26

Waiting in the darkness by the clump of mulga was the other one, Hirst or Shawcross, both of them interchangeable brutes. Then one of them called softly to the other. Hirst was the one with the gun in my back. Fear swarmed through me, furious bees, sending my pulse racing and nausea surging around my guts. I felt a hand reach around and take my revolver from its holster.

‘Kill me and you’ll be in trouble,’ I said with a conviction I didn’t have.

I got a thump across the ear. The three of us walked east under the brilliant stars, crunching across the dirt, snapping twigs, heading into nowhere. Bones shone in the starlight. Small animals scuttled away, sensing predators on the move. The gun poking in my back nudged me along. They were going to do me like they’d done Beavins. Bash my skull in then drop me into a shallow grave. I’d walked in the valley of the shadow before – I didn’t like it then and I didn’t like it now.

‘Got some whisky?’ I asked.

Hirst grunted.

‘Give a man his last drink and a fag. Only fair.’

Another grunt. We stumbled on. I had no idea where we were as the landscape between Larne and Cobar was pretty featureless. At some signal I failed to see, they both stopped. Shawcross pulled a bottle of whisky out of a pocket in his coat, took the cork out and handed it to me. The time had come.

I took a sip and we shared the bottle around like participants in some ancient ritual, preparing to cross the border from life to death. A sweat broke out beneath my clothes despite the cold night.

Shawcross took a length of rope and tied my hands behind me. At this point I was keen to see Lonergan galloping in all guns blazing, but he probably had no idea where I was.

‘Why?’ I asked to prolong the moment.

Hirst shrugged. ‘’Cause you ask too many questions.’

‘Did you kill Albert Jong?’

They both picked up their rifles. I clenched my tied fists. Heart pounding like a piston. The laughter and ruckus of the boxing carried through the still night, along with the howls of wild dogs and dingoes. Nothing around us but stony plains.

‘Why didn’t you bash Jong like Beavins and the Kirkbrides?’

‘He were a mad fucker.’

So they had killed him, killed all of them. A useful snippet of information to glean as I headed towards infinity, put it in the eternal in-tray for God to sort out.

‘On your knees.’

That I would not do.

‘On your knees, I said,’ Hirst snarled.

I held back the urge to vomit, to shit myself, to run, but said, with all the sangfroid I could muster, ‘Are you aware of how bad you smell?’

He smashed at me with the rifle butt, straight into my gut, and I doubled over, trying to breathe. Shawcross hit my head, and as I hit the dirt I kicked out at Hirst’s shins and brought him down with me. Cursing like a bullocky, he tried to get to his feet, but I kept kicking him. Shawcross fell about laughing, the stupid bastard.

I rolled about in the dirt and got to a standing position, panting and backing away as fast as I could. Hirst was cursing Shawcross for laughing and so Shawcross bashed him with his rifle butt in the face, again and again. I ran at Shawcross, giving him the full force of a rugby tackle, still with arms tied, and we both hit the ground. His rifle went flying. I had him pinned beneath me and brought my knee up into his balls as hard as I could. He screamed and flailed at me with his fists, but I managed to get myself upright. Ignoring his blows, I sat on his guts and stamped the heel of my boot into his face until he was as still as Hirst.

Panting and a bit wild, I looked around for the next bastard to come at me. But they were both out to it. I stayed by them, trying to work my hands free, rubbing the rope against a sharp rock. By the time I got the ropes off, Hirst was coming to. I had my fists now, so I straddled him and gave him a few punches until he was out.

It was tempting to beat the two of them to death. But that wasn’t the job. I’d caught them and coerced them, so now I was to hand them on to a judge who’d place a black cloth on his head and refer them to the hangman. Weeks or months to contemplate the flames of hell. It was unlikely they were believers, but one could hope.

There was no more rope, so I kept an eye on Hirst. I got their rifles, emptied the ammunition, emptied their pistols, stashed them in a pile and looked around. Nothing and nobody for miles.

I went through their pockets and found their fags and some matches, so I sat in the bright starlight smoking, waiting, trying to think through the whisky and knocks. My head pounded like a miner’s bell and I could have drunk the river dry. I closed my eyes.

I was falling from my horse, hitting the veldt, too winded to keep a tight hold of my rifle with its fixed bayonet. It happened so quickly, the transfer from my hands to the Boer. I had to get it back and yet I couldn’t see through the blood. I remembered I had a pistol on my hip and quickly used it, firing into his guts at close range, his blood spattering over me as he fell, dead, onto his precious veldt. It happened so quickly and so slowly, and when the medics came for me I kept going on about the rifle. I wanted them to find it and give it back to me, insisted on it, flailing around until they knocked me out with morphine.

Next thing I knew, I was being kicked awake.

A rifle butt was held aloft over me, the man silhouetted against the brilliant stars. A shuddering thump of alarm hit my chest. Here it comes. In that long moment, I thought of my father. I would never see him again and he would never know what became of me.

Before I could even raise my arms to protect myself, I heard shouts, rifle shots, horses pounding the ground as they galloped out of the darkness. Shawcross and Hirst ran, when their best defence would have been to stay calm, take a knee and shoot the oncoming horses.

Lonergan, howling like some otherworldly Irish banshee, was leading. He hurtled past me, followed by Parry thundering through clouds of dust, and then Felix, going for his life, trailing a lead rein. Lonergan and Parry rode their horses parallel at the two men, tripping them with a rope suspended between them.

I got to my feet and watched as the troopers jumped off their horses, wrangled Hirst and Shawcross to the ground and cuffed them. I whistled to Felix, who trotted over, relieved to find me in the middle of what must have seemed yet another incomprehensible human debacle.

‘Gus, mate,’ Lonergan cried, running over to me, panting and shining with sweat. ‘You all right?’

‘Yes, thankfully,’ I said, relieved. ‘That was a nice bit of work there, Trooper. You too, Parry.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Bit of fun, eh?’

‘Yeah, it was,’ Lonergan said, panting, hands on hips.

We both laughed. That hairy little paddy was a bloody hero.

‘Listen, did you pick up Tom Fletcher?’

Parry and Lonergan glanced at each other.

‘Yeah, poor bugger,’ Lonergan said. ‘Did some damage to the other fella, all right, and good thing we stopped the fight when we did. But yeah, broke his bail so he’s in the Larne cells.’

‘Who told you?’

‘Some fella called Clarence Hooker,’ Lonergan said. ‘Tom’ll have these two for company now.’

‘No. They can’t be together. Parry, you go back and wire Bourke urgently for a police van and extra troopers, and bring them out here to take charge of these two. Ask for another pair of troopers to escort Tom into town.’

‘Why not put them in the same van?’

‘Because these two killed Tom’s girl, and I wouldn’t put it past them to tell him while they’re rumbling up the river, and then more than likely there’ll be nobody left alive in the van by the time they get to Bourke.’

~

Lonergan stayed with me while Parry rode back to town to make the arrangements. We stood and looked down at the two men as they stirred and then we gave them some water, and Lonergan formally arrested them. They were bloodied and knocked about and none too happy.

‘You did well to take on both of them,’ Lonergan said.

‘Look at their blotchy skin and teeth – they’ve got scurvy,’ I said. ‘Live on flour, roo meat and whisky. Not hard to take down a man with scurvy. Just like I told you, a well-fed trooper is an effective trooper.’

We took the saddles off our horses and used them to rest against while we waited for the van to come, smoking and staring at the stars as the wild dogs and dingos circled, smelling blood and looking for opportunity. We had to shoot over their heads a couple of times when they got too close.

‘Tempting to let the dogs do their worst, get their own back,’ Lonergan said.

‘Tempting, but it’s the worst thing a trooper could do. You just can’t make it personal, no matter what.’

I’d have enjoyed smashing their faces to pieces in the name of Nessie Kirkbride. I’d do it and not give it a second thought. But the uniform – even though I was suspended, the uniform had its code.

‘How did you know where to look for me?’ I asked.

‘Polly, the barmaid from Larne, came running up and said she was real frightened for you. Said she saw Jack Hirst marching you away into the bush. Took her bloody time telling us, but.’

‘Good old Polly, eh?’

‘When I realised they’d got you, I couldn’t think straight. Parry just stood there useless. Polly started on, screaming at us to do something, so I got Felix and we just galloped in the direction she said and then we saw them. I knew Parry had a rope and I told him, I said, “This is what we’re gunna do – give me one end of the rope and keep the horses parallel, or it’ll be arse over tit,” then I started yelling to make ’em run and we got the bastards.’

‘Got them before they killed me, and nicely done too.’

‘When Martin stationed me at Calpa with you,’ Lonergan said, ‘jeez, I was windy about it. But I’ve learnt more from you about being a trooper since I’ve been here than in my training or two years in Bourke.’

‘Good coffee, mate, that’s what a trooper runs on,’ I said.

‘Decent food,’ he replied.

‘Routine.’

‘Good spelling.’

I laughed at that one. ‘Grammar too, don’t forget.’

We continued compiling our list until he nodded off. I looked over at him, dead to the world, mouth open, sleeping the deep sleep of an uncomplicated man. The chill of the ground rose through my bones, and even the knowledge that I could have been in that ground couldn’t stop the envy igniting in my chest as I thought of the life Mick looked forward to with his Ada, a life straight and true.

~

A van arrived in the early morning and took Hirst and Shawcross off to Bourke. I straggled into Larne. Lonergan turned south and went back to Calpa to mind the shop, and Parry parked himself back behind the counter of his station to count the flies. I sent the van ahead to Bourke and said I’d be along as soon as I’d seen the doctor. I kept finding fresh blood on my face and had to have somebody look at it.

Joe was the only doctor I had any time for, after years of being prodded and poked and seen as a medical oddity. That I survived the bayonet attack was down to youth and luck – no secret there. But white coats sometimes brought out the shakes in me, and now I had to work hard at controlling myself, particularly as I’d been up most of the night, been bashed and my nerves were still in repel-the-threat formation.

Fortunately, Dr Tierney couldn’t give a shit and was only interested in looking at a laceration on my forehead and how many stitches it needed. He reeked of brandy, his breath almost making my head spin as he hummed and hawed. I was not happy having stitches in my head; my pulse raced and I wanted to throw up. Couldn’t even stand haircuts usually.

‘Glass of brandy?’ he said, as he noticed me shaking.

I nodded and he took a bottle out of a cupboard, poured me a stiff measure and I drank it down like water.

He bathed my cuts and dabbed with iodine. Filled a syringe with something, said, ‘This is going to hurt,’ and I looked away. Kept looking away as he did what he had to do. I sweated and swallowed and shook at the shock of my body penetrated by metal.

Once he’d finished, I allowed the brandy to do its work and relaxed. While he was writing something at his desk, I said, ‘I understand you provide an abortion service, Doctor.’

He froze, a few drops of pure alcoholic sweat breaking out on his veined face.

‘I don’t care, either as a police officer or as a private citizen. I am not going to arrest you or dob you in.’

‘Got a girl in the family way, then?’ he said, his voice hoarse.

‘No. I want to know if you did the procedure on Grace Kirkbride the night they were killed.’

Slowly he replaced his glasses with a shaky hand. ‘Who sent you? Kirkbride?’

‘Nobody sent me, but you just confirmed it.’

‘Don’t you dare come here moralising about what I do and then go and have connections with some innocent lass who barely knows or understands what’s going on.’

‘Is that what happened to Grace?’

‘How the hell should I know? Now, you can leave, if you don’t mind, I have patients to see.’

‘How far along was she?’

‘Probably eighteen or nineteen weeks, which was too far advanced but it’s what her brother wanted. As her father wasn’t with her, I took Jimmy Kirkbride’s word. I told him – I warned him – I would not cover for him if Kirkbride found out. He was to answer for it, not me.’

‘You know the risks involved for you professionally, don’t you?’

‘Nobody cares about what goes on out here. Besides, there are other doctors out west who should be struck off before me, I can tell you that much. Now go.’

~

I had a meal in the Royal and thanked Polly for saving my life. She gave me half a smile, which was better than no smile at all. Then I rode up to Bourke, almost falling off several times, just too tired to stay upright.

The prisoners had been tossed into cells and were still sitting there when I arrived. They were charged with Jong’s murder, to which they had confessed, and were held on that charge. The station was in an uproar, people running about like headless chooks. I went and found a room in the pub, fell on the bed without even taking my boots off, and slept.

~

Several loud bangs on the door woke me. Light outside – looked early. More bangs. I stumbled over and opened the door. Corcoran stood there, his great shoulders filling the doorway, eyes full of suppressed fury, his half-ear glowing red. He walked in, passed so close to me I could smell his shaving soap. I shut the door.

‘Trooper McNamara says the two men in the cells are the Kirkbride killers, according to you.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You were ordered to stay away from the case and yet you have wilfully disobeyed that order.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You are suspended, remember? A little matter of breaking and entering? And now you claim to have caught the Kirkbride killers.’

I’d come very close to death, was exhausted, in pain, ravenously hungry and full of impatient, self-righteous rage, and it all surged towards the gate.

‘You are a whisker away from dishonourable discharge,’ Corcoran continued.

And that was it, up and over.

‘Ah, the hell with you,’ I yelled. ‘Our district is at the mercy of two vicious killers because of the say-so of a rich man and I won’t stand for that.’

‘You won’t stand for it?’ He put his hands on his hips, narrowed his eyes. ‘Who the fuck do you think you are? You are dismissed. That’s it, over.’

‘Fine, sort it out yourself.’ I turned away, fell on the bed, heard the door slam.