Free Mad Dog Moxley by Peter Corris Page B

about to raise a subject she's had on her mind for some time.
    â€˜Why did you call yourself Fletcher those times? You know there's never been nothing like that between us.’
    Moxley shrugs. ‘I've called myself lots of things. Keeps people guessing. There's always someone trying to get the better of you.’
    She sighs. She's heard this sort of thing from him before. ‘I don't know about that.’
    â€˜I do. Look, Lin, you'd better sell the lorry. It's worth a few quid and you can use it to pay for Dougie's keep and that until I…’
    â€˜I thought you still owed money on it.’
    â€˜They won't come after you and they can't get to me where I'm going.’
    MacKay folds his paper. ‘Time to go, Linda. It's getting late. I'll have someone run you home.’
    â€˜Just another minute please, Mr MacKay,’ Moxley says.
    Moxley speaks loudly enough for MacKay to hear. ‘They'll let you come and see me at the Bay and I'd be glad of some baccy and papers.’ He drops his voice. ‘Tell them about my falling down fits, Lin. Tell them about me getting shot. Lay it on thick, like.’
    All three people stand awkwardly for a moment. Moxley and Linda don't touch and MacKay shepherds her from the room. As they leave, Walsh enters with a set of handcuffs. He cuffs Moxley and pushes him down onto the chair.
    â€˜You're a bastard, Walsh.’
    Walsh smiles. ‘Know something, Bill? You're a very popular fellow.’
    Moxley is exhausted. He rubs his reddened eyes and scowls. ‘What d'you mean?’
    â€˜Somehow word's got around about you. There's a little crowd outside. Couple of newspaper blokes and photographers. They're all wanting to get a squiz at you, ugly and all as you are.’
    â€˜I don't want to see anybody.’
    MacKay comes back and Walsh, who has been looming over Moxley, steps back deferentially. ‘I've just been telling him about the people outside.’
    â€˜We'll keep you here tonight, Bert. There's a lot to do tomorrow. You look like you need some sleep.’
    â€˜I don't want people gawkin’ at me.’
    â€˜Some of ‘em want to tear you apart.’
    â€˜That's enough, Walsh,’ MacKay says. ‘Let's go.’
    â€˜Are you going to help me, Mr MacKay?’
    MacKay rubs his hand over his bristled face. It's been a long day and he has more on his mind than Moxley. He's worried about the political situation. Worried that meetings supporting Premier Lang, the ‘Big Fella’, could get out of hand.
    â€˜The only person who can help you now,’ he says, ‘is yourself.’

HIS MAJESTY'S PLEASURE
    I recommend that legal aid be assigned
for his defence and in view of the
possible defence of insanity that a
solicitor and counsel be assigned.
CLERK OF THE PEACE TO
UNDERSECRETARY, 17 MAY 1932
    W H Niland and GPL Hungerford sit at a table in the visitors’ room in the remand section of Long Bay Gaol. It is a cheerless space with grey walls and floor and one barred window. Both men wear three-piece suits and watch chains; their hats and briefcases are on the table. They are alone in the room.
    â€˜You represented him at the inquest,’ Hunger-ford says. ‘What sort of a chap is he?’
    Niland scratches his closely shaven chin. ‘Difficult to say. Mercurial perhaps.’
    Hungerford frowns. He dislikes flowery language. ‘Speak plainly, man.’
    â€˜Some of the time he's sullen and downright rude with it. Grunting and avoiding your eye. Other times he's quite open, frank, almost likeable.’

    LONG BAY GAOL, ENTRANCE TO THE METROPOLITAN TRAINING CENTRE
    â€˜But not quite?’
    â€˜No, there's something odd about him. It's partly his appearance. His eyes bulge and his ears jut out, giving him a comical look, but that's misleading. You wouldn't want to meet him in a lane on a dark night.’
    Hungerford sports a bushy moustache, which he strokes while he's being spoken