Only Killers and Thieves(31)

*

They came upon the workers’ camp before they reached the homestead. A village of rough-built barns and slab huts lit by the glow of scattered campfires. Smoke hung over the rooftops. Voices rose in laughter or quarrel, then quickly fell away. A smell of burned wood and meat char and the heavy stink of men. Dogs began barking as the three horses neared, and some of the stockmen drifted out between the buildings and stood at the trackside watching the party pass. Arms folded, picking at their teeth, swigging on their grog, cradling their pipes or pinching hand-rolled durries to their lips, as the watchman like some crier announced:

“Got the McBride boys here, fellas! Bloody blacks have done ’em in!”

There wasn’t any sympathy. A muted grumbling, some shifted or shook their heads—if anything, Tommy felt a kind of contempt. He caught a few of the men eyeing Mary and hitched down her dress, turning her into him until they were clear of the camp and onto a long broad track leading straight uphill to the homestead, perched high on the hillside, ablaze with candlelight. A grand two-story mansion, painted brilliant white and cobwebbed in ornate metalwork. Lanterns burned along the verandah and down the wide staircase, yet the hollow beneath the stilts was so dark and indistinct from the shadowy hillside that the house appeared to float there, unanchored, ten feet above the ground.

Billy dismounted short of the stairs, ran to Tommy’s side.

“Hold up!” the watchman shouted. “I ain’t said to get down!”

He was brandishing his shotgun but they ignored him. Tommy lowered Mary into Billy’s arms, then dismounted himself, and together they carried her to the stairs, her arms draped behind their necks, her head hanging forward and her feet scraping through the dirt, then thudding against each step as they began to climb.

“I said wait, you bastards, before I—”

“Alright, Jessop, that’ll do. You can put that thing away.”

Tommy and Billy halted. Sullivan stood framed in light at the top of the stairs. He paused a moment, then came down very slowly, step by step, rolling back his shirtsleeves, fold by careful fold. The shirt was white and freshly pressed, and he wore slack green trousers tucked into high leather boots whose polish glinted in the lantern light. Braces dangled loose at his sides. Cheeks smooth and slightly flushed, damp hair neatly combed. Total calm in his face, like they’d just popped by for tea.

“Get their weapons, did you?”

“Yessir,” the watchman said.

“So, then, boys,” Sullivan called, “what kind of trouble have you come to make for me now?”

“She’s hurt, blacks got her,” Billy blurted. “They killed our daddy and ma.”

Sullivan paused. Midfold, midstep. He tilted his head to one side, narrowed his eyes. “Blacks, you say?”

Billy nodded furiously. “We was gone swimming when they came.”

“And the girl?”

“Shot,” Tommy said. “She’s not woken up.”

“Has she spoke?”

“No.”

“But she’s alive? You’re sure?”

“I don’t know,” Tommy said. “Maybe only just.”

Sullivan considered all three of them for what seemed a very long time, then he snapped into life and called over their heads: “Fetch Weeks! Now, man! Go!”

The watchman turned his horse and galloped away along the track. Sullivan hobbled quickly down the stairs. He hoisted Mary into his arms and carried her up to the house, her hands and feet swinging, the little bunches in her hair, Sullivan talking over his shoulder as he climbed:

“Don’t worry now, boys, you’ve done all you can. You were right to bring her here. Weeks’ll take care of her, see she’s alright. Let’s get the two of you warm, cleaned up, some food in you, must have been a hell of a ride . . .”

The air inside the house was close and scented with flowers, and the boys followed Sullivan along a wide hallway with a maroon carpet runner and green gold-leaf wallpaper as thick as a pelt to the touch, the walls themselves decorated with gold sconces and gold-framed paintings of sun-blushed English hills. The sconces flickered as they hurried past, marching toward a vast white atrium with a broad, sweeping staircase rising high above, until Sullivan stopped abruptly, just short of the atrium, beside a white wood-paneled door.

“Wait in there, the pair of you. I’ll have some food brought.”

“Where you taking her?” Tommy asked.

“Upstairs, lie her down. Somewhere quiet so Weeks can work.”

“No, we’re staying with her.”

Sullivan’s jaw clenched. “Look, you asked for my help and I’m giving it. Nearest other doctor is Bewley. What d’you want to do?”

“He didn’t mean nothing,” Billy said, and Tommy looked down at the floor. Sullivan nodded. He hefted Mary’s weight and carried her across the atrium to the stairs. A housemaid came running to speak with him. Sullivan glanced back at the boys, dismissed her, then mounted the stairs and disappeared from view.

“You trust him?” Tommy asked.

“Why not?”

“Daddy didn’t.”

“Daddy’s dead.”

Billy’s words shocked both of them. He turned away ashamedly; it took Tommy a long while before he followed his brother into the room, a drawing room, roughly equal in size to their entire house. Separately they explored it like a museum. Rich wooden furniture, finished in a waxy sheen and adorned with trinkets of silver and gold. A sofa, the cushions thick and plump; ornate wooden chairs upholstered to match the papered walls. A fire burned in the cavernous hearth, its flames reflected in real window glass, and beside the fireplace was a tree unlike any Tommy had ever seen. It had a million little needles and was decorated with baubles, candles, and gifts. An angel sat askew on the topmost branch, twisted like she was ready to fall.