Matthew Flinders' Cat by Bryce Courtenay

his permission if he’s unconscious. If he ain’t, he’s got to agree to come.’ He spread his hands and smiled, ‘Which he can’t if he ain’t here. Sorry about that.’ He nodded to the young bloke, then jerked his head, indicating they should leave.
    ‘Wait on!’ Billy cried, ‘He could be lying somewhere close by, in the bushes.’
    The Maori looked back and said, not unkindly, ‘You find him, call us again, we’ll come for sure.’
    Billy walked over to the bench and sat down, panicstricken. He had the best part of five thousand dollars in his briefcase and its rightful owner had disappeared.
    Technically he’d stolen the money. His leg hurt and he needed a drink badly, he couldn’t remember when he’d been this sober this late in the day. Somehow he had to find Williams, track him down and give him back his money. It wasn’t his responsibility what happened after that, he’d done his best, even called the drunk wagon on his behalf.
    Billy rose wearily from the bench and made for the Moreton Bay. Its dark-green foliage reached almost to the ground, and if you didn’t mind the bat shit, its semi-dark interior was an ideal place to sleep it off. Williams would have come around, seen the tree and had the nous to crawl into its safety. He was from the bush, he’d have a strong sense of survival.
    Billy made his way over to the big old tree and dipped in under the low-hanging foliage to stand in the dark, moist-smelling shade. He waited until his eyes had adjusted before looking for Williams. The giant tree had enormous surface roots that acted as buttresses and could easily hide a man from view. Billy could hear the fruit bats squeaking in the branches overhead as he walked slowly around the tree, looking between the buttresses, certain that at any moment he would find the stockman. But there was no sign of Williams.
    Billy searched the Gardens for another hour. He asked several gardeners but only one of them could remember seeing a black man in a red tartan shirt and that was earlier when Williams had first entered the Gardens. Billy crossed over to the Domain and asked a group of derelicts who had settled in to the late-afternoon’s drinking session under the trees. They all knew Billy and extended an invitation for him to join them. Alcoholics pride themselves on being social, almost a brotherhood, it is what separates them from the heroin addicts and they’ll happily share a bottle with a mate who happens to be skint. Most of them had been helped at one time or another by Billy. Then Billy saw Casper Friendly was among the group, but much to his relief he’d passed out on the grass. He lay on his stomach, his head cradled in his arms. Williams’ bottle of scotch had caught up with him.
    Billy described Williams and several of them laughed and shook their heads. ‘Yer lookin’ for a fuckin’ boong, mate!’ called out one of them, a man named Lofty Mayne. ‘Whafuckinfor?’ This provoked more drunken laughter.
    ‘He needs a spot of help,’ Billy replied.
    ‘Ah, forget the bastard,’ Lofty said, ‘Here, Billy, have a drink, no good helpin’ them black bastards!’
    Billy pointed to the unconscious Casper Friendly, ‘He’s an Aborigine.’
    The men in the group all looked at the albino. ‘Who, Casper?’ Lofty said, turning back to Billy.
    Billy nodded.
    ‘Nah, he got hisself scrubbed white, that’s different.’ This provoked a howl of laughter among the group, several of them reaching out and patting Lofty on the back.
    ‘Garn, ’ave a drink,’ Lofty said, pleased with himself.
    ‘No thanks, some other time,’ Billy began to walk away.
    ‘Hey, Billy, c’mere,’ Lofty shouted, beckoning Billy with a wave of his arm.
    Billy stopped, ‘What?’ he said, turning.
    ‘That fuckin’ Abo yiz looking for,’ Lofty grinned, ‘I reckon he’s fell down some steps, them black bastards can’t hold their grog! Always fallin’ down steps. No fuckin’ steps in the desert when they go