by Robert Gott
Joe stood up and assessed the damage the whiskey had done. His clothes looked slept in, which was hardly surprising, and he felt seedy. He hated sleeping in his clothes. It exacerbated the general seediness. He needed a bath and a shave. He looked at his watch. It was 7.00 a.m. Guy, who’d drunk a good deal more whiskey than Joe, must be feeling very hungover.
Joe looked round the room. Where were Guy’s things? He’d noticed the night before that Guy had put a few belongings — his shaving kit, a book, his watch — on a small table, and his suitcase had been against the wall. None of these items remained in the room. Guy had left.
Joe attempted to straighten the creases in his shirt and trousers, put his coat on, and quickly ducked into the bathroom, where he glanced at his dishevelled head, cupped water into his dry, sour mouth, went to the toilet, and then made his way downstairs to the foyer of the hotel. There was no one there. He went out into Russell Street, where he found Guy standing on the footpath, his suitcase beside him, and his hands in his pockets. Joe stood beside him.
‘Do you feel as bad as you look?’ Joe asked.
Guy managed a weak smile. ‘I was hoping to be gone before you woke up.’
‘Gone where?’
‘Anywhere. Just gone.’
‘But you’ve paid for two nights.’
‘I don’t think I can manage a second night in that room.’
‘If you’re hoping to catch a taxi, forget it. It’s Sunday morning.’
‘You know what I was hoping for, Joe? I was hoping that if I stood here long enough, the earth would open up and swallow me.’
‘I’m staying in a very big house, Guy. There’s plenty of room.’
Joe said this without thinking. Peter Lillee’s funeral would be in a few days. Would Ros and Helen want a stranger intruding on their grief? They’d welcome him, he had no doubt of that, but would they wonder at Joe’s impertinence?
‘Wait here a minute,’ he said to Guy. Then he turned and went back into to the hotel foyer and telephoned the Lillee house. Ros Lord answered. She didn’t ask why Joe hadn’t returned the previous night. She didn’t consider this any of her business. When Joe broached the subject of Guy’s needing a place to stay, Ros was enthusiastic. She said that the house needed people in it and that she was sure that any friend of Joe’s would be a decent young man. There was no question for Joe about Guy’s decency, but he was uncertain about bringing Guy’s night terrors into the quiet of the house in Kew.
Once he’d hung up the telephone, Joe hurried back into the street, afraid that Guy might have taken off, but he found him waiting there.
‘Mrs Lord is very happy to put you up, and believe me, it’s a big house. You won’t be in anyone’s way.’
Guy picked up his suitcase.
‘This feels like sanctuary, Joe. I never thought I’d need sanctuary. God help me, Joe, I do.’
THE CONCIERGE AT The Victoria Hotel was trying not to show his revulsion at the sight of the wound on George Starling’s cheek. The Victoria was a busy hotel, one of the busiest in Melbourne, and the concierge had seen several returned men with faces altered by an injury sustained in battle. He’d seen men with an ear missing, or an eye missing, or with dreadful, unsightly burns. It was bad form to show that you found the injuries disgusting or shocking. He’d perfected the art of the neutral expression, so when he looked at Starling’s face, he gave nothing away.
‘We have a room with a bath, Mr Collins,’ he said. ‘You must be a lucky man. We’ve had a cancellation.’
Starling had settled on Collins as a pseudonym at the last minute. He paid in cash and took the key.
Once in his room, Starling put his suitcase on the bed and opened it. To lighten the suitcase, he’d left a shirt and a pair of Mr Pluschow’s shoes in the pannier of his motorcycle, which he’d parked in a remote corner of the cemetery in Carlton. On the tram ride into town, he’d noticed the looks on people’s faces as they observed him, and he was certain that they weren’t actually seeing his features, just the scar.
Among the items he’d laid out on the bed were the Luger and Joe Sable’s scrapbook, with its dozens of newspaper clippings delivering the news that the Jews in Europe were being dealt with. A few hours earlier, Starling had pulled over and tested the Luger by firing a bullet through the scrapbook. The hole was clean, with cordite marks on each page. The gun had sat well in his hands. Maybe this was the way to dispose of Joe Sable. A headshot from nowhere might be as satisfying in its way as a slow kill. He picked the Luger up, held it under his nose, and breathed in its metallic gunpowder-and-oil smell.
He knew where Joe Sable worked, but today was Sunday, so he wouldn’t be there. He wouldn’t be at his flat in Princes Hill, either. He knew that because he was the one who’d burned it down. There was another house where he’d seen Joe Sable visit. It was up in Brunswick. He’d seen that other prick there, too — Tom Mackenzie.
He’d caught Mackenzie in the backyard dunny, and he’d given him a fright. Christ, he’d screamed like a fucking pansy. He should have killed Mackenzie that night, but he hadn’t known how many were in the house. It had been too risky, and he hadn’t come prepared. He’d retreated into the night and nursed his regret about not knocking Mackenzie to the ground and stomping on him.
Starling decided to return to the Brunswick house. Maybe Sable was staying there temporarily. He’d wait until nightfall to visit the house. To help pass the time, he read each of the articles in the scrapbook he’d stolen from Sable’s flat. He wasn’t a daily reader of newspapers, but he did pick them up irregularly, and he’d never noticed articles like these. They were from The Argus and The Age, so he ought to have seen them. None of them was from the front page, so perhaps they’d been buried among the blizzard of competing news. That was a pity, because if he’d missed them, it was probably true that most other people had missed them, too.
Starling had no desire to search out members of the group that Ptolemy Jones had gathered together. He hadn’t liked any of them, and without Jones to lead them, what was the point? He didn’t want to discuss National Socialism with them. He didn’t want to discuss National Socialism with anyone. Political theory bored him. Action was what made a difference; action was what mattered. Thinking and theory created men like Hardy Truscott. They were a waste of space. He was happy to act alone. There was more heroism in that than in all of Truscott’s Odinist rubbish. He didn’t believe in any god. If God existed and had seen fit to deliver him into the hands of a man like his father, then God was an arsehole.
JOE AND GUY arrived at Peter Lillee’s house in Kew just before 10.00 a.m. Joe couldn’t judge from Helen’s reaction to Guy whether she was genuinely happy to have him there, or whether she was being polite. Ros Lord was more effusive. She took them both upstairs and gave Guy a choice of two rooms.
‘Peter always liked to have the guest rooms ready, even though no one ever used them.’
Guy, who had grown up in a large house, wasn’t confounded by the extravagance of the Kew residence. He chose the first room he’d been shown and put his suitcase on the bed.
‘I’ll make us some tea,’ Ros said. ‘It’s a lovely morning. We’ll have it in the garden.’
As they were going down the stairs, the telephone rang. Helen answered it. Joe assumed it was for her, perhaps her friend, Clara. He and Guy went out into the garden, and Ros went into the kitchen to prepare the tea.
‘They seem like nice people,’ Guy said. ‘It’s damned decent of them to take me in like this.’
‘I admire them both,’ Joe said.
‘Helen especially?’
If someone other than Guy had asked this question, it might have been impolite. Neither of them was aware that Helen had come out into the garden in time to hear the question, and to hear Joe’s answer.
‘Helen can be bloody touchy, but I don’t blame her. She’s smarter than anyone in Homicide
. She’s certainly smarter than I am, as she’s pointed out more than once. I think she might be even smarter than Lambert. I’m intimidated by her. And you know, having shared this house with her, I’m getting to like her more and more.’
Helen hung back until the conversation had moved on. She sequestered Joe’s comment for later deconstruction.
‘It’s Tom Mackenzie on the telephone,’ she called from the back step, and then walked towards the two men. Joe stood up, remembering suddenly that he’d agreed to have lunch with Tom.
‘He sounds good,’ Helen said. ‘We had a brief chat. I’ve never actually spoken to him before, which is odd, isn’t it? Given everything that’s happened.’
‘He’d have liked the chance to talk to you. I’ve told him about you, of course. He knows what happened in Port Fairy.’
Helen narrowed her eyes slightly, and Joe thought he’d made a blunder. Would Helen think he had no business talking about her to Tom Mackenzie?
‘I’d like to meet him,’ she said, and smiled, which made Joe feel better. While Joe went inside to talk to Tom, Helen sat opposite Guy. She observed him closely, looking, as she always did when first meeting someone, for small tells that might provide clues to character, or simply to personal idiosyncrasies. She saw signs of nervousness and exhaustion. He was a good-looking man, she thought, but his eyes betrayed a night of heavy drinking, and the skin on his unshaven face was beginning to show signs of unhealthy living. Something had happened to him, and whatever it was, the memory of it plagued him.
‘You’ve known Joe for quite a while,’ she said.
‘We met at university. We shared an interest in the impractical discipline of art.’ He smiled. ‘It was the interest we shared. We don’t share the same tastes. I think of Joe as a mediaevalist. I’m a bit more up to date.’
‘You might be interested in my late uncle’s collection.’
‘I did notice the Sargent knock-off.’
‘I know Joe thinks I’m a nitwit when it comes to art. I’ve never taken an interest in it.’
‘It’s very good of you and your mother to put me up at such short notice, especially considering …’
‘Mum is very fond of Joe, so any friend of his is welcome.’
Guy refrained from asking if there was a discrepancy between Mrs Lord’s fondness for Joe and Helen’s fondness for him. Helen noticed this and appreciated the discretion, conscious that it was deliberate. A clumsier person would have asked without thinking, given the way she’d phrased her comment. Despite his hangover, Guy Kirkham was astute — much more astute than Joe would have been in the same situation.
‘I drank too much whiskey last night.’
‘Whiskey is hard to get these days.’
‘I stole it from my father.’
Guy raised his teacup to his lips, and Helen looked away, thinking that he might be embarrassed by the obvious tremor in his hand.
‘It’s not permanent, I hope,’ he said, nodding at his hand. ‘It comes and goes. You must think I’m a bit of a mess. The thing is, I am a bit of a mess.’
Helen had never before sat with a man who seemed so unguarded, so uninterested in shielding from view the rawness of his emotions. She didn’t find it weak or pathetic. Her impulse — an impulse not often aroused in her — was to hold him. Instead, she reached across the table and put her palm over his still faintly trembling hand.
‘You really are welcome here, Guy.’
He nodded and was about to say something, when Joe returned to the garden. Helen left her hand where it was. To do anything else would have created the ridiculous impression that she’d removed it guiltily.
‘Tom Mackenzie has invited me to lunch. He said you’d be welcome to come along, Guy. It’s almost warm enough to go for a swim at South Melbourne Beach.’
‘I don’t have any trunks.’
‘I’m sure Uncle Peter has spare swimming trunks — and they won’t have been worn. He always bought several pairs of everything.’
Neither Joe nor Guy had any real intention of swimming, but they followed Helen to Peter Lillee’s bedroom to collect a pair of trunks each, just in case. There was a drawer that held only swimming trunks, and they chose two pairs of woollen blue Jantzen trunks with white belts. As Helen had promised, they were in unopened cellophane packets and had clearly never been worn.
It was Helen who suggested that they use Peter’s car. Getting to South Melbourne on a Sunday using public transport would take hours. Ros was in furious agreement, so Joe found himself behind the wheel of the most expensive car he’d ever sat in.
‘That’s a nasty scratch on the passenger side,’ Guy said. ‘Looks fresh, too — no rust. What happened?’
‘We don’t know. The car was locked up in the garage the night Peter died. He walked to the river.’
‘Where were the car keys?’
‘You should join the force, Guy. The keys were in the house, and the car was definitely locked. Someone from Homicide went over the car. There’s a brief report on it, but it doesn’t seem to have played any part in Peter’s death.’
‘Maybe some envious bastard gouged the car out of spite.’
‘That’s probably what happened. There’s been a bit of that happening around town. People think anyone who drives a flash car must be rorting the petrol rationing.’
Tom Mackenzie was at home alone when Joe and Guy arrived. Titus and Maude had gone to their house in Brunswick to do some gardening and washing. Introductions were brief.
‘I know what happened to you, mate,’ Guy said. ‘Joe told me. Hope you don’t mind.’
‘Not at all. It saves me explaining it. Joe mentioned on the phone that you had a bad time in New Guinea. I hope you don’t mind.’
Guy put his arm around Joe’s shoulder. ‘Quid pro quo,’ he said. ‘Three wounded soldiers. What a sorry sight we are.’
‘I think I look the sorriest,’ Tom said. ‘Not that it’s a competition.’
‘My scars are all up here,’ Guy said, and tapped his temple. ‘If you could see inside here, you’d run screaming into the street.’
Lunch was sandwiches, and talk among them was easy. Because George Starling was uppermost in Tom’s mind, he wanted Joe to tell him everything he knew. It was clear to Tom that Joe told Guy everything, so he had no qualms about raising the matter of tracking Starling down. Joe wished he hadn’t, especially as Guy became enthusiastic about joining them. That was out of the question, but Joe decided to wait before explaining why. It would have put a dampener on the lunch.
‘Is it warm enough for a swim?’ Guy asked. ‘I suddenly feel like one.’
‘Not warm enough for me,’ Tom said. ‘And I’m not supposed to get these splints wet. Besides, I don’t think I’m ready to take my shirt off in a public place.’
They agreed that a walk along the Kerferd Road Pier would be ideal. Guy changed into the swimming trunks he’d borrowed and pulled his clothes on over them. Tom gave him a towel.
‘I’ll decide whether it’s too cold or not when we get there,’ Guy said.
They walked the short distance from Tom’s house to Middle Park Beach. There was a good chop on Port Phillip Bay, which drove small waves onto the beach. There were a few people in the water and a few more on the sand. The wind was just strong enough to flick the sand about and cause people to turn their faces this way and that to avoid it. At the far end of the pier, half a dozen men were fishing.
Tom, Guy, and Joe walked the length of the pier. No one had caught any fish. Tom stood on the edge and looked down into the water.
‘I could never have joined the navy. The ocean terrifies me. It’s ruthless.’
‘It holds you up,’ Guy said. ‘Unlike the air.’
‘It doesn’t want to hold you up. It wants to drag you under. It’s a vast, liquid maw.’
Joe laughed. ‘It’s really
just Port Phillip Bay.’
Guy took a step back from Tom and Joe and undressed so quickly that each of them was surprised when he pushed between them and stood on the edge of the pier. He said nothing and vanished, feet first, into the water.
It was this that made Joe’s heart begin an erratic, nausea-inducing pattern of beating. Even though he knew it would pass, whenever it happened his response was to become highly anxious, which only made him feel worse. He sat down on the rough planks of the pier, fearful that he might topple into the bay, and put his head between his knees.
Tom, caught between Guy’s disappearance and Joe’s collapse — for that was what it looked like — hesitated. Then Joe got on all fours and began vomiting copiously over the edge of the pier, and Tom swiftly kneeled beside him and put his hand between his shoulder blades. He noted peripherally the looks of distaste on the faces of the fishermen. He didn’t speak but hoped that the pressure of his hand might provide some reassurance.
Joe pulled back from the edge again and sat with his knees up and his arms resting on them. He breathed deeply. He was sweating, and his face was white, so white that his beard shadow looked like a large charcoal smudge.
‘Guy,’ he said. ‘Where’s Guy?’
Tom had no sense of how much time had passed.
‘He’s swimming,’ he said.
‘Where? Can you see him?’
It hadn’t occurred to Tom to worry about Guy until he heard the tension in Joe’s voice.
‘Just this morning Guy said that he wanted the earth to open up and swallow him.’
‘Oh, Christ,’ Tom said. He scanned the water on one side of the pier, and then the other. There was no sign of Guy Kirkham.
‘Did anybody see the bloke who jumped in?’ Tom called.
‘Saw him go in. Haven’t seen him since,’ one of the men replied. All six of them put their rods aside and came over to Joe and Tom.
‘Have you blokes been drinking?’ one of them asked.
