‘Shit,’ said Matthew and then nothing for some moments.
‘The kids and I gave him a decent burial, a good send-off.’
They spoke for a while words that needed to be said; don’t sweat the small stuff, time for that tomorrow. Or whenever. By the time Jeanie said ‘Bye’, Vince had gone to bed, probably dreaming of Rotto. Maybe of Sophie, poor bastard. Poor Rastus.
Matthew lay awake for quite a while, thinking: about wealth, about value, about life. Just thinking. He hadn’t had a cigarette for hours.
WEDNESDAY
31
The night has sometimes been the domain of things nefarious, a piece of dark time where men and women with evil intent can slip silently and unseen within its folds. Much like tonight. Elvis, Michael and Dwayne Cummins sat in an old, blue Ford at the end of Hamblin Street where it met the park in a discordant union. The brothers drank beer and slapped at mosquitoes that dropped in for a feed. They smoked cigarettes, farted often, and told puerile jokes that made them all laugh. Not nervous laughter but confident, maybe even with a ruthless edge. Pragmatic, but they had no idea what it meant. For them it was just time to kill as the night drifted slowly towards the dawn. Waiting was just part of the job and in that they were particularly well practised. Night-time was when it all happened.
Time to move. Elvis started the car and it motored slowly up the road, crunching to a stop outside No 14. He turned the motor off. Three pairs of brown eyes watched for anything that may have betrayed their presence. Outside, Guildford slept on to the constant drone of air-conditioners, an acceptable lullaby in the December heat. At No 14, however, the air-conditioner had died a death.
‘I can fix it Thursdy,’ said the repairman.
‘Bloody hell!’ There was a conundrum. Matthew recognised the need for security, yet THE WOUNDED SINNER in summer was a pressure cooker, even at night. ‘You’d have to be pretty unlucky to be broken into on a night like this,’ he reasoned and so, for the first time in days, any window that was not nailed shut was open, as were the front and rear doors, fresh air at any cost.
Before the blue Ford had reached Perth, while the brothers were scouring its ageing innards for money, they found a bank statement wedged into the crevasse of the front bench seat. It had been sent to Archibald Andrews of his Guildford address and was a monotonous account of transactions for some past period, pension entries and withdrawals and an insignificant bottom line. The Cummins boys hadn’t given it much thought, at first, for it had cost them nothing to get to Perth and they did have some cash to play with. But Tuesday morning found them almost penniless; the city had a way of screwing the life out of one’s finances and the boys were no different. They decided then that they’d had enough of the big smoke; Kalgoorlie was calling them home and a lack of money wouldn’t stop them. Michael suggested they try to win it at the casino and the brothers agreed, only to see their last fifty dollars of chips scraped away by the croupier. The bouncers came within a few seconds but it took those mighty tree-trunk men some time to unwrap Elvis’s hands from around Michael’s throat. Dwayne kicked out wildly, a hit-and-miss affair, until he, too, was wrestled to submission. All three were evicted, standing for a while in the car park, cursing those who drifted within range with terrible oaths and reflections of inequity.
The Cummins boys sat in the car, a huddle of dejection and dispirited mumblings. Surely the world was against them, thought Elvis. He picked up the bank statement and said, ‘Bet this walypala got dollars, ’ey?’
Dwayne replied, ‘Says he got nothin’, you idiot!’
‘Shoosh! Says he got nothin’ in the bank, arsehole,’ said Elvis. ‘Betcha it’s all inside.’
‘Yeah, true dat,’ came Michael’s voice from the back seat. ‘He’d have it all inside.’
So the pact was made. Once more, circumstance had forced them into a criminal enterprise. Regardless, it was what they did often but never very well …
None of the Cummins boys had had an effective schooling. Their father had died in prison, yet another death in custody, another coronial inquiry, the results of which once stirred the pot of outrage, now just stacks of rats and stats, black ink on bond white. Who cared at all?
But Mavis Cummins loved those boys. Loved her drink, too. Kalgoorlie was hard on her, living off welfare, cadging what she could, and wearing thin the familial welcome-mat as custom dictated. For years she lived rough in the bush, in an old caravan and then a car: one day a house, maybe. Too many maybes, ifs and buts: no one really understands ’cept a blackfulla.
Those boys moved with a fluid assurance, an unbothered nimbleness, greased up through years of practice, able to negotiate the in and out requirements of the humble house-break. Of course they knew that one mistake would see them once again within the walls of any of the state’s correctional institutions. There was always that element of risk, but heck, a man’s gotta make a livin’.
None spoke. Each knew what he had to do. In through the back and out through the front. Fill up at the 24-hour servo at the bottom of Greenmount and back to Kal. Just couldn’t be simpler.
—
The back screen door opened with a click and the three thieves entered unchallenged into the darkness of the kitchen. Silence is everything in the art of burglarising, where the loudest noise you want to make is the beating of your own heart. It was only a small rattle but the car keys and a pocket full of loose change knocked against Elvis’s thigh with every step. Michael motioned to his brother with two fingers drawn across his throat. The keys and the coins were now firmly clenched in Elvis’s hand. Dwayne peeled away towards the sleep-out and Michael headed up the hallway. The sharp narrow beams of masked penlights sought out a prey of loose change and hidden stashes and wallets tossed aside in the casual indifference of false security. This was going to be another piece of piss. In and out, that was how it was done. Elvis scoured the kitchen, hampered as he was now with only one hand. He moved to the pantry and found a packet of peanuts: stale, but he was hungry and hunger can make a man do things that he may not ordinarily do. With great care he put the keys and the loose change onto the countertop while he munched away, moving from shelves to benchtops, not missing anything, a practised, remorseless pursuit.
Elvis scooped up another mouthful of peanuts. He didn’t mean to cough but one had gone down the wrong hole. He coughed out particles of chewed nut and spittle and he was convinced he was choking to death. Elvis coughed again and again, the noise reverberating throughout the house. The three men met in the hallway, Dwayne and Michael imploring him, with amplified hand gestures, to silence. Archie cried out, ‘What’s going on?’ It was time to go.
—
‘Matty! Matty!’ Vince shook Matthew awake, dragging him back from the arena of dreams to the reality of a summer morning in the heart of Guildford. Cicadas were beating out their rhythm already.
‘Jeez, mate,’ he looked at his watch, ‘it’s only 6.30.’
‘Come ’ere, you gotta see this.’ Vince had a face usually only seen at Christmas or birthdays when somebody’s gift has scored a hit. Matthew was finding it hard to be enthused. He was a bit seedy. A cup of tea would go down a treat right now. ‘Out the front. Come on.’
‘Vince, this is bullshit! Let a man sleep.’
‘Please, mate.’
Matthew got off his bed and followed the effusive Vince up the hallway. There, from the veranda, they looked through the gap in the hedge at Matthew’s old, blue Ford, seemingly none the worse for wear.
‘I don’t believe it. How … ?’
‘Dunno. No idea.’ They walked down through the rusty gate and out on to the footpath. ‘Oh, I found these on the kitchen bench when I was makin’ my coffee.’
‘What the … !’ exclaimed Matthew as Vince dropped the keys into his hand. Matthew stared at them, incredulously. ‘But how?’ Vince shrugged. Matthew walked around the car, brushing his hand over the rough of the paint, faded in most places, bubbling with the first few cells of cancer in o
thers. It was a loving touch, a ‘welcome back, old friend’ touch, a wondrous touch.
‘Well, Vince, let’s start it up.’
‘Sure. Can we put some clothes on first?’
People living nearby may have been amazed at seeing two men in the street dressed only in their underwear admiring an old, blue Ford, but not as amazed as Matthew Andrews in seeing it sitting there. He thought there and then that this had to be the work of God, and he wondered why He would do such a thing.
—
The dawning of a new day found the three incorrigible Cummins boys at the base of Greenmount Hill, a daunting challenge for even the most athletic man or woman. They had left their cigarettes in the old, blue Ford, they were still nearly 600 kilometres from home and the hunger worms were growling around in their guts, trying to eat their way out.
Funny thing about chance or luck or Providence or whatever you believe; there are times when it’s hot and there are times when it’s not. Elvis and his brothers thought their luck had changed when they saw the new Holden Berlina idling in the driveway of one of the last homes before the escarpment began its rise. The boys knew what to do. It was too good a chance to pass up. Within seconds they were out on the Great Eastern and pointed towards Kalgoorlie. There had been a lady’s handbag on the passenger seat. Dwayne found a purse and it was loaded. They all laughed and high-fived as much as you can in the confines of a Berlina and none noticed the Highway Patrol car draw level, attracted as much by the occupants’ flagrant disregard for the seatbelt law as by three black men incongruous in a flash motor. The siren sang. Even Ulysses would have pulled over and thought his day had turned to shit.
—
‘So, what do yer reckon?’ Vince had a way of attacking food like a predatory animal. Milk dribbled down his chin, the overflow of some serious mastication. Eating breakfast cereal and discourse in combination, though, was a problem for him. ‘Aw, shit, look at my shirt.’
‘The whole thing is a mystery to me. Why would they just leave the keys? Peanuts all over the floor? I just don’t know.’ Matthew felt his three-day growth. ‘You think I should grow a beard?’
‘Dunno. What’s your missus think about it?’
‘Dunno.’ Matthew became quiet and thought how little he actually knew about Jeanie. Apart from the superficial stuff, that is. He had never really allowed her dreams and desires to take root in their relationship. ‘You know, Vince, I really don’t know what she’d say. I really don’t know her at all.’
‘Are you sure?’
Matthew was deep in thought. Sludge at the bottom of a well.
‘Matty, I said, “Are you sure?”’
‘Huh! I don’t know, Vince. Things have got to change between me and Jeanie. I take her for granted.’ The jug came to the boil and shut itself off. Steam rushed off into the ether and disappeared. Matthew poured water into the two mugs. Archie was sleeping late. Yesterday must have been too much for him and Matthew was glad he slept while the car-key enigma was in progress. He would ask him, when he woke, how he felt. How he really felt.
‘So what have you got on today? More of the same, I s’pose?’
‘Good question, mate. Maybe today is going to be different.’ He brought his cup to his lips. The coffee tasted the same as it had tasted for the past five years. ‘You know what? Bugger this pre-fab stuff. I’ll go out this morning and get a proper machine. Beans and a grinder, too.’
‘Jeez, mate, they cost a bit.’
Matthew reached up on top of the kitchen dresser and pulled down an old Milo tin. On the counter he emptied out a mess of bills, 50s, 20s, 10s, the colours of happiness. The men looked at each other, opening their mouths in silent expletives, realising just how lucky they were.
—
Delores Symonds heard the phone ring and knew that it was Matthew. A psychic might have said that she had recognised the caller by interpreting the subtle variations in the ring tone, or by a telepathic power endowed to those people of the paranormal, but she just said, ‘I knew it was you.’
‘C’mon, Delores. I don’t buy into any of that ESP crap. You just got lucky. Everybody gets lucky, sometimes.’
‘You reckon? I’m still waiting for that man on a white charger to ride into my life.’ Her ex, Mr Thomas Symonds, had ridden off many years ago. It was a lonely life for Delores. ‘How’s the old bloke? You need me today?’
‘Yeah. Jeanie and the kids are coming down later this evening. Her Mum’s really crook. I’ve got a few things I need to do. Okay?’
‘Okay, over in twenty.’
She hung the phone back up and wondered if Vince was still there.
—
Matthew stood in the doorway of the spare room and sipped his coffee. He remembered as a child peering in, wide-eyed with curious wonder. Then it was Tutankhamun’s tomb and he was Howard Carter, eyeing off the treasure of a pharaoh, untouched through countless centuries. A jumble of odds and ends, a collection of generations.
‘Jeez, Matty, what a mess.’ True words, thought Vince to himself, the place needed a housekeeper. He didn’t think it was Matthew.
‘Yeah, no one’s been in here for years. I want to clean it out. Make some room.’
‘Whose stuff is it?’ Vince picked a bug out of his coffee.
‘Dad’s. His dad’s. A store house of antiquities.’
‘What?’
‘Junk, Vince.’ Matthew swilled the last of his coffee around in his mouth. He thought about a cigarette and decided he would clean his teeth instead. Maybe buy some patches. That special gum. It had been ten hours. He had been asleep for most of it.
‘Anyway, my stuff’s in the ute. I just wanted to say thanks for letting me stay here.’
‘You can always come back if things don’t work out. You know what I mean?’
‘Thanks. Tell your dad I said goodbye.’ They shook hands and Vince walked out into the sunshine. Moments later Matthew heard the motor start and the twin-cab headed off into uncharted territory. Archie started up, too. He was only running on three cylinders and the valves of life were well and truly coked up. They opened just enough to let out gas. Matthew listened to him backfiring.
‘Get me up, Matthew!’ He made overtures of wrestling the leaden sheet off his body, each action a struggle, each day a little more strength ebbing away.
‘I think you overdid it yesterday.’ Poor old bastard was wet through. Definitely too many fluids.
‘I told you I was … what’s wrong with me. Where’d all that come from?’
‘Doesn’t matter, Dad, Delores will be here in a minute. We’ll give you a bed-bath, okay? Just a quick sponge-down.’
‘Can’t it wait till the Silver-thing lady comes?’
‘She doesn’t come till tomorrow. Besides, I didn’t think you liked having a shower.’
‘Well, I don’t. It’s all this manhandling. Like a fish at Kailis Brothers. Turn him over, sniff him, check his eyes to see how fresh he is. Sometimes it’s bloody uncomfortable to be dying.’
Matthew said nothing. That’s exactly how he treated him.
‘What are you going to do with him now?’ The miserable little herring flopped about in the bottom of the bucket, turning one way then the other, struggling to get out and back to the water.
‘Can we eat him?’
‘We aren’t going to get much of a feed off him, are we? Two tiny fillets. If we had half-a-dozen, then we’d have a feed.’ He handed Matthew the knife. ‘You caught him, you’ll have to kill him, of course.’
Matthew watched the fish. It was now mostly still, resigned to its fate. ‘I think it’s looking at me, Grandad.’
‘What do you want to do?’
‘Chuck it back?’
‘That’s a good idea.’
‘Sorry, Dad, what was that?’
‘Bed-bath. I’ll have to have it whether I agree or not,’ he rasped.
Matthew had taken his father’s soiled clothes and bed linen. Archie lay there naked on the hospital mattress.
Delores called out from the front door and Matthew replied, quickly covering Archie’s private parts with a towel. He thought it was strange but he imagined throwing his father back into the sea.
32
Jeanie lay in, watching the night change into morning, thinking about her and Matty, thinking about Ben, thinking about life. The television was on. She could hear Nadine busying herself making toast and Milo and a mess. No Rastus to clean up the crumbs and spilled milk. The ants would probably come in and do the same job. And cockroaches. It was a constant battle in the Goldfields.
It was a constant battle for the people of the lands, too. Jaylene’s ‘raw people’; Jeanie could have so easily been one herself. She thought about that, as well.
Flap, flap, flap up the back steps. Jaylene. Where did that girl go? Then she was at the doorway, looking the same but different, somehow. Her face?
‘Cuppa tea, Mumma?’
That would put things right. A cup of tea would always put things right.
—
Jaylene had stood in the dark for some time, watching. Just watching. The ute wasn’t in the yard but that wasn’t unusual. It could have been anywhere. So could he. Most days at daybreak he would be bumping around the house, struggling with a hangover, rolling a smoke with slippery fingers and drinking Coke. She saw no signs of life.
Gradually she had moved closer. The burnished gold of the sun began to sneak over the horizon behind her. Soon she could make out the open cupboard in Ben’s bedroom, clothes scattered on the little concrete patio, a chair upturned in the lounge room. Tina Passmore’s rough-coated bitza nosed about in the yard. If Ben was there, the dog’s presence would have resulted in a flurry of swearwords and beer bottle missiles: Ben in his underwear, defending his shit, which he could never ever quite get together. She had seen enough and she was glad of the new day.
—
Ben slept rough in the cab, lying like a bent stick across the seats, a wad of shirts as a pillow. He woke with the cold and started the motor for warmth. The clock on the CD player glowed 4:20 and he was still alive, somewhere in the desert north of Leonora. Just before dawn. Alone with his thoughts.
The Wounded Sinner Page 18