thinking about old Pat Carson and the crippled QC, the Carson brothers arguing in the library. Then the mind sideslipped without warning to Corin McCall, to the little garden I’d had when I was a child, to the day my mother told me I was forbidden to go next door, could not go next door ever again, could not water my garden. But everything I’d planted came up. I knew because I climbed onto the garage roof and from up there I could see my little garden, saw the peas and the pumpkins like bombs, the tops of carrots. And I saw the flowers.
Orlovsky came in, pleased, took his beer in his long-fingered hand, drank. ‘She was in a pub, very friendly. Enjoyed our encounter, she said. Mostly these balloon heads go home and eat cereal in front of the computer. I might ring her again some time.’
‘Published where?’
‘Something called
‘Sounds like the police force. How would you get the list of subscribers?’
He looked at me, understood. ‘They put the thing on the web after the subscribers get it, the whole world can read it. Shot in a million, digger.’
‘How?’
‘Well, I don’t imagine these people are going to great lengths to hide their subscribers. There’s probably a way to get the list. An unethical way.’
‘Can you do it now?’
Orlovsky wiped his lips with the back of his hand. ‘You’re encouraging me to engage in unethical behaviour?’
I said, ‘No. Just to get the list.’
It took him about twenty-five minutes, then he called me over. ‘They’re sorted by postcode for the US, otherwise by country,’ he said. ‘This is Australia, about thirty subscribers, I count nine in Victoria, exactly the people you’d expect: two at RMIT, two at Defence Intelligence, three at Monash, one at Deakin, one at the eye and ear hospital. Not people working on games, I’d say. Not officially.’
‘Depending on what’s in the post, check them out tomorrow,’ I said.
Later, I showered in the slate-floored chamber where water could be commanded to come from above and below, from every side at any temperature and velocity. Then, in the big, pale room, I climbed between linen sheets that smelled of sunlight and went to sleep, instantly. And in the dog watch of the night, the dream came, the dream that was a version of reality but in which I floated freely between points of view, now myself, now a spectator.
It always began in the room in the sad little house, the odour of lifetimes held in the layers of carpet and underfelt, in the old newspapers down there on the floorboards. Seventy or eighty years or more of dust and spilt food, spilt liquids, ground-in coal ash, the urine of dozens of long-dead cats. ‘We’re going out now, Dave,’ I say. ‘Get up.’
He looks at me, wild face gone, years gone, a sad and chastened boy now. ‘They’ll kill me,’ he says.
‘No they won’t. I’ll be with you.’
‘Kill me,’ he says. ‘Won’t let me live.’
‘Not while I’m with you.’
‘Look after me?’ he says in a tiny voice.
‘Yes. I’ll look after you.’
We go down the passage. I feel the old sprung floorboards bounce, feel the rotten stumps move. Dave is ahead of me. At the front door, I say, ‘Open it.’
He opens it, stands, looks back at me. And I am seeing myself from outside, looking into the dim doorway, seeing myself, shirtless, sweat in the hollow of my throat.
‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘It’s okay, I’m with you.’
He puts out a hand to me. I sigh and take it and we go out onto the verandah together, grown men holding hands.
It is dark, no moon, no lights on in the street. I am straining to see beyond the low hedge and front gate.
At the steps, the spotlight comes on, night sun, impossibly bright light. Dave jumps, startled, lets go of my hand, turns, tries to hug me, bury his head in my shoulder.
I hear the sound and I feel the shot hit him, feel it through his bones, feel it through his arms clinging to me.
‘Oh Jesus, no,’ I say, holding him, feeling the strength leave his body, having to hold him up, feel his warm blood on my face, taste it on my lips, go to my knees with him.
And I hear myself saying, ‘No, Dave, not me, not me.’
Then I am myself, looking into his eyes, seeing the reproach in them, no anger, just hurt and betrayal. ‘You knew,’ he says and he begins to cough, to cough up blood.
I see myself lay him down, stand up, see the blood on my bare upper body, my hands. Police are coming from everywhere. In the gate, Hepburn appears, black overalls, Kevlar vest, Fritz helmet.
I walk towards him.
He backs away. ‘
Frank, the bloke was…’ I take two big strides, get to him, grab him by the throat with both hands. I feel the squeeze, my thumbs digging into his windpipe, my will to kill him. He tries to spear my arms apart with his palms pressed together but I butt him in the face, hear the sound the cartilage in his nose makes as it is crushed.
Then I woke up, the dream always ended there, woke me. I got up, went downstairs, found Orlovsky’s no- name cigarettes, sat in the dark and smoked and brooded. Waiting for the light.
32
Lauren Geary stood in the library doorway holding the envelope, uncertain of whom to give it to. It had been delivered just after 10 a.m. and brought from the gatehouse by a waiting security man.
We had been in the library since 9.30 a.m., Tom and Barry, Stephanie, unable to meet my eyes, Graham Noyce. Pat Carson was next door, waiting to be told. Orlovsky declined to be present. ‘I hate stuff like this,’ he said.
‘Frank,’ said Tom.
He was in his position, standing behind Stephanie. This morning, he was smoking cigarettes, had smoked three while we waited.
My duty. I made the demand, I could tell them the result. I had no quarrel with that, only regret and fear.
I took the envelope from Lauren Geary, got a finger in behind the seal, ripped it open, took out the contents, a photograph, not a big print, a 4 x 3, something like that.
I turned it over.
Anne Carson, Anne Carson’s head above the copy of the previous day’s
But alive.
‘She’s alive,’ I said.
‘Thank God.’ Tom closed his eyes, brought his hands up and made a steeple with his fingers, put his forehead to his fingertips for a second. Then he touched Stephanie’s shoulder, a father’s touch.
‘Tell your grandfather,’ he said and held out a hand for the photograph.
‘Good call, Frank,’ said Barry, not loudly, moving to look at the photograph.
‘She looks fine,’ Tom said. ‘She’s okay, we can get her out of this. Get her out. Yes.’
