Chapter 41

Two paramedics wheeled Fred out on a gurney. For a moment Harry thought the white sheet was pulled over his face, and heavy dread settled on his chest. He saw the front page in his mind: WWII vet dies in home invasion.

Then the stretcher turned on the driveway and Harry realised the sheet was tucked up under Fred’s chin, the old man’s face so white it was barely indistinguishable.

Harry ran for the stretcher.

‘How is he? What happened?’

The paramedics kept wheeling him towards the ambulance. ‘It’s his heart,’ one of them said, dark glasses shielding his eyes from the afternoon sun. ‘He’s going to be okay. You his son?’

‘No, just a friend.’

The other paramedic looked doubtfully at Harry’s notebook, clutched in one hand. He didn’t even remember grabbing it. Then the medico saw the look on Harry’s face and his expression softened.

‘Some mongrels roughed him up,’ he said, shaking his head.

Harry looked up and saw Bill waiting at the top of the stairs. The screen door, the special ‘burglar-proof’ screen door, was hanging off its hinges.

‘Was he hurt?’

‘Bill reckons Fred gave as good as he got. But the fright. His heart gave out. Cops are meant to be here, when they can get their arses into gear.’

Harry looked down at Fred. The old man’s chest rose and fell, his lungs rattled. Harry held his hand. It felt cool to the touch.

‘You sure he’s going to be okay?’ Harry asked.

The paramedic with the sunglasses shrugged. ‘As sure as we can be with someone his age. We’re taking him to the Royal, if you want to catch him later.’

‘Thanks.’

Harry walked up the garden. The anger was building again.

‘Come in,’ Bill said.

The first thing Harry noticed were the photos, because that was what he looked at every time he visited Fred. Two of them had fallen over. A few of the other knickknacks, like June’s ballerina figurine, had fallen over too, and there were books strewn on the floor. Paperbacks, and a Reader’s Digest.

‘There were two guys,’ Bill said. ‘Filthy bikies.’

Harry stopped, staring at the TV, which had been tipped over.

‘Bikies?’

He turned to Bill. His hands were shaking.

‘Yeah. I came over to talk to him about the tower. I saw the two Harleys out front. Heard shouting from upstairs.’

Harry’s eyes fell to the knife lying in the middle of the lounge-room floor. It was black with blood. There were smears on the carpet. Drops on the linoleum, leading to the front door.

Bill saw Harry’s expression. ‘That’s not Fred’s blood,’ he said.

Suddenly, it all became too much for Bill and he dropped into one of the chairs around the dining table. Harry was sweating. He wanted to scream.

‘They must’ve jimmied open the screen because when I got up here it was hanging like that. The whole thing’s bent out of kilter,’ Bill said.

‘I heard one of them curse. When I got inside, there were two of them. Fred was over by the sideboard there, with that thing in his hand…’ He gestured at the knife in the lounge room. ‘White as a sheet. One of them – long greasy hair – was clutching his side, trying to staunch the flow of blood. The other one was moving in. Big fat bastard. Limping, he was.’

Harry nodded. He didn’t need any further description. He knew who they were. He knew why they were here.

‘I just yelled out. Screamed like a crazy man. Grabbed a frying pan…’

Harry noticed it on the dining table.

‘…and just screamed at them. Fred collapsed. And they bolted. Fucking cowards.’

Bill shook his head. Harry walked over to the knife. He could feel Rob back there in his mind. The tattoos on his body were warm. Chook was right. These people only understood one thing.

Harry dropped to his haunches. What he’d first taken for a knife was actually a bayonet. Now he saw it properly, he wondered how he could have mistaken it for anything else.

‘I saw him use that, in North Africa,’ Bill said. Harry stared at the blood. He felt his own blood pulsing behind his eyes. Closed his eyes and saw a woman, spread-eagle on a cold concrete floor. Smelt the blood and the piss and the shit. Smelt the fear.

‘You think you can leave it behind,’ Bill said. ‘The violence. The death. But part of it always comes back with you.’

Bill knelt beside Harry. ‘He’s never spoken about it. Not even to me. We were near El Alamein. Total chaos. We both ran out of ammo and suddenly we had a Kraut tank crew in our foxhole.

‘Don’t know who was more surprised, us or them. Fred didn’t hesitate. And when I saw him going for it, I hooked in too. It wasn’t pretty.’

Harry couldn’t talk. He nodded. Took a deep breath. ‘If the cops find this, he’s going to be in the shit.’

Bill stared at him. ‘If the cops find what?’ He picked up the bayonet, took it down the hallway. Harry heard the bathroom sink filling up. Harry went to the kitchen, got a rag and mopped up the spots of blood.

When Bill returned, his face was wet. Harry washed out the rag and threw it in the bin.

‘Good thing the cops are taking so long,’ Harry said. ‘Did you hear what they were saying? The bikies?’

Bill put his hands on his hips. ‘Well, Fred was telling them to get the fuck out of his house. And they…you know already, don’t you?’

Harry nodded. ‘Yeah, but I need to hear you say it.’

‘They were looking for you. “Where’s Hendrick? Where’s Hendrick?” Over and over again. What the fuck are you in for, Harry?’

‘Trust me. You don’t want to know.’