Peter Temple - White Dog

‘Sometimes you wonder why some people got a team at all,’ said Wilbur.

‘There’s your team,’ said Norm. ‘You stand by em, thick and thin, team’s like family, can’t walk away from the family. Course there’s always the odd few mongrels in a family, more in some than others I can reliably say. Yes, indeed, lend em a quid, you can bloody write that off, then there’s…’

‘Goin somewhere?’ said Wilbur. ‘Or just rantin about the brother-in-law, what’s his name? The fat one. Dropped off in Coles, lookin at the meat.’

Norm lowered his chin, looked at Wilbur, at me, at Eric Tanner. ‘The point is,’ he said, ‘you don’t go bettin on the buggers just cause they’re your own buggers. You wait till they’ve got some form. Common bloody sense’ll tell you that. Had any.’

Things went on like this for a good while, broadening to take in such issues as disloyal remarks allegedly made before a Fitzroy-Richmond game in 1973, the relative merits of Kevin Murray and Ragsy Goold as defenders, and the fact that Wilbur’s nephew had once stood for the Melbourne Football Club committee.

Through the thicket of pub noise, I heard the dot-dot-dash hoots. I collected Charlie and we went into the vaporous night, mist around the streetlights.

Gus was double-parked in a new car, a smallish four-wheel-drive. When Charlie was in, I said, ‘Paid for by the sweat of the workers, this stylish machine?’

She leaned forward to look at me, a face of planes and angles under a sharp haircut. ‘Bestowed upon me by the oppressed in gratitude for my sleepless vigilance on their behalf,’ she said.

‘Need any help with a vigil,’ I said, ‘come around. My door is always unlocked.’

‘I’d have thought all the sawing would have seen you nodding off by 9 pm,’ she said.

‘I can find strength when the need arises.’

‘You’d be horrified if I took you up on that.’

‘An assertion that should be tested,’ I said.

‘Enough talk,’ said Charlie. ‘Take me home, I’m hungry.’

We looked at each other for an instant longer than we ever had, his grand-daughter and I. Then they were off, turned the corner, huge indicator flashing.

Home in Linda’s car, along slick streets, cushioned from cold and noise, thinking about her in London. I missed being with her, hearing her warm, quizzical, sceptical voice on the radio. I missed knowing that she might ring late at night to talk, might arrive on my doorstep at any time with a bottle of Bollinger and make unambiguous suggestions while I was opening it.

I parked under the first tree, leaves still holding, there was a pocket of warmth around the gardens in autumn, we had our own climate here. Home. Sit for a while in front of the old brick building, the streetlight catching drops rolling off the leaves, turning them to silver tears.

A car drew up beside me, only centimetres away. Its passenger window came down. A big pale face looked at me. I pressed the button and my window descended.

‘Mr Irish.’

He was middle-aged, lined brow, moustache, probably grown in youth to look an age he had now long passed.

‘The Red Shield Appeal night campaign,’ I said. ‘I never refuse the Salvos. I’ll need a receipt for tax purposes.’

‘Mickey Franklin,’ he said.

‘Yes?’

‘I’ll give you a name.’

‘A name?’

‘Janene Ballich.’

‘How do you spell that?’

He spelled Ballich.

‘Names are useful,’ I said. ‘Come in and see my collected phone books.’

He ran a lingering finger over his top lip. ‘Jack,’ he said, ‘this is serious shit, mate. Goodnight.’

The car reversed and was gone in seconds.

I was in the bath on Sunday morning, drinking tea, soaking away the aches and pains that an afternoon at the football can cause, when the cordless phone rang.

‘Youth Club survive the excitement?’ said Linda.

‘It was they who supported me from the arena,’ I said. ‘One under each arm, one prodding me from behind. How do you know anyway?’

‘I am in the communication hub of the world,’ she said. ‘We know everything, even the results of football matches at the far end of one of our spokes. Lesser spokes.’

‘You can’t have lesser spokes. All spokes are equal.’

‘Believe me, we have lesser spokes. And lesser spokespeople.’

‘We is it? Five minutes and it’s we. Attack dog to corgi. What took you so long to call?’

‘Things to do,’ said Linda. ‘Settle into my Thames-side apartment, stock up at Harrods, testdrive a few rentboys, that sort of thing. I’ve missed you a bit.’

‘You too have been in my thoughts whenever I get behind the wheel of your car. Don’t hurry back. How long is this nonsense going to last anyhow?’

I was turning the hot water tap with a big toe. It gushed.

‘What’s that sound?’ said Linda.

‘Just a friend in the shower. Came by needing a shower.’

‘You bastard. Hold on a sec. Nigel, open another bottle, darling.’

‘So. How long?’

‘It’s going well,’ she said. ‘As far as I can tell. Management’s happy, they say they’re happy. Full board of callers. Hard work though. Umpteen bloody papers to read, magazines, trying to crack the code. There’s too much fucking nuance in this country, I can tell you.’

‘The men like to be spanked, the women are happy to oblige. They both like uniforms. How hard can that be to grasp?’

Linda laughed. ‘Maybe you could come over and produce me.’

‘Come over and do something for you. I’m not too hot at production.’

We talked, the autumn sunlight moved across the room, it was almost midnight in London when we said goodbye. I dressed and made breakfast but even Angel Cardoso’s sublime jambon from Geelong and thoughts of the Saints’ seven-goal last quarter couldn’t cancel the sense of loss. I walked to Gorb’s and bought the papers, read them sitting on a bench in the park, starting with the sports section.

SAINTS OVERPOWER CARLTON. That made me feel better. It was a beginning, a clean start to the season.

At home, a message from my sister on the machine. I rang.

‘Jesus,’ said Rosa. ‘What’s happening? Is this a time warp? The response time just shortened by twelve days.’

‘We are constantly tuning our operating procedures,’ I said.

I crossed the Yarra in Linda’s Alfa and we ate in a place that was uncertain whether it wanted to be a restaurant or a house party that charged. Then we toured the art galleries of South Yarra, the soft-shirted owners treating Rosa the way casinos treat highrollers. In the last one, I left her talking to the smooth young art pimp and wandered around. The smallest chamber was given over to four large canvases dotted with crude animals and symbols that appeared to be lifted directly from the art of the Nupe in northern Nigeria.

Rosa and the gallerista came up behind me.

‘Excellent investments,’ said the man. ‘I’m afraid Gary’s got a terminal smack habit. This’s the work of two years. Could be the last.’

I looked at a signature. Gary Webber. I thought of the walk at Macedon. Sir Colin had spat the name. People the Long-mores touched didn’t seem to lead lucky lives.

Peter Temple

White Dog (Jack Irish Thriller 4)

‘Well,’ said Cyril Wootton, ‘that’s not very good, is it? Have to do better than that, won’t you? Clients on premium rates expect premium results, don’t they?’

Replete after the long-awaited breakfast of soft-poached eggs with the lot at Enzio’s, I was sitting in a client’s chair in Wootton’s office, a chamber appointed like the Writing Room on the first-class deck of a P amp; O liner. Cyril was behind his large desk, small, plump hands folded on the leather inlay, his head cocked, very much the bank manager with a defaulting borrower, say, a farmer whose livestock, crops and homestead had been destroyed by a freak hailstorm.