On Cringila Hill (7 page)

‘Ah.'

Gordon looks at Hassan's expression, thinks, Hassan didn't know. ‘Why would he do that? Any ideas?'

‘Maybe he thought if he could break them up he'd have a chance. Or if he couldn't have her, then Jimmy couldn't. Some stuff like that. I mean give Abdul this, he was clever. He could think situations out.'

David says, ‘Gordon, can I ask Hassan something?'

‘Of course.'

‘Hassan, these things you're saying. I hear about someone getting beaten up, Abdul the likeliest candidate, sad things happening for young people, you know, emotional turmoil. But I can't hear anything about a
rape
here. I mean, forgive me, I know he was your brother and someone's killed him, I know the judge stuffed up and we were waiting for the case to be heard again. Pardon me, I personally have no doubt that there was some sort of very serious assault, and, what you're saying, I can see Abdul doing something bad to Dimce, or Dimce doing something bad to Abdul, but I can't understand how we got to a situation where
Luz
was the victim. Any light?'

‘You discussed this with Abdul?' Gordon says.

‘I did. Really, a very similar line, whatever it was that happened,
why
did it happen? I mean, there was never any shadow of a doubt he was there and did what she said he did. This came up, you know, after he got out and was staying at my place. And I'll tell you what happened. He had mates, you know, with cars – it's a lot about cars with these kids. They'd go in cars up to Sydney and visit. Then there were other kids up there who took him up.
Heavy
sorts of kids, heavy contacts. He liked it, to be seen with them. Because in fact, in reality, Abdul wasn't very heavy, so he liked to be seen with kids who were. They told him about their girlfriends, which were maybe real girlfriends or maybe just stories they made up. And he told them about Luz, but maybe not in a nice way, how sweet she is, how bright, that's not the way the talking was going. And he says what she looks like, and what he'd like to do, to get their acceptance. And they say, “We'll help you.” They said they're going to come down here, and find her, and help him do what he'd said he'd like to do.'

‘So, they'd
befriended
him, they're going to help Abdul rape someone as a kindness?'

‘What? Are you kidding me? You don't know about these people? It's all
power
to them. They're saying, “You shot off your mouth, told us you're the big man, now we put you in a position you can't back down. Do this act, before us, entertain us,
we
gonna control how you act.”'

‘They wanted your brother to be their creature.'

‘Not a kind way to put it.'

David says, ‘Here she is. Do what you told us about.'

‘Yeah. Power. And then, you know, they come down here, they're drinking bourbon, all getting plastered. Talking big, looking for Luz, and it's all this …
fantasy
,
you know? I mean, where are they going to find her? She's maybe home watching television, no one's going in there with those brothers of hers, you seen them? And this is what I think – if Luz doesn't go out dancing, doesn't walk back through the school, then the clowns go back to Sydney, game over, and right now my brother's sitting up at my mum's, eating baklava. But they found Luz. What are the odds? She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. And they're all paralytic, and then Abdul's got to perform in front of those … animals. That's what I think it was about.'

David frowns in the direction of the lower end of the mall. He says, ‘He'd rather hurt this girl he was mad about than disappoint this pack of filth he was trying to impress.'

‘You got what it is that I believe.'

‘You're sure the killing was about what happened to Luz?'

‘Oh, Detective Winter … what do
you
think?'

‘Any guesses who?'

‘Who pulled the actual trigger? No idea. We'll maybe never know. Who was behind it? Pretty clear. Abdul never gave up the names of the kids who were with him. And he'd been through a lot. Now, ask yourselves, who was most threatened by Abdul?'

‘Any names? Anything? Names of suburbs? Makes of cars?'

‘No. Something real bad happened to Abdul while he was inside, something he couldn't of even imagined. Know what I think?
They
got it done. He was running with dogs. Wild dogs. I think they felt threatened by him. Them, or maybe someone close to them.'

‘Who've you talked to about all this?'

‘Some detective from Sydney. Irishman. O'Shea.'

‘What about what you've just told me.'

‘No, he didn't ask about that. There hasn't been talk about what happened to Luz, this time around. It seems to some that's all done and dusted. I talked before, to some detective sergeant from down here, balding man, big head.'

‘Michael Laecey.'

‘Yeah. Detective Sergeant Laecey. But, see, I hadn't heard about any of this back then. I only talked with Abdul of these things after he was released.'

The traffic of people through the mall has eased.

‘This is about it for now,' Gordon says. He hands Hassan a business card. ‘Anything comes to mind give me a call.'

‘Sure.'

They rise, shake hands. Hassan wishes Gordon good luck with whatever's making him need the cane, then walks back down the mall towards his office.

The detectives walk slowly back to their car. Gordon asks David, ‘So. What do you make of Hassan Hijazi?'

‘Still got dollar one, is what I think.' David smiles. ‘You know, no trips to Bali surfing with his mates. No expensive, hot vehicle. No big Melbourne Cup Day lunches in a new shirt and pants. Every spare cent he's had came off his block of land. Then off the mortgage. Oh, and I doubt very much the kids answer him back. Kids want something they'll take it up with their mum. Not like the Solomonas, where it'll all be let hang out. Not like Anglo kids, who say, “When can you arrange to deliver to me this world I've got coming?”'

‘Very good.'

‘Coming together for you?'

‘Little bit.'

‘What next?'

‘There's some stuff I need to pass on to Peter Grace and I need to talk to Michael Laecey.'

Chapter Eight

It's night, and a fine dusting of rain is pushed up the alley ahead of a cold westerly wind. Arms wrapped in front of his chest, Jimmy pushes back hard against the wall of the Catholic school to get what warmth is still trapped inside the bricks. Apart from the mutter from television sets across the back fences, the alley is quiet. Jimmy decides that he'll give it five more minutes, whistle up the Pig from his hidey hole with the stash, move on to the last spot on the beat and then call it a night.

Jimmy daydreams. When stuck somewhere unpleasant and boring – a school class for example – Jimmy often daydreams. He's learned to accept this about himself, that this is a part of the way he is. Tonight in the rain he comforts himself by settling into a new variation on his favourite theme, which he's shaped and refined over the years. He learns that his father, having disdained work in the steelworks and become a fisherman, is now in danger. One for details, Jimmy has perfected his version as to how this information has reached him – his father is at sea, has a mobile telephone, in the last desperate act of which he's capable, he's rung Dimce to entreat assistance. Dimce has run to the Port, pressed into service his grandfather's dinghy and outboard, headed through the breakwater. It's night, and the sea is treacherous under big wind. Dimce steers his way through rolling, breaking swell. He locates his father's trawler, scampers aboard – and then rewinds that scene because dinghies cost money and he's not prepared to abandon this one, even in his imagination. Instead, he tethers the little aluminum boat to a railing at the trawler's stern, and
then
he scrambles aboard the bigger vessel (no easy task; the rudder rises and bucks in the weather; he must be nimble, strong and determined, ignoring all other danger to struggle aboard). Rain pours down, there is thunder and lightning, he is reduced to crawling along the pitching deck. His father lies damaged, his face in deepest shadow (a necessary detail since Jimmy cannot remember the man's features and no photographs of him are left on display in the house – if his mother has kept one, this she has hidden in some secret place). Quickly, expertly, Jimmy staunches his father's several deep wounds, throws off the engine cover, repairs a breakage. He coaxes the engine into life. He reaches the wheel, turns the nose of the boat towards the shore. The dinghy bounces along in the wake. ‘You're a good boy, Dimce,' his father calls to him. ‘It's
your
boat now.'

And there the reverie stalls, because a car has pulled into the alleyway illuminating the soft rainfall in the shafts of its headlight beams. The wiper blades beat a slow rhythm as the vehicle edges towards Jimmy.

To himself, Jimmy mutters, ‘Customers!'

He thrusts his fists deep into the pockets of his jacket, steps into this new column of light, blinks as water trickles over his face. He watches as the car comes to a stop. The engine is killed, though the lights and the windscreen wipers are still operating. Jimmy drops his hands out of his jacket pockets to hang by his hips, because both car doors are opening.

A big young man is out and running at Jimmy. There's the shadow of another at the driver's side, struggling with a seatbelt. Jimmy hears, ‘Give us your fucken
stash
,' close enough to get the strong, sour smell of beer. He rocks forward on the balls of his feet, links one hand clasped onto the back of the other, smashes forward at the head, feels the shudder all through his arms and shoulders as heavy impact drives nosebone and cartilage backwards and up into the skull, and then the heavy body has crashed into him, falling. Jimmy is bowled backwards and down, he can feel wet asphalt under his elbows and along the backs of his thighs and he rolls to be clear of the falling body. He gets his feet under himself, balances, springs up and kicks clear of the figure beneath him.

The driver is out and reaching Jimmy, grasps fingers and thumbs around his neck, trying to crush the windpipe. Jimmy struggles for a second, but then the driver grunts as though struck powerfully, releases, and Jimmy sees that Piggy has tackled this man from behind, grasping him with thin arms. For a moment the three are tangled, until the driver smashes back his elbow into Piggy's chest, twice, three times. Jimmy is loose, sees exposed the artery at the side of the throat, draws back his right fist behind his shoulder, shifts his weight forward, pivots his torso, pushes ahead from his thigh muscles, and releases the punch, straightens his arm with just a little way to travel. He punches as he's been taught, as though his fist is to emerge on the other side of the target, sees the head bounce, sees the knees buckle, feels the smash all down his right arm, watches the man slide to the bitumen. Jimmy turns. The passenger has raised himself to his knees. Jimmy feels a flush of anger run through his body, explode in his belly, he feels a rage that makes his hands tremble. He wears steelworkers lace-up boots with metal stitched between leathers at the toe. He swings back his right foot, kicks at the mouth, follows through, feels the smash of flesh and teeth, feels his ankle buckle at the weight of the impact, draws back his foot, kicks again into the rib cage, getting up under the ribs aiming for the heart, then turns to see that the driver is sitting with his back against a car door, Jimmy pivots, balances, kicks the driver, head, hip, between ribs, feels the pounding of his own pulse beating in his forehead.

‘Jim,' he hears.

Jimmy stops, breathing hard, looks to see Piggy bent over, illuminated in the glow from the headlights. Jimmy sees the fall of rain over the smaller boy, hears the beat of the car's windscreen wipers.

‘Jim,' Piggy says, ‘that's maybe enough.'

Jimmy watches his companion, hears the wipers swish and growl, rubs the back of a hand across his lips. ‘Go,' he says, ‘I'll get the shit.'

Piggy pulls away from the car bonnet and is still hunched over as he trots along the alley heading west. Jimmy can hear bubbling sounds coming from the mouth of the attacker who is lying against the wall of the convent school. He sees the driver lift a hand a little way, let it fall back, lift it again. Jimmy walks across to a fence beside the alley, swings himself over into a dark backyard. He stoops beside an empty dog kennel, reaches inside for a hessian sack which rustles when he lifts it. He hurries down the driveway onto the footpath beside a residential street, heads west to Cowper Street, crosses, makes for the low wire fence of the primary school.

He feels the throb and hears the tinny growl of his telephone. He retrieves the phone from a pocket after he's clambered over the fence.

‘Yeah.'

‘Jim?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Feizel.'

‘I can tell.'

‘How're you doin'?'

‘Not too fucken flash.'

‘Yeah. Scott got hit over by the lake at Berkeley.'

‘Oh, fuck.'

‘Yeah. They roughed him. Nose might be broken, bruises. He went home before he rang me so I'm just ringing you now, as soon as I heard. You got hit as well?'

‘Yeah. We got 'em, me and the Pig. I coulda got some real grief, but for the Pig. I'm more or less okay, we got the cash, we got the shit. Two of 'em. They're back up in the alley. Could be hurt bad.'

‘Fuck 'em.'

‘My sentiments.'

‘Wollongong Italians?'

‘How the fuck would I know?'

‘Yeah, well, that's who I'm guessing. Need somethin'?'

‘Nah. I'm at Cringila Hill. I'm cool.'

‘Okay, I'll come see you in the morning.'

‘Yeah, good.' He thinks for a moment, smiles to himself, says, ‘They get money and the stuff from Scott?'

‘Yeah, they did.'

‘Who's gonna bear that, the loss, you or Scottie?'

After a while of thinking Feizel the businessman says, ‘I haven't worked that out yet,' and Jimmy chuckles to himself as he ends the call.

It's dark in the schoolyard. Jimmy forces passage under a large tree. Its boughs and fronds have grown low and intertwined with each other, making a barrier to light and rain. He makes a space for himself by sweeping away with his feet empty cigarette packets and butts that cover the ground. He crawls to the thick trunk, leans his back against it, listens to the pounding of his heart and tires to catch his breath. He can feel Piggy's weight against his right shoulder, can hear Piggy's wheezing.

‘How bad you hurt?'

‘It's okay.'

‘Nah, how bad is it? He's a big cunt and I saw him – he really got ya. Did he break ribs? I think he maybe broke your ribs.'

‘Nah, I'm fine.'

‘I'll take you down to the hospital.'

Piggy starts to laugh and then the laughing cuts short at the stab of pain it causes. In a while Piggy says, ‘Brilliant. That'd be brilliant. Me in hospital looking like I'd been in a fight, and them lyin' in the rain along the alley, done over.' He snorts laughter again, then it stops. ‘Maybe someone would put two and two together, Jim. It'll be fine. I'll just go home and lie down.'

For a while they listen to the whisper of light rain over the pine foliage that surrounds them. Jimmy's hands are shaking. He draws up his knees and presses his palms against them. He feels ill in the pit of his belly. ‘No, come on,' he says. ‘How's your ribs?'

Piggy gives another snort of laughter. ‘Hurts like shit,' he says, and the two chuckle together.

There's an angry thob of pain in one of the knuckles of Jimmy's right hand. He rubs it, thinks it's probably broken. He hurts at his left hip and shoulder from bouncing along the tar.

‘Who do you think they are?'

‘Feizel was just on the phone. Thinks they're Wollongong Italians, lookin' to break us and move in.'

‘Yeah? This little thing we do down here?'

‘It's what he says.'

‘Yeah, well I wouldn't know. What Feizel does, maybe that's bigger than we know about.'

‘Still, this little thing
we
do. Who'da thought anyone'd bother?'

‘Well, you don't know. Maybe they got other ideas, other stuff they can sell. Anyway, they wasn't up to what they was tryin' to do. Pricks. What my grandfather says, “Not men of substance.” Shit, is what they are. Probably drunks.'

‘Don't like drunks?'

Jimmy thinks for a while. ‘Nah. I got no time for drunks.'

‘Ah. Maybe we should call someone.'

‘What?'

‘Maybe we should tell someone they're up there.'

‘Who?'

‘I don't know. Maybe the police.'

‘What? They get a call, they see my number. You want them here, talkin' to us about all that?'

‘Well, I just thought …'

‘You got a soft heart, you know?'

‘Well, I think you hurt 'em real bad, with the kicking. That was pretty heavy, what you done.'

‘Yeah, well, I get angry. That's what happens to me if someone hits me or grabs me. I get this real …
anger.
So bad that afterwards I feel sick. Sick in my stomach. I lost my temper. I've got a bad temper.'

‘Yeah. Where'd you get those boots? I ain't seen those before.'

‘They're steelworkers boots.'

‘Yeah. They got the metal in the toes?'

‘They do. They were my father's. They're all was left. When he left us, my grandfather come into the house, had a sack, took everything was my father's, filled up the sack, took it all away and sold it.'

‘What? You reckon your father went away and left all he had behind?'

‘Well, that's just what happened. But the boots were under the bed and Grandfather didn't get them. So I kept them. My feet just now got big enough I could wear them.'

‘What was the scene?'

‘What?'

‘When your grandfather come, took the clothes?'

‘Ah. Awful. My mother was shrieking, crying, shouting swear
­words at him in Macedonian, which she hardly ever spoke. She took a photograph of him, I know that. Hid it somewhere Grandfather couldn't find it.'

‘Yeah.'

‘Must have been upset, you know, that my father ran away.'

‘Sure.'

After a while of sitting together, their backs against the tree trunk, Piggy says, ‘Remember him much?'

‘Nah.'

‘Nothin' about what he was like?'

‘Drunk or sober? When he wasn't drunk he was nice, is what I remember, play with me, laugh with me, all that shit. We used to dread pay night. I was only little but I can remember how tense my mother got when it was pay night. He'd come home, you know, the big man, laugh at her, put her down, hit her sometimes.'

‘Hit you too?'

‘Yeah, if I got in the way, which sometimes I did. But he was never like that when Grandfather come around. Always prim and proper, when it was Grandfather. And now I dream about my father sometimes. Same dream. There's someone come to the door and I know it's him. I open the door but I can't see his face. He holds out something that's wrapped nice and I know it's a present, a present for me.' In the darkness Jimmy lifts to his mouth the knuckle that throbs with deep pain, he licks and sucks it. ‘Sometimes I was frightened about my father, would he have been drinkin'? I don't like feeling frightened. I always felt safe with my grandfather, when he was around, when I was with him. I'm with my grandfather, nothin' can frighten me.' After trying to ease the pain in his knuckle, he takes it from his mouth and says, ‘I love my grandfather.'

‘Sure. You call him Grandfather.'

‘Yeah.'

‘That's not all that usual. Most people I know got a grand­father – and, let me tell ya, I don't know too many that
has –
usually they call him Pop, Pappy, somethin' like that.'

‘Funny you say that. Sometimes in the night if I can't sleep I
think
about that, when I started callin' him Grandfather. Because I didn't when I was little. I used to call him Papa. Then I stopped that, and called him Grandfather.'