Peter Temple - Black Tide

We sat down on the brown cut-velvet armchairs with wooden arms in the dim room, photographs on the mantelpiece, wedding pictures, pictures of two couples, two women, each with a baby, two men next to a car, a couple and a fair-haired boy.

‘Have some.’ He offered the bar of chocolate.

‘No thanks.’

‘What about a beer? I could use a beer.’

‘Beer would be nice.’

He came back with two open stubbies of Vic Bitter and glasses. We poured.

Des wiped his lips. ‘Goes down a treat, don’t it. Can’t drink on me own, never got in the habit. Wish I had, too late now.’

‘Des, I’ve got to ask you about Gary,’ I said. ‘They may sound like silly questions but I’ve got to ask.’

‘Ask,’ he said, waving a big hand. ‘Ask.’

‘If Gary changed his name, what would he change it to?’

Des looked away, gave me a sidelong glance. ‘Changed his name? Why would he do that?’

‘If he wanted to hide, he might change his name to make it hard to find him.’

‘Oh, right. Get ya. The whole name. I was thinkin somethin different like him callin himself Bruce Connors or Wally Connors.’

‘He might use a family name,’ I said. ‘People often do that. Like his mother’s maiden name.’

‘Keegan?’

‘Perhaps. What about the aunt who left him the place near Warrnambool? What was her surname?’

‘Dixon.’

He had a small sip of beer, chewed it thoughtfully. ‘Funny boy, Gary. Reader he was, great reader, read anythin. Sit here on the floor in front of me, me readin the paper, he’d be readin the front and the back page. Just a little bloke. Ask me questions. Like, what’s nude mean, Dad? Bit embarrassin, I’d say, ask yer mother.’

His eyes were on the mantelpiece, on the photographs.

‘Used to tell other kids we wasn’t really his mum and dad. Any new kid around here, Gary’d tell him he wasn’t really Gary Connors.’

Something was nagging at me. ‘If he wasn’t Gary Connors, who was he?’

‘Had a whole story, name and all. Got it out of a book, probly. How his parents were these rich people in England and people wanted to kidnap him and get all the family’s money, so his mum and dad sent him to live with us. Told em he’d be goin back to England soon as the danger was over. Funny boy, Gary. Could’ve come from bein an only, I don’t know.’

He took another sip of beer, admired the glass, nodded at it. ‘Good drop this, Bill. Don’t drink by myself, never got…’

A vehicle stopping. Close by. Further along the street.

I went to the window and looked out through the crack at the side of the heavy curtain. Two women getting out of a small white car.

I came back to my seat. ‘The name, what was it?’

‘The name?’

‘His story about not being Gary Connors. What did he call himself, Des?’

He looked at me for a second, far away, hadn’t noticed me getting up. ‘The name. What was the name now? Three names. No. No use in sittin here tryin to think of it.’

‘Try, Des. It’s important.’

‘No,’ he said, ‘don’t have to try. Just go down the passage to the boy’s room. All his books there. Mum wouldn’t hear a gettin rid of em. Every last one of em there. He used to write the name in his books.’

He left the room. I sipped beer, listened to cars going by, only two cars. A quiet street. I could bring down a terrible visitation on this street. Men with guns who would shoot anyone. Young and old.

…kill your friend, kill your wife, kill your child, kill you, it’s all the same.

Tramping down the passage. Des, with a book.

‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘Boy’s Book of Adventure. Might have a read of this myself. Bloody paper’s got nothin but sorrow in it.’

He sat down, opened the book, showed me the flyleaf.

A slanting, childish handwriting, large capitals, upsweeps on the terminal letters of each word.

Christopher Anthony Armstrong (Kit).

I read it out.

Des shook his head. ‘Never could work out why he’d tell that story. Strange. Still, can’t all be the boy’s fault.’

He looked at his half-empty glass of beer. Losing the taste for it. He was tired.

‘Wasn’t much of a dad. Not like me dad was for me. I dunno, never had me heart in it after the first lad. Set in the ways. Never kicked a footy with Gary. Could be that.’

‘I doubt it. Kicking the footy is what kids do for their dads, not the other way round,’ I said. ‘This is a good start, Des. Very good. Now this is important. If Gary was thinking about a safe place to go to, what would he think of?’

Des straightened his shoulders, had a sip of beer. ‘Safe place? Got me there.’

‘From long ago, Des. From when he was a boy.’

He thought, shook his head. ‘Around here, you mean?’

‘Anywhere. Anywhere he went when he was little.’

As I said that, Chrissy Donato-Connors-Sargent’s voice came to me. Something about Gary being kicked out when he was a little kid. Fostered? On a chook farm?

‘Des, I talked to Gary’s second wife. She says he told her he was kicked out by his parents, fostered by these people on a chicken farm. Like a prison farm, I think she said. Mean anything?’

Des put his head down like a vulture. ‘Gary? Fostered? Gary? Well, always one for the tall story but that’s a shocker. His mum’ll be spinnin. That’s his mum’s cousins’ place he’s talkin about. Tassie. Went there three, four times. That’s all the Tassie he knows. Loved to go there, always pesterin to go.’

‘The prison farm in Tasmania?’

Des snorted. ‘Prison farm, my foot. Little chook farm. Never went there meself. The wife did. Not keen on them ferries goin across Bass Strait. Don’t mind a decent passenger ship. On em in the war. Didn’t mind em at all. Feel the bugger’s built to take it.’

‘Little chook farm. Still there?’

Des finished his glass, moved his teeth, tasting. Stopped doing that. Nodded a few times.

I said, ‘Des, the chook farm. Still there?’

He straightened his back. ‘Chook farm? Dunno. Lost touch there. Not my side. Gary had a thing for the girl, the daughter. Used to get letters from her. Bit like him, I gathered. Come along late in the piece, fat lady pretty much sung. Then she got in the family way, one of the local pointies, the wife said. Had a few of em with me in the army. Good blokes but you wouldn’t breed from em. No. Pretty much a dead-end. Out there. Island.’

His eyes were closing.

‘Where’s the chook farm, Des?’

‘Tassie somewhere. Near Hobart.’

‘The people’s name, Des? The name?’

‘Painter. That’s the name. Painter, the wife’s cousins.’

I got up. Des jerked awake. I picked up his hand, clasped it gently.

‘Off, are you? Give you another beer.’

‘Not tonight, Des,’ I said. ‘Other times. Let myself out.’

‘Bill,’ he said. ‘Mate, good to see ya. Just sit here, watch a bit of telly. Terrible nonsense…’

I put the remote control device under his hand. Touched his forehead, brushed my hand over his hair, ruffled it, couldn’t help myself.

In the Stud. No home to go to. Bring down misery on anyone I touched.

Christopher Anthony Armstrong. The Painter family. Chicken farmers. A girl.

I took out the tiny mobile phone, punched the buttons. Instant response.

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve got names to run from April 5.’

‘Yes.’

‘Keegan. Dixon. Painter. Christopher Anthony Armstrong or Kit Armstrong. Someone was waiting for me at home tonight. Out of sight. A man I saw in Canberra the day I talked to Meryl.’

‘What’s he look like?’

‘Tall. Short hair. Bony head.’

Dave whistled. ‘So you’re not at home, then?’