Winter Traffic

by Stephen Greenall

—

  ‘Sutto? It’s Whit.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ve got some trouble. Mate, I’m sorry I fucked you over but I need your fucken help.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They’ve got Kristy. Okay? They’ve got Kristy and they’re hurting her.’

  The line goes dead and Whit begins to cry.

  —

  He uses gradient to slow the truck, Bloke invited to alight when the driver steps clear. A meeting of minds and no whistle required, not even a glance / let rip the dog of war.

  ‘Stay.’

  Bloke hates the STAY—the STAY is death—but his belly presses asphalt. He is stashed beneath the vehicle like a case of secret weapon, the glass of an emergency that none can bear to break.

  —

  Whit was heartthrob in his heyday. Then coke moved in like a trophy wife, started snorting all his fat. That’s a real top look if you wear jocks for a living / if you’re twenty years old and a sheila. The guitar star squeals as the door explodes and gives rise to Bison Pell.

  Bison’s vest is leather, sleeveless, but the man has serious sleeves. He doesn’t so much walk as wade—all the heft impairs his gait. He strolls across the tiles and offers Whit a bathroom tap, a bit of a g’day / a little something to go on with.

  Rock ’n’ roll damnation: the next thing he knows, Whit is belly-down in front of his own fireplace, sooking through his gag that it’s all a mistake / just a shockin misunderstanding.

  —

  Sutton is the runner flowing river-like away, vanishing down paths he has not visited for years. He is not so fit as when he went away. The stretch was only eight months strong but it robbed him of his sharp. He knows he cannot be the knife that he was.

  A sprint into dead-end cul-de-sac, home of the Hammond home. Not the biggest Bellevue mansion but a triumph of art deco, a real favourite with local matriarchs. Three bikes stand guard plus a single man.

  Just a colt, a decent pair of ears hearing footsteps. They forecast a storm cloud that cannot be scanned / his mouth forms a challenge that won’t see light of day.

  —

  The palace is shaking with European trance, belting it out from a central chamber. Zero lyrics, just the frenzy of a synth built and played in different hemisphere. The soundtrack has a job / it masks the strife.

  Sutton goes in through the garage, no way of knowing if they watch him on screen. In his heart he doubts. The choppers on the street have told him who he’s up against, Shark plus Bison, members who rank in a very staunch crew. They amount to a pair of mighty bodies but their brains are hardly legend.

  Detour, study, the darkened home of an answer machine whose message light is red. A scan of desk and weigh of possibility; Sutton knows about the safe but he refuses its temptation. A combination different now / the gun no longer there.

  —

  ‘Where the fuck did you come from.’

  Shark is the first to see Sutton in the arch, a living link between sunken lounge and sunken formal dining. The menace in his voice is Bradman’s average, almost a hundred / not quite there.

  Bison turns disgusted from his chore, the holding of Whit’s face closer and closer to flame. He drops the busted rocker like a sack of blood and bone.

  ‘Fuck off, Sutton.’

  Shark is bald, massive, bejewelled with sweat. He advances some of the way / not all of the way. ‘Are you deaf or something cunt-face.’

  Sutton raises his palm like a Hollywood Red Indian. The lounge is a big room but over-appointed, full to a fault with ostentatious things. Leaning against the chesterfield is a sawn-off shotgun.

  ‘Listen,’ says Bison. He rubs his cheek, a triptych of war paint scratches that answer Sutton’s question. Whit doesn’t quite have the nails to do it.

  ‘What.’

  ‘We know the boss likes you. Maybe even owes you. But Fuck-Whit here is something else.’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Shark. ‘So just fucken leave it.’

  The carpenter appears to be listening for something, a shift or signal in the nocturne wind. Bison edges for the gun and offers bright advice: Let’s not do nothing stupid.

  ‘This house has tricks,’ Sutton says to the floor. ‘That’s rich people for you. Always looking for ways to spend their money.’

  ‘Rawson downstairs?’

  ‘It’s only me.’

  ‘Yeah? Then where the fuck is Nigger.’

  ‘Nigger’s dead.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  Bison goes for the shottie. Moves well for a big man. Shark charges. Him too.

  Sutton produces a paperweight and a letter-opener. He says Lights off, and the clever house obeys.

  23

  The progress he makes is rambling, an ursine composite of leisure and menace. The bourbon haze is potent but understandings filter through it: the garden is Jap and immaculate, cultural counter to the high Gothic feel of the castle it moats. He arrives at a subtle door surprised by its farmhouse quality, six panes of glass through which a comely maid in black. Small reception / it’s a coat-room job. He tells himself to sharpen up, source a crisper mode of being.

  The bear tries the handle, finds it locked. The lass hears and makes eyes, makes a gesture of just a sec. To her right is a dinner-suited man and some elevator doors. Half a man—he sports the head of a Cocker Spaniel. The lift arrives and admits the convincing hybrid, a loud click sounding when he goes. The bear is admitted, stooping to enter but grazing his scalp all the same.

  The girl is complacent serenity. A quizzical cast develops in her eye and he tries to keep his answering grin within appropriate bounds. ‘How are we, gorge. What’s the cover?’

  The cast intensifies; he should have worn a suit less rumpled. And less khaki, one that has known the kiss of dry cleaner’s lips. She says, ‘The only thing we ask for is the password.’

  ‘Chukka. I can spell that if you like—use it in a sentence.’

  The knit of her brow suggests that failure is rare. ‘Wrong.’

  The bear glances down, a walkie-talkie by her wrist; one sharp syllable and the muscle comes-a-runnin. He digs in his pocket and tries not to seem so triple-her-size. ‘Hang on—think I wrote it down.’ It lands heavy on the counter and makes her stare, a potent meld of leather and metal.

  ‘Let me call someone to—’

  ‘How’s the pay.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  The bear is an audible thinker: ‘You get to keep your clothes on, so probably not crash-hot. And yet what an opportunity—show this bunch you’ve got a level head and before you know it you’re a nanny in Aspen, hitting the slopes with Hamish and Harriet.’

  ‘I’m sure we can clear this up—’

  ‘So am I, love; so am I. But if you pick up the phone it gets complicated. Names get exchanged—yours and mine, the folks upstairs. And that’s sticky, isn’t it, because names aren’t really the currency. Not tonight.’ Her eyes don’t leave the badge and his voice surrenders volume. ‘Didn’t come to make a fuss. Just heard about a decent little card game. Okay, so I’m rolling with date info—’

  ‘I could get in trouble. These guys—’

  ‘Don’t fuck around. Yeah—I get it. But it’s called danger pay, sweets. What do you think I live on?’

  ‘And how do I explain it if they ask. It’s not like you’re going to blend in.’

  ‘Repeat after me, The bloke knew the password.’

  ‘What, rapscallion?’

  Her bitten lip / his Kodiak smile. ‘Been called a lot worse. That punter just now; was he wearing a mask? Cos if he wasn’t—strewth—that’s a bloody rough melon to walk through life with.’ She turns from his guff to open an oversized cabinet, the act revealing a menagerie in high-end rubber, every doggie face unique. A low whistle expresses his sense of marvel. ‘Do you take requests? A close associate of mine is a Malamute. Or Husky. Or some bloody thing. So if it’s possible—’

  She selects with a decisive air and throws it at the generous target of his chest. The be
ar catches, gazes into a face that is a little too close to home. ‘Right. And who might this be.’

  ‘Tibetan Mastiff. I never handed it out before.’

  ‘Oh, you like to match the punter with the breed.’

  ‘Best part of the job.’

  He pulls it on, his vast woolly cranium enveloped by latex and claustrophobia. ‘How do I look?’

  ‘About exactly the same.’

  He sticks a fast-drying tongue through the slit of mouth, panting like the genuine article. A huff and puff of comic jowls that doesn’t raise her smile. ‘Exactly how depraved does it get up there? On a scale between one and 9½ Weeks?’

  ‘I couldn’t say.’ The answer is taut, chillier than an Aspen ski lesson; the girl rounds the counter and hits the button for the lift. ‘This is as far as I’ve ever been.’

  —

  Kristy walks the high hall back to her room, warned in advance by Sophie B. Hawkins that she will not be alone. She is four steps in when Tahni tumbles out of bathroom, the crooked girl belting out an off-key Shucks in the instant she is sprung. Kristy says, ‘You’re supposed to snort it, not wear it. I thought we talked about discretion.’

  ‘Sorry, I just—’

  ‘Cut one for me.’

  Tahni jumps in the air like she’s selling Toyotas, hustles back into her strongroom. Kristy wonders from the bed if she’s made any money. ‘About eight hundred,’ comes the ecstatic reply. ‘From one hour of lappies.’ Kris goes into her bag for the hip flask of emergency rum. No one knows about her half-caste heritage / she’s fifty per cent Queensland. No one living. ‘Kris! Hear what I said?’

  ‘Yeah—eight hundred. That’s great.’

  She goes into the en suite and rolls her eyes, shapes a proper dose while Tahni giggles. ‘Am I a lightweight?’

  ‘Don’t mind me, happy to see you pace yourself. But no more drinks, okay? The night is young.’ The blonde kills the line and it makes her better, puts her into the black if just. Months since she had some / Chris forbids. Kristy licks the edge of the credit card and finger-brushes gums, both acts conducted with a joyless efficiency not lost on her supplier.

  ‘Are you having an okay night?’

  ‘Um. It’s complicated.’

  ‘What have you made.’

  Double what you—‘It’s not the money. A guy walked in just now, someone I know.’

  ‘Ex?’ Kristy doesn’t answer and Tahni frowns her doubt. ‘You sure it’s him? If he’s wearing a mask—’

  ‘Trust me, girl, I’d know him in hell.’

  ‘Oh…Was he, like, terrible to you.’

  The song fades, its lapse allowing Kristy to hear another trill of mobile. Probably Him, sensing in the ether that she is not at home / has powder in her veins. Good gear actually, all things considered. She reaches her bag a moment too late and gets a hit of surprise from the news, eight missed calls from Whit’s House.

  ‘You can tell me, you know. If he was terrible.’

  Tahni’s voice is freighting a world of emotion and Kristy knows right there she doesn’t have the legs, won’t greet the dawn with seven grand tucked neat into her Cobar stiletto. Tears after midnight, put in a car by Anita about twenty-five seconds after the first one hits the floor. Kristy says, ‘How do I open a text message.’

  Miss 8 materialises, entranced by Kristy’s handset. ‘Holy shit, that’s the MicroTAC Elite.’

  ‘Mind the eardrums.’

  Tahni snatches, commences the interface. ‘I need you to come round urgent. Is this from your bloke?’

  Kristy pushes a grey nurse into Tahni’s hand and goes back into the bathroom. A crisis with Whit / that’s all she bloody needs. At least the prick is close at hand, ninety-five seconds in a taxi. Tahni tries to refund the cash but Kristy’s stare is tight, mercantile. ‘This line of work is fifteen times harder than you realise at the minute, so listen when I say you always get paid. For everything, Tahni. No exceptions.’

  The third-prettiest girl in Coonamble Shire nods like a diligent student. Then falls to sadness: ‘You didn’t answer. The guy upstairs—was he terrible to you? Is he a bastard, someone I should stay away from?’

  ‘No, sorta, absolutely.’

  ‘It’s just funny how you came up after you saw him. Like before you were fine, didn’t want any—’

  ‘Have you been listening?’

  ‘Totally.’

  ‘Good. Because it’s no fun waking up at thirty with a fifty-year-old body and a shift at Porky’s you badly fucken need to make rent. Oldest friggin story in dancing.’

  ‘He broke your heart. Didn’t he. I can tell.’

  Kristy goes into the en suite for cosmetic reasons but starts another family of lines when she hears it go again. Tahni yodels Whit’s House and on second thought this stuff is pretty piss-weak, civilian grade. Any half-sister of a pain-in-the-arse rocker can tell you how it’s meant to feel, a high-speed balanced weightlessness with Everest inverting slowly in your palm. The truth is he was wonderful to me but he was terrible for me and it fractured my heart to fuck with his. Kristy almost makes it verbal but these are fine distinctions for a black-and-white phase such as New-In-Town-From-Cobar. She lets the matter slide into darker bouts of thinking, the rounded innocence of country girls that hardens in a season, their softness turned to mean explicit angles under harbour city lights. Ten missed signals / she should drown the fucking thing, always men calling only never the right one. Why did Chris buy it if he wasn’t gonna use it? Kris crosses Tahni’s hand with another silver note, expects a song of protest and gets it.

  ‘Grrr. What have we learned tonight.’

  ‘Always get paid,’ says Tahni beaming. ‘Eleventh commandment.’

  ‘Eleventh?’ Kristy chops and hoovers. ‘Fuck that for a joke, it’s number one with a bullet.’

  22

  The hero’s road is named for a village, a hamlet that lives on the far side of world. There are some who want to murder his house, grow apartments on its grave.

  Of course they do: he owns a clear smell of water, a direct view of beach. If the state’s best halfback came to his backyard, kicked the footy three times consecutive, it would wash up in the foreshore of that advertisement sea.

  —

  ‘What are you doing.’

  Sutton holds the rod of the spray gun the way a rifleman holds his weapon. He turns to face the music of her voice.

  ‘Giving her a tub.’

  ‘Yeah? I thought you did that yesterday.’

  Susan thinks he will walk across to kiss her good morning. Instead the garage door, a hard but fluid action that entombs them without light.

  ‘There’s bloody blood on the dog.’

  ‘Okay.’

  His shirt is draped across the toolbox, Sutton putting it on but not buttoning. He looks at his Susan, hair dark and lovely against the white of robe / the contrast almost painful.

  ‘Was it Kristy?’

  Sutton takes a good long look.

  —

  The hero lifeguards from his famous verandah, watching the beach but never lowering to swim. It is a place for tourists in crude mosaic, souls in want of postcard recollection. It is foreigners new to oceans sporting dark and uniform hair, half-drowning in the shallows even when between the flags. It is muscle boys and liar blonds and pale-titted youth, girls from over there who turn to red and moan in Irish. It is westie and fat chick and laughing mum and dad, a locust-swarm of Kiwi and a county-load of Pom.

  He has no business in that easy sand: the hero must in-grow like a nail / feed the splendid mouths of harbour. Its water is black with memory and the memory is Sydney, interior beaches formed around its single coalface eye. Stare into that membrane and declaim you cannot see them, the hero and his sidekick man who chauffeurs in a truck.

  —

  All that day is aftermath and laced with aftermath taste. Words gestate in a certain way but get spoken out loud another; walks conducted just the two of them but some others she takes alone. Even Bl
oke goes out for a wander after lunch, a silent blockie that escapes him from the house.

  Twice she becomes upset but mostly she is tired and this is the phrase that becomes her refrain, the draw of the hours sketching a Susan pale and thin. Hers is a quiet loveliness, but when she goes to meet Arabella for emergency coffee—or down to Rocket’s Video to return an unwound flick—all the light is gone from her face / it is the face of someone else. Her aesthetic has always been classic—not modern and blonde and airbrushed like a certain other person—but today she looks Edwardian, Victorian, positively First Fleet. Joyless governess eyes and a touch of typhoid round the cheekbones, her hair in strict bun and five non-surviving infants.

  —

  Sutton only tells the truth. Never offers more words than necessary. Is disinclined to repeat himself.

  ‘It isn’t like that.’

  ‘You promised you wouldn’t see her. I promised myself—’

  ‘Whit had some trouble.’

  ‘You can’t run over there every time Whit Hammond—’

  ‘Come on. I haven’t seen him in years.’

  Susan chews a nail / digests the truth of the claim. ‘Michael told me he never felt jealous.’

  ‘Hey?’

  ‘That meant a lot to me, Rawse not feeling jealous…Is that an awful thing to say?’

  A shrug of blue canvas. ‘It is what it is.’

  ‘Penetrating.’

  ‘Awful don’t really come into it.’

  That is the fourth problem with Sutton: he never gets upset, never alters in reply to a heightening of stakes. Not showing you care is like not caring to begin with—and either way women really hate it.

  —

  In days to come her friends will marvel that she managed to remain so long, careful to articulate her gallant perseverance. But come along now, darling—the two of you so different…Before her stretches that round of Rose Bay lunches and Paddington shopping dates into which she might fall and so soften the worst of it. It will be best that she goes along quietly—to meet the girls at Prago, to try the new Yasuda Mori—and it is vital that she grows again, makes an effort to stretch her wings. Implied in this recovery is that meeting of someone special, the man who will understand her and be properly deserving.