‘I knew my prayers was gonna be answered!’ Pretty Mary exclaimed. ‘Our Old People are watching down and they’re proper happy with you, my son. Praise God!’
‘Why not praise Biame up if you gotta be praising any god?’ asked Ken, who was getting more cultural by the day.
‘How ’bout praise my big black dot,’ Kerry snapped, still dirty about the funeral money. ‘Or Black Superman’s. Anyway, don’t count ya chickens, Mum.’
‘This prison business was never in the cards,’ Pretty Mary answered insouciantly, ‘and I gotta good feeling ’bout this QC fella.’
‘Chickens!’ said Steve, jumping up to retrieve the forgotten chooks from the kitchen. Sav cleared a few plates, then quickly followed him into the house, Kerry noticed with displeasure. When Steve re-emerged a minute later she assessed him carefully for evidence of infidelity. But he looked at Kerry then rolled his eyes at Sav with a horrified expression. Kerry frowned hard, shuttup man, shuttup! If Sav had been coming on, Steve needed to keep his mouth well and truly closed. The fucking roof would come off if Ken found out. But luckily Ken was distracted by an arm wrestle between Chris and Josh.
‘I’ll verse the winner,’ he announced, lacing his fingers together and flexing his arms above his head.
The party clustered around to see the young men have it out. Cousin Chris was bulky, but Josh was a chippie who also lifted four times a week at the NCIE, and in the end it was Chris’s hand that got slammed onto the table top. But Josh’s triumph was short-lived.
‘Fuck, I’ve pulled something,’ he said, bending over and clasping his arm. Annoyed, Ken looked around. It was no good versing the injured loser. What would that prove?
‘You give us a go, Scotsman,’ he demanded of Steve, who declined with a smile.
‘You know I’ll win, that’s why, hey?’ Ken teased. ‘Whitefellas can’t never stand losing to a black man …’
‘I’ve got a big match coming up, bro. I can’t risk getting injured,’ Steve said mildly. ‘But after that, sure, I’ll show ya how to arm wrestle, if ya want a lesson.’
Ken snorted and went looking for a match among the pub strays instead. Kerry carefully assessed her brother’s mood. Clearly still on a high from selling the cars and providing the lamb, Ken had let several things slide that afternoon. He hadn’t reacted when Donny cheeked him. Even a dispute about Brandon being made to see a white psychologist twice a week – the condition of him remaining free – had seen Ken mocking rather than enraged. Kerry took another mouthful of liquor and stood up. It was time to try and get Black Superman alone and talk to him about Donna.
~
The kids stuffed themselves with lamb and chips and birthday cake, played Grand Theft Auto at Aunty Val’s, then circled back for a second crack at the cake and the plastic pool. Chris cranked up Chisel and played along on his six-string, accompanied by Zippo banging away with drumsticks on an old Mazda engine, his grey dreads flying in an attempt to impress Pretty Mary. Brandon whinged so long and so expertly that Kerry caved in and took him for a burn on the Harley, which of course meant that all the kids then needed a ride. After Kerry dropped off the last grinning passenger, she threw caution to the winds, gunning the Hog in a wheelie along Mount Monk Road past the front gate, to the whooping and cheering of the entire party. That was the best thing about Pretty Mary’s, no neighbours. You could let rip.
With the bike parked under the house, and the spit roast officially over, the adults settled back, full of tucker and goodwill, to yarn. From time to time Chris and Zippo disappeared into the van with some of the pub strays and re-emerged red-eyed and coughing, grinning at the world that had become that little bit easier to take. Kerry was delighted to see the bucket bong in action. If things did kick off Chris would be that much less inclined to punch on in support of Ken, and that much less competent if he did. Smoke up, cuz, she thought, get stuck into it. For herself she had decided to just nurse her Stolly. No yarndi for her today. Cos loose lips sink shits. Ships. Get a grip, Kez. She checked the level. Third of a bottle left. Not sober, but not legless neither. Loooong way from legless, girl, she told herself, looongest way, suddenly remembering that she had planned to get, and then stay, sober. Oh well. She would slow down a bit. But Ken was still as happy as Larry, anyways. Thought he was some rich cunt now. Biggest hotshot businessman cos he sold two cars, yeah, good go.
‘Niece! Don’t get me started on Father O,’ said Aunty Tall Mary to Kerry, with a doubtful side-eye at Steve to see if he was worthy of the yarn. ‘Remember about the time he locked ya Pop in the morgue?’
‘Get away!’ Kerry answered, startled. It made her uneasy to realise how little she knew of her grandfather’s life. In her memory Pop had always been part of the furniture, first living briefly in the house, and then exiled to the van because of his legendary snoring, and perhaps, truth be told, in punishment for his gambling as well. But just because you live with someone as a child doesn’t mean you know them.
‘Truesgod. You’ve heard what the Rivertown mish was like.’ Aunty Tall Mary raised her eyebrows dramatically. Kerry nodded. There were so many horror stories. ‘Terrible cruel, under Father O. He was a mongrel, not like Father Morrison was. Well, this one weekend they reckon your Pop visited old Uncle Shorty Henderson on the mish, see, and talk about bold! He’d not long come back from Queensland with that Silver Gloves trophy, all of fourteen, and Pop thought he was as good as any man, black, white or brindle. He give that much lip to Father O, knuckled up to him and all, they reckon! Father cracked the shits. He woulda bin thinking, right, I’ll fix this cheeky little half-caste. So Father grabs him by the collar and slings him into the morgue, onetime.’ Aunty Tall Mary swung her arms in demonstration. Clapped her hands, loud way. ‘Locked the door. Left him there all night on his own.’
‘Are you serious!’ said Sav, horrified.
‘Truesgod,’ claimed Aunty Tall Mary. Beside her, Pretty Mary nodded.
‘Father O left him in there with the dingoes howling and the wind whistling off the range through them old slab walls.’ Tall Mary’s voice dropped to a dramatic whisper. ‘There was dead bodies in there, too, bub, a mum and a newborn who’d passed away before the doctor bothered to come out from Yamba. Left him in there with em all night. Eeyah, look your man – he got biggest eye, la!’
Aghast, Steve was looking to Kerry to confirm that Aunty Tall Mary was pulling his leg. Everybody laughed.
‘Nah, that’d be right,’ was all Kerry said, taking another mouthful of vodka, drowning the arsehole missionaries, drowning every white genocidal dog up to and including Jim Buckley, and drowning her non-texting, non-phoning gammon coconut of a sister while she was at it.
‘So next morning they unlocks the morgue. Father O says to him, ya gonna give me any more lip, son? In front of the whole mish, mind you. And your Pop just went, I dunno, Father, am I? But he said it sorta weird, not being cheeky, more like he really didn’t know the answer himself. And his hair had gone all white here,’ Tall Mary touched her temples, ‘at fourteen. But afterwards, when Pop come good, it turned out he had very little fear left. They done their worst and he survived. And them old Uncles on the mish, Uncle Robbie and Uncle Tony and them, Pop told them he felt the spirit of Death go into him that night. He took it real serious, too.’
Hair stood up on several brown arms.
‘That’s …’ Kerry shook her head, but whether at the missionaries’ cruelty or her Pop’s conversion wasn’t clear. It was a hell of a story, if it was even half true.
‘I don’t know that he ever come good really,’ Pretty Mary chimed in. ‘Pop always said it made him responsible for a lot of vengeance, having that spirit in him. For the massacres. Stolen ones, too, when they died, their spirits flying around looking for a safe place to rest on their own countries. Well, he was stolen himself, see. It tormented him all his born days that he couldn’t name his true country, the shame of it haunted hi
m. No wonder he drank.’
Behind Pretty Mary, Black Superman curled his lip and twirled a finger beside his right ear. Womba, he meant. Black Superman firmly believed that their grandfather had been driven as silly as a two-bob watch by missionary brutality, and had taken it out on the rest of them.
Kerry sat, pondering what it would be like to be locked up all night with dead bodies at fourteen. It would change the course of your life. Would be the making of you, or the ruination. And then not long after, Pop was sent to work for Cracker Nunne. Jesus wept.
‘But that’s dugai culture for ya, eh?’ Aunty Tall Mary added, with another significant glance at Steve. ‘Hurting people, locking little kids up with dead bodies! All their evil ways.’
‘Father Morrison was different,’ Pretty Mary began.
‘Speaking of vengeance,’ Ken interrupted her from where he was scraping the barbecue plate clean, ‘anyone seen the mayoral pig dog lately?’
Pretty Mary frowned. Beside her, Black Superman stiffened.
‘No need to look like that, Mum,’ Ken said airily. ‘Old mate might be getting a taste of his own medicine, is all. He wants to keep a closer eye on his property if he doesn’t want it getting damaged.’
‘Whaddya mean, “damaged”?’ asked Black Superman in a hard voice, swinging around to check that Brandon was still playing in the pool.
‘I just mean a little bit improved, bruz,’ Ken lowered his eyelids. ‘Don’t stress, ya fucken great pussy, I didn’t hurt it. Well, not much.’
‘You know Brandon nearly went to juvey today for animal cruelty, donchya?’ Black Superman’s deep-set eyes glittered angrily. ‘I don’t need him hearing that hurting animals is some big fucking joke, bud.’
‘Brandon needs a good belting,’ Ken snapped. ‘That’ll smarten his act up real quick. Spare the rod and spoil the child.’ He gave the barbecue plate another spray with Ajax and sipped at his drink.
Black Superman stared at his brother, nostrils flaring. Oh, here we go, thought Kerry, clutching her Stolly by the neck. There was a quarter bottle left, but she’d gladly sacrifice it if necessary.
‘Fuck me gently. You think Brandon’s been spared the rod, do ya?’ Black Superman rolled his eyes in contempt. Kerry frowned and flapped a wrist. Leave it, bruz. He’s charged up. No good arguing with drunks, you know that. But Black Superman was too wild to leave off.
‘That kid’s had the shit bashed outta him since he was in nappies, brah. Any junkie what come through that crack house coulda done Christ knows what to him and his sister, and on top of that his poxy stepfather kept a length of garden hose handy to flog em with. I seen the photos with me own eyes – five years old with fucking haematomas all over him. Maybe ya wanna think about that before dishing out fucken free advice on fucken child-rearing.’
‘Nyorn, poor little bugger,’ Kerry said in horror. ‘That’s too cruel.’
‘Shocken cruel,’ agreed Chris, deeply disgusted. ‘Anybody done that to my kid, they’d be shark shit the next day.’
‘Any juhm, Mum?’ Ken asked as though Black Superman hadn’t said a word. Pretty Mary tossed a cigarette to him. Ken lit it with the barbecue lighter.
‘We gotta protect our jahjams,’ Aunty Tall Mary burst out, slapping her palm on the arm of her chair. ‘Dugais going and hurting our kids like that!’
‘These are blackfellas I’m talking about, Aunty.’ Black Superman swung around. ‘No good pretending. This is some of our own mob.’
‘Well, then it was dugais what taught them how to do it.’ Tall Mary’s eyes flashed in rage. ‘You know what they’ve done to us mob. It’s all gotta come out somewhere.’
‘Yes, of course it’s trauma. But that’s no excuse, eh,’ Black Superman said sharply. He was sick to the marrow of hearing people defend the indefensible, or deny it even existed, when the evidence was right there, clear for anyone to see. ‘What matters is what we do for our jahjams now. About breaking the cycle.’
‘They wanna be tied to a tree and flogged,’ Ken announced. ‘Black, white or brindle. Fucking junkie scum.’ Beside him Sav nodded in vigorous agreement.
‘Cos more violence is the answer,’ said Kerry.
Ken squinted at her.
‘Got a better idea, do ya, smartarse? Our Old Law says you do wrong, ya pay the penalty. People going around bashing little kids, it’s fucking criminal.’
This from the bloke who ten seconds ago had proposed flogging Brandon into submission. And what exactly, Kerry wondered, did the Old Law say about stealing from Elders? From your own mother? Standing over old people for their pensions, humbugging your sister for her last two dollars? Don’t wanna talk Law there, I bet.
Kerry was ready to gamble that having Steve nearby was enough insurance to ask these questions when loud wailing erupted from the pool, and her bladder contracted in fear. Black Superman shot out of his seat like he’d been fired from a rifle and hurtled over, closely followed by Josh, Kerry and Pretty Mary. All the kids were screaming by the time Black Superman seized Dr No by the upper arms and swung him out onto the lawn, away from the jagged glass glinting beneath the shallow water of the pool. Ken winced and went to stand under the house next to Elvis. The sound of kids in pain touched a raw nerve in him; it always made him want to hit out, and do something – anything – to stop it. Ken turned away from the party and focused instead on untangling Elvis’s chain, wrapped multiple times around a concrete house pillar. He did his best to pretend nothing was wrong, took a last draw on Pretty Mary’s durrie, and waited, nerves jangling, for the screaming to stop.
‘Stand real still, youse kids!’ Black Superman ordered as he checked Dr No for damage. ‘Nobody move a muscle.’ Satisfied that the child’s cut wasn’t serious, he handed Dr No to Sav, then reached into the pool to carefully retrieve three jagged pieces of a broken Bundaberg rum bottle. While the other kids held still, obediently frozen in place, Lub Lub broke free. She stumbled out of the pool and fled onto the lawn, where she squatted, shaking and sobbing.
‘Sissy, wait!’
Brandon broke away after her, dived onto the ground and bundled his sister into his arms. Lub Lub’s teeth were chattering, but her reaction wasn’t from the cold, Kerry thought, snatching a dry towel off the Hills hoist to wrap around the kid. She examined each small brown limb under the spotlight. Everything seemed in order.
‘What’s wrong, bubba?’ she asked repeatedly with a hand gentle on the kid’s back. But Lub Lub kept sobbing against her brother’s chest. Kerry gestured to Donny to bring Elvis over from beneath the house. Where humanity failed, the animals would cut through. Elvis wagged his half-a-tail at Lub Lub and bumped her face with his moist black stub of a nose. Her wailing grew a little less frantic.
‘You’re not bleeding, baby,’ Kerry reassured Lub Lub. ‘And Dr No’s just got the one cut, it’s not too bad. You’re not hurt, sweetie, you’re okay.’
‘It’s not that,’ Brandon said. ‘It’s the smell of the rum. It frightens her.’
‘Seeing grog wasted has the same effect on me,’ Uncle Neil wisecracked. ‘I cried meself to sleep for a week last time I broke a longneck!’
But Pretty Mary was more sombre. ‘Poor baby. She’s seen too many grog parties.’
‘Wanna give her to me, bud?’ said Black Superman, squatting down with his arms extended.
Brandon shook his head. ‘Fuck off!’
Black Superman nodded. ‘I know you wanna look after sissy, bud. But she’ll be safe with me.’ After a long uncertain moment, Brandon relaxed his grip on Lub Lub, whose sobbing had subsided to an intense snivelling.
‘Good lad,’ Black Superman said, squeezing Brandon’s shoulder. He stood and carried the whimpering girl to sit with him on the veranda, where he wiped her face gently with unused napkins and talked to her about Elvis, about kindy, about anything other than the smell of rum and what it conjured up. Directly below them, u
nderneath the house, Lub Lub’s misery grated on Ken like fingernails on a blackboard. It was all he could do to stop from jamming his fingers in his ears like a kid himself. Ridiculous! He was a grown man, for Christ’s sake – why let a howling kid affect him? Ken clenched his fists and resolved to ignore it. Then he looked into the yard to see Donny chucking the busted glass into the wheelie bin. Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle went thirty-six dollars’ worth of Bundy, gone now to the shit. He hadn’t even opened the bloody bottle. And – with fast-rising irritation – what genius had put it in the pool in the first place? Rum didn’t need cooling down. Any moron knew that.
‘Get ya shit in a pile, son, and get the rest of em outta the pool!’ Ken yelled in sudden rage. Donny flinched. Then he obediently started removing the remaining drinks from beneath the feet of the remaining kids, lining the dripping bottles and UDLs up along the trestle table. Ken exhaled loudly.
‘Are you a fucking moron? Get them kids outta there!’ he growled. ‘The grog isn’t gonna bust itself, is it?’
Donny sighed. Without answering, he shooed the kids away, and methodically began returning the cans to the pool.
In his sanctuary beneath the house, Ken stood next to the Harley, brooding over his losses.
Chapter Fifteen
The breaking of the bottle marked a turning point in the mood of the party. The kids, rattled by Lub Lub’s reaction, grew fractious. They began arguing over nothing, needing attention every minute or two. The adults never recovered the easy pleasure of the yarning circle, and as the night wore on Ken grew more and more aggrieved about the lost rum. Kerry stopped checking her phone. She focused instead on helping Black Superman and Josh manage the kids. It was obvious that Donna had played her for a sucker. The question now was what to do about it, and for that she needed her brother’s counsel. But the kids weren’t making it easy. It was nearly ten and somehow Kerry still hadn’t found the right time and place to unburden herself.
Too Much Lip Page 22