Deadly Unna?

by Phillip Gwynne

  Then I could hear somebody behind me gently clearing their throat. I looked up – everybody was staring at me, waiting. I moved on.

  After that they buried Dumby, but I didn’t watch. I didn’t like the idea, it gave me the creeps. Besides, it was too hot, the glare from the white shell grit was burning my eyes and I’d forgotten to bring any water. I was starting to feel a bit woozy. I sat on the beach next to the wrecked boat.

  The bay here was shallow. The tide was rushing out, rivulets of water were winding through the sand. Further out I could see sandbars sticking out like ribs. Egrets were pecking about on them. A couple of pelicans were drifting close to shore.

  In the distance I could see the jetty – a blurry line floating above the water. Maybe Pickles and Dazza were sitting at the anchor right now, looking towards the Point, at exactly where I was sitting, telling each other stories they’d heard in the front bar. Wild Nungas with spears, boomerangs that come from nowhere and knock you senseless. What would they say if they knew I was there, looking right back at them? Not much probably. What had Dazza said? Play with fire and ya gunna get burnt. Maybe, Dazza, but not burnt to death.

  I picked up a stone and flicked it. It skipped across the surface – one, two, three, four times.

  ‘Hopeless.’

  I looked behind, it was Clarence. She’d been crying, her cheeks were wet. She picked up a stone, brought her arm back and threw it with a snap of her wrist. The stone flew low and flat. When it hit the water it just kept going. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine skips.

  ‘Far out!’ I said.

  ‘Average,’ said Clarence.

  ‘Hey, thanks for coming and all, brudda,’ she said.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Course I’m sure. I said it, didn’t I?’

  ‘Don’t think Lovely was too happy.’

  ‘Lovely’s crazy.’

  She paused for a while. ‘He was there, you know.’

  I didn’t say anything but I wasn’t surprised.

  ‘It was all Lovely’s idea, and Dumby went cos Lovely’s his hero.’

  She picked up another stone, bouncing it up and down in the palm of her hand.

  ‘Then Lovely leaves Dumby to die like a dog on the pub floor. Fuck Lovely. I wish he got killed, not Dumby.’

  She was crying again. I didn’t know what to do. What do you say to somebody whose brother has been shot dead? There, there, it’ll be better in the morning. Clarence threw the stone. It flew through the air, hit the water, and sank.

  ‘Anyway, how ya getting home?’ she said.

  ‘I’ll walk. It’s not far.’

  ‘Not far my arse. Come on.’

  There were only a couple of cars left. A group of older people were talking amongst themselves, under the gum tree.

  ‘Mum,’ said Clarence. ‘Can Blacky come with us?’

  Clarence’s mother was short and solid. She had a big face, round like a dinner plate, and a broad nose. Her grey hair was cut short. She was wearing a black dress.

  ‘Sure, he can come, if he don’t mind travelling Nunga-style.’

  The same joke as Clarence had made – if you don’t mind travelling Nunga-style.

  ‘When we going?’

  ‘Dreckly. Soon as your daddy gets here,’ she said.

  I could see Tommy Red in the cemetery, next to Dumby’s grave, his head bowed. Then he walked towards us. Slowly, like his legs were full of lead.

  ‘Gidday, young Blacky,’ he said when he saw me.

  But it was hard to believe this was the same Tommy Red. Sometimes when we went catching crays, you’d see one but it’d be nothing but a shell. That’s what Tommy reminded me of. Like his insides had gone; all those chug-a-lugs had disappeared.

  I got in the front of the car, next to Clarence. Tommy Red drove slowly. Nobody said anything. Clarence turned the radio on and started pushing some buttons. She found a station. The beat of the song was the same as the clatter of the car across the corrugations on the road. Little specks of dust were dancing in the air.

  ‘For Chrissakes turn that off!’ said Tommy, his voice harsh and strained. ‘This is a day of mourning, not a bloody rock concert.’

  Clarence quickly pushed the off button.

  ‘Mum,’ said Clarence, as we entered the town, ‘Blacky, he walk all the way here. Maybe somebody can drive him back to the Port.’

  ‘Dreckly. First he can ’ave a cuppa tea and a scone back ’ome.’

  We parked in front of a brick house. Along the front there was a row of geraniums, planted in powdered-milk tins.

  The back yard was crowded. All the men. Most had taken their jackets off and loosened their ties. I could see Lovely, talking to Sid. It looked like they were arguing.

  ‘Is Lovely really your cousin?’ I asked Clarence as I followed her inside.

  ‘You know we all cousins out the Point,’ she said.

  ‘But is he really your cousin? Is Sid Lovely’s old man?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And Sid is Tommy’s brother?’

  ‘That’s right, too.’

  ‘Then Lovely’s your first cousin?’

  Clarence smiled. The kitchen was crowded. I could smell scones baking. Tea was being made.

  ‘Scuse me,’ said Clarence’s mum as she pushed past me with a huge teapot.

  I was in the way, so I moved into the lounge room. There was an old lady there, sitting in a chair, wrapped in one of those multi-coloured rugs that near-sighted grannies crochet. Her head was tilted to one side and her eyes were closed.

  I sat on the sofa. My bum sank right down, almost to the floor. The springs were busted – just like our sofa at home. Probably for the same reason too. Kids jumping up and down on it, pretending it was a trampoline.

  I looked around the room. On top of the telly there was a photo of Dumby in his school uniform. Smiling his killer smile.

  Clarence came into the room.

  ‘Been looking for you. What ya doing hidin’ in here? You wanna cuppa?’ she said.

  ‘Sure,’ I said.

  ‘Come into the kitchen, then. I’m not waiting on you.’

  Clarence’s mum was sitting at the kitchen table. She kicked her shoes off.

  ‘That feels good,’ she said. ‘Get the weight offa me ankles.’

  Then she pulled a seat out.

  ‘Sit down,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  Clarence put a cup of tea in front of me.

  I took a mouthful. It was the sweetest tea I’d ever tasted. My guess was at least five teaspoons of sugar.

  ‘You one of them Blacks, are ya?’ said Clarence’s mum.

  ‘Yeah. I’m the second eldest.’

  ‘How many of youse, then?’

  ‘Eight.’

  ‘Christ Almighty, your poor mother.’

  A plate of chunky, golden scones, appeared on the table. Clarence’s mum pushed them towards me.

  ‘Have one,’ she said. ‘Before they get cold.’

  She looked over her shoulder.

  ‘Clar, bring some jam an’ butta for Blacky.’

  Then she got up.

  I sat there at the kitchen table for ages, the women bustling around me, and ate scones. One after another. Five all together. They were good those scones, as good as Mum’s.

  Then Clarence said, ‘Blacky, Uncle Sid says he’ll give you a lift. He’s leaving now. Gotta see the cops ’bout something.’

  The men were still all outside, except for Lovely – I couldn’t see him. Tommy Red was sitting down, on an old car seat, his head in his hands.

  ‘You ready?’ said Sid.

  ‘Sure,’ I said.

  I looked at Clarence.

  ‘Nukkin ya,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Clarence. ‘Nukkin ya. Maybe up the jetty, unna?’

  So she had seen me that day. Or had she? I couldn’t tell.

  ‘Maybe up the jetty,’ I said, and then I walked away.

  S
id said nothing as he drove. He still had his suit on, but he’d taken his tie off and the top button of his shirt was undone. He had one hand on the wheel, the other elbow was leaning on the window. The cassette player was turned up loud. Slim Dusty.

  ‘Could you stop at the sandhills?’ I said. ‘I left my bag there.’

  He didn’t really reply, but he stopped, and waited while I retrieved my bag. Then he drove on to the Port. We pulled up outside my house.

  I noticed, with relief, that the old man’s car wasn’t there. The spiflicating would have to wait.

  ‘Thanks for the ride. Thanks a lot,’ I said, opening the door.

  Sid put his hand lightly on my wrist.

  ‘We ’preciate ya coming,’ he said. ‘All of us. Us mob ain’t big speech makers and that but let me tell ya, we all ’preciated it.’

  I shut the door, and he drove off.

  ‘Where have you been?’ said Mum as I walked through the door. ‘I’ve been worried sick about you. And what are you doing with your good pants on? And your good shirt? And that’s your father’s tie you’re wearing. And what’s that all over it? It looks like jam.’

  How could I get out of this one? What story could I come up with? My brain went into overdrive. But all it came up with was – Mum, I’ve been to Dumby’s funeral. But I couldn’t tell Mum that. It was the truth and the truth was the absolute last resort, only to be used when everything else had failed.

  ‘Mum, I’ve been to Dumby’s funeral,’ I said.

  ‘You’ve been where?’

  ‘To Dumby’s funeral.’

  She looked at me for a while. She wasn’t used to it either, the truth straight out like that.

  ‘In that tie?’ she said.

  ‘It was the only one I could find.’

  ‘Covered in jam?’

  ‘That happened later.’

  ‘Well, I hope nobody took exception,’ she said. There was a flicker of a smile on her lips.

  ‘No, Mum, they didn’t. Not at all.’

  ‘That’s good, now give me the tie and we’ll put it back where it belongs.’

  ‘Where’s Dad?’ I said, undoing the knot.

  ‘Still not back,’ she said. ‘You better have something to eat and get to bed.’

  It seemed like pretty good advice.

  35

  I woke up. It was dark.

  Team-man was getting undressed, his back to me.

  ‘Where you been all this time?’ I said.

  ‘Nowhere,’ he said.

  He turned around. His eyes were red, he’d been crying. There was blood smeared across his top lip.

  ‘Christ, what happened to you?’ I said.

  ‘Nothing.’

  Then he started crying and the words tumbled from his mouth.

  ‘He wouldn’t stop. He was looking for that ledge. You know the one where we caught all those snapper the day of the storm? “It’s around here somewhere,” he kept on saying. He didn’t take his eyes off that stupid echo sounder. And he’d find a ledge and I’d throw my line in but there wasn’t anything there. “That’s not the right one,” he’d say. “It’s around here somewhere.” And he was drinking all the time. Then it started to get dark. “Shouldn’t we go home now?” I said. And he goes, “We’re not going anywhere until we fill that fucking well.” In the end he was so pissed he couldn’t steer the boat. He just flaked out in the wheelhouse. So I took over. It was okay in the beginning, I just headed east but then I could see all these lighthouses blinking and I didn’t know which one was the Port. Then he woke up. “Why aren’t we still fishing?” he said and he chucked me out of the wheelhouse. That’s how I got this.’

  Team-man pointed to his lip.

  ‘Then he turned the boat around. He was gunna go back out there “But we’ll run out of fuel,” I said. “Bullshit,” he goes. But after a while he looked at the gauge and he turned around again. Then he started ranting about you. Like it was your fault. How he’d given you a chance to go fishing and prove you weren’t a gutless wonder. He was just going on and on.’

  There were tears running down Team-man’s cheeks.

  ‘I’m never going fishing with him again. Never, as long as I live.’

  I’d never heard him talk like this about the old man.

  ‘Where is he now?’ I asked.

  There was a crash from the kitchen. Then the old man’s voice, loud and slurred.

  ‘I’d keep out of his way if I were you,’ said Team-man.

  ‘Don’t worry, I intend to,’ I said.

  There was another crash from the kitchen.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ I said, but Team-man didn’t answer, he’d fallen asleep.

  I pulled the sheet over my head.

  Another crash. More ranting.

  Christ! Maybe he’s coming to get me.

  But then there was silence. He’d stopped ranting.

  And it wasn’t long before I too was in the land of nod.

  36

  It was late when I woke. Team-man was asleep, curled up like a baby, the blood still on his face. Greggy was playing with a truck, brrmm brrmm brrmming it along the floor, negotiating the various obstacles. The other siblings had gone.

  I slid off the bunk.

  ‘Where’s the old man?’ I asked Greggy.

  ‘He went out,’ he said.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m sure.’

  I looked out through the window. The car was gone.

  ‘Anyway, where’d you go yesterday?’ said Greggy. ‘Mum was really worried. She almost called the police.’

  ‘To a funeral.’

  ‘A dead person’s funeral?’

  ‘Yeah, a dead person’s funeral.’

  ‘What was the dead person’s name?’

  ‘Dumby Red.’

  ‘Who got shot down the pub.’

  ‘That’s right, him.’

  ‘Did they bury him in a grave?’

  ‘Yes, they buried him in a grave.’

  ‘Was it scary?’

  ‘Geez, I dunno. Stop asking so many questions, will you?’

  ‘No need to get mad.’

  ‘I’m not getting mad.’

  ‘Yes, you are.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  But I probably was. What I needed was a shower. The hot water had run out but I didn’t mind. The cold water on my skin felt great.

  When I came back Greggy was still brrmming his truck

  ‘Is that why Dad’s mad at you?’ he said.

  ‘Who says he’s mad at me?’

  ‘He did this morning.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said you were a heap of lard. And a bludger. Then he banged the table. Real hard.’

  Team-man opened his eyes.

  ‘He’s mad at you, too,’ said Greggy, pointing at him with his truck. ‘Both of you.’

  ‘Who cares,’ I said. ‘He’s a psychopath.’

  ‘What’s that?’ said Greggy.

  ‘A mad man. A crazy. A loony,’ said Team-man.

  ‘No he’s not!’ said Greggy. ‘You two are the psychopavs.’

  And he brrmmed his truck right out of the room.

  Poor Greggy. I was the same at his age. Hey, everybody! My dad’s the best. My dad’s the biggest. My dad’s the strongest. The best of them all. I used to believe it, too. I really did. But then again I also believed that every year a fat man in a red suit used to squeeze down the chimney with a sackful of toys (and we didn’t even have a chimney).

  The sound of the radio floated down the corridor.

  ‘This is the Rusty Nails morning program.’

  All the deejays on our local station were called Rusty – Rusty Nails, Rusty Gates. I reckon that’s how they got the job.

  ‘Name, please.’

  ‘Rusty Hinge.’

  ‘Great, the job’s yours.’

  Rusty continued.

  ‘And the weather for today. A strong to very strong wind warning for all coastal re
gions. An estimated top of forty-two degrees.’

  Time for breakfast. Mum was sitting on a stool, at the bench. The sink was full of dishes. In front of her was a mug of coffee. Next to it an abalone shell (everybody in the Port used abalone shells for ashtrays), with a ciggie resting on it, a squiggle of smoke floating upwards.

  ‘Morning,’ I said.

  ‘Morning, dear,’ she said.

  She sounded tired. She looked tired, too. There were smudges under her eyes. Her teeth weren’t in. Her face looked drawn.

  I put two pieces of bread in the toaster.

  ‘What are your plans for today?’ she said.

  ‘Dunno. Probably just hang around the jetty.’

  ‘Well, don’t bother your father too much.’

  Don’t worry, Mum, I have no intention of bothering my father. In fact I intend to keep right out of his way. Which wasn’t that difficult in a big family like ours. Maybe he’d come after me, but I doubted it somehow. It wasn’t his way. He’d just keep it all inside. Like bottles of home brew that haven’t been made properly. All that stuff inside fermenting away, until eventually it’s too much and the bottle explodes. Shards of glass flying everywhere. That’s what the old man was like.

  ‘Okay, Mum.’

  ‘And I might have to take the bus to Adelaide today. You grandfather’s not feeling too well.’

  Mum’s father had been sick for ages, ever since I could remember.

  ‘Okay, Mum.’

  The toast popped up. The marg was already out. And as usual, it was disgusting. There were smears of Vegemite all over it, blobs of jam. It looked like some sort of weird abstract painting. Thanks, siblings. I really hated my family sometimes.

  I dug deep with the knife, got some good marge out, and spread it thickly on the toast. I was just deciding on Vegemite or jam when a car pulled into the drive. There was a flash of white across the window. A car door slammed. Jesus Christ, it was him! Maybe he was coming after me. I grabbed my toast.

  ‘See ya, Mum. Gotta go.’

  I bolted down the passage, into the bedroom. Team-man was getting dressed.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ he said.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Here, you can have these.’

  I dropped the toast on his bed, then I dived through the window. I could hear the old man’s voice. He was yelling again. I started running, my thongs flapping, down the drive, across the road. Then I scrambled down the cliff and onto the rocks. Where could I go? Where could I spend the day? Bum Rock? No, the old man could see me through his binoculars. Under the jetty? No, he’d probably come looking for me there. Then I had a brainwave – Pickles’s place. The old man didn’t go there any more, not since him and Mick had stopped fishing. It was the perfect place.