by Mark Brandi
He studied her.
She nodded, her eyes thinned, but he caught something brittle in her gaze.
‘You have got a fair bit on your plate,’ she said. ‘And you know something?’
‘What?’
She glanced at his beer. ‘In five years, this is the slowest I’ve ever seen you drink.’
The sound of heavy footsteps vibrated through the ceiling.
‘Sounds like Bob’s awake,’ she said, looking up. ‘Sure you don’t want some lunch?’
Fab shook his head. ‘Nah, not sure I’ll finish this either.’ He pushed the beer across the bar. ‘Maybe I’ll catch ya later on, if I’m feeling better.’
He turned for the door.
‘Wait a sec,’ Lucy said.
Fab looked back.
She smiled and held out the five-dollar note between her fingers. ‘You didn’t even drink your beer.’
‘It’s all right,’ he said, ‘you keep it.’
* * *
That afternoon, as they finished their shift, Afriki and Fab barely spoke. Fab slowly started to feel better, physically at least, as the sweat leached the previous night out of his system.
At knock off, for the first time in months, he decided he wouldn’t go to the pub. He figured he needed a good night’s sleep. And some time to think.
Afriki called out to him as he left the car park, ‘Hey Fab. You go now?’
‘Yep,’ he said.
‘You will think about, okay?’
‘Yep, will do,’ he said, without turning back.
Eleven
That night, as Fab lay in the airless heat of his room, he thought about all the junk under the house. The old timber, the ancient farm machinery, the tools and steel that had, for decades now, lain dormant. He had never really understood why his father had bought all that crap.
Maybe he had plans for something else, maybe a farm or his own business. Maybe he too had a choice, a fork in the road; maybe he had decided, without telling Fab or his mum, to start a new life somewhere without them. But he never got that chance.
As he lay there, with the sheets sticking to his skin, Fab remembered the day his father had appeared at his bedroom door.
* * *
He hadn’t really seen his father, not properly, for months. They hadn’t eaten a meal together since Christmas. Hadn’t spoken since February.
He was supposed to be studying, but he was lying on his bed. He was thinking about Kylie Parker, who he’d pashed last week, and how cold her tongue had felt on his, like ice.
There was a knock on his door – it opened before he could answer.
His father stood there, silent in the doorway, deep breaths in and out.
He had once been a giant, broad and tall for his generation, densely muscular. Big, strong hands and long, sinewy arms – a powerful neck and jutting Roman jaw. He’d exuded a primal strength, as though he’d not sprung from humankind, but something supernatural, almost unholy – something not of this earth.
And he’d moved and acted like a man who knew, always, that his prowess exceeded all others.
But he had changed.
In the doorway he stood, wearing loose, black woollen pants, a thick brown belt and white shirt, unbuttoned to his chest. His skin had a greyish hue, but shone strangely in Fab’s room, like a flame still burned deep within him, glowing through a fog.
None of his clothes seemed to fit, they looked like hand-me-downs – all wrong, oversized. Where once his shoulders were round and rippling, angled bones now poked through cotton. Where once his legs had been like stone pillars, the wool hung drab and loose to his battered boots. Where once his face was wide, proud and bright, his skin sat thin and sallow against his cheekbones.
All his sinew and strength had been eaten away. It seemed, in the end, only the skeleton would triumph, rising up like an ancient shipwreck, a relic – the final remnant of a deep and unknowable ocean.
His father stood in the doorway, breathing roughly.
‘Your mother tell you?’ he said, his eyes fierce and shining darkly.
Fab shook his head.
‘I am dying, Fabri. A few weeks.’
Fab nodded.
‘You understand?’
Fab looked at him.
And said nothing.
His father stayed for a moment longer, silent but for the quiet whistle of his breath, with an eternity stretching out between them.
Then he turned and closed the door gently behind him.
* * *
The day after the funeral, Fab went out into the Black Ranges with his father’s rifle, the Beretta, slung over his shoulder. He sat in a field of yellow grass at the foot of the tallest hill and laid it down by his side. He unbuttoned the case, slowly, and lifted it from its soft, warm home. It looked different in the light. The maple seemed a brighter yellow and the steel of the barrel held the lustre of deep, polished ebony.
He leaned back into the grass, felt the sun on his skin, and breathed in deeply. He closed his eyes and remembered. The smell of earth, pine needles and vinegar.
As the sun slowly sank behind the ranges, a chill came to the air and he knew he didn’t have much time. He put the rifle carefully back inside its soft leather case, buttoned it, and marched quickly up the hill. He had a rough idea where it was, a hundred metres or so up, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to find it.
It was almost dark and Fab thought he must have misjudged the distance, or maybe it had been filled in. But then, just as he was about to give up, he found the spot, just off the track in a small clearing shrouded by thick shrubs. On an old gum tree, someone had nailed a sheet of rusted iron, with ‘DANGER’ daubed in dark red paint.
‘The deepest mineshaft in Victoria,’ his father would say, with pride in his eyes. When they went hunting he would warn Fab to be careful, to make sure he didn’t fall in. And Fab imagined that it must have gone almost to the centre of the earth.
Fab walked to the edge of that deep black hole and felt the cool, damp air on his skin. He wondered how far it went down... twenty, maybe thirty metres? Deep enough.
He breathed in the air, lifted the rifle up over the shaft and, with his eyes closed, he let it fall from his hands. It clanked once, then again a second later, but he never heard it land.
Then, with his eyes still closed, he reached into his pocket for the rabbit’s foot and gripped it tightly in his hand, pushing it deeper, safer, inside his coat.
* * *
And now, eleven years later, as he lay in his bed waiting for sleep, he thought about all that junk his father had left behind. How it lay there under the house, the remnants of the past they had all shared. How he planned to sell it, to turn a profit, to make some good out of the ruins.
And it occurred to him, in those flickering seconds before sleep, in a moment of terrible clarity he would never fully recall, that all that junk was the embodiment of his past.
Bent, broken, rusted, and mostly worthless.
Twelve
He knew the pub wouldn’t be open yet. And he knew there was a definite risk of running into Bob. But soon enough, as far as he could tell, none of that would matter.
He waited under a tree in the rear car park. Bob had planted a whole lot of trees out there when he first bought the place, but only a few had survived. He’d even put a few tables and chairs out for a beer garden, but never got the liquor permit for it.
It was Wednesday. And Fab knew that on Wednesday, Lucy got the beer delivery from Melbourne. He knew Lucy got it because the supermarket got it right after and the truck driver, Mick, a heavily tattooed Pentridge graduate, would tell Fab all the imaginative ways he would like to fuck her.
Eventually, at around ten-thirty, the truck rounded the corner. It honked its air horn on the way in and, after just a few moments, Lucy emerged through the back door. She didn’t see Fab as he waited in the shade.
He watched her make small talk with Mick, flashing a bright and easy grin. She then unlocked the ce
llar door while Mick knelt down, apparently checking his tyre pressure, but instead looking up her skirt.
Mick then unloaded the barrels through the door. Fab watched as each of them fell on an old car tyre, then bounced and clunked noisily within. Lucy once told Fab that when she first started, Bob used to wait down there, rolling and stacking the barrels neatly into place. But from the day they got married, even that job was left to her.
When Mick was done, he fetched the delivery book from the front seat of his truck. Lucy signed, smiled, and handed it back. Mick lingered for a moment, hands on hips. Fab couldn’t hear what was being said, but Lucy wasn’t smiling anymore. Mick reached out for her hand, but she pulled away.
After what seemed like forever, Mick slowly got back in his truck and started it up. And Fab made his move.
‘Lucy!’ he called out from under the tree, but she didn’t hear him above the rumble of the engine. She headed for the door.
‘Lucy!’ he yelled out this time. She turned and looked at the truck, frowning. Then Fab stepped out from the shade.
‘Fab?’ She shook her head and squinted into the light. ‘Why are you hiding over there?’
He walked to her.
‘Making sure you don’t get abducted by Mr Milat.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘You won’t believe what he said.’
‘Don’t wanna know.’
Lucy looked him up and down. ‘Well now! Don’t you look smart? Don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a shirt.’
He shrugged. ‘Gotta make an effort sometimes.’
‘Like a magpie in spring! How come you’re not at work?’
His heart pounded. He suddenly had the vague, uneasy feeling of being slightly outside himself, of looking on.
‘Well, that’s kinda why I’m here,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I ah... I’m about to quit.’
Lucy crossed her arms. ‘You serious? But you’ve never even missed a day in—’
‘Years, I know. But I... I’ve been thinking about things.’ He swallowed drily. ‘And I... I think I’m gonna take the job.’
‘In Melbourne?’
‘Yeah. The factory. Afriki.’
Her mouth fell open just a little. ‘But, I thought you said...’
‘I know. But I... I thought about things and I realised I need to bite the bullet, you know? I can’t just keep waiting for things to happen.’
‘But what about your plan?’ She frowned. ‘All that stuff?’
He shrugged. ‘I’ll just sell the place. Lock, stock and barrel. Whoever buys it can deal with it. Take it to the tip if they want.’
‘Your mum?’
‘I’ll get her a little unit in town, closer to everything. She’d be happier, I reckon.’
Lucy shook her head. ‘I... I just didn’t think that you’d ever...’
‘There’s one other thing though...’
He looked down at the gravel, dragging a line in the dirt with his shoe. He could hear, off in the distance, the hiss of brakes as Mick’s truck pulled up at the supermarket.
‘I um...’ He sucked a deep breath in and out. ‘Um...’
‘What?’
He bit his lip. ‘I... I wondered if... if ah... if maybe you might want to come...’ He looked her in the eyes. ‘Maybe... um... come with me.’
Fab knew that he’d said it. There was no one else who could have. But the voice sounded alien to his ears, distant. And the words hung dangerously in the air.
She didn’t blink for a long time. She stared at him, her mouth opening and closing, but with no sound.
Eventually, she spoke.
‘Fab... I... I can’t just go. I mean. It’s not that easy.’
‘But you... you always planned to go to Melbourne, remember?’
‘I know... but...’
He scraped another line in the gravel with his shoe. ‘You don’t need to decide right now, but...’
‘I just...’
‘I know the factory job might not be the greatest. But it’s just a start, you know? No more working like a slave for Bob. No more of the dickheads in this town. Just me and you.’
She shook her head. ‘I just can’t. I mean... Bob’s not perfect, but...’
‘It won’t be easy at the beginning I know, but—’
Her voice cracked. ‘It’s not so simple.’ Two tears rolled violently down her cheeks.
Fab took hold of her hand. ‘You don’t need to decide now. Just think about it.’
‘I don’t think I’ll change my mind, Fab. It’s just—’
‘Sleep on it.’
She took a deep breath in and out. She looked him in the eyes, then glanced back at the pub. She leaned in and kissed him quickly on the lips.
‘I better head back in.’
He held fast to her hand. ‘Promise me you’ll think about it.’
She tried to pull away. ‘I’m sorry, Fab.’
‘Please. Promise.’
She let out a deep sigh. ‘Okay. I promise.’
He let her go.
He stayed there and watched her walk quickly across the car park. She didn’t turn back. He closed his eyes for a moment. He just needed to shut out that bright, harsh sun. He needed some kind of relief.
But he couldn’t, as much as he tried, close out the sound of the door slamming shut.
Thirteen
Afriki stared at Fab like a long-lost brother.
‘Dion tell me you are sick.’ He shoved a trolley into the bay and looked Fab up and down. ‘But I never see you so... dressed like a... like a gentleman!’
Fab leaned over the trolley bay. ‘It’s an important day.’
Afriki looked toward the supermarket, then back to Fab. ‘If Dion see you here... he is very angry you didn’t come to work.’
Fab shrugged. ‘He better get used to it.’
‘What do you mean?’
He smiled. ‘What do you think I mean?’
Afriki’s eyes widened. ‘You mean... you will come?’
‘Just need to sort a couple of things. But I can tell you now,’ he shook his head, ‘I definitely won’t be doing this shit anymore.’
Afriki rushed to him and shook his hand. ‘You make right decision, my friend. The right decision!’
‘Hey Morressi!’ Dion strode across the car park. ‘I thought you were sick?’
‘I recovered.’
‘You came to work, or just to distract my star employee?’
‘Neither. I’m calling it quits.’
‘What? For good?’
‘Yep.’
‘Is that right?’ Dion crossed his arms. ‘What’s brought this on?’
Fab shrugged. ‘You think this is tough to leave?’
‘You been here a while though, Fab. How long you reckon?’
‘You would know.’
‘Well, it will break my heart to see you go. But I can easy get another darkie in to replace ya.’
‘You’re all class.’
Dion lit a smoke and nodded toward the Criterion over the road. ‘Hasn’t got anything to do with that little slut, has it?’
Fab darkened. ‘Watch your mouth.’
‘Mate, you never learn, do ya? Still thinking with your dick.’ He grinned. ‘C’mon Afriki, back to it, mate.’
Afriki whispered, ‘I call my cousin tonight. I tell him we both come. I tell Dion tomorrow and we talk then, yes? We have much to plan.’
‘Afriki!’ Dion yelled.
Fab smiled. ‘Sounds good.’
* * *
As Fab headed back out into the street, he glanced over to the Criterion, which still hadn’t opened. Even though things hadn’t gone exactly to plan, he hoped Lucy would come around. Like him, she just needed some time to think. It wasn’t something you could decide on the spot. At least she knew now that he was serious, that it wasn’t just some pipe dream.
For the first time he could remember, he felt like he was taking charge of things. He was making decisio
ns. It felt good.
As he walked down the street, he heard the low, throaty rumble of a V8 starting up – he’d recognise that sound anywhere, the rough, lusty gurgle of a big, thirsty engine. He turned back, but couldn’t see anything – not in the car park, or on the street. So he kept walking, turned the corner, and headed up Barnes Street toward home.
Then, up ahead, near the cemetery, a dark blue Commodore entered the roundabout and turned right, toward him. It wasn’t a car he’d seen in town before, but he figured it must be the V8 he’d just heard.
As it approached, it slowed right down, like it was about to stop beside him, before speeding up again. He tried to see who was driving, but its windows were darkly tinted.
And he wondered, for a brief moment, if maybe WorkCover were still on his tail.
And he smiled as he realised something – he just didn’t care about that anymore.
Fourteen
Whack! Whack! Whack!
Fab woke and felt the hot burn of bile rising in his throat. What was that noise? He propped himself up on his elbows and tried to open his eyes. Bright sun. Too much for a first attempt. He lay back down, closed his eyes and waited for the powerful tide of nausea to recede.
Whack! Whack! Whack!
There it was again.
‘Muuum!’ he called out.
No answer.
He reached blindly for his phone and flicked it open. 10.46 am. Shit. Already late for work and... then, he remembered.
Whack! Whack! Whack!
The door.
‘Coming!’ His mouth was dry. He swallowed with a dull click.
He sat up on the edge of the bed, naked – the room surged and rolled and he had to steady himself on the mattress. He picked up a glass of water from the floor and swallowed it in one gulp. Little improvement.
He’d planned just a few quiet ones at home. To celebrate. He couldn’t go to the Criterion – he needed to give Lucy some space – even though every part of his entire being wanted to see her, to be near her, to convince her.
But it was like magic – the more he drank, the less he felt that urge. So a few quiet ones became a few more and—
Whack! Whack! Whack!
‘Yeah, I said I’m coming!’