The Paradise Stain. Nick Glade-Wright

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СКАЧАТЬ thereabouts.’

      ‘Five!’ Kant repeated. ‘Surely you could have told someone. What were your parents doing then?’

      ‘Dunno. They sent me there ’cos I were a tearaway really; runnin’ away, stealin’ stuff.’ John smiled at this description of himself. ‘I were a bit of an ’anful, see. They just took off, I s’pose. I think someone said they went to Queensland, or me father did anyway. I dunno.’

      Although John had clearly endured a hard time growing up in the fifties in Tasmania, there were lots of other people who did it tough. Social support networks were not so much in place then, and so many were left to their own devices, to either sink or swim. There would have to be more to John’s story for him to be a viable contestant.

      ‘Your dad, what was he like?’

      ‘Dunno really. Used to bash ya when ’e was drunk. Never touched me sister though. I s’pose I couldn’t fight back being a bit younger ’n’ that. Back then, as I said, I was a bit of an ’anful, you see, a bit wilful like.’ Again, the sheepish grin.

      ‘So how old were you back then? When your father … hit you, John?’

      ‘Two.’

      ‘Two!’

      ‘I think so. Oh, maybe two ’n’ a ’alf,’ he added, as if the extra six months made a difference. To Kant it sounded like an apology for being such a handful, excusing his father’s violence because that was all he had possibly ever known.

      ‘Jesus,’ Kant whispered. He hadn’t meant to lose his compo sure but all he could think of was Rosie, proud to be two and a half, steeped in so much love and nurture.

      ‘See, I reckon it was me being a tearaway. That’s why they sent me to the Salvos. Later, after I left the Brighton school I was sent to Ashley in Deloraine. I was twelve by then but they still kept it on the books like. You know, me being a murderer an all.’

      ‘You mean the misguided suspicion that you had hurt the boy?’

      ‘I dunno. I think they always thought it were me, like they wanted someone to blame for stuff. Summa them guards, like I don’t reckon they were very happy themselves.’

      ‘Yes, I can certainly understand that.’

      John scratched at the stubble on his chin. ‘Them kids there, and even the staff, still used to bash ya. I run away, I did. Just took off. They told me eventually that it wasn’t me. Not for a coupla years though. Like, you begin to wonder whether you really did do it. I stole a few things, nothin’ real big, when I took off to the city, you know … like a bicycle off of a verandah to get round and stuff.’

      ‘How do you feel about that part of your life now, John? It was a long time ago.’

      ‘Yeah I know but … ’

      Kant waited. He suspected there was more to the story. There must be. How could anyone remember such details after half a century? Just then a text came through on Kant’s iPhone. Ignoring it, he looked at John with a reassuring smile.

      ‘It’s hard, isn’t it? So much from our past can get lost, or hidden,’ Kant said, not realising how prophetic his statement would become.

      ‘It’s not that; it’s hard ’cos some things just don’t go away and … ’ John heaved a sigh.

      ‘It’s okay, mate, your story’s safe with me. And if you don’t want to go ahead, everything you’ve told me will remain completely confidential.’

      John looked around the walls at the artworks, his eyes remaining for several seconds on each piece before moving to the next.

      ‘You have some nice things ’ere, Mr Kant.’

      ‘Thanks, but call me Barry, please. I collected them all over a lifetime really. They’re like a chart of my travels with my wife.’

      ‘I like that.’

      John breathed in and filled his lungs. He allowed the air to smooth out a clench that seemed to have constricted his chest. ‘See … like … like there was this other time … I spent in Dominic; you know, the Catholic school.’

      ‘Here in Hobart?’

      ‘Yeah. I spent some time there, only a few months. Me older sister Elsie, who lived down Primrose Sands, said it would be a good safe place to go and … like … get better, be cared for, but … ’

      A fearful realisation began to churn in the pit of Kant’s stomach. Oh God, here it comes, I should have guessed.

      After a few minutes Kant wound up the interview and booked John Sturges into the show. He had to remind himself this was not a counselling session as he watched the old man trudge heavily from the room. His was a big story, even for BKS, and Kant, already feeling the enormity of the responsibility, needed time to assimilate the dreadful nature of a crime that had been perpetrated on this gentle old man so many years ago and was still poisoning him like a rusty spike driven deep into his soul.

      Already, Kant’s first day back had given him more than he was ready for, so he postponed the afternoon interview with the African lad for a later date, to be confirmed, and fixed a strong coffee for himself. While the coffee machine was doing its thing he opened up the message on his iPhone. It read: your fulla shit fagot.

      Kant stared at the message for several seconds. It was his turn to sigh. ‘Is that a fact?’ he said, pressing the delete button. Boiling brown liquid began to splutter into his cup.

      *

      At the top of the wooden stairs, rising directly from the street to the first floor landing, Mungo flicked a light switch that activated several low wattage globes in the dim passageway and in the largest room to the left, which had become the main studio. There was no light switch in the room. Random, dodgy modifications over the years had presented such anomalies to the workings of this character space but suited the nature of their experimental work. The three men had all made various forays into the Art School as well as completing degrees at the Conservatorium of Music. A solid grounding in formal techniques was essential before the true creativity of bending all the rules could take place.

      Below on the street frontage was a Moroccan rug shop next to a milk bar. To the lads, Moroccan food in a Kasbah would have been preferable.

      Elizabeth Street was the main artery connecting the city’s heart, several blocks down the road, with the fashionable North Hobart nucleus of cosmopolitan activity a few blocks up, with its restaurants and trendy cafés, wine sales, pubs, alternative cinema, art galleries and music venues. Not with a Lygon Street sort of Melbourne ethnicity or with a Kings Cross Sydney exuberance, but in a ‘ there’s no one around after ten in Hobart’ sort of graveyard way, as Sammy, the band’s twenty four year old percussionist often complained about it.

      At night, Hobart’s CBD, several blocks down the street, was a desolate and windy place where the homeless hunkered down and the crime intent scuttled around ‘ like underfed crocodiles in a caravan park’, another of Sammy’s little lyrical triumphs, particularly when he was on the weed.

      The band, Global СКАЧАТЬ