The Taming of the Bastard

by Lindy Dale

  Sasha, designated event coordinator, laid salads on the table while I took loaves of bread and bottles of tomato sauce from the plastic bags and put them where I was told. Mel placed plastic trays of sausages next to the barbecue in readiness for cooking. Shed of their cling film covering, they looked like hairless fingers cut off a fat man’s hand. The tongs and other implements were neatly lined up alongside them. Then, refusing to bow to the boys’ cries to ‘step away from the barbecue’ Mel threw on a few snags, just to get things going.

  “Ready?” she asked, moving to retrieve a couple of icy beers out of the Esky. She sounded as if she was preparing to go to war.

  “Ready.”

  With a hint of a smile Mel raised the bottles and gently clashed the glass, so the clinking could be heard over the din of the boys bashing. It was a tiny tinkle but it bore the greatest effect. Sam’s ear cocked, his path of destruction interrupted.

  “Must be time for a coldie,” he stated. Wiping his brow on his forearm, he set his hammer on the low brick wall and walked towards the Esky to claim his reward. He looked so cute doing the manual labour thing.

  “Snags ready yet?” Womble asked, his large lumbering body close behind Sam. “I could eat the crutch out of a rag doll.”

  “Mission accomplished,” Mel said. “That beer trick works every time.”

  Johnny approached the barbecue. A tired but satisfied look suffused his face as he surveyed the day’s work from where we stood in the only clear spot, in what was left of his cottage. Bits of wood were strewn up and down the right of way and hundred-year-old nails poked dangerously out of them. Red convict bricks scattered the lawn.

  “Okay, you blokes. That’s it. If you knock down any more of my house, it’ll cost me more than I paid to rebuild it.” He rubbed his tender palms against his jeans and muttered something about hiring labourers next time.

  “Bit late for that,” Sam replied, his eyes settling on the gaping hole where the outhouse had been. He turned to his friend, gesturing at the remains. “Hope you got that approval from the Heritage Trust. They’ll go psycho when they see this mess.”

  “As the luscious Kirby would say, ‘that’s why I have you lawyer bastards for friends.’ I may be hot in the divorce court but I don’t know shit about history.” And with that he ripped the cap off a beer and took a long deep blast.

  Sam eyed the wall that had once held up the lean-to. “It would’ve been cheaper to get a professional building team, you know. There’s no way that’s weather proof.”

  “Yeah,” said Simmo, who’d also downed tools in favour of beer and snags. “But it wouldn’t have been half as much fun. Anyone else got some demolition work they want done? I’m in the zone. What about you, Woody? That house of yours is a pile of shite.”

  “That pile of shite, as you call it, cost me six hundred grand, Simmo, and I wouldn’t trust you lads within ten kilometres of it. I’ve only just installed new granite bench tops in the kitchen and the redecoration of the upper storey is going to break the budget.”

  “Jesus, when did you become Grand-fucking-Designs?”

  “You can take the piss all you like, Fat Boy, but the agent projected it’ll be in the high nine hundreds when the bathroom reno’s complete.”

  Across the pile of rubble, Mel’s eyes sparked. “I’d love to see what you’ve done with the place, Woody.”

  “I’ll give you a call when I get to the upstairs then, I could do with an extra pair of hands to strip out the bathroom and slap a bit of paint around.”

  She glared at him. “God ,you’re a bastard.”

  *****

  By ten o’clock, the demolition had been tidied away and the boys were doing what they did best—conquering the world in their own minds. Having decided that manual labour was a great sideline and that women like lads in singlets, they’d devised a plan to set up their own demolition company (in theory of course). Womble and Woody were to provide the manpower; Sam would hook the clients— who’d all be female, naturally—and Johnny would do the legal work and project managing because there wasn’t a hope in hell of him lifting a hammer again. One afternoon of manual labour had led him to the easy conclusion that that’s what builders were for. Mel, more animated than usual, was laughing and giggling like a schoolgirl. She hadn’t told Johnny to ‘fuck off’ once or even poured a drink over his head, a feat I found out of character, given Johnny’s comments about her cooking. She’d even managed a coy smile as Woody offered to refill her glass.

  We sat on the remains of the retaining wall, companionably squashed so as not to fall, and gazing at the Southern Cross that had made an appearance from the clearing cloudbank. The crescent moon smiled his happy face down upon us and everyone was relaxed and happy. It was tranquil but for Sasha, who was sitting next to Sam and I, looking rather dark and stormy and refusing to say anything nice about anyone. A grim look had descended over her serene face that, strangely enough, coincided with the arrival of our most hated enemy, That-Slut-Courtney. She’d swished down the right of way a while earlier wearing what could only be described as an interpretation of a cowgirl costume, the top of which was emerald green. Her auburn locks were trapped in two plaits that hung behind her ears, revealing the largest hoop earrings I’d ever seen. The ensemble was topped off with appalling white knee length boots.

  “Surprise, surprise,” I whispered, poking Sam’s ribs. Courtney had been in attendance at every opportunity lately, it beat me how she found out where we were. She was never invited.

  “What? Surprise that she’s here or that her top is green?” Even Sam had noticed Courtney’s continuing theme. “She looks like Kermit the frog.”

  “You mean Miss Fucking Piggy,” Mel hissed.

  Beside me, I felt Sasha’s body tense. Her fingers gripped the edge of the stone ledge. Her teeth dug into her bottom lip. Without a word, I took her hand, leading her to stand away from the group on the other side of the yard. Distance was the only thing saving Sasha’s sanity and I didn’t want to see them fight again but then, if it meant Sasha was acknowledging what was going on, it might have been a good thing. Courtney certainly didn’t care. She deserved a good kick where the sun didn’t shine.

  “Who invited her?” Sasha asked. Her eyes threw daggers into the night at Courtney.

  “Dunno.”

  Sasha began to rumble under her breath. It had been a difficult couple of months. She was never sure where Simmo was or what he was up to and working afternoon shifts at the hospital didn’t help. “You didn’t tell her, did you, Kirbs?”

  “Of course not. I may be blonde but I’m not, like, a total dufus. Don’t you remember what happened last time she and Simmo were alone in a room?”

  Sasha winced. The night of the Ball had been fun for some but not her. It’d take more than time to dim the memory of the whipped cream and strawberries incident. Simmo was as guilty as hell, no matter how many ways he’d tried to deny it. What surprised me was that Sasha was still unwilling to face the fact something was wrong. Everyone knew and we supported her. The boys were livid with Simmo’s antics. Sam had told him he was an idiot only the week before. I couldn’t believe it when I overheard him telling Simmo Sasha was the most gorgeous girl in the world—bar me—and if Simmo didn’t stop his fooling about he was gonna lose her, that he was hurting her and needed to pull his bloody finger out. This coming from the man who’d supposedly bedded half of the country in his spare time. Sam might have been a former man-whore but it seemed he took monogamy seriously. Very seriously.

  “Hi everyone.” Courtney paused in front of us.

  “Hi.” It was all we could do to be polite when she was such and obvious cow.

  “Great night for a party.”

  “It was before you got here.” Sasha was practically baring her incisors. “Why are you here?”

  “I bought the karaoke machine. Womble left it at the clubrooms.”

  “But we don’t want to hear you sing. Just because you got to the second round of The Vo
ice auditions doesn’t mean you’re any good.”

  “And just because you’re a nurse doesn’t mean you’re a nice person.” Courtney put her hand on her hip and glared at Sasha. “Alan told me how mean you were about him helping me the other week.”

  I felt Sasha’s hand clench into a fist at my side. If Courtney didn’t stop she was going to need a nurse.

  “Can I deck her now?” Sasha whispered. “Please tell me I can hit the cow? Just once?”

  Sensing Sasha’s anger, Courtney took a step along the row and leant in to get a kiss from Sam. “Hi Sam.”

  “Piss off, Court,” Sam said, pushing her amiably aside.

  Courtney pouted and put a hand on his shoulder, which he wrenched away. “You’re like a bloody dog in heat. Which part of ‘I’m not interested’ don’t you get?”

  “You used to be.”

  “Only in your dreams, Court. Go find someone else to annoy.”

  With a shrug, Courtney turned away and walked to the other side of the courtyard where she linked an arm through Johnny’s, capturing him, before showing him the tattoo she’d recently added to her bosom.

  “She’d better not put those implants anywhere near the barbecue or they’ll explode,” Mel snorted.

  “Here’s hoping.”

  “It’d be, like totally hilarious, if she, like, popped.” Kirby poked her tongue out, emitting a noise that sounded like a balloon deflating and despite myself I had to laugh. I mean, it was funny.

  On the other side of the courtyard, Courtney giggled and flipped her hair. She licked her lips and nodded as Johnny made an offhand comment about her outfit. Then, as Simmo sidled up to join the pair, she linked an arm through his and repeated the entire process. It was disgusting. Truly disgusting.

  “Someone should remind her flirting doesn’t come with a licence to test the fucking merchandise for quality,” Mel said.

  “Someone should tell her to stay away from my husband. He has no self-control. Those breasts are like Christmas for him.”

  It appeared to me Simmo had already unwrapped those particular gifts.

  Needing to free myself from the politics for a minute or two, I took a garbage bag and began to collect paper plates and bottles left behind after dinner. As I dumped scraps into the bag, I mulled over what was going on right before my eyes. Simmo didn’t have one iota of respect for Sasha. The vows of marriage meant nothing to him. It wasn’t right. And we were not much better. By staying quiet we were condoning the behaviour, weren’t we?

  Mel appeared next to me. Quietly, she took empty plates and plastic glasses from the table and threw them into the garbage bag as I held it open. She was always the one barking on about injustices, how could she stand by and let Simmo treat Sasha so badly? Sasha was so sweet.

  Sensing my scrutiny, Mel glanced over at Sasha, who was staring glumly watching the toe of her shoe drawing circles into the dirt on the paving. “I’d like to do something unspeakable to that fool. He’s got no idea what he’s doing to Sash.”

  “Do you think he’s having it off with Courtney?”

  “I’d bet my fucking degree on it, Millie.”

  “But what can we do?” asked Kirby, who’d also arrived to help. “It’s, like, not our place to stick our noses in. Sash has to do, like, by herself. It’s her relationship and if she won’t do anything then our hands are, like, tied.”

  That was the problem. Even if we could do something, it wasn’t our place. It was Sasha’s decision to make.

  And as we looked sympathetically over to her, it seemed that that was what she did. Leaping to her feet, Sasha began to circle the yard and driveway. Like a greyhound chasing a rabbit, she sprinted over the lawn, scouring bushes and trees for Simmo who had disappeared yet again. Agitated, she poked her head around corners and into the most bizarre places where a cat wouldn’t fit, let alone a canoodling couple.

  “Where do you think he’s gone this time?” Kirby asked.

  “Fuck knows,” Mel sighed heavily. “Let’s get another drink, we’re in for the long haul.”

  *****

  After twenty minutes or so, exhausted and puffy eyed, Sasha gave up the search and returned to the courtyard. Knowing we could do little to help without looking like we were interfering, we stood in the yellow glow of the mozzie lamp waiting for her with a drink and her cigarette packet. Her face was pale and anxious as she paused beside the barbecue and reached over, picking up the barbecue fork. Absently, she began to vent on the only sausage left on the grill, prodding it until it was full of holes and the juices oozed out. It was obvious who she was imagining it to be.

  “He’s up to something,” Sasha muttered.

  “Up to his balls in Courtney, I'd say,” Mel replied, deftly removing the sharpened tool from Sasha’s hands.

  “Well, he won’t be needing them after I’ve finished with him.” Sasha looked into the darkness.

  “I think he went inside, Sasha.” I might not have been able to help but at least I could keep her from the bushes. The poor thing.

  “Did you see him? When?”

  “About ten minutes ago. While you were out the front.”

  Sasha’s eyes blazed a maniacal shade of red. She stormed into the house, with Sam and I following in close pursuit. Silently, I prayed Simmo wasn’t doing something stupid in the one room that was functional. Parts of the house had walls missing. Corners to hide in were few and far between.

  We arrived in the living room and I stopped. The house was crowded with lads, many of whom had materialised from the brickwork at the smell of a free feed and some alcohol. Womble had dragged the karaoke machine in from his car and the deafening strains of his own version of Guns ’n’ Roses November Rain filled the tiny space. A couple of the reserves players were doing air guitar impersonations of Slash on the stairs while others played drinking games in the hall. We’d never find Simmo here. He might have been six foot three but it was impossible.

  “He’s not bloody here,” Sasha hissed into my ear. She grabbed a beer from Woody as he walked past and drained it at pace. I looked to Sam, raising a questioning eyebrow. If Sasha was drinking beer, this is serious. Sasha never drank beer, not even with a designer label. Sam glanced back at me and I could tell he was thinking the same thing. Neither of us was going anywhere. Disgusting as it seemed, we wanted to witness their confrontation. This was more addictive than car crash TV.

  “’Scuse me, ‘scuse me, ooohhh sorrrry, Millie.”

  Using her elbows as battering rams That-Slut-Courtney barged through the room and over to the corner where Womble was entertaining the crowd with Eye of the Tiger’. Jumping onto the chair beside him, she ripped the microphone from his pudgy hand and wiggled around a bit, adjusting her teeny tiny top.

  “Hey! Whadja go an’ do that for?” Womble cried.

  “Move it fat boy, it’s my turn now.” With a malicious grin in our direction, Courtney turned her back to the crowd, giving us prime view of her bum. She fiddled with the dial on the karaoke machine. Then, after inserting her own CD, she coughed and took a few deep breaths, preparing herself to sing.

  “This one’s for you, Snookums.”

  The crowd was deathly quiet. Snookums, whoever he was, wasn’t keen to share their love in public.

  “I. Do. Not. Fucking. Believe. This.” Mel whispered. “Surely she’s not going to sing to him?”

  But oh, yes, she was.

  The intro started. That-Slut-Courtney’s hips were wiggling in time. Her auburn locks were bouncing to the beat. Other body parts were not so lucky.

  “Hey, I, like, totally love this song,” Kirby chirruped, tapping her side with her hand. It seemed to have slipped her mind we didn’t like That-Slut-Courtney or any song she would sing until a pinch to her tricep from Mel reminded her.

  “Like, what the hell? Oh… right. Oh, she totally sucks. So glad I didn’t buy the album.”

  Courtney may have looked like a beauty queen but, somehow, I don’t think she’d taken choir at school a
nd if that comment about The Voice was true the judges must have been delusional on the day. Her whiny, nasally voice, blared through the speakers singing a the worst rendition of Avril Lavigne’s Girlfriend I think I’ve ever heard. And from the way she was flinging her arms while singing “Hey you, I don’t like your girlfriend. Hey you, I think you need a new one,” I’d say she’d seen the video clip on more than a few occasions. Still, it was amusing. Or so Sam thought, he was pissing himself.

  Magically, the object of this dedication had also re-appeared, propping himself in front of the fireplace like he’d been there all night. It would have been believable if not for the fact his neck was sporting a rather large and unwieldy love bite. Nursing a large ale and doing a relaxed lean across the mantle, he tapped his fingers to the tune.

  Totally guileless.

  Utterly bastardly.

  Devastation did not describe the look on Sasha’s face as the realisation hit her. Courtney and Simmo had been up to God knows what, and for God knows how long, right under her nose. The proof was right there on his neck. Now it was up to her to make the next move.

  “How could Courtney do this? What a cow,” I whispered to Sam.

  “You bet,” he agreed, sipping his beer. “Great tits, though.”

  I ignored it. Sam was Sam, even in the toned down, behaving himself version.

  The song over, Courtney moved on to Toxic, writhing around like a slutty version of Britney Spears and singing pointedly at Simmo. At first, he seemed oblivious that everyone—including his wife—was staring at him waiting for some kind of embarrassment that Sasha knew what we knew to cross his face. But, as he looked from Woody to Womble and raised his glass, something appeared to click inside Simmo’s thick head. And as Courtney’s routine grew more feverish, her dance moves akin to porn. Simmo squinted nervously into the half-light from the fire, pushing a hand through his hair. His eyes met Sasha’s across the room. His lip twisted into a guilty smile and he shrugged as if he had no idea what Courtney was on about. Because everyone knew Courtney was a psycho. He wasn’t doing anything. Surely, Sasha could see that.