by Alan Duff
Yes, Deano nodded.
‘Sisters?’
‘Yep. Blondes.’
‘Lucky you.’
‘Lucky is right.’
‘Same age, round about, as you? Or what?’
Deano’s turn to look furtively around. ‘A bit on the younger side.’
‘Mate? Don’t be sorry about that. We’re men, aren’t we? A ninety-year-old bloke would be happy to die on top of a youngie. Wouldn’t you when you’re ninety?’
‘If I live that long,’ Deano said, like he had no chance. ‘Like what age we talking for her to be?’
‘Old enough to have a hole. The two down there and one on her face. If you don’t count the nostrils and the earholes.’ That laugh. ‘Come on, son.’ His hands splayed. ‘Any age as long as it’s out of nappies.’
‘They’d want to be a whole lot older than that.’ Careful, Deano. You’ll blow it.
‘Sure. I wasn’t saying, like, a baby, or a toddler — how old are these sisters? Horny you said? Dirty, lucky little bastard. No offence. And you’re not little.’
‘None taken. How old are they? Jesus, Ricky, I don’t know you.’
Up a hand came. ‘Stop, right there. None of my business, right? Right. Say no more, mum’s the word, my lips are sealed. I’m going back in.’
Yet he gestured Deano lead.
At the door Uncle Rick tapped Deano’s shoulder. ‘If they were, say, fourteen, what’s wrong with that? Coupla years this side of legal, big deal. Eh?’
Deano shrugged.
‘Even younger, say twelve. I mean to say, they’ve got hairs, little tits, that age.’
Deano said, ‘Some have hairs and big tits at age eleven.’ This was going better than he’d hoped. Got Rick turned fully around.
‘What’d you say, son?’ Deano just looked, to say: You heard. ‘After you, Pat.’
In the wake of Rick’s awful chuckle, sent from the bowels of somewhere putrid, Deano had a slight change of plan to do with the damage intended.
Rick kept trying to catch Deano’s eye and when Deano let him, he gave a fellow conspirator’s grin or wink back. A half hour later Rick indicated smoke time again and he headed for the door.
First Deano lifted a hand to say he’d be out in a sec. Fired a text on his cell: Fish on da line. Cum get us.
Outside, several other smokers, all drunk, with clothes that hung off them like trying to get away, or the contents were diminishing. Same age group as Rick, ten years younger and ten older range. Deano kept his distance so as not to make his mission obvious, and the mark kept his own because what he had to say was not for other ears.
Deano strolled up the street, out from the pub’s lighting. Behind him Rick said, ‘Hey? You going?’ Deano kept walking a few more paces. Stopped and started texting.
Heard Rick say, ‘Oh. Private stuff.’ That chuckle. Gonna suffer, old man.
After sending the text Deano stood there. Out of the verandah lighting and with the nearest street light a good twenty metres away his face wouldn’t be visible to, say, even Uncle Rick, who called out, ‘Don’t tell me they’re on their way?’
‘Who?’ Deano called back.
‘The sisters?’
‘In a way, they are. Mates coming to pick me up. Go see them.’
No response for a few moments. Other smokers headed back inside. Rick lighting another fag. Traffic headlights going by.
‘Lucky you,’ Rick said. ‘I said, lucky you.’ Louder the second time.
‘Might catch you next time, Ricky?’
‘Catch me this time if I was, like, invited?’ Fighting with himself, Deano could tell — what he wanted by instinct and his nature, the risk he was taking. ‘Pay the price, too bloody right I would. Who wouldn’t? I’m staring at sixty. Still get a rager on like I’m sixteen.’
Hurry up, boys. Bring your net.
‘Only on a wage, mind. I make the teas and get the bought lunches on the sites for a building firm. Ungrateful bastards, least the Aussie workers are. The new Aussies they’re not so bad. Ya like new Australians, Pat?’
‘You mean ethnics?’
‘I mean foreign guests of our country. But least they’ve got manners, appreciate a bloke’s efforts. Your own Skips treat you like you’re their fuckin’ Abo slave.’
‘Like their chicks more. Yugos, Russians, Greeks and Dagos, so fuckin’ good looking,’ said Deano.
‘I guess. All look the same down there though, eh?’
‘Some better than others.’
‘I take home five-twenty-three, always have about a hundred a week left over. In a year that does add up,’ said Rick.
‘To what, Ricky?’ Deano thought there might be another plan change so they could clean up as well as get revenge for Lu.
‘Savings? Like a year’s worth? Oh no, I wouldn’t pay that much. Jesus.’
‘How much?’
‘For the girls? How old did you say?’
‘I didn’t. And I won’t. You might know a cop or three.’
‘My whole life I never got to know a cop. Who me? Son, if you knew — between us, how old are they?’
‘They? You want both?’
‘Didn’t say that. How much for one?’
‘Dunno. We don’t pay anything. How much you prepared to pay?’
‘Not used to paying for it,’ Rick said. ‘I take it.’
‘Good for you, old fella.’ Deano made as he’d had enough.
‘Never said I wouldn’t pay. But I don’t carry much cash,’ said Rick.
‘Can’t you go to a cash machine?’
‘Never thought of that.’ As a car pulled up, rear lights facing, ahead of Deano.
‘You coming, Ricky?’
‘Aw, I dunno.’
‘See you around.’
‘You never said how much.’
‘You say it.’
‘No, you say.’
‘Shit, I dunno. A grand?’
‘They’re eleven?’
‘Not saying, Rick.’ Dropped the y.
‘That’s a lotta dough, for just —’
‘So go to your grave with it, mate. As if I care.’ Deano stepped up to the rear passenger door of Jay’s old bomb, left Rick pondering.
Next, the crunch of footsteps coming this way. Nice work, Deano. If only real life were as easy as this.
Chapter fifteen
Practising her cello took Anna’s mind off any distraction — and just about every minor problem, since she had no majors in her life, hardly lived that it was and from a happy family. It lifted a mood, even if she never got that low, ended real worries like how she would fare in exams and tests, if she was in love or not (yes, no, yes, no, but maybe, or maybe not): nothing mattered with the instrument nestled against her like a child, Anna’s head cocked at a motherly loving angle to it, arm around its long slender neck, bow in the other hand massaging it. For hours she could play, repeating notes and short sequences over and over again. No other thoughts.
Problem was, even in an establishment with other music students any instrument practice got on other boarders’ nerves. She understood that. More reason why she should take up her father’s offer and move into her own apartment, or maybe a house. Invite her friend Madison, a down-to-earth farm girl from Wagga who happened to be musically gifted, to flat with her, Dad could set Maddy’s rental, he’d be fair but no such thing as a free lunch he would say, dear old Dad. Everything had to have a life lesson, but no better father could she wish for. As to her paying rent herself, out of the question.
‘You’ve earned your exemption by being a wonderful daughter, and you’ve worked hard on the farm without pay since you were young.’ Justifying dropping his rigid standards for his darling girl. ‘We owe you for Raimona, never forget that.’
When she didn’t give it a thought, not as if a six-year-old goes out with intent to change the family fortunes. She just felt a connection, an empathy with the big horse. Still did, but as a friend, not the money-spinner he turned out to be. Sh
e also knew her father’s faithful employee had a lot to do with the business’ success, felt Straw didn’t get enough credit.
One of her male friends told Anna that capital gains in property had gone completely by the wayside, residential and commercial. Didn’t she know of the worldwide credit crunch, of the burst bank, property and every other bubble? Her old man must have more money than sense to think he could get capital gain, let alone from an apartment in Sydney of which there was a massive oversupply. Dearest Dad, pulling the wool, anything to ensure her next three years of study went smoothly. Lucky me.
She looked only a little way ahead, except with her music study, and often not beyond the next party. Which would surprise her father as he thought his girl a little angel who did everything with a long-term view. To hell with that. She loved a party, occasionally got drunk, smoked the odd joint, enjoyed the stoned giggling, relief from the relentless pace of formal music study, especially classical. Why not? I was given a good life and who said it has to be a relentless aiming for the jackpot all the time? Like my dad. And has it really made him happy?
Her father’s eye for women did concern her. He thought he was discreet, and certainly she saw no sign that her mother noticed. Funny how cheating on one’s spouse was left off his list of homilies and life’s moral code. If he was cheating and if her mother ever found out, that would be the end of it: she would not put up with it, not even the once; a daughter knew her mother well enough to be sure about that. So why would her father break up the family unit over sex? It wasn’t that good, was it?
Poor Mum. Poor dutiful, complete mother. But Anna not so sure what she’d be like as a wife. She could never talk intimately, let alone intimacy, with their mother. Bright, good looking, solid, straight down the middle, happier to be a listener than a talker — not like her three close friends Sue, Karen and Marilyn, all of whom could talk. But they were fun. Where Mum could never be described as fun, not even for a short burst at, say, a good party at home. She just stayed on the same even keel, drank in moderation, danced but not with abandon, laughed but rarely heartily. And you never remembered anything she said, trivial or important. A person quite content to be in the background.
Still, a daughter hardly spent all her time thinking about her mother or, for that matter, her father. We have our own lives to live. Our different destinies. And if her dad would get over any delusion this daughter intended taking over Galahrity Estate, he and her mum could plan their own futures better. Anna was not taking over the farm, under any circumstances, and those included the highly unlikely event of falling in love with a horse lover. She wanted a different life, as much as she adored growing up there and had a natural affinity with horses, the wilder the better. Problem with overly doting fathers, they saw things in their favourite children that weren’t true.
Spending her adult years out in Widden or any other valley in the country was not in her plan. Intolerable the thought of growing older and richer and the women having to gather together for cultural stimulation and form their little book and music-lover clubs, go on organised visits to Sydney and Melbourne art galleries, or shopping expeditions. On top of that, to apply her father’s thinking, the gene pool for eligible males was by definition limited in the country. Perhaps she could use that argument: ‘Dad, you don’t want me breeding to poor bloodlines do you?’ Thinking of some gormless wonder from Musswellbrook, Jerrys Crossing or the like.
Living in France for a time had appeal. A nation that loved culture, literature and the arts, cuisine and wine, that appreciated good music in every genre. With very handsome men who didn’t drink litres of beer and swear like troopers and watch sport incessantly. She dreamed of one day coming home with her handsome Frenchman: ‘Dad, Mum, this is Jean-Paul. He’s been fucking me silly.’ Now that would shock them, even Dad, for his angel to be talking like that — let alone doing it.
That latter thought more private defiance of convention than something she would say, not to anyone. Though fucking per se held no illusions for Anna Chadwick. She knew the difference between lust and love and that sometimes a person felt like one, sometimes the other, and sometimes both at once.
Her guileless mother thought her still a virgin: Anna hated the term and had no respect for the ‘purity’ concept. The Chadwicks weren’t guilt-ridden, Holy-Virgin-obsessed Catholics. When you’d seen a stallion’s huge penis driving into a mare’s vagina, the only purity was the stallion’s scary mating urge which only tanks could stop. Or, from an amusing viewpoint, a mother’s trio of friends and their incessant chattering might put even the rampant Raimona off his sexual duties.
Thoughts of love might occupy a small percentage of Anna’s thinking and of course lust claimed her from time to time. Otherwise she was in a state of no-think, just doing, getting on with the job at hand, studying cello and classical history and structure. And enjoying living away from home.
Breakfast with her father had been great. They had the best smoked kippers, fresh from where else but Pyrmont fish market. Discreet sniffing failed to detect any hint of woman scent. Reading his face for an illicit lover’s self-satisfaction didn’t come up with anything either. He was just Dad, her father unable to take his eyes off his girl but not too over the top. He worshipped her.
The poached eggs were perfectly done. Bread baked on the premises still hot, crusty outside, just how she was told they did it in France. Learning that French women had a cultural horror of being even slightly overweight, let alone of the obesity syndrome afflicting both sexes in Anna’s world, made France even more appealing. She kept herself trim. Unlike many a young woman who did so, it was not to look good for a man or men, but for herself. Learned from her father: do everything for yourself and others will still benefit.
Her friend Madison admitted she found Anna’s beauty intimidating and her presence charismatic. Told her, ‘You have a star-like aura.’
Anna dismissed this out of hand. ‘My looks are what I was born with, and the word “charisma” is thrown around the way movie people do “genius”. As for star-like aura, I think Nicole and Angelina are media inventions, and I’m just Anna. Your animals mooed while ours whinnied. We all crap. So give me a break and leave me out of this star aura stuff.’
Naturally she and Madison shared a love of music, Maddy studying jazz. They listened to John Taverner’s Protecting Veil cello work, and Elgar’s seminal cello concerto. Or John Coltrane’s sax recordings, Wynton Marsalis on trumpet.
Maddy had a lover and was considering making it two as she liked another man, she said, just as much. What did Anna think? Not her cup of tea, not even sure she didn’t have moral issues with her buddy’s sexual appetite. Handling one man would be enough.
Chapter sixteen
Bronson and Deano got to Boomerang Place, down William Street from Hyde Park, when Deano glanced left and just stopped.
At sight of this lane, a concrete pathway, with trees along one side and these modern-style lamps the other side bent over like silver long-necked birds. Going uphill, where the pathway crested, reared the twin spires of the cathedral, St Mary’s, all sandblasted clean so it kind of glowed this pale earth colour of cleanest sandstone slabs, and was near screaming a meaning to Deano if only he had the brains to figure out what.
Turned to Bron and pointed, ‘Take a look at that.’
Bron looked. ‘At what?’
‘Nothing. Thought I seen something.’
Grinning, Bron said, ‘Since we did the old rapist you been a bit nervy.’ When it wasn’t that, it was something else Deano couldn’t quite figure, not conscience, more a thought his life had taken a wrong and even bad turn.
Hardly another fifty paces when this time Bron got pulled up short. ‘Hey …’
Hey was right. At a fuckin’ big showroom of Bentleys, the signs everywhere said. Bron ogling the gleaming metal chariots while Deano looked back at the pathway, then back at the Bentleys. From one big unobtainable — God, or salvation — to a showroom of the unobtainable —
super-expensive cars. Holy fuck: the price tag of $432,000 on one. Drive-away price, sign said.
Again Deano looked back up that strange tunnel effect and got the crazy thought of being saved, plucked by God’s big hand. Like, lifted up and out of this life to some other place where he could start again, be someone else, not so much the religious experience. Had been getting thoughts lately of going back to Brisbane.
Then, seeing the Bentley emblem of wings, with a B in the middle, he changed it to a D and saw himself rising above this city and heading north to Queensland, good old sunny Brizzie.
Bron said, ‘There’s pros nick these off the street, from parking lots, even fuckin’ owners’ driveways. In a container and ship ’em overseas. Them fuckin’ Asians don’t care if it’s some Aussie’s stolen motor they’re driving round Hong Kong or Shanghai. Why would an Indonesian care if his cool car’s stolen from a Skip? We should do one ourselves. I heard they pay fifty for one of these.’
‘Who does?’ Deano’s wings had suddenly lost chance of lift. He no longer saw a God figure, instead was hearing the old man’s screams.
‘The crime bosses, duh.’ Bron like it was so obvious.
‘There still such a thing?’ Deano asked. ‘I thought they got cleaned out years ago by some corruption-fighting team the government brung in from overseas?’
‘There’s still some around, always will be.’ Bron certain. ‘’Cept most are foreigners. Lebs, Turks, Russians and Asians among their own kind. That’s why they have shootings down in Chinatown.’
‘Why, ’cause no like Missa Wong’s chop poo-ey?’
‘That’s quite funny for you, D. Mood you been in lately. Yeah.’ Bron chuckled.
‘Strangers in our own land, eh?’ said Deano, meaning more himself, personally.
‘You could say that.’ Bron broke into a parody of shuffling Chinaman walk, and went, ‘Ning-nong-ning-nong’, giggling. Then brought up short at another Bentley in the window.
‘I’ll pass on the four thirty-two, thanks. Have the red one at two-hundred and ninety-nine thousand, ta very much.’ Looked at Deano and said, ‘Mate? You seen a ghost?’ At whatever of Deano’s thoughts had leached out and taken over his face.