Scarlet Stiletto - the First Cut

by Lindy Cameron

  We just watch Eddie’s gang for a while because we haven’t really got a plan. They’re our enemies. There are some other gangs that we play with sometimes, but not this one. We hate them and they hate us. It’s getting boring just watching them mucking about. My plan is to get Garran Darby by himself and knock a few answers out of him. They’ve got something they’re poking at. They’re all around it, so it’s hard to see. We decide we’ll chase them off and take over the tip. Me and Leo decide it together and the others agree because we’re the leaders.

  “Glory to the valiant!” Leo says. But he didn’t make it up himself; I bet he just read it in a book.

  We jump up and run right at them, screaming and yelling, and the mental defectives just run off. I don’t take my eyes off Garran Darby the whole way down, except to look at what it is they’ve been poking around. It’s a cat, with white and orange fur. It’s dead for sure. There’s no blood, but it looks sort of squashed and it’s just staring into the distance.

  I really hate Garran Darby now. That cat did nothing to him, but he killed it, just like he killed Miss Steven. It makes me run faster and somehow I just seem to be able to tell where he’s going, even though he’s dodging around, trying to get away. I catch up to him and push him to the ground. I’m on top of him straight away. That’s the best thing to do, get in close, except if they’ve got a knife. My Dad taught me that after I got beaten in a fight and I haven’t been beaten since.

  Garran Darby hasn’t got a knife and I’m on top and in close. I pull his hair as hard as I can and push down on his chest with one knee and his neck with the other. That stops him wriggling around but he’s bucking up and down with his legs, like a crazy horse.

  “You’re a bloody bugger bastard, Garran, I know what you did,” I say.

  He pushes my knee off his neck, but I’ve still got hold of his hair, so I pull it harder, till it feels like its coming out. I can tell he’s trying hard not to yell out.

  “What? I didn’t do nothing!” he yells.

  “You did it, I saw you,” I added, even though I hadn’t exactly seen him do it, I’d just seen him leaving the building.

  He starts looking around all crazy, trying to see if anyone is close. Then he gets really strong and rolls over and now he’s holding me down.

  “I never done it,” he says with his face shoved right up against mine. “If you ever say I done it, I’ll ... I’ll ... I’ll kill your mum!” he says, and he really means it.

  I pinch him as hard as I can on the top of his arm. He punches my head. It stings like mad, but I’m not going to cry. Somehow he wriggles away, but that’s because I’m not really trying. I won, because he admitted it. That’s the important thing. He did it, he said so. Anyway, he wouldn’t have said he’d kill my Mum if he wasn’t guilty.

  Then I realise I’ve got a huge clump of his hair in my fist. I hold it up above my head like this bloke I saw on telly once who’d just won a trophy in a car race. Then everyone gets the same idea at once and we get dry grass and sticks and make a fire. Leo’s always got matches; in fact; he’s always got just what you want when you need it.

  I put Garran Darby’s hair on top like a sacrifice. But it really stinks and anyway we’ve got to be back at the McDarmid’s for lunch, so we kick the fire out. I say we should bury the cat, but a shovel’s one thing Leo doesn’t have, so we just put some sheets of old tin over it. Then we all say an Our Father for its soul. I’m really happy all the way back to the McDarmid’s. I know I’ve got the evidence now and I start thinking about how happy Dad will be.

  We have sandwiches for lunch, out the back under the apricot tree. Mrs McDarmid doesn’t mind that there’s some extra kids there for lunch. She’s good like that, so are the other mums. They reckon that if everyone takes a turn feeding the kids, then it all evens up in the end.

  But Julie-Anne’s mum, Mrs Sinclair, is the very opposite. She won’t even give you a dry Sao biscuit. But she’s stuck up; at least that’s what Mum and Mrs McDarmid say. There’s only two kids in their family, so it’s not like they couldn’t afford a few crumbs, so they’re probably selfish, too. Once Dad said they didn’t do it anymore; that’s why Mrs Sinclair is so sour. Mum said, “Not in front of the children, Mike,” then they both burst out laughing and wouldn’t explain anything when I asked what was so funny. I don’t play with Julie-Anne much, anyway.

  It’s lovely under the trees eating lunch, but then I start thinking about what Garran Darby said about how he’d kill Mum if I told anyone. I try to think that Dad will get him and put him in jail before he can do anything, but then I think that maybe he’ll find out that I’ve blabbed before Dad arrests him and he’ll get to Mum before Dad or some other copper gets to him. Mum’s got lots of sharp scissors in the salon and maybe he’ll get them and stab her.

  Everyone is asking about going to the shops, but I’m too worried about what I should do. I give the money to Leo, because I need to see the only person who I can trust to help me work out what to do, and that’s Sister Immaculata.

  She’s not like the other nuns. She doesn’t teach anyone, for a start, so I’ve got her all to myself; that’s what she always says when I go to visit her. She’s the kitchen nun. She does the cooking for all the nuns in the convent and she’s very good at it. I know because she gives me things to eat like biscuits and cake when it’s my turn to take the milk to the convent, just before play lunch. She’s Irish and she’s younger than the other nuns. I feel sorry for her, being with all those wrinkly, growly old nuns. Her skin doesn’t bulge out of her veil like theirs does.

  But, she always says she’s happy with God and all that religious stuff, when I ask her about why she’s a nun. And she’s always happy to see me because I tell everything about whatever’s happening at school.

  “Here’s Fiona,” she always says. “Come in and tell me what’s happening in your world today Everybody behaving?”

  Sister Immaculata is in the garden, pegging out the rows of milk bottle tops on string, that we made in craft. They’re for keeping the birds away, but I think they look pretty enough just to be a decoration. I tell her everything I know about why Garran did it. Then I tell her how I made him tell me and what he said about killing Mum and how I don’t know what to do.

  She sits down on the front steps and pats the spot next to her. She looks really sad, like she’s going to cry, so I go and sit down and hold her hand.

  “Fiona,” she says, “I love all you children dearly, especially you. You’re my extra special friend. I’m not going to stand by and watch you being hurt by this terrible thing. I’d like you to do something very important for me. I’d like you to go home, and when your Father gets there, ask him to come to see me. And I don’t want you to worry. Garran didn’t kill Miss Steven, and he won’t kill your Mother.”

  “Yes, Sister,” I say.

  I think she’s wrong about Garran, but somehow she’s makes me feel safe again, like I know nothing terrible’s going to happen. I don’t get up straight away. I like it here and, besides, if I wait a bit she might think about giving me a biscuit. She doesn’t, though, but she bends right over and gives me a kiss and a hug, so I’m all covered by her black sleeves and her flower smell. Then I do exactly as she says.

  Dad comes home a long time after seeing Sister Immaculata. I’m not asleep, I’ve been saying a novena to stay awake and I’m almost at the end. I hear him and Mum in the lounge room. I get up and go to the door. I’m not eavesdropping; I’m on my way to the toilet. Dad’s talking.

  “She loved her, Betty, they were lesbians. They must have had a fight, or something, but she won’t talk about it. She told me Fiona’s pegged Garran Darby for it. She reckons Fi told her he’d admitted it to her and threatened to kill you if she told anyone. The little bastard’s already as tough as guts. He’s sure to have done something that he doesn’t want pinned on him.

  “Poor little Fi, she must have been shit-scared for you, love. Jeez, I feel sorry for the nun, though, even if she di
d do it. She’s at the station now. But we won’t be objecting to bail. She’ll probably be out by tomorrow. The nuns’ll look after her till the trial. Christ, the papers’ll have a field day. We’re trying to keep it quiet, but they’ll be onto it by tomorrow.”

  I can’t see Mum, but I can hear her start to cry and that makes me cry, too. Dad’s saying that Sister Immaculata did it and he never gets anything wrong, never ever. But I don’t believe it. I think she’s only saying it to protect Garran.

  I start getting a bit noisy, I can’t help it. Dad hears me and comes out. He picks me up and carries me into the lounge. Mum puts her arms out and we all sit together on the couch.

  “How much did you hear, love?” Mum asks. I tell them.

  “Fiona, sometimes things happen that you can’t understand or explain,” Dad says.

  “People do things, then they’re very, very sorry that they have.”

  “Garran did it, Dad,” I say, “he had a motive. Sister Immaculata didn’t have one. You told me that’s the most important thing you need to solve a crime.”

  Dad looks at Mum, sort of funny.

  “You explain it, love,” he says.

  Mum looks a bit stumped. She takes her time, then she says that sister Immaculata loved Miss Steven in a special way, like Dad loves Mum. They were in love and that’s why she killed her. I don’t understand. Can’t Mum see that nuns are supposed to love everyone, like they’re their own family?

  “Garran didn’t do it, Fi,” Dad says, “Miss Steven was still alive when you saw Garran and Sister Immaculata in the corridor. I don’t think Sister Immaculata meant to kill Miss Steven, it just happened. She lost her temper, or something. Perhaps we’ll never know. It’s hard, and I know you love Sister a lot, and she loves you.

  “I know I don’t have to tell you this, but you’re not to repeat what you’ve heard tonight. Tomorrow I’m going to school and I’ll tell the other kids, but not as much as you know. You have to promise me that you’ll keep what you heard tonight to yourself.”

  He knows that he can trust me not to blab, but I promise, anyway.

  I go back to my room and look up ‘lesbian’ in my Junior Pocket Oxford Dictionary. There’s no such word and, anyway, if Sister Immaculata loved Miss Steven so much, why did she kill her? She loves me, but she didn’t kill me.

  I decide I want to be a nun and a detective at the same time, in honour of Sister Immaculata. She’ll like that.

  Louise Connor

  Third Prize, 1995

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  ~ * ~

  Vermin

  The first time we done it, we done it for a joke. It was Craigie’s idea. We went down to the dunny in the park one night and waited until one of ‘em came along. Simmo and me held him while Craigie put the boots in and when we left him he was curled up on the ground, moanin’ like a woman. Craigie stood over him and spat. Fuck you, faggot, he says. Be a while before ya come lookin’ for another bum chum. Then we got out of there. Fast. We seen him a few days later in the bookshop where he worked, all Yes, madam and No, madam in his fucken yellow vest. One of his eyes was as purple as a baboon’s arse. We fucken cacked ourselves.

  It got to be a bit of a habit up until Grand Final night. We drunk a shitload of cans on the way to the match and then tried to sneak some through the gate, but it was a no go; the poofta takin’ the tickets looked in our bags. Ya gunna drink ‘em y’self, ya fucken spastic cunt? Simmo yelled over his shoulder. Piss off, fat boy, the bloke on the gate says and Simmo turns around ready to go him but then we see Brett McKenna and the boys come out of the club rooms wearin’ the old blue and red. Go, Brett! Go, mate! we yelled. Come on the mighty Gulls! An’ big Brett, he did’n let us down, soarin’ above the rest like a hawk, like an eagle then, and diving so fast.

  It was all Brett all the way, and the other side never had a fucken hope. It was over by three-quarter time and, when the final siren sounded, people started streamin’ onto the ground. Some of the fellas had big Brett on their shoulders and were singin’ the club song. You’re a legend! You’re a legend! Simmo kept yellin’, and even Craigie was grinnin’ fit to beat the band. Me, I just had me hands out, tryin’ to touch him. I would have done anything for him then.

  After the players went into the club rooms, we hung around pervin’ at chicks. A blonde piece with really big norks went past. Hey, tits! calls Simmo, pointin’ at his dick. How about it? Piss off, you pack of morons! she says, really pissed off, and Simmo runs up behind her and grabs her arse. We fucken cacked ourselves.

  We got sicka hangin’ around so after a while we piled into Craigie’s panel van and hit the Royal. My shout! I tell ‘em and head for the bar. Wayne Preston, the half full-forward for the Gulls, is there. Great game, mate! I say, but the cunt just looks straight through me. Fuck him. We start drinkin’ and keep drinkin’, gettin’ really shitfaced and, just before closing time, Craigie says, Let’s go and find a faggot. We all start poundin’ the table. Find a faggot! Find a faggot! Let’s go find a faggot!

  Out the front of the pub there’re cars revvin’ and people yellin’—fucken spastic!—but when we get to the park it’s as quiet as a fucken grave. We creep up to the dunny and wait and pretty soon we hear footsteps. Craigie steps out of the shadows. He and the poofta just look at each other then the poof says, You lookin’ for something, mate? and there’s the sound of him unzippin’ his fly. Yeah, this, says Craigie and then it’s on for young and old. Die, faggot! Die! yells Simmo.

  He was strong—who would have thought a fag would be so strong—he fought like a fucken tiger and even when Craigie kicked his teeth in he didn’t cry or moan. That’ll teach the cunt a lesson and we hung a wheelie and took off outta there. He was all right when we left; just lyin’ there in a puddle of blood.

  The next mornin’ the whole town’s gotta hangover and I just stuff around feedin’ the dogs and watchin’ telly. I don’t think nothin’ about it til Simmo rings me first thing Monday. Troy, Troy, have ya seen the paper, mate? ‘ Course I hadn’t seen the friggin’ paper, but I go out for it ‘cause he sounds cactus; he sounds really fucken scared, and there on the front page is the headline: ‘Footy Hero Slain in Mystery Killing’, and underneath in fucken black and white: Brett McKenna dead at the hand of person or persons unknown.

  ”This is it?” Gina gazed uneasily out the window.

  ”This is it, babe.” On the left-hand side, behind the dense banks of scrub that lined the road, the sea rolled in a sullen blue mass and looked nothing like a postcard. A few salt-stunted trees bravely defied the wind, their tops flattened out by years of exposure to storms and squalls. I shivered. Graeme had said the place could be desolate but I hadn’t expected it to be this bleak.

  “Keep an eye out for the motel,” I told Gina as we came to the sign bearing the name of the town and, underneath, the number of friendly people who welcomed us. We drove along the main street, where harried-looking shoppers to and froed, heads bent down into the wind. A few people turned to stare at the Sharkmobile.

  “There it is,” said Gina, pointing to a sign that flashed ‘Four Seasons’ in pink neon against the dark grey clouds, but the first and last letters were on their way out and blinked only intermittently. Our ‘season’ looked as though it was winter.

  “Mrs Weatherall?” asked the young woman at the reception desk.

  “Ms,” I replied, curtly.

  “Miss,” she said, beaming benignly. “Please sign here.” I signed, took the key and went outside to the car as my mobile rang.

  “Lauri Weatherall.”

  “It’s Graeme, Lauri.”

  I repressed a sigh. I was already regretting the impulse that had caused me to agree to his request at 5 a.m. yesterday morning. I’d been half-asleep when he’d rung, with Gina, warm and smelling of roses, curled up next to me. I was weak. I hadn’t had breakfast. I said ‘yes’.

  “Let’s meet at Cafe Pelican. It’s not far from where you’re staying and it’s the only place in this dump wher
e you can get soy milk lattes.”

  Soy milk lattes, soy milk lattes, who gave a shit about soy milk lattes? But I said, yeah, sure, see you in fifteen. Gina had the bags out of the car and was standing in front of the door numbered ‘9’.

  “Gotta dash, darl’. I’ll see you later,” I said, after I’d parked the car and opened the door. On the way out I glanced longingly at the Sharkmobile but thought I’d do the right thing and walk. I couldn’t see any pelicans but a few seagulls foraged on the nature strips, pale yellow eyes alert for suitable refuse. The cafe was a cheery, hippy looking place with a wooden replica of its namesake in the window and wooden tables and chairs painted in primary colours. Graeme cut a natty but slightly incongruous figure in a paisley vest, plain shirt and dark tie. We kissed and exchanged greetings and ordered.