On Cringila Hill (16 page)

‘Then you, Darko, Dragan went and got Darko's boat.'

‘Never mind about no one else.'

Jimmy rests his hurt arm on a thigh. There's terrible pain. He realises he's probably fractured a bone or two. ‘Was he still drunk? At the end?'

‘Nah. I learned somethin' that night. Man knows someone gonna kill him he get frightened, never mind how drunk. When he get frightened he get sober. Things got pretty nasty just at the end. He was strong. I learned that too. He was a strong man. Where you get it from, the two of us, him and me. You hadta turn out strong.'

They travel a way without speaking. Near the shore Lupce says, ‘Okay. You gonna know. I tol' ya.'

Jose has seen their approach and come down to the boat ramp. Jimmy climbs out, wades through the water. He stands with his hands in his pockets while Jose assists Lupce with his gear. Jose works hard, securing the gear and the boat. From time to time he looks across at Jimmy, but he says and asks nothing.

Heading back to Cringila it comes to Jimmy that he's as calm as ever he's been in his life, relaxed. A question comes into his head, and he wonders at it awhile. With a voice that's low, controlled he says, ‘Grandfather.'

‘What?'

‘You watch television in the middle of the night?'

‘Sometimes, yeah. Sometimes I do. Carn sleep, get up, watch television.'

‘See them ads about Christmas, ones they show in the middle of the night?'

‘Sometimes.'

‘How nice it is? How happy they all are? You reckon anyone lives like that?'

They're through Warrawong and making their way up to the Hill. Eventually Lupce says, ‘Not roun' here.'

When they're outside the house Jimmy shares with his mother, Jose stops the car. There's no dividing the catch. Damaged arm dangling by his side, Jimmy walks up onto the verandah and watches as Jose executes a stately three-point turn, not easy in that narrow street in a big car towing a dinghy. Jimmy watches the car pull away, vanish around a corner. He sits on the top step, leans his weight forward, his elbows on his knees.

It starts to rain lightly. He watches the mist of it between him and a streetlight a little further along the footpath, watches the light on the wet bitumen. When his mother comes onto the verandah, he doesn't look up.

In a while she says, ‘you know.'

‘Yeah.'

‘Thought you was gonna. Thought it be about now, who you are now.'

The rain is heavier and he can hear it now, falling across the roof of his house, soaking into the grass of the front garden.

He says, ‘Was you ever gonna tell me?'

‘Nah. Or, maybe, if I was dyin', you know? Somethin' like that. What's gonna be the good if I tell ya? This way, at least you had him, old Lupce. Had him all these years. Was good to ya. Better that than you had nothin'. If he was in jail, couldn' do you no good. This way maybe he helps you a little.'

‘What am I gonna do?'

‘I guess you gonna do what you always done, get back in control. That's what you do, you know? No father, maybe the place you live is a little tough – you get in control. Don' wait to be what other people decided for ya. Is your way. You gonna do
that
again.'

‘How do I do that, livin' roun' here?'

They listen to the rain. At last she says, ‘You carn.' She wraps an arm around the shoulder of her tall son, which intimacy he permits.

‘What was he like, my father?'

She says, ‘Always wondered what I'd say if you asked me. He was two men. When I met him he was … gentle, is what struck me, gentle an' nice an' funny. Not tough, like my father. He made me laugh, you know? Made me feel good, when I was with him. Then he would get drunk.'

‘Yeah.'

‘There's different ways to be a drunk. Some men get happy, laugh, think they clever, wanna say smart things. Some like singin'. Some get sorry for their selves, think sad things, cryin' a lot. Then there's some like Tonio.'

She gives her son's shoulder a little shake, to help him with what she's about to tell him.

‘Think he's the big man. No one else worth nothin'. Laugh at people. Laugh at me.
Sneer
at me. Spit on me. Hit me if he felt like it. Your grandfather saw him hit
you
once, laugh at ya. Later on Lupce said to me, “Tha's not a way to hit a child, not a good way. You hit a dog like that you make an
angry
dog. Hit him like that, laugh at him like that, you make an
angry
person.” So, when it happen, what Lupce done to my husband, maybe no big surprise.'

‘Anybody care?'

‘Well, it weren't out there, you know, as a fact everyone could talk about. Someone did come. Policeman did come, but that was later. Months later, maybe.'

‘Policeman?'

‘Yeah. Big man. Not much hair. Long face. Longest face I ever saw.'

‘What did you tell him.'

‘Jus' how Tonio was. What it was like, when he was drinkin'.'

‘Did he talk to anyone else?'

‘Guess he talk to old Lupce. Nothin' happen though. Which was good. What I thought, they take Lupce, Dimce's got nothin'. Got no man to show him. Thought my father was better for you to have than nothin'.'

‘Lupce taught me how to fight, how to catch fish.'

‘They'd be his things Lupce would teach you. Hurtin' people. Killin' things.'

‘Maybe he thought that's all he had, only things he knew would be any use to me.'

‘Well, now you know. You had the right to know who you are, an' the things that happen. Better than some nice lie for you to believe forever.'

It's raining heavily. Jimmy says, ‘You should go in. Is cold.'

‘Maybe in a minute. Nearly time I got up, if I was sleepin'. Nearly time go clean the school.'

‘Yeah.' Raindrops burst and splash up over their shins and knees.

Jimmy says, ‘Mama, what's my name?'

‘What?'

‘My name? My real name? Is it Valeski?'

‘Well, people started calling you that after your father … left, so we just went along.'

‘And Grandfather called me Jimmy.'

‘Yeah.'

‘So. Was I christened?'

‘Twice. Once in our church, once in Tonio's cathedral.'

‘Same name both times?'

‘Yeah. Dimce. Dimce Rodriguez.'

‘Yeah? Funny name,' he says, getting up. ‘Come inside. You're cold. I can make you coffee. Good, strong coffee. Have some before you go to work.'

‘Sure.' She stands beside him, kisses his cheek. ‘An' I had you a good, long time. Had you company. I was lucky. You remember that, when you do what you gotta do. I had you a good, long time. I was lucky.'

Chapter Eighteen

Gordon blinks, listening. May has left the bed. There's
ringing, then it stops. He hears May say, ‘No, Edna, he can't. He's been to a specialist. He needs surgery.'

‘I'll take it,' Gordon calls. With difficulty he reaches for the handset beside their bed. He winces as he hears May slam down the lounge room receiver.

‘Gordon,' Edna says. ‘Back's no good?'

‘No, I'm for the knife.'

‘Oh, dear. I am sorry to hear that. I'd hoped that you might be able to help with a situation.'

‘Did you? What's the situation?'

‘I've just come in. There's a note on my desk about a message from the principal of Warrawong High School.'

‘Leon Beckett.'

‘You know him?'

‘We're both members of Wollongong Golf Club.'

‘Apparently Mr Beckett has telephoned through that he's confident the matter has no substance. The boy involved is unreliable and given to attracting attention to himself – well, Mr Beckett has indulged himself by calling the boy a “notable nutter”. The lad has put this claim on the school's computer network, that he knows the identity of the killer of Abdul Hijazi. It's one of those cases where, if we don't respond and, one in a million, there's something in it, then that would be a major failure.

‘Peter Grace is rostered off, apparently in his caravan down the coast. David Lawrence is available but needs a partner. I've got people down with the flu, we're stretched very thin. You've turned up so much that is of value, I've come to feel that you've got a true sense for this case. I thought you might go to Warrawong to find out what this is all about.'

Gordon doesn't say anything. He can hear the silence of Edna noting this, weighing it up, becoming emboldened.

‘Someone's got to go. I've heard you say that you never know when some minor matter, something that seems irrelevant might turn out to be the jigsaw piece that makes the whole picture clear. If there's anything in the testimony of this kid, I'd like it a lot if the credit for its discovery went to you. And, Gordon, as things are here, there are people I wouldn't trust to send.'

Gordon lies in bed, listening to the silence at the other end of the phone. Clearly Edna knows how to flatter him. He can feel her flattery working. ‘Yeah, send David up,' he says, eventually.

When he rolls back from replacing the handset May is in the doorway, her arms folded across her chest. Quietly, clearly, she says, ‘You truly don't care, do you, what the impact of your behaviour is on me.'

‘I figure I can't do any more harm to my back, May.'

‘Fine. Get up, if you can. I'll stop what I'm doing and dress you. Then I'll get back to trying to get myself
ready for work, and you can stumble off after your adolescent need for recognition.'

‘I have to do this. I just can't tell you why.'

‘I just told
you
why.'

Just after nine David collects Gordon and eventually steers the car through the gateway of Warrawong High School. Ahead of them is a long bitumen roadway down a hill. There are dew-covered sportsfields below to their left, a carpark fringed by gum trees at the bottom of the hill to the right. In the distance, below the school, the lake and escarpment sprawl to the south. The school buildings are extensive, forbidding, old dark double-brick, with heavily barred entrances and windows. The double-storey blocks of classrooms are built around courtyards. The principal is a large man with greying hair and a beard. He waits for them at the nearest gated entrance.

It takes Gordon a long time to get out of the vehicle. David grasps him beneath an elbow to assist. The principal watches, clearly interested in their struggle. He approaches, eventually, to lend a hand. David closes the car door, secures the vehicle, and he and the teacher assist Gordon into the schoolyard.

‘Chilly,' the large man says, ‘you look chronic. No wonder I haven't seen you on the course. What are you doing working in this shape?'

‘We're short on, Leon,' Gordon says, ‘and I've got an interest in this matter.'

‘Sit over here,' Leon Beckett says. They head into a wide courtyard. ‘There's stairs to my office. It would take you forever to get up them. We can do what we've got to do out here.'

Some green-painted wooden seating is set against the brick wall of a gymnasium. His companions assist Gordon to sit. He looks around. Tall, sheer walls. Lots of concrete. Walkways at upper-storey height linking buildings. Gordon is not the first visitor to be reminded of a jail. He can see that there's a basement level to the south and, bravely, someone has planted a little rainforest in the playground down there. It has blooming Cootamundra wattle, a number of banana palms. Leon Beckett lowers himself down to sit beside Gordon. David Lawrence remains standing near them. Scowling in pain, breathing heavily after the effort of making it from the car, Gordon says, ‘So, what have we got?'

They're out of the wind. Sunlight falls warmly over them, protected as they are against brickwork. An Australian flag, ruffled by the breeze, flaps on a pole at the school's highest level.

Leon says, ‘We have a kid called Clint Phillips. At considerable expenditure of our scarce resources of person power, we've traced back to him a statement on our intranet where he says he knows the identity of the murderer of Abdul Hijazi. I mean, the statement was seen, someone came around and told me, we knew it would be him but we went through the procedure, just to be certain.'

Leon fumbles in the inside pocket of his jacket, draws out a computer printout. He reads, ‘I know who killed Abdul Hijazi.'

‘Anything in it?'

‘No! Pure rubbish. Still, my good book says I report it so I've reported it.' He smiles first at one detective then at the other. ‘So, here we find ourselves.'

‘You're certain that there's nothing in it at all?'

‘See, this kid's called Piggy. Around here if I say “Clint Phillips”, not too many people are going to have any idea who I'm talking about. If I say “Piggy”, everyone's nodding.'

‘Why Piggy?'

‘Wait till you meet him.'

‘Ah.'

‘He's quite a kid, let me tell you.' The principal smiles at the detective happily. ‘He worships the devil.'

‘Roll that by me again.'

‘He's a self-proclaimed Satanist. He put that on the intranet last year.' Leon blinks his eyes, grins, remembering. ‘“Come with me my little ones,”' he intones. ‘“Follow me before our lord Satan. Enter under his protection,”' he says. ‘There was a nice little picture of Lucifer scanned in under it, it was nicely lettered, all that. He did a very good publishing job. This message started popping up on computers from one end of the school to the other. It went over particularly big with the Islamic families. The Spanish and Portuguese Catholics down in Kemblawarra weren't all that crazy about it either.'

‘Give you problems?'

‘Certainly did. There are people who believe that every individual act that gets carried out in the school, I personally approved of it. Took a bit of hosing down.'

‘Is he allowed to do that?' David asks.

‘Is he allowed to do what?'

‘Encourage people to worship the devil?'

‘Not on our intranet. That's my policy – full rights of religious observance but no use of school communications structures to promote individual beliefs.'

‘Yeah, but
believing
that. Is he allowed to do that?'

‘Who's going to stop him? And how? The question is, is it good for him to believe that. Different question. I got in touch with Legal Branch. I got a very cheery reception, they thought it was a very interesting question: could I have him counselled Satanism is maybe not a very helpful belief to be following? The answer was, none of my business; he's got the right to worship whomsoever he chooses, Satan included. I had him in and we talked.' He smiles again. ‘I must say, he's an extremely reasonable person to talk to, the young Clint. I pointed out how many religions we have in the school, how many languages are spoken in the homes, what a madhouse we're going to have if kids start promoting and defending particular beliefs. He saw my point. Oh, he thought it was an excellent insight I was putting to him. So, he can believe what he likes but there must be discretion. Don't, for example, create a coven here in school hours. No black masses, sacrifice of animals, that sort of thing. He saw my point. He agreed totally. We had a meeting of the minds.'

‘How many are there here in the school?'

‘What, religions?'

‘No. Languages in the homes.'

Leon lifts his eyebrows. ‘I can tell you that,' he says. ‘We just had a survey done. Sixty-three. Sixty-three basic languages. No doubt more if we included the various regional dialects.'

David whistles. ‘Sixty-three,' he says. ‘I didn't know there were that many languages.'

‘Oh, yes. As to religions, I haven't had a study done about that but I can't imagine that there's too many we don't have. We're getting African refugees at present. They have some I'd never heard of before.'

He smiles at Gordon.
‘Not that it matters to me. I mean, to me, it's like, “Which superhero do you believe in? What are you, a Batman guy or a Captain America guy?” Anyway, to this day, young Clint hasn't breached our agreement. And he seems to enjoy our conversations. He raises this matter, he raises that matter, but what about this point of view? Sometimes, in fact, I wonder what's going on behind that dirty forehead of his. Sometimes I think he's having quite a good laugh at my expense. Which is fine so long as he doesn't stir up my school.' He frowns. ‘Harmony. I believe in harmony. I tell them this is our good place. Any disagreements, they stop at the gate.'

David says, ‘You must have learned a lot, working here.'

‘The main thing I learned was how to use an interpreter at parental interviews.'

‘How often do you have to do that?'

‘Virtually every week, sometimes more than once. There'll be parents don't speak English, or speak it a bit but not have faith they'll understand something as important as an interview with the school, where the kid's in trouble. Or maybe the father's got a bit but the mother doesn't and you don't want him interpreting to her because they'll maybe start to argue. Then this is what you learn – interviews with interpreters take twice as long as the other kind, which should have been obvious enough, but wasn't, to me at first. I say a bit and the interpreter has a go and I'm sitting here composing my next sentence, and I think, “God that sounds elegant!” And the poor folks are sitting there, wondering, “What's it going to mean for my child, this thing he's done? Is he finished now in this country?”'

Gordon says, ‘How do you know that's what they're thinking?'

‘They infer it.'

‘
Infer
it.'

‘Yes, you know, show their fears through their facial expressions, how they look at each other.'

‘You mean imply.'

‘Do I?'

‘Yes. To imply is to send a message in several ways, without spelling it out directly in words. To infer is to reach a conclusion of what was intended through taking various unstated clues.'

‘Yeah? Well, what I've said they're thinking is what I'd be thinking if I was in some new country and didn't know the language very well, if at all, and someone was telling me my kid's behaviour was unacceptable.'

A bell sounds. They hear silence replaced by a sort of muffled roar, noises of furniture legs scraping on linoleum, people talking, lifting their voices in competition. Walkways, stairwells, quadrangles fill with hordes of young people carrying backpacks. Uniformly they are neatly dressed, green shorts or skirts, white golf shirts with badges embossed over the heart. Several girls wear headscarves in the Muslim manner. As individuals encounter for the first time in the day they embrace, boy to girl, girls with each other, they hug, each kisses the cheek of the other. Boys exchange intricate rituals of handshaking.

‘Come here, those girls!' Leon booms out.

Two young women pause, exchange glances, clearly consider ignoring the instruction before, scowling, they comply. They approach the three men. Leon points accusingly at their blouses.

‘Those are button-up shirts,' he announces. ‘You are wearing them outside your slacks! Uniform policy is, if you wish to wear a blouse outside your slacks you wear the golf shirt! Tuck your blouses into your slacks!'

Glaring with resentment the girls lower their backpacks, do as they are commanded. As they flounce away Gordon is confident that he knows where the blouses will be worn once they've vanished down a stairwell.

‘Shirts outside slacks,' David says, his face expressionless. ‘Pretty big deal.'

Leon narrows one eye. ‘It is to me,' he says. The crowds thin. Gordon can hear the raised voices of teachers giving direction. The babble diminishes. Silence returns to the quadrangle. Warm sunlight beats down across the trio of men.

Gordon says, ‘Luz Solomona is coming back.'

‘Is she? That's good.'

‘There's an incident in her past here interests me. It was an exchange she had with a kid called Jimmy Valeski. And, let me tell you, that's a name I've heard a lot lately. Everyone knows Jimmy, it seems.'

Leon smiles. ‘Ah,' he says. ‘Jimmy. Everyone does indeed know Jimmy. Jimmy is a very, very cool customer. He knows how to smile and give you a warm greeting, ask after your health. Not too interested in doing any schoolwork but he knows how to roll with the punches. “No Conflict Jimmy” you could call him. Sails along through his days. He and young Clint are very close, for reasons that I couldn't even begin to understand. If anyone knows why Clint does what he does, it's Jimmy.'