Only Killers and Thieves(37)

Sullivan took a long drink of wine. It stained his lips dark red. He looked intently at Billy, who had not eaten in a long time, nodding and listening to him speak. Tommy kept his eyes on his plate. Strips of tenderloin beef with baby potatoes and green beans, served on a flowery china plate. Tommy couldn’t eat it. The meat was soft and spongy and had little taste, and its blood had seeped into everything else. He sliced a pink potato. The knife scraped the china as he cut. He put the potato into his mouth and winced as he bit down.

“There now, darling,” Mrs. Sullivan said. “The boys are probably tired.”

Sullivan looked at her along the table, took another sip of wine, raised a hand, and said, “Aye, I know. I just get carried away. Those Macquarie Street bastards aren’t fit to shine my shoes.”

“No, it’s interesting,” Billy said. “I never heard it put like this before.”

“See?” Sullivan said, gesturing to his wife. She flicked her eyes to Tommy, smiled faintly, sliced her beef. Straight-backed and formal, the cutlery inverted in her hands, a delicate kind of grip that Tommy had tried to mimic but could not.

“It’s all about control, Billy. First time they landed here they stuck a flag in a beach and claimed the whole lot, but what does a fella on the coast know about us out here? Crown Land, they call it. Crown Land. This isn’t Crown Land any more than I’m the bloody queen—can you imagine good old Vic clearing a paddock or roping a bull?”

Billy laughed at that. He took a sip of wine.

“See, they let the pioneers have it first-off. Anyone who made it this far out and survived could take whatever land they bloody liked. Blokes like my grandfather—it was the only way. But now the hard work’s been done, they try and tell you none of this is ours, or we’re borrowing it, or we’re only allowed so much . . . it’s Crown Land, Billy, whatever the hell that means.”

Tommy said, “Daddy thought everyone should be allowed his share.”

Sullivan’s gaze slid across the table. “But you see not everyone’s cut out for it. Running livestock’s harder than it looks.” He stabbed his fork into a piece of meat, put it in his mouth, and sat there chewing, waiting for Tommy’s reply.

“Drought can’t be helped, though. Or disease, or anything like that.”

Sullivan smiled at him. “Them that know how can still do alright.”

Tommy ate another potato. He felt Sullivan’s stare. Their cutlery tinkled the plates. The candles flickered and smoked. Mrs. Sullivan cleared her throat and said to the table, “The fillet’s nice, don’t you think? And the wine matches very well.”

No one responded. Tommy was aware of Sullivan mouthing something to Billy, then Billy leaned forward, into the light of the chandelier, and said, “John’s going to help us. Leaving tomorrow, he thinks.”

Tommy looked up sharply. “Leaving? Where?”

“To find Joseph. He’s sent word to Noone.”

Sullivan smiled as he drank. Mrs. Sullivan lowered her head.

“We never decided,” Tommy whispered to Billy. “Sleep on it, he said.”

“We did sleep on it.”

“You and me never spoke.”

“Billy and I discussed it,” Sullivan said. “Came up with a suitable plan. The telegram’s already gone to Inspector Noone, telling him what’s happened; he’ll get here when he can. Of course they might not be at their barracks, in which case it’ll be a couple of days, but all being well tomorrow, assuming the inspector comes.”

Tommy looked between the two of them. “But . . . what about Mary? She needs a proper doctor—that vet’s not doing her any good. She’s getting worse up there.”

“I’ll send for Dr. Shanklin. He can see to her while we’re gone.”

“And you could stay here with her,” Billy said. “You don’t even have to come.”

“It’s not about me coming or not.”

“So what’s it about, then?”

“I don’t know. You and me should have decided.”

“He killed them, Tommy. What’s there to decide?”

“I do think it’s for the best, son,” Sullivan said.

“What happens when we find him? What’ll we do then?”

Sullivan shrugged. “That’s police business. I leave it to Noone.”

Tommy glanced at Mrs. Sullivan. She was sitting with her eyes down and her hands folded in her lap, like she had simply drifted out of the conversation, or was lost in her own thoughts.

“This is horseshit,” Tommy said. He pointed at Billy. “This ain’t for you to choose.”

“Actually, it’s not just about the two of you either,” Sullivan told him. “What happened concerns the whole district, of which I am patron, which carries a weight of its own. These Kurrong bastards, they’ve been coming at us for years, won’t learn their bloody place. The other blacks round here have either left or joined the Missions or gone to the camps: they’ve accepted the situation, moved on. But the Kurrong are stubborn, don’t know when they’re beat. I’ve got plenty of the buggers already and still they keep coming back, going after my cattle, my water, even caught them doing dances on my own bloody land. And now this, killing whites in their own home—it’s an act of war, boys, we can’t let it stand. If we don’t retaliate, if we don’t impose the law, well, we might as well pack up and run back to the coast tomorrow at first light.”