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Authors: Garry Disher
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had to model himself upon were brutes like his father and hold-up men
like his uncle. Raymond had grown up too quickly and seen too much too soon.
Wyatt tried to name the source of his sadness. It was composed of many things,
among them guilt, sadness for his brothers short, failed life, a renewed sense
of responsibility for Raymond.
All of these things, but mostly his
memory of that last meeting, when Raymond was ten and had seen his father into
the ground and had turned to Wyatt and asked, Can I live with you, Uncle
Wyatt?
Raymond, my boy, there you are.
Wyatt felt his interest wane and his
wariness return. A man and a woman, the man a skinny character in his fifties,
the woman a lithe, pouting fluffball in her twenties.
Um, meet my fishing mates, Raymond
said.
He named the man as Brian Vallance,
the woman as Allie Roden, and told them that Wyatt was an old family friend. Known
Macka since I was a kid, he said.
Wyatt shook the womans hand
briefly, then the mans. The man held on, slowly squeezing, testing Wyatt.
A waste of time. Wyatt shook his
head irritably and withdrew his hand. He didnt like the man or the woman, and
watched them when they were all seated. Vallance wore the pout of a man
convinced that hed never exercised choice, that his failures were none of his
doing but the result of the raw deals that life had thrown up for himthe bad
luck, accidents and treachery of others. He wore costly jeans and Wyatt saw him
tug the fabric away from his knees carefully and smooth it under his thighs
whenever he shifted in his seat. The woman was playing some kind of game. She
was with Vallance, but giving Raymond soulful looks. And once, when the other
two men were not looking, Wyatt found her looking long and hard at him.
You a fisherman, Macka? she asked,
a slow heat in her face and her voice.
Wyatt shook his head. He climbed to
his feet. Not me. She was slippery. He had to get away. Unaccountably then,
he thought of Liz Redding.
* * * *
Ten
She
was under orders from Gosse not to leave the building before five. Hed call her
in every couple of hours for another bout of questioning, sometimes with
Montgomery in attendance, sometimes with the faceless men from the Internal
Investigations branch. It was always the same thing: they wanted times, dates,
places, names, and they wanted her to account for her motives in going to
Vanuatu and coming back with a known crook.
Liz chafed through the day. At one
point a friend came by and whispered, Mate, theyre searching your locker.
Mate, Liz thought. Man or woman, youre
everyones mate in the police. It was a life built for mates, all differences
levelled out, including gender. But one false step and they soon reminded you
how different you were.
She found Gosse there, supervising. Go
back to your desk, Sergeant.
You have no right
I have every right.
You think Ive got the jewels
hidden in my tracksuit pants? Think Ive got a valentine from Wyatt hidden in
my tampon box?
Gosse turned, snarling, Nothing
about you would surprise me. Back to your desk, Sergeant.
Liz went back. She felt the
beginnings of a shift in the way she viewed the world. She wanted to find Wyatt
but realised that she no longer wanted to find him on behalf of the Victoria
Police. She hunted the files for an address. When Wyatt had first come to her
attention hed been trying to offload stolen goods. Liz had posed as a fence,
and the man whod led Wyatt to her was Jardine, a burnt-out thief and friend of
Wyatts. Jardine had since died, but his sister Nettie might know something.
At 5 oclock Liz drove to a flat,
depressed corner of Coburg, where small weatherboard and brick-veneer houses
breathed into one anothers mouths and old women and men broke their hips on
the root-buckled footpaths. The paint was flaking on Nettie Jardines house.
One corner needed restumping and the external boards and frames harboured a
deep, rotting dampness. It would be there even in midsummer, like an
like his uncle. Raymond had grown up too quickly and seen too much too soon.
Wyatt tried to name the source of his sadness. It was composed of many things,
among them guilt, sadness for his brothers short, failed life, a renewed sense
of responsibility for Raymond.
All of these things, but mostly his
memory of that last meeting, when Raymond was ten and had seen his father into
the ground and had turned to Wyatt and asked, Can I live with you, Uncle
Wyatt?
Raymond, my boy, there you are.
Wyatt felt his interest wane and his
wariness return. A man and a woman, the man a skinny character in his fifties,
the woman a lithe, pouting fluffball in her twenties.
Um, meet my fishing mates, Raymond
said.
He named the man as Brian Vallance,
the woman as Allie Roden, and told them that Wyatt was an old family friend. Known
Macka since I was a kid, he said.
Wyatt shook the womans hand
briefly, then the mans. The man held on, slowly squeezing, testing Wyatt.
A waste of time. Wyatt shook his
head irritably and withdrew his hand. He didnt like the man or the woman, and
watched them when they were all seated. Vallance wore the pout of a man
convinced that hed never exercised choice, that his failures were none of his
doing but the result of the raw deals that life had thrown up for himthe bad
luck, accidents and treachery of others. He wore costly jeans and Wyatt saw him
tug the fabric away from his knees carefully and smooth it under his thighs
whenever he shifted in his seat. The woman was playing some kind of game. She
was with Vallance, but giving Raymond soulful looks. And once, when the other
two men were not looking, Wyatt found her looking long and hard at him.
You a fisherman, Macka? she asked,
a slow heat in her face and her voice.
Wyatt shook his head. He climbed to
his feet. Not me. She was slippery. He had to get away. Unaccountably then,
he thought of Liz Redding.
* * * *
Ten
She
was under orders from Gosse not to leave the building before five. Hed call her
in every couple of hours for another bout of questioning, sometimes with
Montgomery in attendance, sometimes with the faceless men from the Internal
Investigations branch. It was always the same thing: they wanted times, dates,
places, names, and they wanted her to account for her motives in going to
Vanuatu and coming back with a known crook.
Liz chafed through the day. At one
point a friend came by and whispered, Mate, theyre searching your locker.
Mate, Liz thought. Man or woman, youre
everyones mate in the police. It was a life built for mates, all differences
levelled out, including gender. But one false step and they soon reminded you
how different you were.
She found Gosse there, supervising. Go
back to your desk, Sergeant.
You have no right
I have every right.
You think Ive got the jewels
hidden in my tracksuit pants? Think Ive got a valentine from Wyatt hidden in
my tampon box?
Gosse turned, snarling, Nothing
about you would surprise me. Back to your desk, Sergeant.
Liz went back. She felt the
beginnings of a shift in the way she viewed the world. She wanted to find Wyatt
but realised that she no longer wanted to find him on behalf of the Victoria
Police. She hunted the files for an address. When Wyatt had first come to her
attention hed been trying to offload stolen goods. Liz had posed as a fence,
and the man whod led Wyatt to her was Jardine, a burnt-out thief and friend of
Wyatts. Jardine had since died, but his sister Nettie might know something.
At 5 oclock Liz drove to a flat,
depressed corner of Coburg, where small weatherboard and brick-veneer houses
breathed into one anothers mouths and old women and men broke their hips on
the root-buckled footpaths. The paint was flaking on Nettie Jardines house.
One corner needed restumping and the external boards and frames harboured a
deep, rotting dampness. It would be there even in midsummer, like an
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