by Peter Ness
‘It’s okay Heni. It’s okay to die. I’m with Gran now. I’m with Gran.’
Their ghostly apparitions faded into the passage way, holding hands and disappearing into the bright white rays of light streaming in through the open lounge room window. At least, that’s how I remember it. And, I remember it all in black and white.
Some people think that dead people go to another place. If you are good you go to heaven. If you are bad you go to the place for bad people. If god is not sure he sends you to the place between, a place they call purgatory. I think that’s where we are now, between the one place and the other. Years later, I have been to both and I never saw Teresa at either. But, I do know where she is though. She is living out her life in a parallel universe, the same one where I met the Prima somewhere in time. The Prima — I’ll tell you about the Prima later on but not just yet.
#
When old people die we hold a party; it’s called a wake. We listen as people tell their tall stories and spin their yarns: its alcohol, cakes, scones and cookies all around. Yes. Like Christmas with all the food, just without the toys. It’s just a farewell party, I suppose. Then, a few weeks later the adults re-distribute all the clothes, money and furniture. They fight and squabble over who gets to take the old worn clothes that no-one really wants anyway. They just don’t want others to get their thieving hands on them. Perhaps they’ll find valuable 1918 stock certificates hidden under a mattress, a fortune of old coins in a jar in the garage, or gold bars in the base of a gnome in the back yard?
In this case, there were no hidden jewels, gold bullion, or stock certificates, only sadness and tears dished out to me, Mom and for Jo. They held the wake at the café. The adults just joked, ate and told humorous stories. They laughed in stitches among themselves, discussing the antics of the old eighty-five year old woman.
‘She, she — actually confused the champagne with the — the lemonade?’ An immaculately dressed Marj Dunbar, face plastered over to cover her mid-50’s wrinkles, laughed hysterically. ‘Oh. I have to stop before I pee myself—. Ha, ha, ha, ha.’
‘She got raving drunk with the kids, watching the Apollo moon landing while having a cream fight,’ her husband, a middle-aged, stocky, hairy eye-browed Martin Dunbar finished. Not even having much of a pod around his stomach, he held his 58-years well. Everyone cracked up laughing. It sounded just too funny to be true.
‘Now, how in the heck can that happen?’ asked Nana, leaning on the back of a chair for support with a shaky hand. Just for the record, we called grandma Nana, or Nan. ‘We knew Gran’s was losing it, but her Parkinson’s disease was just diagnosed. And —anyway, we thought she would live forever — well — at least for another ten years.’
The phone rang out loud in the background. A hushed silence fell over the room as Mom began to cry, and sob hysterically. Then she began screaming, between tears of grief, for Nan to toss her the car keys. The news of Teresa spoilt the party. People left almost immediately, pale-faced, in a state of shock, plates of food and half-filled glasses of beer remaining on the café tables.
A cleanly-shaven and well-groomed Jesus man, Jesus Revierra, took one last bite of a sausage roll. Then he poured the remaining beer from his glass down the sink with a grimace. Jesus placed the up-turned glass onto a white table-cloth. Wiping the tears from his eyes, he picked up his camera from on a chair. Turning he walked out of the café, into the street and sighed. That was the last alcohol he would be drinking for a very long time.
#
Two weeks later, at Gran’s place:
We sat down at the kitchen table for a family meal. Nana said grace and, tears rolling down all our eyes, asked god to look after Gran and Teresa. As we finished up at the table and Mom began to clear off the plates, Nana patted her on the shoulder trying to put it the nicest way.
‘Gran called Teresa to come to join her in heaven. Now the pain has gone and they’re both happy.’
‘And—, what about me?’ snapped Jo, the tears pouring down her cheeks. ‘What about my pain? — Wah!’ she cried, feeling sorry for herself.
‘Oh, she’ll call for you one day. Until then, be happy,’ standing, Nana placed her somewhat plump arm around Jo’s shoulder, giving her a big hug.
‘And—, pigs might fly backwards in winter.’ Well, that’s what Pops told us at the time. ‘Eat up your food. If you don’t eat, you don’t crap. And if you don’t crap, you die. And—, then when you die — you become worm food.’ Ouch!
‘Yes, but that is not why Gran died?’ I spat out in disgust, my fork clattering onto my plate.
‘Hen, come back. Sit down and finish eating your supper,’ Mother said kindly. She scowled at Pops.
‘Well, let’s look at the facts for once, shall we? Teresa’s dead because she had a hole in her heart and from epilepsy, a side effect of which is increasingly stronger seizures until you die—. And she died because we foolishly left a twelve year old doing the job of an adult. It’s not your fault Heni.’ He slapped at the table now. ‘We’re just ignorant old fools. Us old people take life for granted — and then — before we know it, those we love are all gone — in a puff of smoke,’ Pops blew an invisible puff of smoke off his hand into the air and pushed his finger through it, ‘Gone—, all gone.’
Jerking his chair back he fought back tears, stood up and ambled towards the door. Pops walked in slow, painstaking steps outside onto the verandah.
‘People don’t normally die from epilepsy,’ Nana reminded Pops, following him outside, lighting up a smoke. Pops turned away, scoffing at her. He blew his nose with a handkerchief. On the surface he appeared to be a tough old codger, but deep down Pops was a bit of a softy. Through the lounge room window I saw tears well up in his eyes. Just looking at his pain burned my soul. Turning, I kicked Jo’s golliwog angrily, tears pouring down my cheeks. My shoe flew off. It smashed into the mirror with a crash, shattering glass all over the wooden floor.
#
After that we never went directly home after school. Instead, Jo and I sat inside the café at the top of the stairs reading Marty Mouse and Atom comics. Or we sat at a table, Jo drawing pictures while I filled in cross-word puzzles. We often went out back to help Pops feed bags of potatoes into the potato peeling machine. Then, he would put them through the dicer. After all, it was a fish and chips café.
A large shiny bald spot poked through the middle of Pops short stubby hair. Once a week he cropped and shaved it in the toilet outside the back of the shop. Then, he stood adjusting his wig in front of the mirror while Jo and I stood behind him, bemused.
‘No-one else knows about it. It is our big secret,’ Pops swore us to secrecy, zipping his hand across his mouth. ‘Okay. Heni—. It is your turn next — then Jo’s. Hey! Where has Jo gone?’ The door slammed behind Jo as she rushed excitedly inside to tell Nan the news. Nan acted shocked, of course.
#
London: July 2012
‘Peter! Peter! Shush! Oh, stop being a cry baby. Stop crying,’ Andrea said with an irritated edge. ‘Here take some tissues. Wipe your eyes and blow your nose.’
‘But, it’s real sad, it is. Heni Hani’s sister and granny both died,’ Peter sobbed. He blew his nose loudly, and then offered Andrea the tissues. She pushed his hand away roughly in annoyance.
‘Look, I’d don’t want your snotty tissues. Chuck them in the bin. Your nose is dribbling again. Here let me clean it for you. Blow hard now — and again!’
‘They’re in heaven now, aren’t they?’ Peter asked.
‘Yeah, it sure looks that way,’ Andrea replied, wiping a silent tear from her own eye. ‘Shall we continue, or do you want to stop for the day? Oh! Look. The next part is all about guns and helicopters.’
‘Really? Wow! I wanna hear. Read me about it Andrea. Tell me more.’
‘Just wait up,’ Andrea held her hand in the air. ‘There’s something written on the back of the page. I’ll read that first.’
#
Somewhere near Justanava Islan
d: One week later.
A ten meter long skiff with the shadow of a lone occupant rounded the rocky coast of Justanava Island. The moon cut a swathe of light over the ocean. White water frothed up behind the quickly-moving skiff, glimmering in the bright moon-light. A lighthouse beacon flashed off the rocks in the distance. The vague form of a large solid man stared across towards the city lights in the distance and then glanced back down at the cement-filled 44-gallon drum sinking into the water below. Seawater gurgled and bubbled up around the slowly sinking drum. Then the skiff picked up speed and headed back towards the lights of the Marina on the side of the city.
The middle-aged stocky man sat down in the skiff now slipping a gold watch, extracted at the last minute from his victim’s hand, onto his own wrist. Martin Dunbar smiled to himself hatching his plan in the dim light, a dark shadow forming over his partly hidden face.
The 44-gallon drum slowly sunk down to the depths of the ocean floor. Hitting the rocky bottom, it bounced several times and ever so gently rolled onto one side with a clunking hollow thud of metal on mud. The pale handcuffed hands of a dead man slid out, protruding from the half wet cement.
Chapter 7: Long Khanh, Vietnam
Some two years later, in Vietnam, Long Khanh: June 6th, 1971
Jesse Hani hankered for his tour of Vietnam to finally end.
‘This’ll be just another routine day,’ the Lieutenant explained. ‘Intelligence says that Charlie moved off this ridge two weeks ago.’
That was this morning. It was supposed to be routine, but it wasn’t. They slashed their way through thick snake-infected jungle. Clambering over onion-weathered boulders they tried to avoid slipping over in the squishy mud. The driving rain came at them from every direction, up, down, and sideways. Wading waist deep, across swollen and gushing rivers, the torrential rain pounded off the water, pelting at their backs, spitting back up into their faces. Then, crouching on the river bank awaiting orders they burnt blood-sucking leeches off their legs, from in their crutch, or those biting into their arms and necks. Their grim faces said it all. From where Jesse stood, M60 machine gun in hand, knee deep in wet grass, tired, soaked in water, drenched in sweat and stiff all over, and with deep groves of a frown clouding his face, it seemed far from enjoyable.
The forward scout stopped sharply. Crouching now, ears cocked, he gave a thumbs-down. Jesse dropped into the long grass. They all did. A few minutes later, the scout gave an all-clear, thumbs up. Clambering to his feet now, Jesse hauled up the cumbersome heavy M60 machine gun. The lance corporal next to him briefly checked their position on his map. Slopping through knee-deep water the tail-end Charlie stopped, and then slopped onto dry land at last. Jesse turned towards him, nodding back at the sullen grimace on Ashton’s face.
In front, the forward scout crouched down low, giving a thumbs-down.
‘Get down and keep quiet,’ it meant. The drizzle stopped on cue. The sun slid out from behind a cloud. He cocked his ear, listening for the sounds of the wildlife. There were none.
Something did not feel quite right. Motionless, the forward scout peered for ages into the jungle in front. Then he saw it, a slight flash of light glinting off metal in a tree. The scout slid down onto his stomach and lined the object up in his sights. ‘Too late!’
Click! Someone in a section of the platoon to the front of them, on their left flank, stepped on a landmine. The loud Ka-boom! of an explosion was followed by endless screams of agonizing pain. The whistling screech of an incoming mortar pierced the moist air. Ka-boom! Rubble rocketed high above the canopy. Body parts and dirt landed nearby with a spatter! plop! thud! and a plop!
‘Contact!’ someone yelled out, from way over on the left flank.
‘Hit the deck!’ another soldier screamed, as a row of holes spewed wet mud up in front. A machine gun strafed them.
‘Get down!’ Jesse Hani yelled, as he threw himself to the ground behind a fallen log. A pit, pit, pit, pit of mud splattered in his face.
Ashton Hani dove into the ground, stuck his head down and began to crawl his way forward. Spat! spat! spat! spat! a machine gun barked. Bullets tore up a line in the ground near his head. One whistled overhead, Trrrrrrr, snapping the branch off a tree.
With a crunch! and a plop! it fell crashing onto the ground. Ashton felt a sharp tug, a sudden intense searing burning as a bullet smashed hard into his left arm, thrusting him backwards. A burst of blood sprayed the side of his face. For a split second he thought he were dead.
‘Darn!’ Ashton swore. ‘I’m hit. Nah. It’s just a flesh wound.’ Heaving with pain, he pulled a bandage out of his webbing, bit down on his lip and quickly wrapped the bleeding wound tightly.
‘Incoming!’ someone else barked out.
‘Take cover! Get down! Get down! Stay down!’ the sergeant hollered.
All hell broke loose as mortars started pounding holes to their left, spraying debris and rocks all around them. They ducked, hands over their heads with the shuddering ka-boom! ka-boom! ka-boom! reverberating in their ears.
‘Where are they? I can’t get a shot off from here!’ Jesse yelled.
‘We gotta get to high ground — to the right—. No! To the right, you daft Neanderthal! Gun group! Let’s go!’ the lance corporal yelled above the deafening roar of sharp rifle cracks and thundering mortar explosions. He started to give hand signals. Dragging himself to his feet now, head down, Jesse rushed to the high ground on his right.
The deafening thudding ka-boom! — ka-boom! of two successive mortars thundered down onto the ridge to the left with tree foliage, mud, rocks and tufts of grass raining down nearby. Then another one pounded the ridge to their left hurling debris and dust high into the air. An officer appeared from out of the raining debris, running, then squatting down behind Ashton. Huddled over a map now, he marked a dot. Then, he hurriedly wrote coordinates into a notepad. Perched on his knees Ashton’s brother Frankie, spoke into a radio. Passing the hand-set to the officer, he flashed a grimace at Ashton. The officer screamed into the radio hand-set then passed it back to Frankie.
‘Ashton. You okay mate?’ Frankie asked. He looked across at the much older Ashton, with a concerned furrow of fear.
‘Yep, I’m fine mate,’ Ashton replied, glancing up at the smooth twenty one year-old baby face. ‘Where’s Jackie? And, stop enjoying yerself so much.’ He grinned, adjusting his blood-soaked bandage with his free hand.
‘He is on Rec leave,[11] in Saigon,’ Frankie yelled back as Ashton crawled up beside him. ‘I’m gonna meet up with him tomorrow.’
‘Get down! Keep your frigging head down little bro, before it gets blown off!’ Ashton screamed back, pushing his brother’s head down with his free hand. ‘You watch Jackie. You hear? Jesse and I, we’re out of here soon. See you once your is over —promise!’ Ashton clapped his brother on the shoulder. ‘Head down. Stay safe! You hear?’ Frankie signaled that he couldn’t hear, jumped to his feet, ran several meters crouching low, and then crawled in the direction that he’d seen Jesse heading. Ashton bounced to his feet following them, ducking as bullets whistled past and pelted into the ground around him. He had moved just in time. A mortar thundered into the ground behind smothering him with rubble, plant debris, wet mud and dust.
Then they dove, coughing dust, to the ground as bullets spat up the mud and moss around them. The lieutenant dropped down behind Frankie. Gun wedged between his elbows, Frankie crawled behind a log. Reaching across, taking the radio handset from Frankie now the officer screamed in an air strike onto their position. Frankie pointed out a dead body on the ground, then crawling over, rolled the man over checking for a pulse. The corporal stared back, eyes wide open and glazed over, a gaping hole sunk into his chest. Fresh black blood and guts oozed out. Frankie pushed the corporal’s body away. A stray bullet smashed into its leg, bouncing it into the air.
The lance corporal ran towards them now, head down, bullets spitting the grass at his feet. ‘Where’s Mick?’ Stopping abruptly, he looked down at the de
ad body. ‘Oh hell — I think the poor bugger’s dead.’ The lance corporal dropped to the ground. A bullet tore a limb off a tree just to the left of his head. Another whistled past clipping his ear, blood spurting out everywhere. Turning away from the dead body, ignoring his stinging ear, the lance corporal began to bark orders at two straggling riflemen. The bullets and mortars stopped, with a short lull in the fighting as both sides tried to regroup.
‘Go! Go! Go! To the right now! Move! Move! Get your frigging heads down before they get blown off! Lower!’ They were all up and running now. ‘Get Down! Get down! Hit the deck!’ the lance corporal hollered as he dove sideways into a ditch.
While Charlie pounded Alpha Company to the left of them hard, Jesse surveyed the area from behind a boulder. The entire hill to the front left was ablaze with mortars screaming, crashing down. Tracer bullets whistled through the thick jungle air.
The lance corporal signaled for Jesse, the gunner, to swing over to the right more and move to higher ground. ‘If you want to live mate just run, like the wind.’
Vroom! The roaring of a jet engine was followed by a huge burst of heat. A napalm fire storm rushed like an oncoming freight train up the valley below. Smoke plumes rose up towards them. They all ducked their heads as it whooshed overhead, feeling the incinerating breeze.
‘Uncle Sam’s arrived,’ someone yelled, ‘and ‘bout bloody time too.’
Jesse, plus that soldier and the lance corporal clambered hurriedly to their feet. They rushed flat out forward now dodging freshly mown down trees. Bullets pock-marked and splattered up the mud around them. Ashton took a quick look over his shoulder. And then bouncing to his feet and ducking his head, he followed with a grunt. In front of him the gunners’ mate went down hard, screaming as a stray bullet crashed into his neck. Blood splattered everywhere. The lance corporal knelt down, rolled the body onto its side, placing a gauze bandage on the wound. Sitting the soldier upright, he looked him in the eyes to placate his worst fears.