walkabout, see!’
Lofty’s attempt at a joke set off another gale of laughter among the drunks. ‘C’mere, siddown, ’ave a drink, whazzamatter?’ he repeated.
Billy was sorely tempted, but the presence of Casper Friendly and the possibility of him waking up and being curious as to why Billy was looking for Trevor Williams decided him against it. ‘Another time. Got to go, mate.’
‘Ah, fuck yiz!’ Lofty called after him. ‘Too good fer us, is yer? Fuck off then!’
As the day wore on, Billy’s paranoia increased and while he told himself that apart from the almost three glasses of scotch he’d consumed in the morning, his head was clear as a bell, the only problem was that he couldn’t get it to ring, to make any reasonable decisions.
He sat down on a bench outside the Art Gallery, both elbows resting on the briefcase on his lap, his hands cupped under his chin. He watched as several late-afternoon runners passed by on their way to Mrs Macquarie’s Chair, doing the loop around the Gardens. A group of middle-aged Japanese tourists was coming out of the gallery in a neat formation, giggling and chatting loudly. Billy thought how nice it would be if he didn’t have to think any more and could simply follow the little Jap bloke holding the flag. He’d have a nice hotel to go to, with tucker laid on, a soft bed with clean sheets, and the bill paid in advance. He was exhausted, feeling a little dizzy, and realised that he couldn’t remember when last he’d eaten.
For the umpteenth time, he reviewed his options. Now it occurred to him that Williams himself might report the stolen money to the police when he sobered up in the morning, citing Casper or Billy as two people who’d seen the stash in his possession. The police would have no trouble picking Billy up and, of course, they’d find the money in his briefcase.
The more Billy thought of the pickle he’d put himself in, the more he became convinced that unless he got to Williams first, the case against him was open and shut. No magistrate or judge would believe that he’d acted in good faith. If he’d had to handle a case like this when he’d been a practising barrister, he wouldn’t have given his client any chance of winning. He’d make him plead mitigating circumstances, an act committed while under the influence, citing the fact that his client had no previous record. The best he would have hoped for was a shorter sentence. Sitting on the bench outside the Art Gallery, the afternoon drawing to a close, Billy could hear the cell door at Long Bay clanging shut behind him.
He’d already thought about giving the money to Con for safekeeping but decided against doing so. Con was his friend, though it was a friendship that had never been truly tested. The cafe owner might well baulk at the idea and Billy wouldn’t blame him if he did. Even if he agreed to keep the money in safekeeping while Billy tried to find Williams, if things went wrong, and the lawyer in Billy told him that they invariably do, Con would be an accessory to the crime too. Furthermore, Billy would be totally discredited and no longer eligible as Con’s sponsor and character referee, a fact which might well prevent the owner of the New Hellas Cafe from bringing out his wife-to-be from Greece.
Billy had been among the homeless for four years and he’d always told himself that the decision to cut all his previous ties was in the interest of all concerned, that by leaving his wife and the daughter he loved he’d made it easier for them to get on with their lives without the daily reminder of the past that his presence brought them. He was not to be trusted and he was best being on his own, well away from anyone he could hurt. The loneliness that had followed had been of his own making, a punishment he repeatedly told himself he deserved. But now, for the first time, he realised that there wasn’t anyone whom he could trust and no one who would trust him. He had gone beyond
Lofty’s attempt at a joke set off another gale of laughter among the drunks. ‘C’mere, siddown, ’ave a drink, whazzamatter?’ he repeated.
Billy was sorely tempted, but the presence of Casper Friendly and the possibility of him waking up and being curious as to why Billy was looking for Trevor Williams decided him against it. ‘Another time. Got to go, mate.’
‘Ah, fuck yiz!’ Lofty called after him. ‘Too good fer us, is yer? Fuck off then!’
As the day wore on, Billy’s paranoia increased and while he told himself that apart from the almost three glasses of scotch he’d consumed in the morning, his head was clear as a bell, the only problem was that he couldn’t get it to ring, to make any reasonable decisions.
He sat down on a bench outside the Art Gallery, both elbows resting on the briefcase on his lap, his hands cupped under his chin. He watched as several late-afternoon runners passed by on their way to Mrs Macquarie’s Chair, doing the loop around the Gardens. A group of middle-aged Japanese tourists was coming out of the gallery in a neat formation, giggling and chatting loudly. Billy thought how nice it would be if he didn’t have to think any more and could simply follow the little Jap bloke holding the flag. He’d have a nice hotel to go to, with tucker laid on, a soft bed with clean sheets, and the bill paid in advance. He was exhausted, feeling a little dizzy, and realised that he couldn’t remember when last he’d eaten.
For the umpteenth time, he reviewed his options. Now it occurred to him that Williams himself might report the stolen money to the police when he sobered up in the morning, citing Casper or Billy as two people who’d seen the stash in his possession. The police would have no trouble picking Billy up and, of course, they’d find the money in his briefcase.
The more Billy thought of the pickle he’d put himself in, the more he became convinced that unless he got to Williams first, the case against him was open and shut. No magistrate or judge would believe that he’d acted in good faith. If he’d had to handle a case like this when he’d been a practising barrister, he wouldn’t have given his client any chance of winning. He’d make him plead mitigating circumstances, an act committed while under the influence, citing the fact that his client had no previous record. The best he would have hoped for was a shorter sentence. Sitting on the bench outside the Art Gallery, the afternoon drawing to a close, Billy could hear the cell door at Long Bay clanging shut behind him.
He’d already thought about giving the money to Con for safekeeping but decided against doing so. Con was his friend, though it was a friendship that had never been truly tested. The cafe owner might well baulk at the idea and Billy wouldn’t blame him if he did. Even if he agreed to keep the money in safekeeping while Billy tried to find Williams, if things went wrong, and the lawyer in Billy told him that they invariably do, Con would be an accessory to the crime too. Furthermore, Billy would be totally discredited and no longer eligible as Con’s sponsor and character referee, a fact which might well prevent the owner of the New Hellas Cafe from bringing out his wife-to-be from Greece.
Billy had been among the homeless for four years and he’d always told himself that the decision to cut all his previous ties was in the interest of all concerned, that by leaving his wife and the daughter he loved he’d made it easier for them to get on with their lives without the daily reminder of the past that his presence brought them. He was not to be trusted and he was best being on his own, well away from anyone he could hurt. The loneliness that had followed had been of his own making, a punishment he repeatedly told himself he deserved. But now, for the first time, he realised that there wasn’t anyone whom he could trust and no one who would trust him. He had gone beyond
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