Who Sings for Lu?

by Alan Duff

  In Lu shot, on the pause, ‘Whoa. Just whoa a minute. This is bullshit, man.’

  ‘Your bullshit. Not hers.’ Rocky tapped the letter, hard. ‘Had enough?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Me too. I’m out of here.’

  Jeezuz, Rock knew how to blackmail a vulnerable woman. He really did. Shrugging he should continue in that case.

  How dare you think you have some God-given right to lure an innocent fellow female and deprive her of whatever cash she has on her person? How dare you write to me and say you are not just sorry, but begging my forgiveness, and that you had nothing to do with what happened to Anna later. It is called conspiring, whoever you are, whatever name you were given in the godforsaken home you described — as if that has anything to do with us. As if somehow we have to suffer for how your life turned out. Just as we would not make others suffer for what we are going through right now.

  Rocky decided to halt — well, pause, it turned out. ‘Harden up,’ he warned, ‘but keep your mind open.’ Must have skimmed ahead a little.

  Harden up? How hard did a girl have to get? Lu’s heart and its foolish hopes getting smashed.

  Let me give you a name, call you Miss, as I cannot write to a nameless person. Miss, I don’t know if you’ll understand this word in the context I use it: conceit. It’s what you are guilty of — monumental conceit.

  The conceit of kidding yourself that your actions are somehow understandable because of your upbringing. The conceit of pouring your heart out — rather candidly, I will say, and certainly movingly — at the same time as you lay most of the blame on your male friends. Former friends, you say.

  If someone did this to you and the female conspirator wrote explaining she did it because she grew up rich and yet feeling worthless, not having earned it, would you forgive her after you had been raped, sodomised and beaten …

  Rocky showing feeling for Lu now. But not the same as softening. Just what he’d call a ‘wee rest’.

  … Miss, you say because you have been sexually abused since childhood, you understand and hurt deeply for what my daughter suffered. So that lets you off the hook, does it?

  Well, didn’t it? ‘I wouldn’t mind a smoke break.’

  Ignoring her Rocky read on.

  If I told you our family has been devastated by this incident, Miss, what would your apologies and self-justifications mean then?

  If I told you my husband has run off with another woman, our daughter’s recovery is far from certain, that we have lost our business, our lives are shattered — how do your words sit then, Miss?

  Recalling how you felt seeing our daughter for the first time was gut wrenching. Being females we could all identify with how you felt. My daughter is a very beautiful young woman. I imagine you feel you are not attractive. Who would know? We have only a vague part-view of what you look like. However, being what you were born does not justify assaulting her. And please don’t blame, as you read this, your male accomplices. YOU — Rocky read the emphasis like an indictment — chose them as friends. On your own admission you set her up, never mind your own less evil intentions. It was criminal nonetheless.

  In your awful life, were you not taught any morals or principles? Surely every female instinctively understands the rule of non-violence, especially where other women are concerned? Violence is not born in us, except savages. If we are to have a civil society, with laws to protect one and all, then nothing in your childhood can justify violence against innocents. Not even your sad tale of abuse.

  Well, thanks. What a waste of time writing to this lecturing old rich retard.

  Miss, I guess with someone having killed your innocence you thought you’d kill someone else’s. Wrong, Miss. Wrong. As if that is not enough you say you cannot name the real culprits — my word, not yours — as that is not the code you live by. Isn’t that interesting? Your code says you can protect vicious animals but not give some sort of closure to the crime against my daughter?

  Lu reeling, physically so. Rocky gave her a few seconds, indicated he was almost finished, then continued:

  Miss, if you are indeed one of the guilty persons, then you are a contemptible piece of filth and I don’t know if I can forgive you. I will need time to think this over.

  I ask of you to please write again. No doubt there will be a different address. You have my word I will not inform the police. Have the GUTS to write me a response. Or is that too much to hope for? Claire Chadwick.

  Chapter forty-eight

  How many pubs, how many times had Sniper adopted a breezy casual air asking the barman, the publican, ‘Mate, what time does Deano get in?’ Such a common name, he had to give a description: about so high, curly hair, early twenties? What does he do for a crust? Oh, a bitta this and that. Haven’t a clue what he’s up to these days, we’re just old mates from way back.

  Starting around mid-arvo every day, he chose an area and went for it. What time does Deano get in, mate? Deano who, mate? Deano about so high, curly brown hair, a serious bloke, me and him go way back. Nope, nope, drew blanks all day and into the night long.

  How many pubs should a man do? As many as it took to get his hot little hands on that big lump on offer. Don’t know who it comes from, don’t care, just want to collect, the middle bloke can take whatever cut he likes, all I know is the bounty is ten a head minus the in-between man’s cut.

  They’d been considering the photo he took of Lu, plus the info of her likely whereabouts, to see if Sniper qualified. Sure, Rocky was in the shot but no need to mention him, he was in jail when this shit went down. But they better send someone good, the bloke’s as hard as they get. Soon I’ll be in the money; take out the family’s ten per cent on every earn and a bloke could trade his wheels up. Or maybe go for a smaller car with petrol prices heading back up. Fuckin’ Arabs. Hennessy family tradition, it might even be a familial behavioural trait, to love money in its every sweet description, spondulicks one of his favourites. Sigh, another lovely word consigned to history.

  He’d found the other two, though of course no proof it was them, just gut instinct and a few eyes round town who’d seen them four-handed in the vicinity around the time of the dastardly deed. See what happened. Got them pinpointed like a GPS locator.

  He’d thought about setting Jay and Bron up with a newly made ‘mate’, say someone who’d got a job at the same firm, and extracting the story slowly out via the old mateship thing, mouths loosened by a few grogs. But nah, take too long. Even than this sixtieth-plus pub of fruitless asking.

  ‘What time does Deano get in, mate?’

  ‘’Bout three-thirty, bein’ Thursday,’ said the barman. ‘You had a run on his raffles? He plays a straight bat, that kid, everyone says that.’

  Sniper could bottle the man’s blood. ‘He wouldn’t like the same bloke winning too often.’ Thinking fast on his feet. ‘Same at the casino. They peg you for a regular winner, you’re out.’

  ‘Too right. One-way traffic, casinos. You a mate of Deano’s?’

  ‘Nah. He’ll know me face. That’s his go now, raffles? What, meat packs, prawns kinda thing? Or cash?’

  ‘The green stuff, what every punter wants.’

  Going on three o’clock, enough time to ask his new mate the barman, ‘Do me a favour. When Deano comes in and I’ve got my back turned, just give me a wink?’ Chuckling, put a hand on the old geezer’s shoulder. ‘You couldn’t buy a ticket or three on my behalf?’

  ‘I get ya. No problem, sport.’

  ‘I’ll split fifty-fifty, you don’t have to buy a ticket.’ Looking around at this oddball pub sited right on the edge of the notorious Redfern, so reputed because of Aboriginals who totally dominated the area. Scary just walking in here.

  ‘I’m one of those lucky punters,’ Sniper said. ‘The kind they don’t like, makes them look crooked to the losing punters. A six-pack of chooks, tray of meat, I got uncanny luck.’ Knew the guy would be impressed with uncanny.

  Two light beers later, Jonty th
e barman gives the wink that Sniper’s man has arrived. Just that little flutter of sweet nerves as Sniper never attracted violence or heavy stuff. Who would find me a threat?

  Copping for this Deano in the mirror, and he was definitely in cahoots with the old lush with the boozer’s hooter, both of them busy with little raffle-chit booklets. He’d only seen Deano a couple of times, hard finding a place for him in the memory database. Young guy didn’t look like no violent rapist. Never mind only a mirror reflection to go by. Same thing. Except the writing in reverse on Deano’s baseball cap that read Roosters, backwards. Sydney rugby league team, good they were too.

  Like you are, Snipo, at what you do.

  Chapter forty-nine

  Out there in the night of the wretched race, howling to the moon stolen from him and obliterated, too, by the white men’s grog, by the juggernauts of their ever-advancing culture and their crushing monumental contempt, their theft of what he had named himself, their stamping and hot-iron-branding him Aboriginal when he had ten thousand tribal, family names for himself … Let him drown in the stupefying liquid, sent into a state of collective madness, a plunge into the abyss of self-loathing, this was what Owen was hearing.

  Even in his own drunken stupor of every day of a drinking life fifty years long, he had an awareness of his residential surrounding. Redfern. Its inhabitants feared by the rest of the city like packs of rabies-infected dogs, and it was true they were in a shocking, unsalvageable state, and of the worst infection: spiritual. But for once, purely on a pub philosopher’s argument, it was not their own fault; they had none but a small culpability in lacking the fiery pride all men must retain if they are to survive meaningfully. Intelligent enough to figure that out, was old Owen. Why he had kept a few steps away from the abyss drunks usually fell into. Of course he understood the hold booze had even to a member of his white race not violently stripped of its every last dignity.

  Even at his drunkest Owen’s eyes and brain still functioned on another level, like a saved reserve of fuel for when the engine of his mouth totally conked out, since something of a man’s mind remained perfectly unaffected, the part which still saw and cognised things. And he rarely felt the despair of ordinary drunks, especially now Deano had come belatedly into his life.

  The grog did thicken his tongue, so come 7 pm, imbibing since Deano’s cooked breakfast and with three to four more hours’ drinking left, he fell further into the world of incomprehensible, spoke like a lost language the tongue of drunks. Yet it was like that of certain telling, truthful dreams: made no sense not to anyone, but eminent sense when you were in the dream and knew how to navigate your way through.

  Only an emergency plucked spoken words from another place of some sobriety — like the red button even alcoholics must have, to keep alive and intact what their pathological thirst valued. They developed antennae for danger, to their liquid supply and to physical well-being — though even the most dangerous youths who hunted in packs rarely bothered with an old soak. No challenge, no resistance, like beating up a wet sack.

  His brain was not addled by the constant weathering of alcohol. Just the working parts worn down before they should.

  ‘Don lie,’ he managed to garble to Deano. To his ears sounded perfectly understandable. Second time he tried it, though, it came out, ‘Done larrk!’

  Deano said, ‘Talking Swahili again, ya old prick?’

  ‘Fuggin liss meh.’ In his mind, like right back on top of a wardrobe, the words perfectly enunciated. Just couldn’t quite reach them.

  Deano leaned into Owen. ‘What? You’re three hundred sheets to the wind, not three, ya stupid old bugger. Come on, not far to go.’

  Took a monumental effort of will and doubtless love for the young man for Owen to say reasonably clearly, ‘Dee? Dee? Kah over dere. Danger. Jush run, son. Run.’

  Instincts of being a street kid, a born survivor without the ruthless side, took over instantly and so did his wits as Deano said, ‘Sorry, Owey,’ as he shoved the old boy over, stood a few moments over him pointing as if in anger.

  Then took off into the night. The door buzzer sounded. Jay sitting watching the box. Bron fussing about in the kitchen trying to fry chicken patties and the butter burning.

  Laughing, Jay said, ‘Did you order takeaways ’cause you’re burning that shit?’

  ‘No. And they’re not burnt too bad, can scrape the black crumbs off. Thought it might be your escort girl arrived.’

  ‘No way, man. I’d never pay for it. What, you order Chinese in case your cooking failed?’

  ‘Told you, I didn’t order nothing. I’ll get it. Be one of the neighbours.’

  Over Bron went to the intercom system, on his fourth beer can, same as Jay, of another sweet Saturday end of the six-day working week, today at time-and-a-half penal rates. Nice. Spending Saturday night at home no problem as the novelty yet to wear off. They liked it here. Liked their jobs too. Liked life, in a fuller sense and perhaps for the first time ever.

  Telly up too loud for Jay to hear the person speak, but he turned the volume down, did ever-cautious Jay-son.

  ‘The landlord sent you? How come?’ was what Jay heard. Got his ears pricked.

  ‘You’re six D, or do I have the wrong flat?’ the voice said over the intercom.

  ‘Apartment, you mug.’ Bron turned away so the guy couldn’t hear he didn’t like it being called a flat.

  ‘Got a gift for you.’

  ‘Tell him to fuck off,’ Jay called out. ‘It’s a salesman. Fuckin’ insurance or a five-grand miracle vacuum cleaner.’ Remembering just such a salesman recently who’d knocked on their door after somehow gaining access and got given the shove and told if he came back without invite he’d cop it.

  Jay got up off the armchair. A beer in hand. ‘Fuckin’ old burglar’s trick that. Ask him the landlord’s name. Can you remember it?’

  ‘Something-ulos, wasn’t it?’ Bron said, his hand cupped over the intercom.

  ‘Christopoulos. He likes being called Mister. Ask him. Here, let me talk.’

  ‘You there, mate?’ Bron stepping back to let Jay take over. Had to give a little sigh.

  ‘Sure am. Gidday to you.’

  ‘Gidday to you too. What ya selling?’

  ‘Nothing. Just got a gift from the landlord.’

  ‘From Mr Davis?’

  ‘Christopoulos. Who’ve you been paying your rent to then?’ Bloke with a small chuckle.

  ‘Oh, that’s right. Davis was our last landlord.’ Did the hand-cupping and whispered to Bron, ‘I think he’s for real.’ But still.

  ‘Why would he give his tenants a gift?’

  ‘Mate, don’t ask me. I just deliver for him. The other tenants I delivered to said thanks very much.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Dunno, mate. Box of goodies from a landlord who’s grateful to get tenants in these tough times.’

  ‘Why are they tough?’

  ‘Listen, you sure about these questions? Credit crisis, sub-prime fallout, worldwide recession, they’re what I hear the boss talking about. As if I’d know.’

  ‘You and us both.’ Jay at Bron who was shrugging he was sure it was legit.

  ‘Look, I can leave the box down here,’ said the voice. ‘Got your names on it. Leave it in the foyer. Got plenty others to deliver.’

  Bron gesturing at Jay to let the man up. ‘A box of free goodies? Push the button, man. Or it’ll be gone by the time we get down there. Why not let the gofer bring it up?’

  ‘Might be a bomb,’ Jay joked, not that worried, not now. He pushed the door-release button. Smart technology to send a signal all that way and open a big heavy glass door.

  ‘But I tell ya, if he’s any kind of salesman he gets snotted,’ warned Jay. Not very convincingly, as it was most unlikely.

  ‘When he knocks, let him wait,’ Jay suggested.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Duh, to use your favourite word. So we don’t look desperate Dans for the box of goodies. Cal
led pride.’

  ‘What do you reckon is in the box?’

  ‘Shit, I dunno. We’re not exactly experienced at this, not even at Christmas, eh, Bron?’ They shared a wry grin. ‘I’d say cans of food, baked beans, spaghetti and stuff. Cheap and nasty and we’re meant to owe the landlord a favour for the rest of our lives for a twenty, thirty buck outlay. Smart thinking.’

  ‘That’ll be the door.’ Bron started for the kitchen.

  ‘Where you going?’

  ‘Smell dinner burning.’

  ‘If there are baked beans I’ll have some on toast. Love ’em,’ Jay said standing there with folded arms like he promised, keeping the man waiting. Another knock sounded.

  ‘Coming,’ Bron called out, close to giggling. In a half-voice said, ‘G’won, he’s waited long enough.’

  It wasn’t one ‘he’, but two of them. Gorillas. One had a gun in his hand. Both with faces to match.

  ‘Gentlemen.’

  Chapter fifty

  Oh, this is not good. Lu at this situation. Why am I doing it? Blame Rocky. His stupid idea. All right for him, he’s done his time and he’s a man, he’s tough, doesn’t know the nightmares I have of being locked up that send me crazy. In a cell with a gleeful Uncle Rick who says he has me for life now. Lately a certain big detective has become a cell mate. I couldn’t take prison. Stupid girl, your whole life stupid, what have you done to yourself now?

  ‘Mrs Chadwick?’

  To the woman, at once very attractive in an older sort of way, standing at the door she’d opened. When who the fuck else could it be — Mother Mary? Nicole Kidman?

  Oh, man, this is so out there I don’t think my legs will hold me up.

  Didn’t say anything, only nodded. If a slight tip forward of her perfectly coiffed hair was a nod. Not gloriously beautiful like her daughter, but would have been close, in her prime. Maybe not quite. Jeezuz, now what?