by Duff, Alan
Was he afraid of dying, or the manner of death? Had he really thought about it? No, he hadn’t. He’d been in a reckless, devil-may-care state of mind from the moment he drove that new craft on a trailer out of the boatyard, having told Mel he wasn’t diving today, that he was looking at boats. Knew he was going to do something crazy. But not why — unless it truly was to try to understand Frederick and, in turn, gain some insight into how his son’s mind worked.
But this was far enough. Time to get the hell out of here before he couldn’t. And it might be too late.
Panic — as Danny had known it on his last dive — hammered loudly on the door of his inner self. He could see it like the arrival of a cloaked figure. Except this figure wore a big grey overcoat. And he was shaking his wild-locked, bearded head at Johno, clicking his tongue at this foolish exercise of supposed empathy.
From his training he remembered the dangers of nitrogen narcosis, a befuddlement that causes a diver at depth to get the giggles, lose the sense of where he is, hallucinate, believe he can breathe underwater. Every diver knows the stories.
At what mark was his first required decompression stop? He’d forgotten. All he wanted was to get to the surface, but that would mean suffering the bends from failing to expend the inert gases in his tissues and dying anyway. An agonising death, every diver is told.
Forty metres, that’s right. Two or three minutes suspended there? How much air did he have left? When was the next decompression stop? Looking at his watch slowly ticking the seconds by, too afraid to look up lest that stolen surface give its dark face back to him.
Did he have air enough for three minutes with another two stops to come? Daren’t — couldn’t — look at his air gauge: too much like looking at his time of death. Why had his vision got restricted? Why had visibility greatly reduced? Had he hit a silt cloud from some underwater disturbance? Had panic got a hold?
He ascended to thirty metres — was he required to stop here? No, damn it, stop at twenty. Then he could look at his air gauge and, if as he feared his air was near exhausted, he could head directly to the surface and take his chances with the bends. Better than drowning.
Why were there no fish? Had he read his depth gauge wrongly? Did he have nitrogen poisoning and was headed down?
The decompression tables he’d studied only cursorily became confusing numbers jumbled up in his mind. He wanted to go to sleep and not wake up.
With the final decompression at only three metres from life, at last the panic subsided and he broke the surface to a sky smiling blue and bright on the fool.
Chapter thirty
Paolo said, ‘That’s her …’ He didn’t lean over the steering wheel to show he was watching her. Just sat there and exclaimed, ‘Jesus, she’s fat.’ They were looking at the exit doors of Melbourne international airport.
‘Yeah …?’ said Shane, wondering what her size had to do with it.
‘They compensate, don’t they, fat people?’
‘Why she’s a mule you mean?’ Shane still didn’t get Paolo’s attitude. ‘You know, like eating ’cause she’s scared.’
‘She was fat when we recruited her. And that’s no mule,’ Paolo said. ‘It’s a fucking hippo.’ His laughter filled his car, a five-year-old Honda-something no one would notice. One of his secrets, and he had a few. Main one: Keep your head down. Drive a nondescript car, live in a working-class suburb, even if you’re in the best street in a better house. Never let your ego betray you.
But talking like this about someone supposedly on the same side? Shane didn’t think Paolo’s kids knew this callous figure. He didn’t.
‘That’s right. But carrying our living on her person,’ said Shane. ‘What a job. What I mean is—’
‘I know what you mean, Shano. But it isn’t a job, it’s something she does. Hey, come on.’
‘Compensate for what? I don’t get it.’
‘How we live, yeah? How she lives? Sheesh. Why can’t she eat less? Says she’s greedy. Right?’
‘And we’re not?’
‘Listen, ours is a different greed. We’re not filling up our plates, are we, and going up for seconds? Just going about our business in a cool, professional way that happens to make us dough. Whose fucking side you on?’
‘Hey? How has this turned into taking sides?’
‘I’m saying—’ Paolo got distracted then, much to Shane’s relief. ‘Look, there’s Tito …’
Tito had film-star looks, but his eyes could be the coldest Shane had ever seen on any man, and he’d been locked up with the worst.
That time Tito accompanied him to talk to the four massive Tongans who tried to intimidate them from the off. Not Mr Handsome, he just stared unblinking, even when the lead Tongan, Pule, made a sudden movement, trying to bluff him.
‘Thought you had a nervous spasm then, Pule. Lucky I’m not the nervous type or you mighta got hurt,’ Tito calmly dismissed the big guy. ‘Our terms stay the same. You don’t like it, go find someone else to buy from. What, we look like Father Christmas or something? And don’t fucking come near his house.’
‘If we do?’ said Pule. And Shane got the ‘we’ bully’s trick.
Tito’s answer was a classic Italian shrug: done with shoulders, mouth, eyebrows. Beautiful to behold because such an innocuous gesture was so loaded with danger, clear in his icy green eyes.
‘So why’s Tito so close if the cops’ve got onto her?’ Shane asked. He liked Tito. Could be the son Shane wasn’t likely to have. Not now. He still hadn’t found a girlfriend, just physical company that afterwards left him with a dry taste in his mouth; felt like he’d slept with a slut even when he hadn’t. For some reason women didn’t measure up — yet to what or whom he couldn’t figure out. His dear mother, maybe? Did every potential relationship have her presence looming over it? Yet here he was feeling really sorry for this obese woman.
‘Don’t worry. We got someone in between. Tito’s following our tail, and we’re following the cops but from a distance, like via that taxi you can see is now sagging with her weight.’ Cruel, Daddy Paolo.
Paolo continued, ‘I can’t see the cop tail but our inside source has never put us wrong yet. Someone knows the second- or third-highest cop who might call this off. Then we’re back, profiting fatly!’ Laughing loud. ‘If she gets a crook taxi driver who takes her the long way round the ring road it’ll confuse everyone in this convoy. But not me. Now there’s a breed of men for you, down there with the rats. Cabbies.’
‘Rats, hippos and mules, eh, Paolo?’ Shane’s grin more a sneer. ‘We got a zoo for your kids later?’ It was a Saturday and Paolo often did stuff with his family on the weekend.
‘That’s funny, Shano.’
‘She’s an ordinary housewife and we—’ Cut short.
‘With a body like that?’ Paolo said aghast. ‘Would you touch her? She’s single, a, what they call it, spinster. In her early thirties, no man?’
‘Come on, she’s carrying for us. The least we can do is, like, respect her, even behind her back.’ Shane was getting more annoyed.
‘Says you. I speak for myself.’ Paolo sounded like a vain Italian then, and just a little bit dangerous. ‘Can’t stand a woman that size. It’s not right.’
Yeah, like dealing cocaine is, thought Shane.
‘Can’t someone call her and warn the stupid bitch?’
‘Oh yeah? And say what, when the stuff’s inside her big fat gut?’
‘If she shat it out in the back of the cab and threw it out the window?’
‘You kidding? No, you’re not,’ Paolo’s disbelief got through even his dark sunglasses. ‘Shane? If you were a cabbie and a passenger started taking a crap in your cab, what would you do?’
‘If she’s on the motorway and hurling the stuff out, what do the cops do? Stop and retrieve it and lose her? Or keep on her tail and find, well, an empty gut I s’pose?’ Shane kind of grinned but didn’t get one back.
‘Otherwise she goes to jail. And not for a weeke
nd stay, either. Jesus. Three ks of coke? The courts are getting harder on drug offend—’
‘Shane, shut up. I don’t give a fuck what the courts are doing and nor should you,’ Paolo snarled. ‘We’re several layers back from the action. No connection. Ze-ro. Can’t be linked. Where’s the contact between her, you and me?’
‘None. Which I’m glad about, of course. But at the same time, it’s not nice watching someone going down. Not as if she did anything to the Family. She’s trying to lift herself out of Struggle Street, willing to do something like this.’
‘And we care? Not as if we did something to make the cops suspicious of her,’ said Paolo. ‘You think I don’t want to drive around in a Ferrari, a Maserati, ’stead of this heap of old Jap crap? But I don’t, do I? I stay lowwww, baby. Low. Like you do.’
Yes, but too low. The view from down there was terrible. Shane had had enough: he was asking if he could shift to Sydney.
Chapter thirty-one
Awkward though it was seeing his friend in their new flat, and Johno trying his best to act normal, at least Frederick had turned up looking presentable.
Hair newly cut, maybe a day or so ago, the beard gone, and in clean clothes including, to Danny’s delight, new shoes. Not fashionable, but practical. With laces and a shine, not broken and held together by twine.
Danny had never seen him so relaxed, not bothered at being there, surrounded by the three adults in Danny’s life: Mavis and Wilson were present. Danny wondered if he’d picked his time to come, unannounced. He hoped, however, that his friend didn’t start any of his rants, Hopkins’ or Shakespeare’s mighty works notwithstanding.
Frederick’s handshake near lifted the mild-mannered Wilson off his feet. To Mavis he gave a gallant bow and took her hand lightly. Danny’s father he looked in the eye but was never going to surprise him in a strong handshake greeting.
‘Gidday, Frederick. You’re a changed man.’ Straight to the chase, but put well. Danny felt proud of his father, too.
‘I’ll make some coffee,’ Mavis offered. But Frederick shook his head.
‘Not for me, ma’am. A bit early in the day.’ Gave a small chuckle. ‘I usually have something a little stronger.’
He looked at Danny, who turned to his father. Now what?
‘Whisky? A brandy?’ said Johno. ‘I’m not short of stock or choice, am I?’ Warmth in his eyes at least, unless he was putting it on for Danny’s sake.
‘I have fifteen-year-old single-malt Oban in my memory from my last visit,’ said Frederick. He was calm, almost serene.
‘I got put onto Oban by Wilson,’ Johno said.
‘I’ll join you,’ Wilson said. ‘It is my favourite tipple and, what the hell, it’s Saturday morning in one of the world’s greatest cities.’
‘And a glorious day out there, too, sir.’
‘Please. It’s Wilson. I’m sure Danny’s told you about me.’
‘His art mentor,’ Frederick said with a rare full smile. Was he drunk? Danny wondered. But he couldn’t smell booze on him. ‘We all thank you — Wilson. I have always felt more comfortable being formal with people. My condition, I suppose. A cover-up.’
Pure, honest stuff. Typical Frederick. ‘Not that I had much to do with the wider world, only the learning acquired when my mind wasn’t so troubled.’
‘But less troubled now?’ said Johno. ‘Some of my customers would ask if you’d won the lottery. But as I never indulge, can I just say you’re looking great and I hope you take that as the compliment it’s meant to be?’
This wasn’t a father Danny had seen much of, almost falling over himself to make Frederick feel welcome.
‘Thank you. And thank you for the flat.’
‘Danny’s idea. I was happy to run with it.’
‘It’s all tidied up,’ said Frederick, a glow in his eyes for Danny.
Johno poured three whiskies, then glanced at Danny and mouthed did he want a beer. Danny shook his head, but let his father know he was very pleased with his hospitable gesture.
‘With a splash of water? Ice if you want.’
‘Neat for me and no rocks,’ said Frederick, like a man used to normal social company.
‘No ice for me either,’ said Wilson, ‘and with a third of water. Thanks.’
‘Cheers.’ Johno clinked glasses with Wilson, then Frederick.
Danny saw then his father was studying his friend in a rather overt manner. ‘My manager will think I’ve lost out to drinking-publican syndrome. No offence intended, Frederick.’
‘And none taken. We are what we are.’ In one gulp Frederick’s whisky was gone, and Danny began to worry that he might make a fool of himself.
‘Another?’ said Johno.
‘No, thanks. That one did the trick.’ Frederick handed his glass to his host, turned to Danny. ‘I was wondering if we could go through your paintings and choose a couple more for the flat.’
Danny, not willing to speak lest that damned emotion escape at the same time, gave a thumbs-up gesture instead.
‘Anything else you need?’ Johno asked.
‘I want for nothing,’ Frederick said. ‘Or nothing money and your good intentions can buy. You are all so kind.’
‘Leave me out of the praise,’ Wilson said. ‘I’m only the would-be artist living vicariously through his young protégé’s real talent.’
And Frederick said, ‘You speak my language, Wilson. That of honesty. I am the same in riding on the shoulders of my great poets and the incomparable Bard. Something of a mediocre talent myself.’
‘Ah, but a fellow worshipper at the Bard’s feet?’ said Wilson.
‘Less his feet than what came out of his mouth. But I know exactly what you mean.’
Danny had never heard his friend talking so clearly, without throwing in lines of Hopkins or Shakespeare.
After some slightly stilted chat, Danny’s father said, ‘Gotta love and leave you.’ The words, directed first to Frederick, weren’t typical of him and nor was his overly friendly manner. Had he been giving the friendship he’d been so opposed to some thought? Or had Frederick’s surprising serenity won him over?
Wilson and Mavis took their cue from Johno, and when Danny offered Frederick another whisky he said no again.
‘I’m still savouring the first,’ said Frederick. ‘Let’s go and choose something created by your remarkable hands.’
Danny said, ‘Not as remarkable as the change in you.’
But Frederick just followed Danny to the bedroom that had become his studio. After much consideration Frederick tapped a painting from several years ago. ‘This,’ he said.
In Frederick’s apartment he held the painting up in different spots till he was satisfied. ‘If you hang it right here,’ he made an imaginary mark with his hand. ‘Had I a hammer and a nail.’
Then his eyes closed. Stayed like that for some long moments.
But this time the silence did not speak. For the first time ever, Danny saw eyes not bloodshot, not glazed and distant, but clear and looking at him.
‘Shall we pop down to the Botanic for old time’s sake?’ Frederick said.
‘Sure. Mrs Macquarie’s Bushland Walk?’ Danny grinned and got a grin in return.
Frederick said, ‘If I hugged you would you mind?’
Despite his surprise Danny said, ‘Sure.’ This Frederick had but a trace of the body odour of old. It felt like hugging a man at peace with himself. Perhaps the black tide had done its worst and was now in retreat.
Chapter thirty-two
She looked straight at him but there wasn’t even a flash of recognition. And he only just knew her, his mother, the woman who adopted him and had given him her all.
She was like a prison inmate broken by too many years. The eyes that had looked on him only with kindness, the mouth that used to break easily into a smile and a witty comment, the hand that would ruffle his hair — that person was gone. She smelled strongly of urine.
‘Hello, Mum. It’s Shane.’
Then she muttered words that made no sense and cocked her head curiously at his tears.
‘Poor little boy,’ she said. ‘Who growled at you?’ Then her face grew stern. ‘What did you doooo?’ It spooked him.
He should have been here before she started the descent into this twilight world where humanity becomes shadows and meaning is lost. He could have loved her, tidied up after her, wiped her bum if he had to, fetched her back from wandering the streets — as a good loving son ought.
Instead he’d let her go without tribute, without honouring her, without saying thank you. Now she didn’t know the difference between goodbye and hello, let alone the kid she’d raised as her own. Didn’t realise how grateful he was, and how guilty now.
‘They’ve got nice gardens here,’ he said. ‘Do they let the residents grow their own veges? You had the best vege garden in our street.’
‘Nurse said to clean up my poos.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘I didn’t do it. I use my potty. My mummy growls at me.’
‘Does she really? I thought she was a good mummy? Your dad wasn’t such a good bloke, was he?’ Shane had never forgotten his mother telling of her upbringing in a poor, rough neighbourhood, with a drunken father.
‘I …’ She looked startled, trying to find the memory. ‘Alfie died.’ Who was Alfie?
‘A lot of people have died—’ He almost said Mum. ‘Been a lot of change since I was here last.’ His old man long dead. Who knows the whereabouts of his brother Willie. The house they used to live in? Gone, an apartment block in its place. The Trianon pub gone, where Johno’s father had run his illegal bookmaking for the late gangster, George Freeman, and where two fledgling criminals thought they were cutting their teeth — some career that had turned out to be, for one of them at least. Funny, though, how he hadn’t asked Paolo to track down Johno Ryan. And Johno’s father’s house? Gone, too, another big apartment complex there with its fancy sweeps and curves gleaming white in the Sydney sunshine — a more intense light than Melbourne.