‘I’ll do that,’ I said. ‘But I think he killed himself.’
‘Yes. That’s what’s most likely. Wonderful bloke, lovely. Well. That’s life.’
We went outside. The other man was out of the Porsche now, leaning against it, smoking a small cheroot. He was big, thick-necked, face like a ten-year-old on steroids.
‘While I’m here,’ Stephens said, ‘I’m thinking of getting someone to look after the maintenance on my properties. Big job, mainly supervision. Well paid. Think something like that would suit you?’
‘Not really,’ I said.
He nodded, put out his hand. ‘Anything makes you think Ian’s death’s other than the way it looks, you let me know. I mean first. Before you tell anyone else. That way, we make sure everything’s properly investigated. Quickly, too, I can guarantee that. Tony Crewe will see to that. Okay? And I’ll make sure you’re not out of pocket for any expenses. My duty to the family.’
‘You’ll be the first to know,’ I said.
‘Good man.’ He took out a wallet, gave me a card, tapped me on the arm.
They got into the car and drove off. I heard the engine note turn to a howl as they took the first hill.
I started at full forward, a position in the Brockley side where the ball was seen so rarely that a full forward had once gone home at the end of the third quarter and no-one noticed until the team was in the pub.
This Saturday was different. We were playing Bentham. I arrived about thirty seconds before the start, missing Mick Doolan’s tactical briefing and inspirational rev-up. He got his motivational material from studying a six-pack of videos called Modern Meisters of Motivation bought for $2.50 at a trash and trivia market. The players, many having their last cigarette before quarter-time, found messages such as Sell the SIZZLE not the STEAK and Don’t SEE to BELIEVE, BELIEVE to SEE extremely powerfuclass="underline" aflame, the Brockley side would stroll out, tugging at their jocks. The usual result: five goals down at quarter-time.
Not today. Either a new video found or Mick had fed the men elephant juice. Billy Garrett was, without effort, leaping free of the earth’s grip. Players who routinely handballed into the ground or to the other side were sending the ball to within metres of team-mates. Even Flannery seemed fresh from a Swiss rejuvenation clinic, backing into packs and coming out with the ball. From all over the field, players were kicking the ball in my direction. It was unnerving but I took four marks, kicked two goals and a behind. At quarter-time, we were four goals up.
As we trooped off, I saw Allie on the bonnet of her truck, leaning back against the windscreen, legs crossed at the ankle. She was wearing a red quilted jacket and a scarf, and you could see the colour in her cheeks from thirty metres. There was a man lounging next to her, floppy dark hair, sallow, young. She gave me the thumbs up, hand cocked forward. Three things went through my mind. One, she’d come to watch me play without being asked. Two, she’d come with another man. Three, don’t be a stupid prick.
In the second quarter, Bentham put a man called String Woodly at fullback. He consisted almost entirely of thin rubbery arms that he wound around you like pipe cleaners while pretending to be interested in taking a mark. No-one had ever seen him take a mark, but very few opposing players had got one while wrapped in String. Carrying him around was exhausting. Billy complained to the umpire. This didn’t work. I resorted to falling over in his embrace, trying to land on him with an elbow in some painful spot. This didn’t work either. I kept landing on my elbow with String on top of me. Finally, I had Flannery sent over and we had a chat.
The next time the ball came our way, coming down through the mist, Flannery got close behind the two of us, pulled out the back of String’s shorts. Using the waistband elastic as a step, he ran up String’s back and plucked the ball from the sky. String let me go, falling over forward, clutching at his shorts, now around his knees.
‘That’s not in the bloody game,’ he said, offended, as Flannery landed on his right shoulder.
‘Stick around, beanpole,’ Flannery said, getting ready to kick. ‘Show you lots not in the game.’ He took two paces and kicked the ball through the middle. He looked around at me, astounded by his feat. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Haven’t kicked a goal since school.’
‘That long,’ I said. ‘Since you were twelve.’
String wasn’t the same after his experience, and Flannery and I saw off a few other Bentham spoilers before the day was over. We ran out ten-goal winners. No-one could remember Brockley winning by ten goals. We went back to the Oak in a state of high excitement, singing one another’s praises. Nothing disturbed our joy until only the hard core remained.
‘Was a time,’ said Trevor Creedy, ‘when Brockley won by bloody ten goals every second week.’ He was a small man with close-set eyes, now murky, the kind of supporter who finds victory deeply unsatisfying. ‘That was,’ he said, ‘before they starting pickin girls. And makin blokes coach never kicked a footy.’
‘Trev,’ Mick said, ‘been meanin to ask ya. How’d ya like to share the coach’s job? I mean, with a view to takin it over?’
Creedy’s eyes narrowed. ‘Ha,’ he said. ‘Tryin to bloody buy off ya critics. Won’t bloody work with me.’
He left, now a happier man.
‘Lovely fella,’ said Flannery. ‘Fixed his car for him, took it for a spin, see how it goes. When I give him the bill, he takes off fifty cents for petrol. Don’t expect me to pay for your joyridin, he says.’
Mick’s mobile trilled. He had a brief conversation, then he said, ‘Vinnie, me own Gestapo’s on the way. Let’s have a lightnin round for the survivors.’
The dog joined me as I stepped out of the door, suddenly aware that no area of my body was without its own dull pain. A full moon gave a pale and cold daylight when the clouds parted. Both limping a bit, the dog and I walked down the road and down the lane.
I was in the office, going through Allie’s work diary and writing up invoices, when I heard the car. Marcia Carrier was getting out of her BMW when I reached the door. She didn’t look like an Olympic dressage contestant today. Today she looked like an Olympic skier, apres ski: dark hair loose, big cream polo-necked sweater, camel-coloured pants. She looked healthy and fit, like someone who ran and swam and had a lot of wholehearted sex in front of open fires, followed by yoghurt milkshakes.
‘Mac,’ she said, ‘I rang the number you gave me, no reply. So I drove over on the off-chance.’
‘Nice to see you,’ I said.
‘Got a few minutes?’
‘Hours. Days. Kitchen’s the only warm room in the house.’
‘I was hoping for the forge.’
‘Forge’s having a rest today. Sunday is forge’s day of rest.’
The kitchen didn’t look too bad. Spartan but clean. I pulled another captain’s chair in front of the stove. Mick Doolan had sold me six for two hundred dollars: ‘To you, Moc, a gift. What I paid for them. Less. I think about it now, less. Much less.’
‘I’ll make coffee,’ I said.
‘Mac, sit,’ she said, lacing her fingers. ‘I have to tell you something and I’m embarrassed about it…’
I sat down.
‘When you came to see me about Ned Lowey, I think I said it was going to nag at me.’ She was studying her left hand on the arm of the chair. It was older than her face.
‘I remember.’
A spray of rain, like gravel thrown, hit the window. She tensed. Our eyes met.
‘Well, it did. I went back to the files, looking for something that might have happened while Mr Lowey was working at Kinross. I found something. About an hour ago.’