by Joy Dettman
No child playing in the yard. Probably down in Mallawindy, waiting for the party to begin. He waited in his car for half an hour, chain-smoking, until a Commodore drove into the garage.
Minures later a Toyota Land Cruiser turned up the drive and parked beside the Commodore. He heard the children’s voices, her voice.
‘Daddy beat us home tonight.’
‘He might cook some of his spaghetti, Mummy.’
‘Cross our fingers, eh, Ben?’
‘I not like bisteddy.’
‘You do so love Daddy’s pisgetti, Tristan. Stop always being a bad guy or Santa Claus won’t bring you any presents.’
‘You tell him, Matthew.’
‘I not like Sana Cause. He not a bad guy.’
Jack saw her for a moment as she reached for the tall garage door. Jeans and shirt, long wild hair framing that face. Kids all over her.
Then the garage door closed and she was gone.
Maybe she’d seen him, recognised him when she’d driven up, locked her kids away from him. Maybe she hadn’t. She’d spoken to him the morning May had died. She’d spoken to him at the funeral.
But he couldn’t knock on her door so he lit another cigarette and drove away, bought a bottle of Diet Coke and a ham and salad roll, ready to go, and he ate it by the river, just smelling the water and watching it flow.
It used to be green once. You could sit by this river and watch schools of tiny fish swarming at the bank. And birds, birds by the thousands – the iridescent blue of kingfishers, darting, ducking for their food. And snakes, they’d been thick along this river, kookaburras watching them, and laughing from the trees. He’d sat beside this river one afternoon watching a kookaburra belting a snake’s brains out on the limb of a tree, and he’d watched it until the two foot of snake had gone down that throat.
No kookaburras laughing tonight. No snakes either. No frogs croaking. It was all over, the reed-choked river was mud and snags, dying, and all the birds had flown.
The sun sinking low, he turned his car for home. Nowhere else to go. He’d drive through tonight, or book into a motel when he got sick of driving. What did it matter? Tomorrow Jack Burton would be as dead as that bloody river.
But he turned down the cemetery road at Mallawindy, and he wandered there until he found the grave. No new headstone with his name on it.
‘She probably gave my five thousand to the bloody church; they’ll stick my name on a pew and I’ll have every bastard in town sitting on me,’ he said.
Liza. Linda. Patrick. Who were they? Just names from another time. He read the names, spoke the names, trying to give them meaning. Seven kids he’d given life. Seven. The strong had survived his brand of fatherhood. The weak slept here.
‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Shit.’ And he walked away, not knowing why he’d come to this godforsaken place. He hated cemeteries. Hated the black hole, and the dirt that filled the hole.
Nothing here for him. No one here. Just a barren garden, growing grey stone, but tonight he wandered the garden, wandered until he found Rella Eva’s grave, old Dave in with her.
‘Sleep well, Rell. Sorry about that bloody train,’ he said, squinting at his watch. Less than four hours to midnight. Jack had less than four hours to live.
Hot airless night. Hell’s furnace doors were hanging on their hinges. Mosquitoes buzzed in his ears, bit, and he returned to his car, turned on the air-conditioning, slapping at insects, mashing two on his windscreen as he drove on down to the bridge, and over the bridge, and on to the old place he’d named Chookshit Country. No light showing there, but there was a glow from Malcolm Fletcher’s house. He drove past it, turned, then drove back, parking his car on the verge of the road, far enough away from Malcolm’s door, and he walked into a stand of trees and to the fence.
New. All new, the wires stretched tight. Didn’t feel like castrating himself on wire, so he followed the fence to the gate, then wended his way across the paddocks to the river where he stood looking at the sagging footbridge that spanned the muddy water.
Bessy’s ramshackle house sprawled to the east of the makeshift bridge, the old mud brick house was to the west. He was almost centred between those four houses – a dangerous place to be. Bessy would know him in the dark. And Fletcher; Jack wouldn’t trust him as far as he could kick him.
He looked over his shoulder, knowing that he had to go back, get in his car and go home, but his eyes were drawn towards the mud brick house. No light burning there.
They’d all be up at the hotel partying, celebrating his death, working out how they were going to spend their $250,000 blood money.
He laughed softly, considered spoiling their plans yet, but across the river Bessy’s dogs barked and Jack stilled his laughter. No light burning in her house either. He was safe enough down this end of town tonight. The whole bloody lot of them would be up at the pub. He walked to the footbridge, tentatively placing one foot on it, testing, testing. He took a slow and easy step, then two more, glancing behind him, before him.
Halfway across he kicked a protruding nail, stumbled. ‘Shit,’ he said, regaining his balance, muddy water barely moving below. Slowly then, he felt his way, slow stepping to that last board, then he was off at a run and down the dirt ramp to Bessy’s land, his eyes searching for her, or her bull – one as dangerous as the other.
No movement. Dogs still muttering, rattling their chains.
‘Bloody maniac,’ he said. ‘What are you doing coming up here?’ Still he continued on, keeping close to the river and the slim cover of trees, creeping closer to the mud brick house. Until that last fence.
Wire not strung so tight here. Fences not so new. The wires whispered as he forced them down, stepped over. And he was in the orchard paddock.
Apricots on these trees. He could smell them. And peaches ripe and pink. He remembered those early peaches, and he reached for one and bit into it.
Sweet taste of Ellie.
Standing amid the trees he sucked on the peach, sucked it down to the stone, wiping the juice from his hands on the seat of his jeans, and smelling, just smelling the fruit and the land and the cows.
Smell of fecundity.
Smell of Ellie.
And he saw her, or thought it was her. Someone in the back yard, on their knees. Praying? Ellie had usually done it beside her bed – praying he wouldn’t touch her.
Her back was to him, her hands busy in the earth. Two careful steps and he was behind the old fig tree, spread wider in his absence. He pushed in against the foliage, lifting a branch to create a spy hole. For minutes he stood watching the figure. It wasn’t until he released the branch to swat a mosquito that she turned to face the tree.
He couldn’t run. She’d see him if he moved. He looked over his shoulder towards Bessy’s house, then pushed deeper into the fig tree.
‘Ellie, love. Where are you? We’re going to have to get a move on.’
‘I thought I heard something. Shush, Bob.’
It was her, but she’d done something to her hair. Bob? And who was bloody Bob? The back verandah light came on and bloody Bob was standing in the doorway, and he looked bloody familiar. Jack stopped breathing, let the mosquitoes feast.
‘Are you ready, love? Everyone will be waiting for you.’
Ellie wiped her earthy hands against each other, wiped her earthy knees. ‘I’m all ready. I’ve just got to get my good shoes on, that’s all.’
‘What are you up to out there in the dark?’
‘It wasn’t dark until you put the light on,’ she said. ‘There’s snails all over my strawberries. Benjie watered before he left and they’re out in their thousands.’
‘Have you got any snail bait?’
‘Yes. It’s in the laundry cupboard. And bring out a torch, Bob.’ Head to one side then, she peered at the fig tree. A step forward, and a second step, faster steps to the fence.
Only a wire fence and the fig tree between them. Nothing between them. Jack waited while the mosquito drank its fi
ll from his ear, waited motionless until Ellie stepped back to friend Bob, taking the torch, lighting the earth while he sprinkled snail bait.
Then the bastard stood up and put his bloody hand on her shoulder and Jack mashed the mosquito and ground it into his ear.
‘Listen.’ Ellie’s torch light swung towards the peach tree; it searched there, slowly roving backwards, back, back to the fig tree. ‘Do you think there’s someone out there pinching my peaches?’
‘Probably possums. They won’t take more than they can eat, love.’
Mosquito buzzing in his ear, Jack cowered from the light. Bloody stupid bastard. He shouldn’t have come here. Bloody stupid bastard of a man he was.
The torch turned off, Ellie walked back to the verandah. ‘It’s such a funny old night, Bob. It’s so still and sort of . . . sort of eerie.’
‘I don’t know about eerie, but it’s bloody hot.’
‘It’s . . . it’s like it’s waiting for something. Like it knows something that we don’t know.’ Then the verandah light was off, and the night was dark.
‘You’ll feel better about it all in the morning, love. Come on. Get your shoes on and let’s go. I’m as dry as a wooden god.’
‘Did you see where Johnny went?’
Jack didn’t hear the reply. The door closed on it, and he ran, ran for the river, heart thumping, legs pumping, over the fence, and down the slope to the water’s edge, where he leaned against the roots of a tree, sucking air, his hand on his heart.
Poetic justice if he dropped dead, had a heart attack on her property while she was having her party to celebrate his death. What the hell was he doing here? Nothing here for him and never had been. Always wanting what he didn’t have.
Always.
He’d sat with her in this place when she was sixteen, and her old man had caught him kissing her. Ordered him off the land.
Stay away from her, boy. She’s not for you. Go home to your people and make something of your life.
But he’d wanted Ellie, and he’d got what he wanted, and when he found out it wasn’t what he’d wanted after all, he’d punished her for his mistake – bruised her, abused her, burned the footbridge that had given her too easy access to her father.
Mummy’s boy Benjie had rebuilt it. No black Burton in him. Pure bloody Vevers and Hamstead, that one. He hadn’t wanted more. Hadn’t gone off looking for more.
Jack stood and walked along the riverbank, not wanting to face that footbridge again. He tripped over logs and stepped in cow shit, slipped in it, and bloody near slipped into the river. Not enough water in it to drown him. Maybe he might choke on mud.
Time heals, they all said to him. Time heals. But old man time had to know what he was supposed to be healing before he could heal it, didn’t he?
‘Time, that knits the ravelled sleeve of care – or was it sleep that did the knitting?’ Jack stood and brushed leaves and soil from the seat of his jeans. ‘I used to know it. Used to know a lot of things.’ He walked off, quietly quoting and misquoting the words he’d made his own at nineteen. ‘Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course, chief nourisher in life’s feast.’
‘Bloody boyfriend Bob. Bob who?’
Ellie was the only woman who hadn’t wanted him. May had wanted him. Half the women in Mallawindy had wanted him, and he’d taken his pick, just to nark the one who didn’t want him.
Amy O’Rouke had wanted him, or hadn’t wanted to be alone. Thought she’d paid for him too, with a bloody beautiful feed of fish and chips. He should have taken her up on her offer, or her coffee. But he hadn’t.
‘Later,’ he’d said.
‘Do you think we have a later, Samuel Burton?’
‘Of all the bars in Melbourne, you had to walk into mine. It’s got to mean something.’ They’d had a few laughs, but he’d wanted to get away. May’s death was still too close. His own death imminent.
‘Come out for Christmas dinner, Sam.’
‘Can’t,’ he’d said. ‘A prior appointment.’
‘Boxing Day then. I’ll meet you at the bar. We’ll play it again, Sam.’
‘Samuel, and why not? Why not?’
Samuel.
That’s who he was now. Who he had to be now. No May to coerce into calling him Jack, and no more Jack after midnight.
He was Samuel Burton of Narrawee, and maybe the grey-bearded old bugger still had some time left. Time for a laugh or two. Time to work out the difference between a good bull and one not so good – or learn how to fake it.
He walked around to the main bridge, crossed over, and as the last glimmer of light became lost behind the trees, he reached into his pocket for Sam’s glasses – not to hide behind, either. He needed them these days to see where he was going, needed them to drive. Old age was a bastard.
The road a lighter dark than the trees, he walked on, counting the white posts, his sneakers whispering in the dust, his mind wandering as a hand reached for his pocket and cigarettes. Matches. Gratefully he lit up, drawing the smoke deep, coughing it out.
Bob? Bobby Willis? Robbie West. Bob Collins? Bob? That voice, that shape had been familiar. ‘Bob?’ he said, then he saw his car and stepped eagerly towards it.
And into instant blindness.
‘Get that bloody thing out of my eyes, you stupid bastard.’
The tone, the words spoken, were Jack’s. There was no taking any of them back. But with the flash of light came an inner illumination.
The friend. It was Ellie’s tame copper. Bob bloody Johnson!
retribution
Malcolm had seen the big car drive by, seen it turn, watched it stop. Through his binoculars he had spied on the driver, seen him close the car door, watched him walk away from the car.
Jack was back.
Binoculars to his eyes, Malcolm had tracked him to the gate, and as he’d opened it, he’d turned, and for an instant the binoculars had looked Jack Burton in the eye. That was when Malcolm had exchanged them, first for his brandy bottle, then for his gun.
The bottle empty, he had poured the bullets from the worn matchbox into his palm. Two bullets. He’d fingered them, inserted them lovingly into the small handgun – as they had been inserted many times before. Something sensuous about this action.
And the words, elusive words, had begun to play with him.
Edward Edwards felt the weight of the gun in his hand. He knew what he must do. That bastard did not deserve to live.
Malcolm’s slipper-clad feet had attempted to walk him to his study where Number 10, Untitled, still waited. Unfinished.
‘No.’
But Mack was back and Malcolm’s word-well, dry too long, was filling.
Edward had never been a violent man. He looked down at his hands to the gun he had inherited from his father. Why had he kept it, if not to use on the eradication of vermin? Tonight Mack Curtin would die.
He had stood there, between his empty brandy bottle and his study door, and like Edward Edwards, had stared at the gun dangling from his hand, pointing at his flattened slipper.
‘Tomorrow,’ he’d said, forgetting for a moment that he would have no tomorrow.
Two bullets he had purchased with this gun. His plan, dredged from the last drops of his brandy bottle, was to use both bullets. One for that obnoxious bastard, then one into his own temple. He’d go out in a blaze of glory.
‘A blaze of glory. No more the impotent old fool. We will show this town what we are made of.’
But the word ‘impotent’ had led him back to Mack Curtin, led him to chapter eleven – also unfinished.
In his youth, Mack had been hung like a stallion. So the years had taken their toll, but the old war horse was not yet ready to be put out to pasture. He sniffed at the scent of battle as he closed his eyes. Old mares became young again in the dark.
‘Oh yes. Yes, Coll. You are so good. This one could well be your best yet.’
His slippers had tried to lead him to his study door, but he’d fought them, forced th
em to flip-flop to the laundry where he’d taken up his flashlight. A cumbersome yellow thing, its battery was new, its light bright. He’d tested it, shining it around the walls, and through the window.
With a sigh for dreams unrealised, he’d dropped the loaded gun deep in his trouser pocket then, torch in one hand, walking stick in the other, he’d flip-flapped across the road to the big car, each flip, each flap making him aware that he should not have emptied his brandy bottle, but should have changed his footwear. However, had he not emptied the brandy bottle he would have been sitting at his window looking out, instead of outside, looking in.
Slippers were not the optimum footwear for traversing gravelled roads. He prodded and stepped more slowly, knowing he must not fall and pump the precious bullets into his own well-padded buttock.
His heart, playing a wild tattoo amid the fat, was surely loud enough to be heard across the river, strong enough to crush his throat, but not enough to kill those inner words. They had kept coming at him, eating away at his conscious mind. Were his last minutes on this earth to be spent mentally completing Number 10?
But he had found his end. The bastard of a thing had eluded him until tonight.
Mack could smell his future in the heated mulch beneath his feet. Heavy soil. Dust to dust. They were coming to get him and he knew it. For years he had evaded them, hiding out in Sydney, changing his name, but for the last six months the hounds had been baying at his heels.
Breath short, his well of words spilling over, Malcolm found a tree. His back pressed to its trunk, he’d let the words play, fill a minute or an hour.
He hadn’t planned to be here tonight. Just passing through, but the bloody old car had let him down. It had rolled over and died three miles out of town.
A too-deep sigh had shaken him. ‘It’s over, Coll. It’s over. Vacate the space. I have more important work to do.’ Tonight he would fight his own war against tyranny. And he would win.
Number 10 was roughed out. Only fifty thousand words and no end in sight, but his death would assure its sales. Let his publishers write their own end, edit it as they wished.