“Damn straight you’re right! And we got a special offer rung through just this morning. Too many old ratbags in the country these days, it says. Moaning and carrying on – bringing down the mood of the populace. Free beer for a month, we get, for every one we knock off! Damn sensible offer, if you ask me. So I came in to work feeling sorry for myself, because I didn’t have any old ratbags in the wards. But then, luckily, I remembered you, Isak! And here you are, giving my nurses hell! And upsetting my other patients! And scampering about when you should be flat on your back. And worst of all . . . worst of all, Isak . . . questioning my diagnostic skills! I can tell you, I’m this close,” thumb and forefinger, a coin’s thickness apart, “to ordering up a dose of strychnine.”
Stout and imposing, Dabney had stopped with the bed between himself and Isak. He propped his fists against his hips and glared. Isak straightened his back, lifted his chin and pointed an accusatory finger.
“You always were up yerself, Dabney. How’d we know yer even a real doctor, eh? Ye go away for a couple years. Claim yer at the uni-ver-sit-ay, while the rest’ve us are workin’ at real jobs. How’d we know you wasn’ just off lookin’ up the shiela’s skirts, eh? Come back claimin’ ye’re Doctor bloody Zoose or somethin’! You know anythin’ ‘bout dreamin’?”
“Dreaming’s my specialty, Isak. That’s how I know that you’re dreaming now; especially if you think you’re leaving here this morning.” He looked to Johnathon and asked, “How long’s he been carrying on like this, Johnathon?”
“He was doing it when I woke up! I vote for the strychnine. How much you charge to let me jab it in? Small compensation for what he’s cost me!”
“Why, what’s he cost you?”
“Only the Moth! I remembered this morning, soon as I heard his voice! He was out in Caletti’s paddock when I was circling for the lolly drop! He’s the reason I crashed! He shot the Moth!”
“Shot the Moth?” Roger Dabney repeated, turning an inquisitive eye on Isak. His white goatee trembled as though a kernel of astonishment had suddenly lodged itself between his teeth. “Tell me that isn’t so, Isak! Is that why it crashed?”
“Course not! You gonna believe this bloody heathen? If it crashed at all – an’ I ain’ had no proof o’ that – it’ll be ‘cause he didn’ know how to fuckin’ land it! Bloody typical o’ your fuckin’ generation – startin’ stuff ye can’t finish. Not like the ol’ days! Anyways, you can’t keep me here, Dabney. ‘S against the law! I know me rights. An’ I ain’ afraid o’ ye, neither! Neither one o’ yez!” Isak danced into a crouch, bouncing shiftily from foot to foot, hands up like claws. “C’mon, I’ll wrestle ye! If ye beat me, ye can keep me!”
“Wrestle you?” said Roger Dabney, laughing. “I’ll knock you on the head with a mallet! What’s got into you, Isak?”
“He’s been dreaming!” said Johnathon. “The feel-good, Queen of Sheba, brain-licking, alien-space-sausage dream! So he tells me! Here, gimme your stethoscope, mate. I’ll hold it for you while you put your famous grapple move on him!”
Dabney looked critically from one man to the other, pursed his lips and folded his arms. “Why don’t you tell me,” he said, “about this dream, Isak. What was it about?”
The note of interest must have taken Isak by surprise because his focus failed and his gaze dropped to the floor, though his hands remained up like claws. “Gracie,” he said barely audibly. “I saw Gracie. Like yesterday! Like she was when she was a girl.”
I think I stopped breathing when I heard that. Judging by the silence in the room, Johnathon and Doctor Dabney might also have stopped. If there’d been a clock in the room, I think even it would have stopped to listen to the silence.
“Gracie?” said Doctor Dabney. “You mean Grace Albion . . . who died six-seven-eight years ago?”
“Eleven years.” said Isak. His eyes came up fiercely. “You should remember that, Dabney – since it was you let ‘er go.”
“Nobody ‘let her go’, Isak. The injuries she had . . . ! I did everything I could. Nobody could’ve done more.”
“Everything you could,” said Isak with disgust, “wasn’t good enough, was it, Dabney? She died. It was your job to save ‘er an’ ye didn’t. End of story!”
“Isak,” Johnathon chipped in, “we all felt terrible about what happened to Gracie. But you know – even the Sarge said – no one could have prevented it. Blow-throughs from somewhere, come into town, destroy a beautiful woman like that and never get seen again. Just a mystery! You can’t seriously hold that against Roger!”
“I do whatever I friggin’ want, Cranna!” said Isak, swinging his gaze to Johnathon. “An’ you can fuckin’ stuff this up yer tailpipe, as well! I know stuff! I al’ays knew stuff! Right from word one! It’s jus’ . . . ‘til las’ night . . . I didn’ remember I knew it!”
I think Asael and I could have walked into the room and yodelled at that point, without being noticed. I could see Isak’s face clearly in the glass, back in his dream again. His mouth dropped open and he sucked in a sudden, shallow breath, as though stung by a hornet. He sat against the bed and seemed to shrink into himself, with something that looked very much like shame.
Dabney spoke softly, the gentlest sound he’d made since entering the room. “What is it you know, Isak? After all these years of knowing nothing. What do you know now?”
“I . . . I know that Gracie had information . . . ‘bout who done what to the Reverend’s little girl. That’s one thing I know.”
‘Done to the Reverend’s little girl’? I rocked back on my heels; hand over my mouth to keep from crying out. Was that really what he’d said? Something was done to . . . Bridie? The Terrible Deed was something done to Bridie? And Gramma Gracie knew about it? The Reverend’s letter said she’d been storming about the town! Could she have been killed by someone in the town? Someone in Sugar Town?
“Nothing got done to the Reverend’s little girl, old man!” Johnathon was snarling. He sounded suddenly not at all like a man on a sick bed but rather like one fending off a burglar. “You’re mixed up! Check the records! You won’t find any charges – not even any allegations of anything being done to any little girls! And Grace Albion was attacked by a blow-through off the highway. Some druggo, high on heroin! She caught him, he lost it, he hurt her and he got away! That’s the story!”
Isak might have been old and half demented but he had at least one conviction floating solidly in his mind, as unmistakable as a dead body rolling in the surf. He squinted down on Johnathon and pointed a crooked finger.
“I might not have it all clear in me head, Cranna, you monkey’s arse, but I got this much clear! I know who did for Gracie – or at least, who started it!” He glared an accusation at Dabney. “And it weren’t no blow-through off the highway, I can tell you! And he weren’t there tryin’ to steal ‘er fuckin’ spoons, neither!”
“Isak,” said Dabney reasonably, “think about what you’re saying. Think about . . . !”
In the glass, I could see Dabney’s head turn. Listening. I grabbed Asael’s collar in one hand, put the other over his mouth and dragged him backward as quickly and quietly as I could. We slid into the empty room where we stood trembling for a long minute. Then we heard him speaking again.
“Isak” he said softly. We glided into the corridor again to hear. “If you repeat this to anyone, I’ll deny ever having said it. And I’ll have you committed, for being a danger to yourself and others. You know I can do it. Your alcoholic stupor probably prevented you from realising this, but we all know who killed Grace Albion! And we all know – you, more than anyone, know – that that person paid for it. In full. Justice was done. But the town isn’t going back there, Isak. Understand? For your own sake . . . in so many ways . . . let it be.”
“Justice got done?” said the old man, knuckling at his eyes. “That’s your story is it? Well don’t you fret yerself on that account. ‘Cause what I know – what I r’membered yestidy – is that justice only got half do
ne! Maybe not even that much! Ain’ all clear to me this mornin’, what wi’ the shite ye been pumpin’ into me. But I know it ain’t over! I get back to Queenie, it'll come clear. I know it will!”
“Queenie? Is that your ‘space thing’?” sneered Johnathon. It was the cruel voice I’d heard when the drugs were carrying him off the night before. Ripe with sarcasm. It didn’t suit him and I didn’t like it. “This town’s supported you and turned a blind eye on your filthy old self for uncounted years, Isak. And now you’re going to turn against it? Go on, Rog’! Hit him with the strychnine! He’s way past his use-by date anyhow!”
“Ye smart-ass little twerp!” Isak snarled, turning on him, “Look at ye! Ye float around in yer little airplane, lookin’ down on everyone . . . droppin’ lollies, fer Chris’ sake! An’ you, ye sneaky bloody assassin,” he said to Dabney, “with all yer pills an’ yer prods – both o’ yez! So ye know all about it, do ye? Everyone knows all about it! Well, maybe that’s the real pity, eh! That no one ever said nuthin’! What kind o’ people are ye, for Chris’ sake?”
“Isak,” said Dabney reasonably, trying to bring it to an end, “Regrets make poor neighbours. How about you climb back in that bed. Let me take care of you and let the past take care of itself.”
Isak’s voice was venomous. “Ye know, when I brought Gracie in here that day, everyone says, ‘Dabney’s yer man. He can fuckin’ stitch life back into a goatskin waterbag, he’s that good.’ But ye didn’ fix her, did ye? One chance! An’ you blew it!” His voice began to shake and it was clear he was crying.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” drawled Johnathon. “If you did, you’d have . . .!”
Roger Dabney snapped at Johnathon, in a way that not many people would dare to do. “Be quiet, Johnathon. You’ve got a skinful of pain-killers and you’re making matters worse.” He turned back to Isak. “Isak? Sergeant Morrow’s dropping by soon to talk to Johnathon about the crash. Maybe you’d like to tell him your story?”
Isak sniffled and made a no-more-nonsense sound deep in his throat. “I’ll finish it on me own, thanks.”
I could hear movement in the room and I guessed that Dabney was fiddling with the apparatus around Isak’s bed. I knew that it was time for us to get out of there. I signalled to Asael and we actually started moving down the corridor before Doctor Dabney said something that brought Asael to a halt.
“You want to talk about your Queen of Sheba space sausage dream?”
“Not to you, I don’t!” Isak answered clearly. “She’s out there an’ I know what she wants! That’s all that matters. She’ll wait.”
I hoped Asael wasn’t going to decide that he also knew what ‘Queenie’ wanted. I dragged him away. I’d already heard more than I was able to process. My head was spinning, my stomach was churning and I needed a toilet. But most of all, I needed a quiet place to think.
I started us scurrying as quietly as possible down the corridor. We rounded the corner at the end and ran straight into Matron Blix, the head of the nursing staff. Matron Blix was never a woman to treat lightly. Efficient, powerful and hefty, with neither humour nor tolerance. She was, people said, and had been forever, the real power throughout the hospital.
She blocked our way. Like certain teachers I could mention, when they want to rattle you. Expressionless.
“What are you two up to?”
“Nothing Matron!”
I wished I had the nerve to say, ‘Oh we just discovered that something awful was done, by the town, to our sister and that probably someone in town murdered our grandmother and everyone – probably including you – has been covering up and lying about both things for years! Otherwise, it’s just a normal day, Matron! And how are you?’ Instead, I said, “We came to check on Mister Cranna, Matron, but it sounds like the doctor’s with him. We can come back later.”
“Yes. In the afternoon, perhaps.” And she strode on.
I watched, long enough to see her turn into the room occupied by the arguing men. She was carrying a hypodermic needle.
“Someone rang my bell,” I heard her say with barely discernible inflection.
* * *
Asael started asking questions straight away, as I knew he would, and I had no idea how I was going to answer him. I knew clearly in my mind that it no longer mattered what I did or didn’t do; the Terrible Deed – maybe more than one terrible deed – was going to reveal itself. I could feel its inevitability, like some dark thing crawling up the back steps at midnight, looking for a lighted room. Isak was part of it and Bridie was part of it and I was part of it and Asael was part of it. Bessie Crampton and her mean-assed little husband and Kevin Truck were part of it. The whole of Sugar Town was part of it. For the first time in my life, I shared the sensation that Asael had long harboured – that Sugar Town was a haunted place.
Surprisingly, though, it wasn’t the ‘what was done to the Reverend’s little girl’ comment that stuck in Asael’s mind; nor was it the ‘everyone knows who killed Gracie’ comment. It didn’t seem to have dawned on him that those were stories that related to us. What had taken his attention were Isak’s assertions about The Thing in the cane – ‘Queenie’!
“Why didn’t they believe him, Ruthie? About The Thing? About Queenie?”
“I don’t know, Asa’. But he’s a sick old man. And it’s not the kind of thing people like to believe. Maybe they reckon he’s got what you’ve got! You should look it up in your books! You could go home now and do it, if you like!”
I was hoping to give him the shake, thinking vaguely that I might go on to Amalthea’s house, to say thanks, but no thanks, to her offer to help lay spirits to rest. Maybe instead I could get some impartial reactions from her, about what I’d just heard in the hospital!
Asael seemed to giving my suggestion some thought and I worked the point in a little deeper as we passed through the foyer.
“You know it’s just a piece of machinery out there, don’t you, As’? Probably the Air Force or somebody’s already tracked it down! Might even be dangerous! They might have to blow it up or something, just to make us all safe!”
His mouth sagged open and I knew I’d have to concoct a strategic backtrack. Maybe not dangerous, but . . . secret! Before I got there, though, for a second time, a figure suddenly blocked our way. I tried instinctively to step around, but it clearly had the same instinct.
“Just the pair!”
My head snapped up. So did Asael’s.
“Um, morning, Sergeant Morrow!”
He nodded, lifted off his policeman’s cap and ran a hand over the thin fuzz which, like Asael and I, stood to attention. He glanced balefully around the foyer then turned his gaze back on me.
“Just the two o’ youse here?”
“Yessir. We just stopped in to say hello to Mr Cranna.”
“Yeah? How’s he doin’?”
“Ah. He was busy with the doctor. We didn’t wait.”
“Awright.”
Sergeant Morrow wasn’t a particularly big or imposing man. But he was ominous. Talking to us that day, he was like a heron stooping over the shallows with its eye out for an unwary tadpole. He’d been the only copper at the station for years. Every now and again the police authorities sent him a young constable for short-term training but, when people talked about the police in Sugar Town, they were talking about Sergeant Morrow.
“Hear you pulled Cranna outta the wreck,” he said, spying down his nose at me. He had a trick of speaking very softly, so you had to pay extra close attention to what he said. “Commendable. Drop ‘round the station later today. What you heard, what you saw. Just routine.”
There was no hint of a request – merely an expectation. I gave him a shallow shrug at first, as though to say I’d think about it. But his stare and the way his hands crawled up onto his hips made my mouth overrule my mind.
“Okay, Sergeant Morrow. But it all happened so fast, you know?”
He stepped aside to let us go. Before
we got past him, though, Asael blurted out, “Has the Air Force called, Sergeant Morrow? Are they coming to take Queenie away? Or blow her up?”
Morrow turned his expressionless gaze on Asael. He blinked several times, tapping his cap against his leg. Everyone knows Asael isn’t always fully in touch with reality. Finally Sergeant Morrow gestured at the door with a flick of his head.
“Be no blowin’ up on my watch, mate. You get on now. Have yourselves a nice morning.”
* * *
We hustled out of the hospital and Asael turned immediately toward Amalthea’s place. In the distance, the sounds of the festival had started up again. I knew they’d go on until mid-afternoon, by which time people would be wearying of it and the Showies themselves would have started packing up. Many would be gone before nightfall, moving on up the highway to the next small town. I also knew Bridie would be occupied there for hours yet, fulfilling her queenly duties. And I thought of Madame Zodiac, peering from the shadows into the palms of citizens who didn’t remember who she was.
Chapter 8 – Questions and Strategies
Amalthea wasn’t home. We sat on her steps and I began struggling with my little bit of family history, trying to see how on earth Isak Nucifora could fit into it. How did he know Grandma G? And why did he believe (when Johnathon said there was no record of such a thing) that something (the Terrible Deed?) was done to Bridie! And was I right in thinking he’d actually accused Doc’ D of killing Grandma? And when he said, ‘It’s not over yet’ – was that a threat? And when Doc’ D said he’d have Isak committed . . . why? What could that old drunk possibly know?
I couldn’t sort it. I needed the bigger picture, and for that I needed pen and paper. So when Asael decided to pee in the yard, reminding me that I also needed a toilet, on the twin premises that girls shouldn’t have to squat in the yard and that doors in Sugar Town were left unlocked for a reason, I went inside.
Garlic was still there on the floor, looking surprisingly, to my mind, fresh and un-dead. But then, it had been less than twenty-four hours since he was brained, so maybe that was normal.
Sugar Town Page 23
