On Cringila Hill by Noel Beddoe Page A

much.’
    â€˜Well, yeah, that’s right.’
    â€˜Not since Abdul.’
    â€˜Sure.’
    â€˜Think about Abdul?’
    â€˜All the time. I can’t fucken forget about him. I have nightmaresabout him.’
    â€˜It had an impact.’
    â€˜Fucken oath it did.’
    â€˜What do you think about it?’
    â€˜Coupla things. One, there was a gun, you know. Now, that’s a big fucken deal. When was the last time there was a gun on Cringila Hill? Never, is what I think. So that struck me. Guns have come. Those two cocksuckers tonight, at least they didn’t have no gun or it would have been a different story.’
    â€˜That’s what I think. That’s exactly what I think.’
    â€˜Then, the other thing, people get murdered .’
    â€˜What, this came as news to you?’
    â€˜Well, I’ve read it, you know? I’ve read about it so I knew it somewhere in my brain. But I didn’t feel it. I didn’t feel it in my belly, like I do now.’
    â€˜Things are gettin’ wild, ain’t they? Abdul three in the head. Do a little business some cunt wants to bash ya.’ He laughs. ‘Maybe we should move.’
    â€˜What – get away from bad company, eh? Break off contact with them illegal influences?’
    Piggy laughs again. It hurts his chest.
    â€˜Pig, we are bad company.’
    â€˜Maybe. Still, there’s worse around than us.’
    â€˜So we’ve seen.’
    There is no sound beyond the sanctuary of their tree except the swish of gently falling rain. Jimmy says, ‘Okay. Crawl out – can you do that? Then go home. Straight home. If you can. The way your ribs are.’
    It takes Piggy a long time to crawl from the tree-cover. He grunts, moving. Sometimes he has to stop for a while, panting.
    Jimmy says, ‘Then go to school tomorrow, do something, hurt your ribs, have someone look at ’em.’
    â€˜Maybe.’
    â€˜Do that. And Pig …’ He’d made it out into the rain and stood, bent over, from the hurting in his ribs. ‘That was good back there. Thanks for that.’
    â€˜What, I’m gonna hide over the fence in the dog shit and let them do you?’
    â€˜Plenty would of.’
    â€˜Yeah. And plenty wouldn ’of, neither.’
    â€˜Maybe. Anyway. That was good.’
    â€˜And I knew I’d be okay, Jim. I knew my Lord would care for me. My dark Lord.’
    â€˜Oh, shit. Not with that. Believe what you like, just leave me out of that shit.’
    â€˜No. I actually thought it, climbin’ over the fence, “My dark Lord will protect me.”’
    â€˜Look. Believe what you like. Just leave me out.’
    â€˜Jim …’
    â€˜Nah. Tell me this – what do I believe about all that stuff?’
    â€˜Got no idea.’
    â€˜And what harm does that do?’
    Piggy looks the distance he’s got to travel to reach his bedroom. He says, ‘Nice boots.’
    He struggles down into the wet night.

Chapter Nine
    Police on duty at Port Kembla station work under unforgiving fluorescent lighting. Gordon watches Peter Grace, at a desk, struggling with a computer. Peter Grace is a big man, an athlete once but gone to fat now. Peter’s hair has thinned, there are beads of sweat on his pale scalp. His shirt is a little too small for him and folds of flesh bulge over the collar. Gordon walks over to where Peter is working, swings a chair from an unoccupied nearby desk, with difficulty settles himself into it. Peter Grace looks up, nods an acknowledgement of Gordon’s presence. ‘Chilly.’
    â€˜Good evening, Peter.’
    â€˜How’s the back?’
    â€˜Deteriorating, I think. I don’t know how long I’ll be able to stay around.’
    â€˜Ah.’
    Peter works on for a little, to complete the ‘FACTS’ sheet he’s compiling. He saves his work when he’s finished, swivels his chair to face his colleague,