Again, Deb flicked through the diary, reading her mother’s words and gazing at the photos. One showed Trevor and Lynne sitting on a bed together. “Trevor was always my favourite. Sweet, innocent, genuine. And the best lover I've ever had. So sincere, passionate, giving ...” In another picture, Trevor is angrily berating an unidentified man. “... But Trevor got jealous, very jealous, which was sweet at times, but not always. When the evil green monster reared its ugly head, Trevor often lost control ...”
Trevor is berating Oscar who is holding hands with Lynne. “... During that long tour in '75, I became very close friends with each member of the band. But none of the others knew that I'd become anything more than the band's Personal Assistant. That is, until Trevor saw Oscar and me together about one week before the end of the tour ...” In a series of snapshots, Trevor is hurtling furniture and screaming at Oscar. “... But it was all platonic, of course, because Oscar wasn't interested in me in that way. But Trevor went into a flying rage, throwing stuff all over the place. He was out of control, threatening to kill Oscar ...”
Trevor is talking to the road crew and evidently ignoring Oscar. “... At the time, I believed Trevor might've killed Oscar, but Trevor soon calmed down – sort of – and agreed to carry on with the tour. But Trevor wouldn't talk to Oscar again until a few days before the tour ended in Whyalla ...” Trevor is sneering at the camera. “... Trevor didn't talk to me either, so I went back to Oscar. He needed me anyway because he'd become ill. The stress of the tour was taking its toll ...”
Deb turned a page to see a photo of Oscar, clearly pale and skeletal. “... By the final gig at Whyalla, Oscar could barely stand up. He looked like death on two legs ...” In a series of furtively-taken and out-of-focus snapshots, Trevor is silently pouring powder into Oscar's tea and encouraging him to drink it, which Oscar does. “... Then, I found out that for the final few days of the tour Trevor had been putting something in Oscar's herbal tea. Trevor told Oscar it was good for his health and would make him feel alive ...”
Deb took several deep breaths before reading aloud the final words in her mother’s diary. “… But the powder didn't make Oscar feel alive at all. In fact, it had the opposite effect. Completely. And Trevor knew what he was doing.”
* * * * *
Madge continued growling as the contents of Sean’s daypack persistently clinked. He sat back down, grinned contritely, and gulped incessantly, until Madge turned towards the multiple ping sounds from the microwave.
Mitch whispered to Sean. ‘How the hell are we going to get these tested for DNA out here anyway?’
‘Never mind that, you idiot! Which glass belongs to who?’
‘Shit!’
Sean smirked. ‘We could collect that as DNA samples.’
‘What?’
Without warning, Madge appeared and wiped their table. ‘Or you could try collecting the band’s half-eaten toasties ...’
‘... or urine.’ Arnold shuffled past with his walking stick.
‘... or blood.’ Dave glared at Sean from a distance.
With negligible shame, Mitch reached into the daypack at Sean's feet and extracted the three plastic bags, each holding one glass. ‘You don't want to know what we ..?’
Madge shook her head several times. ‘Long ago, I gave up trying to understand city folk.’ She carried the three bags with the glasses to the counter.
Mitch continued whispering to Sean. ‘What if we get DNA samples from their toothbrushes?’
‘I don't think the band use them. Have you smelt their breath?’
‘How about their hairbrushes?’
Sean shrugged. ‘They don't have much on top to spare, but we’ll have to use that. I don’t fancy the other options. And we’ll need a DNA sample from Deb, too.’ He reached into his daypack and showed Mitch a pair of scissors. ‘And we haven't even talked to Trevor yet, so let's start with him.’
* * * * *
Mitch scurried along Railway Terrace carrying the daypack with the scissors as Sean sluggishly followed with the video camera and microphone. While anxiously searching for Trevor, they passed several of the town’s residents. Sean instinctively filmed them, although he knew the footage would be rushed and, perhaps, out of focus.
He recorded Bob and Jack toiling assiduously over a series of hanging baskets in the front of their renovated Lutheran church – the only home, other than Deb’s, that looked inhabited and habitable.
Next, Sean videoed Cockles being eagerly pursued by Gladys clutching her Zimmer frame. ‘No more! Please, Gladys. It's not the '70s anymore!’ They were both being followed by Arnold jealously brandishing his walking stick.
And, finally, Sean filmed Dave transferring the gasket from the engine of his campervan to the band's vehicle. Sean stopped to remonstrate with Dave, but Mitch forced him to continue. ‘C'mon. We've got to find Trevor.’
Frantically peering in all directions from outside the abandoned Blacksmith’s, Sean and Mitch soon spotted Deb at the intersection, resting on the town’s only bench. Next to her, Trevor was staring fretfully down both roads with his arm and thumb outstretched. By his side, was a suitcase with a pair of underpants caught in the zip.
Sean and Mitch sprinted towards them; the latter in a panic, desperate not to miss any of their conversation. But Trevor and Deb continued chatting to each other while completely ignoring Mitch, Sean and their recording equipment.
Trevor shrugged. ‘… And, yeah, I threatened to kill Oscar a few times.’
‘Wha-what?’ Mitch was panting heavily.
‘We all did.’
‘Who did?’
‘Oscar drove us mad.’
‘Why?’ Mitch breathlessly swivelled his head between Deb, who silently took notes, and Trevor, who didn’t even acknowledge Mitch’s presence.
‘You know, Deb, although Oscar was a musical genius, he was not really one of the boys. Neither was our manager at the time, Robert. If you know what I mean.’
‘No, I do not.’
‘And Oscar was bedding your mother.’
‘So Oscar must be–‘
‘And I really loved your mother.’
‘I know …’ Deb nodded solemnly.
‘I didn’t.’ Mitch glanced at Sean in desperation.
‘… and that's why I don’t and can't love you in the same way anymore.’
‘Shit!’
‘Never mind.’ Trevor couldn’t fake any semblance of sincerity.
Deb paused. ‘But what about the poison in his tea?’
‘Poison?’ squeaked Mitch again. ‘What poison?’
‘I gave Oscar some herbal stuff to put in his tea. But I was drinking it too, and it did me no harm.’
Deb flicked over a page of her notepad. ‘Where did you get this herbal tea stuff?’
‘From Robert, our manager. Oscar spent all his spare time with Robert and trusted him. I didn't trust Robert, but I drank anything anyone ever offered me ... Is that all clear?’
‘Yep.’
‘What? No!’ Mitch watched helplessly as Deb stood and left.
Trevor started tapping the side of his suitcase and singing. ‘Tumbleweed, inbreed. Misery is guaranteed … It's called–’
‘We know what it's bloody called!’ Mitch got up angrily.
‘Hopeless cause, stupid laws … They make me crazy just because …’
As Trevor continued warbling, Sean furtively removed the pair of scissors from his daypack and reached around to the back of Trevor.
‘… The town's adverse, and so perverse. Time to sing another verse …’
A moment later, Sean opened his jaw and gasped. Behind Trevor's back, Sean dangled the clump of grey hair that once served as Trevor’s ponytail. Mitch indicated that he and Sean should scamper immediately.
‘… I've got the hell-hole, dust-bowl, no-place-to-rock-n-roll, blues …’
* * * * *
Without any assistance from the “road crew” or “support band”, the three members of Cinnamon
Sweat managed to eventually set up their limited stage gear in the middle of the bowling green for a rehearsal. This took about three hours longer than expected because of their collective ailments, which included arthritis, sciatica and irritable bowel syndrome. Cockles and Trevor had to share an amplifier because the other didn’t function. And there was now only a single microphone, because the extra one had fallen off the band’s van when Boyd slammed into possums and careered over potholes. Most of Trevor’s drums had also disappeared from storage at the Town Hall, so it now resembled a beginner’s kit from the children’s section of a department store.
As Sean commenced filming, he was amazed how many people he’d never seen before suddenly appeared from nowhere. He approached Boyd. ‘How is the band going to fill in ninety minutes for the gig tomorrow night?’
‘They'll play their first–‘
‘–and only–‘
‘–album, I suppose, twice.’
‘With long guitar solos?’
Trevor interrupted. ‘But we don't have a guitarist.’
Deb pointed to the older groupies standing around in awe of Trevor and his diminished drum kit. ‘What about one those, those things from the support band filling in?’
Boyd turned towards Sean. ‘Um ...’
‘I knew they weren’t!’ As Deb stormed off, she nearly dislodged the backstage curtain.
Trevor held up his hands. ‘And I won't be doing any drum solos with my arthritis.’
Sean moved his camera back towards Boyd. ‘What about an encore?’
‘Will they get one?’ Mitch sniggered.
Boyd shrugged. ‘If that does happen, they'll have to play some songs for a third time.’
‘I've written a song I want to play solo,’ said Nigel.
‘So have I!’ Cockles was equally excited.
‘Me too!’ added the arthritic drummer.
‘Shit!’ They all turned to Mitch, who was reading a text message on his phone. He grabbed Sean’s arm, moved away to a corner of the green, and whispered. ‘Dusty says that Twitter is going berserk. People want to know which of the band is Deb's father.’
Deb stomped back towards Sean and Mitch. ‘If you wanted to know that, you could've asked me!’ She then flounced away again.
Mitch frantically followed her. ‘I’m asking now … Please, Deb! … Who is it?’ With the microphone attached to Sean’s camera, Mitch knew he couldn’t move too far too quickly, so he turned to Trevor. ‘Are you Deb’s father?’
‘Nah, I was impotent for most of the '70s. Drug-induced.’
‘Was it you?’ Mitch moved the microphone towards Nigel.
‘I remember having a vasectomy around then.’ Nigel turned to Cockles. ‘And he went through a phase then as a transsexual.’
‘Did I?’
‘That's why we called you Cock-less.’
Cockles nodded. ‘Aaahhh, now I get it.’
Gladys leered and winked as she shuffled past. ‘I happen to know that's not true now!’
Tangled together electronically, Sean and Mitch moved in tandem to Deb, who was still seething. ‘So is your father the other one? The one who killed himself?’
Deb glowered at Mitch. ‘Oscar did not kill himself. And while trying to dig up rubbish about my father you missed the big story.’
Mitch gulped. ‘What big story?’
Deb expounded with outstretched arms. ‘A story loaded with everything. Murder, drugs, suicide, deceit and hanging baskets.’
Mitch glanced skywards and mouthed “thank you”.
‘And don’t pretend you believe in God!’ Deb snatched the microphone from Mitch and swivelled to face Sean’s video camera.
‘So,’ said Mitch, ‘please tell us who your father is?’
Deb glanced at the camera again and gulped.
* * * * *
Across Australia – and, increasingly, in dozens of other countries with subtitles – people had been watching the last few days in their entirety live online through the RealiTV website and on TV channels which had bought rights to the broadcast. Hundreds of fans worldwide had set up a myriad of Facebook and Twitter pages in various languages, and thousands more had illegally uploaded selected clips from the webcast on to YouTube.
One of these fanatics was Jed from Farrell Flat, not far away in South Australia. He was stuck at home watching another idiotic cooking program on TV with his dreary parents. But like all modern-day kids, Jed’s hand and eyes were glued to his phone. ‘Yeah. Who is the father? Tell us, Deb!’
Jed’s parents gazed at him uncomprehendingly as he re-tweeted.
* * * * *
Sean studied his phone and whispered to Mitch. ‘The tweets are flooding in!’
Mitch risked pushing Deb a little harder. ‘And please tell us also what happened to Oscar?’
* * * * *
In Albury-Wodonga, a twin town straddling the border between Victoria and New South Wales, several mid-level clerks at the Australian Taxation Office piled into the canteen to buy subsidised burgers and to yell at a computer screen.
‘What happened to Deb?’
‘Was Oscar murdered?’
‘Tell us!’
‘C’mon!’
* * * * *
Sean continued to scroll down his phone. ‘And, Mitch, the tweets are getting angrier.’
Deb took a deep breath and faced the video camera. ‘All will be revealed at the gig tomorrow night.’
Mitch's phone immediately rang. He checked the ID and whispered to Sean. ‘Shit, it's the boss.’ Mitch coughed several times and put on his everything’s-under-control voice. ‘Hi, Dusty. I’m–’
‘Listen, Mitch. I'm sending two extra cameramen with quality recording gear right now. They'll drive overnight to wherever the hell you are. Our webcast – “Deb & The Sweat” – is going ultra-mega-viral across every country on the planet, like nothing else since that film clip of that python eating that panda. And we’ve syndicated the rights to hundreds of TV channels from Mongolia to Mesopotamia.’
‘I don’t think that’s actually a–‘
‘So, we’re going to stream the concert by the old farts and Deb's revelations live all night tomorrow. Mitch, this is like MTV and Big Brother and those idiotic Australian Idol shows all combined into one. And with as much cringiness as people can stand.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Wednesday
As the sun dipped below the unexpectedly gloomy clouds hovering above the dusty landscape, Sean led the two cameramen from RealiTV to the stage set up on the bowling green. The string of lights dangling overhead created an eerie glow as Deb’s favourite “Best of the ‘70s” record was being blasted through speakers attached to a turntable in her shop. A tatty black curtain strung between two light poles served as the “backstage” area.
Outside the bowling club shed, Madge was busily selling toasted sandwiches at inflated prices to a crowd that had somehow tripled the town’s population. Nearby, Dave was peddling warm beer from a tubful of ice, and Cyril was inside his casket propping up part of the drum kit.
The toilets at the back had been converted into the “dressing room”. Inside, the band was dressed in the same sort of outfits they wore when they arrived several days ago: Trevor in black heavy-metal gear, Nigel dressed as a punk, and Cockles donned with flamboyant disco-era flares and florals.
Trevor was preening himself in front of the greasy mirror and combing his hair, but looking rather confused. Inside the only cubicle, Cockles was practising his new song on an unplugged electric guitar. ‘Dust bowl, hell hole … No place to rock 'n’ roll. So slow, can't go … But have to stay and play the show.’
‘That does sound a tad familiar,’ said Nigel, as he tried yanking on a pair of leather trousers three sizes too small.
Just outside, Sean shuddered as he strode past a number of older women all tarted up and queuing outside the band’s “dressing room”.
With trousers around his ankles, Nigel turned towards the door
as it clunked. He spread out his arms, and grinned inanely. ‘Come to Papa, little lady … Oh, I thought you were a groupie.’
Sean closed his handy-cam. ‘I think you might be glad it was me.’
Nigel banged on the cubicle door. ‘Cockles. Stop bloody playing in there. I need a pee!’
Sean immediately checked his surroundings, stepped outside to examine the wall, and came back in. ‘You do realise that you guys are in the ladies’ toilet?’
‘Oh.’ Nigel peered around. ‘That would explain the lack of urinal.’
‘… and all the women lined up outside.’ Sean sniggered.
Mitch burst into the “dressing room” and stared at Nigel with his bare legs, now crossed a little impatiently. ‘The band is on stage in five minutes!’ He turned to Sean. ‘Have you seen Deb?’
‘No.’
‘God, where is she?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since this morning.’
Mitch paused as he realised they were in the ladies. ‘But Deb is the star of the show!’
‘But I thought we were the–!‘ shouted Cockles through the cubicle door.
‘Ha!’ Mitch stormed out of the “dressing room” and entered the “backstage” area, where the “road crew” and “support band” were doing nothing, and Bob and Jack were trying to look serious as the self-appointed “security officers”.
Mitch gulped as he scrolled through the latest series of tweets on his phone.
Get on with it, you idiots. Where's Deb?
C'mon you bastards. Put Deb on. She rocks!
Who the bloody hell is Deb's father? We wanna know!
We don't wanna see the old farts play. They’re ugly and boring and crap.
Deb, tell us what happened to Oscar! We have to know! Now!!
Mitch clicked a few keys on his phone and started viewing the live webcast on the RealiTV website. Noticing a camera angle that now included him, he sneered at Sean, who was approaching with his video camera. ‘Where the frigging hell is Deb?’
‘I’ve asked around.’ Sean looked fearful. ‘And no-one’s seen her all day.’
Mitch silently screamed an obscenity as the band and their manager strolled into the “backstage” area.
‘It's time to start the gig.’ Boyd peered around anxiously. ‘Where's Deb?’
‘I don't frigging know!’ Mitch wished the “backstage” had a wall he could thump.
‘Do you think something's happened to her?’ Sean whispered behind his hand to ensure he wasn’t recorded.
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