River of Salt

by Warner, Dave;

  ‘It’s not I don’t want a job. People don’t hire us.’

  ‘My yardman is in hospital. I need somebody. You want the job? Edward looked anxious. ‘You run a pub. I’m not good with the grog. It messes me up.’

  ‘Well, stay off the grog.’ Blake told him the sorts of things Andy did for his wage. ‘I’ll pay you exactly the same as I pay him. Okay? Deal?’

  Edward found enough confidence to nod.

  ‘You can start tomorrow. We need to find you a place to sleep.’ Edward said he was fine sleeping under the stars and tapped his swag. ‘Got everything I need right here.’

  Blake was thinking that would be fine for a night or two. After that Edward could hire a caravan at the caravan park. He pointed out the Surf Shack sign, not illuminated because it was closed. Edward was impressed.

  ‘I never worked in a place like that before.’

  Blake felt bad dropping Edward at the river near where he and Nalder met but Edward was delighted.

  ‘I’ll pick you up at nine-thirty tomorrow, get you some clothes, show you the ropes. Okay?’

  Once again Edward seemed worried. Blake asked what was up.

  ‘How am I going to know when it’s nine-thirty?’

  Blake took the watch off his wrist and gave it to him. Edward’s jaw nearly hit the floor.

  ‘I won’t steal it, mate, I promise.’

  Blake told him he knew that. Edward was still thanking him as he drove away. In truth he wasn’t sure Edward would be there; he knew well enough that despite our intentions to change, sometimes we couldn’t, sometimes we are gripped in a current that takes us where it will. But he also knew that every man needed somebody who believed in him. Jimmy had believed in him and he had ultimately failed his brother. He would try and not let that ever happen again.

  ‘A fish tank? Where has he gone to get that?’

  Nalder had never been Doreen’s favourite person. Not just because he was a cop who strutted around like he owned the town, though that didn’t help. It was that he always turned up when she was busy and made a nuisance of himself. Here she was trying to get the bar and tables ready and Nalder was just hanging around at her elbow asking dumb questions. Still, she had to answer. She knew Blake must be paying him off, just not how much or what it covered.

  ‘There’s a guy in Greycliff. He made the last one.’

  ‘Those blokes never showed up again?’

  ‘No.’

  She was thinking it had been three weeks now since everything went pear-shaped: Andy getting bashed, that girl murdered, Crane arrested. She wrangled a table into position. Nalder didn’t offer to help, just used the toothpick he had taken from the little shot glass she had just set out, to work his mouth.

  ‘How’s business going?’

  ‘Last week was pretty much back to where we were before.’

  ‘People have short memories. Speaking of which, has Andy been able to remember anything? If he confirms those guys attacked him, I can do something official.’

  ‘His memory is coming back in dribs and drabs but hardly anything about that day.’

  ‘How much longer are they keeping him in?’

  Nalder was following her now as she went around to the back bar to make sure there were replacement bottles if any of the spirits were low.

  ‘He’ll be out any day.’

  Nalder speculated that the men who had attacked him had probably realised they’d overstepped the mark and done a runner. She stood on a milk crate and checked all the spirits, said she hoped so. In the mirror she saw Nalder sneaking a look at her legs but then quickly looked away as if that was out of bounds. His one redeeming feature was that he actually seemed to love his wife. She stepped down, the squeak of a trolley made them both turn. Edward had brought in two crates of small Cokes.

  ‘Where you want these, Miss?’

  ‘Just in the fridge there, Edward, thank you.’

  Nalder eyed Edward suspiciously. Edward averted his eyes from the cop, finished his job and got quickly out of there. In the meantime she’d been able to wipe down the jukebox.

  ‘What’s he thinking, employing an Abo?’ Nalder went to the fridge and helped himself to a Coke.

  ‘Edward is a good kid, hard worker.’ She started cracking coins from their cardboard cylinders, imagined with pleasure that the counter was Nalder’s scone.

  ‘People around here don’t like it.’

  ‘Blake doesn’t pay much attention to what people like or don’t like.’

  ‘So I’ve noticed but he doesn’t want to get people offside. Gannons employed that Abo and look what happened.’

  What happened was some arsehole hoon had been sitting on his car bonnet talking shit about Aborigines and flicked his butt right near the Aboriginal man’s feet. The man told the hoon to watch it. The hoon had asked if he was going to make him and, with a couple of lightning fists, the man had. He’d lost his job and wound up in jail.

  ‘Edward wouldn’t harm a fly.’

  ‘They’re different with drink in them.’

  ‘You know what’s funny? So are most men.’

  Nalder didn’t like her cheek, she could see him bristle. He took his time to finish his Coke.

  ‘I’m only looking out for him. Tell him to drop in when he’s back.’

  It was her turn to ask a question. ‘What’s happened to Crane?’

  ‘He’s still in remand. They won’t bail him. Your boss isn’t still thinking of heading up to Brisbane, is he?’

  ‘Thinking about it.’

  ‘Talk him out of it. He’s already wasting good money.’

  She’d said something similar but wouldn’t give Nalder the satisfaction of revealing that.

  ‘And I wouldn’t leave cash lying around.’ Nalder inclined his head to the door, intimating he was referring to Edward. She felt guilty that when Edward had started there she had raised the same concern to Blake, who had shrugged and said, ‘You don’t show a man trust, he will steal from you.’

  He said it in a way that told her he had come to this opinion from some personal experience. She would have liked to have the courage to ask about it but she didn’t. So many things I lack the courage for, she told herself. It was just too hard to risk losing the little joys you have for riches you might never get.

  Blake rang about an hour later to say he was going to spend the night in Greycliff.

  ‘The tank won’t be ready till tomorrow morning. I may as well spend the night here.’

  ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘The fella has a sofa in his shed. Or there’s the car.’

  ‘I’m going to see Andy later.’

  ‘Give him my best.’

  That wasn’t why she was mentioning it.

  ‘Every time I go out there he says he wants to come back to work. He can’t wait. What are you going to do? About …’

  She looked around, no sign of Edward, but she whispered anyway, ‘… Edward.’

  ‘I was thinking that I could pay both of them for a little while. I don’t want Andy trying to do too much. After that, maybe Eddy could work in the kitchen washing dishes and stuff.’

  She told him what Nalder had said about people not liking him being there and added, ‘I’ve heard people say a few things too.’ She had kept this from Nalder.

  ‘What kind of things?’

  ‘You know: “I don’t want to drink in an Abo bar”, shit like that.’

  ‘I thought I got away from those crazies and crackers. Why can’t a man ever just be treated as a man?’

  ‘You sound like that Negro preacher, King? And his civil-rights stuff.’

  ‘I don’t know him but if that’s what he says, I’m on his side. Edward has never done me wrong. I like him the same as Andy. Nalder and everybody else can get screwed.’

  There was nobody like Blake Saunders, or at least nobody she had ever met. The man made up his mind. He acted. He did. Others talked but never did a darn thing. She parked the Beetle in the hospital carpar
k, felt a pang that he was up there in Greycliff alone in some shed. It was a lovely day, the sun spread like butter with just the right amount of thickness. She smelled cigarette smoke, looked over and saw Peg, one of the nurses she’d come to know from her visits, leaning back against an old Holden, smoking. Peg was probably mid-thirties, piano legs, Scottish skin, always joking. She was in the late stages of pregnancy.

  ‘Beautiful day,’ Doreen offered.

  ‘I’m enjoying it while I can.’ Peg indicated her stomach.

  ‘It’ll be a joy.’ It was just one of those things you say.

  ‘You got kids?’

  She shouldn’t have felt embarrassed when someone asked but she always did. Before she could answer, Peg said, ‘No of course you haven’t. Not with a body like that.’ She didn’t say it in a nasty way, more like she admired Doreen. ‘I’ve got three. Believe me, I would have kept it that way but I was too late.’

  It was the first time Doreen had seen Peg anything but cheerful and it threw her. Peg flipped up her Rothmans for another cigarette but the pack was empty. She crumpled it and tossed it.

  ‘Have mine.’ Doreen opened her handbag and handed over a packet of Viscount.

  ‘I’ll just take a couple …’

  Doreen waved that off. ‘Please. You’ve been so good to Andy.’

  ‘He’s a nice kid.’ Peg pulled out a cigarette, offered Doreen one from what had been her packet but when Doreen shook her head, slipped the packet in her pocket. She lit up again, drew in deep. ‘Been a rough day today. Lost one of my favourite patients, Lilly. She was eighty-one, a trick.’

  And once again Doreen felt that her own life was slight, shallow. Even though her words sounded trite, she spoke them with genuine belief. ‘It’s important, what you do. What I do … show people to a dinner table, organise a dance contest …’ she sighed, not bothering to waste words on a pointless mission.

  ‘We should swap some day,’ smiled Peg.

  ‘We should.’

  ‘He’s in the garden in his favourite place.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Thanks for the cigs.’

  As Peg had indicated, Andy was sitting in a wicker chair in the sun in the little back garden of the hospital. Lately it had become his favourite place. This was the first time though he was out of his dressing gown and in real clothes. The bandage had gone from his head. He told Doreen as he ate the lamington she’d brought for him, that he just needed to build a bit more strength.

  ‘I can only walk for a little way and I have to sit down.’

  She reminded him he’d been nearly a month off his feet. She asked him about the day he had been attacked.

  ‘Nalder called into the Surf Shack and asked if you remember anything yet.’

  He pulled the cake away from his mouth and looked sad. She was sorry now she had troubled him with it.

  ‘No. Nothing, but I did remember something from that night Blake kept asking about.’

  ‘The night the girl was killed?’ She was on high alert. Andy had been the one important witness the police had never interviewed.

  ‘Yes. I was out the back just washing glasses and stuff. I saw Crane talk to her — the girl whose photo Blake showed me.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Yeah. Maybe she asked him for a light or something. I’m just starting to remember things in like, little flashes.’

  ‘How long did she talk to him?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just remember I saw the girl and Crane, and I think he gave her a light or she gave him one.’

  She asked if there was anybody else around at the time but he could not remember.

  ‘Will I still have my job when I get out of here?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Andy began fiddling with his hands, agitated. ‘I heard the boss has hired some Abo.’ Andy was looking at the ground where ants were crawling from a small pyramid of dirt. Word might ride a donkey not a freight train in Coral Shoals but it still travelled.

  ‘Blake promised you. You’ll get your job back.’

  She did not want to be the one to tell Edward he would have to go. Blake could do that himself.

  It was afternoon by the time he got back from Greycliff and installed the new tank. The clouds were low, purple and full of rain. The air pressed in on his chest. He was dead-ended on the Crane thing. The case file had arrived from Harvey and he flipped through it but didn’t find anything that stuck out. Crane was still in remand and Harvey said there was nothing more he could do for now. His only move from here would be to travel to Brisbane and make enquiries there but the boyfriend of Valerie Stokes had an alibi, and when Blake had telephoned him he had said he did not want to talk to him — the police had the killer and that was that. If that wasn’t bad enough, there was this shit about Edward. Coral Shoals might be beautiful on the outside but it seemed it wasn’t a million miles from Klan territory when you stirred the pond. Apart from the Mob guys hating President Kennedy, Blake knew shit-all about politics but he thought he’d be safe from it here.

  The sight of the ocean opened a valve, let off steam. He pulled in to his favourite spot, took a deep breath. No matter how bad things were going, no matter what you did wrong in your dumb life, the water and the salt healed it. Holding his board, he waded into the sea, let it melt him, make it one with itself. He surfed for just under an hour, would have kept going but the bar was open tonight. He was putting the board in the back of the ute when the unmistakable hue of Duck’s van materialised. Duck pulled in fast beside him.

  ‘You better get into town. Your black mate’s pissed and going to get himself arrested. I just saw him wobbling across the street shaking his fist at passing cars.’

  It didn’t take Blake long to find Edward. He was sitting in the sandpit of the kids playground on Archer Street sucking on a bottle of sherry. It was devoid of children or parents. Blake was hoping Edward hadn’t scared them off.

  ‘What’s going on, Edward?’

  Edward glared at him like he was going to throw the bottle at him. Then his face crumpled and he started crying.

  ‘I’m sorry, boss. I’m sorry.’

  Blake helped him up, dropped the bottle in the bin and eased him into the car. They drove to the caravan park in silence. There Blake put him to bed.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Edward,’ he said and pulled the door shut.

  It was just Doreen and him now. It had been a good night, good turnover, though people were still talking about the crazy psycho-killer who used to do poetry there. Despite everything, or maybe because of everything, the band had played well tonight. Like when he held a weapon, the guitar was an extension of his arm. Energy flowed through it into the world. Unlike with a gun, when he’d finished, nobody was lying dead.

  ‘You going to sack him?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You know why he …?’

  ‘He’s an alcoholic. They don’t need a reason, just a bottle.’ He asked her how Andy was doing.

  ‘Still worried about his job, asking about the fish.’

  Blake hadn’t been out there nearly enough. He would go tomorrow, buy him a few comics.

  ‘And something else. He’s remembering things.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘Maybe not for everybody.’ She told him about Crane and Val Stokes.

  ‘You going to tell Nalder?’ she asked.

  He told her it was probably better they said nothing to anybody about it.

  Next morning when he arrived at the Surf Shack after a surf and breakfast, Edward was hosing and sweeping. He couldn’t look Blake in the eye.

  ‘I’m sorry. The drink gets to me.’

  ‘Did anything happen? Anybody pick on you? What started it?’

  Edward shook his head, still looking at the ground. Finally he looked back up, right into Blake’s eyes.

  ‘Nobody to blame but me. I was laying on my bunk and I just started thinking about a drink. Like the devil put it in my brain. “It’s alr
ight, Eddy, it’s alright to think about it.” That’s what I tell myself, “It’s only thinking.” But I keep thinking. And then I start walking … And then I see a bottle all shiny and perfect and I think, “How can that little bottle be bad?”, like Eve and the apple, you know? And then I start drinking …’

  Blake said, ‘I’m not paying you for last night, seeing as you missed. You do it again, I won’t have a choice, I’ll fire you.’

  Edward nodded. ‘It won’t happen again.’

  Nalder looked up from the form guide; it was the races tomorrow and he liked to get in early. Constable Patrick Denham stood waiting, fists clenched, nervous. Nalder had been assiduous in making his juniors aware of his ill temper at being disturbed during lunch.

  ‘Yes, Constable.’

  ‘Sorry, Sergeant, but we have another one. Mr Bentley, he wants to speak with you.’

  Nalder made a show of slowly folding his newspaper before walking out to the front desk. Tim Bentley was the fourth resident of the Heights who had stood there this week looking exactly the same: annoyed, powerless.

  ‘What did they take?’

  ‘I’ve made a list. A radio, a lot of records …’

  Nalder took the list off him. He was pleased. Even though it was handwritten and he would have to type it, it would make the report easier. ‘Your golf clubs?’

  ‘Spaldings.’

  ‘Bastards.’ Nalder made a show of sitting down by the typewriter. ‘What’s your address again?’

  Bentley gave it and Nalder typed two-fingered.

  ‘How many others have been burgled? I know Tom Leonard got broken into.’

  ‘Took his TV. I think you’re the fourth. Were the doors and windows locked?’

  Bentley shuffled. ‘Women. Margaret went out to have her hair done, left the laundry door unlocked.’

  Nalder tut-tutted. Bentley threw his hands around.

  ‘She should have but … what’s the world coming to? Having to lock your door?’

  ‘I know, different times now.’ He methodically copied the list.