Zero at the Bone Read online

  About the Author

  David Whish-Wilson lives in Fremantle, Western Australia, where he teaches creative writing at Curtin University. He is the author of short stories and the novels The Summons (2006) and Line of Sight (2010).

  davidwhish-wilson.com

  @DaveWhishWilson

  for Fairlie Rose

  Prologue

  Max Henderson pushed Geraldine, his red cloud kelpie, gently with his ankle. She whined to get to the fridge, unlike Bill, who sat with his tongue lolling.

  ‘Go on, get,’ said Max again, although his heart wasn’t in it. Geraldine never knew when to stop, whereas Bill the pup was always bug-eyed and happy.

  Max opened the fridge and felt the cold air on his tanned legs. He nudged Geraldine again, who barked with pleasure. Inside was the goat given to him by another Vietnam veteran, self-sufficient in milk, meat and vegies from his extensive garden. Once a year, his friend culled the boy goats and gifted Max the hacksawed legs, ribs and forequarters in bloodied shopping bags.

  Besides the goat, there was nothing in the laundry fridge but his drink, protected from the summer heat. Moselle and claret and burgundy. Max Henderson was a wealthy man, but he’d always refused Jennifer’s demands to install the air-conditioning that would make their lives more tolerable.

  ‘Dries the seed in a man . . .’ he quoted, before realising he’d spoken aloud.

  Geraldine caught something in his voice, ceased her whining, cocked her head. Max blinked, and the tears welled up. It had been like that these past months.

  He pushed away a bottle of Lagavulin, rolled it against a Highland Park. On a normal evening, Jennifer would take out his whisky a half-hour before he returned home, to let the temperature settle. He would warm the spirit further in the tumbler in his hand, while Jennifer served his dinner. Bringing the spirit to his nose, he’d gauge whether it had opened up, then add a frond of water over the back of a spoon, releasing the old-country flavours of peat and granite. Jennifer would place his dinner on the coffee table before the record player, set the needle on some Beethoven, Schubert or Bach. He would eat quickly and without pleasure, then politely thank his wife for the meal, lying to her that it was delicious. He could see the trouble that she’d gone to.

  Then he would drink more whisky and listen to music, feel himself relax into his chair, sink further from the thoughts of his day. When the bottle was finished and Jennifer was in bed, the needle crackling over the record’s end, he would sleep in the armchair. When he got this jumpy it was dangerous for Jennifer, lying in bed beside him. She only had to touch him during the night and he would strike out, or commando roll out of bed, into the wall. Safer that she slept alone.

  He pushed the fridge door shut and carried the chunks of goat into the cool night air. The sea breeze sloughed in the needles of the casuarina that circled the patio. His favourite tree, the casuarina, reminding him of childhood holidays, the property on the banks of the Donnelly River where his uncle farmed potatoes and apples and cherries, cattle on the fringes where the fences were strong.

  Nothing grew beneath a casuarina, in its carpet of thin brown needles, but there was shade enough for a boy to stare across the valley, to read Commando comics, books of travel and adventure, the iodine-tinted river snagging on islands of rock and branch, running down to the sea.

  Max tipped the bundles of meat onto the needle carpet and watched as the dogs began to chomp and tear, only Geraldine turning to catch his eye, suspicious at his silence, his liquid eyes in the darkness.

  He carried the bloody bags over to the rubbish bin and pried off the lid, feeling the humidity of bacterial decay over his hand as he dropped the bags inside. He didn’t replace the lid right away. Instead, as he had done as a child, he slipped his fingers inside the lid handle and held it up like a shield; the stick and stone battles he had fought against his cousins, and the pellet gun too, fired across the paddock, the shield protecting his face, his eyes.

  He took up the .22 rifle that leaned against the nearest casuarina, a semi-automatic that fitted easily into his other hand. He stood as he had done as a child, shield in one hand, weapon in the other; Ned Kelly or a Trojan warrior, he could never decide – the armour of the one crude and heavy, the other beautifully sculpted.

  Max Henderson walked behind Geraldine first, held the bin-lid shield above her head, protecting him from her eyes. He fired into the back of her skull, turned his wrist and aimed at Bill, who’d leapt at the ugly sound, his eyes running wet between Max and the twitching body of his elder sister.

  ‘Sorry, old mate,’ Max said, although his words didn’t come, and he fired and caught Bill in the cleft above the eyes, dropping him.

  Max Henderson sat against the warm trunk of a casuarina, the resin scent and the whispering branches and twitching shadows enclosing him as he turned the .22 upon himself, the toes of his bare feet clenching up needles, his trigger finger tightening, and his eyes upon Jennifer as he imagined her tonight, slapping mahjong tiles and reaching for her chablis, the faces of her friends warm in the candle glow, and then his muscles were tense against the coming bark of light, and he put the barrel into his right eye until the spasms of red covered the filaments of dark, and he said it one last time, ‘Sorry, old mate,’ and then it was done.

  1

  Swann tilted the page against the moonlight and tried to follow the map of wiring that described, in red and blue and green, the fine print of the manufacturer’s instructions. Specifically, how a home enthusiast might install the wireless box of the ERA2012, the latest and greatest in covert surveillance devices – ‘perfect for the professional and amateur alike’. The working parts of the bugging system were standard – a radio transmitter and a microphone – but the electronics were a bastard to the amateur eye.

  Swann folded the manual and tossed it onto the passenger floor pan, where it rested on iced-coffee cartons and old newspapers, and the piss bottle that he would soon need to use.

  The EK Holden was backed under some swamp paperbarks, not a few feet from the lapping waterline. Before Swann set his lair, he’d parked on the roadside verge and stripped sheets off the paperbarks, laid them over willow branches where he intended to hide. It was summer, but the earth was still damp where the edge of the swamp retreated inland. In winter, both Swann and his Holden would be underwater. The cracked bed of dried mud allowed him to wait within sight of the housing subdivision, while remaining concealed beneath the low branches of the modong and flooded gum that circled the swamp, or what they were now calling Bibra Lake, one of the chain of swamps that started in Fremantle and spread across the coastal plain like the beads of a necklace.

  There was a burst of static from the CB radio under the dash, then an eager voice: ‘Charlie 66 – transporting Detective Sergeant Farquarson and Detective Inspector Hogan from Bentley to Fremantle – estimate thirty minutes. Over.’

  ‘Roger that, 66.’

  ‘More like heading from the Raffles to the National, by way of the Leopold,’ Swann said aloud, because everybody talked to themselves on a stake-out. He lit a cigarette and slumped on the bench seat, closed his eyes. He could see the uniformed driver behind the wheel of Charlie 66, closing his nose to the stink of stale beer and sweat and cigars, but keen and polite to the two plainclothes detectives, pleased to have been trusted as their rostered driver for the night. Being night driver for senior Ds as they trawled around and collected their takings was the first step to making detective, everyone knew that – as long as you cleaned up their vomit, dropped them to their doors, didn’t listen to their conversation and kept your mouth shut.

  Same as it ever was.

  Swann cracked his wrist and looked at the time – gone eleven. He thought about the bottle of Grant’s lying in the floor-pan rubbish, then put it out of his mind. He’d need it to sleep, later – whenever that might be.

  He dropped his cigarette into an iced-coffee carton and slapped at a mosquito on his wrist. The subdivision was quiet. Every third or fourth house was occupied, naked bulbs pooling yellow on the front verandahs, but the rest lay dark and vacant, waiting for the grand auction to be held next week – the reason Swann was on the job. The developer who’d built the Lego-land houses and the council who’d put in the infrastructure had suffered building site thefts, as was to be expected, but with the auction so near they weren’t taking any chances.

  Someone was nicking the turf lawns off the front yards during the night. Rolling them up the evening after they’d been laid, before they even had time to sink tentative roots into the grey sand. It wasn’t only the lawns of the vacant houses, either. Families were going to bed, only to wake up and discover that the neat green lawn they’d spent the day watering in was gone. Wind kicking up the dirt and filling the house with grit and dust. The place looked more like a child’s sandpit than a slice of suburban paradise, ready to go under the hammer.

  It would be funny if Swann wasn’t so desperate for work. He had bills to pay. All three of his daughters lived at home, though they did their bit with part-time jobs. Blonny was still at school. Sarah was pregnant, ready to marry a bloke Swann didn’t really know. Louise was studying law at the sandstone university north of the river, the first in their extended family to go on from high school. Marion had returned to her original job as a community nurse, and was working full-time in the brothels and homes of the elderly in the local area.

  Swann relented and reached over and drew up the bottle of Grant’s, filled his mouth and let it drain. Felt the immediate warmth in
his belly radiate into his limbs. He’d rather be drinking whisky that came with a cork instead of a cap, but the blend would do. He’d put in twenty-six hours of surveillance over the past three nights and would bill the developers for the enquiries he’d made, the time spent trawling through the papers looking for blokes flogging lawn, of which there were many.

  Payday next week. Some crayfish on the table and summer wine for Marion. Maybe some desserts from the Italian place around the corner.

  A fox pranced over the dried mud to his right, paused to stare at him, skipped away and dove into a storm drain built into the kerbing that fronted the estate. An hour ago a couple of teenagers had scoped out the occupied houses, peering over the front fences to see what they could lift, and had gone away empty-handed.

  A new suburb was like a new frontier, edging out into the banksia woodland, and those who lived there were naturally wary – he could see that. Unlike his street in South Freo, where kids left their bikes and toys scattered across the front yards, the lawns here were tidied up, stuff packed away behind garage roller doors. Cars the same. Not even any pot plants on the porches.

  Swann saw them coming from his left, three men with wheelbarrows. They didn’t muck around. Parked their barrows on the street and started rolling up the lawn, placing them in the wheelbarrows then returning for more.

  Swann took up his binoculars and focused. Had to laugh. He thought he’d recognised the eldest from his slope-shouldered gait, the knotty legs and arms. Stan Farmer, wearing the blue terry-towelling hat he always wore, the same grotty white singlet and ball-tight stubbies, barefoot.

  It was Stan who had the contract to lay the lawn. Now he was taking it back, recycling. The three men looked pissed – all day laying the lawn, then all night pinching it back; only the pub session in between. His two sons as offsiders.

  Swann knew Farmer from his childhood – he was one of his stepfather Brian’s workmates. Took compo for an injury on the docks, then set up his own gardening business.

  Sell something, nick it back, sell it again. Oldest scam in the book. When Swann had asked about the company laying the grass he’d been told by the developer not to worry, it was being done by a mate. Stan was everybody’s mate.

  Swann put away his binoculars and relaxed into his seat. Took the cap off the bottle of Grant’s and allowed himself a good slug. They’d be at it for some time, and he wasn’t tasked with arresting the culprits, just identifying them. What he had to decide was whether he would.

  Swann’s stepfather had plenty of dodgy stevedore mates, but Stan was one of the best. An old leftie, but genuine about it. Part of that ethos meant stealing whatever wasn’t nailed down, from those who could afford it. Swann knew the rules, he’d grown up with them – never nick anything from someone worse off than you.

  Stan Farmer had often brought food when Swann was a kid and Brian was on the drink, gone for days with his pay packet, coming home when it was spent. Stan would slip Swann’s mother a few coins. The children of drunks and gamblers were often looked after by people like Stan, whose own father had been a drunk. Stan knew what it was like to be hungry.

  Stan had obviously decided that the developer was either a dickhead or could afford to be ripped off, or both. The trick for Swann was to make sure Stan didn’t thieve the lawns again. Only then would Swann get paid. He thought about it for a while, the whisky helping to pass the time.

  By four o’clock, Farmer & Sons had taken up each of the lawns on the new street and had wheeled them around the corner. Swann waited for the ignition of Stan’s old Bedford truck before starting up the Holden. He followed the Bedford with his headlights off. The truck was fully laden, a tarp thrown over the turf that was ready to be relaid come the dawn.

  Stan didn’t live too far away, on a quiet street in Coolbellup. Swann parked down from Stan’s house, watched the three tired men enter the fibro home, no lights coming on. He lit a cigarette and took up the CB handpiece. It was a crime to impersonate a police officer but Swann knew the codes – there was little chance of being caught. He put on his most youthful voice, pretending to be a uniformed constable from Kwinana station and giving a fake name. He told them about the speeding car he’d followed up the coast to a quiet Coobie street. Described how he’d peered through the kitchen window, seen the table laden with drugs and cash. Mounds of it, just sitting there. He was awaiting further orders.

  Swann cut himself off before he started laughing. He wouldn’t have long to wait. Sure enough, ten minutes later, they came from both ends of the street. Paddy wagons and unmarkeds, no sirens. He saw Charlie 66 and some of the other nightshift Ds, uniformed from Freo and stations beyond, skidding around the corner, driving up onto the lawn, taking out the letterbox, spilling out of the car. A dozen or more coppers, pushing each other aside, the door cracking down, all dignity forgotten in the race to the spoils. A fistfight between two Ds from different stations spread to some of the uniformed. Lights went on as the neighbours woke up. Swann reversed around the corner.

  The kicked-in door and dramatics would give Stan a fright, and Swann would call him later in the day. Stan would be at home to take his call, no doubt about that. Coolbellup wasn’t a good suburb to live in, lacking a front door. Swann would call the developer and tell him he’d chased off the culprits, there was no way they’d be back. Then he would get paid.

  It wouldn’t matter, though, if he wasn’t. Twenty of the state’s finest blueing on a Coobie lawn was reward enough.

  2

  Gary Quinlivan eased the antique hog around a parked Nissan Cedric and pulled in to the kerb. He balanced his weight on booted feet and kicked the stand while he set the gear to idle, slow and steady. His leathers creaked as he climbed out of the saddle, thighs aching.

  Born to ride, my arse.

  He unzipped the leather jacket and felt inside for the stock, pulled it out just enough, looking down Quarry Street as he stood tall. The usual Fremantle crowd. Workers and Abos and deros and Rajneeshees – every third person a nutcase. He didn’t mind that they looked at him. Conspicuous and invisible. Another man’s Harley. Another man’s leathers. Another man’s helmet, visor down.

  He took a deep breath and stepped back. Made his intentions clear. He was going to walk away and leave the hog running, keys in the ignition. Any other bike and it’d be gone. But not this bike. The ’46 Harley Knucklehead was well known around town, as was its owner.

  Quinlivan turned to the sliding glass doors of the R&I Bank. He wasn’t nervous. He had the green light for this one, and the next few, at least. That meant protection from Armed Rob, as long as nobody got hurt. Protection from the toe-cutters too, those bastards who hunted other robbers, assuming any of them were smart enough to hunt him down.

  He went straight over to the counter. Sawn-off shottie at present arms, on the trot. Hearing himself shouting. Hogan’s words in his ear – Put the fear into them, son. Frightened people don’t remember too good. He struck a suit who’d stared too long, knocked him on his fat arse, cheek gashed and eye swelling. Adrenalin lifted him, flying along. Christ, he was enjoying this.

  The bunnies behind the counter were stashing the canvas tote bag as fast as their arms could move. Marked bills and all, he didn’t care. Armed Rob would get him the numbers on those. Still shouting. Each of the bunnies flinching at his every word. One of them crying.

  Hang on. I saw that.

  One of the tellers, the youngest, a thin chick with permed hair and green eyes, had backed out of view of the security camera. Was stuffing wads down her blouse. Looked him straight in the face. Businesslike.

  He’d have to watch that one. She had no fear. She’d remember.

  He took a mental picture of her face. He’d get her details from Armed Rob, after they’d done the interviews. Visit her one day. Help her spend some of that money, rightfully his. In the meantime, good luck to you, sweetheart. Happy birthday from Gary. Twenty-five years old today.

  The bag was full. Time to make his exit, leaping over the whimpering mugs on the way to the door. Still flying. The hog still running. Kickstand tucked. First gear out into the traffic. Up yours to a bus driver.