Free Murder Song by Jon Cleary Page A

Malone. “No canapés?”
    â€œNone of your fancy stuff with Mum,” said Con, but had enough sense of humour to grin. “You been busy?”
    â€œSame as usual,” said Malone and followed his family and his father down the narrow hall, stepping back, as he did every time he came here, into another life. Even though he was an only child and had loved his parents in the same undemonstrative way they loved him, he had wanted to escape from this house ever since he could remember. The dark small rooms, the ever-present smell of cooking, the constant shouts and screams from the ever-warring couple next door which would keep him awake at night; he had known there was a better place to live somewhere out there. His mother and father, he had known even then, would never leave; not even now when the Wogs and the Yellow Horde were pressing in on them. They felt safe in the small, narrow house. And, he hated to admit it, he too had felt safe: the whole world, it seemed, had then been a safer place. At least there had been no hit lists with his name on them.
    His mother had dinner on the table; they were expected to arrive on time. She clasped the children to her, as she had never clasped Scobie to her; then pushed them into their chairs around the dining table. She gave her cheek to Lisa’s kiss, but didn’t return the kiss; she loved Lisa as much as she did the children and Scobie, but, like Con, she could not handle public sentiment.
    â€œGet started! Don’t let it get cold.”
    It was a roast lamb dinner, the usual: none of your foreign muck here. Con had bought a bottle of red, his compliment to Lisa, the sophisticate in the family. Malone noticed it was a good label and he wondered who had advised the Old Man. Gradually Con Malone was changing for the better, but his son knew it was too late.
    When dinner was over Lisa went into the kitchen to help Brigid with the washing-up, the children went into the front room to watch television and Malone and his father sat on at the dinner table to finish the bottle of wine.
    â€œI notice someone shot a copper out at Parramatta last week. You working on that one?”
    â€œNo, that’s for the Parramatta boys. I’ve got my own case.”
    â€œThat singer they found in Clarence Street?” Though he would never admit it, Con Malone followed all the police news. He knew the dangers of his son’s job and he was afraid for him, though he would never admit that, either. “They’re shooting a lotta coppers these days,” he said, giving his wine a careful look, as if he were a wine-taster.
    Malone remarked his father’s concern and was touched by it; but he could never let Con know. All at once he was struck with the sad, odd wonder at what he would say to the Old Man on his deathbed. Would there be a last moment when both of them would let the barrier down and they would admit the truth of the love that strangled them both?
    â€œIt’s a different world, Dad.”
    â€œYou ever get any threats?” He had never asked that question before.
    â€œOnce or twice.” There had been more than that; but why worry his father with them? “You just have to pick the serious ones from the loud-mouths.”
    â€œYou ever tell Lisa about „em?”
    â€œNo. When you were having those union fights on the wharves, did you tell Mum?”
    â€œNo.” Con drained his glass, took his time before he said, “If someone ever tries to get you, let me know.”
    â€œWhy? What’ll you do?”
    â€œI dunno. Bugger-all, I suppose. But I’d just like to know.”
    Malone looked at his own glass; the wine had the colour of drying blood. “No, Dad. I don’t bring my worries home to Lisa—” Which wasn’t strictly true; she anticipated them. “I’m not going to do it with you. I can handle whatever comes up. But if something ever does happen to me, I hope you and Mum