Truth by Peter Temple Read Free Book Online Page A

the names. Unless someone pops up for killing women, even one, it’ll be a while.’
    ‘Takes as long as it takes,’ said Villani. ‘Do it right and sleep tight.’
    Oh God, another Singo saying. He killed the call before Dove could say something clever, walked back down the verandah.
    ‘Got the meat, the Crownies,’ Bob Villani said to Luke.
    ‘Can’t, Dad,’ said Luke. ‘The talent dropped out, some weak-dog excuse. I can’t say no, it’s in the contract. Really pisses me off, been looking forward to talking ponies.’
    Luke rose and they all stood. Luke put an arm around his father’s shoulders, walked him along. It struck Villani that he now looked completely unlike Bob. At the car, the girl inside, Luke took out a wallet, thumbed fifties.
    ‘Thursday,’ he said. ‘Benalla. Stand in the Day in the third. The little thing’s rough as a brush.’
    He tucked the notes into Bob’s shirt pocket.
    ‘Four hundred,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you a bell about ten if it’s on, you and Gordie pop over to Stanny. Probably a hundred each way, the rest, we’ll box a few. Thirty per cent commission, how’s that?’
    ‘Reasonable,’ said Bob. ‘Stand in the Day. Good name.’
    ‘Just my dough, Dad, okay?’ said Luke. ‘No insurance here, could run stone motherless.’
    He turned to Villani. ‘Want to be in this?’
    ‘No thanks.’
    ‘Oh yeah, forgot you’d given it away.’ He offered a high-five to Villani. Villani didn’t take it, he was not a high-five man.
    ‘Catch you, mate, right?’ said Luke. ‘Soon. Ring you.’
    ‘Good.’
    Luke put his arms around Bob. ‘This fire gets serious, mate, I want you out of here, okay? I’ll come up and drag you out myself.’
    ‘Be fine,’ said Bob. ‘Got Gordie to look after me.’
    ‘Do that, Gordie,’ said Luke. ‘I’m holding you responsible for this bastard.’
    ‘Do that, Lukie,’ said Gordie.
    Luke hugged him.
    They watched the car reverse, swing, fat tyres spat stones, Luke gunned it down the drive.
    ‘My turn to go,’ said Villani.
    His father looked down, rubbed his stubble. ‘You could stay, have the barbie,’ he said. ‘I’ll get you up at sparrer.’
    To say no was in Villani’s mouth, he had the excuses. But his father turned the black stone eyes and he could not utter them. ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘The meat, the beer.’
    ‘Fire up the bugger, Gordie.’
    ‘Total fire ban,’ said Villani.
    ‘For dickheads,’ said Bob.
    The day ended slowly, a fever in the western sky. Villani ate too much steak, smoked Gordie’s cigarettes, slept in his old bed. Sometime after midnight he woke, felt the storm coming, the trembling stillness, then the first solid movement of air and the thunderclap, it shook heaven and earth, a wind struck the house, squeaked the timbers, squealed the roof iron, rain hit like buckshot, two or three minutes under heavy fire, gone, the dying sluice of water in the downpipes.
    His father didn’t have to wake him. When he came into the pewter day, Bob was there, shorts, bare-chested, all rib and bone, sinew and muscle.
    ‘No need to get up,’ said Villani.
    ‘Hear the rain?’
    ‘Woke me.’
    ‘Yeah. Done buggerall, need a soaking.’
    ‘The finances,’ said Villani. ‘Coping?’
    Bob Villani flexed his arms. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
    ‘Just asking.’
    ‘That boss stuff,’ said Bob.
    ‘I’m not worrying about it,’ said Villani.
    ‘The way things were, you looking after the little buggers.’
    ‘You can let this fucking house burn down,’ said Villani, ‘but if the forest goes I’m coming after you.’
    They shook hands, just touched skin. He wanted to hug his father as Luke had done and give him something, some evidence that he too was a worthy son, but that was not possible.
    Before first light, still cool, he drove down Selborne’s curt main street. Beneath the pub’s sole elm, a man slept on his ute tray, he was embalmed in a grey blanket, one naked marble-white foot showed. Around