Free Murder Song by Jon Cleary Page B

would help prop up Lisa and the kids.”
    â€œYou think we wouldn’t?” Con Malone looked offended. “Jesus Christ—”
    â€œWho’s swearing?” said Brigid, coming in from the kitchen. “What if the children hear you?” They were her angels, to be protected from the world. She sprayed the house with holy water, as if dampening down the dust of sin; her rosary beads were always in her pocket, more important than a handkerchief. All her life she had been religious, but little of it had rubbed off on her husband and only a little more on her son. But at least I’m a believer, Malone thought. He doubted that his father was.
    Lisa ran a hand affectionately round the back of Con’s neck; his blunt wrinkled face coloured. “ I don’t think you could teach them anything, Dad. They hear it all on TV these days.”
    â€œNot in this house,” said Malone with a grin. “Mum’s got the TV aerial aimed straight at St. Mary’s, the Cardinal’s her favourite news-reader. Sermons and hymns and no news unless it’s good news.”
    They all laughed, including Brigid: unlike so many narrowly religious, she could laugh at herself. She had never believed that Christ had gone through life without a smile or a joke.
    When it was time to go home Malone carried Tom, who was already asleep, out to the car and settled him in the back seat between Lisa and Maureen. Brigid kissed all the children good-night, gave her cheek to Lisa and smiled at Malone. Con stood with his hands in his pockets, but it was obvious he had enjoyed having the family, his and Brigid’s family, come to visit them.
    An Asian man and woman passed the Malones, said good evening in soft shy voices and went into a house several doors up the street.
    â€œThat’s Mr. and Mrs. Van Trang,” said Brigid. “They’re a real nice couple. They’re Catholics,” she added, naturalizing them, forgiving them for being foreigners.
    Con had just nodded at the Vietnamese. He looked at his son as the latter said good-night to him across the roof of the Commodore.
    â€œDrive carefully,” he said: it was the closest he could come to saying, I love you all.
    â€œNight, Dad. Look after yourself.” Some day he would put his arms round his father, when he was dying or dead.
    Claire got in beside Malone as he settled in beside the wheel. “Enjoy yourself?” he said.
    â€œI shouldn’t say it, Daddy, but why does Grandma’s house always smell of cooking?”
    He took the car out from the kerb, pausing to let another car, drawing out from the kerb some distance behind him, go past. But it too paused, and he pulled out and drove on down the narrow street.
    â€œThere’s been about a hundred years of cooking in that house, my grandmother lived there before Gran. It sorts of hangs around, the smell.”
    â€œYou think we should bring Grandma a can of Air-o-zone next time we come?”
    â€œYou’ll do no such thing!” said Lisa sharply. “Just stop breathing if you don’t like it while you’re there. That’s Grandma’s home, smell and all.”
    Malone turned into a main road; the car following him did the same. “It doesn’t smell like your cooking,” Claire said. “I wouldn’t mind if it did. But it’s, I dunno, cabbage, stuff like that.”
    â€œCorned beef and cabbage,” said Malone. “I grew up on it.”
    â€œYuk,” said Maureen from the back seat.
    Malone was almost halfway home to Randwick before he realized that he was being tailed. At every turn he had made, another car had made the same turning. He was tired, he had not been alert; now all at once it came to him that the car following him was the same one that had pulled out from the kerb behind him in the street in Erskineville. Suddenly his hands felt clammy on the wheel.
    What to do? He could continue on to the police