“How many? You, personally, how many did you kill?”
“Christ, I don’t know. Maybe a dozen. I didn’t count.”
“Women? Children?”
Sniffing, still distracted by the nosebleed: “No, only the men.”
“But the others did. None was spared, that lawyer said.”
“That was them, not me, it was Noone and that lot wanted the Kurrong dead.”
She turned away, disgusted. Couldn’t stand to watch him snivel anymore. In the corner of her eye she saw him flap out hishandkerchief and dab his nose, wiping away the blood, mucus, tears, all of it. Because it really was that easy for him. Wipeit all away.
“Listen, I’m sorry, all right. The whole thing was a mistake. But it’s done now, isn’t it. And if we hadn’t, if things hadn’tgone how they did, you and me wouldn’t be sitting here like we are. So there, I’ve told you, but can we just forget aboutit now? There’s nothing to be gained by raking over the past. And besides, there’s plenty men out there have done much worsethan me.”
She still couldn’t look at him. Facing the fireplace, her eyes distant and glazed, she took a long breath and said, “You might be right. But then isn’t it all just degrees of worse? Do you know how many times I have been raped, Billy? Not the incident with Charles Sinclair, I mean actually raped like that poor woman in the cave?” He stared at her dumbly; she said, “No, neither do I. It’s happened so often I’ve lost count. Every night John rolled himself on top of me and had his way, and I truly could do nothing about it. Not a thing. They say a husband cannot rape his wife but I’ll tell you he bloody well can. You were the first man I ever chose to be with, you are the father of my children, the only man I have ever loved, and now I find out you’re no better than him.”
The look she gave him was withering. Like he was nothing at all.
“I already said: I wish it never happened, but it did.”
“You don’t though, do you—those are crocodile tears. Look what we’ve become, you told me, like it was all worth it in theend. Even that’s a lie you tell yourself: yes, you’ve been a decent enough headman for the station, but this empire you layclaim to, it’s still mine. How you talk now, how you dress, that ridiculous billiards table, your lord-of-the-manor act, noneof it has actually been earned.”
He slid from the armchair and waddled on his knees toward her; Katherine folded her arms. He cupped her knees, pawed her ankles,calves, feet, mumbling, “I’m sorry, Katie, I’m sorry. But what can I do? What can I do?”
Loud as a whipcrack the slap struck his cheek. Billy rocked back on his heels.
“Take some responsibility. Stop blubbering like a child. Make amends, somehow. Repent. All your life the only standard you’veever set yourself is your own father, which from what I can tell is a pretty low fucking bar. So do something. Be a betterfather, better husband, better man; why not try to be kind?”
“I will, Katie, I’ll—”
“But if you mistreat our children again, Billy . . . if you dare lecture William on how to be a man, if you speak to me outof turn, if you jeopardize their futures or hurt any of us in any way, I will tell the authorities in Brisbane exactly whatwent on out here, the lies you told, what you did, and see to it you are prosecuted. Or better yet I’ll spare us all the troubleand put a bullet in you myself.”
She stood so suddenly that Billy fell backward and lay sprawled on the rug by the hearth. Katherine stepped over him and strode from the library, her footsteps echoing through the atrium then padding upstairs. Billy clambered to his feet and gazed lost around the room, staggered to the cabinet and poured another Scotch. He sat back down in the same armchair. A line had been crossed, he knew. He’d wanted so badly to get it out of him—the truth like a tumor, it had felt like he was dying today in that courtroom—but the pain of his secret was now replaced with the deep dull ache of loss. No hiding from that one. No pretending it didn’t exist. He lit a cigarette and smoked in snatches, staring at the ash in the fire grate, remembering white flakes, like snow, drifting all around. And there he remained, alone in the library, in that vast and silent house, his wife locked away upstairs and not a friend in this world, as twilight fell through the window outside and darkness steadily closed.
Chapter 27
Henry Wells
The key scraping into the cell door woke Henry from a painful, fitful sleep. Huddled in his threadbare blanket on the filthyflagstone floor, he raised his head to find Donnaghy standing over him, his face in shadow from the oil lamp he held in hisoutstretched hand.
“Move.”
Stiffly Henry struggled to his feet, dropped the blanket on the floor. He felt like he’d been assaulted, though the blowshe’d feared in the night had never come. Still, his body felt bruised and uncertain, his vision was slow, his mind confused:he put a hand on the damp wall to steady himself, took a moment to catch his breath. He’d been locked in this cell since theinquest ended, late yesterday afternoon. For his own protection, apparently; MacIntyre had claimed the locals would tear himapart. A likely story, given the conditions he’d been kept in. He was being punished, and for what? Daring to speak the truthin a town filled with denial? Asking a clearly corrupt magistrate to do his job? He was now even more worried about ReverendBean. With no money, no clothes, no supplies, he wouldn’t have taken off on his own. Besides, the man was here to clear hisconscience, purge his soul. He was dying,
