Dead Point Part 14

Harry put up a hand. 'No trouble.'

He introduced us. We shook hands and I resented the fact that her hand seemed to linger in Cam's longer than it did in mine. She had light-blue eyes, a little puffy: she'd been crying. I'd seen my own eyes like that in many a mirror, some of them spattered with substances whose composition or origin one did not wish to guess at.

'I've got scones in the oven,' she said. 'Haven't made scones for yonks. You used to like scones, Harry. Still?'

Harry dry-washed his hands. 'Still,' he said. 'Always. Good memory. Lead the way.'

On the verandah, Jean paused to take off her gumboots, quick, supple movements, rubber boots off, feet into worn, receptive shoes. We went through a sitting room with a stone fireplace into a big kitchen, smell of baking, cast-iron stove, sash windows in the north wall, painted cabinets and a big pine table, eight chairs. The view was of an old orchard, much older than the house, in need of heavy pruning.

'Live in here,' said Jean. 'Warm. You don't mind the kitchen?'

'That's where you eat scones, kitchen,' said Harry.

The scones were steaming, pale yellow inside. b.u.t.ter lay on the rough surface for a second, liquefied, sank. Quince jelly, lemon marmalade and Vegemite. I started with the Vegemite, two scones, moved on to the quince jelly, two scones, pretended I'd had enough, consented to eat one with marmalade. Two, three.

Harry and Jean talked horses. Winter sun slanted in from the north-west. We drank tea out of white mugs, tea made in a pot. 'Sorry, no coffee,' Jean said. 'Can't afford proper coffee these days, can't drink the instant stuff.' She looked at Harry. 'Thought we'd be able to afford a new ute after last week, never mind coffee.'

Harry didn't say anything, ate his sixth scone, all with quince jelly. Cam was on his fourth. Jean offered him another one.

'No,' he said. 'Don't stop now, spoiled for life. Come out here and pitch a tent.'

'So,' Harry said, last morsel swallowed with tea. 'What happened?'

She pushed hair off her forehead. Her nails were cut short. 'We lucked onto this horse, Lucan's Thunder. Owners wanted a new trainer. Complete amateurs, the owners. I thought, same old story, it's always the trainer's fault. But it was. Dave knows him a bit, says he's an a.r.s.ehole. p.i.s.s artist. Dougal Mackenzie? He's had one or two in town?'

'The name rings,' said Harry.

'Christ knows what Mackenzie'd been doing with this horse. I'd say very little and then badly. I put in a bit of time with him, got the diet right, you could see early on he was a rung up from the usual.'

'New South form, that right?' Harry retained form the way teachers used to remember pupils.

Jean nodded. 'Griffith, around there. Won two from seven, picnics really, then these owners bought him and gave him to Mackenzie and he was a dud from then on. Six starts, sixzero.' She paused. 'Anyway, when we started gettin some really good times from him, we thought we had a chance for a bit of a collect.'

'Owners inside?' said Harry.

'Yes. We said we'd talk to you, they didn't want to know, didn't want to share it around. Got a bit greedy, I spose.' She looked down, put a hand to her forehead. 'Wouldn't have happened if we'd gone to you.'

We looked at each other. Harry nodded to Cam.

'Doesn't follow, that,' said Cam. 'We got turned over a while back.'

'You?' She looked at Harry.

He nodded.

'Hurt the commissioner bad,' said Cam. 'How'd they do you?'

'Dave's mate put this bunch together. Sandy Corning, he's a local, a really nice bloke, straight as they come. Got these blokes he knows. Did okay to start but then the owners b.u.g.g.e.red it, the mates, the aunts, nannas, the lot, all shoving money at the books. So in the end, the collect was only about sixty grand after commission.'

'Where?' said Harry.

Jean drank tea. 'Near the course. The Strand, near Mount Alexander, know that part?'

We all nodded.

'Dave didn't want Sandy to carry the money home, they were going to meet on The Strand. Dave was there first. He talked to Sandy on the mobile, Sandy was in the carpark, collectin...'

'Not clever,' said Cam.

'No, well, the whole thing's not clever. This car blocks Sandy near The Strand, the other one's behind him, his door's locked, the animal smashes the window with a sledgehammer, one of those little ones, y'know?'

We waited.

'Sandy's got the money in this bag, it's a kid's schoolbag. He just offers it to the bloke. No, they pull him out...'

She sniffed, found a tissue, wiped her nose. 'Anyway, the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds bashed him.'

'How bad?' said Harry.

Jean looked at the table. 'This woman from across the road hadn't come out, she's a nurse, he'd a died there. Rib punctured his lung, jaw broken, nose broken.'

She looked at us. 'He was offerin them the bag.'

We sat in silence.

'Cops say what?' Harry asked.

Jean looked at the table again, shrugged. 'Nothin. Lookin for them.'

More silence.

'You can say anythin,' Harry said.

She sighed. 'Dave's on the p.i.s.s before lunch, smokin again. Eight years off em, back to sixty a day. Doesn't sleep. I'm scared. We've had it now, goin down the tubes here for three, four years. More. b.l.o.o.d.y owners. First they love the trainer, then the trainer's rats.h.i.+t, horse's better than the trainer...'

'What about the horse?' said Cam.

'Took him off us. The next day. The one b.a.s.t.a.r.d rings up, says they've decided they want him with a more experienced trainer. Jesus, I could've...'

She caught herself, put a hand on top of Harry's, rubbed it. 'Last luck we had was with you. Thought that was the start of big things.'

Harry put a hand on hers, briefly, a hand sandwich.

Jean got up, galvanised, brisk. 's.h.i.+t, you don't want to hear this. More tea? I can make fresh.'

We shook our heads.

She made the gesture of helplessness. 'Well, that's all.'

Silence. The labrador came into view in the orchard, stately walk, tree to tree, the honorary colonel inspecting the regiment. One tree offended him and he peed on it.

Harry looked at his Piaget, a slim instrument that cost as much as a good used car, put his palms together. 'Bit of urgency creepin in,' he said, getting up.

We all stood up.

I said, 'See you outside in a minute.'

They left and I turned to Jean.

'The blokes Sandy recruited. Locals?'

'From the pub in town. The Railway.'

'Jean,' I said, 'I need the names and addresses of everyone owners, owners' relatives, Sandy's blokes, everyone this thing touched, don't leave anyone out. Have you got a fax?'

She nodded. I gave her my card.

'Tomorrow?'

'Today,' she said. 'Tonight.'

We went outside. Jean hugged Harry, kissed him on the cheek, shook hands with us, some moisture in her eyes.

On the way back to the city, on the tollway, after the brief rolling b.u.mps of the cattle grid, the trip up the hard, lined track, on the made road, the freeway, Harry said, head back on the leather rest, 'This would not be a personal problem, am I right?'

'Could be personal,' Cam said. 'Could be local, could be global.'

'Put on w.i.l.l.y,' said Harry. 'Haven't had any w.i.l.l.y for a while.'

'This Sandy,' I said. 'He put the team together. In a pub.'

'Oh, sweet Jesus,' said Cam.

Long before they dropped me it was night, Friday night, dripping.

I drove the Youth Club to the Prince after the game, very little said on the way. Very little needed to be said. A supporter near us had screamed most of it at the coach at three-quarter time, two sentences: Lookitthescoreboardyaf.u.c.kenmongrel. Seewhatya f.u.c.kendonetous.

Us. Done to us. The coach wasn't one of us. Coaches were transients and carpetbaggers. And only a few players in any era in any club ever became one of us us. The supporters were us. They were the investors. Gave the club their hearts, dreams, they expected a return. Every game was an annual general meeting.

'That Docklands stadium,' said Eric Tanner. 'That's not a proper footy ground.'

'Like playin in a circus tent,' said Wilbur. 'It's not right.'

I prepared to reverse park. It was going to be tight.

'Loadin zone,' said Wilbur Ong. 'No can do.'

'No can do?' said Eric Tanner. 'No can do? It's b.l.o.o.d.y Satdee, no b.l.o.o.d.y loadin goin on.'

'Not the point,' said Wilbur, calmly. 'Loadin zone.'

I went in, put a back wheel on the pavement. I didn't care. 'Well,' said Wilbur. 'A lawyer, Jack, expect to find a bit of respect for the law in a lawyer.'

'Last place you'd find it,' I said. 'Look elsewhere. It's a loading zone. Am I unloading you lot on the Prince or not?'

Wilbur sniffed, faith in the law's majesty undiminished. We departed the vehicle, burst into the Prince in a low-key way.

It was a low-technology evening. In residence, six silent people and a dog. The cybermeisters were hanging out elsewhere this evening, perhaps at The Green Hill in South Melbourne, sipping a Green Hill pinot noir, flipping through the Green Hill cookbook.

Stan came over, very much the happy hangman today. 'My,' he said, 'you boys really know how to pick a team. Yes, I take my hat off to you. These Sainters, they could be the Roys come back in another jumper...'

'This place still serve beer?' said Eric Tanner. 'Mind you, there's some says you haven't bin able to get a beer here since Morrie retired. Not what you'd normally call a beer.'

'Touchy today. Beer comin up.'

When we had our beers in front of us, had a sip, wiped off our moustaches, Norm O'Neill, next to me, said quietly, not a register I knew he commanded, 'Well, made up me mind, Jack.' He looked to his left, at the others. 'Speakin for me, that's all.'

I didn't say anything. There wasn't any defence to mount for the Saints. This was execution day.

'Yes,' said Norm. 'Reckon I'm stickin with the team. Can't give up on a side that's so bad. Be inhuman, like leavin a hurt dog in the street.'

Wilbur nodded. 'The boys'll come good,' he said. 'Sack the coach, that'll be a start.'

'Things wouldn't a bin so bad today,' said Eric, 'if that b.l.o.o.d.y ump hadn't found a free for the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds every time they get a hard look.'

I looked into my beer. It had happened. The graft had taken. The donor hearts hadn't rejected the recipient.

'Hero, that Harvey,' I said.

'And Burkie,' said Norm.

'What about that Thompson boy?' said Eric. 'Kid's all heart.'

And so it went. The years fell away: we might have been talking about Fitzroy. I signalled for another round. Stan took his time. When he arrived with the first two, he said, 'Gets worse from here too, don't it. Next week, your girls play the mighty Roys.'

Norm put a hand under his cardigan and produced a fixture card, studied it through his thick, smudged lenses. 'Says here,' he said, 'next week St Kilda plays Brisbane.'

'After Brisbane, there's another word,' said Stan. 'Lions. L-I-O-N-S. Brisbane Lions.'

Norm folded the card and put it away. 'Don't say that on my card. And it never b.l.o.o.d.y will. Only Lions left are right here.' He waved around the room at the photographs. 'And you, Stanley, you're a disgrace to the memory of these great men.'

He looked at me, looked at Eric and Wilbur. 'Am I right? Am I right?'

'You're right,' said Wilbur.

'd.a.m.n right,' said Eric.