independent of evil people.’
Marcia Carrier nodded. ‘Have you noticed,’ she said, ‘that evil people have a kind of force about them? A kind of independence? It’s a very powerful thing to have. It’s a stillness, an absence of doubt, an indifference to the world. It draws people to them. The moral vacuum sucks people in. The weak go to the strong. We see girls like that here. Some of them come on like victims, like wounded creatures. But sooner or later the other side shows through. The side that’s the predator, the side that inflicts wounds. The evil side.’
She shook her head, quick self-chastising movement. ‘But that’s all too serious,’ she said. ‘We do what we can for the girls. They can study if they want to. Some do. For others, it’s too late. For now anyway. For them, we have a range of programs. Self-esteem. Life skills. Job skills. That sort of thing.’
That was the end of talking about Kinross Hall. She moved the conversation over to the possibility of spring ever coming. We talked about coffee-making, her ignorance of football, the effects of sun deprivation. It was an easy exchange. When I got up to go, she said, ‘This is going to nag at me. I’ll have another look at the records, see if there’s anything I didn’t spot that might have worried Mr Lowey. What’s your phone number?’
At the door, we shook hands. She had a nice, dry grip and she held it for a second.
‘I’m pleased to have met a blacksmith, Mr Faraday,’ she said.
‘Mac.’
‘Marcia.’
The security man had the gate open when I rounded the corner. He gave me a little wave.
I went home, lit the Ned Kelly in the forge and got back to work on the knives. I had made my first knife for George Tan, a chef friend of Vinnie the publican. He’d lost the index finger on his chopping hand to a boat winch. When he got back to work after two months off, he found his knives unbalanced in his hand. George showed me the problem in the pub one Monday night, and I drew a knife shape that might compensate for the missing finger. It took four or five versions to get the distribution of weight right. George was ecstatic. He rang me to say he wanted a full set. Another chef in his kitchen, a ten-fingered one, tried the knives and ordered three. He showed them to a chef in Sydney, who ordered a full set. I now had orders for about thirty knives.
Filing and fitting, stove gradually warming the room, I thought about my visit to Kinross Hall.
I couldn’t believe Ned had gone to see Marcia Carrier about work. Ned never asked anyone for work. And leaving aside Ned’s nature, he had no need to drum up work. His diary showed an almost full workload of bookings for two or three months.
Marcia Carrier had not told me the real reason for Ned’s visit to Kinross Hall the day before he died. Why? I kept turning my meeting with her over in my mind. Then I went to the office and rang Detective Sergeant Michael Shea. He was out. They would pass on a message. I left my number. I was sorting out Allie’s appointments when the phone rang.
‘Shea.’
I said, ‘There’s something. Ned Lowey complained to the cops about Kinross Hall in late 1985. November. Can you check that?’
Silence. He cleared his throat. ‘November ’85? Why the fuck would I want to check that?’
‘You might find out something.’
There was a long silence. I could hear traffic noises. Then he said, ‘I’m the policeman.’
‘Trying to help,’ I said. ‘Don’t want that, fine.’
Silence again. Someone said something in the background. Probably skinhead Cotter. ‘Get back to you,’ Shea said.
In the half-awake dawn, rain hissing in the downpipes, I lay on my back and, for the first time in years, thought about the old life. When I’d come to my father’s house and the smithy to stay, I had schooled myself to shy away from thinking about my recent past until the people
Marcia Carrier nodded. ‘Have you noticed,’ she said, ‘that evil people have a kind of force about them? A kind of independence? It’s a very powerful thing to have. It’s a stillness, an absence of doubt, an indifference to the world. It draws people to them. The moral vacuum sucks people in. The weak go to the strong. We see girls like that here. Some of them come on like victims, like wounded creatures. But sooner or later the other side shows through. The side that’s the predator, the side that inflicts wounds. The evil side.’
She shook her head, quick self-chastising movement. ‘But that’s all too serious,’ she said. ‘We do what we can for the girls. They can study if they want to. Some do. For others, it’s too late. For now anyway. For them, we have a range of programs. Self-esteem. Life skills. Job skills. That sort of thing.’
That was the end of talking about Kinross Hall. She moved the conversation over to the possibility of spring ever coming. We talked about coffee-making, her ignorance of football, the effects of sun deprivation. It was an easy exchange. When I got up to go, she said, ‘This is going to nag at me. I’ll have another look at the records, see if there’s anything I didn’t spot that might have worried Mr Lowey. What’s your phone number?’
At the door, we shook hands. She had a nice, dry grip and she held it for a second.
‘I’m pleased to have met a blacksmith, Mr Faraday,’ she said.
‘Mac.’
‘Marcia.’
The security man had the gate open when I rounded the corner. He gave me a little wave.
I went home, lit the Ned Kelly in the forge and got back to work on the knives. I had made my first knife for George Tan, a chef friend of Vinnie the publican. He’d lost the index finger on his chopping hand to a boat winch. When he got back to work after two months off, he found his knives unbalanced in his hand. George showed me the problem in the pub one Monday night, and I drew a knife shape that might compensate for the missing finger. It took four or five versions to get the distribution of weight right. George was ecstatic. He rang me to say he wanted a full set. Another chef in his kitchen, a ten-fingered one, tried the knives and ordered three. He showed them to a chef in Sydney, who ordered a full set. I now had orders for about thirty knives.
Filing and fitting, stove gradually warming the room, I thought about my visit to Kinross Hall.
I couldn’t believe Ned had gone to see Marcia Carrier about work. Ned never asked anyone for work. And leaving aside Ned’s nature, he had no need to drum up work. His diary showed an almost full workload of bookings for two or three months.
Marcia Carrier had not told me the real reason for Ned’s visit to Kinross Hall the day before he died. Why? I kept turning my meeting with her over in my mind. Then I went to the office and rang Detective Sergeant Michael Shea. He was out. They would pass on a message. I left my number. I was sorting out Allie’s appointments when the phone rang.
‘Shea.’
I said, ‘There’s something. Ned Lowey complained to the cops about Kinross Hall in late 1985. November. Can you check that?’
Silence. He cleared his throat. ‘November ’85? Why the fuck would I want to check that?’
‘You might find out something.’
There was a long silence. I could hear traffic noises. Then he said, ‘I’m the policeman.’
‘Trying to help,’ I said. ‘Don’t want that, fine.’
Silence again. Someone said something in the background. Probably skinhead Cotter. ‘Get back to you,’ Shea said.
In the half-awake dawn, rain hissing in the downpipes, I lay on my back and, for the first time in years, thought about the old life. When I’d come to my father’s house and the smithy to stay, I had schooled myself to shy away from thinking about my recent past until the people
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