Deadly Unna?

by Phillip Gwynne

  39

  The bedroom door was ajar. I got down on my hands and knees.

  ‘Okay, let’s go!’

  Hands and knees didn’t move. They were frozen. They were scared. We all were.

  ‘Come on, let’s go!’

  Left hand twitched a bit.

  ‘Come on, you can do it!’

  Slowly, it moved forward.

  ‘Yes!’

  So did the right knee.

  ‘Yes, yes, yes!’

  Then the right hand, the left knee. We were away.

  My nose pushed against the door. It opened wider. The window was open, the curtains were parted. The room was full of moonlight. I could see him clearly, on the other side of the bed, under the white sheet. He was snoring.

  I kept going, shuffling along the side of the bed, the smell of carpet shampoo in my nostrils. At the bottom of the bed I turned the corner, and stopped. I was starting to lose my nerve. In Mum’s M&Bs, when the hero was in a situation like this, he’d take a deep breath. I took a deep breath. It didn’t seem to help.

  Then the moon sneaked behind a cloud and the room went black. My nerve returned. I turned the corner, the moon reappeared, but I had momentum now, I was heading down the main straight.

  Two vicious-looking creatures with huge flappy tongues blocked my way. The old man’s shoes. I pushed them under the bed.

  I was there, right next to the old man’s head. He was sleeping on his back, rumbling like a volcano ready to erupt. One arm was dangling over the edge of the bed. His overalls were hanging from the bedpost. I squeezed myself into the corner. My hand slowly slowly slowly crept into the pocket. There was something bulky – a wallet. I went deeper. I could feel them now, the jagged edges of the keys.

  Then the old man mumbled something incomprehensible and rolled over onto his right side. The snoring stopped. But now his face was right next to mine. If he opened his eyes he’d be looking straight at me. I waited. I could almost see the blackheads on his nose. I could smell the beer on his breath. But nothing happened.

  I grasped the keys tight so they wouldn’t jangle and pulled them carefully from the pocket.

  Then I gave the order. Hands and knees. Let’s get the hell out of here!

  Back down the side we flew, around the end, down the other side, through the door and into the corridor. My heart going thump! thump! thumpety thump!

  But I had them, or I had it, the key to the old man’s shed.

  40

  I unlocked the door, and rolled it up just enough so I could crawl under. It was dark inside, I couldn’t see a thing. I had to turn the lights on. I flicked the switch. The fluoros buzzed, then burst into light.

  The brushes were hanging up on a board. My old man loved painting. He was never happier than when he had a paintbrush in his hand. Or a roller. Actually he preferred a roller because then he could slap the paint on quicker. Still, he had a lot of brushes. And he really looked after them. It was probably because his old man had been a painter. He was brought up to respect them.

  ‘A good brush’ll last you a lifetime,’ he’d say. ‘And there’s no better brush than a Carruther’s Camel Hair.’

  Actually the old man treated his Carruther’s Camel Hairs better than he treated us. He’d spend ages cleaning them, making sure every single one of those camel hairs was spotless, much cleaner than when it was still attached to the camel.

  He’d spiflicate me if he knew I took one of his brushes. What the hell, he was going to spiflicate me anyway. I took his favourite, the eight-inch.

  Now the paint. There were tins and tins of it under the workbench. Any colour would do, I supposed, but when I pictured doing it in my mind, it was always with black paint. I kneeled down, and started sorting through the tins. Daffodil Yellow. Coral Sea Blue. Bushfire Red. Who made up these names? What was in their heads? Black Gloss. That’s the one.

  ‘What the hell are you doing in my shed?’

  All I could see was two white feet, twisted and gnarled like mallee roots, under the garage door. Then the door rolled up with a screech.

  The old man was in his underwear, white singlet tucked into y-fronts. His hair was sticking up. His eyes were bloodshot.

  ‘Me?’ I said meekly, looking up from the floor.

  ‘Yes, you.’

  Again, I decided to tell the truth. It was getting to be a bad habit.

  ‘I was just borrowing some stuff. Didn’t think you’d mind.’

  ‘Borrowing some stuff?’

  ‘Yeah, just a brush and some paint.’

  ‘A brush and some paint?’

  Did he have to keep repeating everything I said?

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And tell me, why would you be borrowing a brush and some paint?’ he said.

  He sounded calm.

  ‘Because I wanted to paint over some graffiti?’

  ‘Some graffiti, eh? And where would this graffiti be, then?’

  ‘It’s down the jetty, on the shed.’

  ‘And what does this graffiti say?’

  I considered a slight deviation from the truth. I could say it said ‘SHARON B GIVES HEAD’ or, even better, ‘BOB BLACK IS A BASTARD’. And all I was doing was protecting the good name of my father. No, that was too outlandish – I persevered with the truth.

  ‘Boongs piss off.’

  He scratched his cheek.

  ‘So tell me if I’ve got this right or not. You sneak into my room and steal my keys. Then you sneak into my shed and steal my best brush and a tin of my paint. Why? Because you want to go down the jetty in the middle of the night and paint over a piece of graffiti that says “boongs piss off”.’

  I was surprised. He seemed to understand.

  ‘That’s right, Dad.’

  ‘ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MIND?’

  His lips were drawn back, like a rabbit caught in a trap. Little bits of spit flew from his mouth. The gold cap on his front tooth glinting, he took a step towards me. I scrambled back.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  It was Team-man. He was wearing shorts, that was all. The noise had obviously woken him. Then the rest of the siblings appeared. First the boys. Then the three girls in their nighties.

  ‘Back to bed, you kids,’ said the old man.

  They moved back a bit, then stopped.

  ‘And you,’ he said, jabbing his finger in the air. ‘You can put those things back right now.’

  Put the things back right now. Obviously that was the sensible option. Go to bed. Maybe he wouldn’t even spiflicate me. Not yet anyway. The next day I could cycle down to Rocker’s Garage, and buy a can of spray paint. Do the job with that. ‘BOONGS PISS OFF’ had been there for months, one more day wasn’t going to make a helluva lot of difference.

  I looked up at the old man. He was smiling now but it wasn’t a happy smile. It was a mean smile, a my - son’s - a - complete - moron - what - can - I - do - about - it smile. Behind him stood the siblings, all of them looking at me. It was dead quiet, just the low buzz of the fluoro.

  ‘I can’t,’ I said, softly.

  ‘Eh?’ said the old man.

  ‘I can’t put it back,’ I said, louder this time.

  The mean smile dropped off his face.

  He turned around. ‘Kids, did you hear what your idiot brother just said? He can’t put it back.’

  I got up. I was trembling. I took a couple of steps towards the door. The old man brought his arm back. I went to step past him.

  Whack!

  I went down. Like a sack of spuds. The brush flew out of my hand, the tin bounced off the concrete.

  Greggy started crying. ‘Daddy, don’t hurt Gary,’ he said.

  I lay there, on the oily floor, looking at those twisted feet. My ear was stinging. There were stars in my head (and they weren’t dead). Should I get up again? The spray can from Rocker’s was starting to look like the better option after all. Maybe I just wasn’t cut out to be a hero – my pain threshold was too low.
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br />   Then Claire yelled, ‘The car!’

  The feet moved away.

  I got up. The car was rolling down the drive, slowly gathering momentum. Somebody was in the driver’s seat. I could see the silhouette through the back window. It was Team-man! All the siblings were there except for him. And the keys were missing from the shed door.

  ‘Stop, stop,’ the old man yelled.

  He started running after it. But he couldn’t run, not properly, not with his soft feet on the sharp gravel. It looked like he’d just invented some weird new dance.

  By the time he caught up the car was at the end of the drive.

  He grabbed the door handle. It was locked. He started bashing on the window.

  The car reached the main road. It didn’t turn. It was headed towards the sea, straight for the cliff.

  ‘The brake, the brake,’ the old man was yelling, his hand still on the handle.

  The car kept rolling. It just missed a post. The old man didn’t. He collected it between his legs. He catapulted over and landed with a thud.

  The car skidded to a stop, the front wheels an inch from the edge. Tim (formerly Team-man) hopped out.

  (I stopped calling Team-man Team-man after that. Because he really was the first lemming (almost) over the cliff. The irony wasn’t there any more. I mean you wouldn’t call somebody Bluey if they really did have blue hair, would you?)

  The other siblings arrived.

  ‘Is he okay?’ said Tim (formerly Team-man).

  The old man lay there, on the road, in his underwear, not moving.

  ‘I reckon he’s dead,’ I said. ‘We’ve killed him.’

  Then the light on Darcy’s verandah came on. Darcy appeared. He was wearing shortie pyjamas with aero-planes all over them. The pants came down to his knees. He had red slippers on, but no hat. I’d never seen him without a hat. His hair was grey and wispy.

  ‘What the hell’s going on out here?’ he said. ‘Helluva racket.’

  ‘Somebody tried to steal our car,’ said Tim (formerly Team-man).

  ‘And Dad chased him,’ said Sharon.

  ‘He got hit,’ I said.

  ‘We think he’s dead,’ said Claire.

  ‘Let’s have a look here,’ said Darcy, kneeling down next to the old man.

  ‘Well, he’s not dead,’ he said. ‘Looks like he got a knock on the head. And by the smell of him he’s had a bit too much to drink. But he’ll be fine. Maybe Doc Matthews should have a look at him in the morning.’

  Thank God for that.

  ‘Come on, you boys. We’ll get him back up to the house.’

  The old man moaned as we lifted him up. He weighed about a ton but we got him into bed. Then Darcy backed the car up the drive.

  ‘Pretty smart thief that one,’ said Darcy, as he handed Tim the keys. ‘You kids better get to bed.’

  ‘We will. Thanks Darcy.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks a lot.’

  I watched Darcy shuffling down the drive in his slippers. His light went out. I started walking towards the shed.

  ‘Where you going?’ said Claire.

  ‘Down the jetty,’ I said. ‘Got something to do.’

  ‘I might come with ya,’ said Tim.

  ‘Why not?’ I said.

  ‘I’m coming too,’ said Sharon.

  ‘So am I,’ said Chris.

  ‘Me too,’ said siblings five, six and seven.

  ‘I don’t want to stay here all by myself,’ said Greggy.

  So in the end we all went, the eight of us, boys and girls, big ones and little ones, Brady Bunchers and Gilligan’s Islanders.

  41

  We walked on the road. The air was still and warm. I could feel the day’s heat seeping from the bitumen. There were no lights on in the houses. As we passed the caravan park, I could see a group of people, sitting in deckchairs, around a gas lamp. They were talking softly. (Probably about gents – mate, stick with the Darcy.) Nobody noticed us, barefoot and half-dressed, me with the Carruther’s eight-inch Camel Hair in my hand, and Tim swinging a tin of Black Gloss paint, as we walked up to the jetty.

  The jetty lights were off but the moon was big, almost full, and the sky was cloudless. Light sparkled across the bay.

  We came to the shed.

  ‘There it is,’ I said, pointing.

  ‘BOONGS PISS OFF’.

  ‘What’s a boong?’ asked Greggy.

  ‘A bad word for an Aborigine.’

  ‘ “Piss off” is a bad word too, isn’t it?’ he said.

  ‘Sort of,’ said Sharon.

  ‘Why do they want the boongs to piss off?’

  ‘Because they’re racist,’ said Tim.

  ‘What’s a racist?’

  ‘Somebody who doesn’t like Aborigines,’ said Tim.

  ‘Why don’t they like the Aborigines?’

  ‘Because they’re racist.’

  ‘Oh. Where will they go if they piss off?’

  You know what little kids are like when they get going, question after question, like waves on the beach.

  ‘Okay, enough questions,’ I said. ‘Let’s get started. Open the tin.’

  Tim took a coin from his pocket and prised the lid open. I dipped the Carruther’s Camel Hair in. The paint was thick and sticky.

  ‘I wanna go,’ said Greggy.

  So did Claire. And Kevin. And Chris. All the siblings did.

  ‘Okay, a letter each then.’

  ‘Littlest first.’

  ‘Okay, littlest first.’

  I gave the brush to Greggy. He climbed up onto the seat.

  ‘I can’t reach,’ he said.

  Tim hoisted him onto his shoulders. Greggy carefully painted over the B. Then he got down.

  ‘I’m good at painting, aren’t I?’ he said, admiring his work.

  ‘OONGS PISS OFF’ it said.

  Then it was Claire’s turn.

  ‘ONGS PISS OFF’.

  Then Chris’s.

  ‘NGS PISS OFF’.

  Then Kevin’s.

  ‘GS PISS OFF’.

  Jenny’s.

  ‘S PISS OFF’.

  Sharon’s. (She did it very neatly.)

  ‘PISS OFF’.

  Mine.

  ‘ISS OFF’.

  Tim’s.

  ‘SS OFF’.

  ‘Why don’t you leave it like that?’ said Chris ‘It doesn’t really say anything.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘If a job’s worth doing.’

  ‘It’s worth doing properly,’ said Tim.

  ‘You do the rest,’ said Claire. ‘It was your idea.’

  ‘Yeah, go on,’ said Tim.

  I dipped the brush deep into the Black Gloss. Three swipes and it was gone. Not forever, but for tonight anyway.

  The siblings started clapping and cheering, jumping up and down. Tim did his kookaburra. Claire stood on her head. Greggy did a somersault.

  Gradually it became quiet again.

  ‘What are we going to do now?’ said Kevin.

  The mood changed. The old man. None of us wanted to go home.

  ‘We could sleep up here,’ said Tim. ‘It’s not cold.’

  ‘It stinks here,’ said Sharon.

  ‘What about Bum Rock, let’s go down there,’ I said.

  ‘Where?’ said the siblings.

  ‘Black Rock.’

  ‘Yeah, let’s go to Black Rock.’

  We walked back down the jetty. The lights in the caravan park had gone out. The whole town was dark, asleep. Instead of taking the road we walked along the beach, following the water’s edge, where the sand was hard. Then we skipped across the rocks.

  There was a little patch of sand next to Bum Rock. We lay down there, close together.

  ‘Let’s sing a song,’ said Jenny.

  She was big on singing, Jenny.

  ‘What?’

  But she’d already started, in that loud voice of hers, ‘The Brady Bunch’ theme song. Probably the most disgusting song ever written.

  ‘You�
��ve got be joking!’ I was about to say. But I stopped. I even joined in the chorus. ‘The Brady Bunch. The Brady Bunch.’

  Then we sang ‘Gilligan’s Island’. And a few other songs. There was silence for a while.

  I looked up at the sky.

  ‘Did you know,’ I said, ‘that some of those stars are actually dead?’

  There was no reply.

  I looked around. The erstwhile siblings were all asleep.

  I closed my eyes. Tomorrow there’d be hell to pay, but at that moment, down there at Bum Rock, my brothers and sisters around me, I was happy.

  Happier than a pig in mud.

  I was as happy as Larry.