Who Sings for Lu? (24 page)

Waiting, back then, for Sandy Tulloch’s helicopter to land in the neighbouring property — so as not to frighten the horses — Straw Mathews had felt only dread. Tulloch’s machine descended like some great black bird swooping on its prize. Confirmed when Tulloch said he was taking over the farm as per a clause in the contract, ‘and you don’t want me explaining why it has been invoked’.

No, Straw didn’t need to be told. But nor did he have to like the subsequent action. Wasting no time, Sandy put to Straw, ‘Are you with me, or with Riley? I know you go back a long way and how vital you are to the business.’

Back a long way was right, from before Riley took over from his granddad Sean — as fine a man as Straw had ever known; he would have died for him. And when he saw the grandson in action it was easy to shift the admiration, indeed love, and skip a generation. For he had no liking for Riley’s dad who had that greedy retailer’s manner, nor the missus, Riley’s mum, a cold thing. But Riley worked even harder than his granddad. And he was smarter — no, make that a bigger thinker — than old Sean. Took risks, if calculated and always in consultation with Straw, since they were in the less than minor league back then and so had to be more canny. Raimona coming along had made a huge difference, but only in shortening the time it would take for Riley and
himself to make Galahrity a big success.

The man was fated. And so, in his own quiet employee’s way, was Straw. He had all the attributes except one: money. As a concept of accumulation, possessions, money of no interest to Straw. He respected it and understood it as a mirror of any business life. But he didn’t lust after the stuff, couldn’t care less. Never asked himself why. Not when it didn’t anguish, didn’t cause him envy or resentment as he watched Riley’s monetary stocks rise and rise. Straw was a man happy with three meals a day and a few beers at the end, but only if the work was all done. Being a bachelor helped, as the only interest he had was the horses. And the kids. Claire and Riley’s girls.

He loved them. And equally. Not like the father whose obvious favourite was Anna. Bloke didn’t know what he was missing in that Katie: a terrific kid, quirky sense of humour in a male sort of way, as if she understood men at their core, and he didn’t mean the crude male syndrome all the time talking bloody sex. He meant the raw and the honest, how men boiled things down to their basics. How in that question of the difference between a man and a woman, she was the workings of a jumbo jet instrument panel and he, the man, a simple ON/OFF switch.

Well, Katie, as she got older and when she could be bothered coming down to the stables, or when he was up at the house having a chat, had shown instinctive understanding of what made Straw tick. His simple ways. His work ethic and love of thoroughbred horses. She knew how to get a laugh out of him and that he was much more than he appeared, just an old bachelor with only one interest. Because she
asked
of his other interests, a kid’s way of how many famous people did he know and were there any celebs who owned horses and what were rich people really like. A lively kid with a sense of curiosity.

Okay, she hit about age twelve and veered off into herself, silly loud music, not communicating with her parents, but she never changed with Straw. Not one bit. He always found something to talk about with her, though it meant he had to go up to the house as she grew a dislike of the horses which he knew she’d grow the other way out of. A bloody good kid, with different kind of brains to her glamorous big sister. Katie was more her father: instinctive when it came to horses. Probably
stronger of personality too, as it was transpiring. Straw knew he could make a top breeder out of the girl.

And when Riley put twenty-five per cent of Raimona out to syndication, who did he casually inform he was the owner of ten per cent of the family’s seventy-five per cent? — why, Straw Mathews. ‘As a family friend, not our employee.’
Gratis
. Not the money it was the gesture, Jesus, the bloody scale of it even back then, as everyone could see this horse was cut out for a great stud career. A gesture Straw happened to know was typical of the man. Sure, Riley loved money and could be tighter than a fish’s arse. But the same thing drove them all in this game: a love of thoroughbred horses, period.

With his share of Rai’s stud fees — minus costs of course — Straw’s bank account grew and grew, so he chose a charity that donated books to poor kids. Gave them some of the money. What else would he do with it?

But the star of the family? Claire. Unheralded, barely noticed Claire.

Under-rated, unappreciated — just as the female staff here were, though not by him. Straw Mathews knew where the credit belonged and he gave it where due. Riley was guilty on that count: not recognising when his female staff had done an exceptional job. Or he’d suddenly remember and try to buy them off with bonuses, when it was simple praise staff wanted. The bloke could have asked someone. Like the man he gave ten per cent of a small fortune.

Claire, who had worked for twenty-plus years to help build this business, mucked in with the best, up at all hours during foaling, had to raise the kids too, run a house and no doubt service her horny husband.
Selfish prick doing what he did. I knew it, even without being told: he was bang at it on the womanising front. Only thing outside of horses that gets him sparked up. A bloody sheila. ‘The hairy magnet’ I hear my men call
it.
Straw wasn’t born with the desire to be drawn like that. His boss — well, hardly a boss, as they were mates — maybe wanted to be like super-stud Raimona; stupid man not knowing what he had at home. Look where it had got him now.

Straw told Tulloch his loyalties were to Galahrity first, but since that went hand in hand with Riley he offered his resignation. He could
not and would not be disloyal.

To his surprise Tulloch said he would not expect anything else and he could keep his general manager position if he wished. ‘I’m well aware of your input to this place.’

An offer Straw accepted, in the meantime. Had hopes, however, of finding a way to thwart Tulloch’s unseemly takeover, contract clause be damned. Such a thing as honour.

He knew an awful lot of people over his thirty-three years in the thoroughbred game, an international cast of powerhouse personalities, including the biggest, best and brightest on his home turf. Not saying they were all mates, but any number he could call on if he wanted a favour done, like taking a stake in a promising horse no one else could see the potential in. Only had to ask of at least a score of wealthy horse lovers and for him they were in. He had turned down countless offers at higher pay to go work for other breeders, the biggest players included. Could have become quite wealthy — if wealth mattered. Relationships mattered, and if he and Riley had the exact same list of contacts, Straw had emotional skin in the game. He gave of himself and they in turn gave back.

Whereas Riley, always on the sly hunt for women, had no close male mates. Silly fool forever chasing women who were the opposite of his cold mother — didn’t take Straw long to figure that one out. Even in a business known for attracting passionate men who made loyal and lasting friendships, Riley was outside the emotional loop. No wonder he’d been running around down there in Sydney trying to hire private detectives by the dozen to hunt down Anna’s attackers.

Now with Riley dramatically departed, Tulloch taking over, and poor Anna, everything was upside down.
For starters, Riley belongs here, at Galahrity. Long as I can convince Claire you’re worth taking back and how she’ll just have to accept that you’ll stray from time to time. She listens to me, knows I have no other agenda than her best interests, her children’s, and her husband’s too. See what I can do. They’ve done enough for me.

At being shown the map of the vast area this post covered, he asked, ‘There any white men around?’ The heat, even in this tiny space called a police station, unbelievably oppressive. As flies came at them, oblivious to Kev’s swatting, to the ineffective ceiling fan, to the outsize newcomer’s sudden movements of extreme irritation and other really bad stuff going on inside him.

‘Only a few graziers,’ the deeply tanned constable answered. ‘Each owns hundreds, even thousands, of square kilometres.’ A drinker if ever there was one. Adding, ‘One cattle beast needs about a square kay to graze — if you can call the land round these parts grazing country. And these blokes are not like you and me, Kev.’

Meaning what? That they had nothing in common other than the colour of their skin?
Might be I’d like to meet a grazier or two and decide for myself. As for this ‘Kev’ business, in the first half hour and he’s my best mate?

‘What, they’re white men aren’t they?’

‘Hard-as-nails whites who may as well be blackfellas. Guess who they see most of living out here.’

Out here. God almighty. What had a man done to deserve this? With one of two white men who would be his sole working and leisure company, a room you’d kill the cat if you swung it. Yet, through the
fly-screened barred window, what this nitwit called the holding pens — ‘and I’m not talking sheep or cattle, or even roos’ — a series of open-air cages enough to take fifty. Kev figured a mass drunken brawl or tribal battle, and somehow mass arrest of the participants. Need machine guns for three of them to do that.

That terrible feeling of rejection and failure in his gut: nothing could hurt a cop more than his own kind turning on him.
The fuckin’ photos. And now I’m in the fuckin’ desert. This is the great Australian outback. Abo country. Please God, but I don’t belong here.

‘What about pubs?’ Kev wanted to know. Least a man could have a few beers, talk bullshit with fellow males, a bit of the old how’s-
ya-father
talk, must be the odd white sheila or two who’d fancy a great big bloke like him, a city slicker with an appetite to match his size, hahaha.

‘Nearest one is three hundred and thirteen kays, that-a-way,’ the constable pointed, presumably at the hinterland, as if this wasn’t hinter enough. ‘We get our grog in bulk.’

Grog? Not what a self-respecting white man called beer. So Kev drawled in an assertive, even sarcastic tone, ‘Bulk? By whose standards?’

‘By the fuckin’ lorry-load, mate.’ Bright cheery smile as if it was a funny. ‘Hundred slabs per.’ So said this forty-plus cop. ‘Oh, and our grog lock-up is the most secure place here. Ten prisoners can escape before a slab of our piss leaves without being signed for by one of us.’

Least he said piss. And Kev didn’t need to be told Aboriginals had a booze problem. No doubt one this bloke empathised with.

‘And the locals get their — grog, how?’ The Abos owned the word in Kev’s mind, but not the legal right to purchase liquor, not in a remote settlement. Their own self-imposed rule to protect themselves from themselves. Kev had other thoughts on how to civilise these people. ‘Black market?’ Another of his own remarks Constable Jimmy McLean found funny.

Do I have to live with that irritating giggle every few minutes?

‘They go mad for a drink. Like dry country cattle at a waterhole. Spend all their welfare on it, lucky anything left to feed mum and the kids on. Half the time mum is at it, too, off her face on grog. Put their
toddlers to sleep with rags soaked in petrol. We get at least a suicide a month of teenage petrol sniffers. And …’ McLean reeling off a list of appalling social patterns.

A suicide
a month
? Of
teenagers
? ‘Might be time to learn them a few lessons, you think?’ When Kev didn’t think — he knew. Cop like this back in the city you wouldn’t even talk to, let alone invite his thoughts on something.

‘Doesn’t work like that. We, white folk, fucked these people —’

‘The hell we did. They did it to themselves.’

‘You’ve just arrived, Kev.’

Have to sort out this lack of respect for rank too.

‘We fucked it. So we have to fix it.’

‘“We”? I’ve met about ten Abos in my life. The lot in police cells.’ Kev nearly spat the words.

Jimmy’s stare too steady for Kev’s liking. Smack him in the mouth in a sec.

‘Don’t come here with a heavy hand, sir. Don’t.’

Least he finally paid due respect, even if Kev had been demoted to Sergeant. Though who was he advising on policy? Fuck it. Move on. ‘It’s hot.’ Meaning
hot
.

‘Not right now it isn’t. And don’t say you’ll get used to it because you won’t. We’re the wrong skin colour.’

The white guilt trip bullshit again? So who was in power? Not that it felt a position of power, not remotely — hah, that was apt. Remotely. Still, since he was here, no choice in the matter, couldn’t resign, didn’t know any other job, could not imagine being other than a cop. A certain number of years before the pension cash-in made it all worth it, what a man had to put up with looking after the public. But this was beyond any decent white man’s limit. Kev not sure even the pension could keep him here.

‘I’ll show you around.’

On the drive to the settlement, Kevin in anguished thought. The bloody photographs —
how
did they get them? — of a good-looking naked young woman engaged in sexual congress with an exceptionally tall and well-built police officer with his underpants halfway down his thighs. Guess who? The little bitch. How?

That why she had the music going, to cover up the sound of a camera? Why she wore no knickers, so he’d lose himself in lust? Why she steered him to the sofa when he was headed for the bedroom, to do the business on the bed, more room to bounce around and have fun? But no camera in there. And meant a third party was in on it — another set of eyes in the fuckin’ room!

You’re dead meat, Lu. Have you fitted with concrete boots for a swim out at Sydney Heads. I’ll fuck your pussy with a sea urchin, a fuckin’ porcupine. And then I’ll kill you.

These hate-filled thoughts as he heard his superior — not the Commissioner, but Lawrence of fuckin’ Arabia — in that dead monotone informing Kev, ‘… and this new posting will be a means to redeem yourself — if you do not wish to resign. Quite a different location, but you’ll be paid extra for living in extreme conditions.’

In other words, in a remote area policing numerous Aboriginal communities — in other words assigned the impossible. Trying to impose civilised conduct on a Stone Age people. He hated Abos. No personal reasons why, just did. Same as he hated a lot of things. Most cops he knew were like that.

Commercial flight from Sydney to Alice Springs. A small Cessna aircraft to here, more than three hours flying over nothing but orange and red desert, scrawny scrub patches, not a gum tree to be seen, the odd group of kangaroos bounding and languishing three thousand feet below. From being a somebody back in the big smoke to seeing smoke rising from iron roofs glinting in the sun out in the loneliest spot on God’s earth. And why would they have a fire going? They cook in the embers, the pilot told him and for some reason gave Kev an amused look.

Desolation defined. The great outback like he could not have imagined even when he’d seen documentaries of the same on television. They didn’t show this.

In the police four-wheel-drive, coughing up dust, nothing out there but arid red and dry brown, dead flat.
I’ve been a good cop, far as our tough and difficult profession allows.
Hardly an innocent in any police force: officers came up against temptation too often, too much testosterone, macho by definition because they had to be. Or the scum
of society would run right over them, and take society down in turn. ‘Poor moral standards,’ Lawrence fuckin’ Smith had the nerve to say. To a man who had served his society professionally? How dare he make such accusation?

No way Kylie and the kids agreed to this move, they loved living in Sydney, he’d have to commute — how? By plane, one of those tiny jobs hopping its way across the desert, one crashed every week, according to the media. Maybe the family would meet him in Alice every fortnight?
How
had this happened?

And now he was here, with Constable McLean, looking at something he could not have imagined. At human beings, black as night, sprawled out like reptiles basking in the sun. Beds
outside
? Sure were, with broken men, women and children lain and playing all over them. And these were his daily charges? His fellow countrymen? Their mangy dogs snuffling around like pigs in shit. Hell, more like it.

Kev thinking: a suicide a month? Might be the suicide list would have one demoted white policeman on it.