Only Killers and Thieves(85)

He waited, idly stroking his bandaged hand, feeling the stubs of his fingers beneath. Tender to the touch, the skin as tight and stiff as unworked hide. It wasn’t but half a hand. Still took him by surprise when the fingers weren’t there. So many everyday tasks that would need to be relearned. Or done differently, anyway. He doubted he’d given a single thought to those fingers until they were gone. And isn’t that the way of things. You only miss the missing, don’t value what you have.

From here he had a view of the workers’ camp, thin smoke trails rising from the scullery and the embers of last night’s fires, all the way across to the cattle yards and sheds. Men wandered between the buildings and some rode out on horseback and their calls carried faintly up the hill. Too small for Tommy to make them out but there might have been one or two that he knew: Locke; the watchman, Jessop; and Weeks, not forgetting Weeks, who couldn’t keep Mary alive long enough for Tommy to say good-bye.

He wished there’d been more between them. Wished he’d made more effort, given her more of a chance. When she was little she’d looked up to Tommy in the same way he did Billy; Tommy had been too distracted to care. She was always trying to prove herself, to join in, but Billy had never been able to see past the fact she was a girl, and Tommy was too young or too weak to decide for himself. He supposed he’d assumed she would always be there, that they’d have time. Now all he could do was miss her. There was plenty of time for that.

Tommy leaned against the balustrade and rested his head on the warm wood. The sun was high but clouds were gathering and threatening rain again. It went like this some years: a cycle of broken storms, then a downpour that lasted for weeks. He’d heard of families, up north mainly, who got it so bad they’d be cut off by floodwater for whole months at a time, needed a raft just to get across their yard. What cattle they’d not sold or put in the sheds, they’d find drowned the next time they rode out, floating in the creek or even stuck up a tree when the water went down. And yet they stayed there, year on year, everyone did out here. Clinging to whatever scraps of a life they were born into, no matter the cost. That’s all Billy was doing, sticking with what he knew and to hell with everything else. Dumb as bloody cattle: a cow finds herself in a dried-up paddock and doesn’t think to leave, next thing she’s been hollowed by the dingos and finished by the birds.

Had Billy thought what it would be like, going back to Glendale and its ghosts? Nothing was living there now, no cattle, no horses, even the dogs were dead. Had he imagined them, sleeping in their bedroom, eating a meal at the table, looking out of the window and seeing two white crosses thinly coated in dust?

Footsteps sounded behind him, light footsteps, toe rather than heel. Tommy turned to find Mrs. Sullivan coming down the stairs, her skirts raised in her hand. She was dressed all in white. Her dark curls gleamed. She smiled at Tommy. He hunched forward again, his forearms on his knees, picking at his nails. She flicked out her skirts and sat down beside him with a sigh.

“These steps weren’t made for women’s shoes. They’re too steep by half.”

Tommy nodded vaguely, lifted his eyes to the view.

“How’s your hand?”

“Fine.”

“How’s it really?”

“Sore.”

She took his wrist, examined the hand, turned it back and forth. “So long as there’s no rot, you’ll survive. A couple of fingers can be compensated for—you’ll have the measure of it soon enough.”

“Billy says I won’t can work.”

“And what do you think?”

He sniffed and stared out. “I reckon I’ll be right once I’m used to it.”

“I think so too. And John’ll see you’re looked after.”

“Yeah. I’m sure he will.”

There was bitterness in his voice but she ignored it. “Well, I’m certainly glad we’ll be neighbors. You’re welcome to visit anytime. It would make a pleasant change to be on good terms.”

Tommy’s jaw clenched.

“I didn’t mean anything, of course,” she said hurriedly. “Other than I’d like it if we could be friends. You know, when I first came out here I was going to be at the heart of a whole community, until I found there wasn’t one, and not even enough people for one to be formed. I had so many plans: you see down there, at the bottom of the steps, I thought I’d put a rose garden on either side, little hedgerows in boxes, with vines twisting up through these rails. Along the track I planted conifers, evergreens.” She laughed and touched her lips. “Everything died. All of it. Not one thing survived. It’s like the soil is poisoned. Only that awful scrub grass grows.”

“Rain’s coming,” Tommy said flatly. “That might help.”

“Oh, I’m past even trying now. Roses. Sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? John thought I was mad.” He felt her watching him but kept his eyes on the view. “Have you been sleeping?”

“Not really.”

“You should try. You look very tired.”

In the silence, Tommy picked at the bandage on his hand. He said, “Do you know what went on out there? What we did?”

“I was against you going from the start. It’s a terrible thing for a child.”

“I’m not a child.”