Henry lowered his notes to the table, allowed his words to hang. He could feel the discomfort in the courtroom, the atmosphereshifting, turning his way.
“Mr. Brooks drank so much that evening he never made it home, sleeping rough on the steps of the hotel. We can only imaginehis mood when he was awoken early the next morning by the piercing dawn sunlight and the rumble of wagon wheels. In fact,we don’t have to. Witnesses have filled in the gaps. Down from the hotel he staggered, stumbling along the road. He dousedhimself in water from the spigot, stole a loaf from the bakery shelves, and assaulted poor Mrs. Temple with such a barrageof lechery that she took flight along the street.
“And then Clarence arrived, walking through town on his usual route from his house to the Wood place. Multiple witnesses havetestified as to what then transpired. They heard Mr. Brooks accuse Clarence of stealing the pig; an accusation Clarence denied.They saw Mr. Brooks strike him, unprovoked, in the face; they saw Clarence fall to the ground. They saw Mr. Brooks, not contentwith this retribution, straddle his defenseless victim and do exactly what he’d threatened the previous night, deliveringa series of blows to Clarence’s head so devastating that Clarence was never to wake. His face was unrecognizeable. Mr. Brooksbroke one of his hands. When the constable arrived and pulled him off Clarence, he continued kicking and flailing and evenspitting on the man lying dead on the ground.
“Let me just repeat that: he spat on the man he’d just killed.
“Now, the defense will no doubt argue that there is mitigation. That Mr. Brooks was under financial pressure, that he was still intoxicated, that he was somehow out of his mind. He was none of those things, gentlemen. He was a man who thought nothing of accusing a ‘no-good nigger’ of theft, and for whom ‘killing the cunt’ was not only just and reasonable but his right as a white Australian man. The law permits no such entitlement. It sees no difference between black and white. Mr. Brooks publicly stated his intention to kill Clarence then the following morning did that very thing, beating him to death with his own hands—and if that is not premeditated murder, gentlemen, then I do not know what is.”
Chapter 7
Billy McBride
They rode until dusk in single file convoy, Billy behind Percy at the rear of the line, the young constable’s enormous rifleslung like a longbow across his back. Every now and then he would turn and glare at Billy, not a word out of him, no cluewhat he was about. Billy remembered the boy Rabbit, this runaway they were going after, being just the same with Tommy, wouldn’tstop staring, or sniggering, like this was all some kind of game. Which it probably was, to them: at the front of the lineNoone and his two troopers trotted along happily, chatting, laughing now and then. Drew Bennett was a fucking idiot, puttinghis family in their path. Billy had no family of his own yet, but he had Katherine, and Glendale, and he wouldn’t have riskedeither for anything, least of all some runaway black.
As the sun fell they made for a thin stand of brigalow stretching spidery against the gloom, dismounted in the center, andbegan making camp. Percy saw to the horses, the troopers gathered wood and lit a fire. Noone wandered among the trees, gazingup at the twilight, thoughtfully smoking his pipe. Billy unpacked slowly. Rummaging in his saddlebags, tying and retying thetether rope. He hadn’t a container to give Buck a drink, so called over and asked Percy if he could borrow the tin when hewas done.
The constable straightened and looked at him. He picked up the drinking tin and dragged the bladder bag through the dry grass and dumped both at Billy’s feet. Little eyes glinting. A smirk playing on his lips. He jutted his chin at Billy and spat tobacco juice through his teeth. “Chickenshit,” he said.
“What’s that now?”
“Shoot a few blacks and dip your dick in the widow and reckon that makes you a man. Shit, I done fucked prettier hoors thanher.”
It came out of him in a torrent. Rage surged through Billy and he lunged. The boy took a quick step backward and Billy heardhis name being called through the trees. He turned. Noone was standing at the edge of the camp, watching them. He tutted andshook his head. Billy seething at the young constable—he had half a foot on him and at least fifty pounds, still the boy grinnedlike he was begging to be hit. If it wasn’t for Noone, for that rifle on his back . . . Percy caught Billy staring at it,and asked, “Want to know where I got her?”
“Fuck you.”
Percy lifted the rifle over his head. “She’s a Hawken. That’s American. Came all this way. Longest shot in the colony, I’dwager. Here, how much do you want to put up?” Billy said nothing. Both fists clenched. Percy shrugged and told him, “I canhit a penny off a fence post at two hundred yards with this thing, or put out a fella’s eyeball, take your pick. Show youtomorrow if you don’t believe me, if you’ve a penny or an eye to spare.”
Billy relaxed a little. The boy obviously wasn’t right in the head. He bent and snatched up the drinking tin and tipped insome water for his horse. There was a call of Tucker! from the campfire, but when he straightened Percy was still beside him, running his tongue around his gums.
“I’ll bet her cunny’s smooth and hairless. Bet she keeps it nice and trimmed. Might be I’ll pay a visit and find out for meself—howd’you like them beans?”
Billy pulled his revolver and leveled it at Percy’s head but at the same time Percy switched the rifle and aimed at Billy’schest. He started laughing. A wet, yellow-toothed grin. Another shout of Tucker! from the campfire and Billy dropped the revolver to his
