Michelle had changed all that. She had taken him in hand – given his life some structure. But she had grown tired of her caretaker’s role. That business with the washing – that had been the last straw as far as Michelle was concerned. When she had returned home from a three-week trip to Adelaide and found a pile of stinking laundry (which Alec had forgotten to hang out) sitting in the bottom of the washing machine . . . well, she had turned on Alec. Decided that he was a ‘useless waste of fucking space’. Cut him adrift, so that he was once more without goals, without a tether, without anything particular to think about, or plan for. No wonder he had become obsessed with Janine. She was obviously filling a sudden gap in his life. He had latched onto her because there was no one else to latch onto.
Just because he loved her on the rebound, however, didn’t mean that it wasn’t going to be hell, moving away from her. Setting up on his own again. As a matter of fact, Alec wasn’t sure that he could make it on his own. Mike and Dad were still living together in the old house, which only had two bedrooms. Would they object, he wondered, if he cleared the junk off the back veranda and moved in there for a while? The back veranda wasn’t very well insulated, but it was enclosed. He could seal some of the cracks, hang a few thick curtains, borrow a fan and a heater, buy or beg a large piece of carpet offcut. He could make it comfortable.
But everyone would ask why, of course. If he moved into his own place, no one would question that; it would be the mature thing to do, the sort of thing most people would do, after living with the family for a spell. But why move out of your brother’s nice spare bedroom into the lousy, draughty back veranda of your father’s house? What kind of sensible reason could you give for doing that?
I’ll say I’ve been feeling guilty, Alec decided, as he threw himself back onto the bed and picked up the TV remote. I’ll say it’s time that Darryl and Janine and Ronnie had the house to themselves. Because it’s true – it is time. I’ve been there two months now. They must be getting sick of me.
But even as he practised these announcements in his head, he couldn’t help imagining what Janine’s response might be. ‘Oh no,’ she might say. ‘Oh no, Alec, we love having you here. You’re so good with Ronnie. It’s great to have a live-in babysitter. Anyway, you can’t sleep on that awful veranda. You’ll catch your death.’
Dreamily, Alec began to indulge in further visions of what Janine might do if he threatened to leave. Suppose he insisted? Suppose she began to cry? Suppose he asked her why she was crying, and she wouldn’t say, and he pressed her, and she asked him not to make her say it. He must know how she felt but it was wrong to make her say it . . .
Having nothing else to do, Alec jerked off. Then – after a decent interval – he turned on the television, flipping through the channels until he stumbled upon a cricket match.
He fell asleep to the drowsy sound of Richie Benaud’s commentary, his head still full of Janine.
Harry died during the night. Grace lay awake for hours as Nathan muttered and thrashed about in his sleep; around one a.m. she heard shuffling footsteps pass her room. She heard heavy breathing, the back door creak, the screen door slam. Then nothing for a while.
She got up (carefully, so as not to wake her son) and met Cyrene in the hall. He was returning to his own bedroom, carrying a torch.
‘What’s wrong?’ she whispered.
Cyrene blinked at her. He had thrown a brown raincoat over his striped pyjama top and baggy old track pants. His teeth were out, so his voice was distorted.
‘Harry’sh gone. I put him in de shed.’
‘Oh no, Cy.’ Grace covered her mouth. ‘God, I’m sorry.’
He shrugged. ‘Poishin,’ he said. ‘Godda be. Arshenic, maybe? Rat bait? Alwaysh dush the job.’
‘Y’reckon?’
He nodded. She said goodnight. Back in bed, she thought about Cyrene, and how he had taken Harry into his room, wrapped him in a blanket, laid him on newspapers. The dog had been covered in shit and vomit, but Cyrene hadn’t tried to clean him up. He hadn’t done anything much, like give the dog mustard and water or any other kind of home remedy that would make him puke. When Grace had suggested it, Cyrene had shaken his head. ‘Too late,’ he’d declared.
And now Harry was gone. Poor Cyrene. All he had for company were his dogs – what would he do without them?
The next morning, while they dressed together, she broke the news to Nathan. ‘Harry was really sick,’ she explained. ‘He ate something and it killed him. Something poisonous.’
‘Oh.’ Nathan swallowed, but didn’t cry. ‘Where is he?’
‘In the shed. We’ll bury him later.’
‘Where?’
‘I dunno.’
‘Is Bit back?’
‘I dunno.’
‘Can we look for ’im?’
‘After breakfast.’
Cyrene was still in his room. Grace suspected that he hadn’t slept much. But he appeared while she and Nathan were eating, drawn perhaps by the bubbling kettle, the hiss of frying eggs, the smell of hot toast. His face looked more slack and weary than usual.
‘Hello,’ said Grace. ‘Want an egg? Toast?’
‘Thanks,’ he muttered, sitting down.
‘Hello, Cyrene.’ Nathan looked up from his cereal and launched straight into the subject that was occupying his thoughts. ‘Harry died, eh?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Poor Harry. Can I help bury ’im?’
Cyrene fumbled in his breast pocket and drew out a packet of cigarette papers. Gripping one between his teeth (which were back in his mouth now) he reached into his trouser pocket and produced tobacco.
‘Ask your mum,’ he replied.
‘I did already. She said I can.’
Cyrene grunted. His thick, yellow fingers manipulated the loose tobacco and fine-grained paper with surprising delicacy.
‘Did she?’ he growled. Grace glanced at him, wondering if she had heard a trace of disapproval in his voice.
‘Is it okay, Cy?’ she asked. ‘Tell me if it isn’t.’
‘Nah, it’s all right.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ He got up. ‘I’ll need help to dig a hole that size.’
‘Where ya goin?’
In reply he twitched his cigarette at her, rolling it between his first and middle finger, before leaving the room. Grace felt bad that he had to go outside to smoke, but there was Nathan to consider. And it wasn’t as if she had asked Cyrene to change his habits – it was his house, after all. Besides, she knew how necessary a cigarette could be. It had taken her years to quit – years and years. She would never have considered forcing a twenty-a-day man out of his own kitchen.
Cyrene, however, had made up his mind. He now confined his smoking to the caravan, his bedroom and the great outdoors. He had manners, did Cyrene. Old-fashioned manners. Grace’s mum had always said so. She had often chuckled fondly about the way Cyrene would stand up and open doors for her. Tip his hat before he took it off. Walk on the outer edge of the pavement. ‘A dyin breed,’ she would say.
He was a lovely man, really, and Grace loved him. He had come to her aid like a knight in shining armour.
‘I’m finished, Mum,’ said Nathan.
‘All right.’
Nathan’s chair scraped against the linoleum. He headed for the back door.
‘Where dja think you’re goin?’ Grace demanded.
‘Outside.’
‘Nathan, let poor Cyrene smoke his ciggie in peace.’
‘But I wanna see Harry.’
‘Oh, don’t do that.’
‘Why not?’
‘He’s dead, Nathan, there’s nothin ta see . . .’
But the screen door had already slammed. Grace sighed. She didn’t have the energy to go after him. Standing beside the sizzling frying pan, a spatula dangling from her fingers, she gazed out the fly-specked window at Cyrene’s ute (which was caked with red dust), the peppercorn tree, the remains of an old bedstead, the haphaza
rd piles of twisted iron and flattened tin and Colourbond offcuts. Beyond these lay outcrops of unidentifiable machine parts, and beyond them lay the fence, the gate, the winding dirt road, the endless monotony of the saltbush downs, relieved here and there by a cluster of short, sun-whipped trees.
Suddenly Cyrene crossed her line of vision. He went to his ute and dragged a shovel off the back of it. Then Nathan began to shriek, his voice high and excited.
‘Mum! Mum!’ he cried. ‘Come and look, quick! Quick, Mum! ’
Bloody hell, thought Grace. What is it this time? Maggots, probably.
‘Mum, look!’
‘Don’t touch that, Nathan.’ Cyrene didn’t yell, but there was an urgency in his tone that made Grace lean forward to peer at him. Carrying the heavy shovel with two hands, he was moving away from the window. Grace craned her neck to watch him until he was out of sight. She couldn’t see his face, because his hat was pulled down low, but she thought that his pace was a little brisker than usual.
So she wiped her hands on a dirty old tea-towel and went to see what was going on.
Once outside, she smelled it immediately – a faint whiff of corruption. Dead dog, perhaps? The night hadn’t been particularly warm, but a lot could happen to a carcass in eight hours. Grace followed the sound of Nathan’s breathless squeaking, past the caravan, towards the garage. She wrinkled her nose as the smell of dead animal grew stronger. There was no wind. The air was heating up.
She could hear flies buzzing in unison, and saw why when she rounded a corner of the garage. Lying near the dog’s shed, under a humming cloud of insects, was Bit’s bloody corpse. Its head and belly were coated with a mass of ants and gleaming flies. Its legs were splayed stiffly, dry and brittle like sticks. Its grey-blue coat was dusty and matted.
The smell of it was like a punch.
‘Oh!’ said Grace, turning away instinctively. ‘Oh my God.’
‘It’s Bit, Mum!’
‘Go inside, Nathan.’
‘Why?’
‘Go inside! Now!’
‘Do as your mother says,’ Cyrene barked, and Nathan’s face fell. He began to back away slowly, scuffing up dust with his shoes. At the garage he hesitated.
‘Gorn,’ Cyrene rumbled. Whereupon Nathan turned and vanished.
Grace put a hand over her nose, and tried to breathe through her mouth. She saw Cyrene approach the carcass. She saw him squat down beside it. She said, ‘What happened? Did he crawl back here ta die?’
Cyrene shook his head. ‘Dun look like it.’
‘Why not?’
Cyrene rose, using the upright shovel in his hand for leverage. He prodded the corpse with the shovel, dislodging a swarm of flies. ‘This one didn’t get here under ’is own steam,’ he said. ‘Not with ’is guts hangin out.’
All at once Grace realised what she was looking at: blackened organs coated with dark blood and red dirt. The blood wasn’t fresh; it looked sticky. Tacky. Very little of it had soaked into the earth beneath the corpse. And the head . . . something had happened to the head as well. There was more dark blood, as thick as tar.
‘What – what . . .?’ Grace stammered.
‘Ripped apart.’ Cyrene shook his head, in stunned disbelief. ‘For Chrissake.’
‘Was it a fox?’
‘A fox?’
‘That ate him . . .’ Grace trailed off, seeing Cyrene knit his brows at her.
‘Gracie,’ he said, ‘the bloody eyes’ve been cut out.’
‘What?’
‘Have a look.’
Grace didn’t want to. She edged closer, reluctantly, coughing as the smell penetrated her defences. She saw reddened teeth . . . a sliver of bone . . . a busy fly trickling down into a pit of dried blood . . .
‘Oh my God.’ She turned away.
‘Musta been dead when it happened,’ Cyrene continued, his voice hoarse. ‘Brought here dead, or there’d be more blood. There’d have to be more blood.’
‘Oh my God,’ said Grace. Suddenly she knew. Her heart began to hammer; she looked around wildly. ‘He’s here,’ she gasped.
‘Eh?’
‘He’s found me. He’s bloody found me!’ A movement tugged at the corner of her eye and she whirled – but it was only the piece of old tyre, slowly revolving where it hung from the peppercorn tree. Beyond it, the land was still. Nothing stirred in the silvery clumps of foliage. Nothing moved except the tyre – and the flies, of course, which were settling back onto Bit’s exposed entrails.
‘Y’reckon he’s done this?’ Cyrene asked, sounding sceptical.
‘I know he’s done it! He always said he’d do it ta me!’
‘Oh, but . . .’
‘He’ll do it! He will!’ Grace was almost crying. ‘I gotta get outta here!’
‘All right, now wait a minute.’ Cyrene approached her with an outstretched hand. ‘Let’s just calm down . . .’
But Grace knew that time was of the essence. Her husband had left her a message – he was coming for her. ‘Nathan!’ she screamed. ‘Nathan!’ She ran towards the house, panting, sweating, pebbles scattering before her sliding shoes, and found her son sitting on the back doorstep. He looked up.
‘Get inside!’ she yelled. ‘In! Get in!’ He didn’t argue. He didn’t have the chance. She nudged him as he rose, pushing him over the doorstep. He stumbled. She hauled him to his feet again.
‘What?’ he said, frightened. ‘Mum . . .’
‘We’re goin ta town,’ she croaked. ‘Wait till I get me purse.’
‘But –’
‘Don’t argue, Nathan!’ She tried to think where her purse was. On the table? No – in the bedroom. Cyrene was clumping up the back steps; she heard the screen door slam. She scurried down the hall.
‘Gracie. Wait,’ Cyrene called after her. ‘Let me ring the police.’
‘Okay.’ She had found the old black handbag, which was sitting on her bed. Inside it were her wallet, her sunglasses, her address book. ‘Ring the police, then. I’m still goin.’
‘In my truck?’ He spoke gently, but something in his voice made her freeze. He had reached the bedroom door. She turned to look at him.
‘Oh please, Cy,’ she whispered. ‘Gimme your keys, I gotta get out.’
Cyrene crossed the threshold, and closed the door behind him. ‘Grace,’ he said quietly, ‘there’s a gun down the hall, and a phone in the kitchen. We’ll be all right.’
‘A gun? Your gun?’
‘That’s right. It’s only a Lithgow single shot .22, but it’ll do the job.’
‘Get it, then! Quick!’
‘I will,’ he said slowly. ‘Just put down that bag and ring the coppers.’
‘But he’ll get in!’ Grace began to wring her hands in desperation. Why couldn’t Cyrene understand? ‘We gotta lock the house up!’
‘I will. One thing at a time.’
A gentle tap-tap-tap at the door made Grace jump. But she realised almost instantly that Nathan was looking for her. A nervous little voice squeaked, ‘Mum? Where are ya?’
‘Here. I’m here.’ Grace wiped her tears away. She swallowed, and cleared her throat. ‘C-come in.’
When Nathan entered, he had that familiar, wide-eyed, frozen look on his face. Grace recognised it. She had seen it too many times, through bruised and swollen eyelids, after the screams and thumps and slamming doors had died away. Always, after every incident, Nathan had crept into view wearing that same shell-shocked expression.
‘It’s all right,’ she said huskily, patting his arm. Over his head, she and Cyrene exchanged glances. The old man muttered, ‘Whatever’s goin on, we need to know who did it,’ and headed for his room. Nathan sidled up to Grace.
‘Is it Dad?’ he asked her.
For a moment she couldn’t respond.
‘Did Dad kill the dogs?’ he whimpered, tears welling up in his eyes. Grace crouched down, and hugged him. They hugged each other.
‘It’s all right,’ she mumbled. ‘Don’t worry, okay? It’ll be
all right. Just wait here – I’ll be back in a second.’
She released herself and went to the kitchen. A clock was ticking loudly. The refrigerator hummed. Cyrene’s telephone was sitting on one of the green-painted cabinets, between a china biscuit barrel shaped like a cat and a neat pile of hardware catalogues. The phone was black and heavy, so old that it didn’t have a keypad. Grace lifted the receiver to her ear.
Oh no, she thought. God no. She dialled the first ‘0’, but nothing happened.
Cyrene appeared behind her, nursing an ancient rifle.
‘What?’ he said, catching sight of her face. It began to crumple. ‘What?’
Desperately she struggled to speak, pointing mutely at the phone. At last, with an impatient noise, he laid the gun on the table and took the receiver from her. He listened for a dial tone.
There was none.
His shocked expression loosened Grace’s tongue. She saw that he had no idea. No idea. ‘Let’s go!’ she said. ‘Now!’
‘Are the wires down?’
‘He’s cut ’em!’ Grace shrieked. ‘Come on!’
‘He can’t have –’
‘Gimme the keys! Where are they?’
‘There, but . . .’
They were on top of the fridge. Grace snatched them up and ran to her bedroom. The house shook with every footfall. She threw Cyrene’s keys into her purse, slinging it over her shoulder as she caught Nathan’s hand. Then she dragged him back down the hall, bursting into the kitchen just in time to see Cyrene loading his rifle.
‘Quick,’ she said. ‘Quick!’
‘You go.’ Cyrene pushed the bolt down with a practised movement. ‘Go and tell the police. I’ll stay.’
‘But Cy!’
‘You’ll be all right,’ he assured her, tucking the butt of the .22 under his arm. ‘I gotta do some things. Check the phone wires –’
‘He’s cut ’em, I told you!’
‘Maybe.’ Cyrene went to the front door, opened it and peered out, the barrel of his gun pointing at the floor. ‘If it is him, and that’s what he’s done, then he’s mad enough to burn the whole bloody house down, as long as no one’s here to stop ’im.’
The Road Page 3