by Paul Taylor
The man fell to his knees, the sun beating down on his back. A railway spike stuck straight up out of the centre of his shadow. By his knee was a sledge-hammer.
He looked up, sweat running down his face. "You have to hit it hard," he said, gasping. "Nail that fucker down well and good or it'll get you first."
Ragged hair hung into eyes that seemed to twist and writhe with shadows.
"It'll get you first," he muttered.
Ben woke with a chill despite the warm morning. The bed didn't have much in the way of covers, just a sheet and thin quilt, but he snuggled down under them anyway, like a child hiding their head from the boogeyman. He did his best to shrug off the dream. It had probably only been as a result of reading all that garbage about The Man Without a Shadow.
"It'll get you first."
The words drifted across his mind as if spoken, and for a moment he was so sure they had been out loud that he glanced around, sure he would see the man from his dream, squatting over his ragged shadow like a gargoyle on a building top. There was no one there, of course. The dream had been so real, though, almost a vision. Ben wondered if that was what people saw when they had precognitive dreams. Had he foretold some grim piece of his own future? Or had he brought to life some Old Wives' Tale?
"Stop it," he told himself. "You're being stupid, it was just a dream."
With an effort he pushed it to the back of his mind, it did not want to stay there and would not stay long, and got comfortable in bed. Spreading out across the bed he tried to get back to sleep. Dwayne's funeral was today.
"Shit fire and save money," said Ben, it was after nine o'clock already and the funeral was at 10:30.
Ben lay spread-eagled across the cool sheets and wondered if he could just not go. Even as he thought it, he knew it wasn't an option, Dwayne had saved him from those bastards and was pretty much the only friend he'd had here. The only one who'd visited him in hospital. Besides Kath. And that was another reason to go, it'd be a good excuse to see Kath. If she went. With a resigned sigh, Ben hauled himself from bed and set about preparing for the funeral, cursing and muttering as he dredged up some suitably dark clothes. What'd Dwayne have to go and die while Ben was there for?
The service was held in St Mary's Catholic Church, the largest church in Casino and quite possibly the second largest Ben had ever been in. The largest one was, of course, St Mary's cathedral in Sydney. The church, like all churches, was large, airy and cool despite the heat outside. Ben had gone to school here, not at the church but at the school of the same name that occupied the same block. In accordance with the wishes of the community, who paid the school's bills with fees big enough to buy a small island, all the students suffered through a strict, catholic upbringing. Apparently. It had been somewhat more relaxed by the time Ben started going there although they were still marched over to church every Friday for mass. God, how that had bored Ben, forced to go to church every Friday and then his parents made him go again every Sunday. Little wonder he'd rebelled at sixteen and stopped going. Although now, as he aged and softened, Ben occasionally startled himself by thinking he should go to church one Sunday. It had become habit, he told himself, and if nothing else he was a creature of habit.
The priest, a stoic and crumbling old Irishman on the slippery side of eighty, gave the service in typical, by the book fashion. Injecting little warmth or feeling into what were now very tired and familiar words. Old Father Relihan had been there ever since Ben could remember and, with that queer sense of agelessness with which all children seemed to view adults he'd always looked as old. He had to be ninety-five if he was a day. Ben watched him dryly reciting the words while peering over the top of a pair of glasses so thick Ben wondered how he could even see through them. As his mind drifted Ben thought that old Father Rel looked less like a priest and more like an aging John Wayne. But he also looked as though he could still ride down a hustler and riddle him with bullet holes if he had to. If Ben had ever needed an exorcist, and the thought had re-occurred with frightening clarity for months after watching that movie, he would have wanted old Father Rel on his side. That white-haired gunslinger for God.
Craning his neck to look around, Ben could hardly spot anybody he knew. Despite the fact that the church was half full. There were a few familiar faces he remembered from school but no one he knew. And it appeared none of them had known Dwayne well either because when the priest asked if anyone would like to say a few words no one moved. After what seemed a very long, and shameful silence, Ben swallowed once around a large, round knob in his throat, stood up, and coughed nervously.
"I'd like to say a few words," he said.
"Sorry?" croaked Father Relihan, cupping his ear.
Ben, thinking he must have said something wrong, nearly sat straight back down.
"I said I'd like to say a few words," he said.
"Of course, my son," said Father Rel. He held out one withered old hand, indicating that Ben should come up to the microphone.
Feeling very aware of every red-rimmed eye in the place focussed on him, Ben walked slowly up the aisle towards the altar. He'd sat close to the back and it was a very long walk.
Finally he reached the altar and went to the microphone, trying to avoid looking at Dwayne's casket but unable to help himself. Taking pride of place in the middle of the altar, surrounded by wreathes of flowers, it sort of drew the eye.
Ben coughed and looked out upon a sea of expectant faces, all of them wondering what he was going to say. Most of them no doubt wondering who he even was. For reassurance he tried to look for Kath's face but it was no good. He was so nervous he probably wouldn't have seen her if she'd been standing right in front of him.
"When I went to school," started Ben. "You could say Dwayne was pretty much my only good friend. I, ah, as some of you might know, wasn't very popular at school," a red flush crept slowly up his neck. "I was never bullied, never shoved around or had my pocket money stolen, far from it. I was actually just flat-out ignored. Most of the other kids had no time for me, didn't even want to know me. I wasn't bullied or excluded, but I was very deliberately not included.
"Dwayne was what we called a 'cool' kid. But more than that, he was a cool kid. I'd made friends with other kids in the popular group who'd be perfectly nice to me on our own, but the second any of their mates showed up they'd start treating me like an idiot. Dwayne never did this," said Ben, on a roll now, starting to get a feel for this. "He always stuck by my side when the others ganged up on me. And he took some flak for it, too, but he never backed down.
"Dwayne told me something once, he said to me, 'Ben, if you can't be cool, just be yourself and do it well.'
"So I did it, mate," he said, his chin quivering a little now and his voice wavering. "I was the best damn me anyone could ever be. And you were the best damn you there ever was. I hope they appreciate you wherever you've gone."
Ben went back to his seat and waited for the service to finish, his face hot and flushed and aimed securely at the ground.
Everyone who'd attended the funeral followed the hearse at a respectful distance as the solemn procession wound through the streets and out of town to the lawn cemetery out off Kyogle Road. The road leading to the cemetery, by some macabre piece of town planning, also led to the rubbish tip. The cemetery was nice enough and well-kept, neat rows of graves and scattered trees whose leaves were meticulously raked up. It was nicer than the older cemetery in town but it lacked the character. The one in town was purported to be haunted. And the eerie image of a single grave, with an enormous oak tree stretching up from the middle of it, didn't hurt the rumours.
At the grave-side the priest performed another brief service which, Ben thought, sort of negated the earlier one. Then they lowered the coffin into the ground. Perhaps realising Dwayne had not a great many friends or family, the church had hired four beefy blokes to be the pall-bearers. Ben was aware of Dwayne's elderly mother sobbing nearby as the coffin went down. When they were done planting hi
m, the steadfast few who'd remained moved about the mourners, commiserating and dispensing nuggets of wisdom. Said nuggets including that perennial favourite, that it was God's will. Ben passed through the crowd, shaking a hand here, sharing sorrow there, and thanking an inordinate amount of people for telling him what a beautiful and moving speech he'd made. He spoke briefly with Dwayne's mother before moving on, looking for Kath.
He continued looking around as he moved through the crowd, seeking any sign of old school friends but apparently they'd quickly departed. Back off to the busy lives as far from Dwayne and his memory as they could be. As he reached the edge of the group he finally spotted Kath. She was striding towards him, shrugging off all attempts by Neil to restrain her. He grabbed her arm, the one that wasn't bandaged, and dragged her round to face him. She said something to him, Ben couldn't make out what, and continued to walk towards him with Neil following behind like an obedient dog. At least, Ben thought, her limp seemed to have cleared up.
"Hi, Ben," she said, forming her mouth into a smile.
"Hi, Kath," he said. "Hey, Neil," he stuck his hand out and Neil looked at it until Ben let it drop back to his side.
"G'day," said Neil, his voice as stony as his face.
"That was a beautiful speech you gave," said Kath, smiling at him. Her eyes were red.
"Thank you," said Ben. "What happened to your arm?" he asked, gesturing at her right arm, the wrist swathed in bandages. "Did you fall?"
"It's nothing," said Kath, looking down. "I just sprained it. That's all."
"She fell at work," said Neil, glaring at him. "Not that it's any business of yours," he added. Ben felt the thought behind it, She's my wife, not yours. You missed your chance so fuck off. He heard it so clearly it might have been spoken.
"I'm not sure it is any of my business," said Ben. "That's why I asked Kath, because I presumed it was her business. I didn't realise that business was run by you."
Neil appeared at a loss for words for a moment. "It's none of your business," he said, seeking refuge in the familiar refrain.
"I think that's up to Kath to decide, don't you?" Ben smiled at him. Kath was becoming visibly edgy. "What do you think, Kath?" he asked her. "What really happened to your arm?"
Neil stepped in front of him. "What are you insinuating?" he said. "You callin us liars?"
"If the cap fits," Ben spread his hands. "And your conscience sounds awfully guilty there."
"I'll give you a fucking conscience," said Neil and shoved him.
Ben stepped back. "I hope that was your best shot," he growled. "I've been wanting to do this for a long time."
"Stop it," snapped Kath, jumping between them. "You two stop it. We're here for our friend's funeral. Our friend."
"Kath, please," said Ben. "Come with me. Get away before he seriously hurts you. I don't want the next funeral to be yours."
"You better shut up now or the next funeral's gonna be yours," said Neil from behind Kath.
"Shut up, Neil," Kath told him and Neil glared at her, a look that passed not unnoticed by Ben and he wondered how much she'd pay for that comment. She turned back to Ben. "Ben, please," she said. "Just go. Before he does something stupid."
Ben hesitated, looking between them. Neil's face was a portrait of raw, flaming anger. How could he explain to Kath that he didn't want to leave her because he really was afraid. That he feared if he left her now, the next time he saw her would be during visiting hours in intensive care.
Kath, perhaps sensing his thoughts, or sensing those underneath that he was hiding even from himself, smiled reassuringly at him.
"I'll call you," she mouthed at him and he nodded slightly, his hands still folded into rigid balls at his sides.
As he strode back to his car Ben tried to tell himself he'd imagined the look of stark fear in her eyes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT