“None of my business where you’re going. But if it’s work you’re after, there’s plenty round these parts, if you were inclinedto stick around.”
Without turning he tapped his pencil against the corkboard on the wall, and the array of job adverts pinned there, along withnotices about a meeting to discuss the extension of the railroad, an upcoming racing meet, and a police poster offering a£200 reward for information leading to the capture of . . . leading to the capture of . . .
Thomas (“Tommy”) McBride and the native known as “Arthur,” on charges of robbery and murder near the town of St. George. McBride has blond hair, blue eyes, and is approximately six feet tall. His left hand is missing the last two fingers and he was most recently seen dressed in stockman’s clothing, riding a (male) gray horse. His accomplice, Arthur, is approximately five feet nine inches tall and . . .
Tommy felt his body contracting, the blood surge hot in his veins. He had the money clip out, ready to pay, and caught theshopkeeper staring at his left hand. Their eyes met. The other man blanched. He backed away a pace then bolted from the shop,through a side door into another room. Cursing, Tommy gathered what he could of their supplies, bundling out into the street,dropping them as he ran.
“What is it?” Arthur shouted. “What’s wrong?”
“A poster. Burns is dead. They’re after us. Bloke knew it was me.”
Along the street, in the sunshine, the slim figure of the shopkeeper emerged from an alleyway and sprinted in the directionof the courthouse, and forlornly Tommy glanced back at the open doorway and the food lying discarded in the road.
“Leave it,” Arthur barked, climbing into the saddle. “Tommy—move!”
They stuck to the track for a couple of miles, driving the horses as hard as they could, before veering off through a creekso as to wipe their trail clean and striking out into open bushland. Endless country before them. No roads anymore, no towns;not even a map to show the way. With only the barest of rations they were heading into the dead heart of the continent andwere doing so, God help them, entirely alone.
Chapter 5
Billy McBride
Noone balanced Father’s old mug on the railing, draped the longcoat alongside, and came down the steps out of the shadowsinto the bright sunshine. He was exactly as Billy remembered him. Hadn’t aged so much as a day. Thick black mustache, blackhair parted fine as a blade, taut sunburned skin, and those eyes of his, those eyes . . . no color in them anywhere, a swirlof dead gray smoke, boring into Billy as he strode across the yard.
He closed the distance impossibly. Within seconds he was there. Billy gazing up at him, sixteen years old again, grippingthe revolver, his hand trembling, boots scraping backward through the dirt. Noone extended a hand and Billy offered his revolver;the inspector frowned then took it and tossed it to the young white boy, whose high-pitched coyote laughter echoed throughthe yard.
“Is a handshake out of the question, between two old friends?”
Billy had disarmed himself. He flushed and accepted Noone’s hand. Long bony fingers, the nails oddly clean; his grip tightenedand tightened and would not yield. Billy felt his knuckles grinding. He tried to reciprocate but hadn’t the strength. FinallyNoone let him go and said, “Good to see you, Billy. It’s been a long time.”
“Aye,” Billy managed, massaging his aching hand.
“Are we not welcome?”
“Them that are usually don’t come armed.”
Noone nodded equably. A glance and the troopers lowered their carbines. “I have a request to make of you. And some news you might be interested to hear.”
“What news?”
“Let’s talk inside.”
“Here’s fine.”
“Inside, Billy.”
“If you like,” Billy said, shrugging, stepping toward the bunkhouse.
“The barn? We aren’t animals. Come—the men will see to your horse. You remember Pope and Jarrah there. This is my new constable,Percy.”
Now Billy remembered the two troopers: he’d once seen Jarrah decapitate a man with a swing of his waddy blade; and Pope wasthe old witch doctor who’d butchered Tommy’s hand. Neither man acknowledged him. The boy Percy dipped his head and spat messilyon the ground.
Noone walked to the house, whose threshold Billy had not crossed in all these years, and waited by the door, smiling. He knew,Billy realized. The bastard knew all too well. Noone ducked through the doorway and Billy had no choice but to follow. Heclimbed the steps very slowly, took a breath, and went inside.
The shutters were closed, thin bars of dusty sunlight twinkling the gaudy pattern of Noone’s waistcoat as he rounded the room.He dragged a hand over the table, trailing finger-marks in the dust, idly lifted the bedroom curtain and let it fall again,slow clip of his boots with each step. He brushed off Father’s chair, set it back from the table and sat down, pinching histrousers as he did so, a look of rank disgust on his face.
“I was told you are living here now.”
Billy was still hovering in the doorway. “On and off. Been working mostly.”
“I see.”
From his waistcoat pocket Noone produced a small pipe and a matchbox: he lit the pipe and got it going, his cheeks hollowing,clouds of sweet smoke filling the air, then flicked the dead match to the floor. He waved Billy forward. “Are you waitingfor an invitation? It is your house, after all.”
Billy edged into the room, pulled out the chair that would once have been Mary’s, and lowered himself down. “So what’s this news you’ve brung?”
Noone ignored him totally. Pulling on his pipe. “Tell me, Billy, how have things been for you? Since we last met—how haveyou fared?”
Billy shrugged. “There’s near enough sixty head in them paddocks now.”
Noone’s eyebrows raised, mock-impressed. “I noticed your belongings in the barn, of course. A strange choice of accommodationfor a self-made man. Still, this house must bring back memories. They don’t fade, do they—much like bloodstains.”
“Fuck off with you. What do you want?”
“I told you, I have a request to make. But very well,
