Matthew Flinders' Cat (42 page)

‘What are you saying? That you’re an alcoholic and I’m a drug addict because of our fathers?’ Morgan asked.

‘No, I’m merely suggesting there’s a definite pattern. As the saying goes, like father like son.’ Billy was beginning to touch a deep truth within him, one he’d avoided facing since Charlie’s death. His attempts to keep the conversation impersonal and speculative seemed to be working. He had managed to deflect the conversation from himself to avoid bringing Charlie up again. Now he could examine his denial slowly by himself, it wasn’t necessary to share his shame with anyone else. The three weeks in the group discussions were paying off.

‘Your son, what happened?’ Davo asked ingenuously. Davo’s direct question caught Billy unawares and, because he’d just thought himself saved from a public confession, he was suddenly emotionally overwhelmed. He was a trained lawyer so he fought to keep his voice steady. ‘I wasn’t much of a father to both my children, too busy at the law, drinking, being a popular public figure, charity boards, anything to avoid going home. I was generally loaded when I got home and the kids were usually in bed or they’d learned to avoid me. The girl had her mother so it wasn’t too bad for her, but a boy needs his father and I was never there for him. On a Saturday morning when he played sport at his school I had a hangover. I was the dad whose absence was noted by the other kids. Charlie learned to lie, he’d say I was away in America or some other excuse his little boy’s mind could dream up.’

‘You’re breaking my heart,’ Morgan suddenly interrupted.

‘Shut up, Morgan, can’t yer see Billy don’t like saying all this?’ Freddo cried.

‘Yeah, mate, fair go,’ Davo added.

‘No, Morgan’s right, it must all seem pretty harmless compared to what you’ve all been through.’

‘No, Billy, I’m sorry, mate, I’ve got a big mouth, I shouldn’t have said what I just did,’ Morgan said, clearly regretting his words.

‘Kids get hurt for lotsa reasons, just because we think we had it worse doesn’t make Billy’s kid less hurt and resentful,’ Freddo said.

Billy could sense Freddo was being kind, that what he’d told them about Charlie was pretty tame stuff. Fathers who were workaholics and who were also hard drinkers were a dime a dozen and neglecting your kids for your vocation or work was practically the Australian middle-class way of life.

Billy tried to recover, get out of the mess he was making of his story. ‘No, please, everyone, don’t get me wrong, nine-year-old kids are pretty resilient and Charlie was a nice kid, full of life, and I don’t think at that stage he’d lost faith in me. It’s what I did to him later that sent me into complete denial and put me on the bench outside the library.’ Billy looked up. ‘I guess it’s not that interesting, let’s leave it at that.’

‘Hey, wait on! I’m sorry about my big mouth, what I said was unfair, but you can’t leave it there, mate.

We’ve just been through three weeks of group-discussion therapy, what was that all about, man?’ Morgan said accusingly. ‘You can’t leave it hangin’ like that, mate.’

Billy had recovered sufficiently to keep his voice calm. ‘When my son was nine he was going off to a school camp. It was summer and he was so excited he couldn’t stop talking about it. My wife was to drop him off at school at five on the particular afternoon but my daughter, who is an asthmatic, had a bad attack and my wife phoned me to ask if I’d come home early and take Charlie. I’d had a liquid lunch and continued drinking all afternoon and was pretty pissed, so I told her to send him in a taxi. “Charlie wants to say goodbye to you. He’s very excited. He’d like his father to take him,” my wife said, so I relented and said I’d come home. I don’t want to labour the point, but on the way to his school I guess I was speeding and I missed the red light at an intersection and collected a semitrailer.

‘The truck hit Charlie’s side of the car and had we not been in a Mercedes I dare say he would have been killed, but he received severe head wounds and suffered an intracerebral haemorrhage to the right side of his brain which affected the movement on the left side of his body. The specialists said that in time and with the right kind of exercise he would regain most of the movement. I was unhurt and when the police tested my alcohol level it was .19, nearly four times over the limit.

‘Charlie spent two months in hospital but on his return home we soon realised that he had become deeply and chronically depressed. We put an exercise bicycle and gym equipment in his room and he’d sometimes do the exercises, but more often than not he’d refuse and lock himself in his room all day. Already guilty for what I’d done, I’d rage at him and then, just like my father, go into my study and get drunk. Two years later, although he’d regained enough movement in his left side to ride a proper bicycle, his depression if anything was worse.

‘I came home one evening, half-tanked as usual. Charlie had locked himself again in his room all day and had missed school. I went upstairs and asked to be let in but he wouldn’t respond, so I went down to the garage, got a jemmy, forced open the door and gave him hell. I can remember how he cowered in the corner, holding his precious cat, a big tabby known as Baby Grand. I called him a coward and told him he was useless, a failure, that he’d grow up to be a no-hoper, I think I used the words “useless little shit!” when all the time it was me who was the failure. I was doing exactly what my own father had done to me, humiliating him. I left him crying, holding the cat, and stormed downstairs into my study where I polished off a bottle of Johnnie Walker. Eventually I must have collapsed in a drunken state on the carpet because my wife woke me the next morning to say that Charlie wasn’t in his room.’

Billy stopped talking, ashamed that he was losing control when he most needed it. In a voice not much above a whisper, he said, ‘Charlie had ridden his bicycle to Watsons Bay and thrown himself off the Gap.’

Billy could feel the tears running down his cheeks.

‘He left a note:

Dad,

Please look after Baby Grand.

Love,

Charlie

‘That was all. A month later I took Baby Grand to Charlie’s grave and took a picture of him sitting on the marble slab. I wanted Charlie to see he was in good shape, that I was looking after him.’ Billy wiped away the tears with his hand. ‘Stupid really, I suppose. I took the photo and then started to cry. When I looked up, Baby Grand had gone. I searched for him for three hours,’ Billy stopped, sniffing. ‘I even fucked that up,’ he whispered. It was the first time any of them had heard him use an expletive.

The three men were silent and then Freddo gave a little cough, ‘That’s rough, mate, a real bastard.’

Billy leaned down and, using the edge of his sheet, wiped his eyes. ‘I’m sorry to burden you with all of this but, you see, it’s the only way I can tell you why I’m leaving tomorrow.’

‘Billy, stay, mate. You’ve come this far, don’t pull out now,’ Morgan urged again.

Billy then told them the story of Ryan. They’d all heard Ryan sing and he’d been the subject of a great deal of conversation among the men. When they’d returned to their shared room the previous evening, Morgan had held up his Bible. ‘Well, fellas, they gave us our Bibles and then the big bloke in the sky sent us a bloody angel to sing the last hymn.’

‘I have no choice. This time I’ve got to get it right,’ Billy said finally.

‘How will you find him?’ Freddo asked.

Billy shrugged. ‘I don’t know, I’ll just keep looking, asking.’

Freddo thought for a while. ‘Billy, you’re in my territory, I done much the same, though I was twelve when me mum threw me out. I know the Cross, the kid’s gunna find a squat if he’s lucky or he’ll go to the Wayside Chapel or one of Father Riley’s people will find him and he’ll turn up, young blokes don’t stray far.’ He paused. ‘That’s the best scenario, mate.’ Freddo shook his head. ‘I got to be honest with you, the chances of that happening are just about zero. If the kid thinks he’s in trouble with the police, he’s going to be frightened and he’ll stay away from charity help or a refuge.’ Freddo spread his hands. ‘I seen him yesterday in chapel, he’s beautiful, I’m tellin’ you, he’s got Buckley’s.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Davo asked.

‘The paedophiles will be on to him like a pack o’ hungry mongrels.’

Billy thought his heart would jump out of his chest. ‘What do you mean?’

‘She’s got people out on the streets at the Cross and at Central Station looking for kids all the time, they’ll snap him up, no risk.’

‘She?’

‘The Queenie, from The Sheba.’

‘Eh, say again?’

‘It’s a sex club, a brothel, fully licensed, legit. It’s on the main drag, The Queen o’ Sheba, but it’s just called The Sheba in the trade. The Queenie is, like, the madam who runs the joint.’

‘You mean it’s a brothel for kids, for children?’ Billy asked.

‘Nah, it’s a legit brothel but it’s a front for kiddysex. The Queenie is really running a club for paedophiles.’

‘Eh? It’s a brothel that’s legit, but it isn’t because there’s kids, what’s that supposed to mean?’ Morgan asked. Freddo had a reputation for taking the longest possible way around to make a point. In a conversational sense, he could turn a visit to the bathroom into a fully blown marathon.

Freddo sighed. ‘The Queen o’ Sheba is a real sleazy joint, a sex club and a brothel. It caters mostly for young blokes who come in from the western suburbs, you know, big night out, six or seven mates pissed or high on eckies or whatever’s the latest good thing to swallow, looking for some cheap action after midnight. Bucks’ parties, young blokes celebrating a footy win, gang-initiation nights. You musta all seen ’em, the Lebbo or the big Maori at the door soliciting business, shoutin’ out, picking their mark. “Twenty-five-dollar entrance fee per person. Hey, are you guys in a group? Celebrating, eh? I’m feelin’ generous ternight, fifty bucks and you’re all in, the lot of yiz! Come on in, boys, nude acts, exotic dancers!”’ Freddo paused. ‘It’s the rough end of the trade. All the girls are on heroin, working to support their habits, and they solicit the audience while the show is going on, inviting them upstairs for a quickie, the house takes fifty per cent of what they make.’

‘Audience? I thought you said it was a brothel?’ Morgan said.

‘Yeah, well, outside it says it’s a strip club. Brothels are not allowed to advertise so that’s where the exotic dancers come in, they’re freelancers and they work five or six places a night like this around the Cross. They’ll do a bit of dance, most are pretty crook sorts that can’t no longer work the better-class strip clubs, but some of them ain’t too bad. They’ll remove some o’ their gear and then offer to screw anyone in the audience in the buff for a hundred bucks. A dancer will make half a grand, more on a good night. If the Yank navy is in town, they can make a couple of grand.’

Billy thought immediately of Ryan’s mother and it explained how she supported her habit and how she could give him a fifty-dollar note to spend.

‘Yes, but what’s this got to do with paedophiles and who’s The Queenie?’ Billy asked anxiously.

‘Yeah, well, like I said before, The Queen o’ Sheba is a cover, see. The Queenie is supposed to be the owner of the joint, the madam, only now she’s called the manager, but it ain’t really what she’s on about. She leaves the brothel to one of the Arab Mafia, a Lebanese or Assyrian crim named Mohammed Suleman. There’s four rooms at the back done up perfect, like a suite at the Regent, it’s where the big-time and the overseas paedophiles come. The entrance is in the back lane, just a dirty, unmarked door, paint peelin’, with a speaker to the side.’ Freddo gave a little snort. ‘Above the door it says “Back entrance”. Back stairs is pretty crook but then you come to the first landing and it has marble tiles and walls, with a fuckin’ crystal chandelier.’

‘Why didn’t you say so before?’ Morgan said, exasperated. ‘We didn’t need to know all that shit about the brothel! How do you know all this anyway? Or shouldn’t I ask?’

Freddo shrugged. ‘It’s where I learned to put a value on my arse, it was better than The Wall at Darlinghurst,’ he said simply. ‘The Sheba’s not the only one, there’s others. Costello’s, The Pleasure Chest, they’re both at the Cross, the Orchid Club, it’s American but they’re also here in a big way. The Queenie does a lot of travel business with them. The Children’s Liberation Railway, that’s in Glebe, there’s the Blaze Group, they’ve even got their own kiddyporn magazine, and the Rene Guyon Society, they got this motto,
Sex before eight or it’s too late!
And the Rat Pack, not a very original name but their motto is:
Never rat, never tell
. They’re mostly the rich and the famous, Australian, but they’s now gone worldwide. The Queenie does big business with them as well.’

‘Jesus!’ Morgan exclaimed. ‘Who’d want to bring kids into the world? I read somewhere that one in four under-age girls are sexually abused, though I think that’s mostly at home, and one in seven boys. I mean, it happened to me, to Freddo.’ He looked over at Davo. ‘How about you, Davo?’

‘Yup.’

‘Why do you think I’m warning Billy about this boy?’ Freddo said. ‘Sydney is big time for overseas paedophiles. The rich ones who don’t want to shit on their own doorstep. The Queenie specialises in them sex tourists from Europe, a lot from Germany, some from the Orchid Club in America, from everywhere. It’s a bloody United Nations of perverts. She also caters for lots of the top local citizens, judges, lawyers, politicians, doctors, big business, they all know each other and she keeps it like a club. You can’t just come off the street, no way, man.’