A Different Turf

‘One or two, friends I mean. Our relatives don’t wanna know us.’ Then she looked embarrassed at such a confession. ‘We’ll manage, if you can just arrange for him to be – to be collected.’

‘I’ll see to it at once,’ said Kate. It was obvious that she was finding the situation difficult; her held-back emotion was plain in her face. Malone knew that it had taken him years before he could hold his own face in a mask.

There was a sudden whimper from the child in the wheelchair; a withered hand was lifted to the tiny face. Mrs Langtry let go of Jillian and turned to the child to comfort it. ‘There, Jasmine—’

Justin, Jillian, Jasmine: the names were like a mocking song in this falling-down house. Malone glanced at the small boy in the doorway, still unmoving, carved in pale wood; he wondered what the boy’s name was, but dared not ask, afraid that he would laugh. But not with mirth.

‘Jasmine has micro-ce-phaly—’ The mother pronounced the disease with care. ‘She’s got scoliosis, too.’

Malone abruptly wanted to weep. Christ, what sort of bastard was God that He spilled such shit on this woman? With difficulty he said, ‘I think we’d like to find Justin’s mates.’

‘I’ll take you.’ Jillian had swallowed her anger, looked calm and dependable. ‘I won’t be long, Mum.’

The two detectives said goodbye to Mrs Langtry, Malone ashamed that he was glad to escape. Outside the house Jillian turned left. ‘It’s not far from here. We can walk, if you like. They’ll probably be playing basketball or skate-boarding in the park, over by the oval.’

‘Do you go to school, Jillian? Or work?’

‘I left school last year, we needed the money. I work at a computer place. The parts come in from Korea and we put ’em together and they go out as made in Australia. You cops oughta look into it.’

‘We’ve got enough problems looking into Australian-made murders … Did Justin work?’ They were walking through familiar streets, but ones he had not trodden in twenty years or more; gentrification had rouged and painted them. Even the one street he did visit once a week had been tarted up, but Con and Brigid Malone had resisted: their house was light brown, their front door dark brown, the knocker black.

‘Sometimes, off and on – he was a bit of a layabout.’ She walked in silence for a few paces, as if she had said something treacherous about her brother. ‘He’d help Mum occasionally. She does piece-work for a dress manufacturer. You know, out-work.’

Malone had heard the term. Women, sometimes whole families, who in the main were exploited, often earning no more man a dollar-fifty or two dollars a garment ‘I thought only migrants did that? Vietnamese, people like that.’

She grinned cynically. She was a plain girl, plain and overweight; but her eyes were bright blue and intelligent, her best feature. ‘Mum’s a natural to be exploited. She wasn’t, once, but she is now.’

‘Where’s your dad?’

‘Dead. He was a fettler on the railways, he was run over by a train three months before Jasmine was born. He was a dreamer, but they never last long, do they? He was probably dreaming the day the train ran over him.’ She said it casually, without a smile or a tear, standing on the kerb, waiting for the traffic to pass before they crossed the main road. ‘He wanted to call me Lillian. Lillian Langtry.’

The name had a faint echo in Malone’s ear.

They crossed the road. ‘There was a famous actress once, Lily Langtry. The Jersey Rose. Mum objected, said she didn’t like the idea. So they compromised, called me Jillian. Just as well, I never grew into any sorta rose.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Sixteen.’

‘There’s still time.’

‘Don’t kid me. I’m gunna finish up like my mum, only fatter. But with no kids. Definitely no kids. There they are.’

They had come to a small park that had been spruced up since Malone’s memory of it. In one corner was a children’s playground; in another an asphalt court where a dozen or so youths were skate-boarding or throwing a basketball at each other. When the youths saw the two strangers approach with Jillian, they stopped throwing the ball and garnered together in a tribal huddle. The three who had been skate-boarding jerked to a stop with a screech and clatter, picked up their boards and joined the group.

‘Les—’ Jillian spoke to the tallest boy, evidently the leader. ‘This is Inspector Malone and Constable Arletti.’ Malone was surprised she had remembered their names. ‘They’d like to talk to you about Justin.’

‘Yeah?’

They were sullen, suspicious of cops. Malone looked them over and, mentally, shook his head. All of them wore Keppers or baggy basketball shorts; T-shirts with emblems that he didn’t recognize; and all of them wore baseball caps, most of them turned back-to-front. They were the New American Colonials, marching backwards into the future. His old Aussie blood galloped through him. Then: come on, he told himself, you’re carrying enough baggage in this case.

‘You were with Justin when he was shot?’

‘Yeah.’ Les was about eighteen, a goodlooking boy spoiled by a perpetual sneer at the world in which he found himself. His cap was worn with the peak to the front, a New York Yankees cap. He wore a Mambo T-shirt, Keppers that came well below his knees and heavy black Air-Max shoes. Malone had the feeling he was in a foreign land. ‘I was right beside him when he went down.’

‘How far was the woman who shot him, how far away?’

‘I dunno.’ He looked about him. ‘You guys?’

‘She was right on top of him.’ He was thin and sharp-chinned, the sort of kid who was probably called Foxy; he would run with the pack, but always on the edges, always trailing behind. He was dressed much the same as Les, as were most of the group. These kids might be unemployed or skipping school, but they didn’t look poverty-stricken. Malone wondered how Justin had been dressed when he had died. ‘I seen the gun first, it was long, like it had a silencer on it.’

‘That was what it was,’ said another youth, a fat boy who would never jump high enough to slam-dunk a basket ‘We hardly heard it when it went off. Just sorta phut!’

‘What did the woman look like?’

‘Shit, who knows?’ said Les, the leader. ‘She had long hair, dark.’

‘Was she in a dress or slacks?’ said Kate.

They all looked at her as if wondering how she had got into the act, a second-class citizen asking questions. Obviously they had less time for women cops than they had for men. Then Foxy said, ‘Slacks, I think. She was there one minute, then she was gone. She could really run. I suppose dykes can run – fast, I mean. Lots of girls play sport, athletes, tennis players, they’re dykes, ain’t they?’

Malone and Kate didn’t answer that. ‘Was she wearing trainers, shoes like yours?’

‘Jesus,’ said Les, ‘how would we know? She shoots down our mate right in front of us – have you ever had that happen to you?’

‘Yes,’ said Malone and for just a moment the group was silent in sullen respect.

‘Have you been charged with bashing the man who’s in hospital?’

There was no word for a moment, then Les said, ‘Yeah, two of us. We’re out on bail.’

‘You haven’t asked how he is.’

This time there was no answer at all; their indifference showed in their faces.

‘Right, here’s my card. If you remember anything else, anything at all, ring me. By the way, do any of you play cricket?’

The group looked at each other as if he had asked them if they played hopscotch. Then Les said, ‘That’s history, old man.’

Malone had meant to leave on a friendly note, but he couldn’t resist it, his tongue slipping its leash once again: ‘So is Justin. If you hadn’t gone in for poofter-bashing, he’d still be here throwing baskets.’

He walked away, abruptly, and Kate and Jillian had to hurry to catch up with him. As soon as they did he said, ‘I apologize, Jillian. I shouldn’t have made that last crack.’

‘No, you’re right’ She walked in silence for a while. Then: ‘You haven’t asked why Justin would of been with them, poofter-bashing.’

All three paused. They were out of the park now, but still close to the small children’s playground. Half a dozen very young children were clambering on bars, sliding down a slippery dip, rising and falling on a swing like discordant notes of music. Their mothers stood near mem, tossing gossip as idly as the youths in the far corner were tossing the basketball. Some of the mothers had turned their heads to watch Jillian and the two strangers. Erskineville hadn’t changed in all the years: strangers were recognized at once.

‘Tell us, Jill.’