Matthew Flinders' Cat (40 page)

Then Morgan said, ‘Yeah, Jimmy, you know how you, like, made the case for Billy, his old man givin’ him a bad time and his mum lovin’ him but also abusing him when she got cranky?’

‘Yeah, what’s the question?’ Jimmy asked.

‘Well, I don’t know about the others here, but I reckon I’d have thought I was on easy street if that happened to me. Me old man was always drunk, he’d come home and beat the shit out of me mum, then he’d rape me and beat me up. My mum said we had to forgive him because it was his nerves from the war. But when I was about seven she also became a drunk.’ Morgan started to weep and Billy, seated beside him, put his arms around him.

That evening while they were waiting to go into chapel, Davo came over to Billy and sat beside him. ‘Mind if I sit with yiz ternight, mate?’ he asked.

‘No, of course not,’ Billy replied.

Davo was silent for a while then he said, ‘You know how Morgan said about his dad, you know, what he did to him and then his mum?’ Billy nodded, not speaking. ‘You know I told yiz I’d never seen me mum again after I run away from smashin’ the BM?’ Billy nodded again. ‘Well, it weren’t true. Last year I’m in this pub when this Abo woman comes up to me, she’s drunk and she says ter me, “Gimme ten bucks you can fuck me.”’ The tears started to run silently down Davo’s cheeks. ‘It’s me mum. She don’t recognise me, her own son.’

Billy put his arm around him, ‘You ready to write that letter to Jeff Fenech tonight, Davo?’ The kid sniffed, knuckling back his tears, and nodded. That evening Billy sat with Davo while the young bloke dictated the letter to Jeff Fenech. Billy tried to put it down as it was spoken, thinking that if he corrected Davo’s grammar he would lose some of the feeling that came through in the spoken word. There were frequent stops and starts as Davo tried to work out what he wanted to say, often turning to Billy to ask his opinion. ‘Just be honest, Davo, tell him what’s on your mind.’

William Booth Institute

Albion Street

Strawberry Hills

Dear Mr Fenech,

I’d like to call you Jeff but I got too much respect. My name is Davo Davies and I’m doing rehab here. The judge sent me to detox, like instead of going in remand ’til my case is heard. I hope yer ’aven’t got a BMW cos that’s why I’m in the shit, stealin’ and wreckin’ them. It’s cos somethin’ happened way back and I can’t help meself. But now I’m clean, man, and even if I get time I’m gunna try to stay clean this time.

The reason I’m writing to you is that yiz always been me idol.

Even though yer no longer boxing, yiz still in the game, coaching blokes. Yer putting something back in the game. That’s real good. I seen every one of your title fights since I was ten years old and there’s never gunna be anyone better than you, mate. I’m sorry about your broken hand, yer would’ve beaten Azumah Nelson the second time like yiz did the first time and got gypped, if yer wasn’t that crook yiz could hardly lift a finger.

I think I’m going inside. I done this BM 740 and I reckon I’m gone, cos I’m eighteen and no longer a juvenile offender. I done a bit of fighting in juvenile remand but then I got hooked (grog and amphetamines) but when I’m clean I hope to go back and have a go. Maybe they’ll let me box inside?

I’m sorry to go on like this, but I just wanted yiz to know you’re the best, mate. They don’t make two Jeff Fenechs in a hundred years.

Your number one fan,

Davo Davies

Billy hadn’t heard from Ryan and he was now almost three weeks into the first stage of rehabilitation. Ryan’s failure to answer his letters was a constant preoccupation of Billy’s. Whenever chapel occurred and the wives or girlfriends of some of the men would turn up and mingle afterwards in the foyer for a few minutes, Billy would be especially disconsolate and confused as to what to do next.

Chapel was the best thing that happened to the men all week, although it was intended as a religious gathering where they might come to terms with their saviour Jesus Christ. While every gathering included a short sermon aimed at repentance and a reading given by one of the men from the blue
Selective Readings
book, it was the singing they most looked forward to. The very act of singing is a strong bond between people, and the chapel was an opportunity to let her rip, to get their emotions out into the open. The singing, while not always tuneful, was lusty and surprisingly uninhibited given the lyrics. Although there were many favourites among them, such as ‘One Day at a Time’, ‘To God be the Glory’, ‘Just a Closer Walk with Thee’, ‘Put Your Hand in the Hand’, ‘Count Your Blessings’ and ‘Amazing Grace’, by far the most popular of the 133 songs in the book among the men was ‘Power in the Blood’.
Would you be free from your burden of sin?

There’s power in the Blood, power in the Blood;

Would you o’er evil a victory win?

There’s wonderful power in the Blood.

Chorus

There is power, power

Wonder-working power

In the Blood of the Lamb

There is power, power

Wonder-working power

In the precious Blood of the Lamb.

Would you be free from your passion and pride?

There’s power in the Blood, power in the Blood;

Come then for cleansing to Calvary’s tide;

There’s wonderful power in the Blood.

Chorus

Would you be whiter, much whiter than snow?

There’s power in the Blood, power in the Blood.

Sin stains are lost in its life-giving flow,

There’s wonderful power in the Blood.

Chorus

Would you do service for Jesus your King?

There’s power in the Blood, power in the Blood;

Would you live daily His praises to sing?

There’s wonderful power in the Blood.

Chorus

Nothing quite matched the gusto of this hymn with its easy tune and strident chorus and, while there may not have been a single born-again Christian as the Salvos would define one, the men’s eyes shone with conviction after completing it.

On his final Sunday at William Booth, and two days before Billy completed the first stage of rehabilitation, the chapel was packed. They were about to be transferred to the St Peters rehabilitation centre for the lengthy second stage. Billy was relieved that he didn’t have to go to Newcastle after all. This would be the last time for two months that families and partners would see each other and there was a great deal of tension and apprehension in the air.

This second stage was a truly frightening prospect, seven months of complete introspection one-on-one with a counsellor. They would be required to write every day, addressing their fears, flaws, assets, resentments, past sexual conduct and the harm they had done to others, specifically answering hundreds of related questions in minute detail. They would have to work through each of these, dredging up the past since childhood, facing every nightmare they’d ever experienced. They would even at one stage have to seek out and face up to all the people in their lives whom they had harmed and ask for their forgiveness, perhaps the most harrowing experience of them all.

The second stage was where most men baulked and left the program, heading for the nearest pub or fix, telling themselves that the pain of dredging up long buried and deeply hurtful memories was too much to ask them to endure. In fact, experience showed that while certainly harrowing, the pain didn’t come from working through the past, it came from resisting doing so. Alcoholics and other addicts would often rather go back to their addiction than openly face some of the inner truths in the process of rehabilitation. It was Jimmy’s initial point all over again, when on the very first day he’d said that freedom from the addictive self is impossible if we hold on to the fears and secrets we’ve been harbouring all our lives. The way of gaining strength and hope is, paradoxically, to make ourselves vulnerable.

The chapel was packed to the rafters on this final Sunday. Billy had checked the strangers coming in and watched the look of joy on the faces of the men who had someone they could call their own. Ryan hadn’t come again and it was with a heavy heart that Billy took a seat in the front of the chapel so that he didn’t have to look at any of the visitors. He was deeply confused. If he agreed to go to St Peters in two days he would be even further removed from contact with the boy, who now appeared not to want him in his life anyway.

A short message was given by the Salvation Army chaplain, who congratulated the men who had completed the three weeks of the first stage in their rehabilitation. Each was asked to come up to receive a Bible, the traditional parting gift from the Salvos before they were transferred to one of the other venues chosen for the next stage in their rehabilitation – St Peters or Miracle Haven, a working farm outside Morisset. This was followed by a reading from Morgan, who spoke in a surprisingly wellmodulated voice, somewhat different from his usual manner. Morgan hadn’t talked much about himself. Despite his wisecracks and his flip manner, he was the least forthcoming of Billy’s room-mates.

After the reading, there was a call from several of the men for ‘Power!’ as ‘Power in the Blood’ was called. A lusty and wholehearted rendition followed and then others nominated various hymns. Almost to his own surprise, Billy found himself calling out ‘Amazing Grace’ for the final hymn.

The pianist started the refrain and the congregation began to sing the beautiful hymn when suddenly Billy became aware of a voice that rose above them all, a voice so pure and perfect that it didn’t seem possible. The rest of the congregation stopped and the single voice, a boy soprano, rose to fill the hushed chapel, the words perfectly, gloriously enunciated.

Billy turned to see Ryan standing at the doorway, singing alone, clutching his skateboard under his arm, his dirty little face raised to the ceiling. His voice rose higher and higher, then dropped, until the congregation felt sure it must falter. Billy found himself weeping uncontrollably. Ryan had come at last. The lad had forgiven him.

At a signal from the chaplain, the congregation resumed their seats and Billy was forced to turn his back on Ryan. A final short prayer followed, which seemed endless to Billy, who could hear his heart thumping in his chest. Sunday chapel was finally over. Billy rose, barely able to contain himself, but Ryan was no longer standing at the door.

Billy pushed people out of his way as he ran from the chapel and down the stairs to the foyer below and towards the door. ‘Ryan! Ryan!’ he shouted. Vaguely he heard the buzzer as the receptionist locked the electronically controlled door and Billy slammed into it, breaking his nose and falling to the floor. ‘The boy!

Did you see a boy?’ he shouted, oblivious to the blood pumping from his nose.

‘You can’t leave, Billy,’ the receptionist said calmly.

‘You are not allowed to go after him.’

Billy looked down to see his nice soft-blue cotton shirt stained with blood.

Billy was taken to the clinic and from there to St Vincent’s where they reset his nose. He asked to see Dr Goldstein but he was off duty. The reception clerk was also different and he learned that Mrs Willoughby, Ryan’s opponent, hadn’t lasted the distance and had long since departed. He had hoped to hear something of the boy, thinking that perhaps his mother had been a patient in Billy’s absence, but even the two gay security men were off duty and there was nobody who could help him.

When Billy returned to William Booth, his mind was made up, he would leave the rehabilitation program and find Ryan. The boy’s appearance, and then abrupt disappearance, could only mean one thing, he was extremely confused. Billy told himself that an elevenyear-old child wouldn’t come all the way to see him and then run off. There had to be something very wrong.

Back at William Booth, Billy was told that Major Cliff Thomas from Foster House had called to deliver three letters for him. Not finding him present, he had left a note.

Dear Billy,

How can I apologise to you? These three letters have been waiting for you at Foster House, the first for two weeks, the second for over a week and the third one arrived yesterday. I just happened to notice the one yesterday and then looked to see if there were any others. I am not normally responsible for the mail, and the person who is, not knowing your present whereabouts, simply assumed you’d call around in due course to collect it. I can only pray they are not important. I hope your nose is all right and that you’re feeling better.

Yours in the blessed name of Jesus,

Cliff Thomas

When writing to the principal of Pring Street Public School and to Ryan, Billy had used the Foster House address in Mary Street, Strawberry Hills, not at the time knowing the correct one for William Booth. He’d neglected to make arrangements with Cliff Thomas to forward his mail. Such a small mistake might have had disastrous consequences and Billy’s hands shook as he tore open the first letter, which was written in an educated hand on light-blue paper using a fountain pen.

Pring Street Public School

22 July 1996

Dear Mr O’Shannessy,

Thank you for your letter in which you showed concern for the welfare of Ryan Sanfrancesco. I only wish that the news I could give you was positive. Ryan’s grandmother passed away and since then his attendance at school has been irregular. We have tried to talk to him about it, but he refuses to speak to us other than to say ‘It’s cool, she told me she was gunna die’.

We are aware that he needs counselling, but the school’s facilities are very limited and we have informed the Department of Community Services of the situation with his mother. As there have been no formal complaints of abuse, they have noted Ryan’s case as Priority One. Do not think that this means they consider his welfare a priority, this category simply means they will open a file and if there are no further reports in twenty-six days, his case will be closed.

Your letter to Ryan has been duly received and, as part of my responsibility as his principal, I have been obliged to read it. I have passed it on to the Department of Community Services, who have issued instructions that Ryan may not receive your letters until you have identified yourself personally to the appropriate Community Services District Officer.

I know that in my previous letter I encouraged you to write to Ryan, as I was convinced your friendship was both important and honourable and I remain of that opinion. I am personally sorry that this is the outcome as I feel sure that your association with Ryan is very important to the boy. I hope you understand my hands are tied in this matter and I am in no position to disobey the department’s instructions.

In the meantime we all worry about Ryan, who is such a bright and talented boy, and it would be a terrible shame to lose him. It is such a pity that your present circumstances make it impossible to see him, although of course I fully understand your situation.

If it doesn’t seem presumptuous, may I wish you every success in what you are personally attempting to do with your life.

Yours sincerely,

Dorothy Flanagan Principal

Billy’s first reaction was one of utter dismay. Ryan hadn’t received his letters and, worse still, the Department of Community Services had forbidden them. In his present emotional state, Billy felt betrayed. He hadn’t met Ryan’s principal and now he felt she’d simply, as Morgan would have put it, ‘covered her arse’. It wasn’t until much later that he realised that, under the circumstances, it had been a responsible attitude for her to adopt.

Billy sat for a while thinking, not opening the second letter. How the hell had Ryan tracked him down if he hadn’t received either of his letters? Why had he appeared suddenly in the chapel and then run away? Billy opened the second letter, and glancing quickly at the bottom of the page he saw that it too was from Dorothy Flanagan but this time it was typed on the school’s letterhead.

Dear Mr O’Shannessy,

I have received your second letter to Ryan and as you must have received my last letter I cannot understand why you would write a second one. You must understand that my position in this matter is quite clear, I cannot disobey my instructions from the Department of Community Services. Your letter to Ryan would have been studied by a qualified child psychiatrist and I am not at liberty to go against their decision. I am very sorry but I must ask you not to write to Ryan again care of this address.

Yours sincerely,

Ms D. Flanagan - Principal

cc. Mary Kennedy, School Counsellor - DOCS

A second page was attached and on it appeared a single typewritten line in a different typeface.

I have told R. of your whereabouts.

Ryan’s principal, God bless her, was covering her tracks. Billy’s heart soared, Dorothy Flanagan had seen Ryan and spoken to him.

Billy now opened the third letter, this one again handwritten.

Dear Mr O’Shannessy,

Today has not been one of the better days in my teaching career and I have no idea why I am writing to you other than that you have shown that you care about Ryan Sanfrancesco and God knows very few people seem to. Please forgive me if I appear overemotional. I have been teaching for thirty-two years and I keep telling myself that I am beyond being surprised. Pring Street is not an easy school to administer, but having been offered several so-called better choices, I chose this school to see out my career, my motive being that I thought I might be able to bring my experience to bear and in the process help maintain some sort of balance in the often topsy-turvy lives of so many of our children.

Occasionally we are rewarded with a gifted child such as Ryan, so it is especially distressing when we lose the battle to save him because of circumstances beyond our control.

This afternoon I had a visit from the police looking for Ryan and, while I don’t know the full story yet, they explained that Ryan had called the ambulance service, saying that his mother was having an asthma attack and needed to go to St Vincent’s. The operator told the police that the child sounded very distressed, convinced his mother was dying. One of the paramedics who had picked her up on a previous occasion remembered that she was a heroin addict and that there might be complications, so they responded immediately with a full resuscitation unit.

When they arrived, the front door was ajar and they found Ryan’s mother dead. There was no sign of Ryan. The police have been looking for him for several days as the post-mortem on his mother showed that she was ill from Hepatitis C. According to the police, she had not been to work for ten days (I am told she was an exotic dancer) and the cause of death was not an asthma attack but a heroin overdose. Apparently the heroin she had injected in her weakened condition was too pure and she died of a massive heart attack. I am not at all sure that there is anything you can do. We have asked all the children here at Pring Street to report to me if they see Ryan and to assure him that if he comes to me I will make sure that he is safe and cared for. If he should in some way try to contact you, please let me know as we both have his welfare at heart.

Yours sincerely,

Dorothy Flanagan

Billy had gone to his bed to read the letters and now, with his torso concealed behind the pillar, he couldn’t stop trembling. Ryan was a brave and capable child, he’d taken his mother to St Vincent’s on numerous occasions so why had he fled the house at such a critical moment? Was it the shock of seeing his mother die? Did a child know when someone was dead? The way Dorothy Flanagan had described it, Ryan’s mother must have died while the ambulance was on its way. Or was it just the child’s way of alerting the authorities to his mother’s death? It didn’t sound like the Ryan he knew, that child didn’t run away. He recalled how he’d first met Ryan, who’d been standing squinting at the statue of Trim on the window ledge of the Mitchell Library. He hadn’t even flinched when Billy had shouted, threatening him. Then there had been the incident with the receptionist at St Vincent’s when Billy had broken his wrist, and, before that, the brazen boldness he’d shown in going into the Cesco Bar to buy him a cup of coffee. Billy also recalled how he’d stood up to Con at the New Hellas Cafe. Ryan simply wasn’t the sort to run away from anything. It just didn’t make sense. Despite everything, he’d loved his mother and he even seemed to take responsibility for her. It was almost as if she was the child and he the adult. Why? Why? Why? None of it made any sense to Billy.

Billy spent a sleepless night driving himself to distraction and in the morning he was already waiting outside the office of Vince Payne, the program director, when he arrived at work at eight o’clock.

‘Morning, Billy, here to see me?’ Payne asked.

‘Yes, if I may, please.’

‘How’s your nose? You’ve got two bonzer black eyes, mate.’

‘Fine, thanks.’ Billy had been so distressed that he hadn’t shaved or even glanced in the mirror when he’d attempted to wash his face.

‘Come in, come in,’ Payne urged, unlocking his office. ‘Sit!’ He indicated the straight-backed kitchen chair. ‘Make yourself comfortable.’

Vince switched on his computer as a matter of habit. He’d brought in a styrofoam mug of coffee from Rocco’s, which he balanced precariously on a bundle of papers among the many that covered his desk. ‘Would you like a decent cup of coffee, mate? You look like you could use one. I’ll send someone?’

‘No, thank you, Vince, I’ve already had breakfast.’ Although he’d been to breakfast, Billy had been unable to eat or drink anything.

Vince leaned back in his rickety office chair. ‘So, what’s on your mind, Billy?’

Billy cleared his throat, his nose throbbed and one eye felt as if it was only half open. ‘I’m afraid I have to leave the program, Vince, I won’t be going on to St Peters.’ Vince Payne looked shocked. ‘Why, Billy?’

‘It’s private, there’s something I have to do.’ Vince looked serious. ‘But there’s something you have to do at St Peters, Billy. Something very important!’

‘I’m sorry, but I can’t explain. I just have to leave.’ Vince Payne had heard it all before, the life and death assignation, wife dying, kids ill, they were the most common lies, but there were many more. Many of the alcoholics were schizophrenics and had used alcohol to stop the voices in their heads. When they detoxed, the voices returned and their reasons for leaving the program could be anything from a call from Spiderman to help save the world from certain disaster to a message they’d received saying that the William Booth Institute was a hotbed of communist activity and was about to be blown up by the CIA.

In Billy he thought he recognised the usual underlying reason, simply a desire to get away because he was unable to face the idea of a further seven months spent in an institution. The street drunks who lived in the socalled Starlight Hotel, the open air, were particularly vulnerable. After three weeks incarcerated at William Booth, they had a desperate need to break out. As program director there wasn’t a lot he could do under the circumstances, it was unlawful to hold a client against his will. He’d have to try a delaying tactic, anything to give Billy time to reconsider, or it sometimes helped to read the riot act and make a firm appeal to commonsense, which in Billy’s case seemed the more productive course of action.

‘Now listen here, Billy, you’re not being fair to us or to yourself,’ Vince said, his voice firm.

‘Oh?’

‘Billy, I’ll be perfectly frank with you. When you came in I told myself you’d be lucky to last a week. Old blokes, confirmed alcoholics, don’t usually rehabilitate. Well, one in a hundred, anyway.’ Vince had located Billy’s file among the clutter on his desk and was flicking through it. ‘Your counsellors’ reports are outstanding, only yesterday at the end of the course meeting Jimmy said, and I quote: “Billy has made an outstanding contribution to the group and his attitude suggests that he will do well at St Peters.”’ Vince stopped and turned the page. ‘Ah, here it is.’ He turned back to Billy. ‘We give every client a prospective rating, a recovery potential, your rating is a full twenty points above the norm. For an old bloke that’s outstanding.’

‘Thank you,’ Billy said quietly, ‘but I have no choice, I must leave.’

Vince Payne picked up the biro and started the annoying business of tapping on the frame of his computer. ‘Is it over the incident in chapel yesterday?’