Matthew Flinders' Cat (19 page)

‘Nope. I think you were right the first time, it means to suck up. I seen girls do that in class to our teacher.’

‘Where were we?’ Billy asked.

‘Trim’s just got himself a free feed,’ Ryan replied.

‘Cats don’t have to work that hard for their food these days. I’ve never even seen a cat catch a rat, or a mouse, or even a cockroach. Once, a moth.’

‘Do you have a cat, Ryan?’ Billy asked.

‘We did, once. It’s gorn. We had this cat that my nana used to feed, it was called Nostril. When she got crook she forgot to feed it, and me mum and me also, we didn’t. It disappeared and didn’t come back. It had half its nose missing from a fight or somethin’, maybe a dog bit it.’

‘Well, you’re probably right about the modern cat,’ Billy said. ‘They seem to have no sense of responsibility or the need to earn a living, they expect everything to be there for them without having to make any effort on their own. They’re out on the tiles all night with their friends, heaven knows where they end up and what they’re up to. They come home in the early hours, use the kitty litter and leave it in a mess for you to clean up, then they sleep most of the day and expect to be given everything and to do nothing in return for free board and lodging. Your average dear little pussy wouldn’t last two weeks at sea in Trim’s world before the rats ganged up on him and shoved him through a porthole one dark night. Even rats have standards to maintain,’ Billy said, tongue-in-cheek.

‘So we see that Trim understood that life is a difficult process and that it is never a good idea to put all your eggs in one basket. We can never tell how things will turn out and Trim understood that one day you’re purring along without a concern in the world and the next the fur is flying everywhere and suddenly you’re someone’s winter gloves. It’s always a good idea to have an alternate plan because if trouble can happen, you can bet your boots it will.’

Reaching out, Billy touched Ryan on the shoulder. ‘It’s time you left for school, lad.’

‘That was real good,’ Ryan said, rising from the skateboard, ‘Can we do it again?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Billy said, smiling, just a little pleased with himself. He’d managed to hold Ryan’s attention rather longer than he’d thought possible. He wondered if Charlie would have been as attentive. Probably not, he decided. Ryan had none of the advantages Charlie’s privileged background had allowed him yet he possessed an exceptional intelligence.

‘Will I see you in the mornin’?’ Ryan asked, trying not to sound too anxious.

‘Not tomorrow, it’s pension day. I have to take a shower and change my clothes.’ Billy hesitated, ‘I don’t suppose you’d consider doing the same, you know, bit of a scrub up, fresh gear? Or would that be out of the question?’

Ryan looked down, pursing his lips and examining his clobber critically for several moments. ‘Suppose. The washing machine’s broke. I’ll have to take them to the laundry mat.’

Billy didn’t correct him, ‘laundry mat’ seemed like a nice alternative to that cheerless place where big white boxes growled away and people always looked miserable as their clothes whirled around. ‘Cheerio, Ryan, straight to school, that’s if you want to be a ship’s cat and not a cockroach.’

Ryan gave Billy a cheeky grin. ‘You said them cockroaches survived millions of years, nothing wrong with that!’ Then, taking his leave in a clatter and rumble of skateboard wheels, he called out, ‘See ya, Billy, don’t forget I gotta sign yer arm first, it’s for my good luck!’

Billy sat in the sun for a while, reviewing Trim’s story in his mind, it was still a little formal, he’d used several words that would be well out of Ryan’s reach and he told himself he’d have to be careful about that. Then suddenly he remembered how, without thinking, he’d touched Ryan on the shoulder. It was no more than the lightest touch, a sign of his approbation, but anyone looking on might think otherwise.

After a while he rose from the bench and made his way to Lower George Street to purchase a small loaf of bread before returning to the Quay, where he made up the day’s ammunition for Operation Mynah Bird and fed the gulls with the remainder of the bread. He was pleased with himself. While out buying the bread, he’d passed two pubs and hadn’t gone in. He’d been without a drink for twenty-four hours. While his blood sugar was up due to the heavily sugar-laced coffee, he needed to stimulate it further and stopped to buy himself a Mars bar. The boy and the story of the cat had helped to take his mind from the gut-gnawing craving for alcohol, yet he could sense the tug deep inside him, the need that would grow to be irresistible before the day was out.

Billy thought about the day ahead. He’d go and make his inspection of the Botanic Gardens, then he’d visit Trevor Williams at St Vincent’s, which would take up most of the morning, then to the library steps for the mynah birds, so he’d probably be able to hang on without a drink until mid-afternoon. He knew what would happen, first the shakes, a mild trembling and then some sweating, a headache and a sense of anxiety developing, and his heart would begin to race. The craving would only stop when he’d fed his body with the alcoholic infusion it demanded.

Staying off the grog until later in the day would mean forgoing Sam Snatch’s free early-morning scotch, but Billy wasn’t too sure he’d be all that welcome at the Flag Hotel. It could just be that Snatch would blame him as well as Casper Friendly for letting the blackfella off the hook. Snatch was known to carry a grudge for what he believed was a reasonable period, like a lifetime. Just as well to leave things to cool down for another day or two. Marion would probably defend him if the proprietor of the Flag was still angry, although you never could tell with her, if she’d been in on the deal she might be just as pissed off as Snatch himself.

Yesterday, when he’d seen the Aborigine’s hat and boots under the bed next to his own at the hospital, he’d jumped to his feet and pulled apart the curtains around his bed. Then, taking the couple of steps towards where he supposed Williams lay, he opened the curtains. To Billy’s dismay, the bed was unoccupied, with the rest of the black man’s clobber neatly folded on the chair beside the bed.

Billy was suddenly furious. The anticlimax of finding Trevor Williams and then not finding him was the last straw and now he reached down, picked up the Akubra, jammed it on to his head and started to cry, though his tears were more ones of frustration and self-pity than of vexation. Suddenly he’d had enough, his paranoia took charge and a sense of panic overcame him. He’d found Williams yet he wasn’t there, and the stash was still in his briefcase and bloody Sergeant Orr was going to examine it in the morning and he’d be in the clink by tomorrow night. There was only one thing to do, he decided, that was to escape immediately. He’d change into the blackfella’s clobber so they couldn’t recognise him. Bloody good idea!

But it proved to be a lot easier said than done. The briefcase was attached to his right hand and his left hand was in a sling, while the temporary splint and the bandage that secured it was wound from his wrist down to halfway up his fingers. There had only just been sufficient grip in them to pull the curtains apart and he’d barely had the leverage to pick up the Akubra. Getting to the key around his neck and opening the handcuffs seemed to him much too big a task. Never mind that! He’d attend to that problem later.

Placing the instep of his left shoe on the back of the heel of the right one, he pulled it off, kicking it away, then did the same with his bare foot on the heel of the left runner. He pushed a foot into one of the Cubans, it wriggled around a bit but then gripped. It was a tight fit, plenty of width but the boot was too short and he could feel his toes being jammed at the sharp end while the backs of his heels were slightly elevated. The left boot was a little easier, though still much too tight up front and back. Putting the briefcase on his lap, so that his hand, chained to the cuff, could reach the buckle, he managed to undo his belt and pull down the zip on his fly. Lifting the case, he stood up, which promptly caused his trousers to fall to his ankles. No problems, he’d have to take the boots off again to get his trousers off, but he’d deal with that later.

Like most derelicts he didn’t wear underpants, underpants weren’t a part of the clothing-bin contributions that the homeless depended on. People simply don’t throw away used underpants, they use them as dusters to polish the dining-room table or clean the car.

Now the big problem, the shirt. Panicked, Billy was having trouble thinking straight. But after a few moments he regained a small portion of his sanity, enough to think. Taking a deep breath, he sat down at the edge of the bed and placed the briefcase on his lap again, then bending forward so that his head was adjacent to the handle, he managed to slip the key over his head. At last something was working for him. But now he realised his fatal mistake, the key was in his right hand and the handcuff was attached to his right wrist, there was no way of opening it.

‘Think!’ he yelled at the top of his voice. The handcuff attached to the briefcase handle. It had a key slot! Billy’s hand trembled as he inserted the key into the second handcuff. But he should have known better, this was the real world where bums and drunks never get an even break. The handcuff hadn’t been removed from around the handle of the briefcase for four years and the mechanism was completely rusted up, the lock wouldn’t budge a millimetre.

Seated on the edge of Williams’ bed, with the Akubra jammed almost down to his eyebrows, the blackfella’s Cubans pinching his toes and his own trousers down around his ankles, Billy could take no more. He began to cry again. This was the end of the road, the dark angel of despair had descended upon him and smothered him within her swirling diaphanous black robes. There was nowhere to go. He was trapped, dead meat. The part of his brain that thought and solved problems had turned into a mental stew which boiled and bubbled like a witch’s brew inside his head.

‘And what in the name of sweet charity have we here?’ A voice, as if heard within an echo chamber, reached him. It sounded vaguely Irish, but with the echo effect you couldn’t tell for sure. ‘And are we not in the wrong bed?’ the voice continued.

Billy tried but was unable to stop crying. ‘I’m sorry, miss.’

‘Nurse, did you not say it was a sprained wrist?’ Yes, it was definitely Irish. ‘A possible fracture? Did you not say the patient needed an intravenous drip?’

‘Yes, nurse, that’s what Dr Goldstein said.’

‘Well, that’s not the only thing we seem to have here if you ask me. Come now, Mr O’Shannessy, we’ll be having no more of this nonsense, back we go to our own bed!’

Billy, responding to the undeniable authority in the voice, jumped down from the bed, forgetting that his trousers were still around his ankles and the briefcase around his wrist. He lurched forward and then, as if in slow motion, he was pulled backwards by the weight of the briefcase. Attempting to go forward again, the constraint around his ankles caused his legs to remain nailed to the floor while his torso continued onwards. He crashed forward and his head and shoulders parted the curtains surrounding his own bed. With a resounding clank, his forehead struck against the angular metal frame, bringing him to an abrupt halt. Billy gave a small sigh and sank slowly to the floor, unconscious.

He woke several hours later, he knew this was so because now the ward lights were on. He lay in bed dressed in a pair of hospital pyjamas, his head hurting like hell and his arm in a sling, with his wrist and half his hand up to the middle joints of his fingers encased in plaster almost to the elbow. Billy lay still, trying to focus, to remember what had happened to him. Then he attempted to lift his left arm. It came up easily. He shot bolt upright and saw that a drip had been fixed into his right hand and that the briefcase was missing. His heart started to pound violently and he thought he was going to pass out. Oh, Jesus, the stash! They would have found the stash! He looked around, unable to decide what to do next. Then he saw his briefcase on the chair beside his bed. Holding his hand to his heart, he tried to regain his composure. After a few moments he realised he was by no means home yet, the blackfella’s stash may not be inside and now he saw that the wrist handcuff lay open against the side of the case with the key still in the keyhole.

With his hand shaking, he leaned over the side of the bed, clicked open the latch and looked within. All he saw were the notepads and curiously enough the tiger’s eye pebble he’d dropped the previous day, the photo album and, protruding slightly behind it, the thick roll of yellow banknotes secured with the elastic band.

Billy fell back into the bed and thought he was going to throw up, it was several minutes before he felt strong enough to lean over to close the briefcase. The shock of finding the handcuff missing from his wrist served to recall his earlier humiliation. He had lost his dignity, the single aspect of his fall from grace that he tried hardest to maintain. Now he was reduced to what he must seem to everyone, just another brain-damaged alcoholic. Billy wondered if indeed his brain
was
going, if he’d finally crossed over the line from the problem drinker he told himself he’d become to a blubbering, mumbling idiot. The idea caused him to break into a sweat and he found he was hyperventilating.

After a few moments he managed to control himself and tried to reach the briefcase but for some reason the drip stand wouldn’t move any closer to the bed. He felt his frustration growing. ‘Ever since I entered this place I’ve lost my bloody independence,’ he thought. While there wasn’t much to be said for being homeless, the one thing going for it was independence. You did what you wished and took the consequences as they came. Now he was trapped in the system. ‘That’s what I’ll do, I’ll sign myself out, they can’t stop me,’ he declared to himself. He’d allowed the hospital administration to control him for long enough.