How Not To Commit Murder - comedy crime - humorous mystery

by Robin Storey

  She pursed her lips. ‘I’ve got work to do. Is that all?’

  ‘Yes. Oh, and I’m sorry about Wayne and ... all that,’ he ended lamely.

  Her bosom heaved as she gave a sigh of resignation. ‘Out of everything you’ve done, that’s the only thing I don’t blame you for.’

  She swept out of the room. Was that a smile he’d seen? For all of two seconds?

  Carlene appeared at the top of the stairs holding two suitcases, and with a backpack slung over her shoulder. She was barefoot but still in her work clothes.

  ‘Hi,’ Reuben said. He bounded up the stairs to relieve her of the suitcases, glad of the opportunity to do something rather than have to think of something to say. He carried them down the stairs and placed them on the floor beside the front door.

  Carlene followed him down and handed him the backpack and a large envelope.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Bills. Like I said in my letter – car park, towing and there’s a late fee for your suit because it was three days late by the time I got a chance to return it. I was very tempted to not to return it at all so you’d have pay the full replacement cost, but lucky for you I’m not a vindictive person.’

  ‘No, well … thanks.’

  ‘Plenty of women would have, though.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you for not succumbing to the temptation.’

  She looked thinner and more fragile. Her hair was cut to shoulder-length with auburn highlights, giving her face a warmer look. Women often changed their hairstyles after a relationship break-up, a literal washing of the man out of their hair. She could have at least waited until he’d collected his gear.

  ‘I like your hair,’ he said.

  She put her hand to her hair and smoothed it self-consciously behind her ears. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Honey, I’m really...’

  ‘Don’t call me honey.’ Her voice trembled. ‘And please don’t say you’re sorry – it’s meaningless and totally inadequate for the situation.’

  ‘I’m sorry – I mean, I’m sorry I was going to say sorry. I’ll go, I’ve got a cab waiting outside.’

  ‘Indya wants to see you. I told her she couldn’t, but…’ She shrugged. ‘You know what she’s like.’

  ‘Oh ... okay.’ Reuben put the backpack down next to the suitcases. Carlene nodded in the direction of the back deck. ‘She’s in the pool.’

  He trod hesitantly through the house, half expecting Nancy to appear from nowhere and order him to freeze with his hands in the air.

  Alec and Wayne sat at the outdoor table, drinks beside them and a large array of snacks laid out on the table. Jo was bobbing up and down in the pool with the children, to the accompaniment of their shrieks of excitement.

  Alec and Wayne looked up as Reuben stepped outside. Wayne was in a pair of board shorts and nothing else, his stubby of beer perched on the distended, matted-curl shelf of his belly. His lip curled.

  ‘Well, look who’s here, Anthony Mundine himself.’

  ‘Hullo,’ Reuben said.

  Alec nodded. ‘Hullo.’ His eyes were wary. He looked to beyond the pool, where Nancy was in the garden clipping away at the mayflower bush with a large pair of garden clippers. The ferocity of her attack on the hapless bush suggested she may well have been imagining Reuben’s balls adorning its branches.

  ‘I hope you’re not here to apologise,’ Wayne said.

  ‘I’m here to say hullo to Indya,’ Reuben said. ‘At her request.’

  ‘Just as well,’ Wayne said, ‘because no apology could make up for what you’ve done.’

  Reuben said nothing. He glanced at Wayne. There was not the slightest mark on his face to signify what had happened. After all, it was over a month ago.

  ‘So you’re not going to talk to me at all now?’ Wayne said.

  Reuben was saved from replying, or not replying, by the children spying him from the pool.

  Indya waved frantically. ‘Hullo, Uncle Reuben!’ She swam to the edge and climbed out. ‘Mum, can I go and say hullo to Uncle Reuben?’

  Jo hauled herself and Brayden out of the pool, and opened the gate.

  ‘Don’t run, Indya!’

  Indya dashed across the tiled area to the deck. She had on a pink polka dot swimsuit and looked taller and longer-limbed than when he’d last seen her. She flung herself at him and wrapped her arms around his waist, dripping water all over his jeans and sandshoes. A lump rose in his throat. It was the first time she’d shown him any physical affection. So this was what it took for his niece to like him – a month in prison.

  Indya looked up at him. ‘Are you back from jail, Uncle Reuben?’

  ‘That’s a stupid question,’ her father said.

  ‘Wayne!’ Jo was approaching the deck with Brayden squirming in her arms.

  ‘I didn’t say she was stupid; I said the question was stupid.’

  Brayden wriggled out of Jo’s arms. The drawstring in his swimmers had come loose, and they hovered perilously close to full exposure. Following his sister’s lead, he raced over to Reuben and wrapped his chubby arms around his legs, bringing a fresh round of dripping water to his damp jeans.

  Indya shoved at him. ‘I got here first!’

  Brayden let forth a piercing howl.

  ‘Steady on,’ Reuben said, ‘you can share me. There’s plenty to go round.’

  Their enthusiasm, while touching, also made him feel awkward – it accentuated the fact he was there only under the sufferance of the rest of the family.

  ‘And yes,’ he said to Indya. ‘I am out of jail.’

  ‘Did the jailer have a big key hanging on his belt? And lock you in a cell?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Indya honey, I’m sure Uncle Reuben would rather not talk about it,’ Jo said.

  ‘By all means, tell us all about it,’ Wayne said. ‘True confessions of a reformed criminal. You could be in the next Underbelly series.’

  ‘Wayne, mate, I think you’ve said enough,’ Alec said.

  ‘No, I bloody well haven’t.’ Wayne looked at Reuben, his eyes narrowed to slits in his pouchy face. ‘You’re lucky I’m not the vindictive type, otherwise you’d be out cold on the floor right now instead of standing there with that smug look on your face.’

  He nodded to Alec. ‘Could you pass me another one, please?’

  Alec reached down into the esky at his feet and passed another bottle to Wayne. It was then that Reuben noticed it was ginger beer.

  ‘Uncle Reuben, are you taking the Barbiemobile home?’ Indya asked, her eyes imploring.

  Reuben smiled down at her. ‘No, Indya, you can keep it, I think it will be much happier at your place.’

  ‘Yippee!’ Indya yelled.

  ‘Ippee!’ Brayden echoed.

  Reuben looked across at Jo. A flicker of gratitude sparked in her eyes before she looked quickly away.

  ‘Anyway, I have to go,’ Reuben said. There was an awkward pause. ‘Goodbye, and thanks ... for everything.’

  Wayne opened his mouth, looked at Alec then closed it.

  ‘Bye, Uncle Reuben!’ Indya said. She gave him a wave and raced back towards the pool.

  ‘Bye!’ Brayden echoed, toddling after her. His swimmers lost their battle to stay up, exposing his pudgy white buttocks, but he kept on regardless. Undoubtedly neither of them was aware it was probably the last time they’d see him.

  Reuben went inside, heaviness in the pit of his stomach. He picked up his suitcases at the front door. Carlene appeared from the kitchen, holding a mug of coffee. What did you say at the end of a marriage? Words were too simple – and too complicated.

  ‘Bye,’ he said.

  ‘Bye,’ Carlene said. She nodded at the suitcases. ‘If I’ve missed anything, let me know.’

  She turned away quickly and walked out.

  As Reuben walked down the front path with his luggage, Jo came running around from the side of the house.

  ‘Reuben!’

  He stopped. She had a towe
l wrapped around her over her swimmers. Her damp hair hung over her face, partially obscuring it. Her cheeks reddened as she met his eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry about Wayne being so rude. He’s really angry at you.’

  Reuben shrugged. ‘I can’t blame him for that.’

  ‘Yes and no. What you did was wrong, but he was behaving so horribly that night that I realised how much of a problem he’s got. So I told him that if he didn’t give up drinking, I’d leave him. And take the kids. Of course he didn’t want to but he had no choice. We’re going to counselling too, which he doesn’t like. And he thinks it’s all your fault.’

  The counselling hadn’t made Wayne any less obnoxious. But maybe it was a matter of time. Reuben felt a pang of sympathy for her.

  ‘It’s okay. I really hope you two can sort things out.’

  She gave a tentative smile. ‘Thanks.’ She looked down at her feet. ‘And I’m sorry about the whole … you know ... paedophile thing. It’s just that being a mother, I’d kill anyone who laid a finger on...’

  ‘It’s all right, no hard feelings.’

  The cab driver beeped his horn. ‘Gotta go.’

  She darted forward and gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘Goodbye. I hope things work out for you too.’

  CHAPTER 32

  After consulting the accommodation list the clerk at Centrelink had given him and making a few phone calls, Reuben found a room in a boarding house at New Farm, not far from where Thommo had lived. It was an old Queenslander that had been converted into half a dozen bedrooms with a communal kitchen and bathroom. It smelt of stale cooking oil, sweaty socks and old men; but at $150 a week, it would do until he found something else.

  His room reminded him of his childhood bedroom. Faded floral wallpaper, single bed with chenille bedspread and an old wooden cupboard with the door ajar because there was no key to lock it. It was musty but clean.

  Hey Mum, I’ve blown it again. He saw her face before him, disappointment etched in the lines. The same look he’d seen countless times before. I really gave it a go – it’ll be different next time. She looked unconvinced. ‘Remember your number one rule,’ he told himself, ‘convince yourself before you try to convince someone else.’

  He dragged his luggage inside, closed the door and sank down onto the bed. Was there anything sadder and more pathetic than a single bed when your marriage had broken up? The only thing worse was a bunk in a prison cell. He opened the first suitcase and rummaged through his things. No Mandrake comics. Surely Carlene wouldn’t have thrown them out – she knew how valuable they were to him. Which was a good reason to do just that. She’d said she wasn’t vindictive, but most people were capable of spitefulness if pushed too far. He opened the other suitcase and scrabbled through the contents. Not there either. Fuck.

  He opened his backpack and pulled out a plastic bag. The comics were bundled neatly inside it. He slumped with relief. He opened the bag and rifled through them – they were all there. He slipped out the oldest comic – The Earthshaker, from 1943. It was his favourite comic as a child, a story full of giants and monsters, all of whom Mandrake subdued with his magic powers. The drawings were so detailed and lifelike they both fascinated and terrified him. One in particular, of a giant face staring through the window of a house, with Mandrake’s girlfriend Narda cowering inside, gave him nightmares for weeks. Every night when he went to bed he saw the giant’s eyes, huge and menacing, staring through his own bedroom window. It was strange to look at the face now and remember so vividly the terror he’d felt. When you were an adult, your giants just took a different form.

  The pages were soft, the images still as crisp as if they’d been drawn yesterday. The comic was almost as immaculate as when Albert had given it to him twenty-five years ago. Reuben had looked after it, had looked after them all like precious jewels. They were possibly quite valuable to a collector, but he hadn’t bothered to have them valued as he’d never once considered selling them, even when he was down to his last dollar.

  He slipped the comic back into the plastic bag and dug out his mobile phone from his backpack. As the battery had run flat while he was in prison, he plugged the phone into the power point beside his bed. Checking that he had his wallet, he left his room, locking the door behind him.

  Halfway down the narrow, dank hallway of the boarding-house, was a small coffee table. On it sat a phone, padlocked to the table, and two battered phone books; a White Pages and a Yellow Pages. They were for the use of the residents, with an honesty box for depositing the payment for your call. Strange that management had faith the residents would pay for their calls, but not that they wouldn’t steal the phone.

  Reuben picked up the White Pages. Pages here and there had been ripped out, but fortunately not the K’s. Reuben searched until he came to Kominsky. There was only one – V. Kominsky. Viktor, Ivan’s son, still at the same address at West End. Had Ivan gone to his death consumed with hatred for Reuben and Derek? He’d never know, had to live with not knowing. It was a fair bet that Viktor hadn’t forgiven him – he’d sat in the courtroom all through the hearing, his dark eyes fixed on Reuben, the loathing so intense Reuben could feel its heat from the dock.

  As he walked to the takeaway shop on the corner to buy dinner, he mulled things over in his mind. He knew what he had to do. Every inch of him was resisting it, but there was a force bigger than himself at work. The evening was darkening as he headed home with his hamburger and chips, and the sultriness of the night air clung to him. Two old codgers in shorts, t-shirts and thongs sat on the front step smoking roll-your-own cigarettes, their stick-thin legs stretched out in front of them.

  ‘Evening,’ they nodded. Reuben nodded back.

  ‘That smells pretty darn good,’ one said.

  ‘Dinner at your place, mate?’ the other said, and they both chuckled. As Reuben came through the front door of the boarding house a wave of mustiness swamped him.

  He went again to the table in the hallway and picked up the Yellow Pages. He looked up comics in the index and was directed to Books – Secondhand and Antiquarian. There was a comic shop on Adelaide Street in the city – ‘Comics Incorporated. We buy and sell new and old comics.’ They’d do for starters.

  His room was stuffy – there was no ventilation apart from a small window. He opened it as wide as it would go and sat on his bed to eat his dinner. The food didn’t live up to the promise of the aroma – the hamburger roll was stale and the chips were soggy. But it was better than jail food. Afterwards he checked his phone. There were three messages in his voicemail box. ‘Message received at eleven-twenty pm on thirty-first December,’ intoned the MessageBank voice.

  Thommo’s voice boomed in his ear.

  ‘G’day mate. Look, I’m sorry, but I’ve rung the cops in Brisbane and told them about’ – he’d lowered his voice to a dramatic whisper – ‘you know what. I had to, it was spoiling my New Year’s Eve sitting in the yacht club surrounded by all these hot Sydney chicks – networking, of course, they’re all in the movies – and all I could think about was whatshername getting blown up or you at the bottom of the river with cement shoes – do they do that in real life? Anyhow, as my father used to say, I hope one day you’ll thank me.’

  The next message was on January first at eleven twenty-five a.m. Thommo again.

  ‘G’day again. I guess wishing you a Happy New Year isn’t in order. I just rang your home number and spoke to your wife and she told me what happened. I couldn’t believe it at first – I picked you as a lover, not a fighter. Still, Wayne is a bit of a wanker. Anyway, at least you’re alive. Give me a ring when you get out. Hey, this might be just the thing your career needs. Didn’t do Russell Crowe any harm.’

  He’d phone Thommo tomorrow and thank him for trying to save his life, if he could be bothered picking up the phone in between drinking and networking.

  The third message was a familiar woman’s voice.

  ‘Reuben, it’s Posie.’ She gave a theatrical sigh. ‘You’re a na
ughty boy, getting yourself into trouble. Really, I don’t know what you were thinking of.’ She sighed again. ‘Anyhow, when you get out, give me a ring. Jonathan Huntley from Brightstar Films wants to talk to you about auditioning for a feature film. He saw you in the Becker ad and was impressed. Anyhow, hope you’re okay,’ she finished chirpily.

  Was that for real? Reuben pressed the button and replayed the message several times. A feature film. A giant step up from a TV ad. What did ‘a part’ mean? Could be another non-speaking part, maybe a promotion from bartender to waiter or cab driver. Don’t get too excited. It’s only an audition; you mightn’t get the part.

  But later as he sank into bed, heavy with weariness, the excited flutter in his chest kept him awake into the early hours.

  CHAPTER 33

  He called Posie as he strode down Adelaide Street, weaving his way through the morning peak hour crowds.

  ‘She’s in a meeting at the moment,’ the receptionist said aloofly, ‘I’ll give her your message.’

  For some reason he’d been expecting Comics Incorporated to be a small, dingy shop, overflowing with dusty piles of comics and manned by a just-as-dusty proprietor. But it was a large, airy, cheerful store, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stacked with neat piles of plastic-covered comics. In the middle was a table on which stood boxes of loose, unwrapped comics. A couple of teenage boys were flicking through them.

  ‘Can I help you?’ the attendant asked. He wore a name badge that said ‘Tim’ and was shortish and podgy, with dark hair falling over his forehead and chipmunk cheeks. He had one of those eternally youthful faces that made him look anywhere from twenty to forty. Much more appropriate for a comic shop than a dusty old man.

  Reuben took off his backpack, opened it and placed his plastic Myer bag of comics on the counter. ‘I want to sell these. How much will you give me?’

  Tim slid out the comics and studied them carefully, one by one. He whistled as he held up The Earthshaker.

  ‘This one is worth quite a bit – it’s not in mint condition but it’s still pretty good. The others aren’t worth as much but you’d still get a few dollars for them.’