Affection (24 page)

‘Beware of that wifle,’ he yelled back at Cockerill. ‘It might be dangewous.’

I bundled Turner into the cab and the driver pulled away before I had the door shut. I could see through the window Cockerill at the top of the stairs, peering into the breech and then storming back inside. Turner in front of me had his colour back.

‘My word, Row,’ he said, ‘you could have handled that better.’

Humphry’s buggy was leading a sleek black mare and had just pulled up in front of us, outside the Town Hall. He jumped down and stood beside the beast with his hands on his hips, almost begging us to admire it. Turner strode straight past to telephone for the police.

‘What’s up?’ said Humphry, watching him go inside.

‘Another plague patient. Father’s got a gun this time and won’t let the lad go.’

‘But it’s race day.’

Humphry slapped the mare’s glossy black shoulder-muscle and she skittered and pulled at the lead, showing
the whites of her eyes. She looked as if she might bolt or kill someone herself, given a chance.

‘She’s a spirited thing.’

We took a few quick steps backwards as she danced sideways towards us. Humphry pointed out her best features. She was tall and long, with strong legs, a deep chest, and a sleek body. No mere saddle horse.

When Turner came back, we had a short conference in the street. The police would take over, he said, but Moylan wanted us to keep negotiating.

‘Good for him,’ said Humphry, and he took out his watch, swore, and started to get into his buggy.

‘Where are you going?’ said Turner.

‘Cluden,’ said Humphry. ‘You boys can handle it. I’ll put a few bob on Black Bird for you, if you like. On the nose.’

‘Black Bird?’

‘Well,’ said Humphry, looking around, but no one else was in earshot, ‘I couldn’t very well race her as Minstrel Girl. Someone might recognise her.’

‘She’s a ring-in?’ I said.

‘Hoy, keep it down. I’m just saying,’ he leaned forward and whispered, ‘you should get six to one.’

Turner suggested I catch a lift with Humphry back to Cockerill’s house, to keep an eye on things before the police arrived. There was a chance he’d come to his senses.

‘A chance?’ said Humphry, as I climbed up beside him. ‘I wouldn’t put my money on it.’

‘Why Black Bird?’ I said. We were rolling again down the main street. The dark horse trotting behind us was looking to make a break for it.

‘I thought Dawson would appreciate it. I wanted to call her Quarantine, but that might spark a plunge and lower the price.’

‘She’s not going to be in top form, though, if she just got off the boat,’ I said.

‘Doesn’t need to be,’ said Humphry. ‘She could beat Dawson’s nag with one leg tied behind her back.’

Dawson’s nag, he said, was called Red Nellie.

‘What’s wrong?’ Humphry peered at my puffy face.

‘My neck.’

‘I thought it was your tooth.’

I told Humphry about the barber, the rifle, and Bacot’s role in the Cockerill affair.

‘Well, that explains the gun,’ he said. ‘Anything Bacot touches gets this urge to bite someone.’

The dust swirled in front of us and I spat some blood on to the road.

Low grey clouds scuttered in from the harbour and the road was busy with people in carriages and on horseback heading towards the racecourse. I hadn’t been taking much notice of Townsville’s social calendar and I asked Humphry if this was the usual Saturday afternoon races or a special race event.

He looked at me with pity and said it was ‘Race Day’. He wouldn’t have paid a small fortune to ship Black Bird up for any Saturday gallop.

Humphry dropped me near the front gate.

I stood there looking up the path to the open door. There was some laughter as a wagon-load of the younger set rumbled behind me. The dog escorting them trotted over to smell my boots. Two men galloped past and I was forced to move closer to the fence.

There was no sign of Cockerill senior or his gun. He could have fallen asleep, or gone to the races himself. Was this a chance to go inside and bundle his son away? If I’d thought I could manage it, perhaps I’d have tried, but I knew I couldn’t move the lad myself, and Cockerill might well take a shot at me.

I carried four quarantine flags rolled up in my bag nowadays and I tied one to the gate and then made my way along the front fence. With the yellow bunting snapping in the breeze it seemed as if a party was in the offing – which it was for some, as it turned out. It certainly drew attention to the place. A few people appeared in their front yards to stretch their necks again. Some passers-by booed.

I stood exposed by the front fence and waited stiffly for the police, the ambulance, and some moral support.

After a while Cockerill appeared at the top of his front steps. He propped the rifle in the doorway, sat on the step and filled and lit a pipe, before lifting the stem to me, a sort of hello.

I said, raising my voice, but conversationally, ‘The police will be here soon.’

He nodded and looked up and down the road, nodding too at the traffic.

‘Have you changed your mind?’ I said.

He reached behind him and grabbed the gun and laid it across his knees.

‘How’s your son?’

‘He’ll be right without your flamin’ help.’

‘Do you want me to take a look at him?’

‘Only one I’ll let take a look is Bacot. He comin’?’

I hoped to God he wasn’t.

I waited near the gate for a while, but I was attracting too much attention from the traffic so I decided to walk fifty yards down the road to a mango tree. I set down my bag and took off my boater and leaned against the trunk wishing I’d brought some water and something for my neck, my mouth, and my back.

I heard the clanging of the ambulance from far away, coming closer, always a sound I thought the patient and the doctor could do without.

Some children who’d been playing in a ditch jumped up and down cheering as it went past. A few scampered after it when they realised it was about to stop.

It arrived in a cloud of dust and dogs outside Cockerill’s gate and before I could reach them two ambulancemen had jumped from the cab in a smooth practised motion and were removing a stretcher.

‘Stop!’ They were almost at the gate. ‘Don’t go in.’

Their intent faces broke into frowns when they saw me charging them, then fortunately they recognised me and stopped.

Cockerill was standing on the top steps fingering the weapon.

I pointed at the house. ‘The man has a gun.’

They saw the old man then, the gun in his hands, and took a few steps back. ‘Christ!’ They retreated as if it was a snake they’d nearly stepped on.

‘Why didn’t they tell us it was a siege?’

They put the stretcher away and we stood on the road beside the ambulance, out of the wind and line of fire. The old man had settled back on his perch. A small crowd, mostly children, had gathered on the other side of the road, watching us through the passing traffic.

‘We were told it was a case of plague.’ The ambulancemen looked at each other. ‘They didn’t say anything about gunshot wounds.’

‘There’s a man with plague inside,’ I said. ‘The police aren’t going to shoot him.’

The two men leaned against the vehicle’s side and began rolling cigarettes. ‘Can’t see how they can avoid it,’ one said to the other.

They smoked patiently, the veterans of action, certain of the outcome.

‘Have to shoot him. If he’s mad with plague.’

‘He hasn’t got plague,’ I said. ‘It’s his son.’

‘That’s bad.’ They nodded to each other, ignoring me. ‘Gonna need more stretchers.’

I left them behind the ambulance and went to see what Cockerill was doing. A few people were stopping before moving on, and the traffic was backing up. The small crowd had grown on both sides of the road. They were in loose groups and I prayed that the police would come soon. My throat was now so dry from dust I couldn’t spit the vile taste from my mouth.

Two men were at Cockerill’s front fence and tried to strike up a conversation. I asked them to move back.

‘It’s the plague,’ I said.

‘We can’t catch it from here, can we?’ The man was being belligerent.

‘You could catch a bullet,’ I said.

He smirked. ‘He says he’s quarantined.’

‘Just move back. The police will be here soon.’

‘Police?’ The news soon spread like a ripple along the road.

A carriage belted towards us, weaving in and out of the slowing traffic. It braked and out jumped Bacot. My heart sank. The crowd, which had now grown alarmingly, became quiet as they strained to learn what might happen next.

‘What’s going on?’ said Bacot.

‘Cockerill junior has the plague.’

He sneered and looked at the house.

‘Has he?’

He knew what was going on. Someone had sent a message, but he said, ‘What’s the old man doing with that gun?’

‘He says he’ll shoot anyone who tries to take his son away.’

‘Well, why the devil are all these people here? Where are the police?’

I bit my tongue and looked up the road, wondering what was keeping them. People were spilling on to the road and blocking traffic, and creeping closer to the quarantine flags.

‘It’s under control.’

He looked around, and then at me, curling his lip. ‘Really?’

‘The police will be here shortly.’

‘Look, Row,’ he said, condescendingly, ‘I’ll just go in there and see the old fellow’s son. He’s my damned patient.’

‘No. You won’t.’ I turned my head and the pain winded me for a moment. I took a deep breath and spoke slowly, ‘He’s not your patient any more. He has plague.’

I spat some blood at Bacot’s feet and he backed up then, a little startled maybe. He opened his mouth a couple of times and looked me up and down. Was he actually sizing me up for a fight? A cold fury seized me.

At that moment the crowd, which may have grown to fifty people, grew louder and there was some clapping. The police wagon appeared and a wave of dust rolled
around us. It parked beside the ambulance and three high white helmets floated over.

Moylan took one look at Cockerill on his steps and sent his constables to push everyone back. There was some jeering as this went on.

Bacot backed away as Sergeant Moylan walked past with his thumbs hooked in his tunic and went up to the gate.

‘You should put that relic away, William. It’ll not do your son any good if someone’s shot.’

‘A man’s got a right to defend his own flamin’ property. I won’t shoot anyone who doesn’t flamin’ well deserve it.’

‘Have you been drinking?’ shouted Moylan.

‘None of your flamin’ business.’

Moylan walked back to me. ‘Do you have any plans?’

Bacot jumped in and said to let him through the gate, he could examine the boy, see if it
wasn’t
plague, and then persuade the old man to surrender. Or he could even disarm him when he wasn’t looking. The gun probably wasn’t even loaded.

Moylan shook his head as if a fly was bothering him. ‘Dr Row?’

‘Cockerill junior has plague,’ I said. ‘He has to go to the plague hospital. Anyway, the house is quarantined,’ I glared at Bacot, ‘and
no one’s
allowed inside. We should wait.’

‘Wait? Wait? What for?’ said Bacot.

Turner, I said. He was the Government’s expert.

‘Expert!’

I wasn’t sure that Turner had a plan, but if he did it wouldn’t involve Bacot undermining our authority.

‘He’s my patient,’ Bacot insisted.

I said the boy had plague, and that meant he wasn’t Bacot’s patient any longer, but was in the care of myself and Dr Turner.

‘Speak of the devil,’ said Bacot, ‘and here’s your boss.’

Turner was beside me, looking past us to the house. I stood aside and gave him a view of Cockerill on the steps with his rifle.

‘This house is quarantined under the Health Act,’ Turner told Sergeant Moylan. ‘No one’s to go through that gate.’

‘He’s asked for me,’ said Bacot, reddening. ‘Don’t you see, you fools, I can help.’

Dr Bacot had forfeited his patient when he referred him to Dr Row, said Turner, and he went on to insist that, under the Health Act, anyone who entered a quarantined premises who wasn’t a police officer or a member of the Epidemic Board would be breaking the law. Bacot wasn’t on the board.

The trouble, of course, was that anybody who
was
a policeman or a board member would be shot, if Cockerill was to be taken at his word. And who would call his bluff now? Not only would he be shot, but worse, he’d look like a fool.

‘It would be irresponsible to send anyone up there while the man’s armed and threatening to shoot doctors, don’t you think?’ said Turner.

Even if Bacot had a good point, there was no budging Turner.

Bacot stamped off.

A wave of nausea suddenly hit me and I leaned against the side of the ambulance.

Turner was watching the gathering crowd.

‘If we don’t follow the regulations by the book now, we’ll have no chance of enforcing them again.’

The nausea passed.

We stood about with nothing to do; Cockerill sat on his step and smoked as if it was a summer evening and exchanged a few comments with the crowd. Bacot paced the fence, fists thrust deep into his pockets, his body so tightly clenched he was shaking.

Cockerill taunted Bacot when he realised the doctor had been forbidden from entering the gate.

‘You’re not going to let that flamin’ lot scare you?’

Bacot looked darkly at the two armed constables in front of the gate. He may have thought it was worth the risk. He’d be a hero because Cockerill had asked for him and wouldn’t shoot him. But he’d face arrest. The longer it dragged on, the more I began to think we should have let him have a go.

Sergeant Moylan and Turner tried to persuade Cockerill to surrender his son, but the exchanges were booed and cheered and only encouraged the old man’s cockiness.

I sat on the ambulance footplate watching, and within a few hours the crowd had grown to perhaps two hundred.
Some had stayed the entire time, some had gone to the races and returned, having a bet each way as it were.

Someone was selling ices.