The Gilded Madonna by Garrick Jones (ebook reader for comics TXT) 📕

“Me too, Mark,” I said. “There are some things he couldn’t have possibly known. But, over time, I’m sure we’ll find a logical explanation.”

“Maybe, Clyde, maybe …”

I noticed him twirling his mother’s wedding ring with the thumb of the same hand, but said nothing. I was as confused, but also determined not to abandon Luka. He might have a “gift” I did not understand or fully accept, but he was a genuine, warm human being who I really liked, and who I sincerely wanted to cultivate as a friend.

“Hello there,” Mark said over my shoulder to someone who’d opened the door to his room. I looked behind me. It was Harry, holding an enormous bunch of white daisies.

“Safe to come in?” he asked.

“You and Clyde talking yet?” Mark asked with a grin.

“Barely,” I muttered. “I still haven’t been forgiven.”

“Clyde’s doing penance,” Harry said, standing behind me and kissing my cheek. I didn’t exactly draw back, but blushed. Despite my embarrassment, Mark merely smiled—a wry smile, but still, a smile.

“Harry …” I said, feeling the heat in my face.

“Oh, sorry, I thought …” he added.

“It’s all right, Harry,” Mark said. “I’m not completely stupid.”

“Oh well, in that case,” Harry said, tilting my head back with one hand and then kissing me deeply.

“Where have you been?” I asked, searching his eyes, before timidly returning his kiss with one of my own.

“I’ll tell you later,” Harry mumbled, sounding very awkward, glancing at Mark.

“Please don’t protect me,” Mark said. “I may have been shot, and I haven’t got Luka’s gift, but it’s pretty obvious the I’ll tell you later is something you don’t want me to hear—just yet, anyway.”

“It can wait, Mark. Honestly, just get better.”

“It’s about my grandfather, isn’t it?”

Harry nodded. “I was on the blower to Holsworthy this morning. Clyde asked me to phone to find out what’s going on. It’s not looking good for him to be honest, Mark.”

“Unless they’re going to pin a medal on the old bastard, you’d better tell me.”

“Well, it’s going to be hard to prove at this distance in time, but I was told they’re looking for the men who made accusations in 1916 and 1917. Of course with Keeps’ war diaries as supporting evidence, there’s bound to be a court martial. Barring them not being able to track down the men he abused in the trenches, he’ll get ten to twenty years at the very least, and more if they find the men and can get them to testify.”

“Ten to twenty? Doesn’t seem enough to me,” Mark said.

“Of course, you could always press civil charges yourself,” I said. “With your testimony and that of Greyson, who’ll never see the light of day, you’d never have to suffer one more day of him. With what we know about his and Greyson’s activities at Petersham, he’d spend the rest of his days in a normal jail rather than a military prison.”

“Do you know whether he’s been charged yet, Harry?”

“Military law isn’t like common law. He can be held indefinitely while they make up their minds and look for evidence and witnesses. But, Clyde hasn’t told you yet, has he?”

“Told me what?”

“Jeff Ball went to interview him yesterday about his associations with Greyson, Keeps, and Tocacci as part of our commission investigation over the abuse of boys and young men, and the well–known blokes we know were involved. Your grandfather kept saying ‘it’s hearsay; prove it!’. Jeff suggested we might speak with you and get you to write a statement, but your grandfather laughed in his face, saying he was unrepentant over what he did, insisting you were a bad boy who needed beating to keep in line, that you were so wilful and disobedient that even the harshest thrashings couldn’t cure the wickedness inside you.”

The silence in the hospital room was thick with Mark’s anger. After a minute or two of working his jaw, he shouted, “Bring in your camera, Clyde. I want photos of what he did to me. Every scar, every burn mark, every indication of every beating you can find. And, before you say anything, it’s not about vengeance, it’s about justice. I know the law back to front, and if I’d found similar evidence of this sort of long–term abuse on any other human being, as an officer of the law I’d have considered it my duty to arrest, make my case, and then hand it over to the prosecutor. If the military court can’t do anything then the civil courts will.”

“Are you sure?”

I think had Harry not been there he might have almost cried.

“Give us a moment please,” I said to my man.

“Sure, Clyde. Oh, by the way, ‘you know who’ is outside.”

I took Harry’s hand and pressed it to the side of my face.

“You know who?” Mark echoed, looking puzzled, after Harry had left us alone.

“Listen, my friend,” I said. “Warwick told me you’re going to be off work for at least six weeks, maybe a little more. Do you want a bit of advice from me? After what we’ve been through, I’ve been thinking—”

“When are you ever not thinking, Clyde?”

“Rarely, Mark.”

“Go on,” he said, flicking his fingers, indicating he wanted another smoke. I pretend–frowned, but lit one for him. “Tell me what you’re thinking this time.”

“Well, although Harry’s mother and her friends have cleaned up your house in Rozelle, I’m pretty sure that if I were you, it’s the last place I’d want to go back to live in. So, since you asked: either you rent it out, which would be stupid, because it’s in a terrible area and you’d barely get any rent, or you spend a bit of the money in the bank account your grandfather opened in your name and do it up, sell it, and buy yourself something closer to work. The Eastern Suburbs are much nicer to live in than that area. It’s so rundown and depressing.”

“I’ll give it some thought, Clyde. Thank you.”

“But, in the meantime, you need company.