by Joy Dettman
‘Don’t lock yourself out,’ she said as she was leaving. ‘The key is on the bench.’
‘Have a good time.’ He craned his neck to see how she greeted the kid with the bug on his jaw. He didn’t get a kiss. She walked past him, her high heels tap-tapping on concrete.
Ross straightened. God, but he was relieved. ‘Only a bit of a kid,’ he said, rubbing his palms together, trying to wipe the grin from his face. ‘Phew,’ he said, at the window now, looking down at a small red car backing out to the street. He saw Sally wave. She’d known he’d be there, watching. He waved back, feeling good now, feeling great, feeling hungry. Bread, butter, cheese and lettuce in the fridge. He didn’t need to go out for dinner. He found frozen yoghurt, bananas, a tin of sliced peaches.
‘No worries,’ he said.
Going Places
Sally barely glanced at the pipsqueak, but she noticed the mole on his jaw. No bandaid covering it tonight, it wriggled when he spoke, and before they turned into Toorak Road his mole was dancing.
They drove around St Kilda for half an hour looking for a park. Sally saw car parks, she offered to pay, but he was a determined little sod. They got a free park eventually, which left them a half-kilometre walk back to the club.
Inside, the lighting was dim. He found his way out back to the karaoke bar, and she followed where he led. For half an hour she managed not to look at him, but after a drink he was almost on her lap, his face in her face, checking out the menu of songs. He was going to get up and sing tonight.
Noise was currently being made on stage by a raucous female wearing a shiny green skirt split to the crotch and a gold vest open to the waist – not a lot left to the imagination, but her voice needed all the help it could get.
‘This is ear abuse,’ Sally yelled.
‘I’m better than her, babe.’
‘So is Ross’s rooster.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’ She emptied her glass.
‘I used to be in the school band. I play guitar, keyboard. You name it, I can play it. My flat is full of equipment, two guitars.’ She’d started him up again, so she let him go while her mind and her eyes went elsewhere.
Two fast glasses of wine hit the spot so she ordered a third, and a scotch and Coke for the cocky little bugger. ‘I used to play the guitar a bit at school,’ she said. ‘Used to know most of the chords.’
‘More to playing guitar than a few chords, babe.’
‘You may be right, smartarse.’
‘I ought to know. I studied it from when I was eight years old.’
How had she got herself into this? How was she going to get out of it? Go to the loo, then find a phone and call a taxi, that’s how. Her eyes looked past her date to the ladies room; there was a guy seated in front of it, and from the rear he looked like Matt. He was with a blonde. His wife? She stared, willing him to turn around.
The pipsqueak became aware that he’d lost her attention. ‘Did you see how I got the most sales on Thursday? I can’t put a foot wrong with Ratsus.’ The drink had moved him, encouraged him to move his chair against her own; it had given his mouth less control. She wiped her face, her ear, moved her chair and stared at the back of the dark head.
It was Matt for sure, and the wine and the company was making her want what she didn’t want to want, what she hadn’t wanted since Christmas Eve. She willed him to turn, to see her, to leave his blonde and save her from purgatory.
‘I reckon she’s a bull dyke,’ Pipsqueak said.
‘Who?’
‘Ratsus. She’s got to be. She said to me on Friday –’
‘I don’t care what she said to you. Will you give my ears a break for five minutes, and stop spitting all over me?’ The man who had to be Matt didn’t like the entertainment. He stood, turned around, and he was as ugly as a bag full of monkeys.
‘It’s not him,’ she said.
‘Not who?’ His nose was in her face again, a long nose. Thin. Awful hair, lank and rusty blond.
She eyed the nose and the mole on his jaw that looked like a cockroach. Every house she’d ever lived in had resident cockroaches. She’d declared war on them, stomped them, listened to the crack. She wanted to stomp this one too, get it out of her face. She watched it crawl under his chin. Crawl back up again.
He smiled, pleased her interest was again centred on him. The cockroach stretched, stood up on its back legs and preened. Good pickings in the dark tonight, it thought, and she laughed because she knew how to handle insects.
Matt had no blemishes, no scars. Gold-dust skin. Smooth, long fine legs. Her black swan. Beautiful, serene black swan. Want travelled through her as she thought of Matt but stared at a cockroach, hypnotising it with her eye.
It cowered. ‘What do you reckon, babe?’ it said. ‘I’m getting cold feet.’
‘Drink up, I reckon.’ Another drink might kill that old weak want in her belly. She ordered two more.
‘I’ve been thinking of selling my old one. Thought I might put an ad on the noticeboard at work.’
‘Your old what?’ she yelled. There was a guy sucking up to the mike now and he had a voice like a working bullock.
‘Guitar.’
‘How much do you want for it?’
This was a new twist. He wanted her, but he wanted top dollar for his guitar too. What did he want more? She saw his eyes weigh up the scales; he found a balance. Spoke it.
‘Sold. Bring it to work on payday.’
‘That’s without a case. Someone knocked off the case once when I was busking, took it and my money and jumped a tram.’
‘What?’
‘Someone knocked off the case. It’s got no case.’
‘I’ve got my own,’ she yelled. Mine now to tie me down, like the goose girl is mine. The photographs.
The working bullock moved off and an elderly woman was having her moment of glory. Maybe she’d been good once, but she’d left her run too late. The pipsqueak was on about his school band, so she tuned out. What a cocky little bugger. But he no longer wanted to get up and sing. Still planning to grab a taxi home to Ross, she escaped to the loo and tossed down a don’t-care pill. It changed her mind. She was going to force him up there, make him put up or shut up. And she wanted to hear ‘Runaway Girl’. Hadn’t heard it in years.
Again she moved her chair. They’d almost completed a circle. What was his name, anyway? She’d heard it in the tearoom. D for Davey? Donny?
Minutes later, she heard it. Dennis Roach. He cowered. Not so Cocky Roach now, and she laughed as she watched his mole drink from his glass. Dennis didn’t suit him. Cocky did. What were names, anyway? What use naming a baby Amanda and having it grow up to look like a Maude, a Christopher to look like a Norm? Names were confusing. Only Matt was perfect. And Ross. Their names suited them well.
Sally De Rooze. It sounded like a stage name.
‘Dennis Roach?’
‘You’re being paged,’ she said.
He kept his head low. ‘Can’t,’ he said. ‘I can’t, babe. Those last two were good.’
‘I love “Runaway Girl”. I bought the tape when I was nineteen and wore it out. Get up there and sing it for me, you chicken.’
‘No. No, I shouldn’t have let you talk me into that one. It’s got too much range for me. You shouldn’t have talked me into that one.’
‘Squawk-squawk,’ she said and she flapped her elbows. ‘I’ve got the range.’
And she stood, because she wanted to hear that song. She emptied her glass in a long swallow and emptied his scotch and Coke too. She shrugged, smoothed down her skirt and walked in a near straight line to the stage; she grasped the mike for support and looked out at the tables, at the expectant faces. Her skirt was short, her make-up intact; they didn’t mind looking at her.
Crow with a sore throat. That’s what Mummy used to say. Stop that noise, it’s grating on my nerves. That’s what Mummy used to say. Shane would have been the singer. That’s what Mummy used to say.
&nbs
p; But Mummy was dead.
Shit. What a bloody idiot. She licked her lips as she glanced at the screen, at the mike. She’d never used a mike and didn’t need the words on the screen. She knew ‘Runaway Girl’. She’d sung it a thousand times, sung it in the paddocks to Ross’s sheep. She’d almost broken up with him that first time over this song.
Then the music began.
‘Shit,’ she said, and the mike amplified her word.
Laughter. Flock of faces.
She stepped back, repeating the word. That bloody mike! How close was too close? She swallowed, closed her eyes and thought of Ross’s fat lambs on their way to the slaughterhouse, and she opened her mouth and sang to them:
Little runaway girl,
Keep on running till you get to the place where you want to be.
Take the mountains in your stride, cross the rivers swift and wide –
She brought the house down.
She brought the house down! They clapped her and wanted more, but she ran back to the table, sobered. Cocky wouldn’t let her sit down and hide. He made her get up and sing ‘Wind Beneath My Wings’. And she’d always loved that one too, so she sucked up to the mike pretending she was Bette Midler, and gave it everything she had.
It was like . . . like finally . . . It was like. God only knew what it was like.
‘Jesus, you’re good, babe. You’re something else. Jesus! What are you doing flogging stuff on bloody telephones?’
Something else. That’s what it was like. Like she had been someone else. Like she’d finally come together. Here in this place, in front of these people, someone had swept up all the bits of her from all of the old floors in all of the houses and –
Pow!
Her atoms had flung themselves back together as she’d opened her mouth and let it rip.
‘Pow!’
‘You and me together, babe. We could go places.’
She looked at him then, looked at his mole and she laughed. ‘Let’s go places, babe,’ she said, and they headed off in search of his car. She sang as they walked, sang ‘Wind Beneath My Wings’, but to him, altering the words to suit.
They couldn’t find the street where he’d left his car, and she was away in some crazy, hazy laughing wonderland and no help at all. He was laughing with her, until he found his car with a parking ticket under the wiper. Residents only.
‘I’ll pay half,’ she said. ‘Sorry, babe. But I’m not really sorry because it was worth every cent of it. I’ll pay the lot.’
‘Thanks, babe,’ he said.
He walked her to her door and he wanted in that door, but she laughed again.
‘You’re just the wind beneath my wings, so be a wind and blow, babe,’ she said. But she kissed his cheek, gave him a Bertram hug. He was just a kid, just a kid full up with dreams.
Dreams were contagious.
The Utility
Blustery north winds were blowing around Lakeside at midday, trapped there by the hills. It had the dust flying in the paddocks, and the sticky bushflies sheltering indoors, looking for moisture. Ross was supplying it. On his back beneath the ute, sweat trickled, prickled. The ute’s tail shaft had vibrated all the way home from Melbourne, but it was Tuesday before he’d found the time to look at it. He was up to his elbows in grease, undoing the final U-bolt, and the dogs started their ‘some bugger is coming’ bark.
Minutes later he heard the car. ‘Who the hell wants me now?’ he said.
He heard the car doors slam as he eased the tail shaft down, then he whistled the dogs, who came at a run to the shed and proceeded to crouch down lower than their top dog, still flat out beneath the ute.
‘Mr Bertram?’ The voice spoke to a pair of size-twelve boots.
‘That’s me.’ Boots, followed by greasy overalls and a grin, slid out, but the grin disappeared as he looked into the light where two cops stood, shoulder to shoulder.
‘What’s happened?’ he said, on his feet, his vibrating tail shaft forgotten.
‘We believe you may be able to assist us with our inquiries into the death of Helen Lee, Mr Bertram.’
‘Who?’
‘At approximately 8.45 p.m. on Sunday evening, Helen Lee was struck by a vehicle in Bollinger Street, South Yarra. We believe you may have been in the vicinity at the time.’
Ross eyeballed them, first the tall guy, then the little bloke with the notebook. He swallowed, wiped a greasy hand across his mouth, tasted grease and spat as the smaller cop looked across to the ute.
‘I didn’t hit anyone,’ he said reaching for his cigarettes, looking at the packet, then at his black hands. Slowly he picked up an old T-shirt from the floor and wiped at the grease.
‘We believe that you left Bollinger Street at approximately 8.45 p.m. on Sunday evening.’
‘It was a bit after 8.30. I got home here around 10.30. I used the Bolte Bridge and it took me half an hour less coming home than what it took me to get there. Who was she?’
‘Her parents live at 18 Bollinger Street, Mr Bertram.’
He stared at the duo, suddenly knowing why they were there. ‘You mean that little kid. That little Asian kid. Helen?’ The tall cop nodded. ‘Oh, Jesus. We were only talking to them that afternoon. We were fixing Sally’s door and these two cute little kids came out. Oh Jesus. That bastard of a city.’
They were waiting for more but Ross closed his mouth and looked down at his dogs, tears stinging his eyes, his head shaking, denying, denying that bastard of a city.
‘Did you notice any other vehicles in the street at the time you were leaving, Mr Bertram?’
‘I wouldn’t know where to start, would I? There were cars everywhere.’
‘Where was your vehicle parked?’
‘On the street. On the right-hand side, about two spaces back from the drive.’ He tossed his butt to the earth, ground it in and lit another. ‘A couple of cars drove in, a couple drove out. There was an old bloke delivering junk mail – or something.’
‘Can you give us a description?’
‘Who looks at junk-mail deliverers, or their junk? I didn’t take any notice.’
‘Old, you said. Tall? Short?’
‘He looked . . . I dunno.’ Ross hunted a fly, watched it land on the smaller cop’s ear. ‘He looked small, but I’m inclined to think anyone under six foot is a genetic dwarf.’ The smaller cop didn’t like that. He swatted the fly and spent some time identifing its corpse.
‘Did you get an idea of his age, Mr Bertram?’
‘He wasn’t young.’ Ross blew smoke. ‘Sixty-odd, I’d say, but he drove a racy little car.’
‘Any idea of the make?’
‘It was a Honda, one of those sporty little two-door jobs. A 97–98 model, black, Honda Prelude.’
‘Delivering junk mail, Mr Bertram?’
‘I don’t know. I’m just trying to help you. He was hanging around the letterboxes. How would I know what he was doing?’ He waited, but they weren’t saying anything. ‘You don’t think of what you’re seeing in Melbourne, because you’re seeing too much. I mean, you don’t wander around thinking, I’d better take note of this, someone is going to commit a crime. He was at the letterboxes when I walked past with my bag, then I saw him open his car door as I drove away. He wouldn’t have done it.’
‘Where was he parked, Mr Bertram?’
‘Down from my ute. There was a white van in front of me and a little Asian guy loading something into it when I left.’ He patted Rusty’s head, then Fred pushed in, expecting his due. Ross gave him a pat while the lemon meringue pie he’d eaten for morning tea rose to his throat. He swallowed it, his mind flitting back to Saturday night and that bed. He swallowed again, coughed and turned away.
‘We believe the vehicle would have been damaged, Mr Bertram. Would you mind if we –?’
‘Oh, Christ, man! Come off the grass! As if I’d run over a little kid and not stop.’ Ross looked at his grease-stained hands, and at a knuckle newly scraped. He walked to the door, looked out at t
he Matthews’ farm, and thought of home-baked pie. ‘Bloody Melbourne,’ he said. ‘She won’t be getting me back there in a hurry. She goes down there to find herself. Find herself!’ He walked to the utility and flung the doors wide, dropped the tail gate. ‘I haven’t cleaned it for six months. Any blood you see on it is sheep’s blood. I’m going in to have a shower. If you want to talk, come up to the house.’
‘Bloody find herself,’ he muttered as he walked away from the two men, the dogs at his heels. ‘She’s found something. Dunno what it bloody was. Shit. That bastard of a city.’
On the Edge
Melbourne had pulled a day straight from hell’s oven. The shadeless roof was deserted. Smokers might brave the wind and rain, but they ran from this flesh-baking heat, escaping to the shade twelve floors below.
Cocky Roach’s workstation had sat vacant for most of that morning, but within minutes of his arrival, the entire crew knew why he’d been late. He was still at it when they walked to the tearoom.
The police had questioned Sally on Monday evening; she’d known the reason for Cocky’s absence. She hadn’t seen him on Sunday night; he’d knocked at her door. Forewarned is forearmed – she’d seen his car, which must have been seconds before Helen Lee had walked downstairs with her bundle of tracksuits, as she’d been doing, twice a week, since Sally had moved in. Cocky had watched her fly through the air. He’d seen her fall.
‘Like a rag doll,’ he said for the umpteenth time. ‘She looked like a rag doll.’
Varicose wasn’t eating. ‘I let Tania ride her bike to school today. I knew I shouldn’t have.’ Fear in her voice. Fear in her eyes as she looked at her watch. ‘I think I might go home. I told her to ride on the footpath but children don’t listen these days.’
No-one in the tearoom listened to her either, but Pimples was staring at her breasts. Sue was eating melon. Sally wasn’t hungry. Today she wanted to close up, shut down. Didn’t want to think of the dark-eyed little girl from Number 13. Didn’t want to think.
Her eyes roamed across the table to Pimples. Like a gangly shadow he always wandered in behind old coot Ron, wandered out behind him; there, but not there. He was half a metre taller than Ron, but he let the old coot push him around – stinging old wasp, feeding on a crippled spider.