Dead Men Don't Order Flake

by Sue Williams

  ‘Great. Well, if you can’t be welcomed home by your mother when your whole existence is in crisis…’ Brad did some rapid blinking.

  ‘Oh son,’ I walked over and gave him a big hug, trying not to bash my sore elbow. ‘Course you’re welcome. You’re always welcome. I’m just tired, that’s all. Look, I’ve got some vanilla slices here. I made them for you, specially.’

  I stood back and looked at Brad properly. He had dark circles around his eyes. I suspected he wasn’t eating properly—his skin had that telltale grey shade.

  ‘You OK? Bit of a surprise to see you home.’

  ‘What happened to your eye, Mum?’

  ‘Long story. Go put your washing on and I’ll crank up the kettle. We’ve got a bit of catching up to do.’

  A little later we sat at the kitchen table and ate an early dinner while the washing machine rattled away in the laundry. There are worse sounds than the hum of a machine that’s busy working on your behalf. Or your son’s behalf. Dinner consisted of vanilla slices followed by scrambled eggs on toast.

  I swallowed a mouthful of egg. No point in interrogating Brad about why he’d suddenly arrived home or what the hell was going on, he’d tell me eventually. Hopefully. In the meantime, ‘Listen, Brad, you heard of something called the Ignition Group? Possible arsonists. There’s a chance this Will Galang had a connection to them.’

  ‘No idea. And there’s no way Will Galang would have been an arsonist. He was into saving the world, not frying it.’

  ‘You knew him?’

  ‘Not in person. Through his blog—UnSmogOz.’ He forked in a mouthful of egg. ‘By the way, I heard about your shoplifting.’ He tried to hide his grin behind his fork.

  Dean and Brad might pretend to hate each other but in actual fact they share a lot of personal information. Not their own personal information, of course; we’re talking more the kind of information that paints their mother in a poor light.

  ‘That was just a misunderstanding.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry. I resigned myself ages ago to the idea that I’ll never have a normal mother.’

  I didn’t bother asking for his definition of a normal mother. I wasn’t going to be trapped inside anyone’s bloody conventions, wasting the entire prime of my life.

  I swallowed my last mouthful of egg. Rummaged around in my handbag; took out the book basher’s phone. It had a crack across the front, maybe from when I’d slipped over in Target. Hopefully, it still worked. After all, there are plenty of cracked things around here that are still in reasonable working order. Ernie, for instance.

  ‘You got your phone charger with you, Brad?’

  He ambled off down the hallway to his bedroom. Returned a moment later with his charger. Bingo, it fitted. I plugged it in. The screen lit up; I took that as a good sign.

  ‘The burglar dropped it. It’s locked though; I’ve tried about a million swipe patterns. You reckon you can find a way to get in?’

  He turned it over in his hands. ‘Maybe.’

  I got up and took my plate over to the sink. Switched on the kettle.

  ‘So, anyway, how’s uni?’

  ‘Oh, you know.’

  ‘You got a couple of days off, Madison was saying?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘You’re not still worrying about that assignment? Come on, you just need to keep it in perspective.’

  ‘Yeah, right. As if you’d know anything about it.’

  ‘There’s no need to be condescending. I might not have had access to a higher education, unlike some lucky people, but I’m not stupid. And all these years of running my own business have taught me a few things.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Far too many to go into,’ I waved a hand. ‘Anyway, that reminds me, I’ve got something for you. Might help with that assignment.’ I rootled through my bag for the flyer I’d picked up in Natalie’s room.

  Climate change: what the science really says. It was for that talk by Dr Eric Buckland on his book, this week at Muddy Soak. Part of the Turning Leaf Spectacular. Although quite how some science textbook fitted into an autumn leaf festival beat me.

  Brad held out his hand, a weary wrist-flicking kind of motion. Took the flyer and read it. He looked up at me, scorn oozing from his face.

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding.’ He flung the leaflet onto the table.

  ‘I was thinking maybe it could help with that ocean project that’s been worrying you. Ocean…whatever it is.’

  He sighed. ‘Acidification. I can’t believe you take so little interest. It’s only going to disrupt ecosystems, fisheries, entire oceanic food chains. I mean, you, of all people, should be concerned. Given your connection to the sea.’

  ‘I live four hundred kilometres from the beach, Brad. Not really all that close a connection.’

  ‘I’m talking about your bloody shop. Your entire business is reliant on viable fisheries. Really, why do I even bother?’

  ‘Don’t you patronise me, Bradley. Wait till you have to earn a living. Then you’ll find out how easy it is.’

  ‘All I’m saying is that you need think about the future. You could turn the place into a…sustainable takeaway. Hey, yes, a sustainable vegetarian takeaway.’

  Well, that’d bring in a multitude of customers. It’s true there are sixteen and a half vegetarians in Rusty Bore, thanks to Brad’s unflagging efforts, but sixteen and a half people doesn’t constitute what I’d call a solid business base. Even if the half is Meryl Walsh, part-time vegetarian, who still comes in every Friday for her grilled whiting and just a handful, Cass-love, of chips.

  ‘Anyway, there’s absolutely nothing Eric Buckland could say that I would find useful,’ said Brad. ‘He’s only the biggest climate denier on the planet. And he’s obviously touring to promote his ridiculous book. It’s a disgrace the Muddy Soak festival is giving him a soapbox.’

  The kettle boiled and clicked off.

  ‘The whole thing makes me so angry, Mum. You know, anyone who donated money to the book, and of course they’re all connected to the fossil-fuel industry, well, every single one of them got a tax deduction for their so-called “charitable” donation. Bunch of selfish profiteering bastards,’ he summed up.

  I stood up, walked over to the cupboard, got out two mugs and slid a tea bag into each.

  ‘Anyway, I won’t be needing anything for that assignment. Not now.’

  ‘You finally handed it in? Good for you.’ I poured some hot water into the mugs.

  ‘Um, no.’

  Something about his tone made me turn and look at him. He stared at his feet.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I’ve been…encouraged to take some time off.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I’ve been kicked out.’

  I was lost for words.

  ‘Ah.’ I said finally. Not exactly in-depth commentary, but the best I could come up with.

  ‘Well, you don’t have to be so damn calm about it, Mum.’

  ‘What happened? I thought the course was going well. High distinctions all the way. You and sharks, you’re a natural fit.’

  He mumbled something.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Well, someone has to stand up for sharks. You’re obviously not going to.’

  I sighed. ‘Look, I run a takeaway, in case you hadn’t noticed. And flake’s a standard in a fish and chip shop, Brad. A given.’

  He gave me a glare.

  ‘Listen, I know you’ve got your principles and that’s terrific. Good for you. But money takes precedence over sustainability. Everybody knows that. Anyway, stop trying to change the subject. What happened at uni?’

  He stood up suddenly, grabbed his plate and slammed it into the sink.

  ‘It’s completely unfair. And unethical.’

  ‘Right.’ Had he failed something? That wasn’t like Brad. A love-life crisis? Jesus, Madison wasn’t pregnant, was she? I froze mid-dunk of my teabag. I wasn’t having half a dozen ferrets move in.

>   ‘Hypocritical bastards.’ Brad thumped the kitchen counter.

  Presumably not the sharks.

  ‘We all know my life’s a bloody failure. Just leave me alone.’ He grabbed the book basher’s phone and stamped off down the hallway.

  26

  I parked outside the squat, apricot-brick building of the Garden of the Gods Extended Care Nursing Home. Blew on my hands to warm them up. I really needed to get my car heater fixed. Got out of the car and crunched my way across the gravel.

  Ernie was in his room, as usual. And in his dressing gown already.

  ‘Sorry I’m, err, a bit later than I said I would be.’

  ‘A day late, in fact.’

  ‘Yeah, had a couple of complications.’

  He gave me a suspicious look. ‘I hope you haven’t been spending the night with a fella? I have to warn you about fellas. That Leo Stone, for instance…’

  Probably best if I didn’t tell Ernie about Leo’s phone call. Our date. Well, not really a date, not as such, given the Leo and Serena situation. Possible situation. Or not. A situation that could do with being clarified, anyway. So my catch-up with Leo would be more of a business type of meeting, an informal discussion to identify the areas in which Leo, ah, could assist me. Purely in an investigative capacity. Unfortunately.

  Ernie was always dead against Leo. Turned out he was against Piero as well, and any other bloke I ever took an interest in.

  Time to change the subject, onto one I actually wanted to discuss. ‘Your iPad in here somewhere?’ I looked around his room. There it was: on his dressing table, sitting in its little blue stand.

  Ernie’s iPad was a gift from a distant relative. His cousin’s granddaughter, McKenzie Thompson. Quite a nice young woman, but she lives way down south in Gippsland, like all his cousin’s family, so we don’t see a lot of her.

  I was surprised how quickly Ernie got into the internet once he got that iPad. He’s found some ripper blogs, he tells me, his eyes all shiny. You’d be amazed at how many people are out there, blogging their hearts out about old farm machinery.

  Maybe he’d let me do a quick Google search on Natalie; she’d probably be on Facebook. I might find something useful there. After all, no one keeps diaries these days: they’re all too busy sharing their thoughts with strangers on the internet.

  ‘Why you want the iPad?’

  ‘Just wondering if I could look up a couple of things.’

  ‘I feel I’m being used for my internet access.’ He sniffed.

  ‘I use you for a whole lot more than your iPad, Ernie.’

  ‘Don’t I know it. Anyway, pointless you trying. Wi-Fi in here’s flaming ratshit.’

  He heaved himself out of his armchair and staggered over to the bookcase. Started rummaging through a towering pile of DVDs.

  ‘I generally find the internet’s faster in the evening.’ He picked out a DVD from the pile. ‘We’ll watch a film together first and then you can use the iPad. No point in you going home in a screaming hurry, in any case, not to your empty, lonely life.’

  The words might have sounded vaguely sympathetic, but there was no mistaking the firm look in those watery blue eyes.

  I’m too good to Ernie, I know, but he looked out for me when I was young. And after Piero’s and my little fertility issue—Dean—Ernie helped us set up the shop. ‘Young people gotta have a start in life. You’ll be terrific in a takeaway, Cass,’ he’d said. ‘Friendly, hardworking lass like you. Top flaming cook as well.’

  The DVD was All the President’s Men. Had Dustin Hoffman ever really been that young?

  Forty minutes into the movie, Ernie started snoring. I flicked through a newspaper on his bedside table, the latest copy of the Muddy Soak Cultivator. At page four, my eye snagged on an interview with Serena Langton. The Serena. Leo’s Serena. With a photo of her sitting cross-legged on a shiny blue cushion, looking up at the camera with huge dark eyes. Delicate elfin features, a stunning smile. Before I knew it, I’d drawn a giant moustache on those elfin features. Just one of those uncontrollable impulses, unfortunately.

  I put down the pen. Got up and tiptoed around Ernie’s room. Stood for a moment in front of his iPad, while I waged a brief internal battle with my personal code of ethics. Well, he’d said I could use it. And I’ve endured about two thousand movies with Ernie over the years, so I probably deserve an occasional break.

  Password? I darted a glance at Ernie. He was still asleep. Then I spotted a piece of paper pinned to the bottom left hand corner of his mirror. In Ernie’s shaky handwriting: Password1234. Clearly the Garden of the Gods Extended Care Nursing Home put the same amount of effort as everyone else into safeguarding their internet security.

  I settled onto Ernie’s bed and logged into Facebook. Searched, and found three Natalie Kelletts. I scrolled through the photos. Photo number three looked just like the picture Gary had given me. And: Journalist, Lives in Muddy Soak. Same red hair; same plumpish, pretty face. So young, poor kid. Well, Facebook gave her the chance to be immortal. I wondered for a brief moment if Facebook lets you escape after you’re dead. I clicked on Natalie number three and scrolled through her posts.

  She hadn’t bothered to limit her postings to her friends, something Brad warned me about when I first got into this social media biz. You have to put in a bit of effort if you don’t want everyone reading about your life. Which is more of an issue if you actually have a life, but still.

  I adjusted Ernie’s pillows behind my back to get more comfortable. The Wi-Fi seemed OK, I don’t know what Ernie was on about. He can be tricky sometimes, especially when you’ve annoyed him.

  Natalie’s last post was a photo of her in a long black dress, standing at the bottom of a staircase. Another young woman stood beside her, long dark hair, wearing a blue halter-neck, a forced looking smile. A big gash of red lipstick. Jacinta? I peered at the photo. It looked like they were inside some kind of cellar. Brick walls, a curving roof over the stairs.

  Behind Natalie, at the top of the stairs, stood two men in dinner suits. I couldn’t make out the men’s faces: they were pretty much specks in the distance.

  Party! the caption said. Twenty-three of Natalie’s friends had liked it and six had made comments about how much they loved her dress. No other information about the photo and no clues as to where it was taken. The post was dated 26 January. What date had Gary said she died? The twenty-eighth of January rang a bell. So that meant Natalie had been at the party two days before she died.

  Ernie’s snoring stopped. I put down his iPad quick-smart and slithered back into the chair beside him, in front of the TV. His eyes fluttered open, then closed again. I heard his tummy growl. Good chance Ernie hadn’t had his tea. I’d better make sure he ate something before he went off to sleep properly. I headed out to Taylah and requested some sandwiches in Ernie’s room.

  When I got back, he was awake. The film credits started rolling, and Ernie turned towards me. ‘So you’d better tell me the latest on this investigation of yours.’

  I filled him in on recent events, leaving out the disaster in Target.

  ‘If only I could figure out the story Natalie was working on, maybe then I could force Dean to reopen the investigation into her crash.’

  ‘He’s never been an easy fella to force into anything. Stubborn bastard. Always has to be right. All due to his flaming insecurity, of course. Like that damn Piero whatsit. Good thing you stayed right away from him.’

  ‘Err, we were actually married. For quite a while.’

  ‘I’ll only say this once, Cass: I’m dead against the fella. He’ll just cause you grief.’ He clenched his hands.

  I sighed. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll keep right away from him.’

  ‘Only got your interests at heart, you know that.’ He stared out the window for a moment.

  Probably time to go home. Clearly, Ernie had used up his allotted marbles for today.

  ‘You checked this Natalie Kellett out on Twitter? Lot of journos tweet. Part of
the job description, poor bastards. Dunno how they can be bothered with it, personally.’

  Ernie’s moments of lucidity can be hard to keep up with. In fact, it beat me how he even knew this. Although he does read the technology pages in the Green Guide every week.

  I settled back on his bed with the iPad; adjusted the pillows behind my back. Tapped in the search words: Natalie Kellett Twitter. Too easy. I clicked on the link to her Twitter page.

  Natalie Kellett. @nattlesk. Journalist for Muddy Soak Cultivator. Views all mine. Conveniently.

  I scrolled through her list of tweets. They were heavily agricultural, with links attached:

  New research shows driest soil conditions in 100 years across Australia

  Hand-held probe to check lamb quality

  Designer cows are almost here

  Towards the end of January, she had a lot of tweets involving UnSmogOz. As in Will Galang? That got my attention.

  RT @UnSmogOz The shale revolution is an incredibly thirsty one.

  RT @UnSmogOz How much do we really need for well being? Not as much as we have, it seems.

  RT @UnSmogOz Do we need cli-fi? (no, it’s not an STD).

  There were links to articles with each one. I didn’t open them. And then, below, there was another tweet:

  @UnSmogOz Hi there can you follow me so I can DM about Ignition Group? cheers.

  ‘Ernie, what does DM mean?’

  ‘Direct Message. It’s for sending private messages.’

  ‘How do I see Natalie’s private messages?’

  ‘You need to be logged into her account.’

  Password.

  I tried Preston. No joy. Nor for PrestonTheDog, PrestonKellett, or ShutUpPreston.

  Ernie’s ham and salad sandwiches arrived. I sat with him while he ate—best way to make sure he did, in fact, eat them.

  After I helped him into bed I headed off, reflecting on things.

  One fatal car crash on the Jensen Corner might be regarded a misfortune, but two, within a week of each other—and when the people knew each other, even if only in the Twitter sense—clearly it added up to more than carelessness.