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  *

  Lee spent the morning tuning up the Ford, adjusting the

  timing by ear and changing the oil and plugs, disassembling the carburettor and changing the gaskets, adjusting the fuel volume with a Phillips-head screwdriver until the engine

  sounded right. Police helicopters patrolled the skies, coming over the suburb in fifteen-minute intervals. At a nearby army salvage Lee bought a second-hand Vietnam-era swag and

  hoochie. He bought an air force greatcoat and a thick beanie.

  A pair of boots and some cheap sunglasses. All in his father’s size.

  Lee topped up the long-range tanks at the local servo,

  buying snacks and filling up the plastic water jerries at the tap beside the toilet. Waiting in line to pay for the fuel, he noticed that the two daily newspapers had put out special editions.

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  The man and woman ahead of him in the line talked about

  the murder, watching as a police cruiser swung through the

  pumps, both coppers looking at every car. Lee pulled his cap down low. He didn’t know whether they were looking for him.

  Outside, he locked the new gear in the steel box on the Ford’s back tray, strapped the jerries to the racks and headed south of the river.

  The boxing gym was empty at the rear of the video store.

  Lee parked the truck out front and walked down the sloping

  drive with his bag of wraps and Dunlop Volleys. He let himself in with the key and stretched in front of the giant mirrors.

  He worked his jaw loose where he’ d been clenching through

  the long night. He’ d kept himself busy during the day but

  had felt increasingly sick in his stomach. His limbs were stil heavy with the delayed shock of what he’ d done, what he’ d helped make happen. He put himself through the regime that

  Gerry had worked out for him, doubling the intensity and

  duration – the warm-up of stretches, then free weights, then the speedball and floor-to-ceiling, then three-minute rounds on the heavy bag. Because neither Gerry nor Frank was there, he filled in the combinations with side and snap kicks, the sound of his feet making a fierce slap on the leather between the flurries of punches.

  When he couldn’t stand any longer, Lee sat on his haunches, then lay back on the cold cement. His muscles throbbed and

  his heart pumped behind the cold thrumming of the hammer

  in his veins. He closed his eyes and slept.

  He awoke with a start. The gym was dark and empty. He

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  didn’t know how long he’ d been asleep. He showered in the

  grimy change room and climbed into his jeans and boots.

  Outside, he stood in the sun and smoked a cigarette and

  felt the sunshine dry the skin on his face and shoulders and belly. He put on his best shirt and locked the gym. He left his wraps strung over a pole beside the door. Somebody else could have them.

  It was nearly three o’clock and he got stuck in traffic

  crossing the river. All day he’ d avoided turning on the radio, knowing what the lead story and talkback discussion would

  be turning over, endlessly and repetitively. With the radio silent and the smack in his blood, he tried to pretend that nothing had changed in the world.

  He’ d made the right decision, but wasn’t sure of the order of events. After his father was released, Lee had decided to go to the police with what he knew, but as an anonymous

  source. The problem was that he didn’t have any evidence.

  There was nothing linking Frankie to the robberies or the

  murder. He didn’t know Brad’s real identity, or where the

  old man lived. Even if Lee turned himself in, there was no

  guarantee that he’ d be believed, or that he wouldn’t take the rap alone. He needed proof of what had happened, and there

  wasn’t much time.

  *

  He got to Emma’s school five minutes late. Already the

  footpaths were crowded with students, chatting and wander-

  ing toward the bus stands. Lee parked across the road, let the 204

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  sea breeze blow through the cab, dappled sunlight playing

  across his forearms.

  It was only when he realised that he might have missed

  Emma that he understood. Turned the ignition and put the

  truck in gear. Her father was right – Lee was poison in her life.

  He was a fool to want to see her, to say goodbye.

  One last goodbye – an opportunity to memorise her face

  and eyes and hair. The sound she made when she laughed,

  when she feigned anger and teased him.

  To hold that in his mind, and not let it fade, as his mother’s face had faded.

  Lee pulled behind the first bus and saw her, the moment

  she saw him. She was seated at the back of the bus. She blew him a kiss. Some of her friends looked at her, and then at him.

  She pointed down the bus, indicating that she’ d get off at the next stop, and then stood and pulled the leather strap and

  staggered out of his vision.

  The bus slowed, and pulled in to the kerb.

  Lee kept driving, putting his foot down, losing the churning in his guts and the meaning of his tears within the swerving brought about by his hard acceleration. He only slowed when he skidded to avoid colliding with a woman in a Commodore,

  turning across him, three kids in the back seat. He drove

  careful y after that, not thinking of anything but letting it build. He reached the Osborne Park depot just as two of the True West tow trucks pulled into the lot. They didn’t see him, and he drove further down the street and parked. He walked

  along the lake’s shore with his cap pulled low, then cut back to 205

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  the road. Danny Hislop was still there, parked in his Falcon, three empty iced-coffee cartons and countless butts tipped

  into the low gutter. Lee clocked that the door was unlocked and yanked it open and reached for the dash and grabbed

  the walkie-talkie and flung it behind him. Hislop’s seat was reclined, and Lee kept one foot on the street and straddled him like a lover, started laying down forearm blows, choking him with the other wrist against his throat, punch after punch until Hislop’s eyes rolled and he went out.

  Lee ran his fingers through Danny’s pockets and extracted

  two hundred and forty dol ars cash. He took the Smith and

  Wesson .38 revolver that was at Danny’s feet. He kicked the door shut and looked around. Nobody had seen him. He

  walked back to the lake and tossed in the revolver while five black swans angled out of the western sky, feet extended to brake them as they hit the water and began to glide.

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  21.

  Lee had never seen any building like the Supreme Court. Tal reeded columns dominated the entrance, diminishing even

  the peacock confidence of the dark-suited lawyers going about their business, hair barbered to white stripes at the backs of their necks.

  All the flags throughout the city were flying at half-mast, including the national and state flags of the court.

  Lee kept his cap pulled low and his eyes keen. He was

  unarmed, the Luger locked in his truck, presuming that he’ d be searched going into the court. There were no Knights that he could see. Neither was there any visible police presence, every copper out on the streets, making a show of force.

  Frankie had told him that the lawyers would jaw through

  the morning, completing their opening statements. It was

  after lunch now, and around the time his father was due to

  be trotted out. Lee’s plan was to make himself visible at the back of the courtroom, and then depart. Wait for his father 207

  DAVID W
HISH-WILSON

  at the rear exit to the courthouse. Hear what his father’s next move was. Learn how to get in contact, once his new identity was confirmed. The Ford was parked a block away, in case his father could leave with him.

  Lee waited at the foot of the stairs and watched the crowd

  file into the courtroom. It was musty and hot inside the

  building and he began to sweat. Still no familiar faces among the crowds. Nobody meeting his eye. Nobody watching him.

  Outside the courtroom was a framed picture of the dead

  Governor, back when he was a Supreme Court judge. A vase

  of flowers beneath the picture stand. The judge’s wig slightly askew, his red robes gathered around the white bib at his

  throat, a warm smile on his face.

  A uniformed arm reached outside the courtroom door and

  began to pull it shut. Lee slipped through in time. The guard looked him up and down, but there was no search, no metal

  detector.

  The court was packed. Red carpet and yellow wal s. Wooden

  benches lined with men in black robes at the front. A wooden balcony with an open door where the jury sat. Wood panelling behind the judge, looking down at the microphone, a gold-painted crest statue above his head, words in Latin.

  An empty balcony to the judge’s left.

  Lee stood at the back of the courtroom, avoiding the guard’s eyes, who was indicating that he should sit with the others in the twenty rows of wooden bench seats.

  Now Lee saw them: Danny Hislop and three other Knights,

  right at the front.

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  Danny’s face, which must be a mess, hidden from view.

  Directly in front of them, wearing a dark blue suit, the

  great bald head of Greg Downs, conferring with his lawyer in whispers.

  The judge began a preamble but Lee kept his eyes on Danny

  Hislop and the others. None of them moved, or talked. They

  stared ahead, at the judge.

  There was a murmur. In the first row before Lee a young

  man got out a sketchpad and three pencils, put one in his

  mouth.

  ‘… Jack Brendon Southern.’

  Lee’s father emerged from behind the door in the wood-

  panelled wal . He wore the same prison greens, scab of grey beard on his chin. Black bags under his eyes, searching for and finding Lee, blinking and pretending he hadn’t seen.

  Lee’s father focused instead on Hislop and the others, trying for a withering stare, but failing. It’ d only been a few days since their meeting in the Canning Vale prison, but his father had deteriorated even more. There was something smaller about

  him in the presence of the overt symbols of legal power, with his bent head and skinny arms, his gaunt face. The tan gone from his skin, now a pallid grey colour. Shoulders rounded

  and left hand moving over his right knuckle, repetitively, a slight tremble there.

  ‘State your name for the jury.’

  Lee’s father straightened his back, tried to project. ‘My name is Jack Brendon Southern.’

  The supergrass.

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  The gravel gone from his voice.

  More murmuring from the floor.

  ‘Silence, please.’

  ‘And for the jury, Mr Southern, please state your position

  in the organisation that has been hitherto referred to as the Southern Knights, or the White Knights, or the Knights.’

  Lee’s father began to ramble. Lee knew that voice. It was the voice at the end, after the week, sometimes eight, nine, ten days of sleeplessness, standing in the hall looking out at the night, rocking on his heels and muttering, awake but asleep, eyes wide shut.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Southern.’

  The judge looked pitiful y at Lee’s father.

  Nobody had ever regarded him with that expression.

  His father saw it too, opened his jaw wide, blinked, started again on repetitively working his knuckle into the palm of his other hand, as involuntary as the watering of his eyes.

  ‘Mr Southern. We have heard from the Crown Prosecutor

  that you are prepared to name the person responsible for the homicide of Brady Downs. Do you see that person in the

  courtroom today?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Then can you please, for the benefit of the jury, point to that person, and address them by name.’

  Lee’s father said nothing. Leaned forward. Closed his eyes.

  ‘Mr Southern.’

  Lee’s father raised a trembling finger, but he didn’t point it at Greg Downs. He pointed instead at Danny Hislop, gave

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  him a knowing smile before turning back to the judge.

  ‘ I did it.’

  ‘I beg your pardon? Mr Southern –’

  Now he stood. ‘ I did it. I murdered Brady Downs!’

  Shouts from the floor. The prosecutor stood from his bench.

  Greg Downs’ lawyers recognising what that meant. The judge

  banging his gavel. Danny Hislop and the Knights, standing as one.

  ‘Be seated!!’

  Greg Downs was turned, reaching across the divider to the

  other Knights, Lee catching the expression on his face, and then, as if in slow motion, Lee saw the gun in Danny Hislop’s hand, pointed at his father. Heard Greg Downs’ voice, a

  shriek above the cacophonous shouting, the hardwood walls

  locking in the swirling sound, punctuated by the banging of the wooden gavel, Downs’ shout of ‘No! Danny, there’s no

  need –’

  But too late.

  The familiar percussion and muzzle flame, the echo of the

  fierce bang.

  The screams.

  The crowd moving like choppy water, falling over each

  other to get out of the room.

  Danny Hislop charging through them, over them.

  Lee’s father, slumped in his chair, the rear cushion blown

  apart where the bullet had passed through his chest.

  Lee looked up to see Hislop raising the .38 snubnose, taking aim at him, his blood-red swollen eyes and broken mouth,

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  opening to shout, tackled from behind by a guard, the gun

  discharging into the carpet. More guards dragging out Lee’s father, his green sweatshirt soaked in blood.

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  22.

  The Tactical Response Group arrived in their dark vans,

  windows blocked out. They corralled the crowd in the

  forecourt while detectives in tan suits took details from a line of witnesses. Lee watched the rest of the Knights being taken away in a paddy wagon. The television crews darted around

  the edges, moving from witness to witness, microphones

  thrust into stunned faces.

  Lee walked out of the Supreme Court gardens and skirted

  the park, re-emerged at the rear of the courthouse that was blocked by a line of police cars and men with shotguns. He

  wanted to see his father. He wanted to see him alive.

  Two ambulances with strobing lights were waiting. The

  ambulance drivers entered the courthouse with a trolley. The police officers covered the rear exit. Lee thought about what had just happened, and what it meant.

  His father had admitted to the murder, but his father had

  full immunity.

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  His plan all along, perhaps.

  Lee’s father couldn’t have committed the murder, because

  he wasn’t around when Downs had gone missing. Lee and his

  father had been out in the bush near Paynes Find, changing

  water stores and swapping over foodstuffs in an abandoned

  mine, rappelling dow
n into the red shaft framed with hand-

  cut boughs of she-oak, checking the ammunition and weapon

  caches in ten different locations all the way back to Geraldton.

  It was something they did every July.

  Downs was last seen at a Geraldton nightclub the same

  night they were camped beside a dry riverbed out near Cue.

  Lee had no idea why his father had admitted to the murder,

  except that he wasn’t the kind to settle scores in a courthouse.

  Lee smoked a cigarette, his hands trembling.

  It was plain to him now – the direct line of stupidity and

  malice that led to this point.

  That he was part of.

  Danny Hislop had murdered Emma’s cousin, David. Lee

  had bashed Hislop. Hislop’s father had demanded that Lee

  be excommunicated from the Knights. The Downs brothers

  had been swayed against it by Lee’s father. Brady Downs had died as a result, so that Jack Southern might be framed for the murder. Lee’s father had got himself ahead of the curve. Had himself arrested on a weak charge, made deals with whoever

  he needed to – the state, the APM – to keep himself safe.

  And now, what Lee’s father had said under oath.

  What it meant.

  Greg Downs would walk free.

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  The ambulance medics wheeled out the trolley, down the

  ramp and onto the gravel. Lee felt the tension leave him in a hard shudder that started at the base of his spine and finished at the back of his neck. His father was alive. Oxygen mask on his face. Eyes open, blinking, and looking around.

  Lee’s father would remain in jail, on the existing charge

  of possession. No new identity for him. They’ d throw the

  book. Whoever had made the immunity deal would need the

  redress, to save face.

  But it wasn’t a serious charge. He would be free within the year, either way.