Only Killers and Thieves(36)
“We buried them today,” he told her. “In that clearing behind the house. Even put in little markers, Sullivan gave them, two white crosses, which would keep Ma happy, though I know what Daddy would have said. It looked nice anyhow. Two proper graves. Me and Billy dug them—Daddy would have liked that—but it was hard getting them in. We dropped him. The sheet came loose. It doesn’t really matter but you want these things done right. Ma went in fine, anyway. She got her prayers and all that; a good death, she’d have said. You remember that? Her good deaths and bad deaths, like there were two different kinds? That woman from Bewley who fell off her horse and when they found her she’d been half et, Ma went on about it for weeks. Like it was the woman’s own fault the state she’d be in when she went up to meet God.”
His laughter was as fragile as glass, and broke as quickly as it came. He slumped backward, onto his heels, covered his face with his hands, and sobbed into the darkness and the warmth of his own breath: shoulders heaving, rocking back and forth; a desperate, helpless wail.
Then just as abruptly, it was over. Men did not cry, not even in grief. Tommy caught himself and straightened and scrubbed his face dry. Sniffing and blinking and wiping his eyes, Mary blurred before him—could she hear all this, he wondered, how much did she know? He imagined her waking and teasing him for it, telling him he was more of a girl than she was, and he couldn’t help but laugh again. He took a long breath; it washed out of him in trembling waves. He shuffled back to the bedside, sat tall on his knees, studied Mary’s face but nothing had changed.
“I’ll pretend you never heard that. Don’t tell Billy if you did. He’s not blubbed once, not that I’ve seen anyway. Seems angry more than anything, just wants to get out after Joseph, but even if we find him, arrest him, kill him, what good is that going to do? Won’t bring them back, won’t heal you up, though the way Billy acts you’d think it will. Really it’s so he can impress Sullivan—he follows him round like a bloody lost dog. I suppose he’s been good about all this, taking us in, but there’s something about him I don’t trust. Maybe it’s just because Daddy didn’t, yet here you’d think we were family the way he carries on. Daddy said a bloke like Sullivan won’t do anything unless it’s for his own gain. So how does he benefit? What does he want in return?”
Air gurgled in Mary’s throat. Tommy wet the flannel and squeezed water on her lips; her breathing slowed and calmed. He dabbed her forehead, her cheeks, rinsed out the flannel, and folded it over the rim of the bowl to dry.
“Maybe I’m being ungrateful. I don’t know where we’d be without his help. And maybe the best thing is to go after him, Joseph, not that I’ve got any say. Billy won’t listen to me. Reckons himself the big man. If they go I suppose I could stay here instead, but then I’d be known as a coward my whole life. I don’t know. Sullivan might not be in favor anyway; needed to sleep on it, he said. Billy thinks he’ll help us, maybe give us work after, but I can’t get a read on him, Mary. The whole thing makes no sense: he’s got a vet for a doctor, and here’s his wife watching over you, rubbing them wooden beads, she can’t be much older than Billy just about, which is half Sullivan’s own age. Dressing up like a lady when she’s not but a girl . . . and I know what Ma would have thought about that, beads or no bloody beads.”
He snorted a short laugh, levered himself up to his feet, and stood over the bed, watching her. Little twitches in her face. The rise and fall of her chest. They said Weeks had given her more laudanum, but he didn’t know what good those drops were doing. She didn’t look any better. In fact, she looked worse than yesterday: a grayness had crept into her skin. Tommy bit his lip and touched her on the arm, then turned and left the room, closing the door softly, like he was afraid his sister might wake.
13
“But see the market’s not just Australia, it’s the whole bloody world. We’ve the East Indies on our doorstep, a million chinks wanting leather and beef, and more grazing land than we can fill—if only it’d bloody rain. Not even America’s got our potential, and there’s none of their politics here either, thank God. This country could be the greatest on earth, boys, if them bastards on the coast weren’t so keen on buggering it up. The colonies can’t be run from London, or Sydney, or Brisbane even, and certainly not by a bunch of fucking wig wearers—pardon my French, dear—who don’t have a clue how things work out here.”
Mrs. Sullivan acknowledged her husband’s apology with a slight tilt of her head, then went back to her meal. They were sitting at either end of a long maple-wood table, lit by claw-footed candelabras and an enormous chandelier. Tommy and Billy were in the middle, opposite each other, directly beneath the chandelier, dressed like church boys in their borrowed suits, their hair neatly combed and parted to one side.
“Problem is,” Sullivan continued, pointing down the table with a polished silver fork, “those city blokes won’t come out here, get their hands dirty, see what it’s all about. Bastards stick to the coast like fleas on a dog, passing their selection laws, giving it all away, as if any bugger could start a run. But what happens when those runs fail? I’ll tell you—you’ve a bankrupt country broke beyond repair, and all because they’re scared of a few old boys like me.”