'Hey, Frankie,' Kennedy yelled.
Szabo looked to where we were standing and waved. Kennedy motioned for him to come up. Szabo spoke to a member of the troop and they moved on. Szabo climbed the fairly steep and muddy slope in a few easy strides. 'What's up, Col?'
'Want you to meet an old comrade of mine, Paddy Malloy. We were in 'Nam together.'
Szabo looked at me and at that moment I travelled back mentally twenty years, to when I stared into the yellow, wolfish eyes of Soldier Szabo as he moved in to kill me. The eyes were the same. Szabo drew in a deep breath and balanced himself as if he might go for my throat or my balls. My jacket was open and I knew I could get the pistol quickly if I had to.
Szabo let the breath out slowly. 'No, he's not,' he said. 'He's
Cliff Hardy, the private detective who killed my father.'
'Right,' I said.
Kennedy took a step towards me. 'What the hell's going on?'
I kept my eyes focused on Szabo, who appeared totally relaxed. 'I'm sorry, Kennedy,' I said. 'You gave me an opening and I took it. You may as well know, Patrick Malloy's dead. He was shotgunned in my house. We were cousins, lookalikes, and I'm wondering whether this man killed him instead of me.'
Kennedy unclenched the fist he'd been ready to throw at me and fished out his cigarettes. He lit up. 'I was beginning to wonder about you-not smoking, and you don't move the way Paddy did. Slower.'
'He was a bit younger and he hadn't had a heart attack. We were friends, if that means anything to you.'
Kennedy blew smoke. 'I don't understand any of this. Think I'd better report to the Commander.'
'Don't do that, Col,' Szabo said. 'I'll sort this out and fill you in later. Why don't you catch up with that mob and debrief them. You know the drill.'
Szabo spoke with a quiet authority, clearly respected by Kennedy, who stamped his barely smoked cigarette butt into the mud, shot me a furious look, and strode away.
Szabo waited until Kennedy was back on the path. Then he pointed to my left shoulder. 'You won't need the gun. You shouldn't carry that arm a bit stiff the way you do.'
'I'm out of practice,' I said. 'Convince me.'
'I've bashed people and cut them, kicked them and broken limbs, but I've never killed anyone.'
'You're a known shottie artist.'
'Was.'
'You made threats against me in jail.'
He nodded. 'Some time back. I was a different person then.'
'You bought a shotgun recently.'
'You have been busy. I don't know what story you told poor Col. He's not the brightest. I'm guessing you said something about wanting to talk to me and he took you at your word on that.'
'Yes. So?'
He unzipped his jacket. 'Let me show you something.'
'Easy.'
He reached inside his shirt and pulled out a silver cross on a chain.
'I'm the pastor of this flock as well as one of the trainers. I'm a Christian and I wouldn't take revenge on you for killing my father. Revenge is for God. I forgive you, and I hope you forgive yourself.'
'You bought a shotgun.'
'Yeah, I did, and a box of fifty shells and I went out into the bush and fired off every last one. Then I took an angle grinder and cut the gun up into little bits, which I dumped. I purged myself of shotguns and violence. People can change, Hardy.'
'Maybe. I haven't seen it happen all that much.'
'You can believe me or not, as you choose.'
I did believe him. The gleam in his eyes wasn't from the killer instinct his father had displayed; it was the light of redemption, the glow of the saved. I waved my hand at the bush, the creek, the muddy footprints on the path.
'So what's all this, onward Christian soldiers?'
'Your cheap cynicism does you no credit.'
Francis Szabo had picked up some education as well as religion along the way; he had the moral drop on me and I had to acknowledge it.
'I'm sorry,' I said. 'That's the second bloody sorry in a few minutes. Not easy, but you can see where I was coming from when I heard certain things about you.'
'Yes. If you'd inquired a bit more you'd have learned other things and saved yourself a trip.'
We started down towards the path. I slipped and he steadied me. 'I guess I've been talking to the wrong people,' I said.
He didn't say anything until we were back in the centre of the compound. He guided me towards my car.
'I'll have a word at the gate and you can go through.'
'Thanks.'
It was an awkward moment and we both felt it.
I jiggled my keys. 'I don't know what to say.'
'Neither do I,' he said. 'But I'd suggest you take a good look at yourself and the way your life is heading.' part three
Peter Corris
CH35 – Torn Apart part three