Too Much Lip

by Melissa Lucashenko

  ‘I might take my lot back to the motel,’ Black Superman said in exasperation after separating Brandon and Rosie, feuding over the trampoline, for the third time in ten minutes. His handsome face was haggard, and there were prominent rings beneath his bloodshot eyes. ‘Brandon, start packing up, buddy.’

  ‘Hang on,’ Kerry hesitated. ‘There’s something I’ve been trying to tell ya all day.’

  Her brother turned to her with bone-deep weariness etched into his face. His shoulders, normally square and upright, slumped like those of an old, old man. Kerry saw how deep her brother had had to dig that week to keep Brandon at home and out of the clutches of Childstealers. He had met the challenge, but now her brother was a shell of his real self. He drew her aside.

  ‘Sis, they reckon Brandon’s got signs of schizophrenia. Like, saying all this weird shit, that he wasn’t killing the cat, he was killing his stepfather. And so now Josh is freaking out about it all, he doesn’t know if he’s up for being a parent, and I’m kinda freaking out too … So can it please just wait?’

  ‘Schizophrenia – what a load of bullshit!’ snapped Ken, overhearing. ‘All these fucking headshrinkers want to get their hands on our jahjams and give em fucking stupid labels. Don’t call him womba, that’s what they fucking want us to think. Like we’re the problem! All he needs is some time in the bush, away from them screens.’

  ‘They’re not saying he’s womba,’ Black Superman answered wearily, bending to put the kids’ clothes into their bags. ‘They just reckon he needs more help, that’s all. And any time you wanna pick up some of the load and take him bush, brother, just say the word, cos I’m fucking exhausted. I’m going back to the motel, soon as we say goodbye to Mum.’

  A sharp wail came from Rosie, who had been shoved off the trampoline yet again.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, knock that orf!’ Black Superman exploded, hoiking the kids’ bags onto his shoulders. ‘Get in the bloody car, that’s it, we’re going.’

  Kerry stood, trapped into silence.

  ‘Okay,’ she said, turning away with great reluctance. ‘I’ll tell ya in the morning.’

  ~

  When Kerry went inside the house, a card game was in full swing. She pulled up a kitchen chair and Pretty Mary dealt her a hand.

  ‘I’ve still got them old dresses of Taneesha’s that’d fit Lub Lub,’ Pretty Mary went on, having just announced her intention of taking the kids off Black Superman’s hands. ‘Sixty-five’s not too old, not with the dort here now to help me out …’

  Kerry made a horrified face at Steve. Appearing in the doorway, Black Superman shrugged, too tired to argue the merits of Pretty Mary’s proposal. Possibly not even wanting to. Would he really give the kids up? Kerry suddenly recalled the dance troupe Black Superman had abandoned after their third public performance, and the way Ken had had to step in when coaching the under-elevens basketball had become tedious to Black Superman part way through the 2002 season.

  ‘We’re off,’ Black Superman broke in, leaning down to kiss Pretty Mary on the cheek. ‘Happy birthday, ya old duck. See ya tomorrow.’ He disappeared quietly down the stairs.

  ‘Haven’t you raised enough jahjams for other people, my sister?’ Aunty Tall Mary asked, recalling various foster kids Pretty Mary had given a roof to over the years. She picked up two jacks. ‘You really want more kids to make more heartache for you?’

  ‘Oh, don’t beat around the bush, Aunty,’ said Kerry, offended. ‘Say what ya really mean.’

  ‘They’s our mob. And anyway, the only real heartache I ever had come from Donna,’ Pretty Mary declared. Kerry sprayed a mouthful of vodka all over the kitchen table and roared with incredulous laughter. Steve grinned. Kerry had recently made a game of listing Pretty Mary’s complaints about her before falling asleep in bed at night. So far the list was up to one hundred and two specific transgressions against Pretty Mary personally, the family in general, or both.

  ‘Can I quote ya on that? Can I have it in writing?’ Kerry goggled.

  ‘You might of buggered off and hardly ever come back to see us. But at least ya not a crazy bitch going around stabbing people with scissors,’ said Ken, flicking an ace into the middle of the table. No matter how drunk Ken got, his card-playing skills never seemed to leave him, even with Sav sat on his lap, grinding her arse in an effort to get his attention. ‘You’re just a slack cunt. Donna, she was as fucking mad as a cut snake. Jesus, can ya knock off, Sav!’ He pushed her away. Sav went and stood to one side of the card game, her arms crossed, sulking. Then she very gradually began edging her way closer to Steve.

  ‘Don’t talk about my daughter like that!’ frowned Pretty Mary, though whether it was Ken’s vehement accusations or his use of the past tense that bothered her wasn’t entirely clear.

  ‘Ya can’t polish a turd, Mum,’ said Ken, collecting the cards from the centre of the table and shuffling. ‘And ya can’t go around stabbing old people and then make out like there ain’t some serious fucking mental health issues there.’

  ‘So hang on, let me get this straight. Donna’s a womba bitch cos she stabbed Pop, but Brandon’s not crazy, after nearly drowning an animal the other day?’ Kerry challenged, made brave by vodka and the bulk of Steve behind her at the sink. Donna had seemed many things to her that morning but crazy wasn’t one of them. She grew sarcastic. ‘Oh, that’s right. I forgot. Women are always crazy when we don’t do what men want.’

  ‘You haven’t got a clue.’ Ken’s scowl from across the table clearly said: Shut up now. Or else you really are crazy.

  ‘And yet somehow you magically know it all. You realise calling someone crazy is control-freak shit, eh?’ Kerry hit back.

  ‘Not if they really are crazy …’ Savannah muttered.

  ‘You mob wanna all stop calling my daughter crazy,’ snapped Pretty Mary, losing her temper. ‘Nobody’s crazy!’ Arguable, thought Kerry, but kept it to herself.

  Ken gazed at his sister as he tapped ash off his cigarette, and then he grew very still. Everyone in the room recognised this stillness. It was the calm before the storm. Sav froze. Pretty Mary and Tall Mary exchanged a look.

  ‘Your deal, Ken,’ prompted Pretty Mary optimistically. Ken ignored her. He’d had nineteen years to refine his low opinion of Donna and wasn’t about to have Kerry question it. Particularly not in public, and especially not in front of Sav.

  ‘What you don’t know about Donna would fill a book,’ he spat at Kerry. ‘So I suggest you shut the fuck up right now, little girl.’

  Little girl? Kerry laughed in his face.

  ‘Why’s that? It’s not like ignorance ever stopped you flapping ya gums,’ she shot back as she threw down her cards and took another slug of Stolly. ‘Anyway, I might know a lot more about Donna than you think, genius.’

  Steve took a sharp breath.

  ‘Kez …’ he warned.

  ‘Come on now! Knock orf arguing, youse two! Ken, it’s your deal,’ ordered Aunty Tall Mary.

  ‘Nobody cares what you think ya “know”, ya smart-mouthed bitch,’ snarled Ken. Then he swivelled to address Steve, who was leaning against the sink. ‘Ya wanna keep ya missus quiet, pal. Teach her some fucken respect, or else I will.’

  The room fell completely silent. A moment of decision had arrived.

  ‘Ah, ya said it yourself, bro,’ Steve made light of Ken’s threat. ‘Bitches be crazy!’

  All the women except Kerry laughed in relief, much louder than the quip warranted. Their laughter was a plea. It said: c’mon Kenny, chill. See the joke, man. Steve doesn’t want to punch on. There’s no need for any blueing, not tonight.

  ‘Not in this house they don’t,’ said Ken, unsmiling. ‘You wanna shut her up, I’m telling ya. Or I’ll hold you responsible for the stupid fucken shit that comes outta her mouth.’

  Steve straightened up from the sink.

  ‘Kez, ’bout
time we made tracks, eh?’ he suggested. ‘Where’s the bike keys?’

  ‘I speak for myself, you arsehole!’ shouted Kerry at Ken. ‘Leave him out of it! Unless ya really want ya fat arse kicked. He’ll wipe the floor with you, ya fucken great overgrown—’

  Ken stood abruptly, sending his chair skidding into the fridge behind. He leaned across the table to swipe at Kerry. She shied back out of range and kept going, falling heavily to the floor. Having missed his sister, the trailing end of Ken’s backhander caught Pretty Mary fair on the jaw. His mother cried out in pain and fright. Then, ashamed, she put her hands over her face as tears sprang into her eyes. Aunty Tall Mary put an arm around Pretty Mary’s shoulders and glared at Ken.

  ‘Oh, that’s just bloody lovely that is, Ken!’ she accused at top note. ‘Hittin’ old people? You wanna apologise, right now!’ Ken wavered for a fraction of a second. He hovered between white-hot rage at Kerry and genuine remorse for hurting Pretty Mary, who was never his target.

  ‘Hitting ya own mother,’ Kerry sneered from the floor, grabbing her vodka bottle by the neck as she rose in fury. ‘Real fucken big man you are, eh?’

  ‘It was an accident!’ Ken roared, stepping across his fallen chair to sort his sister out once and for fucken all.

  ‘Your whole life’s one long accident,’ Kerry told him, weight on the balls of her feet as she brandished the Stolly.

  ‘Oi! If ya really wanna do this then let’s take it outside,’ Steve said, jumping into Ken’s path and pointing at the back stairs.

  ‘Get the fuck outta my way,’ Ken snarled, throwing a sloppy roundhouse punch, which the younger man easily ducked. Steve kicked Ken’s fallen chair to the edge of the room, clearing a space to fight.

  ‘Chris!’ Pretty Mary screamed out the window at the van. Then, ‘Sav! Go get Chris! See if Black Superman’s still here – Kenny! Knock orf!’

  ‘You really wanna punch on here? With two old ladies in the room?’ Steve asked, incredulous.

  Sav fled outside, calling to the men for help.

  ‘Stop talking and sort the prick out,’ Kerry urged Steve, waiting for the right moment to leap forward and bottle Ken. Tall Mary, unsuccessful in dragging Pretty Mary to safety, had joined the others on the veranda, peering in. And so it was Tall Mary who first noticed the flashing lights of the police car silently heading down the drive, blocking Black Superman’s exit. She bolted back into the kitchen, crossing her forearms and plunging her fists towards the floor in urgent demonstration.

  ‘Gunjies,’ she screamed. ‘Gunjies ere! Ning! Ning!’

  ~

  The veranda was suddenly overrun with blue uniforms and noisy accusations, and the pulsing coloured light of the cop car throwing its authority over everything. The instant Tall Mary screamed, Kerry had fled behind her mother’s bedroom door. She flattened herself against the wall, cursing her warrants and praying for Elvis to bite Senior Sergeant Tony Nunne on his withered white arse. The sergeant stood on the veranda, hands braced on his hips, with an overwhelming confidence filling his person. This confidence came from growing up the son, grandson and great-grandson of the district’s pioneers. Didn’t the very main street of Patto bear his surname, and didn’t the thousands of acres surrounding the dreadful shit-box where he now stood constitute the land his pioneer forebears had opened up? The sergeant stood, content in the knowledge that no matter how many piss-soaked friends and relations were clustered around Kenny Salter on this Friday night, both he and his offsider had pistols to hand, and he himself had a taser, not to mention tacit approval from the wider community to use them just as they saw fit. Their matte-black weapons gleamed in the dim light shed by the veranda’s dusty lightbulb.

  Nunne made an inaudible comment to his offsider as he adjusted his Oakley sunglasses, perched permanently on top of his head no matter what hour. The men looked around in disgust. A dozen empty bottles and cans had been abandoned on tables and upturned milk crates; several chip packets fluttered on the floorboards, tossed by the kids as they hurtled between adventures; three dinner plates bearing lamb scraps and smears of potato salad had been forgotten behind the hammock. What they didn’t see was the kingplate hanging on the beam, directly above the top of the stairs.

  Ken’s arms were folded tight as he weathered a fusillade of Nunne’s questions. He repelled the standard inquisition like drops of water hitting a hot frypan. A bit of a sizzle and nothing to show for it afterwards.

  ‘So ya don’t know anything at all about this break-in at the council chambers?’ the sergeant repeated for the third time.

  ‘Nuh,’ Ken replied. ‘Why would I?’

  ‘Right, so a DNA test won’t show it was you doing criminal damage in the mayor’s office?’ continued the sergeant, bringing loud titters from Pretty Mary and Tall Mary.

  ‘I think I’d probably remember if I broke in and took a dump on Jim Buckley’s carpet.’ Ken grinned at the mob, who hooted with laughter, right on cue.

  ‘Good one, Uncle Ken,’ giggled cousin Helen, catching the sergeant’s eye for the first time. He smiled pleasantly at her. Then he turned back to Ken, still smiling.

  ‘Pretty girl.’

  ‘Say that again and see what ya get,’ Ken unfolded his arms.

  ‘You gotta understand – we don’t know about stealing. That’s your department,’ interrupted Black Superman loudly, as he made his way back upstairs. ‘You wanna go talk to whitefellas if ya wanna know about stealing.’ The cops swung around, instantly suspicious of an unanticipated black body in their midst.

  ‘Or the government, eh,’ Steve said from the far end of the veranda, deadpan. The police turned back around. ‘That’s their specialty – stealing.’

  ‘You said it, bruz. In receipt of a whole stolen continent, that lot.’ Chris agreed as though this was simply the commonest of common sense.

  ‘Darnt. I feel sorry for whitefellas, going around thieving all the time. They need help. Shame nobody ever tries to get em back to their culture.’ Black Superman shook his head in deep, patronising sorrow.

  ‘I blame the parents,’ interjected Zippo from the back of the group.

  ‘Yeah, bruz, true, eh,’ Ken said to Black Superman. He chastised the cops. ‘You mob wanna take these whitefellas round here up to the city. Show em some of their sacred sites. Shopping malls and factories and shit.’

  ‘And for God’s sake, can’t ya get em back to their old ways? Give em some workshops on how to hang, draw and quarter people. And witch burning!’ Black Superman had hit his stride. ‘Ya can’t go past a bit of good old-fashioned witch burning to turn a troubled white kid around!’

  ‘They wouldn’t know how to begin to use people as slaves on cattle stations, these days,’ Pretty Mary added. ‘You’d need to teach em that part, Nunny.’

  ‘How to invade other people’s countries and murder em, and call it civilisation …’ Ken couldn’t remember when he’d enjoyed himself this much.

  ‘Child-stealing 101,’ Black Superman nodded enthusiastically. ‘Interventions for fun and profit.’

  ‘Globalised capitalism for the one per cent,’ Zippo called.

  Sergeant Nunne appeared to swell beneath his tight uniform shirt. The mayor was on the money here. Fucking smart cunts. He let his right hand fall onto his belt, sorely tempted to see how mouthy Kenny Salter was with taser strings hanging out his fucken eyeballs.

  ‘Ya gonna tase me now are ya, Nunny?’ Ken asked, raising his chin and readying himself to go down swinging. He’d take this dugai cunt out with pleasure, no worries at all. ‘Is someone filming this prick?’

  ‘Way ahead of ya, brother,’ replied Zippo, who had pulled his phone out the instant the cop car arrived in the yard.

  ‘Everyone in the shire knows you’ve got a vendetta against the mayor, pal,’ Nunny said to Ken. ‘Busting down fences, threatening him at council. Breaking in and trashing the chambers. Not to
mention what happened to his dog.’

  ‘What’s this about his dog?’ Pretty Mary asked sceptically.

  Nunny stuck out his hand, and the offsider gave him a phone showing a picture of Buckley’s dog. She was freshly tattooed with FUCK MAYOR BUCKLEY on one shaven flank and NO PATTO PRISON on the other. A giant red swirling dollar sign embellished the top of the dog’s crinkled forehead.

  Pretty Mary stuck her tongue in her cheek, but her eyes were laughing as much as everyone else’s.

  ‘Bugger me,’ Ken professed with Oscar-winning innocence. ‘Who would do such a thing to a dumb animal?’

  ‘Whitefellas,’ said Chris, leaning in and tut-tutting.

  ‘Whitefellas,’ agreed Black Superman.

  ‘Definitely need them workshops,’ Ken advised the sergeant.

  ‘You lot think you’re comedians,’ said Nunny heavily. ‘But it won’t be so fucking funny when it gets out that your little land rights campaign cost Patto two hundred jobs. What do ya reckon, Kenny? Might even find an angry mob on your doorstep. Not that you’re gonna stop the prison. It’s happening, sunshine, whether you like it or not.’

  ‘Two hundred jobs? More like two – yours and Jim Buckley’s,’ argued Pretty Mary, stepping forward into the light. Nunny immediately noticed the purple bruise swelling angrily on her jaw.

  ‘Oh, my job’s pretty safe. But has someone given ya a smack, Mary? Wouldn’t have been this bloke, would it?’ Pretty Mary was struck dumb. Nunny smirked at the Sexy Senior sticker heaving on her chest. ‘Wanna lay charges, Mary? No? You’d just cop it twice as bad once he got back home, wouldn’t ya?’

  The sergeant turned back to Ken and, as he spoke, his voice grew cold with menace.

  ‘You coulda been someone in this town once, Kenny, but take a look at ya now! Pathetic. You’re not a tenth of the man your grandfather was. And I’ll give ya the drum: the mayor isn’t about to let a bunch of half-caste dole bludgers tell him what he can and can’t do. So get that through your head before somebody gets badly hurt, pal.’