Cold Skin
Page 11
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.
‘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.