The Broken Shore by Peter Temple Read Free Book Online

said Cashin. ‘Bye, Syb.’
    ‘Bye, darling.’
    Harry waved a gloved hand at him, slowly, like a polar explorer saying a final sad goodbye.

 
    DRIVING TO Port Monro on a cold day, overcast, Cashin thought about his mother in the caravan, saw her sitting at a fold-down table topped with marbled green Formica edged with an aluminium strip. She had a plastic glass in one hand, yellow wine in it, a cigarette in the other hand, a filter cigarette held close to her fingernails, which were painted pink, chipped. Her nose was peeling from sunburn. There were blonde sunstreaks in her hair and it was heavy with salt from swimming, pieces fallen apart, he could see her scalp. She drank from the glass and liquid ran out of her mouth, down her chin, fell on her teeshirt. She wiped her chest with her cigarette hand and the cigarette touched her face, the glowing tip dislodged, stuck to her shirt. She looked down at the burn opening like a flower. She seemed to wait forever, then she carefully tilted her glass, poured wine over it. He remembered the smells of burnt cotton and burnt skin and wine filling the small space and how he felt sick, went out into the sub-tropical night.
    Some time after Cashin’s father’s death, he didn’t know how long, his mother had packed two suitcases and they left the farm outside Kenmare. He was twelve. His brother was at university on his scholarship. At the first stop for petrol, his mother told him to call her Sybil. He didn’t know what to say. People didn’t call their mothers by their names.
    They spent the next three years on the road, never staying anywhere for long. When he thought about those times later, Cashin realised that in the first year Sybil must have had money: they stayedin hotels and motels, in a holiday shack near the beach for a few months. Then she started taking jobs in pubs, roadhouses, all sorts of places, and they lived in rented rooms, granny flats in people’s backyards, on-site caravans. In his memory, she always seemed to be drinking, always either laughing or crying. Sometimes she forgot to buy food and some nights she didn’t come home till long after midnight. He remembered lying awake, hearing noises outside, trying not to be frightened.
    The turn-off to Port Monro. Light rain falling.
    Cashin’s shift started at noon, there was time for coffee. He bought the paper at the service station, parked outside the Dublin, hadn’t been there for a while. You couldn’t go to the same place too often, people noticed.
    The narrow room was empty, summer over, the long cold peace on the town. ‘Medium black for the cop who pays,’ said the man sitting behind the counter. ‘My customer of the day.’
    His name was Leon Gadney, a dentist from Adelaide whose male lover had been found knifed to death in a park near the river, possibly killed by one of the sexual crazies for which Adelaide was famous, possibly killed by policemen who thought the crazies were doing a public service when they killed homosexuals.
    ‘You could close in winter,’ said Cashin. ‘Save on electricity.’
    ‘What would I do?’ said Leon.
    ‘Go to Noosa, chat to other rich retired dentists. It’s warm up there.’
    ‘Fuck warm. And I’d like to go on record that I’m not a retired dentist. Ex-dentist, former dentist, now impoverished barista and short-order cook.’
    He delivered the coffee. ‘Want a nice almond bickie?’
    ‘No, thanks. Watching the weight.’
    Leon returned to his seat, lit a cigarette. ‘In a certain light, you’re not bad looking,’ he said. ‘And here we are, virile single men marooned on an island of old women in sandals.’
    Cashin didn’t look up. He was reading about police corruption in the city, in the drug squad. The members had been selling drugs they’d confiscated. They had originally supplied the ingredients to make thedrugs. ‘You’re very distinguished, Leon,’ he said. ‘But I’ve got too much going on, I couldn’t concentrate.’
    ‘Well,