One Sunday (13 page)

‘If you average church out at one hour a week, that's fifty-two hours each year, Billy. Multiply that by ten, then divide by twenty-four…'

The priest still hadn't arrived. Mike Murphy's tie was in his pocket, his shirt sleeves rolled up, shirt tail hanging out to disguise the fact that the two top buttons of his trousers were undone, which allowed the pants to hang low enough to cover his boot tops. Billy O'Brien, five months Mike's senior, six inches shorter and as fair as Mike was dark, squatted at his side in the post office lane, watching his mate do a long division sum in the dust, using a finger for his pencil.

‘That's twenty-one full days of church that we've put up with already.'

‘How many if you multiply by thirteen and a half?'

‘You probably have to reach the age of reason before you know enough to be bored stiff.'

‘A terrible waste of good time,' Billy O'Brien said, looking towards the church.

Having no father and too many brothers, Mike had spent most of his life escaping, which brought him into contact with others doing the same thing. Billy O'Brien had a lot to escape from – a bad-tempered father, a gossiping mother, a tribe of carping sisters and a nineteen year old brother with half a brain, two fists and big boots. For the last three years, Billy had been escaping regularly.

Mike started a bit earlier. Squire's wood paddock being out of bounds, it was logical enough for a ten year old to swim over there. He'd come on mad Tige Johnson's camp, and because Tige hadn't told him to bugger off, he'd gone back regularly, learning a lot about trapping rabbits. Tige taught him how to set those steel-jawed traps, peel the skin off a bunny in one piece. He taught him that the Western Front wasn't the same place as the Wild West, and also how the rich bastards were turning the workers into a herd of bleating sheep who wouldn't even kick when the wool was stolen off their back to pull over their own bloody eyes.

Not many turned up for Tige's funeral. They didn't even give him a proper one. Thus, Mike learned that Father Ryan and God might praise a man for blowing a German's brains out, but it was a mortal sin to blow his own brains out – and doing it on Squire's front lawn no doubt made it an even greater sin. They'd stuck Tige in the back corner of the cemetery, with not even a cross to mark his grave.

Mike had set Tige's traps in Squire's bush paddock the night of the funeral. He'd chucked his first ‘No Trespassing' sign in the river a year to the day afterwards. Now he trapped Squire's paddock because it was the closest place to town where he could trap, and he chucked those signs in the river because no man had a right to own so much good trapping land, then put signs up to keep people out. And if he put them up to stop people staring at Arthur, then he was wasting his energy, because the only times Mike had seen him, he'd been wearing a hat, a scarf and a big pair of glasses with black lenses. There hadn't been much of him to stare at. His body looked all right and he could still ride a horse fast – if it was racing beside his father's horse.

‘That place is riddled with bunnies, Billy. I got four and a half pair out of twelve traps last night. I sold three pair, but Mum wants to cook the rest. I'm going back again tonight, though. Want to come?'

‘No, and button it up. The copper is doing something over that fence. Listen.'

They heard a curse, and Mike walked to the paling fence. He could see over it, Billy looked through a knot hole.

‘Got a puncture, Mr Thompson?' Mike asked. Tom's bike was upended, the back tyre off and the tube out.

‘I must have ridden over a patch of flamin' bindi-eyes down near the dairy. I've fixed two but I've run out of patches. Have you got any I could borrow, lad?'

‘My brothers have. I'll grab a couple and come over and fix it for you. Kurt Reichenberg is waiting in your office. He rode up ten minutes back.'

 

Tom washed his hands at the sink, drank from the tap, looked at the lump of corned beef he'd meant to put in a pot, heard Rosie muttering in the passage, retrieved her, dumped her in the kitchen, and walked up to his office where he sighted the dim shape of Kurt peering out through the lifted blind. It was one thing, seeing that lad in the harsh light of day, another entirely seeing him half in shadow.

‘What can I do for you, Kurt?'

‘Has there been word about Rachael?'

‘Rachael?' Tom glanced at his water jug, noticed his glass tumblers were missing. ‘Rachael died at the scene, lad. She was probably dead when placed where you found her.' To Tom it had been obvious at a glance that she was dead; he'd thought he and Rob had made it clear – or maybe he hadn't thought about it. ‘I thought you knew.'

Kurt stepped away, turned back to the window.

A brown paper bag lay on his counter. Tom opened it and peered inside, still looking for his glass tumblers but finding that bloodstained shirt. He couldn't remember asking for it, but with Morgan on his way up here, he was pleased he had it. The bag top rolled down, he tossed it into a corner on the far side of the counter then stood staring at his visitor, who had lifted the blind and placed one eye close to the frosted glass.

Not a word could Kurt find to say. He wanted to leave, ride, ride hard and fast away from this thing, but he couldn't go out there and face the stares of those women in their Sunday hats. Not yet. So he stood, his vision blurred as he stared at their figures made fatter by the ripple at the intersection of the T. If he moved his head, that ripple could make small breasts into mountains. He had been playing with this new art form before the constable came, and that is what he concentrated on now. He gave Mrs Larkin an instant pregnancy, gave Mrs O'Brien a twisted face, but his fists were clenched, and his jaw was clenched as he tried to stare away his tears.

This morning, in his heart, he had known Rachael was dead. He had chosen not to acknowledge it. Now the words had been said and he could no longer deny them. He had to get out of this place, ride home, tell Christian.

‘The Russell Street boys will be up here around one. They like their paper in the city, like their facts all set out clear on paper,' Tom said.

Kurt sucked in a long slow breath, his concentration on Mr Larkin, who had joined his wife beneath the tree; the ripple in the T was lined up on his backside, making it wider than Miss Lizzie's.

‘If you've got a few minutes, you might be able to help me get some details written down.' His visitor wasn't moving, so Tom lifted the end of his counter and walked through to his desk, saw what had become of his two tumblers. There was broken glass scattered all over the floor, and on the seat of one of his chairs. He tilted it, heard the tinkle as the glass fell. ‘Come around this side and take the load off your feet, lad.'

Kurt allowed the blind to drop down. His legs were weak, his stomach shuddering. He had to go home but he didn't want to go home.

‘There's only one way we can help young Rachael, and that's by giving those city chaps all the help we can. They'll get the murdering swine,' Tom said, his boot moving several of the larger shards back against the wall. ‘Come on around this side, Kurt, and watch where you're stepping.'

Kurt barely heard the words. Christian had been with Rachael last night and he'd come into the bedroom near dawn, blind stumbling drunk. Only minutes later Kurt found her. Had his brother argued with her, pushed her, not meant to hurt her? Perhaps he had attempted to carry her to Mutti, was too drunk to carry her. ‘Shit,' he breathed. ‘Shit.' He turned to the constable, then to the door. No place to run.

‘Come through, lad.'

His legs needing to sit, he followed the constable to the other side of the brown counter. It was like a cage once the end dropped down. Now he was locked into this thing. Now he had to tell all he knew, tell this man how Rachael had come to his bedroom window last night, tapped on the glass.

‘I'm leaving town. I have to talk to Chris before I go,' she'd whispered through the open window.

‘He's not here, and you shouldn't be here, Rachael.'

‘I've got to see him, Kurt. Is he over at Dolan's party?'

He didn't lie to her, just told her to wait. He dressed, buttoning his shirt as he crept out through the back door. ‘Wait by the washhouse and I'll fetch him for you,' he said.

She'd been determined last night; she followed him to the fence, so he stretched the fence wires apart, held them while she climbed through. So clear, that picture. She caught her sleeve on the wire, dropped her handbag while ripping the fabric free, not caring about her beautiful frock. He picked up the handbag. He should have picked her up, carried her away from that place. Instead he found his brother, a drunk with a glass of grog in his hand.

‘The sooner we start on this, the sooner we'll get it done, lad. Have a seat.'

‘She was –' Kurt felt the tremble of his lips, and two fingers tried to control them, his chest rising, falling too fast. The shuddering had crept from his legs to his stomach, his lungs. Air would not fill them.

‘I can't . . . I can't accept this.'

‘Molliston will be less without that girl's smile.'

‘She was –' He couldn't speak of her. It would break his heart. He sat, lifted his chin, staring hard at the blurred ceiling where it did not quite join the wall.

Tears were for girls. His father had not allowed boys' tears. No softness in that man, but Kurt heard him laugh at Rachael the day she came to the barn and spoke her German words to him, bidding him come for afternoon tea. And such a laugh he had . . . such a laugh.

‘I get to feeling sometimes that there is no rhyme or reason to this life, Kurt. Why should a girl like that be taken? There is no fairness, never was, nor ever will be, or that's what a half-century of living has taught me.'

Cold washing over Kurt now, sweating clammy cold. Those two fingers pressed harder to his lip, bruising it against his teeth. Physical pain he could bear, but not this. Perfection, that one, a tiny silver girl, all bright light and laughter – and that light extinguished by his brother? It was not possible. Christian would not leave her bleeding on the road. There had been no blood on his shirt this morning. He hadn't carried her.

Tom watched his struggle. A woman's tears he was used to – he gave them a pat on the back, a kiss on the cheek – but watching a man's emotion always brought tears to Tom's own eyes. He looked down, opened a drawer and found a pad and a bottle of blue ink. He opened the bottle, set it on his right, then hunted around in the junk for his ink-stained pen. The nib was a bit splayed. He didn't do a lot of writing, and kept forgetting to buy a replacement; it would do.

‘Righto, lad, let's make a start here. We'll go back to last night. I want to know what you saw, what you did, who you saw, and I'm no hand with pen and ink, so don't talk too fast.' He heard the intake of air, watched the fingers leave the lip, then return, watched the other hand tapping the edge of his desk. He gave him time.

‘She was warm when I found her, Mr Thompson. I know she was alive when I found her,' Kurt said, his chin lifting, pleading with gravity now to hold back the tears. ‘I held her shoulders and her head fell against my chest. She was alive when I held her against me.'

‘The temperature yesterday got to one hundred and fifteen and it didn't cool off much after sundown. The ground she was lying on was hot. That's why she was warm. There are ways of telling, lad. Doc Hunter was pretty certain she'd been dead for a time before he got there. I thought you knew this morning, and I'm sorry that I didn't make things clearer. I know that feeling of hope. All morning you've been hoping she was going to be all right, hanging on to that hope. I'm sorry I let you go home, go to work, not knowing the facts.'

‘The dead do not bleed.' Kurt caught a tear with his finger, drew air deep, tried to hold it. ‘If she was dead when the doctor came, then I left her there to die alone.'

‘You're telling yourself that. Me and Doc Hunter are telling you something different and we're more experienced at this sort of thing than you are, so stop kicking your own arse. There's always been more than enough in this town ready to do that for you, I've found. You did all you could for your friend. You got us out there to take care of her, and we did the best we could too. Now, if you can tell me what it was that you did when you found her, then I'll get it all down on paper for Sergeant Morgan.'

‘I was going to carry her up to the hospital until –'

‘I want to go back a bit further than that, like when you woke up this morning. What time did you wake up, and what woke you so flamin' early on a Sunday morning? Something must have woke you. The alarm clock?' A shake of the head. ‘Did you maybe hear something? Think, lad. It's important.'

I woke when my brother came stumbling into the room and fell on me, Kurt thought. Perhaps fifteen minutes later, I found her. I can't say this or he will rise from that chair and go after Christian. Kurt swallowed, and the lump in his throat moved like a rock to his heart.

‘Take your time.' Again the deep breath. Again Kurt swallowed. ‘So you didn't have the alarm set?'

‘Willie Johnson has the cows in by quarter to five. I'm always there at that time.'

‘That's what I need.' The pen scratched. ‘So you woke, you got dressed, and left the house by four-thirty.'

Kurt nodded.

‘I can't record a nod, lad, and believe me, I'm not getting writer's cramp here for my own benefit.'

‘Yes.'

‘Then what?'

‘I saw her, or saw the white of her frock.' Kurt swallowed, allowed his tongue to travel his lips. ‘I thought it was someone from Dolan's hotel.'

Many strangers had been at that place last night, the cider pit door open, piano playing, lantern hanging outside the door, another from a branch of the peppercorn tree. Men stood around, staring at pretty Rachael, at her pretty frock with its beads and lace. Men stared at Kurt, some making comments about the handbag he was carrying. Embarrassed, he'd forced it into Rachael's hand. Beautiful Rachael, standing at his side, zigzagging lace at her knees, pretty legs in high-heeled shoes. God! If she had been his to love, he would have protected her from such a place.