Peter Corris - The Big Score

‘I don’t remember him. When I was fighting all I thought about was fighting. Full stop.’

‘Marie didn’t tell you who the father of the child was, and you didn’t ask?’

He shook his head. He’d relaxed by now and was half turned away, watching the people in the park. His voice was full of irony, sarcasm, anger. ‘You know what Abo women are like, fuck anyone.’

‘That’s a bloody stupid thing to say and you know it.’

He sagged against the backrest and all the aggression was gone. ‘They call me an Uncle Tom, you know, some of the people, because I don’t make a thing about being Aboriginal.’

‘That’s understandable, sounds as if you’ve got a problem with all that. I’m sure you’re not alone, but I’m not your psychiatrist. Roseberry’s dying of cancer. He’s got some money to leave and he wants to know about Marie and about her kid, Siobhan, if there’s any grandchildren and if they need help. No, make that if Marie’d accept it. She told Kev years back that she didn’t want to know him.’

‘How did he treat her?’

‘With neglect.’

‘Got a guilty conscience now, has he? Is he some kind of religious freak?’

I sighed. ‘I’m getting tired of talking to you, Jimmy. Can you tell me anything about Marie and Siobhan or not? Yes or no. Yes, and I’ll be grateful, no, and you can fuck off and I’ll tackle it some other way.’

‘You’re a hard bastard, aren’t you?’

‘Sometimes not, sometimes I have to be.’

‘What’s in it for you?’

I got up and started to walk back towards the path. A soccer ball came skidding towards me and I kicked it back as hard as I could. The kid closest to me shouted when it went past him.

‘Sorry,’ I said.

I got to the path and kept walking. I heard footsteps behind me. O’Day tapped me on the shoulder.

‘Come back to the house. I’ll help you find Marie, but it’s tricky.’

O’Day took me through the house to a back room he’d set up as an office-cum-recording studio. There were guitars lying around, a drum kit, a couple of keyboards and electronic equipment I couldn’t identify. He rolled and lit a joint which he offered me. I refused.

‘Got a beer?’

‘Juicehead.’

He fetched a can and we sat facing each other over a tangle of cables.

‘Marie’s had a lot of trouble in her life,’ he said. ‘Grog, blokes, illness. She went hyper-political and got into demonstrations, sit-ins, protests. She got bashed by the police and hurt pretty badly. She’s on a disability pension and just getting by. I help her out from time to time, but she’s proud and doesn’t like it. I do it through a third party. Also, she reckons I’ve sold out to whitey.’

‘What about Siobhan?’

From just puffing, he now drew deeply on the joint, sucked the smoke in and held it down. Then he did it again. He seemed to need the comfort of it, or perhaps something else. I took a sip of beer and waited.

‘She’s with Marie. She’s got a kid. They’re doing it tough.’

‘Where are they?’

‘She won’t accept charity from-’

‘Whitey, okay. This isn’t charity, Jimmy-it’s long overdue support money from a decent man trying to make amends.’

‘Marie doesn’t admit there’s any decent white people.’

‘And that’s as stupid a thing as what you said before.’

‘I know. Okay, I’ll tell you where they are and you can try your luck.’

‘You won’t come with me?’

He sucked hard on the joint again and shook his head.

‘Why not?’

He’d smoked the joint almost down to the end but he wasn’t done. He drew on it again until it must have singed his fingertips. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

‘Try me.’

He let the roach fall to the floor, got up, went to one of the keyboards, hit some switches and began to play. Straight blues riffs. He was stoned. He kept playing, seemingly in a trance. I looked around the room and saw a desk with a computer and printer wired up to other equipment. I opened a drawer in the desk and found a contact book. There was an entry for ‘Marie O’ with an address in Marrickville but no telephone number. I copied down the address and left him to do whatever he thought he was doing, wherever he thought he was.

My mobile rang as soon as I started the car. It was a nurse at the hospital where Kev was being treated. She said that Mr Roseberry’s condition had deteriorated and that he wanted to see me urgently. He’d asked the medical staff to hold off on palliative medication until my visit.

‘It’s that bad?’ I said.

‘I’m afraid so.’

I drove to the hospital and was ushered into Kev’s room. A man I didn’t know was there with Kev’s doctor who I had met, and a nurse. Kev was propped up in the bed and the life seemed to be leaking out of him. His voice was a croak.

‘Sorry to rush you, mate. Is she alive, Marie?’

‘Yes, Kev.’

‘And the kid?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s all I needed. You’ll do the right thing, I know. Okay, let’s get this bloody thing signed. This is Ed Stewart, Cliff. He’s a solicitor and pretty honest for a lawyer. That’s a joke, Ed.’

Stewart smiled dutifully and produced a document which he, Kev and the nurse signed. The effort seemed to drain Kev to the dregs. He held out a hand and I shook it, gently. ‘Ed’ll explain it to you, mate. I knew I could count on you and…’

A spasm shook him and robbed him of the power of speech. He nodded at the doctor and closed his eyes. The nurse shepherded Stewart and me out of the room. We stood in silence outside the door for a second before walking away.

‘I hope I’m up to making a joke as I go out,’ Stewart said.

‘Me, too.’

We went into a waiting room and Stewart showed me the paper. ‘This is Kevin’s last will and testament, revoking all others, while of sound mind, blah, blah. He had me draw it up this morning. It leaves his estate to be divided equally between Marie O’Day and her daughter Siobhan. And there’s provision for any issue Siobhan might have. You are named as the executor.’

‘What if I hadn’t been able to confirm that they were around?’

‘He seemed to have every confidence that you would.’

Kevin Roseberry died that night. As executor I was responsible for his funeral arrangements. I made them and tossed up whether to contact Marie and invite her along. I decided not. Dealing with her was going to be tricky enough without it happening in an emotion-charged atmosphere. Kev was cremated; I said a few words, so did some of the denizens of the pubs he’d frequented. We had a bit of a wake at the Toxteth Hotel and that was that.

Stewart, the solicitor, said he’d put Kev’s estate through the probate process and then it’d be up to me to arrange the distribution of the assets. No point in putting it off any longer. I drove to Marrickville, located the flat in a small block sitting in a sea of concrete, no balconies, and wearing an air of defeat. I knocked and the woman who answered was recognisable as Marie of the photograph, but only just. She was rail-thin and haggard; her dark, wiry hair had a wide white streak in it of a kind I’d seen before. Not a cosmetic touch-the effect of hair growing back on the site of a serious wound.

‘Yeah?’ she said, packing as much hostility as it was possible to get into the word.

‘Ms O’Day, my name’s Hardy. Your cousin James O’Day gave me your address because there’s something very important I have to discuss with you.’

‘What would that be?’

‘Can I come in, please? It’s to do with quite a lot of money and better discussed in private.’

‘I don’t want any money from Jimmy.’

‘It’s not from him.’