‘You’re happy now. Is that what you’re telling me?’
I make my life work. Yes, I am in my own way.
‘Good,’ Harrigan said. ‘I’m glad.’
Later, he shredded this sheet of paper down the men’s toilet. His actions in trying to get his son back remained what they had always been: a matter of necessity, something unquestionable.
Harrigan had other obligations to fulfil. As soon as he could, he asked the commissioner for a recommencement of his leave. The commissioner offered him the time while reminding him that he was still waiting on his application for a senior position. Harrigan spent the evening staring at a blank computer screen before giving up and deciding to write it later.
The next day he flew to Wagga, then hired a car to drive out to Yaralla. To Harrigan’s mind, Harold had a right to a visit and a personal explanation. The heat shimmered off the roads during the uneventful drive. At the junction of the Coolemon Road and Naradhan Creek Bridge, Harrigan pulled up behind a small truck that was crossing the Creek Lane in front of him and then drove up Harold’s track to the farmhouse. Harrigan waited until their dust had settled before following. In the yard, he pulled up next to where they’d parked. Written on the door of the cabin in fading and scratched green paint were the words Coolemon Fencing Contractors. Harold was talking to the two men who had got out.
‘I’ll be with you as soon as I can, mate,’ he called out to Harrigan. ‘Ambro’s inside. Go in and have a beer while you’re waiting.’
Ambrosine was in the kitchen, which was no tidier or cleaner than it had been when Harold had been doing the cooking. She got him a can of Melbourne Bitter out of the fridge, then sat down and joined him, lighting up a cigarette. Harrigan could hear her children playing noisily in the hallway.
‘What’s all that about outside?’ he asked.
‘Harry’s getting his fences fixed. He’s just sorting out a few details.’
‘How come he can afford to do that?’
She grinned at him. ‘You’re not the only one with contacts, mate. Let me tell you something. Little Joe’s not coming after me any more. I’ve been talking to Mad Dog.’
‘He talks to you, does he?’
‘I’ve tattooed his whole fucking back, mate. That’s not little. Yeah, he does talk to me. Little Joe’s gone off to America somewhere. Maybe LA but no one’s sure. He’s been fucking Mad Dog’s old lady. He had to leave quick smart.’
‘What happened to her?’ Harrigan asked.
‘She went with him. They’re not coming back in a hurry, not unless they want to die. You know, Mad Dog never liked Mike. He had it in for him. He wasn’t too sad to hear he was dead. He said if I gave him a tattoo free-one of my good ones-I could put my head above ground. So I asked for a favour as well.’
‘What sort of favour?’
Ambrosine laughed. ‘I said a good friend of mine was being screwed around by old Stewie Morrissey and, to make matters worse, it was his own brother. He was hanging on to money that was really Harry’s. If they could get it out of him, they could take their cut as well. So Mad Dog and his mates dropped round to say hello. I wish I could have seen Stewie’s face when he opened the door and saw them there.’
‘Did you get the money?’
‘Oh yeah. It was nice lot of money with no strings attached. Harry’s getting a lot of work done. He’s feeling better than he has for a while.’
‘What are you going to do? Stay here?’
‘Yeah, for a bit. The kids are happy. I’m going to open a tattoo parlour in Coolemon. Harry’s put some cash aside for me to do that. I can make a bit of money and I want to start teaching Laurie. He’s got talent. He’s like his dad.’
Hopefully he’d have a better fate, Harrigan thought.
Harold arrived and they walked out onto the veranda for a chat.
‘How are your hands?’ Harrigan asked.
‘They’re getting there.’ Harold held them up to show they were healing. ‘Mate, I’m not too interested in chasing after Stewie over what he was doing out there. I’m working out ways to clean up that bit of land. If I can, I’m going to plant some trees. You say that whole affair, whatever it was, is finished with now. I want to put it behind me. Things are looking up at the moment. I want it to stay that way.’
Harrigan’s people had interviewed Stuart Morrissey several times since their first encounter but with limited success. It had been another stumbling block in the investigation. Few people could stonewall like old Stewie, except presumably when he was dealing with Mad Dog and his bikie mates.
‘Ambro told me,’ Harrigan said. ‘Stewie owes you that money.’
Harold shrugged. ‘It’s half his property as well. If it’s building the place up, he shouldn’t complain. Are you staying for dinner tonight?’
‘No, mate. Flying visit.’
‘You’re always working.’
On his way back to Wagga, Harrigan turned onto the Creek Lane. Ambrosine’s cottage was still a pile of ash. Half a kilometre further along, he stopped near Cassatt’s grave and got out of his car, then scrambled down into the dry creek bed. The narrow trench was still there. Its fading outlines showed the tracks of animals searching for water, while around about the ants were building their nests. The silence was intense and the mid-afternoon heat had an iron grip. Everything was stilled under the hard blue arc of the sky and the pure clarity of the Australian light. There was no sound of the gunshot he had been waiting to hear for a dozen years. It had faded into silence with the Ice Cream Man’s death. Finally, the violence in his life had played itself out.
The day after he’d got back to Birchgrove, a courier delivered a parcel to him. When he opened it, he found himself in possession of the contents of the Ice Cream Man’s safety deposit box. The accusation that she had failed to meet a business obligation had got under Elena Calvo’s skin more than being called a murderer. He destroyed the tape and the tie immediately and cleaned the gun. Then he went down to his cellar where he took a rusted metal cash box out from behind a sandstone block.
Upstairs in his kitchen, he opened the box and took out the gun which, years ago, his father had used to shoot his mother. Until now he had kept it as his own memorial to her. He wrapped both guns in plastic and stuck it down with masking tape. After midnight, he went out, walking around Snails Bay past the oval and down Louisa Road to Long Nose Point. He stood on the old ferry wharf looking out at the river. It was deep here. Pleasure craft cruised by; he heard the laughing voices of people on board, the drifting sounds of music. Then there were no more boats, the stretch of water was empty. He threw both guns as far out across the river as he could. He heard them hit the water. They would sink without a trace and take the past with them.
In the dark, he sat on the public jetty and watched the water lap around the wooden steps. When had it ever been his own life? When had the decisions been his and his alone? Had he ever decided for himself what he wanted from his life or had all those decisions been made for him by other people?
He walked back into his house and went up into his study. He sat at his desk and looked at Goya’s prints on the wall. One can’t look, the caption said, showing villagers about to be massacred by unseen soldiers.
He reached for a sheet of paper and began to write a letter of resignation. The words came to him easily, he wrote without making a single correction. Then he typed it up as an email and sent it, aware when he pressed the Send button that there was no way back. Despite the lateness of the hour, he went out and posted the handwritten version by snail mail. It was his life. For the first time, it was his own life.
The next morning, he went back into his study, opened his safe and checked those pieces of the plant specimens he still had in his keeping. When he first put them in here, he had opened the plastic bags to let them breathe. They had dehydrated but were otherwise intact. He locked the safe again and left them where they were.