Cold Skin

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Cold Skin Page 11

by Steven Herrick

Jump?

  Is Dad yelling at me?

  The water surges below.

  My legs balance, wobble, step.

  If my feet miss the sleepers

  I’ll be trapped with Mr Paley.

  The train is thundering towards the bridge.

  I can see the driver

  blowing his whistle,

  pulling the emergency brake.

  He’s shouting

  but all I can hear is the furious screeching

  of wheels on the track.

  I leap over three sleepers at a time,

  reaching out to Mr Paley

  even though I’m still too far away.

  ‘STOP!’

  Mr Paley twists to face the train.

  He flings his hands up

  as if he can stop it.

  ‘NO!’

  He jumps

  and I throw myself after him.

  I grab nothing but air,

  falling,

  my arms flailing.

  The river rushes to meet me.

  Eddie

  In my dream

  I’m fourteen years old

  and Dad is wearing his army uniform,

  with boots and buttons polished.

  Mum, Larry and me are waiting at the platform.

  Dad jumps from the train

  before it stops

  and wraps his big arms around me.

  I can smell his tobacco breath

  and feel the tingling prickle of his stubble.

  Although he still has his duffle bag

  slung over one shoulder,

  he’s so strong he lifts me in a bear-hug,

  grinning and saying,

  ‘It’s good to be home.’

  We walk across town.

  I’m carrying his bag

  and he’s holding Mum’s hand.

  Our shack by the river

  is covered in streamers to welcome him.

  People from town visit all afternoon

  to say hello and thank him for what he did.

  Everyone points to the sign I painted

  over the front door.

  For my dad.

  Who fought in the war,

  side by side with Frank O’Connor.

  Deep in the jungle,

  with the enemy all around.

  In my dream.

  Eddie

  I wake in bed

  and my head is throbbing so much

  it hurts to open my eyes.

  Mum’s voice comes from under the door.

  ‘You had no right!

  To put your son in danger like that . . .’

  I try to get up

  but dizziness overwhelms me.

  I lie back

  and wait for a few minutes

  until I can open my eyes again.

  All I remember is jumping

  and the train-driver’s face twisted in agony

  as I fell

  and he reached out the window,

  a despairing arm,

  trying to catch me,

  but I kept falling.

  Then I remember.

  I fell past Mr Paley.

  The rope held.

  The mayor is dead.

  For all I know he’s still there

  swinging below the bridge.

  I couldn’t save him.

  I squeeze my eyes tight

  to stop myself seeing his face.

  Roaring in my head

  is the certainty that I failed.

  I stuff the sheet into my mouth

  and bite down hard

  to stop myself from screaming.

  Albert Holding

  Eddie rushed across the river

  and my guts tightened

  like I’d been punched.

  I knew what he was going to do.

  Even if he could make it to Paley

  he’d never free the rope in time.

  Not before the train.

  I shouted with all the venom I felt

  for Fatty to jump

  and spare my son.

  My son’s life

  in the hands of a coward.

  Fatty waited until it was too late,

  I closed my eyes,

  unable to watch

  as the train stormed past.

  I was on my knees

  beating my fists on the ground,

  sure that Fatty had not only killed Colleen

  but now he’d taken my son.

  Then I saw him.

  Eddie had jumped.

  He was face down in the water

  near the bank.

  I dragged him out,

  crying,

  calling his name over and over,

  afraid he couldn’t hear me,

  would never hear me again.

  He whispered something.

  Someone’s name.

  I carried him up the track to our house.

  My son in my arms.

  As I reached the bend

  I looked back.

  Paley was hanging from the bridge,

  the rope swinging tight,

  his eyes lifeless,

  staring straight across the water

  at me.

  SEVEN

  The bridge

  Sergeant Grainger

  Albert is in the yard

  swinging his axe,

  splitting firewood.

  He sits on the chopping block

  and rolls a smoke,

  offering me the packet

  as he shields his eyes

  from the setting sun.

  ‘Do you know Mr Paley is dead?’

  He shrugs and drags deeply on the cigarette,

  letting the smoke drift away.

  I say,

  ‘It must have taken a lot of guts

  to do what Mr Paley did.

  To jump with a rope around his neck.’

  Albert looks up fiercely,

  as though he wants to shout,

  but he stops himself.

  I almost had him.

  All I have to do is keep baiting him

  and he’ll crack.

  He’ll tell me what I want.

  What I suspect.

  Paley wasn’t alone.

  How could he tie his own hands?

  I say,

  ‘Mr Paley did a lot for this town, Albert.

  When all you men were away.

  He worked tirelessly for the war effort.

  Raising money. Organising.’

  Albert stabs the cigarette into the block,

  crushing it in his fingers.

  A voice behind me says,

  ‘Mr Paley jumped, Sir.’

  Eddie is near the clothes line,

  hands in his pockets.

  His hair is messy

  and he looks unsteady on his feet.

  ‘I was there, Sir.

  I saw what happened.’

  He walks to the woodpile

  and stands beside his father.

  Eddie’s eyes are bloodshot

  and his dad can’t meet his gaze.

  ‘I tried to stop him . . .’

  Tears fill Eddie’s eyes.

  Should I ask him if anyone else was there?

  He’ll tell me the truth.

  But I already have the answer.

  I place my hand on Eddie’s shoulder.

  ‘Thanks, son.

  You did your best.’

  I nod to Albert

  and take my leave.

  There’s no point in pressing Eddie.

  He did what he could,

  and that was more than enough.

  Mr Carter

  On my desktop calendar,

  Galatians reads:

  For every man shall bear his own burden.

  And mine is to sit here

  without typing a word.

  I notice the spiderweb

  hanging from the ceiling.

  A huntsman scurries across the wall.

&nbs
p; There’s so much to write

  and I can’t print a word of it.

  Headlines flash through my mind,

  ‘Mayor commits suicide.’

  ‘Murder solved.’

  Simple.

  To the point.

  An end to all the rumours.

  Except there’s no proof.

  I’m not printing gossip.

  Or theories.

  I’m not calling a dead man

  a murderer.

  Not on the front page of The Guardian.

  Wilma Paley is beside herself with grief.

  I type:

  The Mayor of Burruga, Mr Kenneth Paley,

  was found dead near Jamison River.

  Sergeant Grainger has yet to make a statement

  regarding the cause of death.

  All of Burruga will mourn this tragic loss of life.

  The rest of the article comes automatically.

  Mr Paley’s past.

  His achievements.

  I finish with the line:

  ‘Mr Paley is survived by his loving wife, Wilma.’

  I’m glad they didn’t have children.

  At the top of the page

  I type the heading:

  ‘Tragic death.’

  Enough said.

  Eddie

  Sergeant Grainger leaves

  and Dad goes back to chopping wood

  as if nothing has happened.

  I watch him split the ironbark

  with clean sharp blows.

  He cuts much more than we need for tonight,

  tomorrow,

  the whole week.

  He doesn’t look at me.

  ‘Dad.’

  He grips the axe and swings,

  splitting the log in one clean blow.

  ‘Take these logs in for your mother, Eddie.’

  I lean down

  then stop myself.

  ‘No. Not yet.’

  He’s going to have to tell me.

  I stand in front of the chopping block

  and reach for the axe in his hands.

  ‘Look at me.’

  Dad’s shoulders sag.

  He glances back at the house

  to see if Mum is watching.

  My legs buckle and I feel dizzy

  as I sit on the block.

  Dad crouches beside me,

  whispering urgently,

  ‘Fatty killed Colleen.

  The bastard murdered that girl

  and I wasn’t going to let him get away with it.’

  I swallow hard to stop the bile rising.

  ‘Why? How?

  I mean, how do you know?’

  Dad looks up sharply,

  and he’s about to snap at me.

  Then he remembers what happened.

  ‘I have a right to ask.’

  He covers his face.

  I see the cuts and burns on his knuckles

  from the heavy rope.

  They must have fought on the bridge . . .

  ‘Grainger was asking questions, Eddie.

  He suspected Larry.

  People were talking about your brother

  being drunk that night.

  As if that made him guilty!

  Larry can be a fool,

  but he isn’t a murderer.

  I told Grainger the killer was a coward.’

  Dad looks blindly at the firewood

  and the axe, and says,

  ‘The only cowards in town were Fatty and me.’

  My head is spinning.

  Dad tied a rope around the Mayor’s neck

  because he thought Mr Paley was a coward?

  ‘What about Butcher?’

  Dad shrugs,

  ‘He goes into the city on Friday nights.’

  I grab Dad’s shirt and shake him

  with all my strength, shouting,

  ‘He was late for the train.

  He was late for the train.

  I saw him running!’

  Dad shoves me back

  and I tear his shirt.

  The rip stops us both

  and we look at the cloth in my hands.

  Dad says, ‘It was him, Eddie.

  He admitted it.

  As soon as the rope went around his wrists

  he started gushing.

  He was guilty as sin.’

  I don’t want to hear any more.

  I rush past Dad,

  jump over the fence,

  head into the bush.

  I need to get as far away as I can.

  Dad calls my name but I don’t look back.

  Eddie

  By the time I reach the top of Jaspers Hill,

  my breath is coming in short sharp stabs.

  I drop under the overhang of Coal Scar Man,

  keeping my eyes closed,

  trying to shut out what Dad has done.

  Let me stay here for ever.

  I wrap my arms tight around my body

  to ease the sobbing,

  praying for rain to start

  and never stop

  until the valley is awash

  and the river overflows

  and covers our house,

  the streets of my town

  and cleans away all that blood

  from the sand where Colleen died

  and floods the bridge where Mr Paley . . .

  I can see Mr Paley

  just before I got to him.

  I remember now.

  He said,

  ‘Forgive me.’

  His eyes were calm.

  He knew his fate.

  He spun around to face the train.

  We both jumped.

  I reached out for him

  and tried to take him with me

  but the rope held

  and I kept falling

  into the rushing water.

  Maybe Dad was right,

  but how could he be certain?

  Unless he was there when Colleen . . .

  ‘NO!

  Please no.’

  My whole body starts shaking.

  I’ll have to face him.

  My father.

  Coward.

  Sergeant Grainger

  Mrs Paley asked me to lock up when I leave.

  The store will be closed for a few days,

  in memory of Kenneth Paley.

  Tonight I’m a cop in the mayor’s office,

  taking out one drawer at a time,

  emptying the contents onto his desk,

  making a right mess,

  handling each object.

  Staples, fountain pens,

  notepads full of work orders,

  pencils, sharpener,

  paper and an invoice book.

  As boring as batshit.

  But here, in the bottom drawer,

  there’s a green metal box,

  locked.

  Something moves inside when I shake it.

  I could go downstairs to the shop,

  grab a crowbar and snap the lock.

  But cops aren’t supposed to do that.

  So I spend the next thirty minutes

  searching for the bloody key,

  going through each account book,

  through each folder

  in the whole bookcase.

  I’m about to chuck the box against the wall

  in the hope it might break open,

  by accident, you understand,

  when I remember the key chain on Paley’s belt.

  Mr Smyth gave me all his possessions

  to pass on to the widow.

  I’ve been too busy chasing my tail to do it yet.

  It’s on my desk at home.

  If there’s anything to find,

  it’s in this box.

  Sally

  It’s dark when I knock

  at the Holding house,

  quietly.

  Quick footsteps,

  Eddie’s mum opens the door.
r />   Her eyes search behind me.

  ‘Have you seen him?’

  She looks haunted.

  ‘He’s not here.

  We don’t know where he is.’

  She grabs my arm and pleads,

  ‘You’ll tell him to come home, won’t you?

  If you see him.

  Please.’

  I nod quickly and leave.

  Jaspers Hill?

  There’s just enough moonlight

  to scramble up the track,

  calling his name,

  listening for an answer.

  The rumours are sweeping town.

  Eddie tried to save Mr Paley

  from jumping off the bridge.

  Eddie is curled up on a rock,

  head bowed,

  hugging his knees, shivering.

  I put my arms around him

  and hold him until the lights of the mine

  glow bright in the valley.

  Two sharp siren calls

  signal the end of dinner break.

  There’s nothing I can say.

  I’m staying with Eddie

  until he’s ready to come down,

  no matter how long it takes.

  Sergeant Grainger

  I have Mrs Paley’s permission to open the box.

  ‘Do whatever you have to.

  Find out what happened.’

  She meant something different

  from what I was suspecting.

  As kids, we used to search the river

  for sunken treasure.

  A bunch of us diving,

  hands tracing the sandy bottom.

  Once, we found the steering wheel

  of a Bedford truck.

  When I presented it to my father,

  he grinned and tousled my hair,

  ‘It’ll come in handy, son.

  If we find the rest of the truck.’

  I turn the key in the lock,

  and lift the lid.

  A white cloth is wrapped around some items.

  A broken wrist watch,

  a school photo from this year,

  a deck of smutty cards

  with pictures of naked women

  and a bank book.

  The last withdrawal was today.

  Five hundred pounds.

  Mr Smyth gave me Paley’s things in a satchel.

  Keys, a wallet, cuff-links,

  and a sealed envelope.

  It doesn’t take a genius to work out what’s inside.

  I should pass this on to the widow.

 

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