Quota (9 page)

Bruised sky, sodden earth, razor wind between. What a fucking dreadful place.

THE SIGN ON the gate said seven dollars, five concession.

Charlie thought that was pretty steep for local footy, but he didn't have a better plan for his Saturday. Les had told him the panelbeater wouldn't look at the car today because he had a swap meet to go to. Charlie pulled the bent guard out of the way of the front wheel, and it seemed to go okay.

He parked behind the grandstand and took in the sentimental smell of wet turf as he got out: childhood footy, jarred fingers, rows of anxious parents. He'd hated every minute of it, didn't even envy the ones who did it with ease. Even as a kid he knew they'd get caught by time. Their knees would go and they'd be left with nothing but team photos and arthritis.

The game was well underway. Charlie leaned on the rail and watched for a while, conscious that the crowd had moved away from him and had recongregated closer to the clubrooms. Mostly he saw their backs, with just an occasional glimpse of ruddy jowls. Even the kids seemed to know to avoid him, sensitive to the negative polarity of the outsider. Or maybe they were caught up in their own worlds and completely unaware of him.
Don't be so paranoid, Jardim.

Within moments of his arrival the siren sounded and the players moved in bovine procession towards the rooms under the grandstand.

Once they'd all filed through the changeroom door, a handful of spectators followed. Charlie wandered in behind the last of them, dealing out small nods of appreciation as shoulders parted to let him through. The rooms were crowded around the fringes. In the centre, the players were trotting small circles, boots making small popping sounds on the rubberised floor. Kids in hoodies slumped on the changing benches; above them, handwritten signs dished up motivation in butcher-shop capitals. DISCIPLINE, said one. RESPECT. COMMITMENT. Then a jarring verb: RUN.

The players, slap-cheeked and wild-haired from the cold, talked as automatons, not to each other but to the group. ‘First at the contest.' ‘Forward pressure.' ‘Two-way running.'

The coach's voice rose over the room, exhorting, pleading. He wanted more. He wanted direct play, down the guts, numbers at the ball. He wanted them to look after each other, to keep presenting. The slogans sounded to Charlie like a mutation of management jargon. If you talk this way to people who expect to hear it, he figured, you can get them to do things that are no good at all. The circles were increasing in pace and tightening like a whirlwind, the drumming of the boots rising in pitch and volume. The older blokes around Charlie in the doorway began to grunt encouragement at players they knew. Drink bottles were cast aside, and they slapped each other on the backs, the backsides. The tight cluster began to surge through the doorway and back out into the light of the day until only one player remained, still jogging slowly, but in a staggering ellipse that took him close to the civilians around the edges.

The runner approached him and dropped his tray of drink bottles in a show of concern. ‘You right, mate?' The player started to wobble towards the door. ‘Concussed!' yelled the runner over his shoulder as the player bounced hard off the doorjamb and fell back in to the arms of the trainers. Charlie looked away, turned and followed the crowd back outside.

He watched the game grunt its way up and down the ground, then realised a figure had joined him at the rail. Middle aged, scruffy beard, heavy-set. Can of Coke in hand. Beanie, farmers boots with the tags protruding front and back from the hems of his jeans, the jeans themselves slung low under his gut and halfway down his arse. There was a dog at his feet, an overfed staffy that jerked at any burst of action on the field but never left its post beside the man's boot. The man looked at Charlie in a way that was somewhere north of hostile but nowhere near friendly.

A string of passes along the wing ended as the ball spilled out of bounds and rolled under the pipe railing. It was collected by a small boy who threw it to the boundary ump.

‘Aah, send it down the
guts
will ya!' the fat man yelled. He looked at Charlie, as though pleading his case.

Charlie responded only by compressing his mouth into a brief smile.

The fat man's face changed slightly. ‘You're the prosecutor bloke, aren't you?' He stuck out a stumpy hand. ‘Barry Egan.'

Charlie shook it without conviction. ‘My name's Charlie.'

‘You doing some research on it all, eh?'

‘On what?'

Egan scoffed. ‘The Murchisons.' He pointed his can up the ground. ‘Little fella goal umpirin up that end's a first cousin of your accused.' He swung the pointing can downfield. ‘So's the forward pocket in the helmet. Big lady working the scoreboard—see her there?—she's Murchison's uncle's de facto. She's only got one left eye.'

‘We've all only got one left eye.'

‘What?'

‘Left eyes. Everybody's got one. You mean she's only got one eye left.'

Barry Egan looked confused. ‘Yeah. She's missin an eye. That's what I said.' He returned to the railing and didn't speak for some time. After another slurp from the can he pointed a finger obliquely towards Charlie, ready to resume. ‘Anyway, makes your job tricky, doesn't it? All these relatives all over the place, whole town talkin about it an' that.'

‘I don't know what you're…'

‘Ha! Course you don't. You've got to get the Lanegan boy to fess up, and he's keeping mum. Poor bugger's faced with Murchisons everywhere he looks.' He drained the can and tossed the empty in front of his feet. Another soft drink materialised from the pocket of the coat. S'pose you don't want to talk to me about all that, do you?'

Charlie turned back towards the game.

Egan didn't seem even slightly put off by the lack of response. ‘Why didn't they give you a guvvie car if you're working? I mean, sorry, I'm pretty sure a smashed-up Saab with bald tyres isn't gub'ment issue, hey?'

‘Well, I'm doing the government's work, but I'm not really government,' replied Charlie testily. ‘I'm sort of an independent contractor. How do you know that's my car, anyway?'

‘Cos I know it isn't anyone else's car. And it's got a Melbourne dealership sticker on the back window. And you can't get them takeaway coffee cups in Dauphin that you got rolling around on the passenger floor. And it's got an e-tag. You want me to go on?'

He took a slurp from the can. ‘I was hoping I might get to talk to you.' The umpire's whistle blew in the middle of the ground. Egan nodded towards a figure seated on a car bonnet with his feet on the fencing rail. ‘You're after Paddy hey?'

‘Is that Patrick Lanegan?'

‘Yep, that young bloke on the car.'

Charlie followed his gaze, and took in the youthful slouch, dirty runners, scruffy buzz-cut growing out. He was dressed in tracksuit pants and a bomber jacket, and seemed unaware that he was being observed, focusing steadily on the game. Charlie could see the car was an old Holden, maybe a Camira.

‘He was definitely out there, you know. Patrick, I mean. I heard the cops got a statement from him and he reckons he was home watchin a video movie.'

Charlie turned full body towards him. The man was watching the sky above the grandstand. ‘See, I reckon youse missed a couple of important bits.'

Charlie was unsure what this meant, and decided to ignore it. ‘Do you know Patrick?'

‘Nah. Never met. But you sort of know who people are, even if you don't
know
them. You know?'

A fight had erupted on centre wing. Players ran in to throw haymakers. The crowd bellowed and surged forward. Someone was prone on the ground under the feet of the brawlers. On the boundary line, a wiry man with white hair roared and jabbed his finger at the umpire. His voice only partially carried over the distance, but Charlie clearly picked up his accented
fook you
.

‘He's pretty worked up,' Charlie observed.

‘Father Bill?' Egan seemed taken aback by Charlie's sudden laughter. ‘Got a terrible temper. He was a bantamweight in his younger days. Still does all the conditioning coaching for the footy club. They have to get him to sit in his car some weeks.'

‘What business has a priest got with punching people?'

Egan seemed affronted by the question. ‘Bible doesn't say nothin about boxing, far as I know.'

The brawl continued unabated.

‘Have you given a witness statement?'

‘Me? Shit no. I'm a pretty simple feller, Henry.'

‘Charlie.'

‘Yep. I'm pretty straightforward, just potter about. No one's innerested in what I think.' The can was emptied with another lusty gulp. ‘So why don't you go introduce yourself?'

‘Why don't
you
? You're living in the town with the bloke. If you know so much about him, seems a bit rude that you haven't met.' Charlie noticed that the young man Egan had pointed out was not among those bellowing at the fight. He was standing very quietly, observing the observers.

There was no prospect that the annoying Egan would wander off, or that Charlie could approach Patrick Lanegan while he remained in the vicinity. Charlie decided to follow the smell of frying food towards the grandstand, and found a small canteen window in the old weatherboard wall under the grandstand stairs.

Inside there was a deep fryer under a rangehood, the stainless steel baskets submerged in fizzing oil. Off to one side, a man in a white coat sat on a plastic chair by a drinks fridge, his cheek resting on a fist while he stared out at the ground. His face was drawn, bony and faintly European, ringed by white hair around the base of his skull. He took no notice of Charlie's approach to the counter.

‘Could you do me a couple of dimmies?' asked Charlie.

The man didn't answer, but slowly climbed off the chair and scooped two frozen lumps from a chest freezer, tossing them in the frying basket.

‘Two bucks.'

Charlie found change in his pocket and placed it in the outstretched palm, still slightly chilled. The change disappeared into a till drawer, and the silence descended again. Seeing the burger menu offered a ‘Jim's special', Charlie felt inclined to try his luck.

‘So. Are you Jim?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Right. Okay. Good,' said Charlie. ‘Been in the frying game long?'

‘Frying game? Oh. Forty-one years.' He lifted the basket, thumped the dim sims out onto a sheet of paper and tonged them into a bag. ‘Soy?'

‘Yes please.' Charlie gave him the biggest smile he could find. ‘What's the best local fish?'

‘None of it. All comes down from Melbourne. Frozen. You want anything else?'

‘That'll be perfect. Thanks so much.' He threw the man of granite a wink, purely to give him the shits. There was no response.

Returning to the boundary line, Charlie found Barry Egan had left his boundary-line perch and was now deep in conversation with the goal umpire at the far end. Lanegan remained solitary and unmoving on the front of the Camira like a Rodin hood ornament. It was a tricky opening, but Charlie had to start somewhere.

He drifted over and leaned on the fence in front of the passenger headlight, glancing casually back at Lanegan.

‘How's it going?'

Lanegan studied him in silence for a moment, one eyebrow cocked warily. ‘Goin fine.'

‘You get down to the footy much?'
Shit line.
Charlie winced inwardly.

Lanegan's eyes darted over him, took in his clothes, his indoorness, his otherness. He made an assessment and gave it voice. ‘
No
, I don't get down to the footy. Much.' His lip curled in open ridicule and he turned his back, climbed into the car and started it up. It clunked and smoked as Lanegan engaged reverse and pulled away. Charlie couldn't even bear to look back.

The footballers had visibly slowed as the weight of mud impeded their movements. The ball was making a heavy thud off the boot and the strain of the last quarter was audible in the breathless calls from downfield. He had seen and heard enough. The town had revealed itself to him by giving away absolutely nothing.

CUT ADRIFT FROM the routines of his life, Charlie Jardim was slightly surprised to find when he read the paper Les had left on the bar that it was Saturday night. The pub was quiet. The difference, according to Les, was that the usual Saturday night band had been moved to Sunday because of the long weekend: with Skip on remand Les was now in charge of booking bands.

The punters stood and slumped and sat. An effete student of maybe twenty demonstrated a drop punt to a heavy woman in crushed velvet and beads. Two men with broken skin and wire hair laughed gently while a bored girl watched the air between their chests. A small, sad-looking man on a stool with heavy glasses and greasy comb-over was encircled by four concerned listeners, the words drifting across in sharp fragments.

‘Did you ever shoot anyone?'

‘I shot
at
some people.'

Charlie had secured the same position near the wall at the end of the bar where he'd wound up on the previous two nights.

The sad man wasn't quite done. ‘There was one bloke I'm pretty sure I hit…'

Les kept taking the empties away along with money from the little pile on the bar towel, so that Charlie had no idea how much he'd drunk. Thoughts wandered casually through his head like strangers at a bus terminal, lingering momentarily before being conveyed away to somewhere else. Les was talking to him.

‘It wasn't always like this, you know.'

‘Like what?'

‘The town wasn't always this, um…' he searched for the word. ‘Dormant.'

Charlie had his head propped on a fist on the bar. ‘Now why would it be dormant? The shit climate? The swamps out the back? The lack of any discernible civic history?'

Once again, Les looked pained but chose to press on.