Deadly Unna?

by Phillip Gwynne

  Ramshackle, I reckon that’s about the right word to describe the Pickles’s place of abode. It looked like a grown-up’s version of those houses Greggy made with playing cards. A few fibro sheets leaning up against each other, and some corrugated iron thrown on the top for a roof. But what was really amazing was the amount of junk that lay around the place – piles of nets, rusty chains, anchors, outboard motors that didn’t work, an old dinghy, cray pots, fish traps, buoys, broken crates, tangled ropes, an old freezer, and a ute up on blocks that was full of feral chooks.

  I knocked on the back door.

  Nobody answered. So I walked around the side. Pickles’ bedroom window was open. I could see him spreadeagled on his bed, still wearing his footy shorts, asleep.

  ‘Pickles, rise and shine.’

  He looked up, his eyes half open.

  ‘Rack off,’ he said.

  I climbed in through the window.

  Christ, what a pong, like your footy bag if you leave a wet towel in there all week. I sat on the foot of the bed and started bouncing it up and down.

  ‘Wakey, wakey,’ I said. ‘Wakey, wakey.’

  ‘Stop that!’ said Pickles, sitting up. He had a good scratch at his munga. ‘What time is it, anyway?’

  ‘Round nine I think.’

  ‘Why you talking like that?’ he said.

  I was trying not to breathe through my nose.

  ‘Got a bit of a cold.’

  There was a stack of jars next to the bed. I picked one up and gave it a shake. It was full of flies. They were all dead, except for Louis, the sole survivor, buzzing around the top.

  ‘Gents not selling so well any more?’ I said.

  Pickles gave me a dirty look. I’m sure he thought I had something to do with his failure as a maggot entrepreneur, just because I was mates with Darcy. It had nothing to do with me, though. Blame the fish, Pickles. Blame the tommies, flathead and gars. They’re the ones who decided that your maggots weren’t so yummy.

  ‘Where were you yesterday, anyway?’ said Pickles.

  ‘Around,’ I said.

  ‘Around where?’

  ‘Just around.’

  ‘That bushpig, Cathy, was looking for ya. She gave me this.’

  He handed me a tight square of paper.

  I put in my pocket.

  ‘Ain’t ya gunna read it?’ he said.

  ‘Later.’

  ‘It says you’re dropped.’

  Great. I’d been dropped, by a girl I wasn’t even going with. My life was a joke.

  ‘Doesn’t worry me,’ I said.

  Pickles snickered.

  ‘What are you doing today?’ I said.

  ‘Gotta meet Mad Dog. You wanna come?’

  He was talking about our Mad Dog, not the Mad Dog from Tangaratta. Actually our Mad Dog was even madder then the Tangaratta Mad Dog. He had a steel plate in his head.

  ‘Nuh. Why don’t we just hang around here?’

  ‘Hang around here! You gotta be joking.’

  I had a look around. The room looked like Darwin after Cyclone Tracy. I can see why he thought I was joking.

  ‘Is it okay if I do then, stay in your room?’

  ‘Who you hiding from?’ said Pickles.

  My immediate thought was to bullshit, tell Pickles a lie. But then I thought, Bugger it, Pickles really is one of my best friends. I should tell him the truth. Maybe he could help me. Give me some support.

  ‘The old man. He’s after me.’

  ‘You’re joking! I wouldn’t want your old man after me. No way. Remember that time he bashed that bloke up outside the pub? It was fuckin’ awesome. There was blood running down the gutter. Remember that? I thought he was gunna kill him.’

  ‘Thanks, Pickles. Thanks a lot. Can I stay here, or what?’

  ‘S’pose. There are some stick mags under the bed if you wanna look at them. I’ll see ya later.’

  ‘Yeah, see ya.’

  He disappeared. Not the smell though, that stayed.

  Louis buzzed around for a while, and then stopped. I sat there for about half an hour. The stick mags had suspicious-looking stains all over them. Some of the pages were stuck together.

  I had to get out. Then I had another brainwave. Of course. It was a Monday – the library was open. And it was absolutely the best place to hide. The old man never went anywhere near the library. Never.

  Just as I was about to leave, Louis gave another buzz. I looked back. I realised I had the power – I could give that brave fly the gift of life.

  I unscrewed the lid. Louis flew out of the mouth of the jar. He flew straight towards the window. Then he veered upwards, and slammed into the pane. He dropped to the floor. Dead.

  Some gift.

  The library was a little room at the back of the Institute. It had a musty smell, like the inside of an old suitcase. The librarian (volunteer of course) was Mrs Ashburner. She was reading a book. Let Jesus be Part of your Life, it was called.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Ashburner,’ I said.

  She looked out over her tortoiseshell glasses.

  Mrs Ashburner was the Sunday School teacher, the President of the Progress Association and the Country Women’s Association, and the Secretary of the Save Our Institute Committee. A pillar of the community in other words. And that’s exactly what she looked like – a pillar. Cylindrical, with hardly any neck.

  ‘Hello, Tim,’ she said in her sing-song voice.

  ‘It’s Gary,’ I said.

  She adjusted her glasses.

  ‘So it is. All you Blacks look the same,’ she said, smiling. ‘Like peas in a pod.’

  Mrs Ashburner knew very well who I was, but ever since I’d beaten her daughter Rosalie by a point to win the book prize at primary school, she’d called me Tim.

  ‘Yes we do, don’t we?’ I said.

  I started searching through the M&B section. I was looking for A Circle of Opals. Mum had returned it before I’d had a chance to finish it. I was dying to know what happened. Was the glamorous Mari really up to no good? Was she desirous of the dark stranger Zac Heynes? Would poor Opal be denied the happiness that was rightly hers? Unfortunately it wasn’t there. Maybe I’d never get to read it after all. For the rest of my life Opal, Mari and the dark stranger Zac Heynes would stay just as they were halfway down page sixty-three. Frozen in time, like those woolly mammoths they find buried deep in the ice. It was a terrible thought.

  ‘I don’t think that’s appropriate reading material for a child your age,’ said Mrs Ashburner, a frown on her face. ‘The children’s section is over there.’

  ‘So it is. Thanks, Mrs Ashburner.’

  I don’t think the library had bought a new book that didn’t have God or Jesus in the title since Mrs Ashburner had been librarian. Didn’t worry me though. I took a Biggles from the shelf and sat on the floor.

  ‘Did you want to borrow that?’ said Mrs Ashburner.

  There were no chairs in our library, you were supposed to borrow a book and then take it home. I suppose it was to stop old drunks like Reggy Porter from sitting there all day stinking the place out.

  ‘I’m just seeing if I like it,’ I said.

  Actually I was really liking it. Biggles and Alfie were in a spot of bother over deepest, darkest Africa. But Mrs Ashburner kept bugging me.

  ‘Have you made up your mind yet?’ she said.

  ‘Not yet,’ I said.

  ‘Well you’d better hurry. We’re closing in five minutes.’

  I’d forgotten, during the holidays the library was only open in the morning. I put the book back on the shelf.

  ‘Thanks, Mrs Ashburner,’ I said as I left.

  ‘Not at all,’ she said.

  The old bag.

  I walked back down the main street, trying not to look like Gary Black. The wind had got stronger, it was full of gritty dust. The bay was a mass of whitecaps. I could see a white station-wagon parked outside the pub. It looked like the old man’s. I kept walking. It was the old man’s. I peered in thr
ough the pub window. He was leaning on the bar, a glass of beer in his hand, talking to Ernie, the new publican. Ernie looked just like Big Mac; he had the same enormous gut. (Maybe Big Mac had left it behind.) But unlike Big Mac he went for the low option, belt looped below his gut, crotch hanging, trousers bunched up on his shoes. He sweated a lot too, did Ernie. But he didn’t breathe heavy. Still, I reckon he’d get elected if he stood for president of the footy club. He had most of the right qualities.

  The old man looked settled in for a day of serious drinking. There were some notes on the counter, a stack of coins on top. I was safe for a while.

  Darcy was the only one on the jetty. He was fishing in front of the shed, sheltering from the wind. He seemed pretty happy to see me.

  ‘Well gidday there, young’un, that wind’s something ain’t it?’

  I agreed, the wind really was something. Then we had quite a long conversation about maggots, which you probably don’t want to hear. After that Darcy told a few yarns. Then I got him to recite ‘Kaiser Bill’.

  may you slip back through your arsehole

  and break your fucking neck

  The wind was like a gale now. It was impossible to fish so we ended up sitting in the shed. Darcy was teaching me how to tie a bowline.

  ‘A bowline’s the only knot you’ll ever need to know young’un. You can do just about anything with a bowline.’

  I wondered if a bowline could get the old man off my back.

  ‘Who do you reckon wrote that up there?’ I said, pointing to ‘BOONGS PISS OFF’.

  Darcy looked up.

  ‘Crikey, young’un. I can’t read that without me glasses. What’s it say?’

  ‘Boongs piss off.’

  ‘Is that right. Well I dunno who wrote it.’

  ‘They should do something about it, shouldn’t they?’ I said.

  ‘I daresay they should, young’un. I daresay they should.’

  I’m not sure if Darcy was making fun of me. There was a little smile on his face.

  ‘’Bout time to go, I reckon. You coming?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said.

  We walked back down the jetty, leaning into the wind.

  When I got home Sharon was in the kitchen. She was peeling spuds.

  ‘Where’s Mum?’ I said.

  ‘She’s still in Adelaide. She rang just a while ago. She might have to stay there tonight.’

  ‘Then who’s looking after us?’

  ‘The old man.’

  ‘But he’s down the pub.’

  ‘What’s new?’ she said.

  ‘What’s for dinner then?’

  ‘Mashed spud.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘No, Mum said to get something from the butcher’s. There’s some money in the drawer.’

  I went to open the drawer, then I stopped.

  ‘Did Mum take her teeth with her?’

  ‘Of course she did.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘She wouldn’t go all the way to Adelaide without her teeth.’

  Good point, Shaz. I pulled the drawer open. No teeth, but some money.

  I cycled back down to the main street, to the butcher’s. Slogs was wearing a stripey apron; there was gunk all down the front of it. He had a newspaper spread over the counter, open at the form guide. He was scribbling all over it with a blunt pencil.

  ‘Gidday,’ I said.

  ‘Gidday,’ said Slogs. ‘Whatta ya know?’

  I never knew what to answer when people said this. Well actually I know quite a few things. For instance, that the capital of Nepal is Kathmandu. Or the square of the hypotenuse of a right-angle triangle is equal to the sum of the squares of the other two sides. But I gave my usual answer.

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Not much, eh,’ said Slogs. ‘Probably the best way to be.’ He gave me a wink.

  ‘What can I do you for, anyway?’

  ‘Dunno. Something for tea.’

  ‘Got sausages on special,’ he said, pointing to a sign on the wall.

  ‘SPECIAL THICK SAUSAGES $2.99 kg’ it said. It was written in Texta; thick, black letters on a piece of butcher’s paper.

  ‘Yeah, they’ll do. Give us a kilo,’ I said.

  As Slogs weighed the sausages I looked again at the sign. There was something about it, something familiar.

  ‘Anything else I can get you today?’

  ‘No, that’s all thanks.’

  He wrapped the sausages and handed me the parcel.

  ‘There you go,’ he said.

  I gave him the money. He gave me the change.

  ‘See ya round,’ I said.

  ‘Like a rissole,’ said Slogs.

  I opened the door to walk outside, but then I stopped and turned around.

  ‘Forget something, did we?’ said Slogs.

  ‘I’m just thinking,’ I said.

  And I was, but not about meat. It was that sign, it was bugging me. I looked at again. Then I realised. The ‘S’ was the same, a bit squashed, like somebody had sat on it. The rest of the writing, too. It was the same writing as ‘BOONGS PISS OFF’, exactly the same.

  ‘No, that’s all,’ I said, closing the door quickly. I got back on my bike.

  So it was him, Slogs, the transmogrified mettwurst, the ‘Pleased to Meat You’ man, he was the one. I should’ve known, he was such a creep. That night down the pub when Big Mac told that joke, it was Slogs who laughed the most; he laughed so much he spluttered beer all over the place.

  And now I had him. Or did I? What could I do?

  Tell the cops? There probably wasn’t even a law against writing ‘BOONGS PISS OFF’ on the jetty shed. Except maybe defacing public property, but half the town (the male half) was guilty of that, including me. And even if he had broken the law, how could I prove it?

  Your Honour, I’d like to draw your attention to the similarity in handwriting, especially the somewhat squashed nature of the letter ‘S’, between exhibit A – the ‘SPECIAL THICK SAUSAGES’ sign – and exhibit B – a photograph of the aforementioned ‘BOONGS PISS OFF’ graffiti. Based on this overwhelming evidence, Your Honour, I believe the accused, Mr Slogs here, must be given the maximum penalty that the law allows.

  Yeah sure, Blacky.

  Or I could confront Slogs. Tell him I knew he was the one. And he’d probably say, ‘So what.’

  It was hopeless.

  I passed Darcy’s place. He was sitting on the verandah.

  ‘Gidday, young’un,’ he said.

  ‘Gidday, Darce.’

  Then it clicked. What Darcy had said earlier that day when I said they should paint over the graffiti – ‘I daresay they should.’ Now I understood what he meant. They should, but they couldn’t because there was no they. Well, maybe there was but they were too busy. People were always at them to do things.

  ‘They should really do something about that. They really should.’

  They had no time, but I did. I had heaps of time. I couldn’t tell the cops, I couldn’t confront Slogs, but I could get rid of that stupid graffiti. And I could do it straightaway. Well, maybe not straightaway. After tea.

  37

  You’d think, wouldn’t you, that with their parents away the Black tribe would run wild? But we didn’t. Dinner was just like normal, maybe even quieter than normal. And it was delicious. The mashed spud was a triumph (well done, sis). The peas were okay. And the snags only tasted a little bit like mettwurst.

  Team-man didn’t say anything. He had a bruise on his face now, where the blood had been.

  ‘Where you been today?’ Chris asked him.

  ‘What’s it to you?’ he said.

  ‘I was just asking,’ said Chris.

  ‘Well, don’t.’

  He really was in a shit.

  The phone rang. Sharon answered.

  ‘Yes, Mum. No, Mum. No, he’s not here. No, we’ll be fine. We will, Mum. Okay, Mum. Goodbye, Mum.’

  I was thinking about the graffiti. How was I going to get rid
it? I could scratch it out like I did with ‘SHARON B GIVES HEAD’, but that’d take ages. Or I could paint over it. But the paint was in the shed and the shed was locked and the old man had the keys and he was down the pub getting sloshed. I’d just have to wait until he got home.

  After dinner we did the dishes, we watched telly, we brushed our teeth, we all went to bed at the right time. Who needs parents? I intended to stay awake, until the old man got home. So I lay there listening to the cicadas chirping, and I immediately fell asleep.

  38

  Slogsy is in his ‘Pleased to Meat You’ apron. And he really is a lump of mettwurst, fat and greasy. Two piggy eyes staring out. He’s got a pen in his hand, one of those fat black Textas. He’s scrawling ‘BOONGS PISS OFF’ everywhere. All over the shed. All over the jetty. In huge thick letters. All over the pub. The Institute. Everywhere you look. ‘BOONGS PISS OFF. BOONGS PISS OFF. BOONGS PISS OFF.’ Everywhere.

  Me and Dumby are following him. I want to show Dumby something. And I keep saying, ‘No, it’s over here, Dumby Red. It’s over here.’

  But everywhere we go all we see is ‘BOONGS PISS OFF’.

  I’m getting more and more ashamed. My face is getting redder and redder, until flames are leaping from it. I spit on my palm and try to rub out the writing. It doesn’t come off. In fact it gets bigger, darker. I start scratching at it. It still doesn’t come off. But I keep going until my fingers are bleeding, until my fingernails are torn away.

  Slogs is moving faster now. His arm is just a blur. Heading out of town. In all directions. Hundreds of Slogs scrawling away. ‘BOONGS PISS OFF’. All over the peninsula.

  I woke up sweating, my sheet tangled. Christ, what a dream! It was quiet, except for sound of the siblings breathing. Shadows across the walls. Through the window I could see the old man’s car. I put on some shorts and tiptoed into the kitchen. But the keys weren’t on the hook. I checked the car – they weren’t there either. They were in his pocket.