Shelter

by Rhyll Biest

  ‘Why? Why would you do that? Kiss me when you’re engaged to someone else?’ he asked.

  She opened her mouth to speak but whatever she wanted to say wouldn’t come out.

  A rabble of emotions congregated in his gut, disgust, anger and shame. They kicked the walls and trashed the joint, left him wondering if he was going to be sick.

  Nope, that wasn’t really an option either, being sick.

  Feeling wearier than when he’d arrived, he rubbed a hand over his face. If only it were as easy to erase what he’d just done. This was on him. He was the one who’d come around to her place. ‘I’ll go.’

  ‘Okay.’ She looked away, raised a hand to tighten the ponytail that wasn’t there and was left grasping at air.

  He knew the feeling. Like a man submerged, he fought his way to the door and returned to his car. Behind the steering wheel he stared at the sachet of hand sanitiser he’d plucked from the new girl’s bra.

  How had what just happened come about? He couldn’t explain it.

  The only thing he did know was that it was his job to make more of an effort to stay away, otherwise he’d end up a cheat like his good, dead friend Mark. He tossed the hand sanitiser in the glove box, out of sight.

  Chapter 10

  Kat pulled into a parking space. Her first day on the job alone, time to find out how her training wheels held up.

  In truth she was glad for the distraction. She’d spent far too much of her weekend replaying her lip clinch with Belovuk, thoroughly over-analysing it. She couldn’t even blame Galenka for her behaviour, the little heifer had been suspiciously silent while she’d had her legs wrapped around the cop’s waist. Which meant she, Kat, was entirely to blame.

  Why did he rattle her cage so? Simply because he was law enforcement? It had to be more than that, the way he had the two distinct sides of her personality scratching at one another’s eyes, leaving her oscillating between aggression and attraction, strength and weakness, sweet and sour.

  And he’d looked so gutted at what he thought was the truth, that he’d kissed a woman engaged to someone else. She felt bad about that, but if she told him the truth that would strip a precious layer of protection away.

  Chicken shit.

  Giant chicken shit.

  Galenka had a lot to say about the mess of things she was making. Even Stumpy had assumed a judgemental expression when she’d told him about it, and it had been hard leaving him with Beth for the day knowing that he thought his mum a fuck-up.

  Her belt pinched and she adjusted it. She was on the job now. Body, please switch off excessive worry about relationship drama and deploy work brain and game face.

  She paused in front of a shop called Grinder’s, if the sign were to be believed. A good name for a coffee shop but this appeared to be a tattoo parlour. The number of chrome and leather Harley Davidsons parked out the front gave a clue as to its main clientele.

  And next to the business entry, as reported, was a featherless cockatoo. Well, not completely featherless, it retained coverage on most of its wings and tail, and some on its head, but from its breast down to its black, stick-like legs the bird looked like uncooked poultry. His raw, tiny breast and scrawny neck were pitiful, as was his lack of crest. Plus, his wings, head and tail outsized his little peanut of a body.

  Just as well it was hot as a bitch or the sucker would freeze.

  She leaned close, but not too close, to speak to him. ‘Hey there, fella.’

  Grotesque, wrinkly and apathetic, he cocked his head to eye her with one beady, inky eye. A low whisper came from the cage. ‘Motherfucker.’

  She blinked. Had she misheard?

  ‘Shit. Fucker. Fuck.’ The bird’s whisper emerged low and threatening.

  Oh. No, she hadn’t misheard, the cockatoo was simply fluent in biker. She eyed his exposed reddish-grey skin once more before opening the door to the tattoo parlour. A blast of cock rock assaulted her.

  The music ground her ears as she let the door swing closed behind her. Still, what had she expected in a biker tattoo joint? Celine Dion?

  The smell of oil and grease lingered in the former repair garage, as did the concrete stains dark as blood. Long disused hydraulic car lifts remained in place and the whole place screamed ‘workplace health and safety issue’ what with so many empty beer bottles and car parts lying around. It would make a decent obstacle course for trained ferrets.

  Her skin prickled with the chill of the bunker-like air temperature as she picked her way through discarded auto parts and glass bottles, heading for the figures visible in the far corner. At least it was cool inside.

  As she passed a blaring radio she turned the volume down, earning herself a sullen stare from a teen getting his bicep tattooed, and one from his dreadlocked mate watching the process. She remembered reading about a basketball player who incurred muscle injuries because of his dreads, the weight of the dreadlocks changing his centre of gravity which caused running injuries. But the kid didn’t look like the kind to ever run.

  The tattooist, a young woman with a blue and black mohawk far more impressive than the cockatoo’s sad crest, remained fixed on her task, not looking up from where she sat hunched over the back of an office chair at work with her needle gun. Her posture meant that a generous amount of her lady crack was on display, all embroidered by a raft of colourful tattoos.

  Both teens could barely keep their eyes off it.

  Oh yeah, the ink slinger was all class, tantalising teen boys with her back crack.

  A movement at the periphery of her vision caught her attention. In what had once no doubt been a customer waiting room, several hairy biker types drank beer while watching something on a large television screen.

  They hadn’t noticed her entry.

  Lucky her.

  Kat studied the buzzing work in progress before squinting at the teen getting his arm inked. Though his lower lip was pierced he didn’t look old enough to legally get a tattoo, but she’d be damned if she was going to call the police station, his mother or make a citizen’s arrest—she was here for the bird. She made a signal to the teen that he should get the tattooist’s attention.

  The buzz of the needle gun abated before the tattooist looked up, her spiked dog collar flashing. She mouthed something obscene before straightening, laying her tattoo gun down and rubbing her neck with a grimace. ‘Yeah?’ Piercings glinted in her eyebrow, lip and nose—but there were none in her ears. Everything pierced but the parts you expected. Kat was not a fan of piercings, they were a party invitation for blood poisoning.

  The fierce haircut and piercings emphasised the tattooist’s pretty, heart-shaped face, and Kat put her in her early twenties. A cupcake decorated with razor blades.

  Kat launched into her rehearsed spiel. ‘Hi, I’m Inspector Kat Daily from the RSPCA, I’m here to talk to you about your cockatoo.’

  ‘Bert?’ The tattooist’s kohl-rimmed eyes looked towards the door.

  ‘Is that his name? Do you have a name too?’

  She arched a pierced brow. ‘Yeah, I got one. Don’t know that I want to share it with you, though.’

  ‘Fair enough, I’m more interested in Bert and why he doesn’t have any feathers.’

  ‘Fuckin’ hell.’ The girl ran a tattooed hand over the shorn stubble below her glorious, black and blue mohawk, the chunky silver rings crusting her fingers flashing under the fluorescent lights. She glanced at her teen client. ‘You want a break?’

  The teen’s gaze went to Kat, then to his friend, and he nodded.

  To Kat’s eye he looked a little green around the gills. Perhaps he wasn’t as tough as he thought.

  ‘Grab a beer from the fridge.’ The tattooist waved a hand towards the bikers in the corner.

  The two boys slouched off in that direction, clearly weighing up the negative of approaching the bikers against the positive of scoring a free alcoholic beverage as under-agers.

  The tattooist wiped her hands on her black jeans before lighting a cigar
ette. She took a deep drag. ‘So, what’s this about Bert?’

  ‘He has no feathers.’

  ‘Yeah, no shit.’ Her black lips folded into a tight line, her eyes narrowing. ‘Did some fuckhead make a complaint?’

  Kat dodged the question. ‘I’d like to help identify what may be causing his feathers to fall out and how to stop it.’

  The tattooist blew a sideways stream of smoke, her green eyes amused. ‘Are you a bird expert?’

  ‘Are you the bird’s owner?’

  The girl studied Kat through lashes clumpy with mascara before she took another hungry drag on her cigarette. ‘Nah, I just work here. Might as well tell you my name since I’m the only tattooist in this shit-hole and you’ll find out anyway. Ruth.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Ruth. When did Bert start losing his feathers?’

  ‘Dunno.’ She stabbed her cigarette out. ‘I came back from a stay in Sydney and there he was, a bald, wrinkled little scrotum in a bird cage.’

  Jesus, that was an image Kat could do without. ‘Does he stay here all the time or does he go home with someone at night?’

  ‘Jimmy used to take him home, keep him in his caravan on weekends, but not anymore.’

  Kat’s antenna went up. ‘Oh, yeah? Why not?’

  Ruth stretched, the armhole of her black singlet gaping to reveal a fuzzy armpit. ‘Little tweaker blew himself and his caravan up cooking meth.’

  Kat looked back towards the bird. She didn’t know a lot about meth, or how it was made, but recalled from her extensive knowledge of Breaking Bad that the chemicals used to make it were highly toxic. Toxic enough to make a bird’s feathers fall out if it were spending weekends in a caravan used to cook meth.

  Ruth gave her a wide smile, her teeth white and even, no trace of meth mouth. ‘Gonna be hard to arrest Jimmy for bird abuse now that he’s dead.’

  ‘I’m from the RSPCA, I don’t arrest people,’ Kat murmured.

  ‘Yeah? Are we done?’ A twitch of Ruth’s bony shoulders, her collar bone prominent beneath the singlet top she wore. Not from diet and exercise but nervous energy, Kat would bet.

  ‘If I bring you some vitamin supplements for Bert will you feed them to him?’

  Ruth cocked her head, eyes curious. ‘You think that’ll help?’

  ‘Can’t hurt.’

  ‘Will it cost me?’

  Kat glanced in the direction of the naked, scrawny Bert and made a snap decision. ‘No.’

  Ruth fiddled with her nose piercing, darting a sidelong glance at the bikers. ‘Yeah, okay, then. But don’t be hanging around here all the time.’

  But I find it so hard to stay away from car repair garages repurposed as tattoo parlours populated by hairy bikers and punk tattooists.

  ‘My dad would have a shit fit, the old bastard hates anyone in uniform.’

  The explanation softened Kat. She knew what it was like to have a difficult parent. Or two. ‘If you prefer you can pick them up at the shelter.’

  ‘What’s the address?’

  It wouldn’t be a good look for Ruth to just show up at the shelter demanding vitamins. ‘I’ll give you my mobile number.’

  Ruth picked up a felt pen lying by a set of stencils and held the tip poised near the inside of her wrist. ‘Shoot.’

  Kat did her very best not to flinch at the red scars scoring the woman’s skin, five jagged bangles of self-harm. Suicides who weren’t fucking around opened the vein from wrist to elbow in a straight highway to heaven, or so she’d heard, so Ruth’s bangles were more about stress relief, about not wanting to feel her anxiety and pain.

  She knew what that was like, too.

  As she mechanically recited the number, she wondered how the self-harming punk got along with her biker clientele. And did that clientele mean her dad was a biker? As she was coming to realise, there was a lot she didn’t know about Walgarra. Though she would bet if she were to ask Luka, he would know, he seemed to know all sorts of dark, dirty, gritty things about the town.

  Galenka alighted on her shoulder, more gremlin than angel, and whispered in her ear with her cigarette and spirits breath, her lilting Russian accent. You could get together, chat about locals, have drink, have another drink, make sweet love.

  Yes, but what would that cost her?

  Galenka the gremlin didn’t have an answer for that.

  Kat tuned her out to say goodbye to Ruth. The ink slinger gave her an aloof nod. Kat got it, the ambivalence towards others. Girls like her and Ruth were ambivalent towards everything, everyone, including themselves. Because if you couldn’t trust a parent, who could you trust? You just had to do the best you could to protect yourself.

  Kat pointed herself towards the exit … and found that two of the bikers who’d been watching television had moved to stand in front of it. They held pool cues and looked to be playing a set at the table, but she wasn’t fooled.

  Galenka cracked her knuckles. Look, Katka, they want to play. She bared her teeth. Spray faces with capsicum. Make wreckage of them.

  Don’t be ridiculous. Kat eyed the two bikers planted in front of the exit, right smack between her and freedom. The fine hairs on her arms told her they’d registered her hesitation, were savouring it along with their beer.

  She pulled her ponytail tighter. Might as well get it over with. Despite the fact that there was an eighty percent probability they were just fucking with her, she felt for her pepper spray, was comforted by its familiar shape.

  Her legs and boots grew heavier as she approached them and the pool table they stood by. Around three feet away a pungent odour almost stopped her in her tracks and then she was actually stopped in her tracks.

  Because who should be hovering in the doorway other than her friend the deadbeat dad, this time without his daughters in tow. He clocked her and did a rapid about-turn, the door thudding shut behind him.

  Mother. Fucker.

  Unable to squeeze between the biker bent over the pool table and the wall, Kat raised her voice. ‘Excuse me.’ She looked him in the eye. Well, tried to. He wore a vintage ‘fuck you’ stare that her glance bounced right off. Awesome.

  ‘I’d like to get past, thanks.’ Hurry up, hurry up, she didn’t have time for this bullshit, the deadbeat dad was going to get away.

  ‘You like tattoos? Want to see a real tattoo?’ The more rotund of the two spoke, proving that there were lips inside the unruly, matted bush that was his greying beard.

  Her nerves chattered wildly. ‘Not really, I’m in a hurry.’ Her churning gut told her that her answer wouldn’t make much difference.

  Aaaaaand, she was right.

  Without pause the biker rested his beer on the side of the pool table and unbuckled his heavy leather belt.

  ‘Whoa.’ Kat backed away as his jeans dropped, felt almost giddy with relief when she saw worn, greying underpants rather than his wedding tackle.

  With a grimy finger he pointed to the wicked she-devil riding a very phallic looking missile that spanned the back of his enormous thigh. ‘Ruthie’s gonna fill in the last of the colour tomorrow.’

  Lucky Ruth. She made some polite, strangled noise, annoyed by the certainty that her face revealed every bit of frozen horror she felt at being confronted by a pants-down biker, enraged by the fact that the deadbeat dad could now be a block away.

  The other biker moved and she took in his t-shirt slogan: My inner child is a mean little fucker.

  How sweet. And the worn fabric perfectly complimented his greasy, shoulder length hair.

  His grin widened, revealing an advanced state of dental decay. ‘I’ve gotta warn you, if I show you my special tattoo, I’m gonna expect something in return.’ His hairy hand, knuckles stained with oil and grime, went to his fly.

  She backed away, looked over her shoulder for Ruth.

  The tattooist got to her feet, a fierce scowl on her pierced face. ‘You two, quit fucking around,’ she hollered.

  A sweaty, meaty hand landed on Kat’s forearm, squeezed. ‘Come on, sweet
ie, come to Daddy.’

  She jerked away so hard that she stumbled, tripped over some ancient piece of garage equipment anchored to the floor, and lost her balance.

  Shit, I’m gonna fall was all she had time to think before she went down. She tucked her limbs in tight, protected her head with her arms as the concrete floor rushed up at her, but it wasn’t enough to stop one cheek clipping something as she went down.

  Face on fire, she rolled away from the tyre. What was it doing there? Her brain finally processed that it served as a footrest for the makeshift sofa it stood by, a car’s amputated backseat. She clutched at her cheek, putting pain on hold while she worked out where the grabby biker was.

  Laughter erupted.

  She used it to locate them as she sat up, accidentally kicking over a stray empty beer bottle in the process.

  They were at a safe distance.

  Ruth advanced, planted herself behind Kat. ‘I fuckin’ told you two, don’t be fuckheads. Grinder is gonna be so pissed if he gets a call from the cops.’

  Her whole body vibrated with rage, the sort Kat understood. The kind that came easy when you were angry about your past and terrified about your future.

  Expecting a verbal stoush, Kat waited for the men to say or do something to put Ruth in her place, but they simply glared darkly before slouching off back to the television with muttered insults.

  Kat rubbed her aching cheek, relieved but also puzzled. Who was Ruth—both Kat’s junior and theirs—that she could tell them off? And who was Grinder? The questions rushed through her as she stood, wincing at the sharp twinge in her hip and shoulder. Man, she felt old.

  ‘Here, put this on your cheek.’ Ruth handed her a cold can of beer.

  Kat accepted it with gratitude. It numbed the explosion on the side of her face to a degree that almost allowed her to pretend she was okay.

  Ruth studied her, eyes flashing brighter than her facial piercings. ‘I never seen anyone fall like that, all tucked in. You some kind of ninja?’

  ‘If I was a ninja I wouldn’t have fallen in the first place.’ Her tone was sour, even to her own ears.