“Yes, yes, I got that message too. But this is my inquest, my town. As far as I’m concerned you are an observer like anyone else. And a chaperone for the witness, of course. I don’t know what your agenda is here, Mr. Wells, why you are dredging this all back up, but if I were you I would watch my step.”
“My agenda? To uncover the truth, surely no different from yours?”
A stillness came over the magistrate. He stepped forward and backed Henry out of the door, his little eyes burning, so closenow Henry could smell his cologne, thick and woody and stale, and began jabbing a fat finger in his chest.
“I’ve made myself clear on the subject. Now get off my bloody porch.”
He fared little better with his questions around town: nobody would talk about the Kurrong people, or what had happened tothe McBrides, at most an expression of sympathy, a remorseful head-shake, before they clammed up or ushered him back outside.He didn’t have to introduce himself. They all knew who he was, and what he wanted—he had the distinct impression folks hadbeen warned off, and in the general store the little German shopkeeper all but admitted as much. After shaking hands withHenry and trying to sell him some cheese, Spruhl told him, “Billy McBride is very important man these days. Very dangerousfriends.”
So that’s what was going on here. They weren’t just reluctant, but afraid.
The doctor was at least more civil, eager for news from Brisbane, grateful for the company of another educated man, then whenHenry began asking questions he sighed and his eyes glazed. “A terrible business, all that, it really was. I still wish Icould have done more to help.” He knew few of the details but did at least provide an address for Billy McBride: Broken Ridgecattle station, a few hours northwest of town. Henry excused himself and ran to the livery stables, where a coachman and stablehandsat smoking on stools in the stinking, hay-strewn barn. Panting, Henry asked about a ride up there. “Coach ain’t running,”the driver said.
Henry looked at the carriage standing ready on its chocks and the team of horses feeding in the stalls. “I’ll pay you doublefare,” Henry offered. “Please.”
“I just told ye. It ain’t running.”
“Triple then,” he said, pointing. “The thing’s right there!”
“Bloke really wants to get up to Broken Ridge,” the stableman said.
“Don’t blame him, Jonesy. Nice country out that way.”
“Aye, nice country. Nice people too.”
The stableman slid his hands into his coveralls and spat messily on the ground, and Henry sighed at the sheer hopelessnessof it all. He’d been so naive. In his mind he’d imagined extracting confessions from reluctant witnesses, maybe even visitingthe crater with Reverend Bean. Instead, nobody would talk to him and Reverend Bean lay drunk in his bed, the crater was weeksaway, and Henry couldn’t even manage to get himself up to Broken Ridge. He could try to walk, he supposed, but had no stomachfor it. Heading out into that bush alone could be a death sentence. He had underestimated everything. Misread the entire situation.Meaning tomorrow he’d be walking into that courtroom with no more than he already had, plus a fire in his belly and a refusalto be cowed. It didn’t feel like much but would have to be enough. He’d won other cases with less.
Through the dusty town he wandered, the sun like a blade in his back, one end to the other, toward that elusive west. “Youlost, mate?” someone heckled. “Brissie’s that way!” another yelled, ripples of laughter trailing him along the street. Hewalked past Song’s Hardware Store, where a slender young woman swept her porch with a broom, then stood at the very fringeof Bewley, looking over a country as hostile and bleak as anything on this earth. Miles of barren scrubland, that angry bloodredsoil, knotty tangles of weed and grass and the arthritic skeletons of dead trees. It awed him and terrified him and made himfeel very alone. He shouldn’t be out here. This was no place for a man like him. He thought of Jonathan, back in Brisbane,the cozy comfort of his little flat, and even of Laura and the children, their loyalty and affection, their familiar presencein his life, and wished for home.
Along the track he drifted, toward the native camps, drawn by the outline of people moving and the smoke from cooking fires.He peered into the humpies from the safety of the road, hesitantly waved; they froze when they saw him, some hid.
“Please,” Henry called, his hand extended, “I’m a lawyer, here for the inquest. I only wondered if I could talk a moment, about the Kurrong, about—”
“Fuck off with you. You bastards are all the same.”
The bearded old man came at him through the fire smoke, his stick swinging wildly, beating Henry back toward the road. Fendingoff the blows, Henry retreated, saying, “No, please, I can help, but I need to know what happened.”
“They know,” the old man shouted, pointing his stick at the town. “All them bastards know—we don’t want your help here.” Heshouldered the stick like a rifle, pointed it at Henry and, his damp eyes burning, mimicked the recoil: bang, bang, bang.Henry shuddered. The old man said, “What d’you reckon bloody happened to ’em, they just fucked off on their own?”
His stare went right through Henry. Utter fury in his face. Henry edged away, along the road, back in the direction of town,the old man watching him go. “Ask Billy McBride if you’re that keen,” he yelled after him. “He knows what he done.”
Reverend Bean was awake when Henry got back to the hotel, and for the rest of the day Henry busied himself with the task ofironing him out straight. A haircut and shave at the barber, his suit bought and fitted, going over his testimony again. Theyshared a carafe of wine over dinner, to calm both their nerves, but when they retired to bed that evening Henry made the reverendhand over his room key
