Black Teeth (28 page)

‘That's Freddie. He's got…fucking…dodgy prostrate…prostate. Cancer. Gets up a dozen times a night.'

It's a bathroom light, small and high. It allows me to properly make out the horror of Tyan's eyes. Burning red and flabby and wet. He's been crying. Not just crying, bawling hard. I don't know how he can see out of those pupils.

‘He's…His name's Frederico. I call him Freddie. His dunny's actually out back, you know like an outhouse. In the cold like this he gets up and pisses in his washbasin. Shit.'

Tyan is scanning my face. It's illuminated like his own.

‘I'd forgotten about that.'

He means my injuries. I'd forgotten them too.

‘You were saying you shot someone.'

A small wail as he remembers.

‘Yeah, now…Now, this is secret. You got to promise not to tell anyone.'

I go to say, ‘I promise,' but Tyan doesn't give me the chance, just keeps on talking. My promise is assumed.

‘I went over there and I was absolutely pissed. I went over to this place in Altona and I knock on the door and this cunt opened the door and I showed him my badge. I mean, I
showed
it to him.
And
I told
him my name. That's…That was…That's what…was the big mistake. But I told him and I asked him if he was Malcolm Lau and he said…' Tyan scowls, trying to recall. ‘He said…words to the effect of
Fuck off
.'

His expression is one of shock, like it's hard to believe that someone might resent a late-night visit from a drunk police officer.

‘And he toddles off and disappears inside and
I
don't know what the fuck he's doing so I follow him…him in. And I see him. He's opening the drawer, in this desk sort of thing that's in the…inside the…Now, you imagine you're me. What do you think? What's the drawer he's opening for…in there?'

‘I don't know. A phone?'

‘Hey?'

‘To call the police.'

‘I
am
the police.'

‘Yeah, but—'

‘I thought he was going for a weapon, didn't I? And I drew on him and told him to raise his hands. And I said it loud and clear. And he didn't raise his hands. I mean, his hand was
in
the drawer. He just fucking…'

Tyan's eyes drop to his alcohol.

‘He didn't raise his hands. So I fired. Got him in the guts and he went out like a light.'

He rotates his empty glass against the table.

‘So I go over to him, to get a look at the wound, because I don't know, maybe I just fucking grazed him. But I didn't…But…'

He breaks off. More wetness in the red pits of his eyes. His voice rises in pitch: ‘You can guess.'

‘Guess?'

Tyan wipes his nose with his wrist.

‘He didn't have the scar. The appendix…The one I told you…'

I sit back in my chair.

Tyan says, ‘I had an old address. The LEAP record was wrong… the wrong address…This is…I found this out later. And the stupid bastard…It was…I mean, it was his fucking wallet. In the fucking drawer. Lung Yeung. That was his name. Why didn't he…? When I told him…'

‘Was he dead?'

‘Not…No. He was out, but he was breathing, blood pissing…'

‘What did you do?'

The eyes widen, like that's a hell of a question. He exposes to me their full colour and convolution. The light flicks off next door: Freddie heading back to bed. In the dark I'm left with that image of Glen Tyan. Despairing and wretched.

‘What I did,' he says, ‘was fucking…He was fucking fucked up. I mean, I could tell. And I had this…thought.'

The bottle is mostly finished. He pours what's left into his glass. A generous portion but maybe not for him. Then he stands up, holding his drink. The chair almost tips but it doesn't.

‘Someone heard the shot, right? I mean they had to. So probably there are cops…other cops…coming. They were
coming
. And this bastard was still breathing…' He points to an imaginary body on the floor. ‘Has…had seen my face. Seen my badge. Fucking
knew
my
name
. So I'm
fucked
.'

He stumbles confidently to the centre of the room.

‘But I can't fucking shoot him again, can I? If he's on the floor.'

A thumb and forefinger rise up, aimed at the imaginary innocent victim bleeding on his kitchen lino.

‘I can't do a kill shot. That's fucking murder. The physical evidence…spatter…exit wound…bullet lodged in the fucking carpet. That's not self-defence. That's a fucking
execution
. I can't bullshit out any…out of that. That's fucking prison and fucking good night nurse.'

He throws his arms in the air as if to say,
What a quandary!
Still holding the pretend gun in one hand and his drink in the other.

‘So what I did is…' The gun hand shakes at me to get my attention. Like he doesn't already have that. ‘What I did is, in his kitchen…'

Tyan rattles open his own kitchen drawer and takes something out and I can't see at first but then the hall light catches on it, flashes a reverse silhouette right into my retina.

‘Got a knife,' Tyan says, crafty. ‘Like this. Put it in his hand, got his prints on it.'

He lays the knife on the floor, gets awkwardly to his knees,
seemingly administering to a wounded man. With rapid movements, he points to the window.

‘I shut all the blinds and the curtains. And I got his mobile and I fucking trousered that. And I locked all the doors…' He stops, as if puzzled, then switches back to his excitement: ‘What…The plan was, was to climb out a fucking…window. Ditch the phone. So when the coppers got there I'd say…' Another shocking belch, but he continues without noticing. ‘…there was an armed man in the house. You understand?'

‘Sure.' But not really.

With wordless pain Tyan gets back to his feet, limps left and right, restoring his knees.

‘When the coppers got there…it's not like they'd go in the fucking door and find him and get him on a fucking gurney. It's called…' His hand flaps. ‘Protocol…Something Protocol. They have to get Siege Response on the line, get them to show up, evacuate the neighbours, cut off the mobile…the fucking…coverage. Get a command centre.' ‘But…if he's the only one in there—'

‘
They
don't
know
that,' Tyan declares, face shining with ingenuity. ‘I tell them…I was just waved down by this arsehole who fucking… tried to
cut
me. I…I tell…I fired my gun but I don't know if I got him. Don't know if he's got a
gun
. Don't
know
who else's inside. There could be hostages. There could be fucking
kids
in…in…so…right… by the time they've gone through the fucking…
Critical Incident
!' He claps his hands Eureka. ‘
That's
what it's fucking…Critical Incident Protocol. Once they've gone through all that…and they can't raise him on the phone…' He's laughing now. ‘By the time they kick in the fucking doors, he's succumbed. And there's no one to say I'm bullshitting.'

Tyan stands with his arms out, begging me to appreciate.

‘So…' I say. ‘That's what happened?'

This appears to be the wrong question. Tyan scowls, drinks, peeks into the glass, drinks again to finish it.

‘Nah. He was dead.'

He puts the glass on the table. All that energy abandons him. Invisible and silent. He points to the invisible and silent dead body.

‘Right there on the floor. It was a cracker of an idea, but. Wish I had the chance to try and…I was going to do it. But he just…he died. He just fucking died. So I left. Fuck all to do but cut and run. So that's…'

Tyan's shoulders turn sharply and his body follows, swings over to the sink, rests with his back to me.

‘Shouldn't of told you, I s'pose,' Breathing heavy, distress returning to his voice. ‘But you wanted to know how come I quit the force.'

47

It's the kind of memory that
would
get you weeping in the dark, drinking a whole bottle of something, hankering to spew the awfulness out to whoever. It makes me think of the confession Piers never made. To me, in the prison yard at Severington. It's what that would have been like.

‘Did they know it was you?'

When he turns back the alcohol tears are there. He's wiped some away but more glint on his cheek.

‘Couldn't prove it,' he says with a calming breath. ‘They knew. I mean…It was a fucking mess. He was shot with a cop gun so the sergeant had to test them…to test them all. I had to say I lost mine. Like a fucking school kid. Wrote up an incident report and everything. And they guessed what I done. How…with the wrong address. But that was it. But they knew.'

‘So they fired you.'

He squirms.

‘Deputy-Com got the word out I should resign. I could have fucking fought them. Fought back. They didn't want it…publicly… But I was so fucked up…'

His head lowers, watches his toes tap gently on the floor.

‘His name was Lung Yeung.'

At the pronouncement of that name he's overcome with a full-throated sob. Hands grip the bench behind him and his shoulders and belly shudder with startling energy and a yawning comes from his mouth because he's feeling pain like nothing I thought he was capable of.

In between the awesome heaves he howls words I don't understand.

What do I do? Do I go to him? What are you supposed to do with a weeping father?

In the dark I can see his mouth locked wide open. The silhouette shakes and tips and the power of his suffering echoes against these old walls.

‘
I wish I could tell him…I fucked up…I'm sorry.
'

He needs both hands to wipe at his face, manages a growl that appears to be an attempt to pull himself together.

‘All my mates, they all turned their back. Fucking coppers. They love you when you're working. But once you fuck up…'

He comes at me from the sink. I startle back. But Tyan only picks up the empty bottle, doesn't see the fear.

‘It's like with the poor bastards with PS…PST…' He can't say it, thinks hard. ‘Fucking abandoned. Same as me. And all of a fucking sudden I'm just sitting around.' He jabs at his surroundings with the bottle.

This observation strikes a nerve. Between his teeth he says, ‘And sitting around and sitting around.'

He slams the bottle into a plastic garbage bin. The shatter distorts in my ears.

‘Even now,' he stares down into that different kind of wreckage. ‘The way they look at me. Like at Harry's retirement the other night.'

I remember Hugh Bretzanitz, the cop I interviewed. The one who said he didn't think of Tyan as the laughing stock other cops did, but who smiled anyway when Tyan's name came up.

He rouses himself, resumes his slumped position at the sink.

‘But this time. They won't even think of Lung Yeung. This time they'll be…They'll ask themselves if they could even do what I did. They'll say it was a mistake, me leaving the force. I'll shove it right up them.' His eyes come to me, drawn and sobering.

‘I'm tired,' he says, and pushes himself from the sink, finds a fraught equilibrium, staggers in short steps towards the hall.

Rudy and Tyan. Both as fucked up as each other. Riddled with guilt and crazy enough to believe that killing someone will make it go away.

‘We've still got a problem,' I say. My own voice is hoarse, dried up from listening. ‘We don't know what Rudy is thinking. After last night, anything's possible.'

And after tonight at Beth's, anything else is, too.

‘You've got to find out.'

‘I can't go and see him, if that's what you think. He might flip out again. I suppose I could call him—'

His shuffling steps reach the hall, don't slow down.

‘Give him a…a fucking…a peace offering. It's hard to go off on someone who gives you a…gives you something.'

‘Okay. But even then—'

‘And listen…What you said this morning. You're right. We need something on Rudy.'

‘What?'

But he's left the room. I wait for him to come back. Give it about ten seconds. Then I ease out of my chair and follow.

The small hallway is properly lit. On the wall is a clock carved out of wood: two whittled topless Thai girls hold up the clock face, their skirts made of real straw that protrudes like the beard of a scarecrow. Three past midnight.

The bedroom screams Single Older Gentleman. Poking out of a drawer in the dresser is the corner of a magazine; I assume a dirty magazine, if they still make those. The bed is piled with old-fashioned blankets, no doona. Tyan's carcass is sprawled across them, his eyes shut.

‘We need something…Something that proves what he's planning.' ‘What about when he comes here…' I say this to a man who, to look at him, must be asleep. ‘Won't
that
prove what he's planning?'

‘Something more,' he murmurs, perhaps already dreaming. ‘A fucking clincher.'

‘Like what?'

He says nothing. He is still. I raise my voice.

‘Like what, do you think?

Nothing. Then a breezy bagpipes snore ruffles his nose.

On the clothes horse by the dresser there's a tattered quilt that I shake out, place over him. It won't keep him warm for long but it's
the most I can do short of hiring a sumo wrestler to get him under the blankets.

One last look before I go home: Tyan a sleeping child, his hair flopped away like a tiny toupee for his pillow, his mouth relaxed agog and his whiskery eyebrows twitching gently. So fragile I almost can't leave him like this.

But I do, switch off the bedroom light. Keep the hall light on. When I get home I find that someone has broken into my flat.