Only Killers and Thieves(79)

“I didn’t know what else to do, John. She was rotting in the heat.”

They were whispering between themselves but standing close enough for Tommy to hear, his boot caps nudging the graveside, Billy beside him but apart. The grave was a strip of loose earth still, a cross at the head and a sprig of wattle leaf on top of the mound, the bright yellow flowers browning in the sun.

“Should be at their place, any of the blokes could have taken her down.”

“It didn’t seem proper without her brothers. I did what I thought best—where’s the harm?”

“You can see it from the bloody house!”

“She died here so she’s buried here; I don’t think it’s so bad.”

“She doesn’t belong here, Katherine. She’ll need digging up and that’s the end of it.”

Tommy spun and glared at him red-eyed. “Don’t you fucking touch her.”

“Ah, shut your trap, boy. I’ll do what I bloody well want.”

Now he pushed himself awkwardly to his feet, hand and elbow on the rim of the bath. Water surged off him, and he stood there naked and dripping, searching for a view of the burial site through the window but there was none. Wrong side of the house, maybe. Billy had been for moving her down to Glendale—anything Sullivan wanted, anything at all. Claimed he’d rather she was buried with her own. Tommy wouldn’t allow it. Told them it would be a bad burial second time around, and did they want that on their consciences along with everything else? That had quietened them. The threat of being cursed. Mrs. Sullivan suggested they think on it more, no need for a decision yet, and tenderly she’d steered the boys from the graveside, her skirts whispering through the long grass as she led them down the hill.

“I’ve asked for hot bathwater,” she said. “Wash all this trouble away. How about we let Billy have the first one, then we’ll boil another fresh for you, Tommy. While you’re waiting, Mr. Weeks can take a good look at that hand.”

He stepped out of the bath onto the rug and rubbed himself dry with a towel. At home they used fabric offcuts or air-dried in the sun, but the towel was soft and thick as down. He pissed into the chamber pot and the piss stung coming out, a yellow so deep it was verging on brown, same color as the wattle on Mary’s grave just about. He finished and stood looking around the room. There was a robe hanging on the door, intended for him, he supposed. He blew out the candles, watched the smoke curl, then went back to the bathtub and leaned over the rim. It had a plug in the bottom, the first of that kind he’d ever seen, rigged to empty the water directly outside, no tipping the bathtub off the verandah here.

He reached into the murk, the water warm and thick, pushing his arm deeper, through whatever floated there, felt around for the stopper, and yanked it from the hole. The water rushed in the pipe. Sounds of downpour, of flood; Tommy watched the walls anxiously as if expecting a breach. As the bath drained it left a shitty sluice of residue on the sides of the tub; Tommy grimaced and knelt and tried to wipe it off but he couldn’t, not without fresh water to rinse. So he leaned on the rim and watched the level fall, until the hole belched the last of it and all that remained was a mess of dirt and blood and other unknowable things . . . and in the mess were people running, dark little shapes scurrying everywhere like ants, and falling, falling to the ground, as others moved among them, cutting them down, and right there in the bathtub, revolver in his hand, was a tiny ant-like Tommy, firing and firing and firing again.

He lurched upward and reeled across the room, smacking into the door and tangling himself in the robe. He snatched it off the hook and wrapped it around his body and flung open the door. Waiting in the hallway was Jenny, the housemaid, a pile of folded clothes in her hands.

“I brought you these. For while yours are being washed.”

Tommy took the clothes from her as he hurried past.

“Burn them,” he called, running for the stairs.





31



In his borrowed shirt and trousers he stood outside the drawing room, listening through the door. Sullivan was talking, the end of some tale, and when he paused in the telling, laughter rang out. Tommy swallowed. He looked along the hall. The front door was right there. Beyond it the steps, the track, and he could be gone. Collect Beau from the stables, ride off into the night. The horse wouldn’t thank him for it, but no one else would complain. Sullivan would be glad to be rid of him and Billy . . . well, the last time he and Billy had properly talked was the night Noone caught them arguing in the rain.

Footsteps crossed the atrium: the houseboy bringing a silver platter of food. He saw Tommy and slowed, motioning toward the drawing room door.

“Excuse please, mister.”

Tommy stood rigidly. He flushed and touched his face and hid his bandaged hand. “We’ve met,” he said. “Before—what was your name again?”

“Is Benjamin, mister.”

“I’m Tommy.”

The houseboy kept his eyes down. “Excuse please, Mister Tommy.”

Tommy didn’t move. Building himself up to ask. “Where are you . . . I mean, who are your people, Benjamin? Where are you from?”

He frowned, then a cautious smile broke on his face. “I from Big House, Mister Tommy. I been always living here.”

Tommy stepped aside. Benjamin opened the door. Sudden silence in the room, then Sullivan sighed and said, “Thought you were the bloody missus. Come on in, son, come on in. Get yourself a drink.”