‘Me and my friends.’
‘Your friends?’
‘Yep.’
‘If you have any friends, then they’re as mad as you are.’
‘Maybe. But someone was supplying the bones, and bones don’t come without bodies. So either Tito was stripping the flesh off, or someone else was. A pottery kiln would be the perfect thing to deal with the problem.’
It stops her, and she swivels towards me, hands on hips, head forward. I push on the brakes.
‘You’re just going to persist with your ghoulish fantasies, aren’t you?’
‘I am.’
‘No matter what I say. Did I do something bad to you, or have you just let all this craziness get the better of you?’
‘Why did you use me?’
‘Use you? Please.’
She turns, and drops her hands.
‘I could have helped, but instead you sacrificed me.’
‘Fuck off.’ She walks away without talking, interview over.
‘You’d better make sure you’ve got that bodyguard on duty.’ I call this out to her ramrod back as I pull over to the side of the road. I turn the vehicle off, and sit slumped backwards. Despite the way she is carrying on, she knows she has used me at least a little bit. What Shiflon said about Tito sending boxes to me must play on her mind. And what I’ve said, maybe.
16
And then Shiflon Vasser is in my house, lying on the floor behind the couch. I don’t know how he got here, but I guess he snuck in when I was out. I have not seen his car. I don’t see him at first, either. I hear him breathing, but I don’t realise what it is. In the kitchen, I pick up a strange huffing sound in the next room that doesn’t fit in with anything I’m used to. The sound is low and soft. I may be hearing things. Then I guess it is a lizard or something caught under the couch trying to wriggle its way out. I walk over to investigate, and I come across a body flat on the floor, face down, hands and arms up under the chest like a small child playing hide and seek: I can’t see you. That means you can’t see me.
‘Shiflon?’
‘Dave?’ He doesn’t lift his head, or acknowledge the stupidity of his situation.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Um.’
‘Have you got a gun?’
‘No.’
‘Well, get up. Talk to me.’ For no good reason, I’m not scared of him.
He gets up slowly and stiffly, like he has been lying on my carpet for hours.
‘What the hell are you doing here? You said you decided you couldn’t trust me. You shot at me. Not just once, either.’
The whinny returns, slightly self-consciously. ‘Sorry about that. I get demons.’ He points to his head. ‘They said you were one of the bad guys, but after you went and I cooled down, I realised you weren’t. You got any coffee?’
‘Instant.’
‘Okay. Four spoonfuls please.’ I go to make the coffee that I didn’t offer to make, and he stretches indulgently and then plonks down into the couch.
I make the coffee, and return with it. ‘So you’re here to apologise?’
‘Me?’ He sips at the coffee. ‘No. You should. This is awful.’ I go to take the coffee back, but he hangs on tighter to the mug and says, ‘But it’ll do.’
I keep standing, watching him drink. ‘What are you doing here, Shiflon? What’s this about?’
‘Oh.’ He holds a finger up, and then uses it to dive into one of the deep pockets of his colourful, stripy pants. He extracts a smooth piece of very white porcelain, and offers it to me. It is flat with one edge that curls upwards. On the flat bit are some blurred colours that look like part of a photo printed somehow onto the porcelain.
‘Be very careful with it, please.’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s not so much what it is, but what it does.’
He doesn’t say anything else, and we both look at the shard of porcelain.
‘So what does it do?’ I’m exasperated with the game.
‘Tito gave it to me. He said I needed to give it to you to protect you.’
This is too far-out for me, even after all I’ve been through.
‘It’s from the seventh box. I didn’t tell you, because you said you already got seven.’
I remember the conversation, and how, at the time, I didn’t realise the box of money wasn’t part of the others. I remind myself that I only have six boxes now because Frank Costello took his.
‘I meant to give it to you that time when you turned up at my place. I really did. But it had so much power, I could feel it protecting me. Like scary powerful. I told myself I needed the protection more than you did. Then I realised it didn’t protect me from you, and I felt its powers waning. I knew it was because it was in the wrong hands. I had to make sure it got into the right hands. And now I have.’ He looks pleased and relaxed. He sits back and does his best to enjoy my coffee. I put the shard on the sideboard, and sit on the arm of a chair, watching him.
He makes loud drinking noises, and seems fascinated with the contents of his mug.
‘So what now?’
He takes one last drink, and stands. ‘Now’ — he hands me the mug — ‘I have friends to visit.’ He shakes my hand. ‘Please don’t serve that coffee to anyone you actually like. Look after the talisman and its mighty power. Adieu.’
He waves a hand in the air and then leaves the room, and I hear him go out the front door. I watch him walk out my driveway, and across to the box trees, where he retrieves a small motorbike. He straps on an ancient helmet, kick-starts the bike, and disappears, blue smoke blowing out behind him.
I take the piece of porcelain to the office, and leave it there.
17
A day later, I am at my sheds, picking things up and putting them down. I think I am attempting to tidy up, but it is a haphazard and aimless attempt. I am thinking about my mother. She was always tidying up, always moving, always setting things straight. I hear the sound of a ute drawing in close behind me. I turn, and see the yellow machine that is becoming the vehicle in my nightmares: Ben Ruder’s ute. He steps out, adjusts his hat, shuts the door, and takes several steps towards me. I guess he sees me tense and brace myself, because he puts a hand in the air, and says, ‘I’m not here for a fight.’
He lets the hand drop, and stands still, looking at me. ‘I know we’ve had our differences, but I want to get past that.’
I always forget how short he is — something to do with the force of him. But now he looks small and maybe even sad in his tired boots and dirty shirt, the greasy hat pulled down too far. I feel like I might even have the upper hand.
‘I heard you’ve been getting a hard time from crooks or something. As a neighbour, I wanted you to know I’d like to help out any way I can.’ His face is grim, and I think he might be genuine. When I don’t respond, he adds, ‘I know some pretty tough people. They could probably fix the situation.’
I almost laugh. Fix the situation? This is the solution of one gangster against another.
‘I can handle it,’ I say. ‘But thanks.’
He is quiet, and he looks away down towards where James rests. Then he says, ‘Elaine has told me a lot of what has happened. Someone put you in hospital, others came here and threatened you. No one can handle that sort of stuff on their own. It’s the time when you call on your community for help. Like when there’s a bushfire or a flood. We all get together to help each other out, no matter whether we like each other not. That’s the way it’s always been.’
I believe him, because what he says is true. We don’t have to like each other to help each other. But I don’t want his help, and I don’t understand his relationship with Elaine.
‘Thank you, Ben, for the offer, but I will be fine.’
He scrapes a foot back and forth in the dirt, and stops it as if t
hat foot will betray him. I realise he is barely controlling his irritation at me.
‘Don’t be so pigheaded, Dave. Don’t take it as an offer from me. We all need to work together.’ He forces the word ‘together’ out, pauses, and then swallows something that I think might be rage. The attempt to be friends has not gone the way he hoped. ‘These people are a threat to our community. We need to be united.’
It is possible he is concerned for his own farm and business. Maybe he thinks Buzzcut will target him next, or maybe he already has. ‘I certainly appreciate your concern, Ben, but I can assure you I can handle the situation.’ He clenches his jaw, and I think he might be gritting his teeth.
‘Have they visited you?’ I ask.
He is confused by the question. ‘Me? No. I can handle this sort of stuff. I’m here to support you.’
‘Or do they work under your orders? I know you want the boxes. I know you’re mixed up in this, so don’t try to pretend you’re suddenly a good guy.’
His back stiffens, and he says without emotion: ‘Suit yourself.’ He swivels, and walks to his ute. I watch him go, but as I turn away I hear him say, ‘I picked up something for you. It was under your mailbox as I came in.’ He has a large box, the same size as all the others in his arms. He offers it to me, and I take it. It is not as heavy as the other boxes, but it looks the same.
‘See you.’ He raises a hand in farewell, and leaves me as if we’ve just had a friendly chat. Maybe we have.
I put the box in my ute. I’m not curious about the contents. Whatever is in there cannot be good. I go on strolling around my sheds absent-mindedly, picking up sticks and a bucket that the wind has blown out of place, and a piece of a beer carton pushed against the wall. I don’t know what Ben is up to, but I’m guessing I will find out soon enough. I don’t think he has the slightest desire to help me, so something else is going on.
In the evening, I put the new box on the kitchen bench, fatigued with the game. I consider throwing it in the rubbish tip, and forgetting about it. With a knife, I rip at the top of the box. It does not hold ash, or anything like it. I pull out the packaging, and reach in for a large, round, flattish object. What emerges is a big, smooth plate — a platter, I guess. As it comes out, I can only see its back, which is speckled in a blue-and-white web. It is large and solid, but light. I guess that’s a craftsmanship thing. Even I know it has a particular beauty.
I turn it over, and hold it in my outstretched palms, admiring it. But I don’t admire for long, because the platter has a photo stuck to the centre of it. It has been hastily and inexpertly done. The photo is not quite centred, and one edge curls upwards, away from the surface. I look closely at the photo, and recognise Tito Slade in a suit and tie, smiling, holding some sort of award. It is pleasant enough. Innocuous even, but underneath the photo in a dark felt-tip pen are the words, ‘If you don’t want him in a plate, give back the boxes.’ I have to hold the platter tightly to stop it slipping from my hands. Why would they use Tito to threaten me? Do they think we were that close? Who would dig Tito’s body up to prove a point?
I have to tell Elaine.
‘Dave?’ There is no annoyance in her voice.
‘I’ve got something I need to show you. Will you be at home for a while?’
‘I will. I’ve got something for you, too.’
‘I’m coming right now.’
She is waiting for me at that front-garden gate near where I found her. Her face is wet with tears. The security guard is standing off to the side with his arms crossed. When I get near her, she puts an arm around me, but I keep the box between us. She guides me into her kitchen, and I put my box on her bench. Elaine is very quiet, and I think she might be shaking. I’m not asking myself why.
‘I just got it. It’s a platter, and it has a photo on it.’
She lets out a small cry, and covers her mouth.
I pull open the flaps of the box, and she puts her hands inside. ‘It’s a picture of Tito.’
She nods at me, and sobs. She takes the platter out, looks at it, and gasps once. It is a gasp of pain, but not surprise — simply an acknowledgement of something she already knew. She puts the platter down, and walks over to a small table against the wall. She picks up an object wrapped in tissue paper, and brings it to me. I unwrap it, and see that it is a platter, very similar to the one I brought here.
I am afraid of what I am supposed to be looking at. This platter also has a photo stuck to its centre. I know the photo. It is one that was in the local papers: a head shot of James at a football competition, smiling shyly after he was presented with a trophy for ‘most improved’. My heart is trying to vomit itself out of my body as I attempt to read the words scribbled in marker pen beneath his shining face: ‘Your son would look good in a plate. Don’t push your luck.’ I hug the plate to my chest, and slump to the ground. I am not crying. I am red-faced, snorting like a threatened bull. I could kill over this. I could do the worst things. Now I really hope they come. Let them come. No one will survive. I sit steaming, soundlessly repeating phrases of revenge. These bastards don’t know what they’ve come up against.
Eventually I stand, remove the photo as best as I can, go outside, put the platter in the back of my ute, get a hammer from the toolbox, and smash it until it is only fine grains of porcelain.
Then I lean back against the ute, and weep for James and for myself. How many times does he have to die? Every night in my head, and now again at the hands of these people. Elaine appears. She puts her arms around me, and her head against my chest. I hug her, but I can’t register her pain; only mine.
She mumbles: ‘I didn’t know. I thought it was just the pieces they wanted. How could I believe he was cremating bodies in our backyard? I thought there was something strange, bad, about the pieces they forced him to make, but he wouldn’t tell me what. He said he was protecting me.’ She is pushing her forehead hard into my chest, and I don’t know whether she is talking to me or herself. ‘I thought, if you received the boxes, you would go straight to the police. Then the people who were blackmailing Tito would get angry at me and never leave me alone. So I had to do anything I could to get those boxes. But I didn’t know why the pottery was so important. I thought it was because they were expensive pieces.’
I get into my vehicle, and she says, with a sudden strength to her voice, ‘I’m really sorry.’
My hand is on the key, but I do not turn it.
‘Don’t do anything stupid, will you? It’s just another threat. They’re not going to kill anybody.’
I turn the key, and don’t say, But I might.
I drive away. Maybe she didn’t know. Maybe she really thought Ben was ‘kinda cute’. I don’t think so. For all I know, she masterminded the whole thing and is now trying to save herself. I drive slowly and methodically, turn at my mailbox, and wind my way to my decrepit house. But as I get close I see something is different in the garden. It is in James’s area. There is soil heaped around the edges of the plot. Stupidly, I think someone has dropped off fresh topsoil for me, and then I understand that the soil has not been deposited — it has been dug up. I leap out of my ute and run to the gravesite, knowing they have dug up his bones and taken them, just so I know they’re serious. On the edge, my foot catches on the pile of dirt, and I fall headlong into the hole they have dug, my hands stretched out in front of me, and I land with a thud on the coffin, my son’s coffin. I rest my head on it, knowing it hasn’t been opened and that what remains of him is still there in this little box. I hold the box and whimper, unable to face anything more.
At dawn, after waking up and lying in bed for maybe an hour, I get up, grab my shovel and rake, and head to where James’s coffin still waits. I check again that it hasn’t been tampered with, and then I begin pushing the soil over it, filling the hole, tamping some of the grass runners back in, and then raking the area smooth. When I’m finished, I crouch beside t
he grave and talk to James. I tell him I could take all my guns and my ammunition, and hunt them all down, Ben included. Kill these people for doing this to me. Let them know they cannot use my son or my son’s death against me. For some minutes, I think this is the right action. I actually look forward to it, and I can picture myself shooting them all multiple times. I am nodding uncontrollably, agreeing with myself that this is the only course to take. Kill them all. And then I think I hear myself saying, No. No one wants this. No one wants you to do this. Not James. No one. I yell back that no one else knows what they are talking about; everyone left, taking the easy option, and I am the one who has to deal with all this terrible stuff, and I’m the one who has to protect James. My breathing is thick, and I am banging my fist down into the soft earth. And then I stop.
I look around to see if I’ve been yelling at anyone real. But it is just me and what is left of my son. The way it will always be. I need to protect him. I need to make him safe, like I didn’t when he was alive. Not by killing, and not by shooting, but by giving them what they want.
18
I eat breakfast then pack the five ash boxes into the back of the ute, throw a tarp over them, and strap them down loosely. I’m going to put them in Ben’s mailbox, return home, and wash my hands of the whole thing. No more shooting, no more violence, no more death. I pull away from the house and onto the road, and I see Ben’s ute rattle past, going towards town or Elaine’s or somewhere. I try to wave him down, but he does not look at me, does not stop.
The drive feels much longer than I know it is, but I reach his front ramp and barely noticeable property sign. I cannot remember when I have been to his place. Possibly as a child, before Ben bought the place. I have no real mental picture of his house or any other part of his operation.
I stop and sit, looking at the mailbox, thinking about what I know and what I’m about to do. It is a small mailbox. The boxes will not fit inside it. One box will not fit. I take a box out and put it on the ground, and look at it. It is a plain brown box that has been taped and re-taped. I have handled it so many times it probably has my sweat, the smell of my breath, and the imprint of my memories on it. If someone comes along and sees six boxes sitting in the weather, they might pick them up. They might even check inside them. I don’t want that to happen. I put the box back in the ute, and turn into Ben’s long driveway.
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