GPSimone
Page 3
Belinda kicked the knife out of his hand, her slipper hitting higher and harder than any service guideline would allow. That is, should an incident report ever be filed. “Look, idiot. It’s dogfood.” She loomed over Mac and he struck out with his fist. She seized the mangled plastic wrapper from his hand and twisted it towards his face.
“See the dog?”
He dropped his eyes, looked down on the face of a happy, fluffy mutt.
“That’s you, doggie,” she said. “You’re disgusting.”
“Not! Not!”
“You are. You’re a dirty dog of a man. You’re all the same.”
Mac reached for the knife. She scooped it up, dangling it above his head as he swiped and swung at her legs. She tossed it on top of the pantry, laughing, triumphant. She grabbed him by the arm and hauled him to his feet as he bared his teeth and scratched at her.
“Ow! I’m gonna get you for that.” She held up her wrist, a red line already welling with blood. A door creaked nearby, then a tentative voice: “What’s wrong?”
“Matthew Elliott, get back to bed.” She waited for the clunk of the door, then she dragged her least favourite client to the bathroom.
***
The baby was asleep on Brent’s lap. His eyes were heavy as he typed a few lines.
HoldenU_tight: Come on Bin r u there??
HoldenU_tight: Take a joke darlin
HoldenU_tight: I was just havin fun with ya
HoldenU_tight: Last call… …
He rose from the bed, carefully cradling the infant. He shut down the computer and closed the lid.
***
Mac sat hunched on a shower chair. Belinda held one of his shoulders and with the other hand she hosed him, pumping it hard and cold. He winced up at her, hatred in his eyes.
“I hate you too,” she said. “I hate you more than worms and cockroaches.”
“Puk op.”
“I hope you and your Mum get buried alive in steaming animal crap.”
“Not!”
“Who does she think she is, flagging me to the Management Committee? Sending in spies to apply for jobs now, does she think I’m stupid?”
“Ah! Ah!”
“You tell that nosy rag I was here before all of yous and I’ll be here when you’re dead and gone. Go on, say it.” She picked up his hand and forced him to sign.
Mac reached around, grabbed the keyring and wrenched it hard.
She pushed the nozzle into his face and water flooded his nose and throat. He sputtered and released his grip.
“Don’t you ever think about my child,” she said.
He dropped his shoulder and twisted his arm free, stretching a hand to pinch the fat behind her armpit. As she leaned away to dislodge his fingers, she glimpsed in the mirror. She stared for a moment at her terrible reflection.
With all the muscle in his squat little legs, Mac rose to his feet and shoved. Belinda’s eyes bulged as she slipped across the wet floor. She teetered backwards and her feet slid from beneath her. As she toppled over and swung down, crack! her head met the enamel bath.
She slithered sideways onto the tiles. A grid of dark blood seeped across the grout.
“Ah!” Mac was jubilant as he made a lumbering dash for the exit.
Slip! Skid! Thud! he came a gutser and twisted as he fell, landing on his back, face-up on top of his tormentor. He strained and flailed but like an upturned beetle he could not right himself. He tried and tried and then he surrendered, his breath slowing, blinking up at the mouldy ceiling. Then, a familiar voice nearby: “Crikey!”
He shifted helplessly, trying to look around. “Ah!”
“You’ve hooked yourself a big mama there, mate,” said the voice. “Look at the size of her!”
Mac gazed up at the Crocodile Hunter, standing over the pair in his famous croc-taunting position. “Come on, matey. You know what to do.”
“Ah! Ah!” Mac reached back, wriggled around and grasped Belinda’s sides. He heaved and rocked and whump! he rolled them over. Belinda was on top. “Good onya, little man. You show her who’s boss,” said the Crocodile Hunter.
Whump! They rolled again.
Mac pushed off with his bare feet and wiggled himself along Belinda’s body. He rolled over and crawled across the floor towards the waste-bin. His arms worked fast, faster than ever, to tear the plastic liner from the bin.
“Now you gotta settle her down, with a minimum of fuss,” said the Crocodile Hunter. Mac crawled back to Belinda and pulled the bag tightly over her head.
“That’s right, get her in there.”
The thin film puffed out as Belinda rose to consciousness, adrenalin pumping, clawing at him.
“Not. Not. Not.” He tightened the bag and waited. Her hands weakened and slowed. Slowed. Weakened. Slowed.
They fell away, empty and limp.
“Don’t forget the most important thing,” said the Crocodile Hunter. He held up a chubby white doll. Of course, Baby Bob! The Crocodile Hunter had dangled his baby son in front of a crocodile to tease the animal and excite the crowd. Mac was watching the show at the zoo that day and it thrilled him like nothing before. “Ah. Ah. Ah!” He tugged at the keychain on Belinda’s waistband, struggling to unclip it.
“Persistence, buddy. Where there’s a will there’s a way.”
Mac kneeled at Belinda’s feet, pulled up the nightie and tore off her leggings.
***
Brent dialled a number. It rang and rang. “Come on!”
In the office at Walden Close, Belinda’s phone cast a forlorn glow across the walls as it twanged out a Cold Chisel tune. “Bin! Binna! Phone!” called Ellen from across the hall, but there was no-one to tell her to be quiet.
***
Brent cruised along the highway, glancing in the mirror to check on Molly. She was content in the car seat, fingers curled around a warm bottle. Behind her the sunrise was glorious.
Mac sat in the driver’s seat of the Commodore. His backpack was stuffed under his rear and he could just see the dashboard, piled high with stolen wallets and keys. He leaned all the way forward and turned the ignition key, the saggy leggings dangling like a caught fish.
Growl! The V8 came to life.
Crunch! He tried to put the car in reverse. It jumped forward, backward.
“Not. Not.” He couldn’t work this gear thing out.
Roar! The car leapt into reverse and tore down the driveway, back end first.
Screech! The neighbours woke to metal on metal as the car ripped along the side of the parked minivan.
“Ah! Ah!”
The car sped off in reverse. Onto the street, along the road and up the gutter.
Crash! The Commodore plowed backwards into the lovely brick home at 28 Walden Close.
***
Brent thought it odd, all the neighbours standing on the street at dawn. He swung his car into the driveway at Number 19.
He jumped from the car, charged through the front door and stuck his head into the office: Belinda’s phone was alone on the desk, pulsing with missed calls. He ran through the house, throwing open doors. “Bin!”
He reached the kitchen and took in the scene: Coke on the floor, food everywhere. Ellen opened her bedroom door, one eye peering through the crack. “Mac naughty boy.”
“Stay in there, Ellen.” He thundered down the hall to Mac’s room. Nobody there. He pushed open the bathroom door and it was there he found his wife. His other half, his playmate. Dead on the floor.
He fell to his knees and tore the plastic from Belinda’s face. Mac appeared in the doorway, bleeding from a head wound. He was smiling, holding little Molly, awkward and heavy in his arms.
“Put her down,” Brent said.
“Not. Not.”
“Drop that baby and I’ll kill ya.”
Mac stood confused, lost in the grammar.
“Siddown!” Brent pushed down on Belinda’s sternum, pumping fast and hard. He bent his lips to his wife’s and he b
lew into her mouth.
He grimaced and pulled away, his fingers falling from her nostrils and curling against her cold blue lips.
He sat back and regarded Mac, perched on the side of the bath, cradling Molly. The baby was gazing up at him as he stared down at her. Something was blooming inside the boy-man, not a question but an answer.
“She’s not your baby, Mac.”
“Ah!”
“I said not,” he said. “She’s not your baby.”
Mac’s face was defiant.
“Being a father isn’t about getting a stiffy,” Brent said. “Any dickhead can do that.”
“Ah! Ah!”
“Yeah, you did, I know you bloody did.” From a distance came the wail of police sirens and the sympathetic howl of backyard dogs. “I might not have any little swimmers but I’m the one who takes care of her and puts a roof over her head. That means she’s my daughter, you understand me?”
A knock sounded. Ellen’s voice was sunny as she threw open the front door. “Morning! Mac naughty boy!”
“Hello. Is anyone else home?”
“We need an ambulance!” Brent turned to Mac and lowered his voice. “Keep your mouth shut, or I’ll take her away and you’ll never see her again.”
“Ah.” Mac nodded, beaming down at the baby in his arms. A trickle of blood dripped from his scalp onto her tiny, naked head.
******
About The Author
Born and raised in Sydney’s outer west, Nicola Rain Jordan lives on the border between New South Wales and Queensland. She has an MA in Scriptwriting from Australia’s national film school. Her debut novel The Spider Wasp is coming in late 2011. You can find her at her blog and on Twitter.