Torn Apart

I had the. 38 in the shoulder holster but had made sure the flannie hung loose over it and that the denim jacket didn't promote a bulge. I got out of the car and joined Kennedy as he walked towards the house.

'I'm gonna deliver the mail, check in with the CO and then we'll hunt up Frankie. Out with a skirmish group at this time, I reckon.'

'How many people here, Col?'

'You know better than that, Paddy. Operational information.'

We were close to the house and I saw a man coming through the door. His walk was a self-important strut.

'Who's the pocket Napoleon?'

'Shut your fuckin' trap!' Kennedy snapped as we got closer.

Kennedy presented the mail to the man who stood on the verandah the best part of a metre above him. He needed the extra height-couldn't have topped 155 centimetres. He wore modified military dress like Kennedy, no insignia but the cut of his clothes was superior and his voice had a clipped precision.

'And who is this, Kennedy?'

'Old army mate, sir. Paddy… Patrick Malloy. First Lieutenant.'

'Vietnam?'

'Yes, sir.'

He didn't leave the verandah, but he bent and reached down with his hand. 'Peter Foster-Jones, Mr Malloy. Very glad to meet a fellow officer.'

We shook hands and Kennedy explained that I wanted to talk to Francis Szabo. Foster-Jones nodded, lost interest, turned his attention to the mail. 'Carry on, Kennedy.'

I thought, Francis? At least there was no saluting.

Kennedy waited until we were out of earshot before he spoke. 'Sorry to snarl at you, Paddy, but that little prick takes all of this very seriously. Or pretends to. I'm not sure. Thing is, it's an easy job, full bed and board and decent pay for us old soldiers. You want to think about it.'

'Okay. Where does the money come from?'

'Who knows? Who cares? Corporations mostly, I reckon. They send executives here for toughening up, leadership training. That shit. Most of 'em've never lifted anything heavier than a golf club.'

We left the cleared area and were walking down a track into the bush. 'Do they benefit from it?'

'Some do, some run screaming back to Mummy.'

Every hundred metres or so, the trees on both sides of the track were marked with splotches of white paint. Kennedy saw me noticing and grinned.

'Orienteering,' he said. 'Some of them've got the sense of direction of a headless chook. They need marks all the way home.'

'What's Szabo's role in all this?'

'You'll see.'

We took a narrow track leading to a creek and Kennedy gestured for me to move slowly and quietly and keep to the trees beside the path. After a minute he stopped and pointed. We were at a high point of the creek bank and, fifty or sixty metres away, I saw a group of men, camouflaged with bits of bush and leaves, wriggling forward on their bellies. They reached the water, hesitated, then kept going, still crawling and keeping their heads above the water. After crossing the creek they leapt up and charged into the bush, shouting and firing.

'Pop guns,' Kennedy said.

'Real water though, and bloody cold.'

'Toughening up.'

Kennedy squatted down and lit a cigarette. 'First of the day,' he said, offering me the packet.

I shook my head.

He gave me a quizzical look. 'You used to be a chain smoker.'

'I quit.'

'How?'

I traced a line down the centre of my chest. 'I had no choice. What're we waiting here for, Col?'

'They'll be along soon, looking like drowned rats.'

About twenty men, carrying weapons I couldn't identify and answering to Kennedy's description, appeared from the bush. They waded across the creek. A few sneezed. They set off along the path in reasonable order. Bringing up the rear was a tall, dark man whose clothes were dry. I'd never laid eyes on him but he was the image of his father: Frank Szabo, son of Soldier.

17

'Hey, Frankie,' Kennedy yelled.

Szabo looked to where we were standing and waved. Kennedy motioned for him to come up. Szabo spoke to a member of the troop and they moved on. Szabo climbed the fairly steep and muddy slope in a few easy strides. 'What's up, Col?'

'Want you to meet an old comrade of mine, Paddy Malloy. We were in 'Nam together.'

Szabo looked at me and at that moment I travelled back mentally twenty years, to when I stared into the yellow, wolfish eyes of Soldier Szabo as he moved in to kill me. The eyes were the same. Szabo drew in a deep breath and balanced himself as if he might go for my throat or my balls. My jacket was open and I knew I could get the pistol quickly if I had to.

Szabo let the breath out slowly. 'No, he's not,' he said. 'He's

Cliff Hardy, the private detective who killed my father.'

'Right,' I said.

Kennedy took a step towards me. 'What the hell's going on?'

I kept my eyes focused on Szabo, who appeared totally relaxed. 'I'm sorry, Kennedy,' I said. 'You gave me an opening and I took it. You may as well know, Patrick Malloy's dead. He was shotgunned in my house. We were cousins, lookalikes, and I'm wondering whether this man killed him instead of me.'

Kennedy unclenched the fist he'd been ready to throw at me and fished out his cigarettes. He lit up. 'I was beginning to wonder about you-not smoking, and you don't move the way Paddy did. Slower.'

'He was a bit younger and he hadn't had a heart attack. We were friends, if that means anything to you.'

Kennedy blew smoke. 'I don't understand any of this. Think I'd better report to the Commander.'

'Don't do that, Col,' Szabo said. 'I'll sort this out and fill you in later. Why don't you catch up with that mob and debrief them. You know the drill.'

Szabo spoke with a quiet authority, clearly respected by Kennedy, who stamped his barely smoked cigarette butt into the mud, shot me a furious look, and strode away.

Szabo waited until Kennedy was back on the path. Then he pointed to my left shoulder. 'You won't need the gun. You shouldn't carry that arm a bit stiff the way you do.'

'I'm out of practice,' I said. 'Convince me.'

'I've bashed people and cut them, kicked them and broken limbs, but I've never killed anyone.'

'You're a known shottie artist.'

'Was.'

'You made threats against me in jail.'

He nodded. 'Some time back. I was a different person then.'

'You bought a shotgun recently.'

'You have been busy. I don't know what story you told poor Col. He's not the brightest. I'm guessing you said something about wanting to talk to me and he took you at your word on that.'

'Yes. So?'

He unzipped his jacket. 'Let me show you something.'

'Easy.'

He reached inside his shirt and pulled out a silver cross on a chain.

'I'm the pastor of this flock as well as one of the trainers. I'm a Christian and I wouldn't take revenge on you for killing my father. Revenge is for God. I forgive you, and I hope you forgive yourself.'

'You bought a shotgun.'

'Yeah, I did, and a box of fifty shells and I went out into the bush and fired off every last one. Then I took an angle grinder and cut the gun up into little bits, which I dumped. I purged myself of shotguns and violence. People can change, Hardy.'

'Maybe. I haven't seen it happen all that much.'

'You can believe me or not, as you choose.'

I did believe him. The gleam in his eyes wasn't from the killer instinct his father had displayed; it was the light of redemption, the glow of the saved. I waved my hand at the bush, the creek, the muddy footprints on the path.

'So what's all this, onward Christian soldiers?'