by Mark Brandi
‘Only one? Do I know him?’
Fab hesitated. He took a deep breath in and out. ‘He’s long gone.’
‘Keep in contact?’
He shook his head. ‘No chance of that.’
‘Did he move town?’
Fab handed her the empty stubby, now picked clean. ‘Something like that.’
‘You should get back in touch.’ She smiled. ‘Might be nice after all this time, don’t ya think?’
He frowned. ‘Not that simple.’
‘Well,’ she squeezed his hand, ‘you’ve got me now at least.’
* * *
After his mum had gone to bed, Fab stumbled out to the front step with a thick joint. Last year, he’d learnt that the bong was no good for outdoors – he’d started a small grass fire when the wind had picked up. He knew a joint was a waste of dope, but he felt a deep need to be outside.
He looked up at the black sky and lit up.
Gradually, it did its work and that rich, sweet warmth flowed through him. He felt light in his limbs and a smile came to his lips as he reached into his pocket for the rabbit’s foot.
Fuck, it was lucky that German tourist had a sharp eye. Germans – always so efficient, they never miss a trick.
He pulled it out and felt its fur under his fingertips. He held it up in the darkness – a tatty, dried artefact of his childhood. The only thing his father ever gave him.
He took a long drag and remembered how, in the winter, he and his father would go hunting.
* * *
His father had a special rifle. It lived in his parents’ room, which was always open, except late at night when Fab heard the click of the lock, as he lay under his blankets with a hot brick at his feet.
Sometimes he would go in there, while his father was at work. He would go there to look at it – a Beretta, shipped by special order, sheathed in its long leather case that smelled of olive oil – sleeping in the shadows and silk of the dresses his mother never wore. He would carefully unbutton the leather and feel dizzy as the carved yellow maple and black steel emerged from the gloom. He would run his hand along the smooth cold steel of the barrel down to the maple, gently tracing its intricate patterns with his fingertips.
They hunted at dusk in the Black Ranges. The gun always rode in the back of the Kingswood, quietly menacing on the yellow vinyl seat. They would park before the gate and walk from there, but first his father would get the rifle ready. He would open the back door and crawl into the back seat, gently kneeling astride the leather case, unbuttoning from the top first and working slowly down the barrel, the forestock, the butt. He always left the case open on the seat, with its soft interior waiting patiently for its return.
Winter came with a squall from the south, rising over the Grampians and tearing across the flat Mallee farmland. The wind was low and cold and Fab enjoyed the warmth beneath his singlet, shirt, jumper and jacket, hands pushed deep in his pockets. His father would stride ahead in his long woollen coat, rifle slung off one big shoulder and swaying at his side. Fab would squint and imagine they were soldiers, comrades, stalking the dark hills where their enemies lay, waiting and watching.
Fab remembered the first time he saw his father shoot a rabbit. It was in a deep, swampy valley over the third hill. A lone crow called to them from an old gum as they climbed through a wire fence at the valley edge. The way down looked rocky and steep and Fab was scared, worried that the night would fall quickly. As they began to descend in that half-light, all went quiet but the wind; even the crow ended his call, folded his wings and tucked his black beak into his breast.
His father pointed to the bottom of the valley.
‘A lot of tunnels,’ he whispered, ‘full of rabbits.’ The air was colder and a mist fell from the range. His father walked slowly and crouched lower, careful to keep hidden from sight. He moved in a gentle arc, upwind of the scent, with the gun held tightly at his side.
He paused and held one hand back, motioning for Fab to stop. Silently, he moved down on one knee, lifted the rifle in both hands, and balanced the stock carefully against his shoulder. Fab could see what he was aiming for: three rabbits, maybe more, moving slowly, nibbling at the grass. Fab held his breath, closed his eyes and covered his ears. The echo of gunshot rippled through his body and he imagined the bullet, sharply honed in brass and steel, splitting the air on its savage journey.
* * *
When they got back to the car it was dark. His father opened the boot and slung the rabbit inside, swinging it by the ears. It smelled of musk and wild and it reminded Fab of when their old dog, Tippy, ran away and came back smelling strange, his fur wet and dark.
Fab climbed in the front beside his father, with the rifle in its warm home on the back seat, satisfied with its work. For the first time ever, his father put his arm around his shoulders and pulled him into his warmth, squeezing him just once. He smelled of pine needles and vinegar, his woollen coat hard and rough against Fab’s cheek. On the way home his father didn’t speak, but whistled a tune like the wind.
* * *
‘Wake up!’ His father shook Fab hard by the arm and he opened his eyes to the yellow light of home. ‘We go in washhouse, through the back.’ He thought of the washhouse with its cold, steel bench and heavy concrete trough, and he remembered the rifle, the rabbit and the blood.
Fab followed him around the narrow side of the house to the back door and, once inside, his father laid the rabbit on the bench. Its round eyes were still black and alert; it seemed almost alive but for the dark, bloody hole that punctured its chest. It was skinnier than it looked in life, still and stretched out on its side. Fab could see its bucked teeth, long and dirty. Its fur, grey and white with black flecks, looked so soft that he reached out his hand and—
‘Leave it!’ his father hissed, the steel in his eyes. Fab felt a sting in his belly and his face went hot. His father opened his jacket and unbuttoned a black pouch on his belt. Fab had seen the knife once before, hidden in the drawer of his father’s bedside table. Its handle was as hard as stone and the blade shimmered. His father studied it, holding it up and tilting its blade to the light; then, after a deep breath in and out, he went to work.
He cut quickly and precisely, announcing each stroke, each slice of flesh, rip of skin and crunch of bone.
First we cut hees feet off
We slice hees skeen along hees belly
Loosen hees skeen from the meat
We pull hees skeen off, hees back legs first
Pull the skeen toward hees head
Like you are taking off hees jumper.
But the jumper got caught at the rabbit’s head. He pulled it hard and Fab could almost feel it, like the wool his mother knitted, tight and burning on his neck and ears. He could hear tendons strain at the force centred on its spine and hear his father exhale as he sliced its head off with a flash of steel. He tossed it in the trough with the skin and fur hanging from it like a robe.
The flesh of the carcass was dark and lean: thin muscles, sinew and joints bound tight. He watched as his father sliced open its belly like an exotic fruit.
‘For the dog,’ he said.
He reached inside and scooped and scraped out dark organs of colours Fab had never seen. The thick velvet liver, jewels of kidney and slippery intestines slid out of the carcass and into the trough: a rich, violent stench of guts.
‘We keep the liver for your mother,’ he said, picking it from the pile. ‘Best part, good for bolognese.’
He opened the tap, took the carcass in both hands and massaged the flesh under its flow. There was a clank of pots from the kitchen and his father’s eyes smiled, the whistle of the wind returning to his lips.
* * *
The next morning, Fab rose before the light cracked over the curtains. He could still hear his father’s slow, heavy snore. He felt for the plastic bag hidden under his pillow and, with it scrunched in his small fist, he lifted the blankets and stepped carefully across the floorboards to th
e hallway, headed for the washhouse.
Moving quietly in the quarter-light, he leaned into the trough and ran his hands down its concrete walls, feeling for the soft fur. He unravelled the bag in one hand and placed the fur inside, knotting it tightly. He found his shoes near the doorway and slipped them on. Without socks, they felt hard and unfamiliar. He moved slowly out the back door.
Outside, the air was icy and his breath steamed. He shivered as a few morning birds began a slow, throaty song. He walked down the timber ramp, then along the concrete path, past the clothesline, the plum tree, and under the arch of wet passionfruit leading to a small patch of bare earth, ready for winter planting.
He looked back to the house for any sign of movement, but its windows were still dark. Placing the bag on the ground, he knelt in the dirt and, with a trowel from the vegie patch, started to dig. The earth was soft and smelled like worms. It was easy work. Around him, the darkness was lifting and he could hear the birds shift their tone. And he could see the rabbit, dark and forlorn, with smears of blood tracing his shape against the plastic.
He put the trowel down, untied the bag and breathed in his musk. He saw his soft ears pushed into a corner, flat and low like sleep. His fur felt soft and he closed his eyes, stroking him gently with his fingertips. With both hands he lifted him out. His head hung down, eyes and mouth now closed in a dream, as he placed him lightly in the grave.
Fab sat quietly, listening to the birds and breathing the chill air, feeling the cold on his skin, and smelling the soft, wild rabbit in the moist, rich soil. Then, with his hands, he covered him in a blanket of earth.
* * *
It was a few weeks later that his father gave it to him. It was glued into the steel casing of a bullet, a coil of wire pierced through the bottom.
‘It’s the back one. It’s special one, the left,’ he said. Fab took it in his hand and felt the fur. It was stiffer than how the rabbit had felt. Prickly. ‘You keep. For when you are older.’
‘Look at that!’ his mum said, coming in close with big eyes. ‘See what your father make for you? Very lucky! You say thank you?’
Fab nodded, but all he could think of was what he buried in the yard, and that it would surely be found when his mum started digging out the potatoes.
* * *
Fab looked up to the sky, took one last drag down to the butt and stubbed the joint out on the step. He felt the rabbit’s foot again.
Maybe it was lucky.
After all, his mum had never found what he’d buried – his father had decided to concrete the whole backyard early the next year. At first, he’d felt sad that the rabbit was stuck there, trapped forever under that slab. But, more than that, he felt relief that his secret was safe.
He decided that when he was feeling straight, in the morning, he’d loop another piece of wire through his key ring. Just to be safe. It might have a bit more luck left in it.
As he staggered back inside to his bedroom in the darkness, he remembered what he’d said to Lucy at the pub. He climbed into bed and the room began to gently spin.
As he lay there in the cool inky darkness, he decided that he would tell her more. About his friend. His only friend. But he would wait until they’d left town, until everything was done and they’d moved to Ballarat.
He couldn’t risk things until then.
He closed his eyes and smiled – his clearest thoughts always came when he was stoned.
He knew he couldn’t tell her everything, though.
There were some things that were, without doubt, better left unsaid.
Six
Ben didn’t come to school on the Monday.
Fab figured he was pretending to be sick. He was always sick when Burke was teaching, but it was mostly bullshit. So Fab didn’t see him til Tuesday.
He ran up to him as soon as the bell went for recess, before Ben had even stood up from his desk. He poked him in the belly, a wide grin splitting his cheeks.
‘What was wrong with ya?’ he said.
‘Nothin, had a headache.’
‘Bullshit.’ Fab poked him again.
‘I did.’
Fab could always tell when Ben was lying – his voice would go a bit funny.
‘You were just home with your horsey mag, having a good wank,’ he said. ‘How you gonna read it with the pages stuck together?’
Ben didn’t answer, but lifted the desk lid and slid his books and pencil case inside.
‘Did you get another one off him?’
‘Another what?’
‘One of those mags. You promised, remember?’
‘Did not.’ Ben stood up and headed for the door. Fab ran after him, grabbing a tennis ball from the sports kit on the way.
‘Two-square?’
‘Nah.’
‘C’mon!’
Fab looked Ben in the eyes – they were all red and bloodshot. Maybe he really was sick after all.
‘Just one game, a quick one... c’mon!’
Ben nodded. ‘Okay. Just one game.’
* * *
Out on the warm, black asphalt of the schoolyard, they swatted the tennis ball gently back and forth. They always went easy for a few minutes without scoring, a warm-up before starting properly. Ben was pretty good at two-square, but Fab always felt like he had his measure.
‘Burke give you a hard time about yesterday?’
Ben concentrated on the ball and didn’t lift his gaze. ‘Nah, not yet.’
‘You got a note from ya mum?’
‘Yep.’
‘He’s such a prick.’ Fab switched and knocked the ball with his left hand. ‘Do you reckon he’s married or anything?’
‘Who?’
‘Burke.’
‘Dunno.’
‘Don’t reckon. She’d have to be ugly.’
‘I spose.’
‘Kids would be ugly too. Red faces and beards, even the girls.’ Fab watched Ben closely, but he didn’t smile or anything. ‘Well, at least it’s our last year with him.’
‘Yep.’ Ben looped the ball into Fab’s square.
‘Shame it rained Saturday,’ Fab said, slapping the ball back lightly with an open palm.
Ben didn’t answer, but lobbed the ball back with topspin.
Fab sliced it with the back of his hand. ‘That Ronnie really flipped out, didn’t he?’
Ben’s eyes opened wide and he swung his arm back high, whacking the ball hard down the hill, toward the oval. Fab shook his head and shot him a look – they were supposed to still be in warm-up.
Jesus, he was pissed off about something.
As he jogged after the ball, he figured maybe he should ask him what was wrong. But when he turned back, with the ball in his hand, Ben was gone.
* * *
When the bell went for lunchtime, Fab chased Ben down the main hall, past the lockers and toward the big timber doors leading out to the playground.
‘Hey, what happened to you at recess?’
Ben kept walking. ‘Nothin, still feel a bit sick, y’know.’
‘Yeah? Well... you want half my sanga?’ Fab held it out in front of him and gave it a flourish with his other hand, like they did on Sale of the Century. ‘Salami.’ He did his best Italian accent, ‘Just-a-like-a-mama used to make!’
‘Nah. I’m not hungry.’
‘Fair enough.’ Fab put the sandwich back inside its paper bag. ‘Hey, I was wondering... what do you think of that Ronnie guy?’
Ben kept walking and looking straight ahead. ‘He’s all right.’
‘Really? Ya think?’
Ben walked faster.
‘Jesus Ben, will ya slow down for a sec?’ Fab grabbed him by the arm, stopping him in the doorway. ‘I wanna ask ya something.’
‘What?’
‘It’s just... I’ve been thinking.’
‘About what?’
‘Well, don’t you reckon it’s weird about what he said?’
Ben stared past Fab, out to the oval, where some grade three
girls were picking yellow flowers off the tall, green weeds.
‘What was weird?’ he said, his gaze still in the distance.
‘Don’t ya remember? In the car when we got there?’
‘Nup.’
‘How he knew about the Leviathan? The yabby dam?’
‘Dunno.’ Ben frowned and shook his head. ‘Didn’t really think about it.’ He stared down at his feet for a second, then looked up. ‘Mum told him, isn’t that what he said?’
‘Yeah, but did ya ask her?’
Ben shrugged. ‘Nah, why would I? Who gives a shit?’
Fab had never seen Ben like this. Even that time he’d left the front gate open and Sunny ran away. He hardly ever got angry, not at anything.
‘Don’t you reckon he’s a bit weird though? I mean...’ Fab noticed Ben’s eyes watering. ‘Jesus Ben, what’s up? Did I do something wrong or something?’
‘Nuthin, just leave me alone, will ya?’ Ben pushed past Fab, down the steps and ran out toward the oval.
Seven
Fab asked for permission a few days before his birthday, but his father didn’t like the idea so much.
‘Why you waste time with this bullshit for?’ he said. ‘All you need is famiglia. Your family, no?’
But after, when his father had gone out back, Fab’s mum told him to wait. Soon, she said, his father would be going away for the weekend with Sid. She kissed him and told him to be patient. And she told him the rabbit’s foot will be bringing him good luck soon and she rubbed it, then rubbed his cheeks, then kissed him again. She said it would be okay, as long as they kept it a secret.
And then Fab made her cry. But he didn’t know why she got so upset. All he’d done was tell her that he loved her.
* * *
He had to wait three whole weeks before his father went away with Sid. So it was three whole weeks after his actual birthday before he could ask Ben to sleep over.
It was the first time ever, so Fab was excited. He said they’d get a video. Die Hard. And his mum had said that she’d make pizza.
Ben didn’t look that excited though.
‘I’ll have to check with my mum,’ he said.