The man with the ice-cream face

I WALKED INTO EMERGENCY. Nobody home. A woman somewhere behind a curtain sounded pissed off with the service: ‘But Doc, I got a lump on me arse the size of a tennis ball!’

‘I have told you—it is a cyst.’ A sharp, slightly accented voice. ‘It will go away of its own accord.’

The Bluebush Hospital bragged about its open-door policy, so I thought I’d give it a work-out. I pushed in through the swinging doors.

A doctor—harried, hard-nosed, wearing her coat like a kevlar vest—sprang out of a cubicle and snapped at me, ‘Who are you? What do you want?’

‘Tom McGillivray.’

‘No you’re not.’

‘He’s what I want. Emily Tempest’s who I am. He’s my boss.’ Somewhat belatedly, she noticed the uniform. Fair enough; it wasn’t much of a uniform. I wouldn’t have noticed it myself if I hadn’t been wearing it. She nodded at a cubicle. ‘He’s in there.’

I drew back the curtain.

McGillivray was stretched out on a hospital trolley, and a more miserable sight I’d never laid eyes on. He was draped in a blood-stained hospital gown, knobbly knees spread left and right. A glimpse of something more horribly knobbly in between. His eyes were shut, his mouth would have looked better if it was too. There seemed to be fewer teeth than I remembered. His head was partially eclipsed by a massive bandage through which his fat nose protruded: the general effect was of a man who’d had an ice-cream cone rammed into his face.

On his chest, folded open, face down, was a book. I walked over, looked at the title. Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee.

‘Where you want us to bury the rest of you?’

The bruised eyes crept open. Slowly, painfully, he tilted his head in my direction, groaned. ‘Town tip’d do nicely.’

‘Hate to tell you this Tom, but your donger’s on display.’

He glanced down, delicately rearranged the covers.

I examined his face. ‘What’s the damage?’

‘Nose in two places. Cheekbone in three.’

‘Pride?’

‘Multiple.’

‘So who was it? The Sandhill Gang?’

A painful silence.

‘Come on, Tom. I’m here to avenge you. The Westside Boys? Dick Pennyfeather?’

‘It was dark.’

‘Tom…’

He sighed, dropped his head back down onto the pillow. Mumbled, ‘Aaangsaf…’

‘Sorry?’

A deep breath. ‘Googangzaf…’

‘Not the Crankshafts?’

The ghost of a nod.

‘You poor bastard.’ The Crankshafts were the most ferocious family in the district, and had been carrying on a running battle with the cops since the day of the horse and saddle. ‘Which one? Spider?’

No response.

‘Bernie?’

Nothing.

‘Godsake Tom—not all of them?’ En masse, they were a sight to make the blood run cold and the feet run hot.

He mumbled into the bandages. ‘Goo-gee’.

‘Sorry, almost sounded like you said “Cookie”.’

‘I did.’

I tried and failed to keep a straight face.

Cookie Crankshaft, the grandfather of the clan, was one of my favourite countrymen, if for no other reason than that he was about the only one I could stand up and look straight in the eye. Neither Cookie nor I, in the unimaginable event of our wanting to, would have come up to Tom’s nipples.

And then there was the minor matter of a walking frame.

‘Come across him staggering round the bottom of Stealer’s Wheel, marinated as per usual. The crowd’s coming out of the Speedway any tick, so I try to get him off the road.’ He touched his face, gingerly, flinched. ‘Pitch black, didn’t see a thing, but I think he smacked me with the frame. Either that or he had a star picket in his pants. When I woke up my head felt like it had gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson’s teeth.’

‘Serves you right for hassling defenceless old drunks.’

He rolled his eyes, an action that appeared to give him grief. ‘About this job. When you agreed to take it on…’

‘You mean when I gave in to your blackmail?’

‘I figured I’d be around to keep an eye on you.’

‘Well I’ll be in Sergeant Cockburn’s capable hands now.’

‘Ugh…Cockburn…’ He flopped back into the pillows.

‘Come on Tom, spit it out.’

‘Hear he’s a top squash player.’

‘Ah.’ That was a worry.

‘Only been over here a couple of months. Transfer from Queensland. You and him…’

‘Yes?’

‘He seems like a competent operator—plays it by the book. It’s just…’

I helped him out. ‘Nobody’s told him the book hasn’t been written yet?’

He gave a weary half-smile. ‘Take a fuckin Shakespeare on speed to write the book for Bluebush.’ He tried to get comfortable. Failed. ‘Look, I dunno who shoved a burr up his arse, but—don’t you rub it the wrong way.’

‘I see.’ The horrible image of me rubbing anything at all in the vicinity of Cockburn’s arse defied elaboration.

I jumped to my feet. No point in hanging round. ‘Don’t you worry about me, Tom. Me and him, maybe we’ll write the book between us.’

That wasn’t the answer he wanted to hear. Either that or the painkillers were wearing off.