‘And now?’
‘No Chink, no horse. The thing’s a killer.’
‘Say no more. I understand perfectly. We’ve driven hundreds of kilometres into the wilderness for you to buy a killer horse.’
‘You, Jack,’ said Harry.
‘Me?’
‘I want you to buy it. Supposin we do.’
I studied the big, lumpy piece of Gippsland that had come into view, more settled here, the odd weatherboard farmhouse smoking under a low, troubled sky, eroded creeks, leaning sheds, rugged-up horses, some signs of agriculture.
When the land was almost flat, the Dodge, dog riding shotgun for the left flank, turned right. We followed, went through a belt of trees, down a back road for a kilometre or two. The truck pulled into a driveway. We stopped behind it. All humans got out.
A horse was in the paddock, in the middle, twenty metres away, a tatter of a rug on its back. It looked at us, a glance, put its head down. If this was the horse, I could not see how the animal could be identified as a thoroughbred.
We walked to join Chink. He was standing at the fence, hands in his pockets.
‘Small,’ said Harry.
Chink didn’t say anything. He made a clicking noise. The horse raised its head. Chink clicked again. The horse looked at us, moved its head as if easing a strain, looked away in a deliberate manner.
We waited. The horse shifted, one eye looked at us.
‘Thin,’ said Cam.
Chink turned his back on the horse, looked down the valley. Cam and Harry turned. Not to be outdone, I turned.
‘Earnin a quid around here,’ said Harry. ‘What’s the secret?’
‘They don’t tell me,’ said Chink.
A sound behind us, the horse. He was three metres away, looking at us: eyes interested but not sharp, small movements of his head.
‘No mongrel,’ said Harry. ‘Bit of wear on the legs.’
Now I noticed the scar tissue on the horse’s forelegs.
Harry looked at Chink. ‘Let’s see him move,’ he said.
Chink depressed the top strand of the fence by half a metre and made to swing a leg over. The horse took off over the wet, pitted paddock, rug flapping, ran twenty or thirty metres, stopped and looked backed at us, breathing hard.
‘Nothing,’ said Cam. ‘Chink?’
‘Sound,’ said Chink. ‘Decent tucker, bit of work.’
‘Okay,’ said Harry, ‘where’s this bloke?’
At the pub, a peeling single-storey structure at a T-junction, two utes and three dogs outside, we pulled up beside Chink. Cam got out, lit a Gitane, went around the bonnet and spoke to Chink, foot on the running board, looking up, wind erasing the smoke from his lips. He came back, flicked the cigarette, got in.
Harry looked at him.
‘The bloke’s a bit bombed, apparently,’ said Cam. ‘Also even bombed these woops can see keen coming in the dark.’
Harry turned and looked at me, the dry eyes, no lack of alertness here. He gave me an envelope. ‘Here’s the form,’ he said. ‘And Jack, the point’s not the stiff paper. I just don’t want any talk.’
I sighed and left the warm container. Chink got out of the truck, fell in with me, pushed in the dirty door. The room was overheated, cruel fluorescent light, smelling of cigarette smoke, beer-sogged carpet, old frying oil. Two men were playing pool, the one on strike showing us a deep cleft between pimply buttocks. Another man was talking to the woman behind the bar. We went over to customer number four, in the corner, a fat bearded man wearing a filthy, sagging jumper and a baseball cap. He appeared to be impaled on his stool.
‘Den, this’s Jack,’ said Chink. ‘It’s about the horse.’
Chink left, moved down the bar.
Den looked at me, the turn of head took effort, screwed-up red eyes. His nose had sores on it and it was running. He didn’t move to shake hands. I looked at his hand on a beer glass and I was glad that he didn’t.
He drank. ‘Bloody racehorse, mate,’ he said. ‘Not your bloody…’ He didn’t finish, put a hand up his fetid jumper, hand-knitted if I was any judge, and scratched himself, a task for which one hand was clearly inadequate. Then he reached down to the floor, groaned at the effort, and produced a plastic bag.
I put my back against the bar.
Den looked into the bag, dug out a small plastic-covered brown book with a window on the cover.
‘Lookit this,’ he said, opening it.
I took it gingerly and looked. It was Lost Legion’s official history. The most recent owner was given as Dennis James Chaffee. The writing was legible although a fluid had stained the pages. Some things are best left unspeculated upon.
‘Dennis James Chaffee is you?’
‘Yup. Me uncle. Left it to me. My bloody horse.’
‘Very nice,’ I said. ‘How much?’
‘Well,’ Den said, his face concertinaed. ‘Bloody up to you, mate. Gimme’n offer. Fuckin racehorse. Class, not your…’
‘A hundred,’ I said.
Den pushed back the baseball cap. Grey scalp and sparse spiral strands of greasy hair came into view. ‘Stickit up ya arse, mate,’ he said. ‘Fuckin hundred, thing’s worth… fuckin six hundred.’
I put the horse’s book on the counter. ‘Just an idea I had,’ I said. ‘I can buy the kid a well-trained old horse for three. Nice to meet you.’
I was near the door when Den shouted, hoarse voice, ‘Did I fuckin say no?’
I turned. A beckoning movement from Den, an awful hand urging me back. I returned.
‘Four,’ he said. His eyes were sliding around the room. ‘Fuckin bargain. Lucky I need the money.’
‘Take a cheque?’
Now he looked at me. ‘Fuuuck,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘No?’
‘Fuckin no’s right.’
‘Know how to transfer ownership?’
He shook his head. ‘Me old lady done that.’
I got out Harry’s envelope. Den winced, for a moment he thought something police-related was happening to him. Lost Legion’s new owner was going to be A. J. Aldridge. Mrs Aldridge, cook extraordinaire, Harry’s English housekeeper of forty-odd years.
I took the book and filled out the transfer of ownership form. Then I wrote out a receipt.
‘A receipt for two hundred,’ I said. ‘Chink’ll deliver the other two when they send the book.’
I went out to the brute vehicle. Harry’s window descended as I approached. ‘Two hundred now, two more when it’s registered,’ I said.
Harry nodded, not unhappy, looked at Cam. Cam found an envelope in some dashboard cavity, removed notes, passed the envelope to me.
I went back. Den had new drinks — another beer and a shot glass of something dark. Rum it would be.
‘Two hundred cash,’ I said. ‘Sign here.’
Den signed the form and the receipt. He might just as well have made crosses: Den, His Mark. ‘Listen,’ he said, uneasy, eyes floating, ‘I’m not helpin you load the thing. Don’t go near it, fuckin thing’s lucky I don’t drill it.’
‘Chink will load it. When the time comes.’
I caught Chink’s eye. He came over.
‘I’m buying this horse,’ I said. ‘Should be able to pick it up inside a week.’
