He grinned weakly, and she let go his hand at last.
‘Corinna, isn’t this wonderful? We have our own laundrette now, and it’s made such a difference to our poor lost souls.’
‘And the hairdressing salon?’
She laughed like a peal of small silver bells. ‘That’s down to Kelvin.’ She pointed her determined chin towards a young man with a full bushranger beard busily snipping away at a dishevelled street kid. ‘He was a long-term patron of our operation until he got back on his feet at long last. He quit the grog, got a job as a hairdresser and next thing we knew he had his own thriving business. So he comes here on Saturday nights, sets up his tent and ministers to them all. She exchanged glances with Kelvin, who nodded briskly and returned to his craft. ‘That’s his girlfriend Stephanie next to him, doing the women.’
I lowered my voice. ‘And Jordan?’
She patted my arm. ‘He’s getting along fine here. As long as he keeps doing what he’s told, I’ll put in a good word for him when his case comes up.’
‘And he’s quite penitent?’
‘Quite. But I doubt he’ll want to talk to you. The poor dear’s a bit embarrassed, to say the least.’
‘All right. I’ll keep clear of him. But …’ I left my sentence hanging, and she shook her head with emphasis.
‘I have my suspicions, dear. Something absurdly doctrinal, I believe. If the poor lad spent less time bothering his head about matters best left to the clergy, it would be a fine thing. But let it go. I hear you have matters of more moment on your plate at present?’ She looked down at my new ring, gave me a penetrating look from her gimlet eyes, and smiled. ‘The Lord will protect you too, dear. Now, it’s time for the sandwiches, I think. Would you like to help with that? After all, it’s your bread we’re using.’
I did so. Tonight’s lawyer, I noticed, was rather more kempt than I remembered them being. This one wore about five-eighths of a business suit, but without the tie of bondage that would have sent too much of a Corporate Guy signal. He conversed with our clients in a soft voice. It may only have been my imagination, but our down-and-outs seemed less hapless than usual. Perhaps it was the laundry and haircuts. But there was more to it than that. Those who sleep rough used to be angrier. These seemed humbler, and more willing to give the Normal World a go. And unless I was quite mistaken there were fewer junkies. I tried my best not to stare at their faces and arms, but I couldn’t help noticing. These unfortunates were mostly clean, or I was out of my reckoning altogether.
‘You’ve noticed it too?’ Sister Mary was suddenly at my side. I looked at her all-forgiving features and shrugged. ‘I thought you might. Some are the lost souls you remember. But every night there are more and more ordinary folks who suddenly find themselves on the streets and are still wondering how it happened.’
‘Greedy landlords?’ I suggested.
She shook her wimple. ‘Not necessarily. Now that Missing Link has abandoned all pretence of looking after the poor, all sorts of people are having their benefits cut off, for any or no reason. You remember the Robot Letters?’
I did. For reasons that entirely escape me, The Missing Link Corporation (the agency that was supposed to dispense charity to the poor) had embarked on what was the postal equivalent of a drive-by shooting spree. They had a computer program, apparently. This explained everything, though it was cold comfort to those who received letters out of thin air telling them that they suddenly owed the government ten thousand dollars, three goats and an aardvark. Middle-class folks accustomed to fighting for their rights were able to prove that they owed no such thing. The poor and meek were not so fortunate. There were suicides, which was probably just fine as far as the government was concerned. End of problem! I could almost hear them chuckle, and crack open a jeroboam of bubbly in celebration.
Sister Mary went into a short conclave with tonight’s nurse, who was dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt, issued a few orders and came back to me. ‘They’re mostly a lot quieter than they used to be. They’re cowed. This worries me.’
It worried me too.
Just then there appeared to be a disturbance up ahead of us. It was beyond the cathedral precinct, heading towards the Russell Street corner. Something was undoubtedly up. People were running towards us. Alasdair moved into the shadows of the church, but he was looking intently straight ahead, ready to spring into action. And out of the soup kitchen rose the vast, imperturbable figure of Ma’ani. He caught Alasdair’s glance and made a flicking motion with his jaw. ‘It’s all right, mate. I’ve got this.’
Alasdair fell in next to me, almost humming with suppressed tension. I was pleased to see that he accepted Ma’ani as his superior officer for the night. But he planted himself directly in front of me, feet braced slightly apart and hands hanging loose at his sides. Towards us came a running man: tall, shaggy with facial growth, and the eyes of a crazed tiger. I saw he was brandishing a machete, and he was coming straight towards me.
CHAPTER TWENTY
O! so light a foot will ne’er wear out the everlasting flint.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, ROMEO AND JULIET, ACT 2, SCENE 6
Ma’ani took two quick steps along the footpath, grasped the man and lifted him high into the air. He held him aloft, high above his head, with one hand. With the other gigantic fist he knocked the machete to the footpath, where it landed with a clatter. At once Alasdair whipped out a handkerchief and swept it up. He looked around to see a uniformed constable running towards him. Alasdair placed the machete on the footpath, still wrapped in his hanky, and raised both arms. The cop slowed down, looked at the tableau before him, and inclined a granite face.
The entire episode had lasted maybe five seconds. We all stopped to catch our breaths, except the cop, who was now speaking urgently into his radio. The discussion ceased, and we all stared at Exhibit A. He struggled frantically in Ma’ani’s grasp, and the gallant officer walked over towards him. ‘What’s your name, son?’
‘Fuck off, cunt!’ came out more or less as a bellow: the sort made by a Mallee bull with its hoof caught in a cattle grid.
‘So which one of those is your first name?’ the cop enquired, as if asking a child what sort of ice-cream he wanted. The offender groaned. Some of the fight had gone out of him, unquestionably. His face was still brick-red, and his eyes a window into a pit on which I had no wish to speculate. Inarticulate noises escaped from the half-open mouth, but nothing resembling articulate speech. And there he still dangled, waving his legs ineffectually and attempting to kick at the man-mountain who continued to hold him aloft without apparent effort. The total effect was as if a Dalek had been interrupted in its quest for world domination by an unexpected staircase. Ma’ani grinned at the dapper police uniform. ‘You want ’im?’
The cop smiled a wintry smile. ‘Not till my backup arrives.’ He gazed, fascinated, at the feebly kicking captive then raised an eyebrow at Ma’ani. ‘You okay until then, mate?’
Ma’ani grinned proudly. He was wearing a yellow singlet which inadequately covered his bulging chest, mighty biceps and gargantuan shoulders. Even his muscles had muscles. It was as though he had at least three other men inside him, and they were all taking turns at this citizen’s arrest. ‘Yeah, bro, I’m fine. Reckon this one’s on ice?’