Peter Temple - An Iron Rose

‘You do more than good work,’ I said. ‘You do excellent work.’

He looked away. ‘Forensic think they might have missed some acetone stuff, like nail varnish remover, used to clean Ned’s face, round the mouth. Same on two hangins up in Brissie. Reckon this Gilbert knows his stuff.’

‘The plastic tape,’ I said. ‘Match it with the glue?’

‘Tomorrow, we’ll hear tomorrow, next day. Soon.’

‘Be enough?’

He shrugged. ‘Get a positive ID from the motel on Gilbert’s mate, he might shake loose.’

He looked out of the door. It had started to rain. ‘Got to go,’ he said. ‘Be in touch.’

I went out with him, put out my hand, ‘Glad we drew you on the night.’

He shook my hand. ‘Gettin there. Any luck, we get the bastards. Then they get a smart lawyer and they walk.’

I was finishing up for the day when the phone rang in the office.

‘Gather your local Member’s the first item on the news tonight.’ Berglin. No greeting.

‘So I hear. What’s with our friend in the Vatican?’

‘That’s why I’m calling. Scully resigned this morning.’

‘They going to prosecute?’

‘No.’

‘No? The bastards. He’s a murderer, how many times over.’

‘Can’t prosecute.’

‘Can’t? Can’t? What kind of…’

‘Can’t prosecute the dead. He shot himself. In his garage at home.’

I sat in silence for a while, telephone forgotten, looking out of the window at the tattered clouds blowing south, at the willows down at the winter creek sending out the first pale green signal of spring.

Berglin cleared his throat. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘there endeth the lesson.’

I said, ‘Amen.’

We limped off after the third quarter, six goals down, our supporters-now grown by about ten thousand percent- giving us a sad little cheer. Kingstead got a roar, hooting, small boys jumping and punching one another.

Mick tried his best in the break. ‘Six goals is nuthin, fellas. Knock ’em off in the first ten minutes, cruise away to a magnificent victory. Make it all the sweeter, that’s all…’

‘You goin to play Lew or not?’ Billy Garrett said. ‘What’s the bloody point of him sittin on the bench?’

‘Keeps ’em guessin, Billy, keeps ’em off balance. Expectin any minute we’ll bring on the young fella, brilliant talent, legs of steel…’

‘They’re not bloody guessin,’ Billy said. ‘They’re not off bloody balance. They’re bloody kickin our arses, that’s what they’re doin. You gonna play him or not?’

Mick put his hands in his anorak pockets, looked around for understanding. ‘Can’t, Billy, boy’s in the golf tournament of his life tomorrer. Tiger Woods in the makin, how kin I put him out there, some great lump kicks him in the leg, stands on his head? Great career ruined. My fault. Swore I wouldn’t play him except in an emergency.’

‘Emergency?’ said Billy. ‘You think a bloody emergency is like what? Only bloody Grand Final I’ll ever play in, thirty-six points behind, side’s absolutely bloody knackered. Not an emergency? You off your bloody head?’

‘No need to shout, Billy,’ Mick said. ‘Don’t want ’em to think we’re not of one mind, gives ’em a psychological hold over us…’

‘They don’t need a bloody psychological hold over us, you mad Irish prick,’ Billy said. ‘They’ve got a hold on our actual balls, squeezin.’

I was at full forward, second game back after four weeks out, leg almost healed. Garrett and company had got along fine without me, winning three out of four.

Flannery and I walked on together. ‘Christ, be glad when this is over,’ he said. ‘It’s not the losin I mind, it’s havin to play so long after you know you’ve lost.’

‘No time for defeatism, Flannery,’ I said. ‘We mature players are supposed to set an example.’

Flannery was walking in the direction of his opponent. Over his shoulder, he said, ‘You’ll see an example if this cockbrain doesn’t stop puttin his elbow in my ribs. Example of how to get a two-hundred-game suspension.’

For the first five minutes, Kingstead were all over us, winning the ball everywhere, four shots at goal, four behinds.

Then something happened to them. Billy Garrett won the ball from four consecutive ball-ups, everyone seemed to have found some speed.

Three goals in four minutes.

At the centre bounce, Billy knocked it out to Gary Weaver, who ran twenty metres, kicked the ball to Flannery, who appeared to have stood on his opponent’s instep. Flannery played on, kicked it my way. I got in front of my man and took it on my chest.

Goal.

‘Reckon they peaked too early,’ Flannery said after taking a mark right in front of goal. ‘Field’s comin back to us.’

He kicked it. Supporters back in full voice.

Ten points behind.

And there we stuck. It began to rain, steady rain. We wrestled with them in the mud, almost everyone ending up in midfield, all mudmen, unrecognisable, exhausted. My thigh was aching, must have opened the wound. The clock ticked on, every second taking Brockley’s first Grand Final victory in seventeen years further away.

Out of nowhere, Kingstead kicked another goal. Ball spun free from a collapsing pack, man ran thirty metres and kicked a goal. Supporters in total ecstasy.

Sixteen points behind. Three goals.

As we were picking ourselves up, Billy Garrett said to me, panting, ‘Mac, for Christsake, do it. Talk to the little bastard.’

I looked at Lew sitting on the bench, wearing an old overcoat of mine. He didn’t look happy. I was his guardian. What would Ned have done? I didn’t really have to ask myself the question. I knew what Ned would have done.

I went over to Mick. ‘Fuck the golf,’ I said. ‘Give the boy a run. You only get one chance in life to save a Grand Final for Brockley.’

Mick opened his mouth, looked into my eyes, closed his mouth. He turned towards the bench.

‘You’re on, fella.’

Lew was up and out of the overcoat, jogging on the spot, big smile.

Minutes to go. Lew on in the centre.

Billy tapped the ball out. It bounced off the shoulder of a Kingstead player, Lew took it out of the air with one hand, slipped between two opponents, perfect balance, ran, one bounce, two bounces, three bounces, sidestepped two Kingstead players, handballed over the head of another one, ran around him, caught his own handball, running, another bounce, kick.

Goal.

Centre bounce. Billy made a superhuman effort, took the ball over his opponent, came down, threw off a tackle, handballed to Lew, who was already running.

Lew ran around three players, stopped, delivered a kick to Gary Weaver, perfectly weighted kick, hit Weaver on the chest.

Weaver kicked the ball to the square, where Flannery and I and several other Brockley players were in hand-to-hand combat with half the Kingstead side now drafted into defence.

The ball came out of the dark-grey sky. Four of us rose to it, tired men, desperate men, men willing their arms to lengthen.

Lew floated across the front of the pack, fully a metre off the ground, took the ball one-handed, landed like a ballet dancer, perfect pivot, no hesitation, cannon shot through the posts.

Goal.

One goal to victory.

Crowd like Visigoths on a rampage. Grown men would weep in the last light of this day.

Umpire looking at watch. Seconds left.

Centre bounce. No-one was going to take this away from Billy Garrett. He rose like someone called to ascend to a higher place, seemed to grip the ball in a large hand, sent it flying to where Lew was waiting, sent it as if he knew exactly where the boy was, sent it as if they’d arranged it.

Lew went through the Kingstead players with the calm arrogance of someone sent to instruct others on the correct way to play the winter game. No-one put a finger on him. They chased, gave up. Two players collided, heads meeting, fell down senseless.