by Robin Storey
He produced a mobile phone and handed it to Reuben. ‘Call me on the 29th. And for your sake, it had better be all systems go.’
Reuben was halfway to the exit when he called, ‘Hey, Littledick!’
He stopped and turned. All eyes were upon him. Someone sniggered.
‘Merry Christmas!’
Frank raised his glass in a toast, grinning. Mrs Santa had now taken Reuben’s seat, cosying up to Frank, and she smiled and waved. Business meeting? She looked as if she meant business. Reuben deigned to reply and walked out. Operation Luce End, Mark Three was now in motion and he had two weeks to come up with a plan to subvert it.
***
The doorbell rang just as he and Carlene were tucking into the pizza he’d bought on his way home from The Lido.
‘It’s probably Jo,’ Carlene said, getting up from the couch. ‘She said they might call in on their way to their Christmas party.’
Jo and Wayne seemed to have an in-built radar for the most inconvenient visiting times. Reuben imagined them with a huge satellite telescope set up on their top balcony, reading signals from his and Carlene’s home ten kilometres away. ‘Quick,’ Wayne would shout, rubbing his hands together gleefully, ‘they’re having dinner (or an argument, or a nookie). Let’s go! And don’t forget the kids because they’ve got runny noses and the whinges!’
Reuben braced himself for the onslaught. A familiar voice floated through the front door. ‘Ho ho ho! Merry Christmas, young lady! Have you been a good girl?’
Thommo stepped inside. He was wearing a Santa hat and clutching two bottles of wine. His cheeks shone and he looked like a Santa who’d had one too many rum toddies.
‘I hope for Reuben’s sake you’ve been very naughty,’ he said, and enveloped Carlene in a bear hug, the wine bottles clanking together behind her.
‘Finn! What a nice surprise!’ Carlene said, disentangling herself.
Reuben jumped up and wrestled the wine bottles from Thommo’s grasp. ‘Yes, what a surprise! Considering we were only having drinks together an hour ago.’
A Christmas drink with Finn had been his excuse for his meeting with Frank. Thommo looked at him. ‘Oh ... yeah. Well, I just decided I couldn’t go back home without bringing you and your beautiful wife a Christmas present.’
‘That’s so sweet of you,’ Carlene said. ‘Would you like to stay and have some pizza?’
Reuben opened his mouth. ‘I’d love to,’ Thommo said quickly. ‘Have you got Bacon ‘n’ Egg? That’s my favourite.’
‘No, we haven’t,’ Reuben said. ‘I thought you said you had to go home and pack for your early flight tomorrow.’
‘I got the times mixed up,’ Thommo said. “I don’t leave till later.’
He held up the bottles of wine. ‘Crack one open and we’ll have a Chrissy drink.’
Reuben looked at the labels. Cleanskin chardonnay and bargain basement red. He took them into the kitchen and pulled out some wineglasses from the cupboard. Thommo followed him in. ‘You’ve got some explaining to do, mate,’ he said in Reuben’s ear.
‘What?’
‘Gone down the wrong path? Turning over a new leaf? I’ve got a right to know if you’ve involved me in some underhand activities.’
‘Keep your voice down. And for fuck’s sake, remember you’re supposed to be depressed.’
‘I won’t have to pretend if you don’t tell me...’
‘What are you two whispering about?’ Carlene appeared in the kitchen.
‘Rubie can’t decide which bottle to open,’ Thommo said. ‘I’m helping him make up his mind.’
Carlene rolled her eyes. ‘You men! Open them both if you want.’
Thommo beamed at her. ‘A woman after my own heart.’
Reuben uncorked the bottle of red, poured three glasses and they polished off the rest of the pizza. Carlene watched Thommo as he stuffed the last piece in his mouth and licked his fingers.
‘It’s good to see all your problems haven’t affected your appetite,’ she said.
Thommo stopped mid-lick and assumed a hangdog expression. ‘But they have – I used to eat twice as much.’
He launched into a detailed account of his sessions with a psychotherapist called Carol who had a crisp British accent and wore tight sweaters and black stockings. Carlene interjected with the occasional helpful suggestion, (start a journal to express your emotions, exercise to get the endorphins going, a life coach to help define his goals) which Thommo duly acknowledged with a thoughtful nod before resuming his monologue. After what seemed an interminable period of time and two more glasses of wine, Carlene’s eyes began to glaze.
‘It’s been lovely seeing you, Finn,’ she said, stifling a yawn, ‘but I hope you don’t think it rude of me if I go to bed.’
‘Not at all,’ Thommo said. He jumped up and gave her another hearty hug. ‘Have a great Christmas. And look after Rubie – make sure he doesn’t get too drunk.’
‘I’ve been telling you for the last twenty-five years not to call me Rubie,’ Reuben said. ‘You’d think you’d get it into your fat skull by now.’
‘Sorry, it just slips out.’
Thommo waited a couple of minutes after Carlene left then peered down the corridor. ‘I thought she’d never go, I was running out of stories.’
He sat down on the couch again, arms folded across his chest. ‘It’s your turn now; spill the beans. Think of me as your therapist, your Carol.’
‘Too much of a stretch, you don’t have the legs. Is she real?’
‘Of course not. What do you think I am? Crazy?’
It was obvious Thommo wasn’t going home until Reuben had told him what he wanted to know. And he supposed he owed Thommo an explanation. Reuben inclined his head in the direction of the patio – he wanted to make doubly sure Carlene wouldn’t overhear them. They took their glasses and the second bottle of wine outside, and settled at the table.
The night was warm and sticky, the air filled with the pungent odour of over-ripe bush mangoes from the tree next door. A dog yapped and a car roared up the street. Shrill voices and bicycle bells pierced the night, children enjoying the freedom of the summer holidays under cover of darkness.
Reuben gave him the abridged version of his life so far. Thommo sat up in his chair and stared at him.
‘Geez, I remember reading about you in the paper when you went to jail. They called you ‘Blackheart’ because you targeted all the people with black money.’
‘Typical media hype.’
‘But then you sucked in some poor guy who had a terminal illness.’
‘My partner did that without my knowledge. I would never have condoned it. Anyway, Derek didn’t know about his illness until it was too late.’
He could see Ivan Kominsky as clearly as yesterday – only fifty-four, sunken eyes in a face that was literally falling away, ravaged by his wife’s recent death and his diagnosis of cancer. His money was legitimate, earned through shrewd property investment since he’d emigrated from Russia in the 1970s. Derek had been introduced to Ivan, and unable to resist the opportunity, signed him up for their Deluxe Investment Plan and persuaded him to hand over his life savings.
After Reuben and Derek were charged, the news broke that Ivan had been diagnosed with cancer and was forced to borrow money from his son for his cancer treatment. Reuben confronted Derek and they almost came to blows – it took every inch of willpower he possessed not to knock his block off.
He tried to push it out of his mind by telling himself it was Derek’s fault, not his. But it still haunted him. Over the ensuing months of the court hearings, he often woke up in the middle of the night, sitting bolt upright, sweating, his heart pounding. Two months into his jail sentence he found out Ivan had died.
‘Whatever,’ Thommo said. ‘Anyway, you can’t change the past. So you’re on the straight and narrow now?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘So that’s why you paid me three hundred dollars to help you prevent a crime, and
a carton of beer for my rent-a-friend, slash alibi service.’
Reuben craned his head around to look through the glass doors into the living room. No sign of Carlene. Hopefully she was in bed asleep.
He poured himself another glass of wine. ‘Okay, maybe the straight and narrow has a bit of a bend in it.’
He may as well tell Thommo everything – someone else should know what was happening in case he, Reuben, didn’t make it alive out of Operation Luce End. At least someone would know the truth, and Frank and Bomber would get their just desserts. Not that it would matter to Reuben if he were dead.
‘It’s like this,’ he said. ‘A crim called Frank Cornell has a plan to bump my parole officer off. He asked me to help him but I refused. Then he blackmailed me, threatening to kill Carlene if I didn’t help him. And he also threatened to kill me if I told the cops; reckons he’s got friends in the police force and he’d know if I told them. So I didn’t have a lot of choice.’
Thommo gaped at him. ‘Holy fuck! You’re going to kill your parole officer?’
‘Of course I’m not. I’ll get the police involved before the bomb goes off.’
‘Bomb?’
Thommo looked at him in horror. Reuben recounted the full story, up to and including the New Year’s Eve plan. Thommo shook his head.
‘Man, this sounds like something out of a movie. When exactly are you going to call the police?’
‘Bomber will message me once the bomb’s planted, and then I’ll call them.’
The plan had been fermenting in the back of his mind and it wasn’t until he said the words out loud that he realised he’d made the decision. It wasn’t the brilliant idea he’d hoped would occur to him, but he was running out of time. It wasn’t that his ingenuity had deserted him, he argued to himself, this was one of those rare situations to which there was no brilliant solution. Just a flimsy plan that relied on timing and circumstances being in alignment. Like the planets.
‘But what if they think it’s a hoax? Or they’re too busy to respond? Don’t forget on New Year’s Eve they’ll be out all over the countryside.’
‘They should be able to respond pretty quickly then. The streets will be crawling with them.’
Thommo shook his head. ‘There’s a gaping hole in your plan. Wouldn’t it be better to give the police some prior warning so they can stake out the car park and arrest Bomber in the act?’
‘I can’t take the chance that Frank won’t find out I’ve told them - even if I do it the day before. It could be bullshit that he’s got friends in the police force, but plenty of crims do and I don’t want to call his bluff. And once he knows the police are onto him, he could do a runner and come after me as well. Whereas if I don’t call the police until the last minute, hopefully they can catch Frank unawares and arrest him.’
‘You’re still leaving a hell of a lot to chance,’ Thommo said. ‘If it was me, I’d be calling the police now.’
‘That’s easy for you to say, you’re not the one whose life is threatened. And it’s not only my life, it’s Carlene’s as well.’ He sighed. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you. Look, even if I told the police now, I couldn’t trust them not to fuck it up. When they arrested me for this last stint, they went to my mother’s old house. Not only was she dead but I hadn’t lived there since I was eighteen. When they finally turned up on my doorstep, I was waiting for them with a glass of champagne and my bag packed.’
He looked hard at Thommo. ‘Promise me you won’t call the police. Let me do this my way.’
Thommo shrugged. ‘Okay, I promise. It’s your funeral.’
‘Sorry,’ he said hastily, ‘I didn’t mean that literally.’
‘So that’s the reason I had to invent Finn,’ Reuben said. ‘Not because I’ve been playing around with other women.’
‘I’m glad,’ Thommo said. ‘I thought that was pretty low of you, to tell you the truth.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘If the worst happens and Frank kills you, am I still Finn?’
CHAPTER 26
‘Jingle Bell, Jingle Bell, Jingle Bell rock.’
Reuben stood in the corner in his dinner suit, listening to the six-piece band pumping out the irritatingly catchy tune. Pushing its way through the crowd towards him was a huge gift-wrapped box. Lucy’s head and bare shoulders protruded above it and her bare legs poked out from underneath. She was carrying the present and as she came closer it appeared that behind it she was wearing nothing at all. She smiled and held the present out towards Reuben. Tingling with anticipation he reached out to take it, but it vanished before him.
He opened his eyes and sat up. He was clutching the sheet between his fingers as if it were the Holy Grail. The strains of ‘Jingle Bell Rock’ floated into the bedroom from the living room. He groaned and flopped back onto his pillow. Why did Carlene have to be so goddamn Christmassy at Christmas?
The aroma of bacon and eggs wafted around him. He looked at the bedside clock. Seven o’clock. No sleep-in today. He dragged himself out of bed, threw on some clothes and staggered into the kitchen. Carlene was standing by the frying pan in red shorts, a green t-shirt embroidered with a Christmas tree and a piece of tinsel sparkling in her hair.
‘Merry Christmas, baby! Breakfast is just about ready, then we have a heap to do before the others get here.’
In the tradition of quaint family customs, Carlene’s family took it in turns to host the Christmas festivities and this year, as luck would have it, it was their turn.
‘I think we should have a casual, low-key affair,’ she’d said initially, ‘I want to relax and enjoy our first Christmas together.’
She then spent the next few weeks in a frenzy of preparation, with Reuben as her sidekick. She had a real Christmas tree delivered (‘for the kids’) and decorated it till you could hardly see the greenery. The fridge groaned under the weight of food and drink crammed inside it, and the house sparkled like something out of a cleaning ad. And they still weren’t ready.
‘What happened to our relaxing first Christmas together?’ he asked.
‘It will be relaxing once we’ve finished these chores. Can you hose down the patio again and put the drinks in the tub with ice?’
At eleven o’clock on the dot, the rest of the family arrived, laden with more food, alcohol and presents. There was much hugging and kissing from the women and backslapping from Alec and Wayne. Even Nancy gave Reuben a peck on the cheek, albeit as if she were performing an unpleasant but necessary task. Jo, carried away by the Christmas spirit, gave him a one-armed hug, the other arm being full of Brayden. Indya offered her cheek to Reuben, saying, ‘Have you got me a present, Uncle Reuben?’
‘You’ll have to wait and see,’ he said. He presumed Carlene had done the Christmas shopping for her family – it had taken all of his ingenuity (and money) to buy her present. It occurred to him as he’d walked aimlessly around the shops on Christmas Eve in a last minute shopping panic, that despite being married to her for almost six months, he hadn’t a clue what to buy her.
Reuben got drinks for everyone and they all settled in the living room to perform the present unwrapping ceremony. The children had already unwrapped their presents from Santa and brought their favourites with them – Indya’s was a Barbie campervan complete with a travelling Barbie and Ken, and Brayden’s was a huge dump truck with an assortment of levers and switches. As soon as he spotted the Christmas tree, he abandoned his truck, waddled towards it and began to taste test the baubles.
Alec volunteered to be Santa. With a Santa hat perched rakishly on his head, he dipped into the pile of presents under the tree and began handing them out. There was a strict protocol to the present unwrapping – each person took turns to unwrap a present while everyone else watched, followed by the requisite ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ once the gift was revealed. ‘Deck the Halls’ boomed from the stereo. Reuben felt a headache coming on.
A growing sense of irritation crept over him. As a child he’d looked forward to Christmas, but every year
it proved to be a disappointment. He gave Mum something he’d made at school; and she gave him something he needed, like new shoes or a schoolbag. They ate roast chicken and home brand plum pudding in front of the TV watching Miracle on 34th Street. Mum insisted on watching it every Christmas, and every Christmas the tears ran down her cheeks when, at the end, the judge declared that yes, there really was a Santa Claus.
Afterwards they visited a musty old aunt or uncle she’d dragged out of the family closet, which was excruciatingly boring. When Reuben was old enough to be left at home on his own, she sometimes worked on Christmas Day. He preferred that option, to spend the day on his own with the freedom to do whatever he wanted.
Indya and Brayden refused to stick to the present-opening protocol and tore into their presents simultaneously. Indya was more taken with Carlene’s present to Brayden, a school bus full of movable plastic children, than with her own present of a purple My Little Pony with its own grooming equipment. She raced the bus around the living room, over feet and under legs, while Brayden chewed on her pony’s plastic hoof before ditching it to play with the box.
Then it was Carlene’s turn to open her present from Reuben. It was a small, square box; jewellery was the obvious guess. Her fingers fumbled with the wrapping. She seemed nervous. Why? Was she afraid his present wasn’t up to scratch? That she’d be embarrassed in front of her family?
She lifted the lid gingerly from the box, as if expecting a scorpion to leap out at her. She reached into the tissue paper and pulled out a necklace – single strand sterling silver with a diamond-edged heart. Of course they weren’t really diamonds; he couldn’t afford them. The shop assistant had assured him that cubic zirconia were the next best thing, and it was impossible to tell unless you were an expert.
‘Oh, Rubie, that’s lovely.’ She held it up to show the others who responded with suitable exclamations. She leaned over and gave him a quick hug. ‘Can you put it on for me?’