‘Of course I will,’ she replies. ‘I’m not useless.’ She grips the trolley and wheels it out of the shop.
‘Where’s your dog?’ Betty asks.
‘He’s at home, I hope,’ I say.
One wall of the shop is filled with shelves of fruit and vegetables. I remember Dad used to joke about how Frank never sold anything that wasn’t in a tin, a bottle or wrapped in plastic.
Betty notices me looking. ‘Twice a week, my husband goes to the Sydney markets at daybreak.’ She lowers her voice. ‘He’s asleep now.’
‘Is he Vietnamese?’
‘Nah, he’s Australian, just like me,’ Betty answers.
I blush. ‘I’m sorry, Betty, I meant …’
Betty smiles. ‘I was having a go, Luke,’ she says. ‘My husband’s parents were Vietnamese.’ She winks. ‘That’s why he’s so handsome.’
I buy a sausage roll for breakfast and wave to Betty from the doorway.
In Lurline Street, I spot a white Audi with the numberplate STOCKB parked under a tree in the car park near Altitude Cafe. I cross to the far side of the road and walk slowly past the cafe. Through the front window, I see Charlotte and her parents sitting at a table near the espresso machine.
I retreat to the park opposite the cafe, far enough away not to be seen. I keep staring at the Audi. It has to be Charlotte’s dad’s car.
I text Blake:
He answers almost immediately:
I watch two blokes dressed in jeans, checkered shirts and sneakers come out of the cafe and sit on stools on the footpath. They both have long beards. They look like bushrangers on vacation. I can smell their coffees from here.
A few minutes later, Blake rides down the street on his clunky bicycle. He’s wearing a backpack and carrying a small bucket in one hand. He sees me and steers over the gutter and into the park before leaning the bike against a tree.
‘Ready for action,’ Blake says.
He takes off his backpack, unzips it and pulls out a few rolled-up sheets of paper. He hands them to me.
The first one reads:
The second sheet reads:
‘You spelt “somebody” wrong, Blake.’
‘I was in a hurry.’
The third sheet of paper simply reads:
I can’t help but smile. ‘Are we going to stick these under his windscreen wipers?’
Blake shakes his head and holds up the bucket.
I look inside. The water is cloudy.
He pulls a squeegee out. ‘Remember I had a job last year putting up posters around town? Easiest money I ever made. Hold the paper, slap on some glue and walk away.’
‘He’ll go ballistic,’ I say.
‘It’ll take him all day to get this shit off,’ Blake says. ‘Enough time to think about what he does.’
The two bushrangers get up from their stools and walk down the street. A waitress comes out of the cafe and collects their cups, before wiping the table. She glances across to the park and barely registers our presence. We don’t look like her regular customers.
‘I’ll hold the paper. You slop,’ Blake says.
I hesitate. ‘I don’t know.’
Blake places the bucket at my feet. ‘It’s now or never.’
Inside the cafe, a waiter is serving Charlotte’s family plates of food. That’ll keep them occupied.
I nod agreement and pick up the bucket. Blake and I hurry across to the car park, past the lesser vehicles and into the corner where the Audi is parked.
‘What if it’s got an alarm?’ I say.
‘Then we run like hell.’
He places a sheet of paper on the roof. I dip the squeegee into the bucket and slop the glue across the paper and the shining metal. Blake rubs his hand along the paper to stick it firmly onto the roof. Then he puts the misspelt sheet against the driver’s door.
‘He can’t miss this,’ Blake says.
I slop quickly. The glue drips on my jeans and runs down to my shoes.
‘Try and get some on the car, mate,’ Blake laughs. He takes the last sheet and turns it facedown on the centre of the windscreen. ‘On the way home, the dickhead can read all about himself.’
I put glue on the paper and Blake smooths it down. He steps back to admire our handiwork. Globules glisten on the metal.
‘We deserve an award,’ he says, before reading from the sheet stuck to the door. ‘Somebody knows what you do.’
Blake’s words send a shiver down my spine. I just want to be gone. My hands are shaking. The words on that sheet of paper give it away. I think about the women in the podcast. This could send Charlotte’s dad right over the edge.
How could we be so stupid?
I reach for the sheet on the roof and try to prise it free.
Blake grabs my hand. ‘What the hell?’
‘What if he blames Charlotte for telling someone?’ I say. ‘I won’t be around to protect her.’
‘He won’t,’ Blake answers. But I can see it in his eyes; we hadn’t thought of that. He glances towards the cafe, as if the answer is inside those walls.
It is.
Blake lets go of my hand. I tear the sheet from the roof.
‘Are you sure?’ he says.
I lean down to the driver’s door and rip that paper away too. It only comes half off, leaving the words what you attached. Good enough. Blake rips the paper from the windscreen. Our hands are full of paper scraps and sloppy glue. We run to the tap behind the cafe and wash the muck from our hands. The paper disintegrates into soggy balls and we toss the pieces into the garden. I pick up the bucket and stride across the road.
I hear a click behind me and turn around as Blake puts his phone into his pocket.
‘I wanted to get a photo of the glued-up Audi.’ He grins.
‘Don’t post it on Facebook.’
He grabs his bike and holds out his hand. We shake.
‘At least we glue-bombed the Audi,’ he says. ‘That’ll cost him a packet to clean.’
‘Yeah,’ I answer.
I don’t know what else to say. We’ve achieved nothing. I feel sick to my stomach.
Blake grabs the bucket and cruises off down Lurline Street.
On the way home, I see Mrs Grady arriving from work. The boat is missing from her front yard.
‘Do you ever get a weekend off?’ I ask, indicating her uniform.
‘I ask for this shift,’ she says. ‘So John can be alone with his boat. I get seasick.’
‘Does he know?’
‘He suspects,’ she answers. ‘First time I went out there was a raging southerly. I kept it down.’ She laughs to herself. ‘As a nurse, I’m expected to have a strong stomach.’
‘But only on dry land,’ I add.
‘How’s your mum?’
‘Good, I think.’ No-one ever asks me about Mum.
‘I’ll drop some fish over tonight, if John gets lucky,’ she says, before turning and walking inside.
15
On Monday, I wonder if Charlotte will ever speak to me again. She stands behind me, waiting to file into English. I turn around and smile at her. She looks straight through me.
Inside, Ms Childs lists her three favourite novels on the whiteboard:
The class has a long debate on the value of fiction.
Someone says they’d rather watch the film version than read the novel. Everyone agrees, except me and Charlotte.
‘Do you prefer books, Charlotte?’ Ms Child asks.
Charlotte shrugs. ‘It’s all just fantasy,’ she says, ‘a pack of lies.’
‘That’s a little bleak,’ Ms Childs answers.
‘Whatever happens in a book or a film,’ Charlotte says, ‘is not what happens in real life.’
Ms Childs walks back to her desk and leans against it. ‘Doe
s anyone agree?’ she asks.
Everyone in class raises their hand, except me. Ms Childs smiles.
‘You disagree, Luke.’
I don’t take the bait.
‘Please?’ Ms Childs prompts.
I take a deep breath. ‘Just because it doesn’t happen, doesn’t mean it couldn’t happen.’
‘Bullshit,’ Charlotte says. She turns in her seat. ‘What would you know?’ The colour rises in her cheeks.
‘Charlotte,’ Ms Childs says, ‘can we keep the debate civil, please?’
She slumps in her chair.
Ms Childs walks to the whiteboard and points to the three novels.
‘I’d like you to read one of these books before the end of next week,’ Ms Childs says. ‘And write a short story on family life, either inspired by the book or by your own family.’
A collective groan escapes from the class. The bell rings and I wait for Charlotte to leave the room before me. Just in case she’s still angry.
I know she’s still angry.
She’ll always be angry as long as her dad’s around.
I shiver.
Charlotte is waiting at the bottom of the stairs. I cross to the far side.
‘Did you glue my father’s car?’
I shake my head. Better to deny everything. ‘Maybe he’s got lots of enemies,’ I answer.
‘Bullshit,’ Charlotte says. ‘Mum rang a contract cleaner. He came around and washed the crap off. Mum took care of it so Dad wouldn’t get too angry.’
‘Something had to be done,’ I say.
‘And chucking glue is your best idea?’ She sneers and walks away.
I follow her. At least she’s talking to me now.
‘Charlotte,’ I plead.
She turns.
‘It’s my problem. I’ll solve it,’ she says.
I shiver again. ‘Please, let me help.’
She walks into the female toilets.
Charlotte ignores me for the rest of the day. The rest of the week.
On Friday afternoon, I walk home the long way, past the police station. I sit on a fence opposite, staring at the police car parked outside and at the double doors of the station entrance. Do I have the guts to go in and tell them what I know before Charlotte does something she’ll regret? Who will I be helping? Charlotte’s mum? Charlotte? Or her father from falling off his bike and breaking all his bones?
I reach into my pocket and take out a twenty cent coin. Tails, I go in. Heads, I let it be.
I toss the coin, catch it mid-air and flip it on my wrist.
Tails.
Shit.
Best out of three.
I toss the coin high and snatch at it as it falls. It bounces off my knuckles and rolls into the gutter. I stand and walk to pick it up.
Tails again.
That one doesn’t count. I have to catch the coin.
I toss again.
Shit.
I stuff the coin back into my pocket and cross the road. The doors open as I approach.
A man in his early thirties with a moustache and thinning hair stands at the counter. On his shirt is a badge: Snr Constable Drew.
‘I want to report something,’ I say. I look around the front office. It’s just me and the copper.
‘Something?’ He fiddles with a pen on the counter.
‘A domestic violence thing.’
The copper puts down the pen. ‘Can you be more specific, son?’
‘This bloke beats his wife.’
‘Which bloke?’
Do I say his name? Just like that?
‘Is it your father?’ he asks.
I shake my head.
‘Your mum’s boyfriend?’
‘The father of a friend of mine.’
The copper sighs. He looks back into the office, as if to check for backup. Does he need help to ask a few questions?
‘Have you witnessed an incident?’ he asks.
I shake my head, again. ‘She told me.’
I wish this bloke would stop looking at me. It’s starting to give me the creeps.
‘Listen to me, son,’ he says, leaning on the counter. ‘This is very important. You need to get your friend to come in here and file a complaint. We can’t act on hearsay. We can’t act on what one kid who’s not in the family says. Understand?’
I nod.
‘It’s not that I don’t believe you, but we need a statement from somebody who’s seen it happen. Then we can act. I promise you, we’ll act. We’ll issue an Apprehended Violence Order where the man has to stay away from the family. Just get your friend to come in here. Okay?’
I sigh. Just as I expected.
‘Can you do that?’ he asks.
‘I’ll try,’ I lie.
Charlotte won’t listen to me. I’m wasting this bloke’s time.
‘I can arrange a female officer to interview your friend, if she’d prefer,’ he adds.
I turn to walk away.
‘I’ll be here tomorrow,’ he says.
I wave from the door. Something in his body language tells me he knows I won’t be back.
On the way home, I pass Mr Rosetti’s house. He’s on his knees in the garden. When he sees me, he waves and struggles to his feet.
‘Wait there, Luke,’ he says, walking to his front door. He grips the doorknob, before remembering he hasn’t sworn. He shouts, ‘Bastardo’ across the garden.
He goes inside for a minute and returns with a foil-wrapped package. He walks down the path, unable to contain his glee.
‘Bastardo gives plums, gets cake in return.’ He offers me the package.
I hold it up. ‘Thanks, Mr Rosetti.’
He waits.
No insult?
I try to be inventive.
‘Faccia, bastardo,’ I say.
‘Bravo!’ He smiles.
I begin to walk away.
‘Hey, Luke,’ he says.
‘Yeah?’
‘You’re a good adolescente.’
16
On Saturday morning, I walk past Buster’s house. No-one home except my favourite dog. I open the gate and we head into town, hoping Blake’s at the basketball court.
I hear a car horn sound behind me. Mum’s Mazda pulls over to the gutter. She leans across the seat and winds the window down.
‘Can I give you a lift?’ she says. She doesn’t ask where I’m going.
‘Nah, thanks, Mum,’ I say. ‘I’m allergic to the Mazda.’
Buster licks my hand.
‘You got a new friend,’ Mum says.
Buster makes himself welcome by cocking his leg on the front tyre.
‘He’s not a great improvement on Blake, is he?’ Mum smiles.
Buster whines and sniffs for other places to pee.
‘Anything particular you want at the supermarket?’ Mum asks.
‘You’re shopping?’
‘We’re out of toilet paper and dishcloths,’ she says.
I hold up four fingers. ‘Mangoes. Chocolate. Steak. And a kilo of prawns.’
‘Maybe I should get a few tins of dog food, while I’m at it,’ she says.
‘Sure. Just don’t get the dog food mixed up with the steak when you’re cooking.’
‘Cheeky bastard,’ Mum says and pulls away from the kerb.
Blake’s not at the court. When I text him, he replies with a selfie of him and Hayley at the reservoir. They’re standing on a log, wearing swimmers. Hayley’s leaning out over the water, holding onto Blake’s hand. His face fills half the shot, grinning.
Buster and I walk down the hill from the court and follow Cliff Drive around the ridge line past Cahill’s Lookout. A flock of black cockatoos squawks overhead and sends Buster into delirium. He’s so i
nvolved in chasing them that he almost runs in front of a BMW. The driver, a man wearing an apricot-coloured sports shirt, winds down the window.
‘That dog should be on a leash,’ he calls.
I’m about to reply when he drives away, shaking his head. They’re a welcoming bunch this side of the highway.
Buster and I end up sitting opposite Charlotte’s house. I wrap my arms around his neck in case he wants to chase stray birds or BMW drivers. I’m trying to work up the courage to text Charlotte. What would I say: There are two strays outside your front gate. Do you want to come with us to the police station?
She’d ignore it.
I look up from my phone as the sparkling clean Audi nudges out of the driveway. I instinctively drop my head and attempt to hide behind Buster. He licks my face as if it’s a game. Charlotte’s dad is behind the wheel and her mum is in the passenger seat. The Audi cruises past. Charlotte is sitting in the back seat. Luckily, she’s facing the other way.
I feel like a stalker.
I get up to leave, but suddenly have a mad impulse.
I look up and down the street. No-one is around. I creep up the driveway.
It’s crazy, but I keep thinking if I can see Charlotte’s bedroom, I’ll be able to sense what she’s planning. And maybe I can leave her a note among the calming colours of Mondrian.
Buster makes himself at home in the azaleas while I run around the back and try the kitchen door.
Locked. Of course.
I step back into the garden. The window to Charlotte’s room is open, just a fraction. I look around for something to climb. Along the side fence is a garden shed. I push open the wooden door. An aluminium ladder leans against the far wall. I take it out of the shed and spend longer than necessary extending it to reach the gutter.
Buster barks. He wants in on the burglary.
‘Ssshhh!’
He cocks his leg on a camellia bush.
I struggle up to Charlotte’s window and slide it open. It takes a while to prise the screen loose but then I tumble inside. I replace the screen and stand at the window, surveying her room.
I walk to the desk: a scatter of pens and paper, a laughing Buddha head made of heavy brass and a case for reading glasses. Charlotte wears glasses? A blue plastic water bottle is half-full on a Mondrian-patterned coaster. I pick it up, unscrew the top and take a long, slow swig. The room smells of flowers.
The Bogan Mondrian Page 10