‘Not clever,’ said Cam.
‘No, well, the whole thing’s not clever. This car blocks Sandy near The Strand, the other one’s behind him, his door’s locked, the animal smashes the window with a sledgehammer, one of those little ones, y’know?’
We waited.
‘Sandy’s got the money in this bag, it’s a kid’s schoolbag. He just offers it to the bloke. No, they pull him out…’
She sniffed, found a tissue, wiped her nose. ‘Anyway, the bastards bashed him.’
‘How bad?’ said Harry.
Jean looked at the table. ‘This woman from across the road hadn’t come out, she’s a nurse, he’d a died there. Rib punctured his lung, jaw broken, nose broken.’
She looked at us. ‘He was offerin them the bag.’
We sat in silence.
‘Cops say what?’ Harry asked.
Jean looked at the table again, shrugged. ‘Nothin. Lookin for them.’
More silence.
‘You can say anythin,’ Harry said.
She sighed. ‘Dave’s on the piss before lunch, smokin again. Eight years off em, back to sixty a day. Doesn’t sleep. I’m scared. We’ve had it now, goin down the tubes here for three, four years. More. Bloody owners. First they love the trainer, then the trainer’s ratshit, horse’s better than the trainer…’
‘What about the horse?’ said Cam.
‘Took him off us. The next day. The one bastard rings up, says they’ve decided they want him with a more experienced trainer. Jesus, I could’ve…’
She caught herself, put a hand on top of Harry’s, rubbed it. ‘Last luck we had was with you. Thought that was the start of big things.’
Harry put a hand on hers, briefly, a hand sandwich.
Jean got up, galvanised, brisk. ‘Shit, you don’t want to hear this. More tea? I can make fresh.’
We shook our heads.
She made the gesture of helplessness. ‘Well, that’s all.’
Silence. The labrador came into view in the orchard, stately walk, tree to tree, the honorary colonel inspecting the regiment. One tree offended him and he peed on it.
Harry looked at his Piaget, a slim instrument that cost as much as a good used car, put his palms together. ‘Bit of urgency creepin in,’ he said, getting up.
We all stood up.
I said, ‘See you outside in a minute.’
They left and I turned to Jean.
‘The blokes Sandy recruited. Locals?’
‘From the pub in town. The Railway.’
‘Jean,’ I said, ‘I need the names and addresses of everyone — owners, owners’ relatives, Sandy’s blokes, everyone this thing touched, don’t leave anyone out. Have you got a fax?’
She nodded. I gave her my card.
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Today,’ she said. ‘Tonight.’
We went outside. Jean hugged Harry, kissed him on the cheek, shook hands with us, some moisture in her eyes.
On the way back to the city, on the tollway, after the brief rolling bumps of the cattle grid, the trip up the hard, lined track, on the made road, the freeway, Harry said, head back on the leather rest, ‘This would not be a personal problem, am I right?’
‘Could be personal,’ Cam said. ‘Could be local, could be global.’
‘Put on Willy,’ said Harry. ‘Haven’t had any Willy for a while.’
‘This Sandy,’ I said. ‘He put the team together. In a pub.’
‘Oh, sweet Jesus,’ said Cam.
Long before they dropped me it was night, Friday night, dripping.
19
I drove the Youth Club to the Prince after the game, very little said on the way. Very little needed to be said. A supporter near us had screamed most of it at the coach at three-quarter time, two sentences:
Lookitthescoreboardyafuckenmongrel. Seewhatya fuckendonetous.
Us. Done to us. The coach wasn’t one of us. Coaches were transients and carpetbaggers. And only a few players in any era in any club ever became one of us. The supporters were us. They were the investors. Gave the club their hearts, dreams, they expected a return. Every game was an annual general meeting.
‘That Docklands stadium,’ said Eric Tanner. ‘That’s not a proper footy ground.’
‘Like playin in a circus tent,’ said Wilbur. ‘It’s not right.’
I prepared to reverse park. It was going to be tight.
‘Loadin zone,’ said Wilbur Ong. ‘No can do.’
‘No can do?’ said Eric Tanner. ‘No can do? It’s bloody Satdee, no bloody loadin goin on.’
‘Not the point,’ said Wilbur, calmly. ‘Loadin zone.’
I went in, put a back wheel on the pavement. I didn’t care. ‘Well,’ said Wilbur. ‘A lawyer, Jack, expect to find a bit of respect for the law in a lawyer.’
‘Last place you’d find it,’ I said. ‘Look elsewhere. It’s a loading zone. Am I unloading you lot on the Prince or not?’
Wilbur sniffed, faith in the law’s majesty undiminished. We departed the vehicle, burst into the Prince in a low-key way.
It was a low-technology evening. In residence, six silent people and a dog. The cybermeisters were hanging out elsewhere this evening, perhaps at The Green Hill in South Melbourne, sipping a Green Hill pinot noir, flipping through the Green Hill cookbook.
Stan came over, very much the happy hangman today. ‘My,’ he said, ‘you boys really know how to pick a team. Yes, I take my hat off to you. These Sainters, they could be the Roys come back in another jumper…’
‘This place still serve beer?’ said Eric Tanner. ‘Mind you, there’s some says you haven’t bin able to get a beer here since Morrie retired. Not what you’d normally call a beer.’
‘Touchy today. Beer comin up.’
When we had our beers in front of us, had a sip, wiped off our moustaches, Norm O’Neill, next to me, said quietly, not a register I knew he commanded, ‘Well, made up me mind, Jack.’ He looked to his left, at the others. ‘Speakin for me, that’s all.’
I didn’t say anything. There wasn’t any defence to mount for the Saints. This was execution day.
‘Yes,’ said Norm. ‘Reckon I’m stickin with the team. Can’t give up on a side that’s so bad. Be inhuman, like leavin a hurt dog in the street.’
Wilbur nodded. ‘The boys’ll come good,’ he said. ‘Sack the coach, that’ll be a start.’
‘Things wouldn’t a bin so bad today,’ said Eric, ‘if that bloody ump hadn’t found a free for the bastards every time they get a hard look.’
I looked into my beer. It had happened. The graft had taken. The donor hearts hadn’t rejected the recipient.
‘Hero, that Harvey,’ I said.
‘And Burkie,’ said Norm.
‘What about that Thompson boy?’ said Eric. ‘Kid’s all heart.’
And so it went. The years fell away: we might have been talking about Fitzroy. I signalled for another round. Stan took his time. When he arrived with the first two, he said, ‘Gets worse from here too, don’t it. Next week, your