by Stephen Orr
‘A few weeks ago,’ he said, ‘my mother, an elderly pensioner who receives an allowance to care for my disabled brother, was told, without notice, her cats were being removed. Then, in a display of bullying and intimidation, two council officers dragged her pets into the back of a van.’
The mayor, his offsider, the councillors, and assembled, seemed to be trying to work him out.
‘I appear within the twenty-eight allotted days to ask for the return of these animals.’
The mayor was happy to take him on. ‘According to my notes, Mr Donnellan, there were … twenty-three cats, a dozen or so kittens, although the officers suggested a lot got away.’
‘That number seems excessive.’
‘Well, it’s what they collected.’
‘Regardless, my mother (who’s been suffering under a great deal of stress since the event) wasn’t warned.’
The mayor was having none of it. ‘Mr Donnellan, the council’s guidelines on pets are quite clear. Maximum three cats, and these need to be kept inside, or within fences. The report suggests these animals had been roaming wild. There are children in your street?’
‘Some.’
‘And if I were one of their parents …?’
Peter opened a piece of paper. ‘This photostat, of your bylaw, states—’
‘Mr Donnellan, we’ve limited time. Three cats, under control, vaccinated, desexed, not roaming other people’s yards, taking down their washing, piddling on porches. Should I continue?’
‘Council make up their own rules and try to convince us—’
‘Mr Donnellan! I realise you’re a lawyer but tonight is about cats, and fences, not whether you think councils have the right to regulate what goes on in your street. You could always try the High Court. Failing that …’ He took a drink of water.
Peter wasn’t fazed. ‘The point of this evening is to seek the return of six cats. She’s been upset without them. She’s had one for eighteen years.’
The mayor consulted his deputy. A few words, then he said, ‘No.’
‘Three cats then. We’ll make sure they’re desexed, registered, vaccinated.’
‘Too late, Mr Donnellan. They’ve all been destroyed.’
Peter took a moment, then shook his head. ‘All of them?’
‘Our vet decided. Too wild. Full of disease. No one would want them, so it was best. We’ve carried the cost, although there was talk of sending your mother the bill for their destruction.’
‘The bill?’
‘We’re not doing animals a favour by letting them run wild. I’m sure your mother cared for them, but I’m not sure she understood compassion.’
‘Of course she did,’ he said. ‘More than anyone.’
‘Well, from what I see here, and these photos.’ And he offered to show him.
Peter had given up. His shoulders had dropped, and his belly popped out. He looked at the carpet, with its Gleneagles crest showing a dragon with a rabbit in its talons.
That was it. We returned to the car park and I drove Peter home in the 120Y (he did have a full licence, but hadn’t driven for years). And all the way, he kept saying, ‘How am I gonna tell her, Clem?’
I leaned a ladder against the tool shed, climbed up then slid my arse over the iron and sat on the edge. It was only three metres, but I supposed you could still break something. This had been my Kitty Hawk, where the supersonic action had begun. Six or seven, looking down, wondering if it was survivable, mustering the courage, then throwing myself off, rolling (cos that’s how they did it on CHiPS). Now, it seemed higher. The thought of jumping, ridiculous. Obviously, something would get damaged. But I wondered if it was because I was less supple, or less brave?
I took out a blank page, flattened it on a clipboard and wrote:
The boy Arnold was scared of heights. And one day, decided there was only one way to fix the problem. So he climbed the shed and jumped off. He felt his knee collapse, and bend under his body, and at first there was no pain. But after a few seconds he became aware of what he’d done.
Pop came out of the shed with his hammer and nails, picked the iron sheets off the lawn and started hammering them back on.
‘Want a hand?’ I called.
He squinted to see me. ‘What the hell you doin’ up there?’
‘Nothin’ much.’
He hammered.
Barry Ruge was angry with himself. For letting his fence collapse (all three hundred metres of it), his house, too. First, the asbestos sheets, then the roof iron, the pipes, cables, then the frame, all of it. Until he and his family were sitting beside a pile of building junk. Him saying, ‘I shoulda done something about it,’ and his granddaughter, Cicely, saying, ‘Listen, Pop, it wasn’t your fault.’
He nailed on the second sheet, stood back, admired his efforts and came over. ‘You slip off there, we’re not driving you to hospital.’
‘I’ve been jumping off for years.’
Soon the rubble sank into the earth. A sinkhole opened and swallowed the family. Barry called to Cicely. ‘Listen, love, I was meaning to fix it. But I been busy. I’m sorry …’
‘D’you talk to your sister?’ he asked.
‘She’s okay.’
‘Explain that …’ But he just wandered into the house, taking his hammer. Something must’ve needed fixing. I could see over the fence into number 29. Curtis, climbing the ladder to his cubby house, emerging, hiding something.
This is how it happened. Arnold’s neighbour, Colin, had been given a chicken. He’d bought feed, and looked after it. It had put on weight. Then, one day, he noticed a strange thing. The chicken had the ability to walk backwards. He didn’t know if this was normal behaviour, so he borrowed a book from the library, but it didn’t say anything about chicken locomotion. So, he guessed he was on to something. He showed him mum, but she didn’t care, his father, but he was busy welding, his brother, Chopper, but he was busy counting his smokes, so he called Channel Seven.
Curtis came down the steps, crossed the yard and stopped. He was listening for voices inside.
‘Dickbrain!’ I called.
He saw me, then ran through his own personal gorse, lifted the fence iron and came into our yard. Across it, up the ladder, and sat beside me. ‘Good gear.’ He showed me the smoke, and let me smell it. ‘Anyone around?’
‘Inside.’
He lit it, smoked it, offered me a go, sat back and said, ‘You used to jump off here.’
‘You used to jump from the cubby. That’s higher.’
He noticed my new chapter. ‘What’s that?’
‘My novel.’
‘Masharin’d love to get her hands on that.’ He smoked, offered it to me, but changed his mind. ‘And you could get your hands on her.’
‘I was writing about your chicken. That day when Current Affair came.’
He laid back, laughing. ‘Star for a day.’
‘That chicken never walked backwards.’
‘It chose its moments.’
‘Not when the camera was rolling.’
Having spoken to the producer, Colin promised his bird was unique. A film crew was dispatched, set up in his yard, and waited. The beast was presented, a bell rung (for this, Colin promised, was its cue), but the chicken walked forwards. Colin said, Wait, and they waited. Bell. Forwards. Colin held the chicken and walked it backwards, but when he released it, it walked forwards. The reporter said, Does it really walk backwards? Yes. Plenty of times. It’s like it knows you’re here.
‘See, full of shit,’ I said.
He sat up, but swayed in the breeze. ‘I know I make shit up, but I swear, it walked backwards.’
So the crew packed up and left. But it wasn’t the disaster it promised. That night, we all sat around Colin’s telly, and the story ran, and when they showed the chicken it walked backwards. Perhaps people couldn’t see the trees swaying backwards, or the smoke blowing the wrong way, or the washing on the line acting strangely. Next day, at school, Colin was dragged up
at assembly, and everyone applauded and some believed he did have a backwards-walking chicken. But only some.
‘Whatever happened to it?’ I asked.
‘Dad chopped off its head.’
We watched as John came out, climbed the cubby steps and went inside, then emerged, calling, ‘Curtis, you little cunt.’
‘Shit,’ he said. Loud enough for John to hear. Who looked over, and called, ‘Where is it?’
Curtis showed him the stub, and smiled.
‘I’ll fuckin’ kill yer.’
Curtis went to give him the finger, over-balanced and fell. He rolled a few times and sat up, unaware (it seemed) where he was. John was coming across the gorse, towards the flapping iron. Now, as Mr Fantastic, I had to act. I shuffled forward, closed my eyes and jumped.
It wasn’t that far. No more than it used to be. I gathered the Thing, helped him up, back to the fence, pulled back Pop’s newly repaired iron, and helped him through. We ran into the lane, and the voice followed us. ‘Carn here, you little fuck!’
Past Don’s dunny, down the lane, around the corner and into the car yard.
‘Ssh!’ I said, settling Curtis against a Falcon wheel (One Time Owner, One-Off Price $2999).
We waited.
‘Curtis!’
He giggled. I heard footsteps between the new and used cars.
‘Too gutless to show yourself?’ John called.
I could smell fresh rubber. And the cars were particularly clean. Little plastic flags flapped in the breeze. Prayers, although this was no time for devotion.
‘Gutless.’
Again, footsteps. I grabbed his arm, moved him again, settled him beside (nearly under) an exhaust pipe.
‘You gotta come home sometime.’
Then we listened as a salesman approached John and said, ‘Are you looking for something?’
‘No.’
And John turned, and walked back down the lane that led to our homes.
Then the same man was standing above us. ‘What are you two after?’
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘My friend here felt a bit sick.’
We stood, crossed the road to Kentucky Fried Chicken, pretended to be cars and went through the drive-through. The girl said, ‘We only serve cars,’ and Curtis said, ‘Broom, broom, I’m a Mercedes-Benz.’
She said, ‘Fuck off.’
He said, ‘Two-piece feed, but I don’t want any wings.’
We walked around the block. Curtis said, ‘I can’t go home,’ and I said, ‘You’re gonna have to,’ and he said, ‘Come in with me, will yer?’ and I said, ‘No fucking way.’
Another unproductive day. My novel, on the tool shed roof, blowing away in the afternoon breeze, down the greasy lane, onto North East Road, where it was (fittingly) run over.
As we walked I said, ‘It didn’t walk backwards.’
‘It did. I don’t believe in God, but I believe in the backwards-walking chicken, because I’ve seen it, and I know it’s real.’
Jen guessed it might make a nice sideline, maybe even a session after a perm. But she had to practise, sound convincing, persuade punters to part with five dollars for a ten-minute reading. To me, this seemed rich. I mean, nineteen-year-old buys a pack of tarot cards, attempts some improvisations and people actually believe her? But, but (and she made a fair point) it wasn’t about logic, it was about the suspension of disbelief. Like writing novels, she said, but I said that was an entirely different thing.
She’d spread a rug on the dining room table, scattered a few crystals (they’d come in the same starter pack), rinsed the colour from her hands and sat waiting.
‘Go on,’ I said.
She shuffled.
Pop, sitting on the lounge, caught up in his own wheel of fortune, said, ‘What a loada rot.’
‘Is not,’ Jen replied.
‘It’s possible,’ I said, in defence of my sister’s new hobby, ‘that if people want to believe, and you help them—’
‘Doesn’t make it right.’ The wheel spun, and he willed it (I guessed) to stop on the Bali holiday. But it was only a vacuum cleaner.
Jen laid out three cards and took a moment to study them. ‘I can see something coming … something you’ve been wanting for a long time.’
‘That’s a safe bet,’ I said. ‘Everyone wants something. Shouldn’t you be more specific?’
‘Let me finish. The Sun means … shit.’ She consulted the legend that had come with the box. ‘Optimism, expansion, moving forward.’
I tried to encourage her. ‘Year Twelve?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Good results?’
‘Yes, that’s what it means. Good results.’
‘Or maybe the novel?’
‘Yes, that too.’ She studied the second card. ‘The Fool: a spirit in search of experience, knowledge. See, it does work.’
I didn’t want to say anything. ‘I suppose I am in search of experience.’
She held her hands above the cards. ‘I can see you getting something you want.’
‘What?’
‘It’s complex. You have to tune into the voices.’
‘Whose?’
‘I don’t fucking know.’
Pop: ‘Language!’
‘I can see you jumping around, because you’ve won something.’
I guessed she was doing okay. ‘I suppose you’ll have to do it a lot to get good.’
‘What?’
‘The acting.’
‘I’m not acting.’
‘But you don’t actually see me jumping about?’
The third card. ‘Wheel of Fortune.’
‘Hey, Pop,’ I called, ‘it’s Burgo.’
‘Take it seriously,’ Jen said. ‘The Wheel of Fortune is destiny.’ She checked the sheet, rubbed a crystal and tried her hardest to stay professional. ‘So if you put them together: you have a journey, it will end well, there are good things ahead.’
‘Thank god for that.’ I noticed the sheet: ‘What if you hada pulled Death, or the Hanged Man?’
‘I took them out.’
‘Why?’
‘That’s what the instructions say, until you get good. You wouldn’t want to tell someone you can see their death and then it actually happened.’
‘It seems rather convenient. I mean, if the spirits are making you choose a card, cos that’s someone’s destiny, and there are a couple missing …’
An ad started and Pop was out to the kitchen, topping up his Passiona, searching for chips, returning so he didn’t miss a moment of Adriana Xenides.
Then Curtis was at the door, inside, sitting beside me, looking at my cards. Jen knew that tarot was already on his list of hates.
But he said, ‘Cool.’ (I knew it was one of his strategies.)
‘Jen wants to start a stall,’ I said.
Pop settled in before the wheel returned.
Curtis said, ‘I think it’s intriguing, how people do this.’
Jen just waited.
‘I mean, you must have to practise … astral travelling?’
‘The instructions say you should relax, shut out all thoughts and ask, Is there anyone there?’
‘Do they answer?’
‘I’m hearing something, but it’s early days.’
Pop farted. We all laughed.
Curtis was good. He said, ‘If you need practice, I wouldn’t mind knowing what’s coming.’
She shuffled her cards, spread them out and picked three.
Pop said, ‘Her hair colour’s funny.
‘Who?’ I asked.
‘Adriana. No one has purple hair.’
I checked. ‘It’s auburn.’
‘Purple.’
Purple it was. Jen was communicating. I sat waiting.
‘So, Curtis, this one here, it’s the Tower.’
‘What’s that mean?’
She checked. ‘Chaos. Crisis. See, cannonballs, fire.’
‘That doesn’t sound good.’
‘Wait. This one h
ere, the Moon. Tension, deception.’
He shrugged, checked out Baby Burgess and said, ‘I think I’d rather try that.’
‘Wait … the Chariot. Honour and willpower. They’re telling me you’ll face a struggle, and this will cause you stress, but in the end you’ll win out.’
He grinned, so she retrieved her cards. ‘When yer ready to take it seriously.’
‘I am.’
Pop applauded. Someone had won the car. There was confetti, music, a husband running down to embrace his wife. Burgo smoothed his mo and Adriana smiled, nicely. ‘Good on ’em,’ Pop said. ‘I like it when a worker wins.’
Curtis said to Jen, ‘You couldn’t say what’s gonna happen to John, could you?’
Pop turned. ‘He’s got a job, hasn’t he? He’ll come good. Why do you need cards to tell you that?’
Reluctantly, Jen laid out three cards and studied them.
‘Them things are giving me the shits,’ Pop said.
Jen wasn’t listening. ‘Justice. But I don’t know if that means he’ll find it, or suffer it. Then here, the Devil.’
‘Jen!’
‘And …’
We looked. A man, hanging by a rope by his foot.
‘The Hanged Man.’
‘I thought you’d taken it out?’ I said.
‘I thought I did.’
Pop jumped from his chair, took four long strides and swiped the cards. ‘Life’s bad enough without all this shit. You should know better, Clem.’ He walked from the room, the house. We stood at the front window and watched. He turned into number 29. Down the drive, meeting John on his way out.
‘It’s all your fault,’ Jen said to me.
Me and Curtis left the house, jumped the fence and hid behind an awning. We heard Pop say, ‘Well?’
And John. ‘What?’
‘Don’t you what me. They come and take you away and not so much as an explanation.’
‘I didn’t know you wanted one.’
Silence, as we imagined.
‘Well?’
‘What, you think I was …?’
A long pause. We could hear Pop’s laboured breathing.
‘Not a word. After what I done.’
‘They wanted to talk to me about Alan. They’ve got him for knockin’ over a petrol station. They thought he mighta hidden the stuff at our place. I brought them back, they looked through my room … that’s all.’