It was a long walk back to town. Falk felt every step ricochet from the soles of his feet up to his pounding head. His thoughts swarmed like flies. He re-lived conversations he’d had with Gretchen, holding them up under this new stark light, examining them, seeking out the flaws. He phoned Raco. No answer. Perhaps he was still angry. Falk left a message, asked him to call.
It was near closing time when he finally reached the Fleece. Scott Whitlam was on the pub steps, fastening his bike helmet. His injured nose looked better than it had the other night. Whitlam took one look at Falk’s face and stopped.
‘You all right, mate?’
‘Rough night.’
‘Looks like it.’ Whitlam took his helmet off. ‘Come on, I’ll buy you a quick one.’
Falk wanted nothing more than to crawl up the staircase to bed, but didn’t have the energy to argue. He followed Whitlam inside. The bar was nearly empty and McMurdo was wiping the counter. He paused when they walked in and reached for two beer glasses without asking. Whitlam put his helmet on the counter.
‘I’ll get these. Put them on the tab, mate?’ he said to McMurdo.
The barman frowned. ‘No tab.’
‘Come on. For a regular?’
‘Don’t make me say it again, my friend.’
‘OK. Fine.’ Whitlam pulled out his wallet and thumbed through it. ‘I might be a bit – I might have to put it on the card –’
‘I’ll get it.’ Falk cut across him and put a twenty on the counter, waving away Whitlam’s protestations. ‘It’s fine, forget it. Cheers.’
Falk took a deep swallow. The sooner it was drunk, the sooner he could call it a night.
‘What’s happened then?’ Whitlam asked.
‘Nothing. I’m just sick to death of this place.’
It hurt me. Luke hurt me.
‘Any progress?’
Falk thought for a wild moment about telling him. McMurdo had stopped cleaning and was listening from behind the bar. In the end, he shrugged.
‘I’ll just be glad to get out of here.’ Whatever happened, he was due back in Melbourne on Monday. Sooner, if Raco got his way.
Whitlam nodded. ‘Half your luck. Although –’ He held up a hand and crossed his fingers. ‘I might be following your lead sooner than I thought.’
‘You’re leaving Kiewarra?’
‘Hopefully. I’ve got to do something soon for Sandra. She’s had it up to here. I’ve been looking at a new place, a school up north maybe. Bit of a change.’
‘Weather’s hotter up north.’
‘At least they get the rains,’ Whitlam said. ‘It’s the lack of water here. Makes the whole town crazy.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ Falk said, draining his glass. His head felt heavy. Wine, beer, emotion.
Whitlam took the hint and followed suit.
‘All right, better run. It’s a school night, after all.’ Whitlam offered his hand. ‘Hopefully I’ll see you before you leave, but if not, good luck.’
Falk shook it. ‘Thanks, you too. Up north.’
Whitlam left with a cheery wave and Falk handed the empty glasses to McMurdo.
‘Did I hear you say you’re heading out soon?’
‘Probably,’ Falk said.
‘Well, I’ll be sorry to see you go, believe it or not,’ McMurdo said. ‘You’re the only one who reliably pays. Which reminds me –’ He opened the cash register and gave Falk back his twenty-dollar note. ‘I put the drinks on your room tab. Thought it would be easier to claim them on expenses or whatever you cops do.’
Falk took the twenty, surprised.
‘Oh, right. Thanks. I thought you said no tabs.’
‘I only said that to Whitlam. You’re all right, though.’
Falk frowned. ‘But not Whitlam? You must know him well enough.’
McMurdo gave a short laugh. ‘Oh, yeah. I know him well enough. That’s why I also know where he keeps his money.’ He nodded to the poker machines flashing in the back room.
‘Whitlam’s a fan of the pokies?’ Falk asked.
McMurdo nodded. ‘And the rest. Horses, dogs. Always got one eye on the racing channel, the other on those apps on his phone.’
‘You’re kidding.’ Falk was taken aback, but at the same time not surprised. He thought about the sports books in Whitlam’s house. He’d come across a lot of gamblers in his career. There was no single type. The only thing they had in common was delusion and misery.
‘He’s subtle about it, but you see all sorts of things from behind a bar,’ McMurdo said. ‘Especially when it comes to being able to pay for drinks. And I don’t think he actually likes the pokies much.’
‘No?’
‘Nah, I get a sense they’re small fry for him. Still, doesn’t stop him feeding his weight in gold coins into them every time he’s here. That’s what he was doing when he accidentally got clobbered the other night. When Jamie and Grant had their punch-up.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Anyway, I shouldn’t be telling tales out of school,’ McMurdo said. ‘There’s nothing illegal about pissing your cash away. Thank God. Otherwise I’d be out of business.’
‘So would a lot of people.’ Falk managed a smile.
‘These gambling types are fair old suckers, though. Always looking for strategies and loopholes. End of the day, it only works if you back the right horse.’
Falk’s room had never felt so much like a cell. He brushed his teeth without turning on the light and collapsed into bed. Despite the chaos in his head, he felt overwhelmed by exhaustion. Sleep was close.
Out in the street a tin can rolled along, its metallic clatter rattling in the quiet. Through his drowsiness, it reminded Falk of the artificial clang of the pokies. He closed his eyes. McMurdo was right about gambling. Like this case. Sometimes all the strategies in the world couldn’t help.
It only works if you back the right horse.
A cog turned deep in Falk’s brain. Lazily, because it was an ingrained one. Crusted over and tough to shift. It reluctantly clunked one move over then stopped, settled.
Falk opened his eyes slowly. It was too dark to see anything, but he stared into the inky blackness, thinking.
He pictured Kiewarra laid out in three dimensions. He imagined himself climbing, up to the lookout maybe, the scene below growing smaller the higher he went. When he reached the top he looked down. Over the town, the drought, the Hadlers. Noticing, for the first time, how things looked from a very different perspective.
Falk thought about that, with his eyes open, staring at the nothingness for long minutes. Testing the cog in its new position. Finally he sat up, fully awake now. He pulled on a t-shirt and slipped his feet into his trainers. He grabbed his torch and an old newspaper and crept downstairs and into the carpark.
His car was right where he’d left it. The stench of shit made his eyes water, but he barely noticed it. He peeled back the tarpaulin and, using the newspaper as a makeshift glove, popped open the boot. It was kept separate from the body of the car by the back seats, and had been protected from the shitstorm.
Falk clicked on the torch and shone it into the empty boot. He stood there for a long time. Then he pulled out his mobile and took a photo.
Back in his room, sleep took a long time to come. When morning broke, he woke and dressed early, then waited impatiently. The moment the clock ticked over to nine o’clock, Falk picked up the phone and made a single call.
Luke Hadler’s palms were sweating on the steering wheel. The air conditioner was on overdrive but had barely made a dent since he’d left Jamie Sullivan’s place. His throat was dry and he wished he had a bottle of water to hand. He made himself focus on the road ahead. He was nearly home. Just get there.
He had turned onto the final stretch when he saw the figure up ahead. Standing by the road all alone. Waving.