How Not To Commit Murder - comedy crime - humorous mystery

by Robin Storey

  Her voice faltered. ‘I want you to come home.’

  Reuben hesitated. So much for time apart to think. But he couldn’t stay at Thommo’s forever and he had nowhere else to go. And now that Carlene had found the tickets to the ball, he couldn’t back out of taking her.

  ‘We can work things out, baby. I’m sorry about the life-coaching voucher. I’ll take it back. I know they’ll give me a refund; they’re friends of one of the girls at church. And I promise not to bring up about you going to counselling again.’

  She sniffled. ‘I miss you, Rubie.’ Then she burst into tears.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll come home.’

  ‘Which hotel are you at?’ she asked between sobs. ‘I’ll come and pick you up.’

  ‘No need for that – you just relax. I’m having a coffee then I’ll get a cab.’

  ‘Okay, honey, see you soon.’

  He rang off. She’d sounded so relieved, but it only made him feel worse. He was going back for the wrong reasons and he knew that despite her assurances, nothing would change.

  Thommo came in and put Reuben’s mug of coffee on the table. ‘Going home?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You don’t sound too thrilled about it.’

  ‘It’s hard to feel thrilled about anything with a jackhammer drilling through my head.’

  ‘Pity, I was looking forward to sampling some of your baked beans in tomato jus, garnished with slivers of cheddar cheese.’ He flopped onto the faded armchair. ‘I’ve come to a decision. Brisbane’s giving me the shits. I’m moving to Sydney; that’s where you have to be to get anywhere in this business. Want to come?’

  For a few moments, Reuben indulged himself in the fantasy of upping stakes and going to Sydney with Thommo – new city, fresh start, the excitement of the unknown. It’s what he’d always done before, when he got bored or when the police were beginning to take an interest in his activities – packed his bags and left town, usually to another state. He’d seen most of Australia by keeping one step ahead of the authorities. But sooner or later the novelty of the new town or city wore off, and it became just like any other, and in his mind they all merged into one big place called ‘Somewhere Else’.

  ‘It’s tempting, but I can’t. It’s not easy to move interstate when you’re on parole.’

  ‘You could give it a go. I reckon we’d have a great time down there. You could do a hundred beer ads in Sydney. And you wouldn’t have Frankie-boy breathing down your neck.’

  ‘If I can stop Operation Luce End, Frank will be behind bars, and if not, I’ll be at the bottom of the river in concrete shoes. Anyway, apart from all that, there’s Carlene.’

  ‘Women,’ Thommo sighed, with the air of the jaded playboy. ‘When you haven’t got one, they’re all you think about and when you have, you’re wondering how to get rid of them.’

  ***

  The house was eerily quiet as Reuben opened the front door. All evidence of the Christmas festivities had been cleared away, every surface sparkling, the cushions plumped. Only the Christmas tree remained – a gaudy, glittering sentinel standing guard over the living room.

  In the kitchen, the only sign of recent habitation was a bowl and spoon draining on the dish rack. He went into the bedroom and dropped his overnight bag on the floor. The bed was neatly made as usual, with the frilled pillows perched on top and Carlene’s battered childhood teddy propped against them.

  He’d only been gone a night but it felt like a year. He felt a strange sense of disassociation, as if everything had changed in his absence and he was now a stranger in his own home. And where was Carlene? Was this her idea of a joke? To invite him back and then disappear?

  He wandered back through the house. As he passed the study, he glanced in and saw the computer was on. Something caught his eye and he went in. At the top of the screen were the words ‘Department of Communities, Child Safety Services’ and underneath was the headline ‘Intercountry Adoption.’

  Reuben scrolled down the page until he came to ‘Eligibility Criteria’. There were a number, but the first mentioned was that the couple was required to have been married or living together for a minimum of two years.

  That gave him a reprieve for the next eighteen months. But what then? It made his head hurt even more to think about it. He went into the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water and drank it all in one gulp. From the corner of his eye he could see Kiet, Sahra and Ali staring at him from the fridge, vying for his attention. He wandered out into the back yard.

  The sun attacked him with a fierce intensity. Carlene was around the side of the house hanging out the washing on the rotary clothes line. She didn’t see him approach and he watched her for a few moments. She bent down, picked up a pair of socks from the basket and plucked two pegs from the pegbag hanging on the clothes line. With swift, practised movements, she pegged the socks on the line side by side.

  Was she thinking what a bastard he was for not liking his Christmas present? For buying her a silver chain when Jolene was flashing her diamond bracelet, for not settling down to a steady job, not wanting to start a family? There were a myriad reasons he fell short of her expectations and still she wanted him back. Did she still hold out hope that he would change, that she could mould him into the man she thought he should be?

  She bent down to the basket again, and as she straightened up, she spied him. Her mouth curved into a wide smile but her eyes were strained.

  ‘Hi baby,’ she said softly.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘I’ll just finish this and I’ll make us some coffee.’

  ‘It’s okay, I’ll make it.’

  They sat on the patio with their coffee. A lawn mower droned nearby and a chorus of children’s shouts swelled and faded into the distance. But the air between them was thick with a silence that pounded in Reuben’s ears, as if they were trapped in a soundless bubble.

  ‘This is not...’

  ‘Honey, I just want to...’

  They both laughed awkwardly.

  ‘You go first,’ Reuben said.

  ‘I just want to say that I’m sorry about the gift voucher, but I was hoping you’d be more open-minded about it and at least give it a go. I was really annoyed at your reaction – and hurt too. And in front of the family, it was even more hurtful. Sometimes you frustrate me so much, and then you go and do something like buying the tickets to the New Year’s Eve Ball, and then I realise how much I love you.’

  You wouldn’t love me quite so much if you knew the real reason I bought the tickets.

  A single tear welled up and pooled on Carlene’s lashes, then spilled over and slid down her cheek. She gave him a shaky smile. ‘What were you going to say?’

  He shifted in his chair. ‘Nothing important.’

  ‘Yes it was. You said, “This is not.” Not what?’

  ‘I was going to say this is not very good coffee. What brand is it?’

  ‘Moccona Kenya, your favourite.’

  ‘I’ve gone off it. We should try another brand.’

  ***

  He’d almost said it – ‘this is not working’, almost told her it was over, but the words had stuck in his throat. There was something so cold and final about them; the chill of failure. He’d never been good at long-term relationships, had never wanted to be before but now that he did, he still couldn’t make it happen.

  Could you tell after six months if it wasn’t going to work? How long did you hang in for, trying to keep it together and being miserable? The worst part of it was that Carlene loved him. But her love was all-consuming and possessive; maternal and erotic; and calculating and irrational. The more he tried to give himself some space, the more she closed in on him. Perhaps the only answer was to pack up and leave her a note. He’d done that before in past relationships – it was the coward’s way out but he hadn’t cared before. It was too hard to think about now – he’d put the decision on hold until after the ball.

  CHAPTER 28

  The ball
hurtled down the alley, as if its only mission was to smash the huddle of pins and send them all flying. Its pearly sheen glimmered under the strobe lighting. At the last minute it veered off to the right and into the gutter, nudging one of the pins on the end. The pin wobbled drunkenly and almost fell, then righted itself. A grand total of zero. Barry Gibb’s falsetto tones in ‘How Deep is My Love’ reverberated around them.

  Reuben shrugged his shoulders and ambled back to his seat.

  ‘Bad luck,’ Frank said, grinning. He picked up his ball, strode up to the marker and sent it down the alley with such power and precision that the ball didn’t dare not hit the pins. His third strike in a row. A purple star pulsated on the scoring screen above them. ‘Congratulations, you’re a star!’ sparkled the message. ‘Go and claim your prize.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ said Bomber. He jumped up, went over to the counter and came back with a giant Mars bar. He put it on the side table next to the Crunchie and the Cherry Ripe. With his long, loping style, he rolled his ball down the alley, knocked down six pins and with the second bowl scored a spare.

  There were a million other more enjoyable ways of spending a Friday night than disco tenpin bowling – almost anything, in fact. Judging from the crowd, a lot of people didn’t share Reuben’s opinion. It was all very well to be invisible in a crowd but why couldn’t Frank have picked something he was good at? Like Monopoly. Or Poker. Or Cheat. It was patently obvious Reuben hadn’t been bowling since he was a kid. Thank God this was their last meeting.

  Frank took it as a personal insult when he didn’t score a strike, scowling and swearing as he waited for his ball to be returned through the chute. Bomber’s style was more erratic, but when he scored a strike he punched the air as if he’d just won an Olympic medal. Towards the end of the game, he became distracted by a group of young women in skimpy shorts and halter neck tops arriving at the lane next to them; and Frank galloped away to a resounding victory.

  Under the cover of returning the balls to the racks and taking off their bowling shoes, Frank passed them both a mobile phone, which they slipped into their pockets. He then inclined his head in the direction of the cafeteria. They ordered coffees at the counter and took a table in the corner. The light was dim where they sat and Donna Summer blared out around them.

  It reminded Reuben of one of his first childhood memories, peeking around the doorway into the living room when he was supposed to be in bed, watching as his mother swayed and shimmied around the furniture to the strains of ‘Hot Love’. Head thrown back and her gaze in a distant place, she was oblivious to everything except her own enjoyment. He never saw her dance in later years.

  Grief struck him like a blow to the stomach, as it often did at the strangest moments. He didn’t believe in heaven or an afterlife, but still he wondered if she could see him now. Appearances are deceptive, Mum. I might be hanging out with two of the most notorious crooks around, but I really am going straight.

  Their coffees arrived. They looked and tasted like dishwater.

  Bomber spluttered over his mouthful. ‘Shit, this is worse than the camel pee they give you in the Big House!’

  ‘Shut the fuck up,’ Frank said through gritted teeth. ‘Now, are you both clear about tomorrow night?’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ Bomber said. Reuben nodded.

  ‘Littledick, you’ve checked her Facebook since she came back?’

  ‘Checked it this afternoon.’ He’d gone to the internet cafe after work. ‘She got back yesterday at about three. She’s still jetlagged because she didn’t sleep at all on the plane so when she got home…’

  ‘I don’t need her fucking Dear Diary. Is she still going to the ball?’

  ‘Yes. And they’re definitely going by car – she said her husband offered to drive so she could drink, but she thinks she’ll nod off on the dance floor if she has even one drink.’

  ‘Then it’s up to you to make sure she doesn’t leave before you get Bomber’s message. What time does it start?’

  ‘Eight.’

  ‘You’d better be at her place by six in case they decide to eat out first.’

  Hanging around Lucy’s street on New Year’s Eve on a pink motor scooter was obviously out of the question. As was borrowing Carlene’s car for a journey for which he had yet to think up a plausible reason. He could borrow Thommo’s car if he hadn’t already left for Sydney.

  ‘Sydney on New Year’s Eve,’ he’d said, eyes sparkling, ‘Goes off like a bomb.’

  ‘Oops, sorry.’ He looked contrite. ‘You know, it’s going to spoil my fun thinking of you flirting with death as you mix it with the Beautiful People. I still think you should give the cops the heads-up.’

  ‘I’ve got it all under control,’ Reuben said with much more assurance than he felt. ‘Just enjoy yourself and forget about me. I’ll phone you after midnight to prove I’m still alive.’

  Thommo would be in Sydney right now, in a bar somewhere chatting up a girl. He’d left a large empty hole in Reuben’s life.

  ‘Are you listening, Littledick?’

  Frank’s voice snapped him back to the present.

  ‘As soon as the bitch parks her car, send Bomber a message with the exact location. You’ll have to follow her right in so you know which floor and aisle, and then you can get into your pumpkin coach with your fairy godmother and go to the ball. Bomber will message you when the job’s done.’

  ‘Who are you going to be this time?’ Reuben asked Bomber. ‘Lenny the Locksmith? Double call-out fee on New Years’ Eve?’

  Bomber grinned. ‘You’re a funny bloke. I’m sorry we won’t be working together after tomorrow night.’

  Sorry I can’t return the compliment. Reuben hoped his face didn’t belie his thoughts. Under Bomber’s matey facade lurked something dark and chilling, like the bottom of a well.

  ‘I’m just being myself,’ Bomber said. ‘Been out for a drink, going home early, having a bit of engine trouble, if anyone asks. Not that they will. I’ll go in about ten – late enough for everyone to have arrived but too early for people to be going home. And then, Candy baby, here I come!’

  ‘Is she your girlfriend?’ Reuben asked.

  ‘One of them.’ Bomber winked. ‘Sweet by name, sweet by nature.’

  ‘Where’s she live?’

  Bomber clapped a hand on his shoulder. It was a friendly gesture but his grip was hard. ‘Now don’t you be worryin’ about little things like that,’ he said in a bad Irish accent. ‘When the sun comes up on the New Year, I’ll be on my way to a better place. Not heaven but just as good.’

  He pushed his cup away, still half full. ‘I gotta go. This coffee is making me sick.’

  ‘One more thing, Littledick,’ Frank said. ‘I’ve got my mate in the police force on the lookout for any mysterious alerts about bombs. And in case you’ve got any funny ideas about calling the cops on the night, I’ll have my spies in there watching your every move.’

  Maybe he’s bluffing – act as if you don’t give a shit. Reuben shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. I’ve already told you, I’m playing it straight.’

  Frank gave him a friendly slap on the back. ‘Just think of it as insurance, in case you have a sudden attack of principles on the night. And same deal with the phones. Dispose of them immediately. And no contact afterwards.’

  ‘No matter what happens,’ he added ominously.

  They got up and Bomber scooped up the pile of chocolates Frank had won. Frank nodded at Reuben. ‘Give them to him.’

  Bomber held them out to Reuben. ‘Happy New Year.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Reuben took them and shoved them into his pocket. He didn’t want them but it seemed pointless to refuse.

  Bomber held out his hand to Frank and then to Reuben. ‘Nice doing business with you.’

  Frank grunted. Reuben said nothing. As they walked out into the clammy night air, the rhythm of crashing pins and pulsating lights behind them, Gloria Gaynor belted out the opening bars of ‘I Will Survive’. />
  ***

  As soon as the Barbiemobile rounded the corner into his street, he saw the Corolla ahead of him in the carport. Fuck. It was only eight-thirty, Carlene wasn’t supposed to be home this early. She’d gone to her parents’ house for a pre-New Year’s Eve cocktail party. Reuben had begged off going, pleading a severe headache. When she left, he was lying on the bed with a wet cloth on his forehead after taking three Panadol and drinking a cup of green tea at her insistence.

  ‘I’ll stay and help Mum clean up, so I won’t be home till about nine,’ she said. She stroked his forehead. ‘Will you be okay?’

  ‘I’ll be fine; I just need to rest,’ Reuben reassured her, with a hint of martyrdom. He waited fifteen minutes after she left in case she’d forgotten something, then sprang up from the bed, locked the house, raced out to the Barbiemobile and zoomed down to the tenpin bowling alley at Clayfield. He was relieved he could use a more creative alibi (if you could call a headache creative) for his meeting with Frank than the usual Finn crisis. He’d counted on being home and back in prone position before she returned.

  As he walked in the front door, he put on a strained expression. Carlene came out in her bathrobe. She had a face cloth in her hand; one half of her face was made-up and the other scrubbed clean, giving her a peculiar two-faced appearance, like a Picasso painting.

  ‘Where have you been?’ she demanded. ‘I’ve been worried about you. You’re supposed to be sick!’

  ‘I am sick,’ Reuben said. ‘I went to the day and night chemist to get some stronger tablets.’

  ‘What did you get?’

  ‘They were out of the gel capsules so I didn’t get anything.’

  ‘What’s in your pocket?’

  Reuben looked down at his bulging jeans pocket and pulled out one Mars bar, two Cherry Ripes, a Crunchie, a giant Freddo and a small Caramello Bear. He gave a sheepish grin.

  ‘I bought them to share with you.’

  Carlene sighed as she dabbed at her face with the cloth. ‘It’ll only make your headache worse. Anyway, I’m off chocolate. I put on two kilos over Christmas. I think it’s all the stress.’