Darryl sniggered. God, I hate suits.
He and Floyd walked the remaining distance to the bottle store. Darryl stopped outside the door and finished his pie, then flicked the aluminium dish, Frisbee-style, towards a nearby rubbish bin. It glanced off the lip and fell to the pavement, where it rolled a few metres before coming to rest. “Wait here, Floyd, I’ll only be a couple of minutes.” Floyd sat down on the footpath. Darryl patted his head, said “Good boy,” and entered the store, heading for the beer fridges at the back.
Darryl didn’t like this liquor store, but it was the closest one to his house, and for this reason he was a frequent customer. The shopkeeper was a short, solid man with little pig eyes hiding behind round, wire-frame spectacles, and a shaved head crowned with beads of sweat that glistened under the fluorescent lights. He was blunt, never smiled, and played electric, white-man blues music on a portable cassette player behind the counter. Aside from Leadbelly and Robert Johnson, Darryl was no fan of blues music, and the stuff this guy inflicted on all those who came into his store was the worst of a sorry genre. Today, as usual, the tinny speakers were trembling to the sound of an overwrought, string-bending guitar solo.
“Who’ve we got today then?” Darryl asked as he passed the counter.
“Gary Moore,” said the shopkeeper.
Gary Moore. In the entire world of music, Darryl could think of no-one he liked less than Gary Moore, except maybe Eric Clapton. He shook his head in disgust and began perusing the selection in the beer fridge, but was interrupted by shouting.
“Get out of here, ya bloody mutt!”
Darryl turned around to see the shopkeeper leap from the counter and run in the direction of Floyd, who was standing in the middle of the wine aisle. Floyd ducked behind a display stand, sprinted to the back of the shop and sat down next to Darryl, growling at the approaching enemy.
“Jesus, mate! Whaddaya think you’re doing? You can’t bring ya dog in with ya!” Floyd bared his teeth and the shopkeeper halted his advance. “Get it out of here!”
“He’s not my dog. He just followed me up here,” said Darryl.
“I don’t give a toss whose dog it is! Just get it out!”
“All right, all right, calm down! I’m sure he’ll follow me when I leave. But first I need to choose some beer. Do you have any specials?”
“Yeah, Four X Gold.”
“Ahh, no thanks.” Four X Gold tasted like goanna piss. In Queensland, it was the beverage of choice for bogans and blue-collars. Darryl would rather die than drink it. “Not really a fan. I’ll keep looking.” He turned back to the fridges.
The shopkeeper grunted in frustration. “Look, just tie ya dog up outside first and then choose ya beer.”
Darryl turned back. “I told you—he’s not my dog. I don’t have a leash for him.” To his amusement, the man’s entire head was flushing red and Darryl couldn’t resist winding him up a little further. “Will you give me a discount for getting him out of your shop?”
“No, I bloody well won’t!”
“In that case I’ll take as long as I want.”
“Now look here! This is my shop, and I’m not keen on smartarses. Choose what you want, right now, and then take ya dog and get outta here, or I’m callin’ the cops.”
“The cops? What for? All I want is some bloody beer!”
“Understand this.” The shopkeeper’s tone took a turn. The next words he spoke were ice, and Darryl felt the chill of them in his gut.
“I am the pro-pri-e-tor of this shop.” He said the word like it was brand new to him, like he was testing it for the first time to see how it sounded. “If I don’t want you here, and I tell you I don’t want you here, and you stay here—well then, mate—that’s trespassing, plain and simple. So I’ll call the cops.”
Darryl thought it wise to back off. “All right then. Leave it alone. I’ve decided what I want.” He opened the fridge closest to him and removed a six-pack of Hahn Premium. It was expensive, but it was his favourite. The shopkeeper returned to his post behind the counter and glared at Darryl and Floyd as they made their way forward. Darryl placed the beer on the counter and the shopkeeper scanned the barcode.
“Fifteen ninety-five,” said the shopkeeper, dropping the six-pack into a black plastic bag.
Darryl got out his wallet and leafed through it for his EFTPOS card. It wasn’t there. He double-checked, pulling out other cards to see if it had slipped behind one of them. It hadn’t. He searched the pockets of his jeans and shirt. Nothing. “Goddammit!” he exclaimed.
“Problem, mate?” asked the shopkeeper.
“Yeah, I’ve left my bloody EFTPOS card at home. Hey look, you couldn’t spot us this one for the moment, could you? I’ll come back later this arvo to pay you back?”
“Ha! Not on your bloody life!”
“But I’m a regular customer! I’m good for it!”
“Nope.” The shopkeeper shook his head.
“Aww, c’mon! I must’ve spent a thousand bucks or more in here. It’s the least you can do.”
“It is bloody not! Look, if you come back with your card, and without that dog, I will sell you as much beer as you want. Take it or leave it.” The shopkeeper grinned smugly.
Darryl scowled at him. “Ahhh, screw your bloody beer! I’ll get better service elsewhere. Come on Floyd, let’s get the hell outta here!”
He stomped out, Floyd at his heels. On the street he turned back, raised both middle fingers and snapped his hands forward, jaw clenched and nostrils flaring. Then he heard the piercing screech of brakes behind him and turned to see the BMW station wagon he’d so recently abused, stopped short in the middle of Wynnum Road.
The driver screamed out the window, “Oi! I’ll fucking kill you!” He was purple with rage.
Darryl sprinted across the road, around the back of the BMW and its shrieking occupant, and headed for home. Reaching the other side, he ducked into an alleyway. Looking behind him, he saw the BMW rocket off down the road.
At the end of the alleyway was a carpark that exited onto Todwick Street, down a wide driveway between two houses. He stopped in the driveway to catch his breath. He was hopelessly out of shape—he’d barely run a hundred metres and his lungs were burning. He felt a knot in his stomach and drew a deep breath, trying to calm down. Then he heard the cry of brakes and horns tooting from Wynnum Road. Shit! Was that Floyd? He’d abandoned the dog in his panic.
He started back towards the alleyway, but then heard another noise, beyond the tooting horns, which stopped him in his tracks. A high-pitched whine, barely discernible at first, but getting louder by the second. His gut twisted. Just beyond the line of shops was a left-hand turn onto a street that looped around and came back to cross Wynnum Road, where it joined Todwick Street. The man in the BMW must have taken it, and by the sound of the car’s engine he was flying. Once through the intersection, it was only a short drive down the street and Darryl would be in plain view.
Darryl twisted and fled down the drive. It’s not far. So long as he doesn’t catch a green. He swung towards home, pounding along the footpath. In the distance he heard a squeal of tyres, and then the whine changed key, travelling up the scale, and got louder still. Fuck! He’s got the green! Darryl ran faster, his sneakers slamming into the pavement. He was too far from home.
He came alongside a house with a garden fronted by a white picket fence. He grabbed the fence and vaulted it, then rolled into the garden and flung himself down on his stomach, trembling. Through the palings, he looked back up the street and saw the BMW hurtle into view. Upon rounding the corner, the screaming vehicle slowed.
As he watched, Darryl caught a flash of movement in the corner of his eye. Shifting his focus, he saw Floyd come trotting down the car-park exitway, head lowered and sniffing along the ground.
The BMW approached the dog and stopped. The driver lowered his window and leaned out.
“Come here, boy,” he said, draping one arm out the window and thumping the car door.
Floyd looked up, then ignored the man and continued snuffling along the footpath.
“Where’re you going? You smell something?”
Behind the fence, Darryl was dismayed. Jesus! What are you doing, Floyd? Don’t bring him over here!
But it was too late. Floyd was heading directly for him. The man in the suit had his head out the window of his car and was crawling along behind. Darryl closed his eyes and prayed, wished that God would whisk him away to some safe haven in the clouds. He opened them to see Floyd come charging towards the fence, barking.
The man opened the door of his car and Darryl leapt to his feet, vaulted the fence again and sprinted towards his house, hoping to get inside and… and… he didn’t know what. The man ran after him with Floyd bounding behind, tongue lolling and long ears flapping. Time seemed to slow and Darryl was struck by the absurdity of it all: running for his life down a serene, suburban street, less than a hundred metres from home, the sun bright and hot—running away from a bassett hound and a man in a lilac tie and pinstriped suit.
The man was faster than Darryl and his tackle flawless. Darryl went sprawling over the concrete, skinning his hands, the man on top of him. The BMW-driver sprang to his feet while Darryl lay there gasping, the wind knocked out of him.
“Now, you little punk, I’m going to teach you not to go wiping your grubby mitts all over people’s cars.” The man took off his jacket and dropped it on the ground, then wiped a bead of sweat from his brow.
The foot that collected Darryl’s ribcage was encased in a polished, black-leather boot. He felt a crack, and a ribbon of excruciating pain shot up his side. The next kick caught him in the stomach, and it was all Darryl could do to roll over, put his hands over his face and pull up his knees for protection. The blows continued. From under his fingers he caught a glimpse of the old woman, his neighbour, standing at her bay window and staring down at the carnage happening on the street below her. He shut his eyes.
For a moment, all was quiet, save for the distant hum of traffic, the buzz of summer cicadas, and the muffled thud of the man’s boots against Darryl’s body. Then a cacophony of sounds—yelps, growls, screams and curses—exploded beside him and the blows stopped.
“Oi, get off me ya mongrel!”
“Leave him alone, arsehole!”
Darryl’s head swam and his ribs burned. He opened his eyes, and turning towards the voices, saw Alex and Josh pushing his tormentor away while Floyd growled at their side, hackles raised.
“What fucking business is it of yours? I was just teaching the little shit a lesson!”
“He’s our next-door neighbour, you prick!” shouted Alex. “This is our street! Now just fuck off!”
Alex gave the man in the suit an almighty shove and he stumbled backwards, almost falling. He regained his balance and glared at them.
Darryl heard the low rumble of a car engine. Rolling over, he watched as a red Holden Commodore approached and then stopped in the street beside them. The engine died and the driver’s door opened. A woman with long, bleached-blonde hair climbed out and walked around the front of the car. It was Darryl’s neighbour, the mother from number fifty-four. She wore tight blue jeans, black boots, and a plain black T-shirt. A cigarette dangled from her lips. Floyd barked and bounded up to her and she squatted and scratched behind his ears.
“Hey, Floyd,” she said, her voice frayed and gravelled. Then she stood and took a long drag on her cigarette. Blowing out a cloud of smoke, she withdrew the cigarette from her lips with a leathered hand. “What the fuck’s goin’ on here?”
Darryl stared at her.
Then another voice, soft but steely, came from behind him.
“I think you better get going now. I’ve just called the police.”
Darryl turned his head. The old lady from number forty-nine was standing at the entrance to her driveway, brandishing a cordless phone.
Darryl’s tormentor surveyed the scene, eyes sweeping over Darryl’s motley crew of protectors, then shrugged. “All right, we’ll leave it at that. I’m sure he’s learned his lesson.”
He walked away, bending to collect his suit jacket, and climbed back into his BMW. He swung round the circle of the cul-de-sac, then drove slowly past them. Leaning out the window, he gave the finger before speeding off up the street.
“What a cock,” said Alex.
Darryl rolled onto his back and groaned. Two pale, shapely legs floated into view. He raised his head to see they were attached to the body of Serena.
“There, there,” she said, kneeling down beside him and stroking his hair. “You okay?”
Darryl groaned again. “No. I think the fucker’s cracked m’ribs.” He sat up and gasped in pain.
“Here, we’ll help you,” said Alex, gesturing to Josh.
They squatted either side of him, and Darryl draped his arms around their shoulders. They stood, lifting Darryl with them, and hobbled along into the courtyard between their two flats, with Serena, Floyd and the two older women following. There they lowered Darryl onto the block wall.
“What was that all about?” asked Josh.
“I dunno.” Darryl grimaced. “Guy’s a nut job.”
“You must have done something to upset him,” said the old lady. She stood in front of Darryl, her expression stony. “People don’t behave like that without good reason.”
“You!” Darryl said. “I saw you in the window… just watching. Why didn’t you do anything?”
“Like what? Run down and poke him in the eye with my knitting needles? Anyway, I did do something. I took down his registration number and called the police.”
Darryl grunted.
“How about a thank you? It’s no wonder you were beaten up.”
“Oh, leave him alone, Janice. He’s in pain,” said Darryl’s bogan neighbour. She stubbed her cigarette out on the wall, flicked the butt into the garden behind it, and sat down next to him. “Speaking of which, you should get that checked out. I’ll take you up to the medical centre.”
“Nah, it’s okay. I’ll be fine.”
“I wasn’t askin’,” she said, smiling. “What’s ya name anyway? I’m Cindy.” She held out her hand for Darryl to shake.
He shook it weakly. “Darryl,” he said.
“It’s funny, ya know. We been neighbours for months and don’t even know each other’s names. Not the ideal way to meet, I s’pose, but better late than never.” Standing, she said, “I’ll bring the car up.”
“What about the police?” asked Janice. “They’ll be here soon.”
Cindy snorted. “I wouldn’t count on it. Besides, you said you got his number plate. You can keep an eye out for them, an’ if they turn up, tell ‘em what you saw.”
Janice frowned, but nodded. “I suppose so. Anyway, I’m going home.” She turned to leave.
“Thanks, Janice,” said Cindy. She gave Darryl a nudge with her boot.
He looked up at her and she flicked her head towards the departing Janice. Darryl shrugged. She gave him another kick, harder this time. Darryl yelped. She placed her hands on her hips and raised her eyebrows.
Daryl reluctantly obliged. “Yeah, thanks,” he said.
Janice turned her head back towards them and nodded again, then continued home.
“So,” said Cindy. “Anyone else wanna come?”
Alex looked at Josh, who nodded in agreement. “Yeah, we’ll come. I don’t wanna see the bloody pigs.”
“And what about you, love?” asked Cindy, turning to Serena.
Serena considered the question, then shook her head. “Nah, I’ll stay here. If the cops turn up, I don’t mind talking to them. Hopefully it’ll be that same one who was here last night. He was hot.” She winked at Alex.
“Oooh, yuck! No he wasn’t!” said Alex. “He was a bloody great gorilla. Had B-O too.”
They all laughed—even Darryl, although it hurt. He hoped the doctor would give him some strong painkillers. Alex and Josh helped him up again and Cindy went to
bring her car up the drive.
“See ya later,” said Serena.
“Yeah, see you,” replied Darryl. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” she said, then smiled and waved goodbye.
The threesome shuffled out to Cindy’s waiting car. Darryl slumped awkwardly into the front seat, while Alex and Josh sat in the back. They set off, Cindy steering with one hand, dragging on a cigarette with the other, and tapping the ash out the window between puffs. An air freshener, shaped like a pine tree, dangled from the rear-view mirror. It did nothing to disguise the odour of stale smoke. She finished her cigarette, dropped the butt on the road, then shut her window and cranked up the air-con. Darryl was hit with a blast of cool, refreshing air.
“Pass us a beer, boys,” said Cindy. “Help yourself to one too, if you want.” In the middle of the back seat lay a slab of beer, still cold from the chiller. “I was comin’ back from the bottle-o when I ran into you fellas. Needed to restock the fridge.”
Josh passed her a can. It was Four X Gold.
She opened it one-handed and took a swig. “Aahhh, that’s better.”
“You want one, Darryl?” asked Josh.
Just my luck. Still, it was wet and cold and he was thirsty. “Please,” he replied, and Josh passed him a can. Darryl placed it against his cheek, feeling the chill, then cracked it open, closed his eyes, and took a long, slow drink.
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Other Titles
The Golden Cockroach
(Crossing The Divide: Book 1)
Nina’s dinner date is an insufferable jerk who only wants to talk about himself, but an unexpected guest makes her evening out a memorable one.
Riding Shotgun
(Crossing The Divide: Book 2)
It’s Evelyn’s turn to drive her friends to work. But are they even her friends? The road to Queenstown is a treacherous one, and as the fog gets thicker, her thoughts get darker.
Square Pegs Page 2