The Broken Shore (20 page)

He saw himself coming down the pier—slit-eyed, shoulders set, hair being whipped around a stone face. Hopgood was next, pious-looking There was something of the priest about his face, the mask of sadness and sincerity assumed for an occasion. ‘Always bad to find a body,’ Hopgood said. ‘We have no other comment at this time.’

The reporter said: ‘Donny Coulter’s mother, Mrs Lorraine Coulter, spoke out tonight about police treatment of her son, missing since Tuesday.’

Donny’s mother standing in front of a brown brick veneer house with a threadbare lawn, concrete wheel strips running to a carport. ‘They hound him. Ever since the bail. They come by every night, put the spotlight on the house, right on Donny’s window, they sit out there. He went to sleep in the back, he couldn’t stand it no more. Drivin us all mad, Donny had enough to worry about, the boys the cops killed, all that…’

Cashin went to bed without eating and fell asleep instantly, did not wake until the dogs complained and the cold world was fully lit, no cloud in the sky.

REBB HAD the square redgum corner posts in, buttressed with diagonals notched into the strainers. Star posts were lying along the line of the new fence. In the middle was another strainer post.

‘Bern give you a hand?’ said Cashin.

‘Didn’t need a hand. Not much of a fence.’

‘By my standards, it’s much of a fence. What now?’

‘Get the stars in. Line em up.’

‘We’ll need string.’

‘Don’t need string. Eye’s good enough.’

‘My eye?’

‘Any prick’s eye.’

Cashin squinted over the corner post, moving Rebb back and forth until he held each star post in line with the three strainer posts. Rebb used a sledgehammer to tap in the posts, held it in one hand as if it had no weight. Then he marked a pole with the height of the strainers and sent Cashin down the line to chalk the height on the lower part of each star post. Rebb came behind him, hammering the posts until they reached the mark. He swung with a fluid grace, a full overhead swing, no sign of effort, hit the small target cleanly, never a mishit. The sound was a dull ring and it went across the valley and came back, sad somehow.

After that they strung wire, four strands, bottom strand first, working from the middle strainer post, using a wire strainer, a
dangerous-looking device. Rebb showed Cashin the knot used to tie off the bowstring-taut wire around the post.

‘What’s that called?’

‘What?’

‘The knot, the wire knot.’

‘What’s it matter?’

‘Well,’ said Cashin, ‘no names, the world’s all grunts and sign language.’

Rebb gave him a long sidelong look. ‘Called a strainer hitch, you’ve got no use for that name. Have a look for mine?’

Cashin hesitated. You didn’t talk about things like this. ‘Your name? Had a look, yeah. That’s my job.’

‘Find anything?’

‘Not yet. Covered your tracks well.’

Rebb laughed. It was the first time.

They worked. The dogs came, interested, bored, left, other things to do. When they were finished, it was almost mid-afternoon, no food eaten. Cashin and Rebb stood at the high point and looked down the line. It ran true, the posts straight, the low light singing silver off the new wire.

‘Pretty good fence,’ said Cashin.

He felt pride, it had not often been given to him to feel pride in work. He was tired and hurting in the pelvis and up his back but he felt happy, a kind of happy.

‘It’s a fence,’ said Rebb. He was looking away. ‘This the new neighbour?’

Cashin didn’t recognise the woman coming down the grassy slope. Her hair was loose and she was in jeans and a leather jacket. She lost her footing a few times, narrowly avoided falling on her backside.

‘I’ll take the stuff up,’ said Rebb. ‘Milking time.’

Helen Castleman.

Cashin walked down the fence to meet her.

‘What’s this?’ she said, out of breath. She looked scrubbed. It made him aware of how sweaty he was.

‘Just fixing the fence,’ said Cashin. ‘Replacing the fence. I’m not asking you to pay half.’

‘Generous of you. I understand the creek to be the boundary.’

‘The creek?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s not so. Who told you that?’

‘The agent.’

‘The agent? A lawyer relied on the agent?’

Helen’s cheekbones coloured, an autumn shade.

‘Of all the people you might rely on,’ said Cashin, ‘the real estate agent…’

‘That’ll do, thank you. Having a good run, aren’t you, Mr Cashin? Feeling pretty smart. You drive the poor frightened kid to suicide, now you don’t have to make any case, he’s made the case for you. And everyone else’s dead, all suspects dead. Because you and your fucking mates killed them.’

She turned and began the climb, slipping.

All day, seeing a boy on the Dangar Steps, a brown boy in cheap jeans, nylon anorak, broken runners, standing on a crumbling limestone ledge, the salt spray rising like a mist to bathe him, looking down at the churning water.

‘Listen,’ he said, ‘give me a break, it’s…’

Her head came around, her hair swung. ‘You don’t deserve a break and I’ll have a survey done, we’ll see about this fucking boundary.’

Cashin watched her climb the slope. She had a few slips, a few slides. Half-way, she turned and looked down at him.

‘What are you looking at?’ she shouted. ‘Why don’t you just fuck off?’

In the shower, thinking about what he should have said, the phone rang. No towel. He went, dripping.

‘Draw a line under this then,’ said Villani. ‘They switched off Bourgoyne. We’re never going to know exactly what happened that night.’

‘Exactly?’ said Cashin. He was shivering, the place was a giant fridge. ‘We never had the vaguest fucking idea.’

‘The watch, Joe, the watch. Not found in a lucky dip at the church fete. Someone took it off an old bloke…anyway, what the fuck, it’s over.’

Cashin wanted to say more but he caught himself, his gaze fell on his shrivelled penis, lying in the wet crinkly hair like something in a tidal pool.

‘The harassment stuff,’ he said, ‘there’s something about that…’

‘Cromarty should have been purged long ago,’ said Villani. ‘They had the chance after the deaths in custody. But no, they moved the boss and put in a cleanskin, made his name in Traffic, Traffic dynamo. And presto, six months later Hopgood and his cocksucker offsiders were running the show again.’

‘I’m not happy,’ said Cashin.

‘Nor am I,’ said Villani. ‘I’m at home. They say I’m never here. That’s right, that’s the way it is. So I make an effort tonight to eat with my kids and there’s no one here. How’s that?’

‘I have no sympathy. Go back to gangland. I’m always home alone.’

In the night Cashin woke, tried to hypnotise himself with the measured breathing, the words to stifle thought. He was falling when he saw the Kettle, the clouds parting, a full moon lighting the world silver-grey, huge waves coming in, fretting at the top, exploding through the keyhole, pure untrammelled murderous power.

CASHIN ROSE early, unease in him like a stomach ache, took the dogs on the long route. They crossed the creek high up and walked back on the path below the shining new fence, on Cashin land, now demarcated.

After they had all breakfasted, he loaded the dogs and set off for his mother’s house. Near the coast, he took the road that ran between the two volcanic hills, their caldera lakes home to swans, ducks, swamp hens, wicked-eyed bickering gulls by the hundreds. The lakes were never known to dry up. Cashin thought about the swims in them when he was living with the Doogues. They rode out on bicycles, five or six boys. They waded out in the black water, cold mud oozing through their toes, shivering on the hottest days. They walked around the dead tree trunks, avoided the branches that lay almost submerged like big snakes, green with moss and slime, streaked with birdshit.

At a shout, they would all throw themselves in and swim. In the middle, they crowded together, treading water, feeling the black and sucking deep beneath them. The idea was to dive and come up with a handful of grey mud. But no one wanted to be the first. Eventually, the boldest duck-dived. They would wait for him to come up before anyone else went down. Once Bern dived and swam away under water, rose silently behind a dead tree.

They waited for him to appear. They looked at one another. Then they panicked. Cashin remembered that, no signal given, they all
made for the shore, swam for their lives, abandoned Bern.

When they were standing in the shallows, Bern shouted: ‘Cowardly bastards. How’d you know I wasn’t stuck down there?’

The news came on.

A routine patrol? Through the Daunt on the night they found Donny Coulter? What kind of station commander didn’t tell them to keep out of the Daunt?

His mother and Harry were having breakfast in the kitchen, muesli and fruit, eating out of lopsided purple bowls.

‘Had breakfast?’ said his mother.

‘Not yet.’

‘Probably nothing to eat in that ruin.’ Sybil got up and filled another bowl with muesli from a glass jar, poured the remains of the tin of mixed fruit into it.

Cashin sat down. She put the bowl in front of him, brought the
milk jug closer. He poured and ate. It was surprisingly edible.

‘Michael rang,’ she said. ‘He’s fine, very chipper.’

Harry nodded. ‘Very chipper.’ He was a repeater, it was his role in the marriage.

‘Good,’ said Cashin.

‘An accident,’ said Sybil. ‘All that stress he’s under in the job. So high-powered, it’s not a good life.’

Cashin’s eyes were on the bowl. What were the black bits? Pips?

‘He’s coming down soon to have a bit of a rest.’

‘Bit of a rest,’ said Harry.

‘Chance for you to spend some time together,’ said his mother. ‘He was very warm about you, very appreciative.’

‘I love being appreciated,’ said Cashin. ‘It’s so rare in my life.’

Harry laughed but he caught Sybil’s eye and he choked it, gazed into his bowl.

‘Probably been over-appreciated,’ said Sybil. ‘The love and care that’s been bestowed on you.’

Cashin thought about drunk Sybil in the caravan, the nights of waiting for her to come back. He ate a piece of peach and a piece of something else, pinkish. The same taste.

‘Disgraceful business in the Daunt last night,’ said Sybil. ‘It’s turning into Israel, police provoking the dispossessed into violence. Manufacture of deviance.’

‘Manufacture of what?’

‘Of deviance,’ said Sybil. ‘You’re part of that. You produce the justification for your existence.’

‘Me?’

‘The machinery of control. You’re an unselfconscious part of it.’

‘You get this from uni?’

‘I’ve always felt it. Uni gives you the intellectual back-up.’

‘I think I could use some intellectual back-up. What’s this course called?’

‘Finish your food, I don’t want that muesli wasted. It’s organic, cost the earth, I bought it at the farmers’ market.’

‘The farmers’ market,’ said Harry, and smiled, he had the smile of a mother’s boy.

Sybil came with him to the vehicle. The dogs went berserk. ‘They don’t like me,’ she said.

‘Barking’s not a judgment on you. It’s just barking.’

Sybil kissed him on the chin. ‘Keep in touch with Michael, will you, dear,’ she said. ‘Ring him. Promise?’

‘Why didn’t you tell me Dad killed himself?’

She took a pace back, clutched herself. ‘He didn’t. He fell. He slipped and fell.’

‘Where?’

He saw water in her eyes.

‘Fishing,’ she said.

‘Where?’

‘Where?’

‘Yes. Where?’

‘At the Kettle.’

Cashin didn’t say anything. He got into the vehicle and drove, didn’t wave goodbye.

JUST AFTER noon, on his way back from Cromarty, the photographs of Tommy Cashin’s house finally copied, Cashin registered that he was near the turnoff that led to the Bourgoyne place.

He slowed, turned, went up the hill. There was no thought behind it. He could turn left at the top, take the road around the hill, go through Kenmare, say hello to Bern.

He turned right, went around the bends and through the gates of The Heights.

He had no idea why he was doing this except that it seemed the way to close the business, where it began. He parked and walked around the house, clockwise. At least a dozen cops would have walked the south side, in a line, moving in slow-motion, studying the ground, picking up twigs, looking under leaves.