Exiles (Aaron Falk #3)(23)

“This feels—” Raco’s voice was resigned. He didn’t finish his thought.

Falk knew exactly what he meant, but they stayed anyway until their hands were empty.

The stall was still busy, Falk could see as they finished up. The large man who’d been stacking boxes in the back of the tent earlier was now positioned up front, alongside the two young women. He was pouring samples for a big group, and nodded a greeting as he saw Raco approach.

“They’ve gone on ahead, mate.” The bloke put down the wine bottle and wiped his hands on his jeans. He batted away a persistent moth hovering around a light near his head. “Zara wanted to get there early. Charlie says to call him when you’re near the stage.”

“No worries,” Raco said. “You coming?”

There were potential customers circling, but the man’s eyes fell instead on a stack of flyers lined up neatly at the edge of the table. Kim Gillespie gazed back at him from the printed paper.

“Yeah, look, I wouldn’t mind.” He turned to the employee nearest him, who was already nodding. “You’ll be all right, will you? Twenty minutes?”

“Absolutely. All good, Shane.” The woman stapled a flyer to the receipt she was about to hand to a waiting couple. “Take your time.”

“Great. Thanks.”

The man eased himself out from behind the table, having to duck his head to avoid brushing the tent canopy, and joined Falk and Raco on the path.

“Did you two meet last year?” Raco asked as they began to walk. “Aaron—” He stopped as his phone lit up. “Sorry, this is Charlie now.” He lifted it to his ear. “Yes, mate, we’re heading over—”

The guy extended a large, calloused hand to Falk. “I don’t think we did meet, did we? Shane McAfee.”

“Yeah, I know, actually.” Falk introduced himself. “I saw you a few times at the MCG. Great player.”

“Oh yeah? Thanks, mate.” Shane McAfee’s tone was light, but Falk could tell he was pleased. He had an interesting habit of pausing slightly, as though considering the words before he chose them, and was more softly spoken than Falk would have expected. “That’s going back a bit now.”

Twenty years at least, by Falk’s reckoning. Shane was his age, but with all the height and breadth of a professional AFL player. He was clearly still fit, but with the softened, stocky look of a former elite athlete now left in charge of his own meal plans and exercise routine.

“You into the footy, then?” Shane asked as they walked.

“Yeah.” Falk nodded. “Since I was a kid. I grew up in regional Victoria, so…”

“Pretty much inevitable?”

“Pretty much. Plus my dad absolutely loved it. Played a bit himself when he was young, country league stuff, you know. Liked to go to games, watch it on TV. We were at that grand final, actually,” Falk said. “The year you—”

“Yeah.” Shane smiled at the memory. “Yeah. Now that really is going back. You probably weren’t barracking for us, hey? Being from Victoria?”

“Well, no. The other guys.”

“I owe you an apology, then.” Shane’s face broadened into a grin. He didn’t sound the least bit sorry, but Falk could hardly blame him.

It had been the kind of game that Falk still felt lucky to have seen in person, despite the result. He’d been living near uni then, deep into his studies and barely making the fifty-minute trip back across Melbourne to his dad’s place even for holidays, let alone weekends. If Falk had been forced to stop and consider his relationship with his father, he’d have said honestly that a bit of distance had been good for them. Their interactions had been laced with a polite formality, and it was only years later, after his dad had died, that Falk reflected that good was probably not the right word for it at all.

Falk had been flipping unenthusiastically through a textbook in his student house when his dad had called. His voice had been filled with a pure energy that Falk hadn’t heard in years. A raffle had been drawn at the agricultural supply business where Erik Falk worked, and guess who was now the proud and lucky owner of a couple of tickets to the grand final? The thrill was instantly infectious, and Falk’s desk chair had clattered to the floor as he rose and punched the air.

It was also only later that it occurred to Falk there were literally dozens of other people his dad probably could have invited to that game—workmates, neighbors, his dad might even have had friends, Falk didn’t really know—and any one of them would no doubt have jumped at the chance. But footy, especially this kind of footy, transcended family drama—that went without saying—so Erik Falk had of course invited his son.

They’d met at Flinders Street Station wearing their identical team scarves. The careful, loaded courtesy that usually hovered between them evaporated over four quarters, somewhere between the celebrations and commiserations. Afterward, they’d crammed into a pub for a few beers together and picked over the game, agreeing with mirrored passion that it should have gone their way. At the train station, they’d hugged goodbye in a movement both spontaneous and instinctive. Falk had inhaled. His dad’s footy scarf had smelled exactly the way he’d remembered from when he was a kid. And all those years later—far too late by then—Falk thought it had been one of the best days they’d ever had.