‘You swaggies know how to handle yourselves.’
‘Just a drunk,’ said Rebb. ‘No challenge there.’
They watched the snatches of Bobby Walshe’s speech. He looked good wet, there was a close-up, raindrops running down his face. They saw the old lady kiss him, his kind smile, his hand on her elbow.
Walshe did a brief interview. Then the camera followed him and Helen Castleman going over to Cashin and Kendall and Wexler. The camera zoomed.
Cashin shuddered. He hadn’t seen the lens pointing, he would have turned away. The woman with the freeze-dried hair said: ‘Bobby Walshe also took the opportunity to speak to Detective Joe Cashin. Cashin was one of the police present at the death on Thursday of Walshe’s nephew Corey Pascoe and another Aboriginal youth, Luke Ericsen, both from the Daunt Settlement outside Cromarty.’
Bobby Walshe again, running a hand through his damp hair: ‘Just saying hello to the officer. I went to primary school with him. My hope is we’ll find out exactly what happened that night and we’ll get justice for the dead boys. I say I hope. Aboriginal people have lived in hope of justice for two hundred-odd years.’
Rebb got up, went to the sink, washed his plate, his knife and fork. ‘You shoot that kid?’ he said, neutral tone.
Cashin looked at him. ‘No. But I would have if he’d pointed the shotgun at me.’
‘I’ll be off then.’
‘You’ve got a touch with a dead bunny,’ said Cashin. ‘Bring one around any time.’
At the door, dogs trying to go out with him, Rebb said, ‘When’s the chainsaw coming?’
‘Tomorrow. Bern reckons he’ll drop it off with the water tanker first thing. That could be sparrow, could be midnight.’
‘Also. We need stuff-cement, sand, timber, all that. I wrote it down by the sink there.’
‘How much cement?’
Cashin thought he saw pity in Rebb’s eyes. ‘Make it six bags.’
‘Need a cement-mixer?’
Rebb shook his head. ‘Not unless you planning to bring in a few more innocent blokes you find on the road.’
‘I’m always looking,’ said Cashin.
He rang Bern and then, tired, hurting, sad, he went to bed early. Sleep came, a nightmare woke him, a new one. Dark and rain and garish light and screaming, people everywhere, confusion. He was trapped, held by something octopus-like, he fought it, it was crushing him, the space was shrinking, no air, he was suffocating, dying, terrified.
Awake in the big chamber, thin green light from the radio clock, feeling his heart in his chest and hearing the wind planing over the corrugations.
He got up. The dogs heard him and barked and he let them in. They ran for the bed, bumping, jumped, snuggled down. Cashin put on the standing lamp, threw wood into the stove, wrapped himself in a blanket and sat down with Nostromo.
Always an army chaplain-some unshaven, dirty man, girt with a sword and with a tiny cross embroidered in white cotton on the left breast of a lieutenant’s uniform-would follow, cigarette in the corner of the mouth, wooden stool in hand, to hear the confession and give absolution; for the Citizen Saviour of the Country (Guzman Bento was called thus officially in petitions) was not averse from the exercise of rational clemency. The irregular report of the firing squad would be heard, followed sometimes by a single finishing shot; a little bluish cloud of smoke would float up above the green bushes…
He fell asleep in the big shabby chair, woke in early light, two dogs nudging him, their tails crossing like furry metronomes. The phone on the counter rang when he was filling the kettle.
‘Constable Martin, Cromarty, boss. I’m instructed to tell you that Donny Coulter’s mother rang a few minutes ago to says he’s missing. She doesn’t know since when. She saw him in bed at 11 pm last night.’
Cashin put a hand over the mouthpiece and cleared his throat. ‘He hasn’t done anything till he doesn’t clock in. Tell his mum to check his mates, see if anyone else’s gone. Call me on the mobile.’
He went outside, had a piss, looking at the hillside. The scarlet maples came and went through the mist like spot fires. He moved his shoulders, trying to ease the stiffness.
Donny wasn’t going to sign the bail book at 10 am. He knew that.
‘DONNY DIDN’T show,’ said Hopgood. ‘The mother says the little prick’s been weepy.’
In misty rain, Cashin and Rebb had just started clearing the path that led to the former front door, uncovering red fired tiles, the colour still bright.
‘She’s had a look around?’ said Cashin.
‘I gather.’
‘What about his mates?’
‘Sounds like they’re accounted for. Fastafuckingsleep like the rest of the boongs.’
‘Take anything? Bag, clothes?’
‘I would’ve said.’
Cashin was watching Rebb digging into the deep layer of couch grass, weeds, earth. He swung the long-handled spade tirelessly, scooping, scraping the hidden tiles. It made Cashin feel feeble, his own excavations meagre things.
‘You might be on holiday but you’re still in charge,’ said Hopgood. ‘We await instructions.’
‘Bail violation,’ said Cashin. ‘Matter for the uniforms. The liaison bloke can work with Donny’s mum, get the locals to search the whole Daunt. Every garage, shed and shithouse.’
‘The locals are going to find Donny? You off the medication?’
Cashin looked at the sky. ‘Keep me posted,’ he said.
Back to digging his side of the path, feeling hollow in the stomach, as if he hadn’t eaten for a long time. He was four or five metres along, Rebb as far as that ahead of him, when the water trailer arrived, a battered tank towed by Bern’s Dodge truck, equally dented and scarred. Bern got out, unshaven, greasy overalls, cigarette in mouth. He looked around, unpleased by what he saw.
‘Jesus, you’re nuts,’ he said. ‘Cash on delivery.’
‘Half past eleven?’ said Cashin. ‘This’s first thing?’
‘First thing I’m deliverin to you today. One-twenty bucks for the chainie, all tools included, owned by an old lady cut flowers with it, twenty for the corrie iron, twenty a week for the tanker, four weeks minimum hire, ten for delivery. Water, free first time, that’s generous, refills ten. Let’s say two hundred, throw in the first top-up. Present to you since you’re family and a fuckwit.’
Cashin walked around the water tanker. It had been crudely sprayed black with aerosol paint. But before that rust had set in where markings had been erased, probably with a steel brush on a grinder. The rust was bubbling the new paint.
‘Where’d you get this?’ he said.
Bern flicked his cigarette end. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘you go in the McDonald’s drive-in, you ask the kid where’d you get the mince?’
Cashin did another circuit of the tanker. ‘The army reserve complaint,’ he said. ‘They were down the other side of Livermore, in the gorge, buggering about, rooting under canvas, went into town for a few beers. The next day they couldn’t find two water tankers and a big tent and some tarps and gas bottles. Missing in action.’
‘In the army reserve,’ said Bern, ‘takes three to wipe one arse. Bloke brung this in the yard. Says he’s coming back to talk money. Never seen him before, never see him again.’ He spat. ‘What more can I say?’
‘Don’t say anything that could be used against you in a court of law,’ said Cashin. He got out his wallet, offered four fifties.
‘What, no argument?’
‘No.’
Bern took three fifties. ‘Jesus, you bring out the Christian in me.’
‘Be a small Christian. Like a garden gnome Christian. We need some building hardware here. The trowels and the spirit levels, that sort of thing.’
Bern looked at Rebb, leaning on his spade, gaze elsewhere. ‘Hey, Dave,’ he shouted. ‘Know a bit more about buildin than this bloke?’
Rebb turned, shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t know what he knows.’
‘Yeah, well, I suggest you blokes come around,’ said Bern. ‘I got some brickie’s stuff. Not cheap, mind you, hard to find. Take their gear to the grave, brickies.’