Mine (Book 2): Sister Mine, Zombie

by Peter Trevorah

  Got the picture?

  Yes, of course, it was perfect!

  The place was full of people who were struggling in various ways: mental illness, substance abuse, marital break-up and so on. Everyone made sure that they kept to themselves and minded their own business.

  So, when a bloke turns up with a chick dressed in a burqa …well? Who cares! If any eyebrows had been raised, I didn’t see them because everyone was too busy averting their gaze. To several of the residents, the floor coverings seemed suddenly to become of particular interest as soon as they glimpsed me and Deb.

  o0o

  Within ten minutes of settling Deb into our room – and instructing her firmly not to leave - I found the common area of the rooming house.

  Three items to obtain or locate: a Red Phone, the morning newspaper and the Yellow Pages. Tick! Tick! Tick! No problem at all: three out of three in no time flat. Now, I had some research to do.

  I checked the paper for shipping times in Melbourne Port. Then I established the names and contact details of a number of local shipping agents.

  ‘Ring on the Red-Phone’ was the advertising slogan of the times. And I did so. I had to make a mere four calls on the battered, but functional, red-phone to get the information I required:

  The Freighter, “Southern Princess”, was arriving in port that night and would be leaving to return to Hong Kong within 48 hours. Crucially, I managed to establish the name of the captain and the hotel at which he and his crew were likely to be drinking by the morning: the Waterside Arms.

  (Heartfelt thanks to all at ‘Cargo Superintendents’ for this information!)

  o0o

  Locking Deb in our room for a short time – while I searched for the info I required – was not a particular problem. My ‘two-year-old’ zombie was now sufficiently under my control for me to be confident that she would not run amok in that time.

  However, leaving her for a whole morning – while I sought out the Captain of the “Southern Princess” – was quite another matter.

  Two-year-olds have a short attention span. Two-year-olds get bored. Two-year-olds throw tantrums.

  So, what was the alternative to leaving her locked in our room at the rooming house?

  I could dress her in the burqa – which she hated – and take her into the crowded public bar, full of seamen and wharfies, of one of the roughest pubs in Melbourne (at a time when women rarely entered any public bar).

  That wouldn’t attract much attention, would it?

  There was a third option, of course: I could tie her to the bed as I had done to her in the shack when I needed to leave her overnight.

  I thought of the fearful racket she’d kicked up when I had done this – and dismissed the idea out of hand. I might as well have handed her over to the police straight away and been done with it.

  The best of the three options was therefore to lock her in the room, cross my fingers and be as quick as I could.

  Before I left, I gave her a solid lecture upon the topic of being quiet and not causing any trouble. Predictably, she turned her back on me and sulked.

  It could have been worse.

  o0o

  Ah, yes, the public bar of the Waterside Arms – how shall I describe it?

  Old? Certainly – it had stood on the same spot (and not even slightly prettied up) – for over a hundred years. Austere? Hmm. Perhaps. There was certainly a minimum of facilities – nothing much which was remotely breakable. Lots of hard, wooden surfaces – with a touch of stainless steel here and there. And dark? Yes. Even in the morning. Smoke-filled? Yes, of course – in those days, at least.

  But it was clean enough, the atmosphere was congenial (for the moment) and the beer was cold. So no-one was complaining.

  Knots of sweaty, muscular, massive-looking men sat and stood about the bar area - though most preferred to remain standing. These were guys who performed hard, physical work on a daily basis – and their sweat-stained working clothes reflected this. I felt distinctly over-dressed and scrawny by comparison.

  Even the barman was twice my size and covered in fading tattoos with a distinct maritime theme: anchors and full-bosomed mermaids – stuff like that. (I didn’t look too hard). I’d say he’d once been a seaman but had now decided to be a landlubber. (Though, I guess, no-one gets called a ‘landlubber’ these days.)

  I approached the bar and ordered a pot of Victoria Bitter. The barman eyed me suspiciously. I was very much out of place – and was starting to reconsider the wisdom of my plan.

  The barman placed the beer roughly in front of me (clunk! slop!) without saying a word. He took my five dollar bill – no change was offered though some had been due. (Beer was not so expensive then.) This was a very clear message to me from the barman concerning my presence in his bar. The barman knew I would not protest.

  I was obviously not welcome there – and, if the locals decided they did not much like my looks, well….it didn’t bear thinking about.

  Now was the ideal time to pull the plug on my latest hare-brained scheme while I still could.

  Ignoring the obvious warning signs, I ploughed on.

  I called the barman over with a smile – he made it clear he did not wish to be ‘summoned’ by the likes of me. I kept smiling.

  I extracted a fifty dollar note from my sleeve and placed it on the laminex bar but kept my hand firmly on top of it. Now I had the man’s attention. I spoke in a low voice, still smiling.

  “I need a little information,” I said.

  “No cops. No private dicks. No reporters,” he replied firmly – but I noted that he, too, was keeping his voice low.

  He was interested.

  “Nothing like that,” I said. “I just need to make a business contact.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Keep talkin’” they seemed to say. So I did:

  “I need to find the Captain of ‘The Southern Princess’.”

  The Barman stared at me for an uncomfortably long time – and I stared back. I suppose he was looking for deception.

  Eventually, he gave an almost imperceptible flick of his head towards a small table in the corner of the room and, having done so, snatched the bill from under my hand and walked off to the other end of the bar.

  I made sure to take the time to finish my beer before approaching the table at which the Captain sat alone – there was no sense in ‘revealing my sources’ to the Captain.

  Chapter 19

  Captain Blunt

  “Blunt by name, blunt by nature,” said the Captain, with hand extended, after I had enquired of his identity.

  I wondered idly how often he had used that line throughout his life. It was obviously his lifetime joke.

  He was a man in his early 60’s, I guessed, and quite weather-beaten about the face – just as you would expect of a seaman. He still had a fine mane of ‘pepper-and-salt’ hair. Unlike most of the others in the bar, he was not a mountain of a man. From this, I guessed that he commanded his crew by force of character rather than by physical coercion.

  “I’ll have an Irish Whiskey,” he said – and nodded to the barman.

  He had been drinking beer.

  The tumbler of whiskey duly arrived and I handed over a twenty dollar bill.

  I expected no change, of course – and my expectation was not unrealised.

  The Captain was not a sipper – at least when it came to (12 year-old) Irish whiskey. The contents of his glass disappeared down his throat before either of us said another word.

  “Now that we’ve done with the foreplay,” he said (another lifetime joke, I suspect), “tell me what’s on your mind.”

  “Passage to Rabaul” I said.

  “Not going to Rabaul,” replied the Captain, without a hint of surprise at my request.

  “You’re going to Hong Kong,” I said. “Rabaul is on the way.”

  The Captain paused and looked away, as if surveying the horizon.

  “Rabaul is not on my itinerary. It’s a big detour,” he said. “A
big detour. Extra time, extra fuel. The ship owner wouldn’t be pleased. Besides, the ship owner doesn’t like us having any passengers on board. ”

  “I understand there’s likely to be bad weather on the way – an unavoidable change of course will be required. Gotta protect the precious cargo, don’t you?”

  This was merely more foreplay – we both knew it. Call it shadow boxing, if you prefer. Captain Blunt would make the detour – if I made it worth his while.

  He sat back and ordered another Irish Whiskey. We said nothing more for a time. He took from jacket a stubby packet of ‘Senior Service’ cigarettes, an uncommon brand even then. He flipped open the lid of an elaborate silver lighter and ignited the short, unfiltered cigarette which he had jerked free of the packet. He inhaled deeply and then, somewhat incongruously, blew a smoke ring. Its toroidal form expanded and hung in the bar-room air briefly - before dissipating.

  I didn’t want to speak first – the ball was still in the Captain’s court.

  “No drugs. No contraband,” he said at last. “Not interested in that.”

  I shook my head.

  “I suppose you know that there’s nothing at Rabaul these days except zombies,” said the Captain. “The city is still a complete shambles. No electricity. No water supply. No nothing. No-one’s bothered to clean the zombies out of that island yet. All the islanders are either dead or have, years ago, fled to the mainland.”

  I nodded.

  “Do you intend to stay in Rabaul?” he asked.

  I shrugged. The Captain did not need to know if Rabaul was our final destination. He didn’t press the point.

  “Then what is it?” he asked.

  “Someone needs to leave Australia,” I said.

  “Someone other than you?”

  “Yes”, I replied.

  The next question to ask, of course, was why this person needed to leave Australia by such unusual means – but the Captain did not ask that question. He knew that it was better for him not to know. Instead, he drew again upon his cigarette – no smoke-ring this time – and then took a slug from the second glass of whiskey.

  “You got passports? Real ones?”

  I nodded. This had been fortunate. Mine had been floating about in the glovebox of the Subaru and Deb always carried hers in her bag (which was unusual at the time).

  “Well, here’s the deal,” said the Captain, leaning forward towards me, as if entering into some dark conspiracy. “Ten thousand gets you both on The Southern Princess and ten thousand gets you off it - at Rabaul.”

  Actually, I had expected him to ask for more, in the circumstances. But, all the same, I gasped and feigned immediate horror – just in case he decided to increase the price. Obviously, my feigned horror appeared genuine enough – the price did not change.

  He leant back again and took a notebook from the jacket which was slung over the back of his chair. He scribbled a note and tore the leaf from the book. He handed it to me.

  “Ask for ‘Malcolm’ at the gates to the dock. Speak to no-one else. And don’t come before six – that’s when he starts work. That’s important. Hand him this note with an envelope containing two thousand dollars. That’s his price. That will get you through the gates. Come to the gangway of The Southern Princess – one of my men will be on duty. Ask for me. Speak to me alone. An envelope with ten thousand dollars in it gets you and your friend on board. Do you understand all that?”

  I nodded again. It seemed he had given such instructions before - they were delivered with such fluency.

  “All right, then,” said the Captain with a dismissive sweep of his hand. “You can fuck off now and let me drink.”

  I did.

  It had been a short but fruitful interlude.

  Chapter 20

  Back at the Rooming House

  Feeling reasonably satisfied with my efforts, I took the 112 tram back through the City and to the rooming house in Fitzroy.

  I did so with some trepidation – I had left Deb to her own devices (albeit locked in our room) for nearly three hours.

  I entered the building and anxiously climbed the creaking wooden staircase to the third floor, where our room was situated. No blood or human remains splattered on the walls – that was a positive sign.

  In fact, everything was peaceful and calm – not a single cry of the banshee to be heard. Deb must have heeded my threats of punishment – or so I thought as I reached the third floor and walked down the corridor to our room (no 323).

  The door was ajar.

  Fuck!

  I gently eased the door open, hoping against hope that I would find Deb still inside – no such luck. But, still, all was quiet. There was hope yet that she had not run amok and devoured any of our co-residents.

  I wandered back down the corridor – my ears filled with the rush of blood from my pounding heart.

  “Don’t panic!” I hissed to myself – panicking dreadfully.

  Where could she have gone? (And who the hell had let her out?! I never did find out.)

  I walked past the doorway of a small lounge-room that functioned as a TV viewing area. I glimpsed the few people who were inside, slumped in over-stuffed, ancient and worn-out arm-chairs. (You know, the sort that came straight from the deceased estate of someone who had set up house in the 1930’s.)

  Deb would not be in there – would she?

  I backtracked a few paces and took a proper look into the room.

  There was Deb, sitting up like Jackie, watching the mid-day movie with the other residents. The movie was something with Gene Kelly in it – lots of singing and dancing, lots of colour and movement. Perfect for a two-year-old.

  Deb was not wearing her burqa. Her skin was distinctly zombie-grey, her eyes deeply sunken into her skull and her facial expression quite blank. How could the others not have noticed they were in the presence of a dangerous, murderous zombie? How could they not know that their lives were in imminent peril?

  Then I looked at the others, slumped, as I’ve said, in their chairs. There were five others in the room, two sleeping and three awake – more or less. They were all fifty plus and all looked like they’d endured very hard lives. Two of them were smoking and I could also smell alcohol strongly in the air.

  Those that were awake had their eyes fixed to the TV screen – quite expressionless, just like Deb.

  And their complexions? Well, actually, Deb’s wasn’t that much worse than the others – and her face did not bear the deep, craggy creases that betrayed a hard life already lived. In fact, two of the others had a distinctly grey cast about their skin – though not quite as deeply grey as Deb (who was, after all, dead.)

  So, all in all, as long as she didn’t say too much, Deb fitted in nicely!

  But I did need, urgently, to extract her from this depressing social gathering - before she started snacking on ‘those less fortunate than herself’.

  I entered the room as casually as I could and stood beside Deb’s chair. She paid me no heed – Gene Kelly’s heel-clicking, high-stepping dance routine was completely mesmerising to her, it seemed.

  “Deb?” I said.

  No answer. No response at all.

  “Deb-deb?” I said, somewhat more forcefully. “We need to go now. Come on, Debbie-girl.”

  “Hey! You leave the lady alone!” said the overstuffed chair beside Deb.

  In that chair, was a man who appeared to be in his mid-70’s – though his battered appearance made it difficult to be entirely definite on that score. His mouth was bereft of teeth and his greasy, thin locks of hair straggled loosely about his face. He was one of the ones who had been smoking – and he was also one of the two whose skin looked quite grey.

  (Maybe he fancied girls with grey skin? Who would know?)

  I looked at the man without saying anything – I did not want to cause a commotion. That would be bad, very bad.

  “Come on, Deb,” I repeated between gritted teeth. “Please come with me. Now!”

  Deb’s feeble mind
was stuck in a Hollywood back-lot somewhere, quite unable to take in anything I said to it.