Jon Cleary - Pride’s Harvest

They got into the Commodore and halfway down the driveway to the front gates Clements said, ‘You’ve stirred up something back there. I think we could be on our way outa town by this evening. I was looking forward to going to the races tomorrow afternoon.’

‘What are you going to put your money on? Narelle or her horse?’

‘Okay, wipe the shit off your liver. It’s just a bit of innocent nooky with her.’

‘She hasn’t been innocent since she got out of kindergarten.’

‘Geez, we have got S.O.L., haven’t we? You’ve let those two bastards get to you.’

Malone nodded morosely. ‘You’re right . . . Look, as soon as we get back to the station, get on to Sydney. Get Andy Graham, if you can. Have him contact the Tokyo police, I want a full background on Mr Sagawa – so far we know practically bugger-all about him. Tell him to phone you when he’s got something, not put it on the computer.’

‘We keep it to ourselves? Okay.’

‘Tell him to tell the Japs it’s urgent. I’d like it by Monday morning at the latest.’

‘It’s Friday now, for Chrissakes.’

‘Let’s see if the Japs are as industrious as I’m always reading. We work weekends, don’t we?’

‘Not tomorrow, I hope. Not while I’m out at the course, putting my money on Narelle’s horse.’

‘She’s really conned you, hasn’t she? Lisa’s going to be disappointed when I tell her. She’s still hoping she can marry you off to some convent virgin. What happened to that girl Sheila from Forensic Science?’

‘She was too clinical. She wanted to take a blood sample every time we did it.’

‘Excuses, excuses. You’re just afraid of marriage.’

They drove back to town, being overtaken several times by cars hurtling towards the Big Weekend; there was no respect for the speed limit out here in the backblocks. They went by the entrance to Sundown and Malone wondered what Lisa and the kids were doing right now; maybe Tom was falling off another horse, Claire was still mooning over Tas Waring, Maureen was chatting away, careless of whether anyone was listening to her or not. All at once he wished he could retire now, while the kids were still young; perhaps they wouldn’t need him by the time he got to retirement age. The thought suddenly saddened and frightened him.

They passed the racecourse, where workers were preparing the track for tomorrow’s meeting. Bunting was being hung from the small grandstand and several marquees had been erected. In a small showground beside the course a travelling circus and carnival was setting up its tents and stalls; two elephants were being used as fork-lift substitutes, raising up a long thick pole. Clements slowed the car.

‘You gunna bring the kids to the circus tomorrow?’

‘I’ll try. Depends whether we’re working or not.’ A day with Lisa and the kids would be a nice break. ‘I might even watch the Cup and put a dollar or two on something.’

‘Don’t get rash. That’s money you’re throwing around.’

They drove on into town, which now seemed full of cars and utility trucks and four-wheel-drive wagons. The sleepy air of the town had disappeared; Collamundra looked as if it might be getting ready to get drunk. Some drunks were already evident, but Malone noticed from the police car, slowed by the traffic, that they were mostly Aborigines. He wondered if Cup weekend was a cause for celebration for them or whether this was how they marked every weekend.

One of the drunks stepped off the footpath, walked unsteadily to the middle of the road, then stopped, facing the traffic. Clements slammed on the brakes. The Aborigine was middle-aged, thin but for a bloated belly; he wore a tweed cap, with his hair sticking out on either side and curling up like the horns on a Viking’s helmet. He grinned foolishly at the two strangers in the Commodore, raising his hand and giving them a slow wave. The traffic had banked up behind the police car and horns were being sounded in temper. The Aborigine leaned sideways, slowly, without moving his feet, and peered past the Commodore to the cars behind. He gave their drivers the same slow wave, still grinning foolishly.

Jesus Christ,’ said Clements, ‘is it any wonder people have no time for the stupid bastards?’

Malone was smiling back at the Aborigine. ‘This might be his only happy moment in the whole week.’

Clements turned his head. ‘Don’t be a bloody bleeding heart. Down in Redfern you’d have been out of the car in a flash and grabbed him if he’d done that to us.’

Malone opened the door of the car, got out, the chorus of car horns still hooting behind him, and walked up to the Aborigine. He took the man by the arm.

‘Come on, Jack. You’re going to get sun-struck standing out here in the open.’

The man giggled. ‘Sun-struck?’

‘Sun cancers, too. Your complexion’s all wrong. Come on, back in the shade.’

The man didn’t struggle. With Malone still holding him by the elbow, he walked unsteadily back to the footpath and stood under a shop awning. A small crowd had gathered, all whites, men and women; they were silent, their faces full of a hostile curiosity. He’s a cop, why doesn’t he arrest the drunken Abo?

Malone looked over their heads, searching for another Aborigine, saw two young men standing in a doorway. He raised his hand and beckoned them over. They hesitated, looked at each other, then came towards him, the crowd opening up to let them through.

‘Take him home,’ Malone told the two young Aborigines. Then to the drunk: ‘Go with them, Jack. Otherwise I’ll have to lock you up.’

‘You’re a copper?’ The man’s look of surprise was comical. He looked around at the crowd, shaking his head in wonder. ‘Wuddia know! He’s a copper!’

He grabbed Malone’s hand, giggled, shook his head again, then let the two young men lead him away. As Malone stepped off the kerb to get back into the Commodore, which Clements had pulled out of the way of the traffic, a thickset farmer, a redneck if Malone had ever seen one, said, ‘You’re wasting your sympathy, mate. They’re just a bloody nuisance when they’re like that, to ’emselves and everyone else.’

‘Maybe you’re right,’ said Malone. ‘But you don’t have to play at being a cop, do you?’

As he got into the car beside Clements a man’s voice said from the back of the crowd, ‘Why don’t you go back where you belong?’

‘Drive on,’ Malone said quietly and Clements pulled the car out into the traffic again.

They said nothing more; then Clements was pulling the Commodore into the police station yard. As soon as they got out of the car they were aware of the tension amongst the half a dozen uniformed men in the yard. At first Malone thought they were waiting to say something to him and Clements; he stiffened, seeking some sort of answer to a question he hadn’t yet heard. Then, as they reached the steps leading up to the back door of the rear annexe, Baldock, hatless, his face tight and red as if he were holding his breath, came out through the doorway. He stopped abruptly on the top step and looked down at the two Sydney men.

‘Billy Koowarra’s just hung himself.’

‘Looks like he did it, don’t you reckon?’ said Dircks.

He and Malone were at lunch at the reserved table by the corner window. The dining-room was crowded, mostly with men but also with a few women. Narelle Potter had refurbished the big room, but its restored old-time charm fought a losing battle against the rough, loud bonhomie of the male diners. The women guests tried hard, but they were just whispers in the chorus of shouts, laughter and loud talk. Malone, as sometimes before, wondered how people could manage to eat and yet still make such a hubbub.