by Mark O'Flynn
‘What happened to your chest?’
‘A flea bite me.’
‘Must’ve been a pretty big flea.’
‘Don’t worry, I bite him back.’
He left the prison greens lying on the floor. When we returned, Mum asked:
‘What do you want to do?’
We had a full tank. We could go anywhere. A hundred thoughts must have run through his mind. In the frenzy of impulses some of them slowed down enough for him to see them: What did he want to do? He wanted to rage, to smash, to devastate. He wanted to kill someone, but he dare not say that. He had to get his bearings. It was a world without fences.
‘Eat ice cream, I reckon.’
So we drove to a shop where Lynne bought ice creams. Then she used her mobile phone to confirm their reservation at a city hotel. Edgar had never seen a mobile phone before, and didn’t want to show that he was afraid of it.
The great buildings frightened him as we drove deeper into the city. Edgar couldn’t believe how fast I was driving, although we were moving no faster than the traffic around us. I found myself driving extra carefully, as if there was a new mother with a baby in the back. Lynne pointed out all the latest developments she thought might interest him. The harbour sparkled, as it does, under a perfect sky. I looked in the rear-vision mirror at the miracle that was my uncle sitting in the back seat.
Why didn’t all those boats on the water just crash into each other and sink?
Eventually we arrived, checked into the hotel. Nothing swanky, but comfortable. His first night of freedom—she wanted him to be comfortable. Edgar offered her the money in his pocket. It was all plastic. He didn’t understand it.
‘Is this all they gave you?’ she said, handing it back. ‘How are people supposed to make a clean start with this? This wouldn’t pay for a good night at the pub. They want people to fail.’
‘Sorry. Bought some Paddle Pops.’
‘It’s not your fault. It’s them. They like recidivism. They encourage it.’
Edgar enjoyed the elevator very much. The doors opened by themselves. Once inside the suite, he did not want to leave. The room was enormous. Edgar could not believe that they would just give away all the things he found there: soap, shampoo, biscuits, little mini-cheeses. He had never seen anything like it. We ordered in dinner. Lynne did not hide her surprise.
‘I thought you would want to go out and drink a skinful of beer and pick a fight with someone.’
Edgar had never tried beer. He had had some rum once, but it was nothing special. It had burned his whiskers. We sat by the window looking out at the city skyline. The cranes on top of the skyscrapers. Pigeons swirling. Not a patch of grass in sight. Lynne swallowed a great number of pills with her tiny meal, then went to the bathroom where I knew she was giving herself a subcutaneous injection of Neupogen. He didn’t ask what the pills were for. He knew.
Nor did he want to go out after dinner.
‘Where would we go?’
‘Anywhere, anywhere!’
She could go out if she wanted, he offered. Lynne laughed, and he realised it was the first time he had heard that sound. She was too old for nightclubs.
‘Tony might take you.’
No, he would not. I made some weary noises. He told her that he didn’t think he would ever get to sleep, the bed was too big. What did people do in such big beds? He was happy just to sit and watch telly, to wander from room to room. Was he allowed to go into the hallway? Up and down in the elevator?
After dinner I made my excuses and left. Uncle Ed was free. I gave him my business card.
He did sleep. He pushed the bed against the wall and tried to rearrange the furniture in the room like his cell. He slept his usual thirteen hours, and in the morning he ate an enormous continental breakfast, before Lynne insisted that he have a bath. What an experience that must have been.
They spent the day and the next night and most of the following day together. They went to Bondi Beach and paddled in the shallows. The waves buffeted his legs and splashed his rolled-up trousers. The sea spray like nettles on his face. Then Edgar asked if they could leave because there were too many topless girls lounging about on the sand, and he thought it must have been because they knew he was just out of gaol.
‘How would they know?’
‘Ain’t it splashed all over me dial?’
He felt himself burning. They trudged across the sand.
‘That side of things must have been very difficult.’
‘Well, I ain’t too fond of eggs.’
He did not explain his hard laughter, shaking the sand out of his new boots.
Lynne told him all about the halfway hostel she had arranged, called Langwith House, which he could move into, if he wished. He would at least have a roof over his head. She gave him the keycard to an account, which contained a substantial amount of money, some of it left over from the sale of the property. And she taught him how to use the automatic teller machines. Together they went to Social Security, organised his registration, established which benefit he was eligible for. Edgar signed his name.
After lunch the last day, she spent a long time in her room packing her case, while Edgar gazed out the window. When she came out she said that Edgar could either choose to stay here, go to the halfway hostel, or find somewhere cheaper. It was up to him now.
Edgar did not like that word, choose.
He said, ‘It sound to me, Lynne, like yer leavin’.’
‘I’ve got to, Ed.’
‘I din’t think too much about it,’ he said. ‘I reckoned maybe I could come and live with you.’
Lynne looked at him sadly. Suddenly in his flesh Edgar knew, the way she moved, that she was in constant pain.
‘My husband, Barry, would never permit it. It was the last straw getting him to agree to this.’
‘He reckons I’m guilty?’
‘He thinks I should be thinking about my health. And about our marriage. My cancer has returned, Ed. And Barry reckons I should think about myself, for a change. He’s a good man. And maybe that time has come. I thought I’d been doing that all my life, and now I find perhaps I haven’t; raising a family, supporting a husband. But Tony’s an adult now, and you can manage, Edgar.’
‘He reckons I’m guilty?’ Edgar repeated.
‘It doesn’t matter what anyone believes.’
‘What do you believe?’
‘Again, it doesn’t matter. I have to leave because I have to have another operation.’
‘You reckon I killed that bloke?’
‘Would I have slept here in these rooms if I thought that?’
‘I din’t kill no one but that poor dorg. I seen people die in the slot, but I din’t care nothing for ‘em.’
For a moment he looked steadily at her.
‘Eddy, Eddy, little brother. You’re free now. That’s all that counts. You mustn’t take that for granted. I don’t think it’s going to be easy but you’ve got to promise me that you won’t go back to gaol.’
Beyond the window a world of light and splendour.
‘I reckon I’ll try.’
Edgar looked at his feet. Felt the hot nettles in his eyes.
‘See you, Edgar.’
And she shook his hand, formally, as she had at the prison, before wheeling her case behind her and stepping into the elevator, smiling weakly back at him as the doors, all by themselves, slid shut.
Edgar stayed in his hotel room for three more days. He ordered up his meals on the phone, looking out the window at the constant motion of the city. All those people marching about, their destinations firmly in mind, bustling hither and yon on important business. All those people not in gaol. All those people trying to be good.
He went up in the elevator before he went down. Such a fun ride, and for free! Though now it was contaminated with abandonment. The doors opened by themselves on the empty space in the foyer. He approached the desk to check out, but the receptionist told him that the bill had been paid b
y Tony Tindale.
I keep trying to imagine him coping with the streets; the dilemmas he faced. He hadn’t been outside for ten minutes when a hungry-looking beggar asked him for money to buy food. The beggar reminded him of someone, but whom, he couldn’t recall. No, that was silly. The chances of him knowing anyone were—Edgar reached into his pocket and pulled out one of the newfangled plastic notes, the value of which he did not know.
‘Thanks, mister!’ the beggar said, scurrying off.
Edgar wandered aimlessly. He saw someone else he thought was Yema. It was not, but it made him think that one day he might bump into Yema again. What would they talk about? The good old days in gaol? He did not want to be reminded of gaol. The sound of trucks and jackhammers, of industry and commerce, assailed him. He gazed in awe at skyscrapers. The limited sectors of the divided sky. He hurried past the fashion boutiques changing their naked mannequins in the windows.
They made him hot and bothered. When he was hungry he stopped and bought some of the most exquisite-looking fruit from a stall on the side of the street. He did not know what to choose, only that he would never eat another pear again. The city was astonishing. And the women! High heels perplexed him. How did skirts work? He gave away more money to beggars, or to people who looked like beggars. Seeing his reflection in store windows he found a strange pride in the clothes he was wearing.
He looked up at the building he stood outside. It matched the number on the business card Tony had given him. He double-checked. He was good with numbers. He showed the card to a passerby who confirmed that, yes, this was the address. Edgar went up in the elevator.
The receptionist paged me to say, in a preposterous tone of voice, that someone who called himself Uncle had arrived. My shameful blood ran cold. He was looking at the fish in the foyer, tapping the side of the tank. I knew how much our receptionist hated that (there was a sign, which read: Do not tap the glass).
Edgar did not want anything in particular, he had just turned up. Everyone in our office was trying to eavesdrop on our muttered conversation. It was at this point that Mr Pennington returned from a meeting with the partners.
‘Mr Hamilton, how splendid to see you.’
He shook Edgar’s hand and was all brusque and businesslike, until Edgar asked old Penno how much was his suit? There was some discussion about the cut of the cloth.
Later Pennington summoned me to his suite.
‘Tony, we can’t encourage convicted criminals to loiter around the office.’
‘I understand, Mr Pennington. He just arrived unannounced. I don’t think he wants anything.’
‘He makes Mrs Argyle nervous, having someone with a serious criminal record—’
‘I believe there is enough evidence to overturn the conviction.’
‘Not through this office, Tony.’
I looked at him.
‘I would do it myself.’
‘Mark my words, Tony, that man is as guilty as sin.’
‘I don’t believe that, Warren.’
He gave me a peculiar glance which seemed to suggest I was not the golden boy their good faith in me had augured, and perhaps I felt that too.
‘Be that as it may, Tony, be that as it may. Am I to understand,’ he continued, ‘that your uncle wanted to buy my suit?’
The next day he was back. I quickly ushered him out of the foyer and downstairs for a bite to eat. We found a booth at a café I do not usually frequent. When he couldn’t make up his mind I ordered for him.
‘What do you want, Edgar? This can’t go on.’
He could not answer me. He didn’t know. The world outside was a daunting prospect. There were so many decisions to make. Too much choice. Being good gave him a headache. Then he made the longest speech I had ever heard him make:
‘At least when I was in gaol, things were going good. I got fed regular. I got me some new teeth. I got a nice haircut. I got the bottom bunk. Even learned how to write me name. People talked to me. I had some friends. I knew how to stay alive. Out here I don’t know nothing. Out here people just want money off me.’
The waitress brought our lunch. He tucked into his focaccia sandwich with gusto. All he knew he had to do would be to smash a window. His problems would be over. Do something that would keep him inside for a long time. Kill someone, maybe. I found myself reprimanding him like a child.
‘Edgar, no. That wasn’t the promise you made to Lynne. You’ve got to do your best not to think about killing anybody.’
Was I actually saying this?
‘But Lynne went away and I’m on me own.’
‘She’s sick. She’s dying. Don’t you understand that? You’ve got to leave her alone. Tell me, where have you been staying?’
‘I just walk.’
‘What about that hostel she organised?’
‘I lost the bit of paper.’
‘I can fix that.’
‘Tony,’ it was hard for him to say, ‘I don’t like the city too much. I don’t like bein’ indoors. I just like to walk.’
‘Edgar, you have no parole restrictions, you can go wherever you like. You can even go back home.’
‘Wagga?’
‘Well, the house is gone.’
‘But the river?’
‘The river would still be there, yes.’
I am ashamed to say that it suited me very well for him to reach this decision under his own steam. I was afraid that the next thing he might want would be to come home and meet Emily. In fact, Emily herself had suggested that Edgar and Pennington come around for dinner to celebrate our victory. An idea I deflected with stony silence. An idea which made me ashamed of my shame. This, this moral fortitude, is what Edgar had sensed missing from my life. And I knew he was right.
The next day he returned. He tapped at the fish tank. The partners all locked themselves in their offices. I took him to lunch again. This time to my usual restaurant. I needed to teach myself to like him. Trudy, the waitress, stared at us and, frankly, I stared back. We talked of ordinary things. The weather. If it was compulsory to give money to buskers. I allowed him to walk me back to the office; ride up in the elevator with me.
‘If I wanted ter leave the city, how’d I go about it?’
I gave him directions to Central railway station. I even gave him a hundred for the fare, though I knew he had plenty of money. And I even closed the door behind him, and closed my eyes to Mrs Argyle’s disdainful pity.
‘If he calls again, shall I tell him you’re out?’
I turned back to her.
‘No.’
SEVEN
So Edgar walks. A destination in his legs. How must he feel? He crosses the streets only at traffic lights. He buys a hamburger and puts the papers in a bin. Is it possible? Is it possible for him to be good? If he stays here much longer he might be forced to neck someone. Eventually he sees the station, a train slowing behind the brick facade. The homeless with their spattering of coins laid out on cloth. Inside the high-roofed station a small city thrives, the sandwich stalls, the pub, the newsagency with so many magazines in the window. He sits and thinks about his actions for a long time. Some decisions are not always immediate. Delay is also a form of choice. He can, if he wishes stay here and live like these railway vagrants, sifting charity from peak hour. Make do.
A security guard wanders past and looks at him, but Edgar is doing nothing wrong. He is a law-abiding citizen.
When he thinks through all the decisions he feels are in his power to make, he goes and gazes at the flickering monitors showing the destinations and departure times. He forces himself to concentrate. He cannot see the letter he wants leaning like a stack of windblown trees. He stands patiently in the queue until it is his turn to approach the ticket window.
‘I want ter go ter Wagga.’
‘That’s the Melbourne service, which has already left. Unless you want to go overnight, you’ll have to come back in the morning. I’d advise that you pre-book.’
So Edgar pre-books,
calmly taking out the wallet Lynne has bought him and selecting cash like an old hand. The man behind the window even gives him some change.
He returns to the railway station early the next morning. He studies the timetable closely. Having already purchased his ticket, yes, here it is in his new wallet, he finds his way to the designated platform. And here is the train. And here is his carriage. And here is his seat. He verifies it with the conductor to make sure. He sits in his seat for over an hour. He doesn’t want to miss this one.
The rhythm of the wheels is soothing. After they have rattled through the suburbs he is able to sleep comfortably through town after town, through the undulating hills slowly flattening towards the Riverina, and the flatlands beyond. His new possessions—a backpack and sleeping bag—are in the rack above his head. When they arrive at the big town the conductor wakes him up and calls him ‘sir’. Edgar is amazed to be there so soon. Imagine how long, he thinks, it would have taken if he’d walked.
The light is as familiar to him as milk. He watches the train pull out and feels no sadness. It is just a train. He walks out of the station and stands looking at the main street. They have made some changes to the streetscape, but he recognises it well, like a dream. Cast-iron crows sitting on the street signs. Ha ha. The buildings much smaller than he remembers. He makes another choice and finds his way to the supermarket. The whole façade has changed, its entrance is now via a mall, which could be anywhere, replete with cafés and bakeries. There are twenty cash registers busily pinging away with the energetic sounds of profit. He recognises none of the checkout people. Nor is there any sign of his nemesis, Mr Ashcroft. Perhaps Mr Ashcroft is in gaol? Edgar is anonymous. No one resembles anyone else. He selects a trolley from the stack. He is blending in. He makes decisions about what he would like to eat that day, and the next day and over the following days and weeks. It is lucky they print pictures of tomatoes on the tins of tomatoes, beans on the bean tins, fish on fish. He buys matches, a can opener, a camp shovel from the hardware section, toilet paper, spare shirts, juice—he is being resourceful. This is planning for the future. He selects different brands and, holding them at arm’s length, compares the pictures on the labels. On the basis of this he makes decisions. In aisle eighteen he comes across a wall of canned dog food towering to the ceiling. Ah, so this is where it all came from.