Only Killers and Thieves(32)

The housemaid brought a bowl of washing water, two towels, and a bar of soap, then returned with a platter of food and a pot of English tea. She was young and white, their age or thereabouts, could have been Mary in a few years, Tommy thought. “Thank you,” he said, but the girl hurried out of the room.

They washed their hands in the bowl, dried them on the towels, a trace of blood staining the water when they were done. Mary’s blood. Blood that should have been inside her, not swirling in some bowl. Tommy couldn’t look at it. He turned away and went to the other table, inspected the platter the maid had brought. Meat, bread, cheeses, a few grapes. He picked up a grape and sniffed it.

“Don’t touch that,” Billy warned.

“Why not?”

“It ain’t right to be eating.”

“But I’m hungry.”

“I don’t care. I’m telling you, it ain’t right.”

They stared at each other. On the far wall, an upright pendulum clock chimed the quarter hour. Tommy wilted and broke the stare.

“What’ll we do, Billy? What now?”

“I don’t know.” He shook his head very slowly. “I don’t know.”

Running footsteps sounded on the outside stairs, then thudded mutely along the hall. A man burst into the drawing room. Bedraggled and panting, he carried a black medical bag in his hand, yet more resembled a bushranger than any doctor Tommy knew.

“Where’s she at?” the man asked. “I was told a girl’s been shot?”

“Our sister,” Billy said. “She’s upstairs.”

“Right you are.”

He went to leave but Billy called him back: “You’re the doctor?”

“In a way.”

“What’s that mean?”

“I’m actually a veterinarian, but—”

“A what?”

“Oh, don’t worry, I know what I’m doing, we’re all roughly the same underneath, you know . . .” He hurried away, his footsteps crossing the atrium, then padding up the stairs.

Billy glared after him, at the open door. His cheeks were flushed and his jaw offset and his head bobbed minutely up and down. “A vet?” he mumbled. He looked at Tommy. “A bloody vet?”

“A medic, you said.”

“That’s what I was told.”

Billy went over to the fire, lost himself in the flames. Tommy laid some cheese on a slice of bread, took a bite, and retched. The taste of the cheese curdled in his mouth, the bread became a thick and claggy wad. He fished it out again and placed the puttylike ball on the edge of the tray, then looked up to find Billy coming at him across the room, shoving him backward, shouting, “The hell’s wrong with you? Where you at? Where’s my brother gone, eh? You did nothing in the house, didn’t cry, didn’t scream, like it was any other fucking day, now you’re standing here eating while Mary’s getting fixed up by some vet and the others are still down there—”

“Boys, boys, boys. This isn’t doing anyone any good.”

Sullivan strode into the room. He stood directly between them, laid a hand on each of their shoulders, and squeezed. He was Tommy’s height, shorter than Billy, his eyes dark and faintly bloodshot, and up close the skin on his cheeks and nose was as pitted as rind.

“Now listen to me,” he said, still squeezing. “There’s no use fighting each other, understand? It’s not your fault what’s happened. It’s not your fault.”

Billy relented.

“Good,” Sullivan said, reaching between them for a slice of beef, which he folded into his mouth and chewed. “You eaten anything yet?”

“We’re not hungry,” Billy said.

“You should eat. Can’t do nothing without a feed. What about a drink? You want something stronger than tea?”

“Thank you, no.”

“Suit yourself,” Sullivan said, shrugging. He snatched a slice of bread from the platter and steered the boys around to the sofa, motioned for them to sit. Tommy sank awkwardly into the cushions, then shuffled forward to perch on the edge, as Sullivan positioned one of the wooden chairs in front of them, so close that when he sat down their knees almost touched.

He smiled and ate his bread. Watching them back and forth.

“What about Mary?” Billy asked him. “What’s that vet say?”

Sullivan answered between mouthfuls: “No news. Too soon.”

“He even know what he’s doing up there?”

Sullivan flapped a hand dismissively, went on eating, watching them all the while. The boys waited. Finally he popped the last of the bread into his mouth, brushed the crumbs from his hands, and leaned forward on the chair.

“Let’s get this done with, shall we? Which of you wants to tell me what went on down there?”

His gaze slid past them as Locke came into the room. Both Tommy and Billy turned. The overseer skulked toward the sofa and leaned against the wall, working a lump of tobacco around his mouth. He nodded awkwardly at the two of them and scuffed his bare scalp with a white-bandaged hand.

“They were just starting,” Sullivan said. “On you go, boys.”

Tommy pressed his hands flat between his thighs and listened as Billy spoke. Telling them about the mustering and the time they’d all had of it these past few weeks, how glad Father had been for the rain. Then Wallabys, the chance to get away, the long ride home and the silence in the yard, not even a sound from the dogs.