The Broken Shore (22 page)

‘Bit like putting in twenty mile of fence, I suppose,’ he said. ‘You just think about the bit to the next tree.’

‘No,’ said Cashin. ‘It’s a stupid idea.’

He was relieved that the lunacy was over. It was as if a fever had peaked, leaving him sweaty but lucid. ‘House’s fucked, it should stay that way.’

Rebb scuffed the earth with a boot heel. ‘Well, I dunno. You could do worse. Least you’re building something.’

‘I don’t need to. There’s no point.’

‘What’s got a point?’

‘It’s a stupid idea. I admit it, let’s leave it at that.’

‘Well, got all this stuff here. Bit of a waste to stop now.’

‘I’m making a judgment.’

‘You can be too quick making judgments.’

Cashin felt the flash. ‘I’ve had a bit more practice making judgments than your average swaggie,’ he said and regretted his policeman’s voice.

‘I’m an itinerant labourer,’ said Rebb, not looking at him. ‘People pay me to do jobs they don’t want to do themselves. Like the state pays you to keep property safe for the rich. The rich call, you come with the siren going. The poor call, well hang on, there’s a waiting list, we’ll get around to it some time.’

‘Bullshit,’ said Cashin. ‘Bullshit. You’ve got no fucking idea what you’re talking about…’

‘Those dead boys,’ said Rebb. ‘That the judgment you talking about?’

Cashin felt his anger drain, the taste of tin in his mouth.

‘The difference between us,’ said Rebb, ‘the difference is I don’t have to stay on the job. I can just walk.’

In the silence, the dogs came with licks and nudges, as if, in the valley probing the undergrowth, they had heard the violence in the voices of their friends and had come in haste to calm them.

‘Anyway, it’s not as if I have a right to speak my opinion to you,’ said Rebb. ‘Being a swaggie.’

Cashin had no idea what to say, the ease that had grown between them over the days was gone and they had no history of arguments— won, lost, drawn, abandoned—to fall back on.

‘Milking time,’ said Rebb.

He rose and walked, left the spade stuck in the mound of sand, his bricklaying implements in the bucket, handles sticking out of silver water.

The dogs went with him, down the slope, even blacker against the sere grass. They trotted along happily. Then they stopped, turned, dark eyes on Cashin sitting on the bricks.

Rebb marched on, hands in his pockets, head down, shoulders sloped.

The dogs were torn.

Cashin wanted to tell them to go with Rebb, to say to them, you faithless things, I took you in, I saved you, you’d be in a concrete
backyard now, knee-deep in your own droppings, you would not know a rabbit from a takeaway barbecue chicken. But I was only ever a meal-ticket and a soft bed, legs to lie on.

So go. Fuck off. Go.

The dogs bounded back to him, the lovely bouncing run, the ears afloat. They jumped up, put their paws on him and spoke to him.

He shouted, ‘Dave.’

No response. ‘DAVE.’

Rebb turned his head, didn’t stop walking.

‘OKAY, WE’LL FIX THE FUCKING THING!’

Rebb walked on, but he raised his right arm and gave a thumbs-up.

THE PHONE rang when he was making toast.

‘Joe, time to leave this,’ said Villani. ‘It’s over.’

‘How did we get to over?’ said Cashin. ‘Because Donny tops himself? That’s not a confession, that’s an indictment of these local deadshits.’

‘Did you see Bobby Walshe last night?’

Cashin sat down at the table. ‘No.’

‘Stay in touch with the world, son. We have apparently crucified three innocent black children. It’s Jesus and no thieves, everyone’s clean.’

‘Can I say…’

‘And another matter,’ said Villani. ‘Someone spoke to someone who spoke to the deputy who spoke directly to me. It concerns your visit to the Bourgoyne house yesterday.’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m asked why we are still hanging around The Heights.’

‘Just doing the job. That’s a complaint from Erica, is it?’

‘The place’s been X-rayed. What the fuck were you doing there?’

‘Having a sniff. Remember having a sniff? Remember Singo?’

‘It’s too late for sniffing. Let it rest, will you?’

‘There’s no certainty the boys did it,’ said Cashin. He had not planned to say that.

Villani whistled, rueful. ‘Well, Joe, I’ve got a lot on the plate, it’s a
full plate. Every day. And night. What say we talk about this insight of yours later? I’ll give you a call. First free moment. Okay?’

‘Okay. Sure.’

‘Joe?’

‘Yes.’

‘A cop, Joe, don’t forget that. You don’t obsess. You do your best and then you move on.’

Cashin could hear the voice of Singo.

‘No one’s done their best about this,’ he said. ‘No one’s done a fucking thing.’

‘Have a relaxing day,’ said Villani. ‘Did I say your holiday’s been extended? The deputy wants you to take the full five weeks you’re owed. He’s worried about your health and wellbeing. He’s like that. Caring. I’ll get back to you.’

You don’t obsess.
Words chosen to remind, to caution. To hurt.

Cashin felt the nausea rising and the pain in his shoulders that would move up his neck into his head. In the worst times, these symptoms had signalled the coming of the frozen images, the ghostly negatives that lingered on the retina after he looked away from things. It had seemed clear to him then that he was going mad.

He took three tablets, sat in the big chair, head back, eyes closed, concentrating on his breathing, waiting. The pain did not reach its former heights, the nausea receded. But it was almost an hour before he could get up. He washed his face and hands, brushed his teeth and gargled, drove down empty roads to Port Monro. The cattle were indifferent to his passing.

He parked outside the post office. Four letters in the mailbox, nothing personal. No one wrote to him. Who would write to him? Not a single soul in the world. He walked around the corner to the station.

Kendall was on the desk. ‘Can’t live with it, can’t etcetera,’ she said. ‘Boss.’

‘Keeping the sovereign’s peace?’

‘Yes, sir. Spread the word to the locals that in the event of bad behaviour you’d come back.’

Cashin went to his desk, read the log, the official notices, sat looking at the backyard.

‘While you’re here, can I do some personal business, boss?’ said Kendall.

‘On your way,’ said Cashin.

She had been gone a minute when a whippet-thin young man came in the door, looked around like a first-time bank robber. Cashin went to the counter. ‘Help you?’

‘They reckon I should talk to youse.’ He pulled down on the rounded visor of his cap.

‘Yes? Your name?’

‘Gary Witts.’

‘What can we do for you, Mr Witts?’

‘Problem with the girlfriend. Yeah.’

Cashin gave him the compassionate nod. ‘The girlfriend.’

‘Yeah. Don’t want to get her in no trouble. She’s me girlfriend.’

‘And the problem?’

‘Well, it’s me ute.’

‘The girlfriend and your ute?’

‘It’s not like I wanna lay a charge.’

‘Your girlfriend? No, you wouldn’t.’

‘Don’t mean I’m not pissed off. I’m no fuckin rug, mat, whatever. Not me.’

‘What’s she done?’

‘Went to Queensland in me ute. With this mate of hers from Cromarty, they’re hairdressers, apprentices. You know that place WowHair? That’s where.’

‘So she took your ute without your permission?’

‘Nah. Gave her a lend of it. Now she reckons she’s not comin back. Met this Surfers Paradise bloke, Carlo, Mario, some wog name, he’s got three saloons, offered her a job. Now she reckons I owe her the ute.’

‘Why’s that?’

Gary tugged at his visor again until Cashin couldn’t see his eyes. ‘She loaned me the deposit.’

Cashin knew. ‘And she’s been making the payments?’

‘Just tempory. Pay her back. Got a job now.’

‘How long did she make the payments?’

‘Jeez, I dunno. A while. Year, bit more. Could be two. Yeah.’

‘So what do you want?’ Cashin said.

‘I thought, like, you could get the cops up there, they could tell her to bring it back. Lean on her a bit. Y’know?’

Cashin put his forearms on the counter, laced his fingers, looked under Gary’s visor. ‘Gary, we don’t do that kind of thing. She hasn’t committed a crime. You lent her the ute. You owe her lots of money. Best thing you can do is go up there, pay her what you owe her, drive the ute home.’

‘Well, fuck,’ Gary said, ‘can’t do that.’

‘Then you’ll have to see a lawyer. Take some kind of civil action against her.’

‘Civil?’

‘A lawyer’ll explain it to you. Basically, they write her a letter, tell her to hand over the ute or else.’

Gary nodded, scratched an ear. ‘She’s pretty scared of cops. Wouldn’t take much to scare her, I can tell you.’

‘We’re not in the scare business, Gary.’

Gary went to the door, disappointment in his shoulders. He hesitated, came back, sniffed. ‘Nother thing,’ he said. ‘How come you blokes don’t do nothin about the fuckin Piggots?’

‘What should we do something about?’

‘Getting fuckin rich on drugs.’

‘What’s the point here, Gary?’

‘Well, the mate she went with. She’s fuckin thick with the Piggots. I reckon they dropped off a bag on the way, who’s gonna check two chicks, right?’

‘You know this, do you?’

Gary looked away. ‘Won’t say I do, won’t say I don’t.’

‘What’s her name? The friend?’

‘Lukie Tingle.’

‘An address and a phone number for you, Gary.’

‘Nah. Don’t wanna be involved. See you.’

‘Gary, don’t be dumb. I’ll find you in five minutes, park outside your house, come in for a cup of tea, how’s that?’

‘Shit, gissus a break, will you?’

He gave an address and a phone number, left without another word, passed Kendall at the door.

On the way home, a man on the radio said:

Cashin found the classical station. Piano. He was coming around to the classical piano—the quick-fingered tinkling, the dramas, the final notes that floated like the perfume of women you’d lusted after. Most of all, he liked the silences, the gaps between what had been and what was to come.

THEY WORKED on the building again. By milking time, they had laid bricks to the first doorway to windowsill height.

‘Stone sills in the picture,’ said Rebb. ‘Be stone lintels too, probably. Huge bloody door here.’

‘I’ll talk to Bern,’ said Cashin. ‘He may well have stolen them in the first place.’

Rebb left. Cashin worked on the garden for an hour, took the dogs for a short walk in the cold dusk. Tonight, he had only twinges of pain. He was tired but not hurting. Feed dogs, shower, make the fire, open a beer, water on for pasta.

Rebb knocked, came in, the dogs were on him.

‘Surveyors down there,’ he said, he was half in shadow, menacing. ‘At the fence. Two blokes. When I went to milking.’

‘She’s unhappy,’ said Cashin. ‘Wasting her money. The agent is the snake, she should survey him. There’s pasta on the way here.’

‘Ate with the old bloke, he gets a bit lonely, doesn’t want you to go. Not that he’d admit it. Wouldn’t admit a croc’s hanging off his leg.’ He paused. ‘About the house.’

‘What?’

‘We can get it up till you can see your way to going on yourself,’ said Rebb.

Cashin felt the pang of loss anticipated. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘this’s about that swaggie thing? I’m sorry. I’ll say sorry.’

‘No,’ said Rebb. ‘I’m a swaggie, swaggie’s got to keep moving. We’re like sharks. Tuna, we’re more like tuna.’

‘The old bloke’ll miss you.’

Cashin knew that he was speaking for himself.

Rebb was looking down, fondling dog heads. ‘Yeah, well, everything passes. He’ll find someone else. Night then.’

Cashin ate in front of the television, the dogs on the couch, limp as cheetahs, a head at each end. He refuelled the fire, made a big whisky, sat thinking.

Michael the fag. Did his mother know Michael was queer? Bisexual, he was bisexual. She knew. Women always knew. What did it matter what Michael was? Vincentia Lewis the nurse who gave him her father’s CDs was a lesbian. Given the chance, he’d have married her, lived in hope. What hope? What did men have to offer? They died calling out for their mothers.

Mick Cashin drowned in the Kettle.
Took his life.
There was something terrible about that expression.

To take your life. That was the ultimate assertion of ownership—to choose to go into the silence, to choose sleep with no prospect of the dawn, of birdsong, of the smell of the sea on the wind.