Deadly Unna?

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Deadly Unna? Page 14

by Phillip Gwynne


  Big Mac throws the covers off, swings his legs around, pulls his trousers on.

  The door is flung open. One, two, three men barge into the bedroom. They have stockings over their heads. One of them is carrying a rifle.

  ‘The safe. Come on,’ he says.

  ‘Steady on,’ says Big Mac.

  They push him out of the bedroom and towards the office. A gun is gnawing away at his ribs.

  ‘Door’s locked. I need the keys,’ says Big Mac. ‘They’re over there.’

  He points to the storeroom.

  ‘Get ’em.’

  He starts walking slowly. Nobody follows. The pressure at his ribs disappears. He opens the screen door. The keys are hanging on a nail. He slips them off with his right hand, his left hand gropes in the darkness. Until it finds what it was looking for – the barrel of a semi-automatic shotgun.

  He steps deeper into the gloom of the storeroom.

  ‘Where the fuck is he?’ says one of the intruders.

  Big Mac is trembling, his heart thumping. He flicks the safety and sticks the barrel through a hole in the mesh.

  Maybe I should just warn them, he thinks.

  But then he hears, ‘Go get the fat prick.’

  He squeezes the trigger. The gun bucks, noise fills the room. Somebody screams. Somebody else yells, ‘A gun. He’s got a fucking gun!’

  Again he squeezes. More screams. And again. And again. Until the magazine is empty.

  The air is full of thin, acrid smoke. He peeks through the screen. On the floor he sees three bodies. Two of them aren’t moving, the third is moaning, kicking his leg, like a rabbit caught in a trap, smearing blood across the floor.

  Big Mac turns around, picks up the phone, and dials. Zero. Zero. Zero.

  ‘Dean, it’s Mac, sorry to wake ya. You better come quick, there’s been some trouble down here. Big trouble.’

  A car starts up outside, and takes off with a squeal of rubber.

  31

  Once, ages ago, I was looking after Greggy.

  ‘Can I do some colouring in?’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ I said. I opened his book. ‘Do this page, this is a nice one.’

  It was one of those typical beach scenes. You know – Mum, Dad and the kids down for a day at the seashore.

  ‘Okay,’ said Greggy.

  He liked colouring in.

  The cricket was on the telly. Australia was batting. It was pretty exciting. I didn’t take much notice of what Greggy was doing. I could hear the scratch of the pencil on the paper.

  ‘Finished,’ he said. ‘You wanna have a look?’

  ‘Sure. Give it here.’

  That kid. He’d only used one pencil – the grey. And he’d coloured the whole thing grey. Mum. Dad. Kids. Sandcastles. Sand. Seagulls. Sailing boats. The water and the sky. Even the sun. Grey.

  That’s exactly how everything looked after the shooting. That’s how I felt, too. Inside and outside. Grey and heavy, like lead, like a sinker. If they dropped me off the jetty I’d plummet straight to the bottom, tiny air bubbles trailing behind.

  32

  ‘Aren’t you going out today?’ said Mum. She had a newspaper in her hand.

  I was on the couch.

  ‘I’ll probably just hang around here. Maybe watch the cricket,’ I said.

  ‘I’m worried about you, Gary. You’ve been lying on that couch for days now. Are you sure you’re feeling okay?’

  ‘I’m fine, Mum.’

  ‘You sure you don’t want to go see Doc Matthews?’

  I could imagine it.

  ‘Yes, son,’ says old Doc Matthews, with his baggy suit and tobacco-smelly breath, ‘what’s the matter with you today? That eardrum again is it?’

  ‘That’s my brother, doctor.’

  ‘Yes, so it is. You’re the boy with the groin, that’s right. Still giving you some bother?’

  ‘No, groin’s fine, doctor. Actually it’s a problem I have with the grey.’

  ‘Yes, I see.’

  ‘The whole world has turned sort of grey. Not only that, I feel grey too. Sad, I suppose.’

  ‘Hmmm. Open your mouth and say aaaah.’

  ‘Aaaah.’

  ‘Bowel movements regular?’

  ‘Pretty regular, doctor.’

  He takes out his pad and starts scribbling.

  ‘Let’s start you off on a course of antibiotics. That should clear it up.’

  No, I didn’t want to see Doc Matthews.

  ‘No, Mum, I’ll be okay. Is that this week’s Gazette?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can I have it?’

  ‘Yes, but please don’t leave it scattered all over the place. You know what your father’s like.’

  ‘Tension High Between Towns’ said the headline. Publican Victor McRae had left the town. No charges were expected to be laid against him. Police suspected others were involved but so far had not taken anybody in for questioning. There had been a spate of robberies at hotels on the peninsula. Police suspected the same gang was involved in all of them.

  Then, at the back I found it, the notice for Dumby’s funeral service. It was going to be held at the Point, 10:30 Sunday. I tore the page out, folded it carefully into a square, and put it in my back pocket.

  By this time Mum was out the back, an empty clothes basket on her hip. The wind was changing direction, swinging around to the south. It was getting stronger, too. Mum’s dress was whipping around her legs, the clothes on the line were fluttering like flags.

  ‘Mum, I wanna go to the funeral,’ I said.

  ‘What funeral’s that?’ she said, unpegging a shirt.

  ‘Dumby’s. It’s on Sunday.’

  ‘His poor mother,’ said Mum.

  ‘Can I go, then? I really want to.’

  She said nothing, but continued unpegging clothes. By the time she’d come to the end of the row, the basket was half full.

  ‘I understand why you want to go, dear. But I don’t think you’d be welcome. It’s for the people out there at the Point. It’s their business, not ours.’

  I started to walk away.

  ‘We can send some flowers, if you like,’ she said.

  Arks was alone in his shop. The Gazette was spread out on the counter.

  ‘Terrible business,’ he said, shaking his head, clicking his tongue. ‘Terrible business.’

  Terrible for business, too, I thought. Ever since the shooting, the Nungas had stopped coming into town. They’d been going to Kapoona to buy their supplies even though it was twice as far.

  ‘Did you see in the back? Dumby’s funeral’s on Sunday,’ I said.

  ‘That boy had so much talent,’ said Arks. ‘Talent to burn. He could’ve gone anywhere. That mark he took.’

  Arks raised his arms, spread his fingers wide, like he was taking the mark again.

  ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. Never. He did go and spoil it all with that stupid pass. But still, it was one helluva grab.’

  ‘Is the club doing anything?’ I said.

  ‘The club?’ said Arks.

  ‘Yeah, the footy club. Are they doing anything for Dumby’s funeral? He was one of our players, wasn’t he?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so, Blacky. Sport’s one thing, this is another. It’s better not to get the two mixed up.’

  Then his tone changed.

  ‘Looks like we’ll be playing you up forward next season, after all,’ he added.

  I walked out, slamming the door as hard as I could. Except it didn’t – it had one of those stupid door-closer things on it.

  Didn’t Arks realise there wouldn’t be any team next year? Did he think the Nungas were still going to play for the Port after what happened?

  Dazza and Pickles were sitting in the shed, right under ‘BOONGS PISS OFF’. I could smell cigarette smoke.

  ‘Dumby’s funeral’s on Sunday,’ I said.

  ‘And?’ said Pickles.

  ‘And I reckon we should do something.’

  �
��Like what?’ said Dazza.

  ‘I dunno, just something.’

  ‘The old man reckons he got what he deserved,’ said Pickles. ‘Armed robbery, mate. It’s serious shit.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Dazza, ‘play with fire and ya gunna get burnt.’

  I walked away, shaking my head, not saying anything.

  Darcy was in his usual possie.

  ‘How’s it going?’ I said.

  ‘Only got a couple,’ he said. ‘And I don’t believe I’ll be here much longer, not with that storm brewing up out there.’

  He pointed towards the south where there was a huge bank of black clouds.

  ‘What do ya reckon about what happened at the pub?’ I said.

  Darcy was probably the only person in town who wasn’t a self-appointed expert. I hadn’t heard him even mention the shooting.

  He took a while before he answered.

  ‘Not the first time you know, young’un.’

  ‘What, that somebody got shot in the pub?’

  ‘That there was killing in these parts.’

  ‘But they didn’t deserve to get killed, did they? Dumby was just a kid like me.’

  ‘No, young’un, probably not. But there’s always killing. Always has been. Always will be. It’s human nature, there’s no escaping it.’

  He started reeling in his line.

  ‘Reckon I’ll be getting on home,’ he said. ‘Wanna walk with me?’

  ‘No. I’ll stay here for a while.’

  ‘You be careful, young’un. That storm’s in a big hurry. Mind you don’t get caught in it, you’ll catch your death.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Darce. I’m a big boy now. See ya later.’

  I lowered myself over the side of the jetty, my feet searching for the familiar footholds. I sat on the crossbeam, exactly where Clarence had been that night. It was high tide; my dangling feet almost touched the crests of the waves. I hooked my arm around the pylon. It felt warm and smooth. My eyes followed it down as it entered the water. It became shaggy with weed, encrusted with barnacles and sponges. Little fish flitted around its edges.

  It was quiet down there, just the sound of the waves as they rolled past and the slow creaking of the jetty.

  Mum, Arks, Pickles, Dazza and Darcy – they all had different reasons, but they all said the same thing: don’t go to Dumby’s funeral.

  I could smell the storm now. There was a rumble of thunder. Then the rain started, slanting into the sea, countless little pock-marks dancing over the surface.

  When the squall had passed, and the rain stopped, I climbed back to the top. The air was fresh now. The smell of wet wood was rising from the soaked jetty.

  As I started walking I realised I’d made a decision. I was going to the funeral. I looked towards the Point. I didn’t care what anybody said. Tomorrow I was going to Dumby Red’s funeral.

  ‘Blacky!’

  It was Cathy.

  ‘You walked right past me. Like you were in a trance. Where’ve you been the last few days?’

  ‘Doing stuff at home. Helping Mum.’

  ‘You want to walk up to the end with me?’

  ‘I can’t. I’ve gotta go home. Get ready.’

  ‘Get ready for what?’

  ‘For tomorrow.’

  ‘It’s only a barbie,’ she said.

  I’d forgotten. Cathy had invited me to a barbie at her place. She was leaving on Monday. I was the only local she’d asked.

  ‘You don’t have to bring anything, silly,’ she said, smiling.

  She looked so beautiful. Her white teeth against her tanned face against the cloudy grey sky.

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘But there are some other things I’ve gotta do.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘See you tomorrow then.’

  ‘See you,’ I said.

  But I didn’t.

  33

  Sharon was bouncing a tennis ball against the side of the house.

  ‘Dad wants to see you,’ she said as I passed

  The three little ones were playing in a puddle.

  ‘Have you seen Dad yet?’ said the first one.

  ‘He asked us where you were,’ said the second.

  ‘He looked pretty mad,’ said the third.

  I went inside.

  Team-man was sprawled on the lounge, watching the cricket. Australia versus England.

  ‘How’s it going?’ I said.

  ‘Killing them. We’re none for ninety-seven,’ said Team-man. ‘And the old man’s been looking for you.’

  ‘So I’ve heard. Do you know what for?’

  ‘Dunno. Ask Mum. She’s in the laundry.’

  She was sorting the whites from the coloureds.

  ‘Your father wants to see you,’ she said.

  ‘Do you know what for?’

  ‘No, you’d better ask him.’

  ‘Need a hand with that?’ I said.

  ‘I think you better see him first. He’s in the shed.’

  The old man’s shed was behind the house. It was really a garage, with a roller door in the front. There was no room for a car inside though, not with all that stuff. Along one side hung the old man’s tools. Shelves ran along the other. They were crammed with boxes of nails, jars full of screws, packets of washers, and a million other bits and pieces that didn’t even have names. Right in the middle of the shed was a huge wooden workbench.

  The old man kept the shed locked and the key was always with him. Us kids weren’t allowed in there by ourselves. No way.

  The door was up and the radio was on. An outboard motor was clamped onto the workbench. The old man was undoing something on it with a spanner. As usual he was wearing overalls and his shirt sleeves were rolled right up. He loved taking that outboard apart. He did it all the time. He’d strip it down, meticulously clean all the parts with kero, then put it all back together again.

  ‘Australia are a hundred without loss and batting beautifully,’ said the commentator on the radio.

  The old man stopped to take a gulp of beer from a stubby.

  I stepped inside.

  ‘Hi,’ I said.

  ‘What have I told you about doing a job properly?’ he said, glaring.

  Here we go, I thought, the old if-a-job’s-worth-doing-it’s-worth-doing-properly lecture.

  ‘If a job’s worth doing it’s worth doing properly,’ I said.

  ‘What’s that?’ he said, cupping his hand around his ear.

  ‘If a job’s worth doing it’s worth doing properly,’ I repeated, louder this time.

  He’d made me write it out once. A thousand times. I cheated, of course. I just wrote ‘if’ all the way down the page, then ‘a’, then ‘job’ and so on, like that.

  ‘That’s right. If a job’s worth doing then it’s worth doing properly,’ he said.

  ‘He’s snicked it! And he’s out! Caught behind for forty-seven.’

  ‘Damn!’ said the old man.

  He only listened to the cricket when we played the Poms. He hated the Poms. Mum’s father was a Pom, and the old man was always giving her a hard time about it.

  ‘Australia were going well too, weren’t they?’ I said.

  But he wasn’t about to get sidetracked.

  ‘What happened to the lawn this week?’

  The old man was the only one who called it a lawn. To us it was just the back yard, full of rocks and sporadic tufts of grass. Ages ago he’d planted some grass, and for a while there was a lawn. But then there was a drought, and water restrictions. His lawn died. But in his eyes it was still there, green and luscious. I hated mowing the back yard. Rocks flew up and took great chunks out of your shins.

  ‘I forgot,’ I said.

  ‘Forgot, eh? Well listen to me. You’re thirteen now and – ’

  ‘I’m fourteen,’ I said, interrupting.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I’m fourteen.’

  ‘That’s what I said, isn’t it? You’re fourteen now, and it’s about time you started pulling your own weig
ht. When I was your age I was digging ditches for two bob an hour and coming home to a meal of bread and bloody dripping.’

  The old bread and bloody dripping story. I’d asked Darcy about that, and he said, ‘Goodness me, of course we never ate bread and dripping. Things were tough in them days, but not that tough.’

  The old man put the stubby down, and picked up the spanner.

  ‘Reggy can’t make it tomorrow. He’s back on the booze.’

  The old man and Mick weren’t partners any more. The old man had decided to go it alone. Fishing? Nothing to it, I tell ya. Money for old rope. But like I told you before, the old man didn’t understand the sea. He had a good boat and he was strong but that wasn’t enough. He didn’t have the know-how. He caught bugger-all. Then he started taking Reggy Porter out. Reggy Porter had the know-how all right. But Reggy Porter was a drunk, a hopeless one.

  ‘You and your brother can give me a hand.’

  ‘But you said you never wanted me on your boat again,’ I said.

  ‘Well, I’ve changed my mind. I’m giving you another chance.’

  ‘But but but … I can’t come.’

  ‘Why not?’

  I couldn’t tell him about Dumby’s funeral.

  ‘Because of …’

  The old man just stood there, looking at me, while I tried to come up with a plausible excuse. But then I realised I already had one.

  ‘Because of Cathy’s barbie. That’s right, Cathy’s having a barbie tomorrow.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Cathy. She’s a camper. A friend of the Maccas.’

  ‘Well you better tell this Cathy you can’t come.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘No buts about it. You’re going fishing tomorrow.’

  ‘Out!’ said the commentator on the radio. ‘Leg before for fifty-six.’

  ‘Damn!’ said the old man.

  Right then, for the first time in my life, I found myself barracking for the Poms.

  I started to walk away.

  ‘We’ll be leaving at seven. Be ready,’ said the old man.

  That was that. Now there was no way I could go to the funeral. If I didn’t go out fishing with the old man, he’d kill me. I’m not joking, he’d spiflicate me.

  Back inside, the Brady Bunchers were watching ‘The Brady Bunch’. It was against my principles as a Gilligan’s Islander, but what the heck, I sat down too. Greg (one of the kids) had a problem. He was telling Mike (the dad) about it.

 

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