shunned displays of opulence.
It was simply the way the suburb was and no amount of effort could change it. Anything new would fade and crumble as the Sun fired its destructive ultra-violet rays. Garden ornaments stood no chance. Patio furniture would develop holes, and borers and ear-wigs would make their homes in the nooks. Swings and slides changed from brilliant artificial reds and blues to faded pinks and cyans.
The Sun had rolled its way across the sky, scorching the land below, and now that it was receding to the horizon once more, the birds came out from their shelters.
Wind-chimes mournfully called out from backyards across the suburb, joining the chorus of bored dogs and squabbling birds.
Wattle-birds clambered about in the banksias, playfully tumbling upside-down in their bid to catch a bug or two. Sparrows balanced themselves on the telephone wires, chatting to themselves until they got chased away by mynas.
A starling poked its head out from underneath the eave as Henry's car rumbled into the driveway. It fluttered away to the fence and watched him with a suspicious eye.
“Hey, bird. Nice to see you, too,” Henry muttered, waving a hand at it and stretching his back, “You've got it made you know. No traffic for you.”
The bird merely hopped about on the fence, doing its best to keep him in view.
“Let me give you a word of advice. If you ever decide to become a sentient species, don't. It's not worth it. It's just not bloody worth it. You're better off eating seeds and flying about and rooting and having fun,” he said.
He slammed the car door and trudged up the stairs. The bird flew off at the movement, but it came back a short while after and resumed its vigil.
Loretta greeted him at the door.
“So you've finally made it home.”
“Yeah. Got here as fast as I could. You should've seen it. Some idiot double parked in Westgarth. Where are the cops when you need them, eh?”
“Great.”
“Made a choke point. Caused the whole two lanes to back up past Smith Street. I mean, what kind of idiot does that?”
“Did you get the car booked in?”
“Not yet.”
“Haven't you heard that rattle? It's getting worse!” she said.
“Yeah, I heard the rattle.”
“You have to get it fixed, Henry.”
“I know.”
“It'll just get worse. It won't get better. You can't let those things go!”
“I don't intend to. I've just been a bit busy at work.”
“You said that last week. Can you get the stupid thing in this weekend?” she asked, “I don't want it conking out when taking Tim to soccer.”
“Is he still playing soccer? I thought he quit.”
“Have you been living under a rock? He's your son, Henry. Take an interest in what he's doing!”
“I would if he'd say more than two words to me.”
“Well maybe if you made more of an effort he would!” she said, and that was the end of that matter, “I don't suppose you happened to get the milk and bread I asked you, hmm?”
Henry's stomach sank a little. The sodding milk and bread. There was still a quarter of a litre left in the fridge, and there were a few English muffins in the pack. More than enough for breakfast the next day. What was the hassle?
“No. No I didn't. Look, can I at least put my stuff down?”
“I specifically asked you to get milk and bread!”
“Well, I'm sorry, alright, I was a little preoccupied what with the coming merger. I've got to be ready with a counter-offer if we get rejected.”
“Again with the merger! Geez, haven't you got that sorted yet?”
Henry simmered, “No. No, I haven't. It's still in the balance.”
“How much in the balance?”
“A slight tip could send it either way.”
“But doesn't your commission depend on it going through?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I guess I hadn't thought of that,” he grumbled, “All this time I thought I'd get my commission without it but now it's all so clear to me.”
“No need to get snarky.”
“I'm not getting snarky. Look, it's touch and go. We make an offer, Gibson makes an offer to rival it. They can't go much lower, I'm sure of it, but neither can we,” he explained, “It's a matter of who blinks...”
“Well maybe if you spent less time screwing around in that garage and more time working on the case you'd have nailed it by now.”
Henry held his hands up, “What? It's not a matter of hours. It's now entirely up to the customer.”
Loretta dismissed him with her hand. That was the sign that the conversation was over. He could pursue it, of course, but it would end only one way, with Loretta belittling him into feeling like dirt. He would then say something that he would regret, she'd say something back. They wouldn't speak to each other for a few days, then, little by little, the conversation would creep back from the edges of civility.
The tone would settle, the icy air would thaw and familiarity would reveal its ugly face once more.
Keeping silent was just a way to shorten the whole cycle. It was just efficiency and, with the month he had had, he decided he didn't need the strain.
“I'll go and get some damn milk and bread,” he sighed as he put his jacket back on.
“There's no point now. You're already home. The point was to pick it up on the way – oh, forget it. Seriously! You never listen! It's like I'm talking to a brick wall, only a brick wall is actually good for something.”
He gripped his keys but, somehow, they slipped from his grasp. They fell, clattering to the ground. He rolled his eyes, waiting for the criticism to come flying his way.
And it came. Stupid, useless something or other. He wasn't really listening.
He let it wash over him as he bent over to pick up his latest mistake from the floor. Something in his wrist snapped, like a cable under tension – Ping!
Nevertheless he was bent over, and his hand was right there ready to grip the keys. With an effort he tried again, but his hand slipped. He swore and tried once more but his fingers refused to clasp properly.
He gritted his teeth, finding it intensely painful and difficult to perform such a simple task, “Son of a bitch!”
With a snap, a crunch and a clatter, his hand fell off from his arm, lying, twitching, next to the keys. He blinked, looking from the empty, bleeding stub on the end of his arm back to the wriggling fingers on the floor.
He could see bits of bone, nerve endings and blood vessels, raw and angry. Then the blood oozed out, covering everything in a bright red sheen, obscuring the rest of the flesh.
“Ah, Loretta?” he started, but she was already well into another tirade.
“...and there you are hunched over like a fool. What's with you, anyway? It's like you're trying to act like an idiot!”
“Loretta?”
“What kind of pathetic excuse for a man did I marry...”
“Loretta!” he shouted.
“What? What is it? What now? What amazing, stupendous achievement have you suddenly accomplished?”
He pointed to his hand, still twitching, as it lay on the floor.
“What? You've gone and busted your hand, eh?”
“Uh. Yeah. It seems. I mean. Shit, look at it!”
“Yeah, and I can see it, Henry, and I can see it's making a bloody mess all over the floor. Something else for me to clean up. Great. Thanks. I was hoping for more work.”
“But...”
Her eyes narrowed, “Look, just go and get the damn milk and bread, alright? Can you do that at least? It's really simple. Go to store, pick up milk, pick up bread, pay money, come back home,” she snapped sarcastically, “And try not to kill anyone on the way out.”
“But...”
“But what?”
“My hand!”
“Oh, for Pete's sake, Henry, get over it!” she cried, picking it up by the middle digit like it was a dead rat, “Here. I'll put it somew
here safe and you can pine over it when you get home.”
He looked at his stump, still bleeding out.
She threw a handful of napkins at him, “And mop that up when you get back. Shit, it's like I've got three children in this place.”
“Yeah, but how am I supposed...”
“And don't take all night!”
Henry got into the car with a huff. This was all he needed. His hopes of having a quiet night, and relaxing a little, having a beer in front of the cricket, went out the window.
He tucked the napkins around his stump and folded the jacket arm over the top to keep it all in. He was overly warm, but he didn't want blood to get all over the seats. That would be just something else for Loretta to have a go at him for.
Driving was a lot harder than he remembered. He liked to use both hands while driving, he realised, and being reduced to just one hand and a bloody, napkin covered stump was almost impossible.
“Good thing this has got power steering,” he grumbled as he turned the corners, pressing his stinging stump against the wheel to hold it in place.
Vermilion blotches dripped onto the wheel, running in little rivers to fall onto his pants. He made a mental note to get a few napkins to clean up the mess when he got back.
With a whole load of concentration he made it to the supermarket in one piece. Even at that time of the evening it was full of people buying slabs of beer and cartons of coke, jealously guarding their trolleys and running them into the legs of others, only to leave them in the vacant spaces in the park.
By the end of the night the trolley to car ratio would be out of natural balance, and the team of trolley herders would do their best to wrangle the iron-meshed beasts of burden and corral them into the stalls.
He fought to get a spot next to some overflowing charity bins. The
Atlas, Broken Page 4