by Peter Ness
Of course, that’s not their real names; all of the towns in this story refer to real places but I’ve just given them more interesting and appealing names than the boring ones they already have. Plus, I’ve been a little innovative with their descriptions and landmarks. Exaggerated a little? Well, maybe that too. Pull out a map. Which town is which? Treat it as a dare.
The long shape of Justanava Island protected the bay from the ravages of the Southern Ocean. The smooth white beach curled back around past the city center, highlighted by a wooden jetty. The sand abruptly ended near the Yacht Club which was squished in between the silos abutting a long nosed protruding wharf a kilometer or so further around from the city center. The reflection of the white Gulapinga Point light house danced off the rocks on the other side of the wheat and barley loading docks to the far right. The sun shimmered off the white water trailing a small ten meter skiff heading out past the lighthouse in the far distance. A dim shadow of a large solid man sat with his back to shore.
Taking his eyes off the road fleetingly, the driver studied the small white caps ebbing against the rocks. He steadied the steering wheel with his elbows. It was hard to avoid the drunken cockatoos flapping across the road at bonnet level.
‘Ah, only a kilometer or so to go now,’ he muttered under his breath.
The truck jerked as Ashton Hani hit the brakes slightly, dropping back a gear. Groaning now it rumbled down the long, slow, gently winding descent. An aimless cockatoo which came too close bounced with a thud off the window, landing, rolling on the road.
‘Hey, asshole — watch out where you’re going!’ spat Ashton Hani, waving the back of his hairy hand at the bird. After all, it wasn’t his fault the bird got in the way.
‘You! You’re the asshole!’ the bird quipped back after picking itself up and fluffing its feathers to brush off the dirt and grit. It stood up groggily and flapped along the edge of the road to look for seconds to eat. The truck roared, dropping back another gear. Now, Ashton navigated the fully laden truck down the final descent, then grinding it down the hill around the flat towards the long corner past the pub and then down the main drag. Flicking a glance to his left he spied the wooden jetty through a scant gap between buildings. Sometime later, the truck brakes screamed as it headed into the round-about — police station to its left, the local café on its right — at seemingly break-neck speed.
‘Look out for the kids!’ the passenger, Jesse Hani, exclaimed lifting an enormous hairy arm over his face, while grabbing the door with his spare hand, expecting the worst.
‘Jo! Watch out!’ I scream, clutching frantically for her arm, dragging her back out of harm’s way just in the nick of time as the truck rumbles past. Bouncing through the round-about it misses us both by a whisker. Birds flap in the air. Panicked, our hearts stop beating.
‘Look out you moron!’ Fran hurls abuse at the driver, middle finger up now.
‘Kids? Where? Oh! With the hot bikini girl. Just missed them. A bit of luck that, hey what?’ Ashton responded with a nervous laugh. ‘Ten points?’ He held up his hand. It was duly ignored. Deep culverts formed in the brow of the big man, Jesse. The truck slowly rolled on, groaning past the police station to their left.
‘If the cops give you a Breathalyzer—. Why the hell did I let you drive?’
Now, the truck laden with wheat wandered past the city center down towards the Yacht Club. Then it went about the business of unloading its grain at the pier. The men were delivering their wheat to the city silo because the local country silos were all full. After tying the tarpaulin down again the two men, the budding drunk and the Neanderthal, clambered back into the cabin. Ashton Hani thrust the truck into gear with a crunch. They jerked back out into oncoming traffic. Sliding into the next gear the truck idled down the road, vibrating and shaking on the tarmac.
Smiling, Ashton fumbled on the dashboard one-handed for his bottle of plonk. It slid out of his hand, landing with a dull thud onto the floor. He flicked the bottle away from below the brake pedal using the side of his boot. The bottle skittled across, landing on Jesse’s foot. Out of the corner of his eye Ashton caught a blurred unshaven red-brown stubble growth bend down to pick the bottle up. The bottle was thrust roughly behind the seat.
‘You really need to shave Jesse,’ Ashton grunted at his younger brother, the gigantic Neanderthal man sitting next to him. ‘Can you do your hair and leave your floppy hat in the truck when we go into the café? You’ll never get a woman looking like that.’ The Neanderthal did shave occasionally, about once every two to three weeks.
The empty truck bounced, it’s now loose springs creaking with relief. Tail gate clattering, it weaved back down the lingering hill. Jesse heaved a sigh of relief and leant back, yawning. Well, at least they were still alive and Ashton hadn’t killed anyone — yet.
Glaring disapprovingly back at his brother, Jesse flipped his dirty green-brown wide-brimmed ex-army hat onto the dashboard using a solitary finger. Ashton groaned, shaking his head in dismay. The overly small grey coveralls, with broken studs, and frayed holes in the kneecaps and arms defined his brother. Was there no hope for him?
Jesse smiled back through his white ceramic implants, which glinted in the warm sunlight. His eyes drifted past his brother. Then, Jesse abruptly sat upright moving forward in his seat, focusing like a telescopic zoom lens on the approaching car yard. ‘Used and New Cars,’ the cheap sign read. His eyes flashed at the cars as they vibrated past. Yes, it’s still there.
‘Wow,’ he drooled, salivating.
‘You’ve been ogling that car off for weeks now Jesse.’ The truck bounced, heaving, jerking them back in their seats. ‘Why don’t you just cut the crap and go buy it?’ Ashton nudged Jesse with an elbow and a broad wink as they rumbled past.
There it is now. Did you miss it?
‘Yes. Why not?’ Jesse replied, his eyes darting back for one last drool as they passed. ‘Let’s take it for a test drive this arvo.’ It was a top harvest. Jesse could well afford that new EH Holden. Women were the last thing on his mind.
Unbeknown to Jesse, this was the day my petite mother would steal his heart.
Ashton drove slowly back into the city center, clashing down a gear, truck revving. He swung the crashing, banging and bouncing empty truck to the left, through the same round-about where he almost sprayed the truck’s bull bar with my sister’s blood earlier on. Jesse watched in envy as Ashton carefully, and almost with perfection, dragged the lurching truck to a neat bouncing stop on the opposite side of the road from the small café. They drew up under a receding tree line near an old Presbyterian church. The engine died with a cough and a splutter. Ashton ripped on the handbrake.
Reaching behind the seat now, he fumbled to unscrew the lid of a second bottle of port wine and took a quick swig. The red liquid sloshed out of the bottle neck, draining down his dry, parched thirsty throat. Wiping his lips on a sleeve, Ashton offered the bottle with a friendly nod. Jesse politely declined, with a wave of the hand.
Clunking open his door, Jesse glanced up at the searing sun perched high in the sky, then jumped out. His knees shook from pangs of hunger, and to top it off his stomach was growling incessantly.
‘Come on Ashton! You need to get some grub in your guts. Not a bottle of plonk.’
Ignoring Jesse’s frown of deep contempt, his closing eyelids with his head turning away, Ashton shrugged his shoulders and harshly shoved the bottle back behind the seat. Jesse had jumped down out of the truck now, slamming the door behind. Then moving along the tray he began checking that the tarpaulins were properly tied down.
Something jammed in the truck cabin door so Ashton crunched his door shut, twice. Checking each of the slip knots, he confirmed that the tarpaulins on his side of the truck were secure. Satisfied now, both men turned, converging at the front of the truck. Slowly ambling across the road they stopped, giving way to a roving patrol car. They nodded at the neatly-dressed but podgy local policemen. Art waggled his knowing finger back
at Ashton as he drove past at walking speed.
Ashton Hani was a regular at Locke’s Café. The two men stomped their boots, bounced the door open and ambled aimlessly into the shop. Jesse’s stomach complained again, gurgling loudly. Well, actually, barged is a better word. Look. I’ll say it again. It’s still not right. They barged into the shop. All eyes turned, focusing on them. I know they did. Mine did too. The door reverberated, bouncing shut, the glass door vibrating on its tired hinges with a crash followed by a loud bang!
It was a relatively good year. Well, to be honest, it was a bumper year, for them. It rained yesterday and this was a country town — sorry, we called it a city — with three main gossip topics: the weather, the farm, and the local sports. Murder mayhem and death—? Don’t stretch your luck cobber. That’s happening tomorrow.
‘So Ashton, how the heck are you today? Hey. I heard you beat Chukawobly by an innings and a hundred and ten runs in cricket,’ my grandpa, that’s my Pops, said. He pulled up his olive trousers, tucked in his white shirt and pulled his suspender belt taught. ‘Well done.’ Still a little grumpy about being woken by drunks the previous night, he coughed tiredly and leant on a broom. ‘See you’re back again with another load for the docks.’ Pops yawned, stretching his frail body, eying off the café regular.
Those darn teenage hoodlums ran amok again, waking him from his beauty sleep in the middle of the night. They pranged a stolen car into a nearby pole.
Abandoning it with its radio blasting the entire neighborhood, they then borrowed his Volkswagen and fled escaping the clutches of the law. He’d found it this morning, parked with its keys still in the ignition, outside the front of the café. Polite thieves, now that was new.
‘You heard wrong Pops. Crackatinnie didn’t win. We romped it in!’ Ashton replied, interrupting Pops thought process, with the infamous Chuck A. Cumin crowd wave dance or what-ever it is called these days. Ashton clasped hands with Pops and did a hang-ten to celebrate the win. Pops looked around carefully then adjusted the matted wig that sat a bit like a flattened crow’s nest on his head. No-one noticed. He breathed a sigh of relief. At the top of the stairs Teresa and I glanced up from our comics. Pursing her lips, she giggled.
‘I see it rained last night. How’s the crop doing this year?’ asked Pops.
‘Yes. It rained — here, but not on the farm. A bit of rain would be nice though as we’ve finished harvesting now,’ Ashton replied. ‘But, too much’ll just damage the stubble.’ Ashton was referring to the remnant stalk. He rubbed his chin then swung around to face the counter.
‘What about the crop, Ashton?’
Ashton was reading the neatly chalked menu on the overhead blackboard now.
He turned on his hips to answer. Pops sure was a character. He tossed him half a grin.
‘How is the crop? Twenty to thirty bags an acre, Pops.’ Now, he grinned broadly.
‘Another bumper crop?’ Pops said with surprise. His wig slid to the side again so he adjusted it stealthily hoping no-one would notice. ‘You guys must be millionaires by now? Anything, more than ten to twelve bags an acre in this state is good in my books.’ The country had switched to metric in 1966, but most farmers still thought in terms of imperial measurements. ‘What do you guys do? Do you drip feed it rotting cow turd and spray it with marinated pig manure?’ Looking down at them from my perch on the stairs I wondered: if they really were rich why wear such crappy clothes? They were country bumpkins, so it was easy to imagine, but stupid; no truly rich farmer would ever do that.
They all laughed, at Pops, not at me.
‘Pops, this is my brother Jesse,’ Ashton said, introducing his brother.
‘Hi Jesse, I think we’ve met before?’ Scratching his crutch, Pops rubbed his nose, turning shakily to face a bemused Jesse. He held out a trembling hand. ‘You can call me Pops.’ Pops wrinkled, leathery face squinted up at Jesse’s towering, imposing, figure.
‘Hi — Pops,’ Jesse glanced down at Pops who was a mere 1.65 meters, and then over Pops shoulder. Looking away and retaining a look of disgust, he wiped his now contaminated hand on his greasy overalls. Jesse turned his head slightly. His eyes flashed along the counter — and then they snared her. Peering over Pop’s right shoulder Jesse caught a fleeting glance of the woman of his dreams. She stood tucked in behind the counter serving a customer. Looking up at him now their eyes briefly met. Mother turned away flustered. A few coins clanked onto the counter. She picked them up quickly, passing them to the customer with a hurried apology. Her cheeks flushed pink.
Ashton turned from ordering and walked over to sit at a table. His eyes rested on two other men, also in the shop that day. The tan skinned, dark brown hair and bushy eyebrows implied that the shorter man might be Italian-American. He noted that the man was in his thirties, clean-shaven, of moderate build. A geology pick dangled from his waist. Known only as Kirin, this man wore a blue short-sleeved shirt with a red sewn insignia above a chest pocket. Looking back at history now I recollect things clearly. He reminded me of one of my favorite actors. But a recent hit, “Starman”, by a famous Pop singer — Davy someone or other, his last name a type of hunting knife, Crocker maybe? Well, the knife’s famous anyway — defined Kirin even better.
I glanced down at Kirin as well, from the stairwell humming the tune now. His enticingly bright piercing-blue eyes flashed back up at me. He smiled, disarmingly.
Ashton glanced at Kirin’s logo as he edged passed him. I squinted, also trying to read the insignia: ‘Glue-Ski Planning’ — no it was — ‘Blue-Sky Mining.’ Kirin wore clean blue denim jeans and dark steel-capped boots. A long-nosed geopick dangled off his right side hip from a holster attached to a worn brown leather belt. He kept playing with it, one handed, like a gun slinger might. I wondered what that thing was used for; it never snowed around here.
‘Hmm. I’ve seen him before, somewhere.’ I scratched my scrawny arm.
‘Seen who?’ Jo said, elbowing me. ‘Oh—, him? He was at the Jesus statue.’
Ashton exchanged nods with the tall bulky man in his early forties, and then he sat down. The man said something to Kirin, in a deep Chicago accent. Angling for a better view, I dropped the comic onto my lap. Fred Thurman wore blue denim jeans and sported a short-sleeved green golf shirt, likely military issue. Plus, he walked in those brand new black military, or police-style boots, with that swagger about him.
Jesse finished ordering, turned and walked over to Ashton. A chair grated. He sat down. It creaked under his impressive weight.
‘And—, how can I help you sir?’ It was a young cat-like woman leaning over from behind the counter. We called her Megan.
‘I would like a cup of—,’ Kirin began. She responded by cutting his request off at the ankles, deliberately and rudely.
‘Sorry—, can I help you sir?’ Megan said to Fred as she turned away from Kirin, ignoring him. Megan looked right through him, flippantly.
Fred surveyed the menu on the blackboard. His eyes dropped down to her level.
‘I haven’t decided yet. Why don’t you folks serve him first—?’ Fred nodded across towards Kirin. It was never meant as a question. ‘Serve my buddy Kirin here — while I decide what I want,’ he said it with a deep, but soft, voice. Fred smiled knowingly at the woman behind the counter. He knew her type. He dealt with this ilk all the time. He nodded towards Kirin.
‘I haven’t decided what I want yet. Go ahead,’ he added, saying the last few words louder. They reverberated, echoing sharply off the counter.
My eyes flicked up again from the comic. I yawned from boredom, stretching my arms in the air, shuddering, and then surveying the café once more. They stood side-by-side. Fred was the taller of the two men, close to 1.8 meters tall. Mother, the other small petite woman behind the counter, placed her hands on her hips, narrowed her eyes and focused her gaze keenly on Kirin. He reminded her of someone she knew a long time ago. Wiping the counter clean and turning, she placed a leg of ham neatly back into the fridge.<
br />
‘No, it can’t be the same man,’ she scratched her head wondering. ‘It just looks like him.’
‘Thanks my friend,’ Kirin said to Fred continuing with his order, ‘I’d like a coffee and—.’
‘Sorry. I need a smoke,’ Megan muttered under her breath. She snapped a sharp look at Mother. ‘Can you serve the customers dear? I need a break.’
Kirin scratched his right ear and raised his eyebrows disapprovingly, while Fred’s eyes narrowed. Fred bit down hard on his bottom lip. Megan ambled off. She began to wipe the counter a few meters away with a cloth. Kirin followed her along the counter.
‘Please, if you’re not too busy ma’am. I’d like to order a coffee and a ham and tomato sandwich — plus — two Dim-Sims—,’ Kirin said.
‘Sorry. I’m on break now. The other lady’ll serve you,’ Megan said nodding towards my mother as she opened the freezer door. Then closing it with a forceful and irritated thud Megan turned away, walking through a door into the back of the store. She began lighting up a cigarette, her hand shaking ever so slightly. Mother frowned.
As she approached Kirin, notepad in hand, Mother’s pale sandy hair bounced on her frail shoulders, highlighting the curls.
She spoke to Kirin, but it was an open invitation.
‘Don’t mind Megan,’ she said politely. ‘Her boyfriend dumped her yesterday and she is feeling a bit down. Are you gentlemen eating in or taking way?’
Looking over his right shoulder Fred Thurman noticed the vacant tables.
‘Well, we—,’ Fred nodding towards Kirin, denoting they were together with his finger. ‘We’ll eat in thanks ma’am. Do we order here, or at the table?’