on a jetty, identical commuters waiting in anger for an overdue train home.

  ‘I left the practice on my seventieth birthday,’ said Dr Crewe. ‘Nine years ago last month. Saddest day of my life. Second saddest. Nobody feels seventy, y’know. Not inside the heart. Always twenty-five inside.’

  More silence. Two runners came from behind, short chunky men, hair cut to stubble, big hairy legs. Footballers. Then a tall blonde came into view, white singlet, tight black stretch shorts, hair pulled back. She was at full stride, moving fast, balanced, arms pumping. As the balls of her feet touched the ground, her long thigh muscles bunched above the knee. Her legs and torso were flushed pink, her head was back, mouth open, eyes slits.

  We both turned to watch her go. Our eyes met.

  ‘Always twenty-five inside,’ he said. ‘And sometimes you feel you could be twenty-five outside too.’

  ‘Eighteen,’ I said. ‘Eighteen.’

  He gave a snort and picked up the pace. We were going up an incline between two huge oaks when he said, ‘You don’t want to accept your friend’s suicide.’ A statement.

  ‘No.’ It came out sharply.

  ‘I won’t talk psychological bullshit to you, but some questions you have to leave alone. They didn’t do it to hurt you. They did it because something hurt them and they wanted to put an end to that pain.’

  ‘Dr Crewe,’ I said, ‘I don’t know about Ian, but Ned wouldn’t kill himself.’

  He stopped. I was taken by surprise, went a pace further.

  ‘They don’t end up hanging by accident,’ he said. ‘So I don’t know what you’re saying.’

  I said, ‘I think Ned’s suicide was staged. I think he was murdered.’

  He put his head back and looked at me down the long nose. ‘Police think what?’

  ‘Investigating officer seems to think it’s a possibility.’

  ‘Probably humouring you. You reckon the same might hold for Ian?’

  ‘If I’m right about Ned, it’s possible.’

  Dr Crewe sighed and started walking. After a while, he said. ‘Loved the boy, y’know.’

  I didn’t say anything.

  ‘Loved his mother, too, might as well tell you. People say he’s mine, but he’s not. Often wished he was. Instead I’ve got Tony-every inch a Carew, not a trace of Crewe in him. Mean-spirited, selfish, whole bloody clan’s like that. Mean-spirited and selfish genes pass on to every generation, doesn’t matter who they marry. Tony’s mother was a prime example.’

  A small, round man in a tracksuit overtook us, wobbling as he ran. ‘Doc,’ he gasped. It sounded like an appeal for help.

  ‘G’day Laurie. Walk, you bloody fool.’

  The man gave a feeble wave.

  ‘Three Carews joined up the same day I did,’ said Dr Crewe. ‘Wife’s brother, two of his cousins. You’d think one of ’em would see some action. Hah. Whole war in Canberra, fighting the paper, all three. More than luck involved, I can tell you. Tony’s the same. If there’s an easy way, he’ll find it.’

  ‘Ian was at Melbourne Uni with Tony,’ I said. ‘Little group of local boys, I gather.’

  Dr Crewe looked at me, shook his head. ‘Done anything to keep Ian away from Tony and Andrew Stephens and the Veene boy. Andrew’s father was a good man, fine man, fought with the Greek partisans in the war. Good doctor too. Andrew. Young Andrew’s just rubbish. Too much too soon. Like Rick Veene. Rick’s got Carew in him somewhere down the line. His mother’s Tony’s mother’s third cousin or something. Poisonous breed. Buy their way through life. Bought off bloody Carew, that was easy enough.’

  ‘Carew?’

  ‘Carew College, University of Melbourne. Tony’s mother’s grandfather paid for it. Out of ill-gotten gains. Unjailed criminal. College. Place you stay in. Know about that?’

  ‘Only just,’ I said.

  He gave me a look and an appraising nod. ‘Blacksmith. Name again?’

  ‘Mac.’

  ‘Mac. I remember. Mac.’

  There was a sound like sandpapering behind us and a group of male runners split to pass us, came together, all one physical type, a big pack of brothers sent out to run until supper time.

  ‘So,’ I said, ‘Carew.’

  ‘Carew?’

  ‘Bought off. Carew.’

  ‘Bought off?’

  ‘The college.’

  ‘Oh. That’s right. Bought off. Andrew Stephens, Carews and the Veenes. Bloody Carew family trust gives the college some huge sum every year. Clive Carew and Bob Veene were on the council then. Bob Veene. Bloody rabbit. Pathetic. Rick’s the only son. Four girls. Nice things, bit on the big side mark you, but nice, healthy girls, never heard a bad word about them. One’s married to a carpenter. That’d make the bloody Veenes’ foreskins curl.’

  ‘Why did they buy off the college?’

  ‘Business with a girl. Didn’t hear about it till years later. Tony’s mother and the rest of them did the dirty work. Kept me in the dark ’cause they knew me. I’d have let the buggers take the consequences. Jail if necessary. Never been any consequences for Tony and Andrew. Never. Not in their lives. Now Tony’s the bloody attorney-general. Unbelievable. Makes you think even less of politics. Never thought that’d be possible. Not an ounce of respect for anything. Went into politics because he saw it was easy money. All talk and some bloody public servant does the work. Or doesn’t.’

  He shook his head. ‘Shocked me that old Andrew’d get involved in something like that. Doted on that bloody boy of his. We had a big blue, not the same after that. Friends for going on thirty years. Still, bribery’s bloody bribery. Can’t brush over it.’

  ‘So Ian was involved in this Carew business?’

  ‘Don’t know. Suppose so. Time I found out, it was pretty pointless to ask.’

  We had reached a marke
r that said two kilometres. Dr Crewe said, ‘Turnaround time.’

  ‘Kinross Hall,’ I said. ‘Why did Ian stop being Kinross Hall’s doctor?’

  His shoulders seemed to sag a little at the mention of the place.

  ‘Don’t know. Gave me the brushoff when I asked him. That Carrier woman, probably. Picked her for a cast-iron bitch moment I laid eyes on her. Another brilliant piece of work by Tony.’

  ‘Tony?’

  ‘Chairman of the management committee. Got her appointed instead of Daryl Hopman. He was deputy when old Crosland retired. Good man, sound. Well, he didn’t last long after Carrier arrived. Took early retirement, died. Inside a few years, all the old staff gone.’

  ‘Did you know about Ian’s pethidine problem?’

  He glanced at me. ‘Ian had a lot of problems. Not a well man.’

  ‘Physically not well?’

  ‘Mind, body, all the same. Not a well man.’

  I had a stab in the dark. ‘Someone said he might have had some sort of sexual aberration.’

  He didn’t reply. We walked in silence. At his gate, Dr Crewe said, ‘Big word for a blacksmith, aberration. Well, Mr Blacksmith, I’d like to think that Ian didn’t kill himself. But I can’t. For your man, maybe you’re right. I’ll say good day.’

  I said thank you.

  He nodded, opened the gate and went down the path without looking back.

  On the way home, in minutes, the day darkened and it poured, solid sheets like a monsoon rain. A freezing monsoon rain. Then it stopped, the clouds broke, the sun came out and all along the road the shallow pools were full of sky.

  Ken Berglin was in his mid-thirties when I went to work for him, but to me he seemed to be of my father’s generation. He was tall and gaunt, bony-faced, with colourless thinning hair combed straight back, and he always wore a dark suit with a white shirt and dark tie.

  On my first day back from training in Chicago, waiting to go undercover, we met at the War Memorial at opening time. It was autumn in Canberra, cold, the flaming leaves changing the colour of the air. We were looking at a World War I biplane in a towering near-empty gallery when he said to me in his hoarse voice, ‘So you seen all the shooting galleries and the crack shops?’

  I nodded.

  ‘They tell you you can’t do this work without a sense of moral superiority?’

  ‘They mentioned it in passing,’ I said. ‘Few hundred times. I’m shit-scared to tell you the truth.’

  ‘Always will be. That’s the job. Listen, Mac, this moral superiority, holding the line against the forces of darkness stuff, that’s useful out there. Like a swag full of arseholes. Believe me. I know. I’ve been there. Let’s have a smoke.’

  We went out into a courtyard. I offered him a Camel.

  ‘There’s some good comes from the Yanks,’ he said. The air was still and the blue-grey smoke hung around us like a personal mist.

  Berglin studied his cigarette. ‘You live with the scum,’ he said. ‘One of them, in their world, they can buy anything, buy anyone. You forget what you are. Some of them you even like after a while. Then you start to think like them. The whole thing starts to look normal. Like a business, really. Ordinary business. Like being a man buys and sells fucking meat. So the vegetarians don’t like the business. They don’t even like to look in the shop window. Half a chance, they’d put you out of business. You think, what the fuck does that matter? There’s plenty who want a thick, juicy steak. And all these friends of yours are doing is selling it to them. Should that be a fucking crime?’

  Berglin paused and looked at me inquiringly. ‘Making sense to you, this?’

  ‘So far.’

  Something caught his eye. He pointed. ‘Eagle,’ he said. We watched it for a while, bird all alone in the vast blue emptiness, dreaming on the high winds.

  ‘Anyway,’ Berglin said, ‘when you start thinking like the other side, you’re on the way to changing sides. And that will make you a worthless, faithless person. Agree?’

  It was hard not to. I nodded.

  Berglin took a deep drag and blew a stream of perfect smoke rings, like a cannon firing tiny grey wreaths.

  ‘Worthless, faithless, that’s bad,’ he said. ‘But there’s worse. Dead is worse.’ He stood on his cigarette butt. ‘Let’s have a look at Gallipoli. My favourite.’

  He led the way to a gallery that featured a huge diorama of the disastrous Gallipoli landing. Two young Japanese tourists in expensive ski wear were studying it, faces impassive.

  ‘Always have a look at this,’ Berglin said. ‘Bloody marvellous, not so?’

  We admired the huge scene.

  ‘You think you’re scared?’ he said. ‘Consider these poor bastards. Boys led to the slaughter.’

  It occurred to me that our meeting place was more than a matter of convenience.

  The Japanese left. They were holding hands. ‘Dead, Mac,’ Berglin said again. ‘One inkling that you’ve moved across, you’re just a picture in an album. And we’ll know, believe me. You cross over, you can’t go home anymore. Know that line? American book. This is like marriage except that when we say “Till death do us part”, we mean it. And it’s you who’s dead. You religious?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘No. Me neither. They say it can help with the fear. I deeply fucking doubt that. Well, we’ve got to talk some details. Got a little room here I sometimes use.’

  Later, before he sent me off, Berglin said, ‘How to be a halfway decent person. That’s the main question in life. The work, the job, it’s on the side of the fourteen-year-olds. Get a few free tastes-two years later, they’re in the cold filing cabinet, tracks all over ’em like a rash. This scum, they are way over on the other side. Across the dark river. Keep it in mind, Mac. Won’t, of course. Wouldn’t be any fucking use if you did.’

  He was absolutely right. I never gave it a thought over the next few years, living under the gun, sweating on the moment of discovery. But I often thought about that meeting with Berglin later. And I thought about it again, driving home from talking to Dr Crewe.

  I parked outside the smithy and went to have a piss in the bathroom alongside the office. Still thinking about Berglin, I was in the room before I heard the shower.

  Allie was in the big open shower stall facing me. She had her head back under the spray, arms raised to shampoo her hair. Before I backed out, I registered sleek pubic hair, flattened breasts with prominent nipples, defined ribcage, long muscular thighs.

  I was in the smithy, shaken, lustful, looking at a sketch of gateposts a hobby farmer outside Wallace wanted when Allie came in, shiny clean, spiky, no make-up.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘No truck. Didn’t occur to me you’d be showering.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ she said without a trace of embarrassment. ‘They told us at school to lock the cubicle. I was feeling filthy. Alarm didn’t go off this morning, twenty minutes to get to the job.’

  ‘Where’s the truck?’

  ‘Lent it to Mick. Met him in the pub at lunchtime. He’s broken down other side Newstead.’

  ‘Overloaded with furniture ripped off the rural poor,’ I said. ‘That’s the first time I’ve seen you naked.’

  She smiled. ‘You only had to ask.’

  We looked at each other for a moment, a trace of awkwardness.

  ‘You working?’ she said.

  ‘Gateposts for a bloke at Wallace.’ I handed her the sketch the man had given me.

  She whistled. ‘Gateposts? These are gateposts? What is the place? Some kind of agribrothel?’

  ‘Hardiplank house on two acres. He says his wife saw gateposts like this in America. Went to Disneyland with her first husband.’

  Allie scratched her head. ‘Disneyland and Cape Kennedy, Cape Canaveral, whatever it’s called. Does he see that they look like two giant wangers?’

  ‘Wanger? That’s the current term is it?’

  She nodded. ‘This week’s term. Wanger.’

  ‘He’s under no illusio
ns,’ I said. ‘I suggested to him that they looked like a pair of pricks and he said, there’s been two of us. When my wife marries again, she can come around and get you to make a third prick.’

  ‘No illusions,’ Allie said.

  ‘Any idea how you’d make something like this?’

  She shrugged. ‘You work behind closed doors. Then you transport them at night, under a tarp. And you don’t have anything to do with their, ah, erection.’

  When we stopped laughing, we went over to the office and worked out how to make the posts and what to charge.

  ‘Add twenty percent to cover embarrassment and possible prosecution,’ Allie said.

  ‘We may have priced ourselves out of the market here,’ I said.

  ‘For this kind of work,’ Allie said, ‘we are the market.’

  I rang the man and gave him the quote. When I put the phone down, I said, ‘Didn’t blink. Wife wants them up in time for the Grand Final. They have a big gathering every year.’

  Allie frowned.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Stop now.’

  We went out into the rapidly chilling day to inspect the steel store.

  ‘MacArthur John Faraday,’ Berglin said. ‘Nothing for four years, then twice inside a month.’

  I could picture the long, sardonic face, the narrow black shoes on the desk, the cigarette dangling from the jaundiced fingers.

  ‘Twice?’

  ‘Had your local jacks on the line about that special permit. Been firing the cowboy gun at the neighbours?’

  ‘What’d you tell them?’

  ‘Piss off. How’ve you been?’

  ‘Fair. You?’