by Emma Viskic
He broke into a shambling jog, but Brad was already backing away, shaking his head at something she’d said. By the time Caleb reached her side, the bastard was halfway across the road, walking with an odd, knock-kneed gait.
‘Get off your horse,’ she said. ‘I can handle the Brad O’Briens of this world.’
‘Never doubted it,’ he said when he could catch his breath. ‘What’d you do to him?’
‘Put a wogee bogee on him.’
‘What’s a wogee bogee?’
‘Random sounds that came out of my mouth, but he’ll be checking his balls a bit for the next few days. Creep. Every time he sees me, he comes up for a nice little chat. Why does he do that? Hasn’t he noticed I’m black?’
For a smart woman, Kat was surprisingly blind to her effect on men.
‘Because you’re gorgeous, Kat. Of course he wants to talk to you – what man wouldn’t?’
Silence stretched between them. Stupid thing to have said. A serious misstep.
‘Right,’ she finally said. ‘So dick trumps racism?’
He exhaled. ‘Dick trumps everything. We’ve been through this, Kat – men are a simple sex, driven by simple needs. Don’t overestimate us.’
‘Believe me, that’s not usually a problem.’ She looked at the wine bottle. ‘What did you get?’
He presented it with a flourish.
‘Sri Lankan? Brave choice.’ But she was smiling.
He should ask her to have a coffee with him. Maybe not. Yes, he should. Jesus, like being seventeen again. Back then, it had taken some intensive speech therapy and a serious arse-kicking from Gary before he’d managed to ask her out. Not that this would be a date. Just two adults, having a caffeinated beverage.
‘So,’ Kat said. ‘Do you want to grab a coffee before we head back?’
Joe’s Cafe was empty apart from an emaciated waitress who ignored them as they made their way to a table by the lace-curtained window. The blue tablecloths and yellow walls hadn’t changed since they came here on their first date. It hadn’t been much of a date: fish and chips on the beach and a sudden downpour that had sent them scurrying for cover. They’d squeezed into the last two seats left in the place. Faced with half the town’s scrutiny and the full wattage of Kat’s smile, he’d broken into a flop sweat and completely lost the ability to talk.
‘Remember coming here, that first time?’ Kat said. ‘I was so nervous.’
‘You? Nervous?’
‘Are you kidding? I couldn’t shut up, just rabbited on and on while you sat there, all cool and calm. And that rain – it made my hair go frizzy.’
Lying in bed, he used to run his hands through those molasses-dark curls. They slipped through his fingers like satin.
‘So you didn’t notice the sweat?’ His forehead felt a bit damp now – probably a lingering effect of the illness.
‘Sweat? We were soaking wet – who was going to notice a bit of sweat? The frizz, though, God. All those gubba girls staring daggers at me, wondering why you were going out with a golliwog, when you could have been dating someone with smooth, bottle-blonde locks.’
‘I love your hair.’
And there it was – that smile. Sudden and blinding. The rest of the room faded, leaving only the curve of her lips. Warmth rose through his belly into his chest. He touched the tip of her finger.
‘Kat, I’m …’
A shadow fell across the table. Timing – the secret to good service. The waitress was around twenty, with a fondness for body piercing that had crossed the line from fashionable into ghoulish. He could see through the metal spacers in her earlobes to the specials board: cake of the day and coffee. Judging by her vacant expression and lack of interest in their signing, she’d taken a couple of downers to get her through her busy day.
‘Getchewanything?’
He hadn’t looked at a menu yet, but the sooner Morticia left, the better.
‘Cake of the day and a long black, thanks.’ Morticia scribbled on her notepad and spoke again. A lot of tongue action between the teeth. Did she have a lisp?
‘Sorry, what was that?’
She tapped her pencil. ‘Thhhhh, thhhh?’
‘Sorry, I didn’t quite catch …’
‘Thhhh, thhhhh?’
Kat was studying the tablecloth with intense concentration. Heat rose up his face. What was that last word – thream? Stream? Cream? Cream.
‘Yeah, some cream, thanks.’
Morticia’s heavy eyelids opened properly for the first time, a little startled. He’d probably spoken too loudly. Hard to modulate the volume when he was trying to blink away the perspiration running into his eyes.
‘Thhhh?’
‘Yes,’ he said; whispered.
She shrugged and exchanged a few more fricatives with Kat while he melted into a puddle of sweat and oozed away.
‘Spanish,’ Kat signed when she’d left.
That explained it; he didn’t come across too many Spanish speakers. Kat glanced from the waitress to him.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘Did you really want cream in your long black?’
‘Oh.’ Fuck. ‘I thought … No.’
‘You want to catch her before she does it?’
‘It’s OK.’
‘Or I could.’
Why was she pushing it? ‘It’s fine.’
She picked up a teaspoon and flipped it between her fingers: fast, slow, fast. Kat didn’t fidget. Created, sure – tiny people crafted from aluminium foil, origami birds from paper napkins – but never mindless fidgeting. He waited while she decided whether or not to tell him what was bothering her.
She put the spoon down. ‘You know what Brad O’Brien said to me once?’
‘What?’
‘That I could pass.’
The ferret-faced prick; he’d kill him.
‘Not for white,’ she said. ‘Nothing that good. But he reckoned I could pass for something less offensive than an Abo. Indian maybe, or Pakistani.’ She rested her chin on her hand. ‘Do you think I should? Might be less embarrassing.’
Acid bit his throat. ‘I’m not trying to pass.’
‘Every time you open your mouth, you’re trying to pass.’
‘I live in a hearing world, Kat, what do you want me to do? Make everyone learn sign language? My own parents didn’t even do that.’
‘No, but why not say something like, “I’m deaf, and I’m doing this amazing thing where I watch your mouth and face and body and come up with actual sentences. Could you help me by speaking a little slower?”’
He refilled his water glass, took a good long time doing it. Kat’s hands clenched, then reached for the napkin dispenser – looking away in the middle of a conversation was a pretty good way to get something thrown at him. He looked up.
She smoothed out the napkin she’d balled. ‘I’m really asking.’
‘Why? It’s never bothered you before.’
‘It’s always bothered me.’
Always. Always bothered her.
‘Because what I do, and how I do it, is no-one’s business except mine.’
‘But it isn’t.’ She was suddenly eager, leaning forward. ‘Don’t you see? It’s …’
She stilled her hands as Morticia slumped her way towards them. The waitress set his coffee in front of him: a cup of greasy brown liquid, topped with a blob of melting cream.
When she’d gone, Kat continued. ‘It’s the business of waitresses who don’t understand why you’re looking so angry, of taxi drivers who don’t know why you’re not answering them. And, more importantly, it’s the business of people who love you. You’re putting so much effort into pretending you’re normal, you can’t be anything like your real self with any of them.’
And all these years he’d thought they couldn’t have had a worse date than their first one. Not that this was a date – that was pretty fucking obvious. More like an inquisition. Flayed alive: nothing left except raw, weeping flesh.
She touched h
is hand. ‘I’m not attacking you.’
‘I know.’
‘No you don’t, you’re wound so tight you’re barely breathing. Which is exactly why I’ve never … Look, I’m doing this all wrong. I think what you’ve managed to accomplish …’
‘… despite being black. Is that how that sentence ends?’
Her eyes were ice-blue slits. ‘It’s not the same.’
‘Some people regard being black as a disability.’
‘Are any of them sitting at this table?’
‘No.’
‘Then why would I care? I like myself. I’m very happy with who I am.’
‘I’m happy with myself, too. It’s the rest of the world that has a problem. Including you, apparently.’
She lowered her head, but not before he’d caught her whispered ‘fuck’.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘I know you’re only …’
‘No.’ She flashed a manufactured smile. ‘I overstepped. So, how’s the cake? As inedible as it looks?’
Back to polite Kat. It was impressive, really, just how bad he was at life. He went to speak, but her gaze had shifted to something behind him. Two women were coming through the door. His eyes fixed on the youngest one; she was around thirty, but walking with the stooped exhaustion of someone far older. His stomach lifted, then dropped hard and fast – Gary’s wife, Sharon.
13.
Sharon felt brittle in his arms as he hugged her.
‘You’re staying with Michelle?’ he asked.
She nodded. She hadn’t replied to any of his emails or texts, but he’d guessed she’d be staying with her older sister. That he hadn’t confirmed it was cowardice, pure and simple.
‘I’m sorry, I should have come to see you.’
His words seemed to take a while to sink in.
‘We’ve had lots of visitors,’ she eventually said.
Michelle gestured to them. ‘Come and sit down.’ An order, not an invitation.
A moment’s awkward dance until Kat stepped in and sorted it out: the two of them facing the two sisters, his back to the light. Sharon sat slumped, her brown hair hanging in limp strands over her eyes, but it was her stillness that shook him. She was the organised dervish at the centre of her family: always cooking, sewing, soothing or berating. He’d never seen her sit so still before.
‘How are Nell and Cooper doing?’ he asked.
Five and six: too young to understand how their lives had been ripped apart, too old to be oblivious.
‘They’re … confused.’
‘Would it help if I dropped round and saw them?’
‘Maybe. I don’t know.’ She slumped into silence.
He checked in with Kat and Michelle. They were deep in conversation: something about plans and dates.
‘… the funeral until they release his body,’ Michelle said. ‘Longer if she decides on a cremation. Maybe a week or so.’
God. He looked around for the waitress: the sooner they ordered, the sooner this ordeal would be over. She’d disappeared again. Give her sixty seconds, then go and hunt for her. Drag her out if he had to.
Kat nudged his leg and made a subtle ‘look’ sign towards Michelle.
‘… Ethical Standards. You’d think Gary was a criminal instead of the victim. He kept saying they knew about the drugs and the money and we should tell them everything. Smug bastard smiled the whole time.’
Bloody McFarlane. What was he up to?
Michelle was looking at him. ‘He was asking about you and your brother. Is it true? About the drugs?’
‘You know Gaz would never do something like that.’
‘All I know is my sister’s husband is dead, and it’s because of some dumb-arse thing you got him involved in.’ Her lips were thin and hard.
Sharon stirred for the first time. ‘Gary wasn’t doing anything wrong. I told you. It was Scott.’
His breath caught. ‘Scott. You know Scott?’
She blinked slowly at him. ‘No, Gary told me about him.’
‘When? What did he say?’
‘I don’t know, Cal. I told the police.’ Her eyes drifted away.
‘Please Sharon, it’s important.’ He ignored the skin-stripping stare Michelle was giving him. ‘Really important. What did Gary tell you?’
‘He said he was in trouble and we had to come down here for a while. He rang me at work. He doesn’t usually do that.’
‘What exactly did he say? Take it from the beginning. You’re sitting at your desk, you pick up the phone and Gary says …’
‘He said, “I’ve got us in a mess, babe. Something bad. Get the kids and meet me in Geelong. We’ve got to go to the Bay for a while.” I argued. I told him we weren’t going anywhere in the middle of a school week.’
‘But he insisted. What did he say?’
Sharon shook her head. ‘I dunno, Cal. I can’t remember.’
He put his hand on her cold one. ‘Close your eyes. Picture the office. Your desk and computer, the feeling of the phone in your hand. You say you’re not going and Gaz says …’
‘“Please babe, just listen. The kids aren’t safe here. Scott will kill them if he finds out.”’
Jesus.
Michelle was saying something, spitting it.
‘You’re worried, you can hear the panic in his voice, and you say …’
‘“Jesus, Gary, what’s wrong? Who’s Scott?” And he says … he says, “Sorry, sweetheart, don’t worry, I’ll sort it out, I know who to talk to. But you’ve got to go to the Bay for a while. Just get the kids and meet me in Geelong. I’ll explain everything then. Love you.” And he hung up.’
She opened her eyes. Tears slipped down her cheeks. ‘I waited and waited, but he never came.’
Michelle stood up. ‘That’s enough. Come on, Sharon, I’ll take you back to the kids.’
He went to speak, but Sharon was already struggling to her feet. He went to her and hugged her hard. She limply accepted his embrace.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he whispered. ‘For everything.’
‘You’re going to look for Scott?’ she asked when he’d released her.
‘Yes.’
‘Good. I’m glad.’ Her face held all the emotion of someone commenting on the weather.
He mouthed ‘keep her busy’ to Kat and received a rigid nod in reply. Catching Michelle’s eye, he moved away.
She followed him without hesitation. ‘You proud of that little display?’
‘I’m trying to work out what happened. You heard the cops – they’re trying to prove Gaz was bent.’
‘Yeah? I wonder where they got that idea. I don’t know what you and Gary were up to, but you’d better not drag his name through the mud to save your own.’
‘I want to have a look around the house, see if the cops missed anything. Have you got a spare key?’
She glanced at her handbag. ‘No.’
‘I could ask Sharon, but I don’t want to hassle her.’
‘No, you wouldn’t want to do that.’
He stayed silent. After a moment, she pulled a bunch of keys from her handbag and thrust them at him.
‘You were a sweet little kid, you know. When did you become such a prick?’
There were multiple tools attached to the key ring: a blue pocketknife, a pen, an LED torch. Gary’s keys. Caleb had hung a lot of shit on him about them, Gaz responding in his usual, self-deprecating way.
‘Mate, there’s not much point having a pen in the zombie apocalypse, if you haven’t got a torch to see what you’re writing.’
He hadn’t mounted much of a defense for the off-brand pocketknife, though, just muttered that it contained ‘cool stuff’. Probably something embarrassing, like a laser pointer.
Kat came over to them. ‘Sharon wants to go.’ She looked from the keys to his face. ‘Everything OK?’ He nodded. ‘Thanks,’ he told Michelle. ‘I’ll be careful with everything.’
‘Careful? Now he’s dead you’ll be careful? Great. I’ll tell the kids, shall
I? And Sharon and his mum? I’m sure it’ll be a huge comfort to them as they lie awake, thinking about him screaming while some bastard cut him open. Sure it’ll be a huge fucking relief.’ She slung her bag over her shoulder and strode towards Sharon.
A sharp pain in his hand: Gary’s keys biting into his palm. Kat slipped her fingers into his other hand and squeezed tight.
14.
He dragged himself back to the house, Kat still gripping his hand.
‘Scott will kill them if he finds out.’
No wonder Gary’s text had been so panicked: not just his life in danger, but his family’s.
‘Scott will kill them if he finds out.’
If. So Scott hadn’t known the full extent of Gary’s … knowledge? Evidence? Betrayal? McFarlane seemed to be focusing on the drug theory. Or maybe he was still taking stabs in the dark. Well-aimed stabs, if Anton was involved.
Nearly back at the house, thank God. Couldn’t make it much further. Except Kat would leave his side once they got there. He should stop walking. He should hold her in his arms and kiss her.
‘You should do it.’
He missed a step. ‘What?’
‘See Anton. You’ve been avoiding it since you got here, but you need to know why Gary called him. You need to know if he was involved.’
He waited, knowing there was more.
‘And he’s your brother and you love him. You need to talk to him.’
He didn’t answer. Kat had never understood that brothers were different from sisters. Brothers could safely leave their relationships unexamined for a very long time. Their whole lives, if they were lucky.
They turned in to the driveway and he caught sight of Maria. She was standing on a step stool in order to reach the upper branches of the fruit tree she was pruning. Dressed in a navy silk shirt and black pants, she looked, as always, entirely out of place and supremely in control.
Her dark brows lowered as they drew near.