Free An Iron Rose by Peter Temple

came over Frank’s face. ‘Little man,’ he said, ‘don’t quote The Great Squatter to me. I’ve told you that before. I had those sayins straight from the horse’s arse for thirty-five years. Now a miniature ghost of the old shit follows me around repeatin them. Is that what they mean by everlastin life? You’re dead but your miserable opinions linger on to haunt the livin?’
     
    He turned back to me. ‘Now, as I was sayin, the bastard Crewe shoulda been in jail over that will.’
     
    ‘What will?’ I was looking in the box for springs.
     
    ‘Will he produced after old Morrissey turned up his toes. Half the bloody estate to the physiothingamajig. Who happens to be Mr Shonky Crewe’s current rootee. Lorraine was her name, I recall. Latest in a long line. Once he got his cut, he was into that Kinross Hall warder. Dr Marcia somethin or other. All legs and hair.’
     
    I looked up. ‘Crewe had an affair with Marcia Carrier?’
     
    ‘That’s what they say,’ Frank said. ‘He’s the boss cockie out there, y’know. Chairman of the council, whatever. They should take a bloody good look at that place. God knows what goes on there. I see the quack switched off his lights the other day. Hanged himself down there in Footscray. Least he picked a place with a decent footy team.’
     
    ‘Frank,’ Jim said. He had a habit of sitting with his hands clamped between his knees, palms together.
     
    ‘Shut up,’ Frank said. ‘Dr Barbie. Good name, eh? I’d take the wife rowin, though. That Irene.’
     
    ‘What’s he got to do with it?’ I said.
     
    Frank lit another cigarette. It started a coughing fit. When it ended, he wiped moist eyes and said, ‘Where was I?’
     
    ‘Dr Barbie. Where’s he fit in?’
     
    ‘Kinross quack. Inherited the job from old Crewe. Looks just like old Crewe, too. Now Dr Barbie’s mum, she was the receptionist for umpteen bloody years.’
     
    ‘You never bloody stop, do you?’ Jim said.
     
    ‘Take that girl Sim Walsh picked up,’ Frank said. ‘Now where did she come from? Naked as your Eve. On Colson’s Road. Out there in the middle of the night. Covered in blood. Been whipped like a horse.’
     
    ‘That’s serious,’ I said.
     
    ‘Bloody oath. Told me about it one night he’d pushed the boat out to bloody Tasmania.’
     
    ‘Drunk talk,’ said Jim. ‘Sim Walsh was drunk for forty years. Most likely made the whole thing up.’
     
    I said, ‘When was this?’
     
    ‘Good way back,’ Frank said. ‘Around ’82, could be ’83. Thereabouts.’
     
    ‘What happened?’
     
    ‘Nothin. Said he took her home, cleaned her up. Girl wouldn’t go to hospital, wouldn’t go to the police. Scared out of her wits. Put her to bed. Next day, gone.’
     
    ‘She tell him what happened?’
     
    ‘No. Kept talkin about a bloke called Ken. You got springs, then?’
     
    ‘I want the right springs,’ I said. ‘Not any old springs. Who was the girl?’
     
    Frank stumped over to the door and flicked his cigarette end into the yard. ‘Juvenile harlot from Kinross Hall,’ he said.
     
    ‘She told him that?’
     
    Frank thought about this. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘near enough. Sim said she was ravin. Drugs, he reckoned. Mind you, he was ravin a bit himself that night.’
     
    ‘Never reported it?’ I said.
     
    ‘Don’t know,’ Frank said. ‘Come round the next day, eyes narrer as bloody stamps side-on. Said, do me a favour, what I said about that girl, forget it. Load of rubbish I made up.’
     
    ‘And here you are doin it,’ said Jim. ‘He told you it was a load of rubbish. What more d’ya want?’
     
    ‘I want you to keep your mouth shut,’ Frank said. ‘Sim didn’t make it up. He could bloody bignote himself—me and Douglas Bader and Sailor Malan saved the world from the bloody Nazis—but he wouldn’t make anythin up. Not out of nothin. Not in his nature. Oh no, it happened. Believe you me. He never came near me after that. Saw me comin, he’d