BECKER Page 10

  ‘Yeah, I used to do a bit,’ Becker said. ‘Not when I was in Canberra, but here with my Dad.’

  The eyes changed, a flicker of interest.

  ‘Pretty young, though. Only eight or nine. Down to Uranquinty and even as far down as The Rock. Ever been there?’

  A shake of the head.

  ‘Bloody high, goes straight up, sticking out of the plain like something bursting out from the earth and going up and up, the way a whale breaks the surface.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘We did a bit of shooting there. Only a twenty-two. Couldn’t have held anything any bigger, not at my age. Nine, it was.’

  The man almost nodded or shrugged.

  ‘Dad was at Kapooka.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Ever been there?’

  ‘Yeah, before we went.’

  ‘Which outfit?’

  ‘Ah—’

  Robyn entered with a tray. ‘Here we are,’ she said, and set it on a coffee table. ‘Tea and nut roll and brownies and some shortbread. They’re bought ones, I’m sorry—the shortbreads I mean. How do you like it, Martie?’

  ‘As it comes, I reckon.’

  ‘Milk? Yes, of course, I should remember. And there’s sugar.’

  She pushed a bowl closer. He watched her, serving. His eyes went up and down, momentarily catching her legs and ankles and shoes and the edge of her skirt. They were the leaden eyes of deep depression.

  ‘Thanks, Rob.’

  It took some time to serve them all, but she did, even the boy standing back and chewing a brownie. The girl was not there, except for an eye and a nose and a finger or two, now and then at the door.

  ‘So,’ Becker said, ‘which outfit?’

  ‘Sixth battalion RAR.’

  ‘Sixth, eh? When was that?’

  ‘August ’66.’

  ‘In Phuoc Tuy?’

  ‘Yeah. You know Phuoc Tuy?’

  ‘Never been there. My dad was there, though.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Two years later, Seventh Battalion.’

  ‘Officer, was he?’

  ‘Sergeant. He’d been there in ’64, training unit. Didn’t have to go again, but he volunteered.’

  ‘Volunteered?’

  ‘Thought he’d like to see some more action, I suppose.’

  The man shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe anyone would have volunteered to go to Vietnam. ‘How long?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Was he there?’

  ‘Oh, three months.’

  ‘Hit, was he?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Killed?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Ah, Jesus!’

  He put down his cup and rubbed his mouth with the back of a hand. Then bit it. His eyes closed. His face, as much as you could see of it, had turned white. His teeth, when he stopped biting, were red. His lips were red. He’d drawn blood.

  They waited, watching. There was nothing they could do but wait, sipping their tea.

  ‘You okay, mate?’

  ‘Eh? Yeah, yeah. Gets me sometimes. Used to scare Rob. She’d think I was mad. Had to go to the hospital, out to Concord, in Sydney. See a doc. Got over it, in a day or two. You never forget, but.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Another cup, Martie?’

  ‘No thanks, Rob.’

  ‘A biscuit?’

  He waved a hand. ‘Ah, no, no!’

  ‘Feel like a beer, mate?’

  ‘Ah, no, no.’ He waved both hands. ‘I’m right now.’

  Becker thought the time had arrived. The man’s hands were off the rifle. One quick lunge and he could get it. But what if he did not?

  ‘What company were you in? In the Sixth, I mean.’

  ‘Eh? Ah, Delta.’

  ‘Delta?’ Becker remembered something. ‘Wasn’t that the outfit that copped it at Long Tan? In a rubber plantation?’

  ‘Yeah, that was it.’

  ‘Were you in that fight?’’

  ‘Yeah, I was.’

  ‘Some battle, they say.’

  ‘Yeah, nearly wiped us out.’

  ‘Killed eighteen?’

  ‘Seventeen of us. One in the APCs that come and rescued us.’

  ‘But you killed a lot of them?’

  ‘Eh? Oh, I don’t know. We had to count ’em afterwards. Headquarters wanted to know. It was… It was… I dunno.’ He was going white again.

  Becker was going to change the subject, but the man came out with it.

  ‘Next day we had to count ’em. Got up to two-hundred and fifty and gave up. Night was comin’ on and we didn’t know exactly where the main force was. Some blokes said as many as three-thousand could be out there beyond the plantation.’

  ‘You found two-hundred and fifty bodies?’

  ‘Yeah, bits of ’em. Plus, another five-hundred or so over the next two weeks.’

  ‘One Australian company killed nearly eight-hundred VC?’

  ‘Yeah, well, it was the artillery. Blew ’em to bits.’

  Becker was surprised.

  ‘How close were you? To them, I mean.’

  ‘In the thick of it? Ah, one or two hundred yards, I reckon.’

  ‘Jesus, that was close. With all that fire coming down.’

  ‘Yeah, close. Had to hide behind the trees to avoid the shrapnel at one or two stages. They were working the shells closer and closer to us.

  ‘Christ, that’s amazing.’

  ‘We were calling them up, on the radio. Giving the co-ordinates. We’d see a few slopes in a bunch and we’d bring ’em fifty yards left or twenty yards closer. And the ordnance would hit, exactly. It was pinpoint.’

  ‘Amazing accuracy.’

  ‘Yeah, the gunners, they saved us. Lost only seventeen out of a whole company.’

  ‘Boy, that was brave.’

  ‘It was the gunners,’ he said again.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Fuckin’ geniuses, they were.’

  He was shaking now, a hand to his head, eyes closed. Becker tried to change the subject, get off war. But the man wouldn’t let him.

  ‘You get used to losin’ your mates, but you never get used to seein’ hundreds—’

  ‘You want a beer, Martie?’

  ‘No, no thanks. ‘I’d better be—’

  ‘A whiskey?’

  ‘No, mate, I’m fine.’

  He wasn’t fine, you could see. He had sort of seized up, waited as if holding his breath. His eyes closed, he went white in the face, as if hit by a convulsion which would not come out and shake him and rattle him. But it did not come. He breathed out.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘It gets yer.’

  ‘That’s all right, mate.’

  He looked at his watch, then at Robyn, then at the boy. Who’d stopped chewing long ago, but his mouth hung open. He’d never heard such a story. He’d tell it at school tomorrow. The man looked at Becker. Some sort of decision passed across his eyes. Unsteadily, he rose. ‘Only dropped in to see y’s, see how y’s are gettin’ on, and...’ He didn’t seem able to get his tongue around it, an apology. ‘Givin’ you a fright that day. Up the creek. Should’ve known better.’

  ‘The shot? Ah, anyone can make a mistake.’

  He stumbled, clutching the rifle. ‘Better be gettin’ along.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Martie,’ Robyn said.

  He was heading for the door. But turned slowly, gazing at Robyn and Becker and the boy and finally at the girl at the door. Then back to Robyn.

  ‘I’ll be right,’ he said.

  They followed him to the door.

  ‘Where’s your car, Martie?’

  ‘What? Ah, down the road a bit, up a lane.’

 
; Becker followed him onto the verandah, helped him down the steps. Walked with him to the gate, where he looked back. One last glance at Robyn.

  Almost smiled, almost waved.

  ‘Thanks, mate,’ he said and walked off, much the same way he’d done the day Becker had climbed onto the road and watched him depart. A faltering walk, uncertain. Becker watched him until he disappeared back into history.

  Late that day, as the sun was going down, there was a knock at the front door. Becker went to it. Barnes was standing there in uniform. Behind him, the patrol car stood at the gate, lights flashing.

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s a bloke,’ he said, ‘up a lane. Down the road.’

  ‘A bloke?’

  ‘Sittin’ in a car.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Dead, shot dead. Straight up and under.’

  ‘Up and under what?’

  ‘His chin.’

  ‘Oh, Christ.’

  ‘You know anything?’

  Becker felt sick. He’d seen a lot of bad sights in his life. He did not want to see this one. They had failed. They had failed a man who couldn’t take it any more. Maybe Robyn was his last resort. Without her, he was no-one. Better to get it over with.

  ‘How’d he do it?’

  ‘With a rifle. Straight and through the roof.’

  ‘A rag around his head?’

  ‘Yeah, know him, do y’?’

  ‘His name’s Martin Scowcroft. He’s a Vietnam vet.’

  ‘Friend of yours, is he?’

  ‘Robyn used to know him.’

  ‘Visiting y’s, was he?’

  Becker did not answer.

  ‘You want to come down and have a look?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  Barnes began to back off, but paused.

  ‘Someone’s got to identify him.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll come.’

  He closed the door and did not tell anyone where he was going.

  ‘Trouble seems to like you,’ Barnes said.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Heard you had a bit in Canberra.’

  Becker didn’t say anything. Barnes got into the patrol wagon, but Becker did not. He walked down the highway to the lane in the thickening night. And the oncoming lights.

  Chapter 12

  The strange thing was, Robyn wanted to go. She had to go, she said—back to Canberra. For his sake. They argued for a day or two. She’d been in love with Martin once, or thought she was. She’d said she’d marry him, although she’d not told her parents. Nor made any formal arrangements. But could not have gone through with it; a man often so depressed and so far away, unable to say what was troubling him. Harry too was like that, silent and thoughtful and faraway. But Harry was not violent. He was comforting. Never raised his voice or scolded or complained or said a bad word about anyone. And supported her parents in town and the kids, paying school fees and trips and books and plenty of pocket money. And walked with them and talked to them. In his own quiet way.

  She’d known that Martin had been in the war and had been disabled out. Medical reasons, although he’d never quite said what medical reasons. Agent Orange, she’d thought. Perhaps that was it. Maybe it was mental. He’d go to Sydney now and then to see someone about it—a psychiatrist, she thought. He’d had such bad dreams. In bed he’d doze off, then jump. It seemed impossible to jump when you’re flat on your back, but he could. As if hit, whacked in the night. A bullet coming out of nowhere. She did not know whether he really loved her, or wanted to lie in her arms and cry soundlessly. Eyes shut tight, as if afraid to open them.

  Sometimes she’d thought all he wanted was the sex, the relief. She didn’t mind the sex, but he’d get rough, too rough. It was as though he was fighting her, shoving it up and up and grunting and crying, a squealy sort of cry. As if he had to do it, but couldn’t unless he shoved it right up her, hard. ‘Marty,’ she used to say, ‘Martie, not so hard, please. You’re hurting.’ But he never seemed to hear. He’d been in a bad way, she realised now. The poor man, it must have been the war. But it had got too much. She had to get out of Canberra. Go back home, back to Wagga Wagga. Or else something terrible would happen. She felt it, she knew it.

  She’d begun making excuses and saying she had to see a friend, or was working back, doing the night shift to help out someone else who had a date. The end had come that night when he burst in, wanting to know where she was going. With Helen Sedgwick, she’d said. And he’d said, ‘You’re lying, you bitch!’ And grabbed her and rammed her up against the wall and did it. Or not exactly did it, but thrust himself at her, as if he were really doing it, penetrating but not getting it in. Hurting her too, making her cry.

  Then he’d quit in a fit of rage. Saying, ‘If you ever go off with someone else, I’ll follow you, I’ll find you...’

  She was lying on their bed, three days later. The funeral was to be the next day, a Thursday, in Canberra. He had family of some kind up in Yass and Boorowa. Both good farming districts, especially for fine wool, north-west of Canberra. Not many friends, perhaps an Army mate or two. There wouldn’t be many there, she thought. A man like that.

  ‘You don’t have to go, Rob.’

  ‘That poor man,’ she said, ‘so lonely. If I’d been able to do something for him...’

  ‘He was gone,’ he said. ‘Far gone.’

  She was looking up at him, sitting beside her and holding a hand.

  ‘You were wonderful, Harry. Such calmness. You saved us, didn’t you?’

  ‘Ah, you get used to it. You’re trained for it.’

  ‘Was he really going to kill us?’

  ‘Ah, hell, no. He just wanted someone to talk to. They all do.’

  ‘He had a rifle.’

  ‘He was a hunter.’

  ‘All those bodies he said. Hundreds and hundreds cut to pieces. What would they have done? Picked up the pieces? Put them in bags? Dug graves, buried them?’

  ‘Left them for the VC to steal away in the night, I suppose.’

  She winced. ‘Oh, Harry.’

  She clutched his hand in both of hers, her nails biting in. ‘I’m so glad I’ve got you.’ She sighed. ‘I’m such a fool. I would have gone to pieces, if you hadn’t been there.’

  ‘Come on.’ He tapped her. ‘What’ll we do with the kids?’

  ‘If we go? Oh, I’ve spoken to Mum and Dad and Hank and Anika.’

  She was referring to the Dutch couple on the farm next door. An old wheat farm, it was. They had the Dutch Oven bakery in Baylis Street, down by the park and the lagoon. And coffee too, if you wanted it. You could sit outside at little tables and drink it or wander off into the park and feed the water hens or the ducks. They had fresh bread hot out of the oven every day except Sunday, crowds sure to be lined up for a loaf or a birthday cake or a strudel or a raspberry treat or a sticky bun for tea. Doing well, they were. Such a lovely couple, two sons and two daughters-in-law running the shop—and they, not too old. Mid-sixties, he thought. Working out the rest of their lives on the farm, milling their own wheat and holding the flour for six weeks to let it age to get that extra taste and nutrition, which no one in Wagga had at that time.

  ‘Okay?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘any time, they said.’

  ‘What time’s the funeral?’

  ‘Two thirty.’

  ‘At Norwood Park?’

  ‘Yes, the crematorium, not the cemetery.’

  ‘We’ll have to leave soon after ten. That is, if we’re to have lunch first.’

  That’s what they did. The girl went in early on the school bus to Wagga and they left it to Anika or Hank or both to pick up the boy from school and endure him until they returned home late in the afternoon. It felt strange for both, going back to Canberra, if for only a few hours. It was an easy run in the BM
W, cool and bright. The countryside around Yass and Murrumbateman looked happy, well cared for, well fed, contented. They’d had more rain over summer than had the wheat lands out west.

  When they crossed the border and entered the national capital, both were calm. Coasted down and down several miles, to Northbourne Avenue, which looked somehow narrower and jammier with more traffic and lights and signs of prosperity than when they’d both left, she before him by a month or two, last year. The capital had a quiet, business-like air about it. Not an exciting city, but respectable, well laid out. And the lake, it was always the lake. Which got you in, although quite artificial, a dam on a small stream with a wobbly sort of name, Molonglo.

  It was the same, picturesque lake, the roads, the leisurely ways, the bridges and the Carillion. And up high, across the lake, the hill, where sat, or sat in, the new Parliament House, something like a half-buried ziggurat. A coat-hanger of a flagpole on top. Our flag waving proudly, invitingly, as though saying, Nice to see you again. Where the hell have you been?

  They drove around for a while, looking and thinking. Becker’s eyes would fly to Commonwealth Park, almost against their will. The park where, in the middle of the night, they’d killed Torrence, one in the back and one through the head. And had pushed him into the water, splash! To be found by a jogger early next morning. The event having been witnessed by some disgraced school teacher and professional deadbeat named Buster, sleeping rough. Who’d seen them and understood enough to tell Becker for twenty dollars what he had heard or misheard. You could not be sure with Buster. His brain was pretty well shot by then.

  They’d killed Torrence and tried to pin the hit on him, Harry Becker. Who had nothing whatever to do with the whole business, except that he knew a woman named Evelyn Crowley. And Mrs Crowley knew too much about was going on in the Royal Bank of Australia, where her husband was pretty big in international operations. And did a lot of travelling. Moving millions, nay billions, around the world. Who’d be a good friend to have if you wanted to move money you did not want the police to know about.

  ‘Where do you want to have lunch?’ he said.

  ‘Where would you like?’ She was like that. Always let him choose. Not that she was weak or servile. Whatever he wanted, he would get. She saw to it.

  They ended up at Gus Petersilka’s joint on Bunda Street, where they’d had orange cake and coffee that day months ago, almost a year. She hadn’t wished to sit outside. Hadn’t wanted to be seen, that was obvious. By whom? Now he knew. Martin Scowcroft, whom they were to farewell today. Farewell to the flames, and the misery of the lonely and forgotten and rejected.