Bitin' Back

by Vivienne Cleven

  ‘He ain’t here. He’s gone over to Booty’s.’ I lay her onto the couch, and force the stubbie from outta her hand. Then I switch on the TV to drown all her noise. Yep, never the one to have a quiet drink, not our Gracie, have to go the full-on hog.

  ‘You gotta tell me. What’s wrong with my Nev?’ She asks, her face slack, her eyes empty.

  ‘Gracie, how long you been sittin in that ol shed out there?’ I think I already know the answer.

  ‘Slept there all night,’ she slurs, her bottom lip a ledge.

  ‘Why, Gracie?’ I plump up a cushion and shove it under her.

  ‘That woman. Yep, I sawed that woman in the yard. Some flash bitch, make-up all over her face, fancy dress n all. That’s her, ain’t it, Mum?’ She watches me whit watery red, sussin eyes.

  Before I can answer I hear somebody yellin for me in the kitchen. Who the fuck that be?

  ‘Hang on, Gracie.’ I race into the kitchen.

  Big Boy Hinch and Grunta the Punter stand near the door lookin real proud.

  ‘Hey, Missus Dool. Check out our colours, man.’ Big Boy pokes at the guernsey he’s wearin.

  ‘Team colours—neat, eh?’ Grunta puffs out his chest.

  ‘Oohh yeah, I reckon. Bloody flash as.’ I plaster em whit a smile.

  ‘Nev still here? Grunta asks, scratchin his fork.

  ‘He gone. What, ya already seen him?’ If they belted him then how come they came back here? Lookin for another rumble. I’m jus the woman to give it to em.

  ‘Yeah, we seen him this mornin.’ Big Boy looks over my shoulder. Gracie stumbles into the room whit a silly smile.

  ‘Hey there, boyos,’ she slurs.

  ‘Hey, Gracie,’ they answer whit sly smiles on their dials.

  ‘Did you hurt my, Nev, eh, eh?’ Gracie rushes for em n as I push her outta the road she knocks Grunta sideways.

  ‘Wha...?’ Big Boy croaks, his eyes roamin cross me dial then flickerin back to Gracie. He shrugs his shoulders, a slight frown cross his face.

  ‘I tellin ya Big Boy, Grunty, if anybody hurtin me son then I’m the one’ll come after ya! Yeah, that’s right, me!’ I slam a hand to me chest so hard that I almost knock the wind right outta meself. Oohhh, fuck, that hurt. Slow down, ol girl. Whhooa up there!

  ‘Who? Who’s hurtin my baby?’ Gracie untangles herself from Grunta n gives the boys a spitty evil eye.

  ‘Why, what happened to our bro? Somebody hurt him?’ Big Boy flexes his muscles.

  ‘I ... I thought—’ I look at their blank faces.

  ‘Somebody hurt Nev?’ Grunta bunches up his hands.

  ‘Didn’t youse?’ I whisper. That’s right, Mavis Dooley, put them big ol feet a yours right in ya own mouth. These fellas don’t have a jack arse what ya talkin bout. Go on, BIG MOOUUTTHH. Let the fucken cat outta the sack, why doncha. Tell the friggin world!

  ‘When? Who? It weren’t us. We his mates! Gee, Missus Dool, whatcha think we is?’ Big Boy look all disgust n hurt.

  ‘Weeell...’ I shrug me shoulders feelin shamed n hopeless.

  ‘He busted up?’ Grunta throws Big Boy a deadly look. ‘Musta been afta we left this mornin. Yeah, that measely, muthafucken, pox-faced Jerry Reedman, I bet ya me balls!’

  ‘No, look, I got it all wrong,’ I say, feelin drained. I walk to the fridge n pull out a six pack. ‘Here, boys. I’m just an ol woman n get things mixed up.’ I give em the beer as my way of sayin sorry.

  ‘Hey, Missus Dool! Solid! Now, you tell the Nev if that Jerry come round here startin his shit then come n get me n Grunt here, right.’ Big Boy uses his best deep n serious I’m-a-madman-when-I-start type a voice.

  ‘Rightyo, love,’ I answer, collapsin me arse down heavy onto the kitchen chair.

  After the boys leave I take Gracie into the loungeroom and lay her back on the couch, hopin she’ll have a camp.

  ‘Look Ricki Lake’s on, love.’ I point to the screen.

  ‘Ricki Lake, make Ricki fake,’ Gracie snorts, raisin a Fourex to her gob n takin a gulp.

  I look down at her. Poor girl. So mucked up n all. It’s Nevil doin alla this to her. Little Gracie, me own daughter like. A woman got a soft spot for her, that a truth.

  ‘Wanna feed, lovey?’ I hitch up her feet onto the couch.

  ‘Yeah, good,’ she sighs.

  I rush into the kitchen and return. ‘Here ya go.’ I hand her the plate.

  ‘Flash, Mum,’ she grins n looks down at the Tim Tams, Iced Vovos n slice a silverside.

  ‘Yep, was always the one for providin a good meal.’ I watch as she chooses a biscuit.

  ‘Say that again,’ she says between bites. Yep, that’s the thing bout Gracie, could always preciate a woman’s good tucker.

  I walk outta the room, me head thumpin, me legs achin like a woman jus ran from Bourke to Mandamooka n back. But the day ain’t over yet. I’ll have to go n check out Nevil, Trevor n Booty. Only God knows what Booty’s got em doin now.

  I cut it out the front gate n down to Booty’s joint.

  SEVEN

  Make Him A Man

  I head down to Booty’s backyard shed.

  The pig dogs sprawl at the door, scarred heads restintween big paws. I squint me peepers at the biggest of em. Is it my magination or is that dog startin to look like his master? Funny thing that, how dogs can look uman. Them big ol eyes sorta drill ya down like. Yep, that dog lookin jus like Booty. Hey, lookandsee, a woman gettin mighty myall in the head.

  A closer look tells me there’s a deep gash down the side of its gut. Poor buggers, chasin pigs ain’t healthy work.

  The bitch brings her head up n starts a low growl in the back a her throat. Ignoring her I keep walkin to the shed, blinkin me eyes to adjust to the dark. Me nose picks up the smell a beer, sweat, dust ... n somethin else. Somethin thick, somethin that feels like it smotherin a woman, like a hot n heavy hand closin round me throat. Then it hits me—it’s fear.

  I take in the room whit careful eyes. Booty sits back on the dirt floor holdin a stubbie n bustin his guts at Nevil. Trevor’s perched on a empty molasses tin, watchin Booty n Nevil, his eyes flickerin back n forth.

  I feel sweat pop out on the back a me neck, the heat in the shed is fierce. I get a load a Nevil, shirtless n pissin sweat as he moves round a sack of potatoes that hang tied from the beams. He cuts it round the sack like a dancer, his eyes peeled on it as he jabs n hits whit all his strength.

  ‘If that were a fella he’d have your guts by now—have ya busted from arsehole to breakfast time!’ Booty roars, gettin to his feet n goin over to Nevil. ‘Mid-section, son. You gotta bring this fucka to his knees! Otherwise this fucka’s gonna bring you to ya knees, got it!’ Booty pelts forward and hits the bag so hard it swings back, drivin him backwards. ‘Ain’t no fucka ever got away from this here punch!’

  Booty holds his fists in the air, like he’s standin in the middle of a big time boxin ring.

  I nod me head toward him then wander over to Trevor.

  ‘Hello, Missus Dooley,’ he greets me whit what looks like relief.

  ‘Hey there. Now what the hell’s goin on here?’ I wipe the sweat off me neck.

  ‘Booty’s teaching Nevil how to box. He reckons it’ll make a man out of him. He shrugs his shoulders and winces each time Nevil jabs the sack. I guess that’s the way of life out here in the bush.’

  ‘Yeah, no use bein a girl round these parts. Gotta look after yerself, nobody else will.’ I hold in a laugh as I watch the way Booty struts round the shed. His fat gut hangs out over his shorts, his bare feet move along like he can hardly carry his own weight, and his big frame moves across the room like a constipated goanna. Yeah, that’s good ol Boot for ya. He comes over to us swingin his fists and stops in front a Trevor.

  ‘On ya feet, son!’ He barks.

  ‘Oh, gee,’ Trevor casts me a look of desperation.

  Just as I’m bout to unhinge me trap to tell Booty to leave him be, I hear loud laughter comin from the shed doorway. Big Boy and Grunta sau
nter in. Big Boy carries a box a piss. Grunta’s got a blue heeler on a chain. Big Boy’s eyes sweep cross the room n come to rest on Trevor.

  Booty nods at Big Boy, ‘Here, son, git ya black arse over here n teach this migloo how to handle hisself.’

  ‘Oh gee listen, Booty, I’m no good at this sort of thing,’ Trevor says, wringin his hands n lookin down at his boots.

  ‘Talk shit, son.’ Booty hauls him to his feet. ‘Get that fucken shirt off, will ya.’ He pokes at Trevor’s tee-shirt.

  ‘Booty, he don’t wanna do this. Leave him be.’ I shake me head. But it’s too late, Booty’s on a drunken high, and Big Boy’s gettin high on the possibility a smashin somebody’s face in.

  Nevil turns to look at Trevor but Trevor is lost in this mad moment, most probly can’t see or hear anythin. Fear does that to ya.

  Grunta ties the dog to a post n comes to stand beside me. ‘Who he?’

  ‘That’s Trevor, a friend a mine.’ I lay down me cards. If there be hurtin goin on whit that poor boy then I’m gonna be the one whoppin arse. Ain’t like he’s a scrubber. Not like this lot, born whit fists in the air.

  ‘Geez, them boots n socks for real or what?’ Grunta points at Trevor’s knee socks n ridin boots.

  ‘Yep, I told him to wear em like that. Good, eh?’ I curl up me mouth n wait for Grunt’s reaction.

  ‘Solid, Missus D.’ He knows the score.

  Booty whispers somethin into Big Boy’s ear then turns and whispers into Trevor’s ear. I feel the back a me neck crawl. I don’t like it. Booty can get a bit fist happy n not know when to give up.

  I throw Nevil a sour look. He stands starin, hands on hips, eyes slitted. He knows what his uncle’s doin. So do I.

  Trevor, white-faced, shakin like a mongrel dog jus swallowed ten-forty, swings round n gives me a please-help-me look.

  ‘That’s enough!’ I walk toward them. A woman seed nough blood in her lifetime already. This little fella they gonna kill.

  Booty steps in front a me. ‘No one’s gettin hurt, Mave. Just teachin the boy some tricks,’ he says, beer fumes comin outta every pore.

  ‘If anybody hurt Trevor then they fight me—Mavis Dooley!’ I throw a fist in the air, all gammon like cos that’s what it’s all bout. A gammon game. Cept it ain’t like that for this mob—Big Boy, Grunta, specially Booty.

  Not willin to put me to the test, Booty pats me on the shoulder. ‘Come on, Sis, how ya think he gonna get on down at the Two Dogs? They’d make mincemeat a him. Alls I’m doin is tryin to teach him a few things. No one gonna get hurt.’

  ‘They better not, Booty. Cos I holdin you sponsible for this.’ I poke his chest, then walk over n sit on the molasses tin and watch as Big Boy n Trevor dance round each other. Trevor looks like he some ol clodhopper, his feet movin heavy like on the ground. He don’t stand a chance. These fellas gonna flog him stupid.

  ‘Stop! Come here, Trev.’ I motion him to come close.

  He looks puzzled as he scans me face. ‘Yeah?’

  I look round to make sure no one can hear. ‘Now listen. That Big Boy’s gonna try n hurt ya. I like Big Boy, but that’s not the point. The point is ya couldn’t even win a fight whit me, son. But I can’t stand back n watch you pulped like a orange. Now take those bloody boots off ya feet n listen to this.’ I give him all me hard-earned tricks. Everthin I ever learned to survive. There’s quite a few of em. After our talk he walks back to Big Boy mebbe whit a small hope. Booty n his shit talk! Teachin em how to fight. Geez, only Booty!

  Grunta eyeballs me. ‘What was that bout?’ He bends down n hauls a stubbie outta the box.

  ‘Nuthin for you to worry bout.’ I purse me lips n step up on the molasses tin.

  ‘Higher, fuck ya!’ Booty runs round circlin the boys. ‘What ya, a fucken pussyboy!’ he yells at Trevor.

  The more I watch him the more I don’t like it. He’s singled Trevor out for special treatment. Booty treatment. That means hurtin in his books.

  ‘You right, Trevor. Just do as I tole ya.’

  ‘Girl, fucken big city girl!’ Booty taunts.

  It’s all a bad mistake. I shouldn’a let em go on like this. Ain’t right. Me n me big trap. Poor ol Trevor. I jump off the tin n run toward the boys. ‘Break it up, Booty!’ I shout, flappin me arms. ‘It’s gone too far.’

  Big Boy turns to look at me, a killer smile on his face. At that moment Trevor throws a wild punch and, like in a slow motion movie, it lands on the side a Booty’s head.

  Cccrraaacckkkk! Booty’s gob flips open and a deep, high arghwwoooo comes out, soundin like a injured bull. His arms fall behind him as his big fat frame wobbles n crashes to the dirt. Whhhumummpp! I feel me gut drop, I struggle for air, sweat rivers me face. Fuckery!

  Big Boy gawks at Trevor, his mouth open wide, his eyes bulgin outta his head like he gonna explode. Grunta rushes forward, stubbie in hand, and stares down at Booty like he can’t believe his own eyes.

  Nevil, his shirt on now, hurries over to stand beside me and gapes at Trevor then Booty.

  Me, well, I’m ready to have a heart attack! Ain’t nobody ever put Booty on his arse! Nope, none a the fellas round Mandamooka or anywhere else for that matter would even dream a standin up to Booty’s big, hard fists. Cept for this skinny, brown-eyed white boy in front a him. He the first. Ever.

  Me insides churn, me hands shake n I feel the piss buildin up in me bladder. Trevor has his hand cross his mouth, as like to stop hisself from screamin whit terror. Yeah, terror. Can see it in the boy’s watery eyes.

  Booty, not missin a beat, gets to his feet, stunned n half stupid lookin. A trickle of blood runs down the side a his ash-coloured face. He turns round to Trevor.

  I realise whatever’s gonna happen now is right outta me hands. I close me eyes and see Trevor hanged from the beams, stripped right down to his shorts, and bein pummelled like the punchin bag as Booty goes to town on him.

  Then, hearin a sharp gasp, I turn to Nevil who holds onto his chest like it’s gonna collapse in on him.

  ‘He didn’t mean to,’ I hear Nevil almost bawlbabyin to Booty.

  ‘Dead meat fer sure,’ I hear Big Boy mutter.

  ‘Bad move, bro,’ I hear Grunta say to Trevor.

  ‘Nnnnnooooo!’ I scream and rush at Booty, blockin him from Trevor.

  ‘Outta the way, Mavis.’ Booty pushes past, over to Trevor.

  Yep, can see it all: blackfella bashes white fella to death in a dog shed. Mavis Dooley—liar, Tim Tam eater, poofter protector, stood by n watched while the white fella carked it. Yeah, that’s what the Bullya News’ll be sayin.

  Booty’s hand drops on Trevor’s shoulder. Yep, even ripped the boy’s arm clean outta its socket. Then Trevor takes a stumbly step back, his face by this time white as Missus Warby’s sheets. Yeah, the boy’s face was ripped off, skin pale as a ghost it were.

  Trevor opens his mouth to speak but all that comes out is a squeak. Loomin over Trevor’s fear struck body, Booty, sweat pourin down his face, lets out a low growl, ‘Fucken punch n a half on ya, Sonny Jim!’ then explodes into loud laughter.

  The boy lives! I can see it now: white fella bashes Booty Dooley in his own shed. Yep, even knocked him to the ground! To look at he ain’t much, but ... man, he can whop anyone! Not to be fucked whit! I can hear all the town gossipin at once.

  I look at Trevor all beamin n relieved as he takes a stubbie from Grunta’s hand. Proved hisself. That he sure did!

  Booty puts an arm round me. ‘Mavis, you sure know how to get a pussy n turn him into a tiger.’ He laughs n slaps me on the back.

  What can I say? All I done tole Trevor was to run away when Big Boy started to throw punches at him. I never tole him to belt Booty one. Gee, a woman’s not that mad n all. I run a hand cross me hot face, dust clogs me mouth n sweat drenches the front of me dress. A woman gonna call it a day.

  ‘I’m off, boys.’ I move towards the door. Well, at least Nev seems back to normal n Trevor’s still kickin, phew. I walk out into the eye-achingl
y bright day when a voice behind me stops me in my tracks.

  ‘Missus Dooley, thanks, thanks for everything.’ Trevor walks toward me with a smile, his face returnin to normal colour.

  ‘Why thank me, son? I ain’t done nuthin fer ya. Anyway, how’d ya get that punch on Booty?’

  ‘Oh that was a mistake.’

  ‘Jesus! Well, don’t go tellin any a them that,’ I reply, suddenly realisin I like the boy. Like his ways. City boy or not.

  ‘I’m not that stupid,’ he laughs. Then in Booty’s voice he booms, ‘What d’ya think, I’m a pussy now?’

  ‘I wouldn’t make a habit of doin that either.’ I continue on out the gate.

  EIGHT

  Rumblin On

  Gwen Hinch sits at the end of the bar skullin a beer, mumblin to herself n lookin like a sack a unironed clothes. The woman look pissed off her head.

  I scan the bar. Then as me eyes take in the room, I feel me heart quicken when I spot Terry Thompson bent over the pool table.

  He looks good. His hair combed back, clean shirt, ironed jeans n for once he’s not blind drunk. Should a woman talk to him after the way he scoured me up at the bingo hall? Leavin me sittin like a ton a shit as he conned that bitch Dotty Reedman up. Yeah, wonder if he went to her place. I wouldn’t put it past Terry to screw her. Yeah, that’d be Dotty’s way a gettin me back for everythin.

  I walk past him, really regrettin not puttin a bit a lipstick on. Geez, knew I shoulda wore that red dress! If a woman coulda peeled it off Nev, that is. Yep, Mavis Dooley, ya done it again! I turn me face from the table as I go by, hopin he doesn’t see me. No such luck.

  ‘Mavis, how are you?’ He steps out in front a me.

  ‘Terry, all right. Yerself?’ I grin, me legs jellied.

  ‘I’m good. Look, I hope you don’t think a man took Dotty’s side at the bingo there the other day. I mean, come on, Mave. You two are at each other’s throats but for what? You both got sons playing in the big match.’ He motions for me to sit.