Only Killers and Thieves(80)

They were all there. Sullivan, Billy, Locke, Noone. Standing by the fireplace with drinks in their hands, the Christmas tree sparkling alongside. All were washed and shaved and dressed for the meal: Sullivan in a black dinner suit, Noone a starched dress uniform, Billy in a suit also, his hair slick and back-combed, and Locke in clean trousers and white shirt, his arm cradled in a fresh white sling.

Tommy edged into the room. Benjamin was offering the platter, but Sullivan waved him away, and he placed it on the sideboard and left. Tommy watched for some acknowledgment as they crossed, but Benjamin kept his gaze resolutely down.

“Get yourself a brandy,” Sullivan called. “That decanter there. After two weeks of that other shite it’ll do you good to have a proper drink.”

Two weeks. It had only been two weeks.

Sullivan chuckled to himself and all watched Tommy move toward the drinks table and do as he was told. He picked up the glass and joined them, standing between Billy and Noone.

“Look,” Sullivan said, “I might as well say, no one blames you for going off a bit out there. It’s done with, forgotten, you came through in the end. The bush can do strange things to any bloke. We all go a bit off sometimes.”

“Speak for yourself, John,” Noone said. “It was rather pleasant, I felt.”

More laughter. Sullivan continued, “What matters is we won. The bloody Kurrong—we’ve never been able to shake ’em, been after ’em for years. We’re all better off because of it. The cattle, the land . . . you two included, I mean. We’ll get to all that later, but Glendale’s yours if you want it, get the place going again. It’s exciting times, boys. The future’s in our hands now!”

He raised his glass and the others did the same, and the crystal clinked softly as it touched. They held the pose, waiting; Tommy lifted his glass and gave a mumbled cheer. Billy was grinning wildly, his cheeks flushed and his eyes already glazed, and Noone arched his eyebrows and inclined his head at Tommy, like this was all just a grand old game to him, and he was much amused.

*

Christmas and New Year had passed while they were gone, and Mrs. Sullivan had saved the feast. Pheasant, turkey, ham from a boar, carved and the joints broken loose, three steaming platters along the length of the dining table. Sullivan was seated at one head and Noone was at the other, with Mrs. Sullivan on her husband’s left, Locke to his right, and Tommy and Billy facing each other either side of Noone.

There was little conversation at first. The men gorged on the meat, rich and moist and thick, and though Tommy had doubted his appetite, the meal had him gorging too. He struggled with the cutlery. Couldn’t grip with his left hand; the fork slipped when he used it, the silver tines screeching on the china plate, and Billy scowled across at him as if only just noticing his brother was two fingers short.

“Tommy, just use your hands,” Mrs. Sullivan told him. “Put the cutlery down.”

“I’m alright, thank you.”

He glanced shyly at her along the table. Her eyes were soft but insistent. Tommy laid down his knife and transferred the fork to his right hand, stuck a lump of boar, and took a bite from the edge. Mrs. Sullivan smiled and went back to her meal, then as an afterthought added, “You too, Raymond, of course. If that shoulder’s bothering you still.”

Locke dropped his cutlery with a clatter and pounced on a pheasant leg. He tore into the meat, mumbling, “Much obliged, ta.”

Mrs. Sullivan nodded primly and smoothed the napkin on her lap. “You know, I probably shouldn’t ask, but what on earth happened out there? How did the two of you get so badly hurt?”

“Native speared him,” Sullivan said, nodding at Locke, who lifted his eyes in acknowledgment, then went back to his bone. Sullivan shook his head, added, “Useless bastard had a free shot and only hit a dog.”

“Got him in the end, though,” Locke said, chewing. “Got him in the end.”

She turned her head slowly. “And you, Tommy? Your hand?”

Noone lifted a finger to silence him. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Sullivan, but it’s really quite a gruesome tale. Such is the nature of the task, unfortunately, and we are talking about savages, after all. Not the kind of conversation suitable for a lady, and certainly not at her own dinner table. But I must congratulate you on this supper, and at such short notice too. It really is a marvelous meal.”

She held his eyes, a fixed but pleasant smile. “Thank you, Mr. Noone. The kitchen are responsible, but I’ll accept on their behalf.”

She sliced through a baby potato and popped a piece in her mouth. There was a silence. The silver tinkled the plates. Sullivan poured himself more wine and sent the bottle down the table, and when it came to him, Tommy filled his glass. He offered the bottle to Noone, who frowned and nodded for him to pour. Tommy did so. Billy slid his glass across the table but Tommy set the bottle on a mat. Billy glowered at him and poured his own wine.

“So are you married yourself, Mr. Noone? Any family of your own?”

All save Mrs. Sullivan paused. She went on eating in her delicate, precise way. Noone laid down his cutlery, dabbed his lips, took a sip of wine, then lowered the glass and affected a quick smile.

“It’s kind of you to ask after them, Mrs. Sullivan. Thank you.”

“How old are your children?”

Sullivan patted her wrist. “There now, Katherine. Leave the man in peace.”