Peter Temple: An Iron Rose

He came down the field towards me, to where I stood alone, my opponents sure that he was going to goal.

Stopped. Goals in front, thirty metres, no-one within reach of him. Crowd suddenly silent.

Lew kicked, perfect swing of the leg, leg born to kick a football.

Kicked not at goal. Not at exposed, waiting goal.

To me.

Like a father kicking to his son in the street. Kick meant to be marked, on the chest, not high, give the boy confidence.

Instead of kicking it himself, could kick it in his sleep, be a hero, he wanted me to kick the winning goal for Brockley. Brockley, seventeen years in the wilderness, object of derision. Lew was handing me the chance to bring the barren years to a close.

I marked the ball under my collarbone. It fell into my hands, stuck there.

The siren went.

Kick to win after the siren. In a Grand Final. People had never recovered from missing one. Moved away. Changed their names. Never played again.

I went back, pulled up my socks.

It looked like a long way, impossible angle.

Flannery walked across behind me.

‘Not saying anything,’ he said. ‘But…’

There was not a sound from the crowd. Total silence.

I took a deep breath. No-one should be given this kind of responsibility. No-one.

I ran up and kicked.

Closed my eyes.

Flannery grabbed me from behind, seemed to want to dance with me.

Lew came up, punched my shoulder, put his arm around my waist. I put an arm around his shoulders.

‘You little bastard,’ I said.

We walked off, shaking hands with opponents, ruffling team-mates’ hair, listening to the supporters shouting. Mick was kissing players.

In the gloom, I could see Allie, pale head, standing on the bonnet of her truck, fists raised in the air, shouting something. Next to her, Vinnie was doing what looked like the samba.

And then I saw the black Mercedes, person leaning against the grille. Hadn’t seen her, spoken to her, since the night I killed two men on her fire escape. Wanted to, scared to, she didn’t call.

I cuffed Lew on the back of the head, walked down the line, wet, covered in mud, people patting me on back.

Anne Karsh was in jeans, tartan coat, hair wet, beautiful. Wary eyes, not smiling.

I stopped a metre away. ‘Owe you a coffee machine,’ I said.

She shrugged. ‘Been meaning to throw out that machine for years. Makes really bad coffee.’

We looked at each other.

‘Must’ve read your mind. Threw it out for you. You in the country going back?’

‘In the country staying over. Not sure where yet. Leon’s divorcing me. Met a neurosurgeon in Switzerland. I get Harkness Park.’

‘Nice place,’ I said. ‘Got the Bobby Hill memorial tennis court. Want to come back to the pub?’

Anne smiled, nodded, touched my muddy arm.

‘C’mon, Mac,’ Flannery shouted. ‘Got to sing the team song. Got to learn it first.’