The Wounded Sinner

by Gus Henderson

  ‘We’re intruding where we aren’t s’posed to be, Matthew. You’ll be sorry, one day!’ he had said. He was used to it now but as he got weaker day by day he could only think to himself that the computer had something to do with it.

  This morning he said nothing about it, being more interested in the passing of the occasional pedestrian going about their business, whatever that may be. He was hungry, too.

  ‘Matty, where are you? Is it time for breakfast, yet?’

  —

  ‘Delores doesn’t make my toast so brown.’ He turned it one way, then the other. ‘It’s too hard like this. Turn the thingy down.’ Matthew heard him crunching away. Before it was too much like bread, now …

  ‘Dad, just leave it and I’ll get you some more, okay.’ Almost as nice as possible. His father continued eating. Matthew sat at a little table, staring into his computer, willing himself to write something, anything. A bad case of writer’s block sat in a wheelchair not three metres away.

  ‘You ought to write about your mother and me. You know, a love story.’

  ‘Methinks you’re indulging in a bit of fantasy, Dad. I don’t do mixed genres.’

  ‘Just because we fought a bit didn’t mean we weren’t in love.’

  ‘Whatever. You never once thought how it would affect me, growing up in a bloody war zone.’

  ‘You got to spend time with that old …’

  ‘He was a great man.’

  ‘A great man, eh? You reckon? You don’t know half of it. A great man.’ He coughed and a great wad of mucus and chewed toast landed on his tray. Matthew got up from his chair to clean it up.

  ‘I never forgave Mum for putting him in a home. Or you for not saying anything!’

  ‘The politics of matrimony, son. The Andrews’ genealogy is woven with shitty messes throughout. Shitty messes.’ He brought his teacup up and sipped through the straw. ‘Where’s my toast?’

  ‘Shit, Dad, you’ve had it!’

  ‘What’s that? Yes, that’s right. Maybe he was right.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Old Nathaniel, our ancestor. The original wounded sinner. Cursed us all, he did.’

  ‘He had a beef with a few people, that’s all.’

  ‘He believed he’d been unfairly treated. They always blamed him for the destruction of the church. God’s mighty hand, they said. Does God ever forget, I wonder?’

  ‘Dunno. I don’t believe in mumbo jumbo, Dad. Shit just happens.’

  ‘Well, how does it make you feel?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘You know. Everything.’

  ‘You want the truth?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Bitter, Dad. Very bitter.’

  ‘Oh.’ He sat quiet for a few moments. ‘Where’s my toast? Make it like Delores makes it.’

  Matthew wished he had a smoke.

  Guildford had been well-heeled once. Matthew only visited those times in old photographs and news clippings and occasional stories his relatives would tell, all in sepia tones. The better days, they would say, had passed by in a season of clattering, flinty hoof-beats and rattling carriage wheels on tracks laid down by men of the Empire; God Save the Queen! Over cups of tea, his relatives, that strange snooty collection of Harris Tweed suits and silk blouses, would blame the war and Arthur Calwell for Guildford’s sad demise, its true character and noblesse destroyed by the edict that Australia had to ‘populate or perish’, the realisation of which was anathema to most of them. After all the cake was eaten they’d drive away back to Nedlands or Crawley or to other bastions of righteousness, so they thought, certain that the taste in their mouths was of foreign influence.

  Matthew had only sat at the computer momentarily when he heard a vehicle pull up in the drive. He went out onto the veranda and saw Vince, who gave Matthew a wave and a sheepish look that stirred the pot of Matthew’s almost unlimited wonderment.

  ‘What are you thinking about, Matty?’

  ‘Oh, nothin’.’

  ‘It’s a dull man who thinks about nothing.’

  ‘Are we going to live on the streets?’

  ‘Who’s we?’

  ‘Me and Mum and Dad. Not you, ’cos Dad said you’re on their side.’

  ‘Ah, the boat people. The world’s getting smaller, Matty.’

  ‘Huh? Dad says there’s too many Chinamen.’

  ‘What have you got in your pockets, Matty?’

  ‘Five cents! I’m goin’ to buy a lolly.’

  ‘You want to share it with me?’

  ‘Okay, Grandad.’

  ‘That’s great,’ and he put his arm around Matthew’s shoulder, ‘but the test is sharing with people you don’t know.’

  ‘Jeez, I don’t know Vince.’

  ‘It’ll only be for a couple of days. Everything will sort itself out by then.’ Shoulders slumped forward, sad brown eyes, cap in hand. ‘Please, mate.’

  ‘Aw …’ Matthew rubbed his hand over rough stubble. Decisions, decisions. ‘… aw, okay. You can take the sleep-out, all right?’

  ‘Great, thanks, anywhere would be fine.’ A pause. ‘It’s all been such a shock.’ His dark eyes swam about in liquid pumping up from the broken springs of his heart.

  ‘Vince, you’ve got a brother and sister. Why not stay with one of them?’

  ‘By this afternoon everyone on both sides is gonna know what’s goin’on. They’re all gonna have a solution. I love ’em but it’s my problem. And Sophie’s.’ Vince took a breath. ‘I thought maybe that you’d see things from a different angle.’

  ‘You mean objective rather than subjective?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I’ll talk to you, Vince. Do you want a coffee?’

  ‘Sounds great.’

  —

  ‘How long’s he going to stay?’ Archie was a mess of liver spots and bruises and looked paler than usual.

  ‘Coupla days. That’s all.’

  ‘He’s that ding bloke I meet last week.’

  ‘Yesterday, Dad. He’s an Aussie.’

  ‘Oh, all right.’

  ‘You really need some vitamin D, Dad. Why won’t you come outside?’

  Archie swore. ‘Don’t you know that a man’s home is his castle? Bloody foreigners running everywhere, multiplying unchecked. And Catholics, too, I bet. Gypsies, tramps and thieves, all of them. No, I’m safer in here.’

  ‘That was a song, Dad.’

  ‘What was?’

  ‘Gyp … Never mind, I’ll make us a cuppa. It’s nearly 10 o’clock.’

  A few minutes later Matthew brought in a tray of two unmatched mugs, the old man’s sipper-cup and a packet of Scotch Finger biscuits, the composition of the tray an outrage to the thought of elegance but, hey, they were all blokes. Archie was seated beside the window, the curtain pegged back.

  ‘That bloke’s gone.’

  ‘What bloke?’

  ‘That homeless swaggie!’

  ‘Yeah, I got rid of him.’

  ‘You know,’ Archie spoke his words with some effort, as if the brain was battling to bring together the forces of the mental with the physical and gradually losing, ‘I remember when there were swaggies roaming about. We’d be out in the bush for the Department of Lands and Survey. That was in, er, the late 40s, early 50s, I think, before Rosie and I got married. Always cadging food and smokes. Worse than the blacks, they were. God, they were pests then and they’re still bloody pests!’

  ‘But they’re not swaggies now, Dad.’

  ‘No, that’s right. Bastards are bloody homeless now. Useless bastards. Wouldn’t know one end of a shovel from the other. It was the only thing I agreed on with Marx, you know. The homeless are beyond contempt.’ He spat the last words out in a fine spray of tea and vitriol.

  ‘I read that the homeless are …’ Vince attempted a statement from the depths of an armchair.

  ‘Dad, drink your tea. Vince and I are going out on the veranda. It may be cooler out there.’

  ‘Be careful out there,
boys.’ Archie’s eyes swivelled back to the triangle of glass.

  Matthew had rung the air-conditioner repairman. Maybe Wednesday. Maybe. A slight warm breeze limped along the veranda, no substitute for the mechanised air from condenser coils, copper and gas.

  ‘It’s no good just thinking about it.’ Matthew thought about a cigarette. It was nearly too hot to smoke. Nearly.

  ‘Aw, she’s in my head, her and the little fella. It’s making me feel terrible, like I’ve been ripped up the guts.’

  ‘She seeing another bloke?’

  ‘Dunno.’ Vince drank some tea. ‘She might be. I wasn’t home very much. Maybe. Who can tell? I trusted her, you know.’ Another sip of tea. ‘What do you think your wife is doing right now?’

  ‘Aw, jeez, Vince.’ Eyes skyward, squinting in thought. ‘Probably in bed with some rich dude, or a repairman.’

  ‘Fair dinkum!’ Vince was aghast. Tea swirled over the rim of his mug.

  ‘I’m kidding, mate. Settle down. She’d be halfway through her first class, I suppose.’

  ‘Do you trust her?’

  ‘How d’ya mean?’

  ‘You know.’

  ‘What, with other blokes?’ A bush fly plopped into Matthew’s mug.

  ‘Yeah. You ever get worried?’

  ‘Nah.’ He’d be able to see that coming. He glugged down his tea. ‘Nah.’ He didn’t have to worry about that.

  —

  The old man was dozing in his chair, his breathing a series of shallow, reedy ins and outs that seemed barely enough to sustain a body, even one as frail as his. Occasionally he would twitch and his bleary eyes would open long enough to remind himself he was still alive. Then they would close again, their mechanisms working against the clock of life, against that sad finality. Death sat in an empty chair, but soon realised he was not required that day, at least not there.

  Vince watched Archie hovering in that dark murkiness between life and death. He had the other chair and felt a cool, sweet breeze brush past. He had recognised it for what it was, for he had tasted it on his lips before, and it dragged up sorrow from those places he didn’t like to visit. ‘Matthew!’

  ‘Yo! What’s up?’

  ‘It’s your Dad. I think he’s dying.’

  ‘Well, yeah, he’s dying,’ Matthew walked over to Archie’s coveted position by the window and bent down to listen to his soft purring, ‘but it’s not happening yet. He’s still with us.’

  ‘Look, mate,’ said Vince, ‘I’ve got to take off for a while. How about I bring something back for lunch?’

  ‘Yeah, okay. You look a bit pale. Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.’ Matthew wiped up a small pond of drool from the old man’s table and threw the tissues into the bin beside it. ‘Hey! Silver Chain will be here soon. Stay here and chat up the nurse.’

  ‘Nup.’

  Vince got into the twin-cab and headed out to the highway, hoping to leave Death far behind him.

  13

  They drove back into Leonora, the Landcruiser cloudy with the smell of dust and sweat and smoke and Jaylene later said that it was the smell of raw people. Jeanie remembered that smell from a long time ago, at a place just up ahead.

  It was a gravel road then, corrugated to the shithouse, and it slithered through the scrub all the way to Wiluna. Tommy and Mick were doing a run, the International half-full of grog and groceries and get it through, no matter what. Leonora was behind them now, the one-more-for-the-road just a flat taste in their mouths. Jesus, it was dry. Their heads were bubbly. Mick steered with one hand, swigged from a can of Coke held in the other.

  ‘Stop! Stop! Holy shit!’ Tommy cried out and Mick hit the skids. The big truck bumped across the ruts and rattled to a halt.

  ‘Jesus Christ! Will ya look at that. What a mess.’ In the midst of the road was the wreckage of two vehicles crushed and screwed and torn up in a frightening few moments. The bulk of the remains sat silent and steaming like metal turds, twenty metres apart and not getting any closer. Brief broken pieces of automobile lay scattered about, spat out angrily along the gravel. Shattered glass glinted in the sunlight: a fairyland of death.

  The men climbed out of the truck, moving slowly at first, leaden with shock, afraid for what they might see. All around was the smell of burnt oil, and the vaporous tang of spilt petrol; they would taste it for days. Later, Mick said there was nothing they could do. He left Tommy chuckin’ up his guts in the middle of the mess and walked back to the truck to radio the police. It was only then he saw the baby lying in the dirt, naked, not even cryin’, like it had been placed there by the hand of God, so help me.

  —

  It was 10.15 and Ben was still feeling pretty rough. He sat in the shade outside his workshop, sipping Coke and smoking, hoping that no one would come by or phone up with work. It was that kind of day. Bush flies, drawn to his sweat and odour, hovered about him as one black, tenacious swarm that he endeavoured to keep out by swearing and fast hands. The sheer weight of numbers, however, overwhelmed his defences, and the personal repellent that he applied so liberally seemed only to drive those small-winged insects on to greater persistence. He got up from the chair, swore, and walked back into his workshop. Ben hated flies. He hated lots of things. Shit, he even hated himself.

  The office phone rang. It may be a job: someone wanting his skills, his expertise, or maybe just a tyre. But it could be a woman, wanting him for just who he was. Even Jeanie. The phone rang out and once more the big shed was silent. He threw the empty can against the corrugated wall, hitting somewhere between the Pirelli calendar and a Marilyn Monroe poster. Ben felt like crap so he shut up shop and headed for the pub.

  It was a short walk, just across the road and past the servo. He turned left onto Tower Street. A loitering of Aboriginals was catching the sunshine opposite, chewing the fat, thought Ben, of nondescript existences. Wasted lives, taxpayers’ money going down the drain, and Jeanie’s four-wheel drive cruised past, heading off to who-knows-where with some fat gin in the front. Sheesh!

  ‘You’re in here early, Ben.’ The publican was a large man, ginger haired with a broad, broken nose, perhaps an ex-boxer or rugby forward, or both. His hands shook and he drank light ale from a small glass.

  ‘Just get me a beer, Squire.’ His name was William Everton. Everyone called him Squire and no one knew why. ‘Air-con still working?’

  ‘Y’did a great job, mate.’ Squire set a stubby of VB on the bar-top, sans lid. ‘What they say is true, then?’

  ‘What’s that?’ A glare.

  ‘That you can fix anything.’

  ‘Bloody oath!’

  ‘Ha!’ Squire laughed a big laugh. ‘Keep an eye on the bar for me. I’ll go see if Chookie’s turned up.’ Chookie, the cook: notoriously tardy. Squire kept him on because he was good, real good. Not like the old days. People want more than just snags and mash. Monday mornings, though, had always been a problem.

  Ben turned on his stool and looked out the windows onto a streetscape planted with the bare necessities of a small town. There was just so much to hate about this place. The big, barren walls of the desert held him in, holding him in its scrubby hands, holding him by his very balls. But they also kept the others out, those that would want to find him. It was a precarious balance for Ben.

  ‘You know I like me stubby opened. Do it right next time, all right. I don’t want to have to tell you again.’ He took a swig and put it down on the table. She stood behind him, a little to the side, so he could see her out of the corner of his eye. ‘You can get your dinner and sit down, now.’

  So she sat and a tiny tear ran over the flush of an emerging bruise that would only make her a better person.

  ‘Get you another beer?’ Squire walked through from the other bar.

  ‘Yeah, that one didn’t touch the sides.’ Ben put the empty on the counter. He pulled a tenner out of his wallet. The big publican placed a coldie on the bar and slapped down the change. Chookie was in the kitchen, rattling pans and getting stu
ff from the fridge: opening, closing. Ben could almost hear the cell door shut behind him.

  —

  The Community sat on the edge of town on the road to Wiluna. In all the years she had lived in Leonora, Jeanie had never been in there. That little appendage of homes was a cluster of mystery and misgiving, its people walking the cusp between the traditional and the present, walking sometimes just too close, so some people said. She turned right up Nambi Road, and right again, into another world.

  ‘You take me to Popeye’s ’ouse.’ Auntie Peggy pointed in the general direction of The Community, a broad-spectrum wave that took in a vast area of the state. Popeye’s house was in there, somewhere.

  ‘Go left, Mumma!’ Jaylene, from the back seat. ‘The place with the brown car.’

  The place with the brown car was hunkered down behind a low stone wall. Like all the other houses, it was Besserblocked and tin-roofed. Jeanie wondered if it had been built with windows; there were none now, just square dark holes. The front door hung off the bottom hinge at a sad angle, never to close again. A stereo played loudly inside, some generic country-and-western song with a nasal twang and slow guitars. Jeanie swung into the driveway and pulled up beside the brown car, which lay in the dust on the flat tyres of defeated hopes. She wondered if anyone cared.

  Aunt Peggy stepped down from the ’cruiser with difficulty and hobbled towards the house. There was a lull in the music and she called out in language: ‘Tjurtu!’ – ‘older sister’. A few moments passed and a grey-haired woman appeared at the doorway, taller than Auntie Peggy and thinner; Jeanie was drawn to the woman’s prominent eyes.

  ‘Don’t stare, Mumma!’ Jaylene started to unbuckle Little Albert. ‘She’s a nice lady.’

  ‘Hoy! We’re not getting out!’ A pause, then: ‘How do you know her, Jaylene?’

  ‘She’s Josie’s granny. We come here all the time.’

  ‘What! I told you not to come here, girl! These people are …’

  ‘Are what, Mumma? Different to us?’ She stared hard at her mother. Jeanie felt her face burning. Shame does that. ‘Whatever.’ Jaylene walked around to the driver’s door, Little Albert on her hip, ‘These are our people, Mumma.’