Only Killers and Thieves(92)

He paused, considered Tommy a moment, a faint smile.

“From the look of you, I’d say this story is ringing a few bells, so I really shouldn’t have to spell it out. But consider the warning I gave to the reverend—and your own mother for that matter—just as applicable to you. Be very careful what you decide to do next, Tommy. Not just in here, I mean in your life. For both yours and your brother’s sakes.”

“So you ain’t against any of what was done?”

“I’m against what was done to your family, that’s what I’m against. Remember, the law was with you. Who are we to question the law?”

“It wasn’t even the same blacks.”

“That’s a matter for the inspector’s report.”

“The report’ll be nothing but lies.”

MacIntyre drained his whiskey, stretched to place the glass on the desk. He righted himself, grunting, and said, “Son, I’m going to have to insist. I can’t have you speaking like this about an officer of the Crown. There’s allowances can be made on account of your situation, but if you’re not willing to take my advice, then I can’t help you. Think on it. You’ve seen it now, what’s out there: men like Noone, the Native Police, they’re all that’s keeping us safe. These natives . . . they’ve the Devil in them, Tommy, they’re naught but killers and thieves. If you still don’t believe me, ask John. Wasn’t two months ago he caught a nigger dragging two dead white boys at the end of a rope, right across his own bloody land! They’d been cut up and burned and all manner of things. Probably aiming to eat them once he got back to camp. That’s what we’re dealing with. There ain’t no other way.”

Tommy sat very still. The room leaned slightly. Air emptied from his lungs.

“Two dead white boys?” he croaked. “Dragged on the end of a rope?”

“That’s what he told me. Weren’t but a pair of young boundary riders from down Dubbo way. You understand what I’m telling you now?”

“What . . . what happened to him? The native Sullivan caught?”

“Bastard had a bloody revolver, Tommy. What d’you reckon John did?”

Tommy was nodding repeatedly. More of a tremor than a nod, and his face contorting somewhere between laughter and a most terrible grief.

“Dubbo,” he repeated. “From down Dubbo way.”

“Aye . . . look, are you alright there, son? You’ve gone a wee bit pale. Get you another water, something stronger maybe? When was the last time you ate?”

Tommy went to stand but couldn’t. His arm buckled beneath him and he fell back into the chair. The glass slipped and shattered on the flagstoned floor. On the second attempt he managed to stand and he lunged across the room. MacIntyre was calling to him but Tommy fell against the door. He took hold of the handle, then paused, and when he spoke it took him everything to keep his voice steady and low:

“That day Ma came to see you, when she asked for your help—did you tell him about her? Sullivan? Did you tell him she was here?”

MacIntyre nodded. “I might have mentioned it when I saw him but—”

Tommy opened the door. It clattered against the wall. The noise echoed through the courthouse and jerked the guard to attention and pulled the clerk from his seat. Tommy barreled out into the main hall. MacIntyre was shouting but Tommy didn’t hear him, his attention fixed instead on the bright shaft of sunlight falling through the front door and the whistling from the prisoner that squirmed into his head, a strange and eerie ditty, trilling up and down. He broke into a scrambled run, fleeing for the doors, reeled blindly into the light. With his hand raised against the glare he staggered along the front path, past the stocks and the sound of whip cracks and the screams of dying men . . . and women screaming also, babies crying, gunshot after gunshot and bodies falling down, down, down.

“You ready for that drink now, are ya? Get yerself a bloody drink!”

Father on the verandah, three holes in his chest. Drag marks where he’d crawled bleeding up the steps. He’d gone out into the yard to confront them, but it couldn’t have been Joseph he’d confronted because Joseph was already dead. Sullivan had caught him and put him in the ground, long before the mustering, before the sales, before sending that note to Father, before hearing about Mother’s betrayal. It was Sullivan. Sullivan had come to the house that day. The bastard had come to collect.

“Him and your mother had no right carrying on the way they did. Bloody well turned on me in the end. Lack of basic gratitude, of well-earned respect.”

Locke would have been with him. Same as the first time, over by the cattle yards. Father with his carbine and at least one of them armed, carrying Joseph’s revolver, wouldn’t have known it was Father’s old gun. They didn’t even know Joseph. He was new, they’d never met him: just another native they’d caught on their station, the only one they’d found after bringing in Noone. Then things had become heated and Father was too slow, three shots in him before he could react, and Mother on the verandah wondering what was wrong; they chased her to the bedroom and picked her off too, no other reason than to silence her, no other base intent.

“Was she raped? Well, how was she lying? What did they see?”

Mary in the bedroom now, hiding beneath the bed. Might have seen Locke and Sullivan, heard their voices. A five-shot, not a six-shot: only one ball left.