Arthur was quiet a moment. Sadly he said, “Yeah, well, sorry for sticking by you for so long.”
“Don’t be like that.”
“But you’re staying, are you? With him?”
Tommy pulled on a shirt. “For now I am. But first, I’m going downstairs to eat a nice big steak then I plan on drinking myselfunder the table with Jack. I’d say you’re welcome to join us but you’re not. Doesn’t sound like you’d want to anyhow.”
They stood a long time in silence, Tommy flushed and restless, Arthur’s unblinking stare. He took a breath and nodded, asif something was decided, opened the door and left the room. Tommy almost went out after him. He regretted what he’d justsaid. But there was a kernel of truth to it: he was sick of Arthur treating him like he was a child. At least Jack saw himsimply for who he was now, unencumbered by a past he dragged behind him like an ankle chain. They had no history together,which for once was a relief. And the droving work was good work, lonely work, decent pay too, not that it mattered—Tommy couldhave suggested anything and Arthur would have said it was a terrible plan. Tommy had had enough of his bullshit. He snatchedhis money off the dresser and went downstairs.
They filled their boots with steak, beer, and whiskey, and tore up the little town, falling in with other cattlemen and drovers smashing their checks. Jack seemed to know everyone. A small place, the bush, for these men. Later, he took Tommy to the brothel, told him which was the best girl, and Tommy admitted afterward she’d been his first. Jack bought cigars, and once Tommy had recovered suggested he take another turn—second time was a charm, in Jack’s view. But the girl Tommy had been with was busy with another man; drunk and besotted, Tommy barged into the room, interrupting a horse wrangler in full flow. The wrangler took exception to the intrusion and the two of them were properly brawling by the time Jack dragged Tommy away. They left the brothel laughing, Tommy yelling to the upstairs windows that he’d be back the following night, he and Jack staggering down the street together, arms round each other’s shoulders, a bowlegged swaying dance. Back in the hotel they drank until Tommy passed out at the table; when he woke birds were already calling the dawn. He crawled up to his bedroom, threw himself on the bed, and slept long into the afternoon, then woke drenched in sweat and smelling faintly of piss. He cleaned himself up groggily. Tipped half a pitcher of water down his throat. When he’d changed he went along the hall, knocking on doors. Neither Jack nor Arthur answered; Tommy found Jack in the bar. He was eating a cooked chicken leg and drinking a pot of beer and looked as fresh as if last night hadn’t happened at all. He laughed when he saw the state Tommy was in. Said to sit down and get something to eat. Instead Tommy went to the counter and asked the barman if he’d seen Arthur around. He looked up but went on drying the glass in his hand, said he’d seen him early that morning, heading out along the street, carrying his bag in one hand and his bedroll tucked under the other arm.
“Sorry to be the one to tell you this, friend, but word has it your blackboy skipped town.”
Part II
1897
Seven Years Later
Chapter 15
Henry Wells
On the porch of a fine white Queenslander house in the north-Brisbane suburb of Spring Hill, Henry Wells stood holding thefront doorknob, listening to their voices, watching their blurred outlines through the colored window glass. They hadn’t noticedhim, he could still leave, though he knew that he wouldn’t; he never did. Every evening after work he had the same thought,yet every evening he went in. He closed his eyes briefly, turned the handle and cracked the door, and announced to his familythat he was home.
Laura came to meet him, baby Audrey clinging to her hip. She kissed his cheek and, one-handed, helped him off with his coat and hung it with his hat on the stand. Supper wouldn’t be long, she told him, why not enjoy a drink in the lounge—always the same routine. Dutifully he did so, sliding his feet into a pair of house slippers and pouring himself a large sherry that he threw back in one, then another that he nursed by the fire. Outside, dusk was falling, the last strains of pink in the sky. Henry watched his neighbors passing back and forth on the street, noticed a scruffy man he didn’t recognize glance admiringly at the house. He liked that people did that. Liked that the house attracted looks. It was still only a stepping-stone. What he wanted—once he’d made it, once Queen’s Counsel was his—was a house by the river, in Hamilton or Ascot, one of those lavish hillside mansions they were building up there. It wouldn’t be long, hopefully. A couple more years at most. He would place an announcement in the newspaper, perhaps commission a photograph too, and send a copy to his father: look what I’ve become.
Now that would be a photograph worth paying for. The only other two Henry had wasted his money on stared back at him fromthe mantelpiece like a rebuke: a yellowing print of Laura’s parents, taken just before they died (though from the look ofthem in the photograph you’d think they already had), and another of Henry and Laura on their wedding day, Laura’s smile barelyhidden, Henry staring petrified down the camera lens as if into the barrel of a gun.
A black-haired boy poked his head into the living room. Sipping his sherry, Henry turned. “Ah, Theo, there you are. How
