Matthew Flinders' Cat (34 page)

‘You’re right, it was like a homecoming.’ Thomas then went on to tell Billy the usual story of a drunk’s progression down the slippery dip of life until he finally landed in the gutter where a Salvation Army officer stretched out a hand and offered to pray with him. ‘It was the first time in my life somebody had offered to pray with me and for me. We knelt down together right there on the grass in Hyde Park and prayed that I would be healed.’

Billy braced himself for the sermon that was to follow, though much to his relief Thomas now said, ‘I won’t bore you with the details, salvation is a deeply personal experience but, to cut what’s been a long story shorter, that was thirty years ago and with the help of the Lord Jesus Christ in my life, I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol since the day I got grass stains on my knees from praying alongside the Salvo.’

They had arrived at the Albion Street address and Cliff Thomas put his hand on Billy’s shoulder, ‘Good luck and God bless, Billy.’ He returned the Resthaven envelope he’d been given earlier but hadn’t opened. ‘You’ll need to give this to Vince Payne, they’ll probably ask for it at reception.’ He extended his hand. ‘Remember, we’re on your side, no matter what happens.’

The two men shook hands and the Salvo major walked away, but then stopped. ‘Oh, Billy, you can call me at any time,’ he paused fractionally, ‘for the remainder of your life.’

Billy walked up to a window beside the front door and pushed a button set into the wall. Moments later, a pleasant-looking woman in her forties came to the window, which was covered with clear perspex with a slot for sliding stuff in or out and several small holes at mouth level for talking through. Billy would later learn that it was bulletproof. ‘What can I do for you, sir?’ she said in a friendly manner.

‘I’ve been sent from Foster House, madam. My name is O’Shannessy, William D’Arcy, I’m here . . .’ Billy hesitated for a few moments, he’d never had to spell it out to a stranger before, ‘. . . for the alcohol rehabilitation program.’

‘Just a moment, please,’ the woman replied and turned away, to return a few moments later. ‘That’s right, you’re on the list, come in.’ Billy heard a buzz and a click as the door opened. He was suddenly possessed of an enormous urge to run, but the lady seemed to understand. ‘Welcome, we’ve been expecting you,’ she said.

Billy entered and the door closed behind him. He stood for a moment, his eyes adjusting to the light. He admitted to himself that he was frightened, it felt like the first few minutes at boarding school after his parents had dropped him off. Although the reception office was to his immediate right, the first thing his eyes focused on was a small blackboard positioned against the wall to his left, on which was written the lunch menu in pink and white chalk. Someone had taken the trouble to do it in a cursive script so that it looked quite decorative, almost like the daily specials in a restaurant.

Lunch

Lamb chops – gravy

Mashed potato

Mixed veg

Banana custard

Billy was strangely comforted by the menu, banana custard had been a favourite of his when he’d been a child. He turned towards reception, which consisted of wood panelling up to the counter level and then the same perspex that covered the outside window. Once again, there was only a small opening through which to push things and the cluster of speech holes.

The woman at the window now stood waiting for him on the other side of the opening. Billy approached and she pushed out what looked like a large ledger, with a biro attached to it by means of a piece of string. ‘Please sign your proper name, date of birth and the name and address of your next of kin,’ she instructed.

‘Is the last bit, I mean the next of kin, really necessary, madam?’ Billy asked.

The receptionist seemed to expect the question and she said sympathetically, ‘There’s usually someone our clients want us to contact if it becomes necessary, sir.’

Billy filled in the details and under next of kin he thought for a moment before he wrote:
N/A
. He had committed himself to a new start and if something should happen to him he didn’t want to be remembered for his past. He didn’t believe that his wife or his daughter should be burdened with any more memories of him or the responsibility of seeing him decently buried. He closed the book and pushed it back through the slot. ‘Do you have any papers, Mr O’Shannessy?’ she asked, taking the book.

‘Oh, yes, of course,’ Billy said, handing her the envelope Major Thomas had returned to him.

‘Thank you. Take a seat in reception, please,’ the receptionist said, pointing further down the small corridor.

Billy walked through to the reception area over a carpet patterned with small two-toned grey triangles that were intersected every once in a while by one of a brighter colour. Woven into the centre of the carpet was the Salvation Army red shield. There appeared to be offices on one side of the area and on the other the dining room with the banana-custard menu outside the door. The area contained a dozen old-fashioned red-vinyl lounge chairs, most of them occupied by silent men.

Billy chose a chair that concealed from him a large terracotta pot which contained an arrangement of pink and green artificial lilies made of silk with stamens of a sharp orange. Artificial flowers, though not quite in the mynah-bird category, were among his pet hates. Man’s attempts to emulate the perfection of a single blossom, even non-indigenous flora, was an exercise in the debasement of nature. As he eased himself into the chair there was a sudden escape of air from the vinylcushioned seat and he was tilted backwards, so that his eye line was drawn upwards. On the wall directly above the dining-room door was a large sign painted in Salvation Army red.

Jesus said – You must be Born Anew – John 3:7

While Billy knew it was a call to repentance, nevertheless it didn’t seem to him somehow appropriate. This, after all, was to be a new start for him, his own personal born anew. Although, looking around, he could have hoped for a more pleasant environment in which to be reborn. The William Booth Institute had a forbidding nineteenth-century atmosphere that wouldn’t have been out of place in a Charles Dickens novel. He imagined the silk flowers were intended to soften the effect, give it a contemporary feel. Then he noticed a more concerted attempt to modernise the surround ings. Positioned between two office doors sat a very large fish tank containing half a dozen extremely wellfed goldfish. Above the tank was a notice, which, with exclamation marks added, read more like an admonishment, ‘Don’t feed the fish!!’

Billy looked around for something to read but apart from a few dog-eared brochures exalting the work of the Salvation Army, there was nothing else. With nothing to occupy him, he quietly observed the men seated around him, each of them with a small nondescript sports bag or backpack containing his belongings beside him. While the area was fairly large, the red chairs and the silent men seated in them made it appear as if they were all lost in a vast grey ocean, every man on his own small island.

The sense of being utterly alone caused Billy to feel an almost physical sense of isolation. It was as if the air surrounding his immediate presence had congealed and sealed him into his own space, excluding him from reaching beyond his vinyl-covered prison.

Most of the men were gazing blankly at the fish tank. Although people moved past, going into offices or down a corridor to the side, they seemed to pass without any sense of movement. Only the fish moved in a hypnotic somnolence, mindlessly floating forward, never increasing momentum, turning, gliding at the glass, backwards or sideways, responding to some eternal rhythm that seemed as if it were rolling in from eternity itself.

A door opened to the office directly in front of him and a small man wearing glasses with lenses rather thicker than normal appeared. Perhaps it was because of the sense of everything being slowed down that he seemed to be spring-loaded, the energy radiating from him piercing the air surrounding Billy.

Vince Payne stood framed in the doorway of his office, scanning them all, and then fixed his bifocals on Billy. Having found his quarry he started forward, ‘propelled’ was a better word. With his arms slightly bent at the elbows and held away from his body, his fingers extended, he paddled through the air on either side of him, his body swivelling left and then right. It was as if he too sensed the containing air and was making a concerted effort to break through it to reach Billy.

‘You must be the lawyer?’ he said, smiling. He came to a stop in front of Billy, his hands still paddling slowly, treading the air.

‘Was once, but how did you know that?’ Billy replied, not sure whether he was required to stand, half rising.

Vince signalled for him to remain seated. ‘We’ve had blokes in here who’ve talked about you, can’t be too many Billy O’Shannessies who help the brotherhood get around the bureaucratic minefields.’

‘Oh, I see. I’m not sure I’ve ever helped all that much.’

‘Vince Payne, I’m your program director.’ The pocket dynamo stuck out his hand, ‘Welcome to the house of pain.’

Billy grinned. ‘Thank you. Yes, I have to agree, it does look a bit Dickensian.’

Vince grinned back. ‘Nothing that a couple of million dollars wouldn’t fix, or maybe tear the whole place down, eh? Start all over again. Probably be cheaper in the long run.’ He had an easy manner and Billy found himself liking him immediately. ‘Come to my office,’ Payne said and then caught sight of the handcuffs about Billy’s wrist and the briefcase. ‘Crikey! What have you got in here,’ he exclaimed, pointing to the briefcase, ‘the flamin’ crown jewels?’

Billy shrugged. ‘It’s an extension of my arm, my way of not losing it.’

‘Damn good idea, but I’m afraid we’re going to have to take it off you while you’re here.’ Vince Payne understood immediately that Billy, like so many homeless, had no concept of storage. The idea of deserting their possessions, meagre as they might be, was beyond their comprehension. Drawers, lockers and cupboards served no practical function in their lives. You were what you carried and an attachment to a bag or a backpack was often the only certainty you knew. Getting Billy to part with his briefcase was going to involve intervention therapy, the first bridge they would need to cross together. He waited for him to reply.

Billy had already been through the process at Resthaven and it had troubled him greatly to know his precious briefcase was in the care of someone else. When it had been restored to him it had been as if an old and trusted friend had come back into his life, his eyes stung with tears as he grabbed it, hugging it to his chest. Now he was threatened with losing it a second time.

‘It really isn’t any trouble, sir. You may search it for contraband,’ Billy said, hoping his voice didn’t betray his concern.

‘Okay, come into my office,’ Payne said, appearing to relent. ‘I need to clear up a few details and brief you on your program.’

Billy rose and followed Vince Payne into an office that wasn’t much bigger than a cubicle and contained a desk on which sat a computer, while the remainder of its surface was covered in paper and files. Two dark-green filing cabinets, an office chair and a straight-backed kitchen chair completed the furnishings. On the wall was a cheaply framed photograph of a man with an oldfashioned haircut under which appeared the words:

B
ILL
W
.

A
LCOHOLIC

F
OUNDER:
A
LCOHOLICS
A
NONYMOUS, 1935

Vince Payne motioned for Billy to take the chair before he seated himself on the old and slightly lopsided typist’s chair behind the desk. The office looked wornout and lent its owner no authority, although it was already abundantly clear to Billy that the program director didn’t need any of the usual trappings to assert himself, he was one of those people who simply assumed control and got on with it. ‘Cup of coffee?’ Payne asked.

‘No thank you, I’ve just had a cup of tea at Foster House.’

‘You sure?’ Vince asked again.

‘Yes, quite sure.’

‘Just as well, the coffee here is atrocious, the staff drink it, but I reckon you have to draw the line somewhere. There’s a little place across the road, Rocco’s, good bloke, makes great coffee. If you’re ever desperate for a caffeine fix, don’t take the chance of being poisoned, ask someone to get one for you.’

‘Thank you, I will,’ Billy said, enjoying the honesty.

‘My credentials first,’ Vince Payne now said. ‘Apart from running the counselling in this joint, I took seven years to fail two years of law.’ He grinned. ‘Good thing too, I reckon I’d have made a lousy lawyer.’

‘You’d have been in good company, there are plenty of us around. I’m not sure I was any great shakes myself.’

‘That’s not how I’ve heard it told,’ Payne said, then abruptly altering his tone, he said, ‘Okay, let’s get on with it.’ He looked down and picked up the notes from Resthaven that Billy had given the receptionist. ‘How the hell did you manage to stay in the hostel for a week on your own after you’d detoxed?’

Billy attempted to explain. ‘I can’t say it was easy. Mostly I asked the manager to lock me in my room. I discovered that being conscious of not drinking and still desperately wanting a drink is just about as distracting a state of mind as being, well, you know, blotto.’

‘Well, all I can say is that you’ve made a damn good start, mate. Congratulations, so far you’re ahead in the all-important mind games.’