True West

by David Whish-Wilson

  How she’ d waited for Jack Southern when he volunteered

  for Vietnam in ’68 – his training up in Queensland and then his twelve-month tour with the 3 RAR. A month back in

  Geraldton before training with the SAS, and then the second tour. She waited nearly three years and wrote to him and sent him pictures. Twenty years old when Lee was born. Then

  everything went wrong after Lee’s birth. A kind of sadness

  came over her that she couldn’t shake. Was a bad mother.

  Left Lee in his filth. Stopped looking after herself, too. Didn’t understand what Lee’s father was about, with his veteran

  friends and their weekends in the desert. Lacked political

  consciousness. Lacked ambition. Respect, and self-respect.

  Drank cheap goon wine from sun-up. Then one day Lee’s

  father came home from work at the panelbeaters and she was

  gone. No note. Nothing packed. Just gone.

  There was nothing of his mother left in their house except a few paperbacks. Lee found them by accident in a bag of fishing gear. He knew that they were hers because she’ d written her name on the front cover in red pen. Heinlein’s Stranger in a Strange Land. Dick’s Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?

  Ursula K. Le Guin’s City of Il usions. He read and reread them countless times, trying to get a picture of what kind of woman she was. The Ursula K. Le Guin novel was a library book, and when Lee was fourteen he went to the Geraldton library and

  asked the librarian, an old woman with sharp eyes, if she

  remembered his mother. Despite the decade that’ d passed

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  since her disappearance, the librarian did remember because they’ d often chatted when Lee’s father was away. She seemed lonely, the old woman told him. She liked science fiction but also writers like Jack Kerouac and Kurt Vonnegut. Thomas

  Pynchon. Hermann Hesse. Richard Brautigan. Iris Murdoch.

  Then, on the librarian’s recommendation: Simone de Beauvoir, Sylvia Plath, Maya Angelou, Doris Lessing – all ordered from Perth libraries. Lee wrote the names down as fast as the

  librarian recited them before she took the page and corrected his spelling. He spent the next year reading everything his mother had read, but in secret, because he didn’t want his

  father to know. Lee’s father wouldn’t have allowed any of the books in the house, seeing them as distractions from the ten or so books that he pored over and asked Lee to read to him.

  Lee looked over the dark moonscape of the rock and the

  quiet desert woodland and the moon rising over the horizon.

  It was like he was on another planet. He lit a cigarette and felt the weight of the dome of rock that was mostly hidden

  beneath the red dirt like an iceberg in the ocean, and he on the top of it, and he saw precisely the shape of the rock beneath the ground. From his position, the forest appeared thick to the horizon, when in fact the ancient quondong, sandalwood

  and mallee trees were spaced like they’ d been planted by a careful gardener. This was an ancient land that was patient during the day under the sun that had weathered the rocks

  and shaped the trees that were spindly and tough. Where the apex predators were dark-skinned reptiles and dark-feathered eagles that had lived since the time of the dinosaurs, so that 77

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  Lee felt like a pale hologram placed temporarily in the world.

  Even so, the blush of love he felt for the land flooded his heart with a purity of understanding and appreciation. He felt the same swelling of love for his father who’ d placed him there for the very purpose.

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  7.

  Lee struck out at the touch on his forehead, rolling before he was awake. He hit the wall on the other side of the bed. He blinked, his heart racing, the room dark. He crawled over the sheets and flicked on the lamp. It was Francesca, kneeling and rocking while holding her head. He knew what he’ d done, and touched her shoulder, which was the wrong thing to do. She

  flinched, and struck out herself.

  ‘Get away from me, psycho.’ She sat on her haunches and held the side of her face. ‘I was just going to take your temperature.

  You’ d thrown off all the blankets. You were thrashing about, grinding your teeth. I thought you might’ve got an infection.’

  Lee dropped his legs over the mattress, looked into her eyes.

  ‘Sorry. I got a habit of doing that. My father wakes me with the point of his foot.’

  Frankie dabbed at her temple and looked at her fingers.

  There was no blood. ‘You threw me into the wal . While you

  were asleep. Your eyes were closed.’

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  Lee didn’t answer. She offered him her hand, and he drew

  her up. There wasn’t much space between the bed and the wal and she smelled of soap and sweat. He let go of her hand, and backed up so that she could move. She was dressed in a white singlet and green scrub pants.

  ‘Thanks for checking in on me.’

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  Frankie looked at her watch, then at Lee. ‘Come with me

  for a sec.’

  He followed her through the empty house and into her

  room. She sat on her bed and patted beside her. On the bedside table was a saucer, a syringe and a glass of water.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A little painkiller to see you through.’

  She drew out a small paper packet from beneath her pillow.

  ‘I’m good,’ he said, but didn’t leave.

  She tapped out a mound of powder onto the saucer, refolded

  the packet and drew up some water from the glass with the

  syringe, which she dribbled into the powder. ‘Don’t worry, this is a fresh work. I’m a nurse and I don’t share. See enough hep cases every day. You want to avoid those interferon treatments if you can.’

  She took out the plunger nub of the syringe and mixed the

  water until the powder dissolved. Removed a cigarette from

  her packet and broke off a filter, then split it in half with her thumbnail. She dropped the filter into the saucer and replaced the plunger into the syringe. She drew up the liquid and tapped 80

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  it, gave a little squirt and tapped it again.

  ‘I said sit down.’

  There was a darkening bruise on her temple where he’ d

  struck her, and he sat. It didn’t take long for her to find a vein in the crux of his arm. She drew back blood and sent

  the plunger home. She removed the needle and placed some

  tissue over the little thorn of blood.

  It was more of the same; that sweet body warmth but coming

  on fast. He felt himself sink into the bed as his muscles relaxed, even though he felt lighter than air.

  ‘Thanks,’ he grunted.

  She glanced at her watch again and then there was a look

  in her eye. She stared at him and her toughness was gone,

  replaced by a wistful concern, or was it guilt?

  ‘What?’ he asked, but she shook her head.

  They both heard the throaty reverberation of a V8 in the

  street, trembling the windowpane as it pulled into the drive.

  Frankie gathered up the makings and swept them into the

  drawer. She stood and left him alone in the room. He tried to stand but his feet were moulded to the floor. There were boot-steps on the front porch and the screen slammed open. Lee

  watched four men in donkey jackets wearing balaclavas pass

  down the hal . Kinslow entered and saw him.

  ‘He’s in here,’ was all he said. Took a step into the room and launched an underhand right into Lee’s gut. Put two hands

  on Lee’s shoulders and fixed a boot on his groin, holding

  him down. Lee tried to shrug t
he hands off but the four men 81

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  swarmed him. One of them lifted up a dark sack and slung it over his head. That smell of ether again. He remembered the look in Frankie’s eyes and knew.

  *

  The smack in Lee’s blood helped. He didn’t know how long

  he’ d sat in the chair, his hands bound. Through the heavy

  black cotton he could see light above his head and the room smelled of dust and he understood that he was in a cel ar

  cut into substrate limestone. He remembered snatches of

  consciousness before he was dragged down into the cel ar.

  The smell of jasmine blossoms in the yard, and Brasso inside the house that echoed with boot-steps.

  The floor beneath his bare feet was unpolished concrete

  slab. There was no sound of traffic and no noise except for the boot-steps on floorboards above his head, and then the

  creaking of a door opening and men walking down wooden

  stairs.

  The room wasn’t big. The sound of their moving around him

  was close, and their smel s were strong. Old Spice deodorant, oil and wet wool. He didn’t remember rain. The smell of stale tobacco.

  There were several other men in the room but nobody

  spoke and they’ d ceased moving. Lee wasn’t going to speak.

  The obvious scenario was that Kinslow planned to hand him

  over to the Knights, for guns or money. If so, he’ d soon be in the boot of a car headed north to Geraldton, to be buried in a shallow grave alongside his father.

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  The men’s silence was odd, and he imagined how he must

  look to them, sacked, bound and barefoot, awaiting his end.

  Then new footsteps on the stairs, hesitant and uneven,

  the creaking sound of weight on a balustrade. A thin sound

  preceding the footsteps, a walking stick.

  It was the same hesitant step that he remembered from the

  motel room, when he was last bound to a chair. It was the old man. As soon as the shuffling stopped before him, Lee spoke.

  ‘You again.’

  This gave the old man pause, because he stopped moving

  and said nothing.

  ‘You going to take this sack off my head? I’ve seen how you run your outfit. It’s a bit embarrassing, isn’t it?’

  The old man laughed, but didn’t reply.

  ‘I told you I don’t know my father’s weapons guy, and there’s nothing I can do to help.’

  ‘Oh, but there is, boy, there is.’

  The old man’s voice, calm and assured, used to being listened to. He tapped his cane on the ground, waited. ‘We could hand you over to your father’s remnant party. They’ve put word out that they’ll pay well for you. But that isn’t my style. You have value to us. Potential y.’

  Lee waited. The silence was designed to draw it out of him, but he resisted. Final y, the old man spoke. ‘Don’t you have any questions?’

  ‘My father told me about people like you. Toy soldiers and

  fantasists.’

  ‘You’ve never had to think for yourself, have you?’

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  Lee kept quiet. It was true.

  ‘In fact, we are, most of us, ex-soldiers,’ the old man said.

  ‘What we believe, we learned the hard way. That the yellow

  man is no lesser a creature than the white man except for the fact that he has a higher toleration for slavery. For following the herd. The yellow man desires everything to be harmonious and will tolerate things that no white man can tolerate. But restless and rebellious and easily bored with harmony are we.’

  ‘I don’t mind hearing your lecture, mister, but I feel like a dickhead talking through this sack.’

  The old man chortled again. ‘You are a case in point, young man, but I’m afraid that removing the impediment isn’t

  possible. Nor will you ever see my face. We don’t operate like that. Please don’t think of yourself as a prisoner or a penitent in a hood, but rather as a falcon whose eyes have been covered prior to a hunting expedition.’

  ‘Let me guess, you’re a big-wheel businessman.’

  There was an awkward silence, a scraping of boots. Lee

  could almost see the old man shake his head as another of

  them raised his fists.

  ‘I am not like your father, that is true. We differ in important ways. He is essential y a survivalist, but we don’t believe that the end will come suddenly. There will be no invasion. What we’ll see is more of the same. The racial dilution of white nations. A slow genocide, but a genocide all the same. We seek to intervene now, where we can, and bring about our cultural renaissance.’

  ‘Where am I?’

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  The old man sighed. ‘I’m not going to bargain with you,

  Lee, or waste any further time. I’m going to give you a choice that sounds like an ultimatum. You are precisely what we’re looking for. We are under surveil ance and our broader

  organisations have been infiltrated by state actors. You wil have nothing to do with Kinslow’s thugs or their antics. You will not participate in any of their actions or attend any rallies.

  You will receive orders and report to me alone, by way of a trusted intermediary. You are trained for warfare and you’re a cleanskin as far as ASIO is concerned. You’ve shown your

  courage and training. But, and I advise you to answer honestly, have you ever killed a man?’

  He was serious. His voice in Lee’s ear now. The smell of

  sherry on his breath. Cologne on his clothes.

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘Have you ever seen a dead man, taken violently?’

  Lee’s training and common sense required him to answer

  no, but he was tired and wanted this charade to end. The truth, then. ‘Yes, I have.’

  The image of Emma’s cousin, David, hanging from the

  winch of the prawn trawler, two fingers of one hand trapped inside the noose. The bulging eyes and purple tongue, face

  the colour of blood. For six hours David had hung there. The coroner ruled suicide but it was no suicide and everyone in town knew. Including Emma, the reason she’ d left him, and

  Geraldton behind.

  ‘You’re still a boy, but I can see in you the proud white man you’ll become. I want to apologise for the beatings that you’ve 85

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  suffered in the course of your journey to this place, and this point in time.’

  ‘What if I say no?’

  ‘What, indeed? We need funds to pursue our ambitions in

  ways legal and extrajudicial. You are worth something to the Knights’ leadership. You will be handed over to them, as they have asked, dead or alive.’

  As though to emphasise his point, Lee heard the unmistak-

  able click of a round being chambered into a handgun.

  ‘But I don’t think that you’ll say no. Not when you hear what I have to say. I think you’ll be most eager to work with us.’

  ‘Say it then.’

  ‘Your father. He isn’t dead. Far from it – he is alive and wel , even if … inaccessible. And before you ask how this might be proven, I will tell you that we can prove it. He is in custody, in a secure facility. He has been charged with a minor drug offence, but he’s also in witness protection.’

  It took a few second for that to sink in. ‘You’re lying. My father’s no dog. And there hasn’t been anything in the papers.

  He vanished after Brady Downs’ murder. Downs’ brother

  killed him. He wouldn’t just leave me –’

  ‘All in good time, Lee. Now, what is your decision?’

  The old man stepped away. Another man, wearing boots,

  stepped into his place. Lee could smell the gun oil. Feel the cold black ey
e of the pistol barrel trained on his spine, where his neck entered his skul . Quick, painless and near bloodless.

  The words he had learned, and that he dearly believed.

  The only free man is the man who doesn’t care.

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  But he nodded, and his head was gripped, and then the

  smell of ether.

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  8.

  It was the pain in his head that awoke him, and the glass

  of water someone tossed onto his face. Lee focused on the

  plasterwork around the ceiling. Little curlicues of flowers and vine, painted white.

  It hurt to raise his neck. His skull felt like it’ d been scoured out with steel wool. His eyes burned.

  It was Robbie, standing above him. ‘Get dressed, Lee. I’m

  riding with you today. Kinslow said it. Your face like it is, working on your own, you’ll scare the punters.’

  Robbie left the room, dressed in his True West Towing

  service uniform of shirt, trousers and boots. Was he one of the silent men last night in the old man’s cel ar? Lee didn’t think so. There had been something unnatural about their silence

  throughout. Like the old man said: military trained.

  There was a pot of filtered coffee on the heating element in the kitchen. Lee had slept in his jeans. Someone had taken

  off his shirt. He looked about the house for Frankie, but

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  she wasn’t there. Instead, Robbie was in her room, looking

  through her laundry basket, running his fingers through her silken knickers. Their eyes met and Robbie laughed, held the knickers up to his nose and took a long noisy sniff.

  Lee went to the kitchen and drank his coffee. There were no painkillers in the house that he could find. He dressed in his room, looking at his face, wincing every time he turned his neck. That pulpy look around his cheekbones and mouth was

  fading, although his nose and eyes were still blackened.

  Robbie was snorting a line of speed off the formica kitchen table. He held up the rolled ten-dol ar note, and Lee shook his head.

  ‘I took you for a goey-man,’ Robbie said, ‘intense as you are.

  Suit yourself. I like to get primed for the road. Let’s go.’

  Lee’s truck was parked in the drive. There were True West

  Towing decals on the front and rear windows, and magnetic