Cold Cuts

by Calder Garret

  COLD CUTS

  A Danny Arbor Investigation

  Calder Garret

  Independently Published

  ISBN: 9781702645720

  Copyright © 2019 by Calder Garret

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  I acknowledge the Noongar people as the traditional custodians of the land on which this novel is set and was written, and the continuing connection that Aboriginal people have to land, waters and culture. I pay my respect to Elders past, present and emerging.

  This is an entirely fictional work. The views of the characters in this novel are not intended to offend and do not represent my own views, but rather reflect the reality that we, as a country, still have some way to walk together on our journey towards reconciliation.

  Contents

  SATURDAY

  SUNDAY

  MONDAY

  TUESDAY

  WEDNESDAY

  THURSDAY

  FRIDAY

  SATURDAY

  SUNDAY

  MONDAY

  TUESDAY

  WEDNESDAY

  THURSDAY

  About the Author

  SATURDAY

  The rain was coming. He had sensed its arrival all day. In the sticky air, in the low grey blanket of cloud that stretched in every direction, in the excited mood of the locals. And when the gently cooling breeze announced itself in the late afternoon, he had known for sure. The rain was coming.

  Now, as he lay on his bed in the small room over the shop, listening to the steady patter on the iron roof above, Butch Paterson could hear his thoughts confirmed. The drops fell slowly at first, but all the time loud, as if children were throwing pebbles. Stones, even. You shouldn’t throw stones, he might say to them, but they might not listen. Brats, all of them.

  Soon, the steady patter became a crescendo. It was so loud that Paterson could hear nothing else. Nothing. Not his clock radio. Not the insects at the window. Not his own breathing. Nothing. Still, the rain would be welcome, he thought. It had been four months since harvest and nearly six since that poor excuse for a finishing rain. Now the cycle could begin again.

  Out of the darkness, an array of light began its dance upon the bedroom ceiling and upon the hallway wall opposite. Paterson checked his clock. 10.30 pm, Saturday. The train was on time. He rose and peered through the curtains. On any ordinary night, the Indian Pacific would be the only source of commotion. Its rumbling wheels would rock the town of Chatton to sleep. But not tonight. As the train snaked silently away, towards Kal, towards the Nullarbor and, eventually, towards the east coast, the rain continued to fall, already leaving massive shining lakes along the town’s main drag.

  Then, silence. As quickly as they had arrived, both train and rain were gone. Paterson could see the burning gold of the tail carriage’s lights now one, two, three kilometres away. The odd anxious star was forcing its way through the clouds. Both train and rain would return, he knew, train in a week’s time on its return trip to Perth, rain well before the night was out. They were inevitable events, he decided, like death and taxes. But, for now, it was quiet. He closed the curtains and returned to his bed, reaching automatically between the mattress and base in search of his customary succour. He lay down and flicked it open.

  The toys and clothes presented inside the Christmas 2018 department store catalogue held no interest for Paterson. What did excite him were the children who played with them, the children whose tender little bodies they adorned. Not brats here, he thought, but playmates. Here, in their stillness, in their frozen poses, he could do with them whatever he pleased. Young or old, boy or girl, it made no difference. Each child, in its own way, offered few limits to his imagination.

  This nightly ritual, the strange self-pleasuring, the gentle caressing of each colourful, glossy page, was a poor substitute for the real thing, he knew, but, for a man of his age, for a man of his appetites and desires, he accepted its necessity. He allowed a hand to drift inside his pyjamas. Yes, he was a man of his age, he thought, as he felt himself stiffen, but these desires needed release.

  A sound … It might have been the cat. He always left the kitchen window open a few inches for the cat to squeeze in. But no, the cat was dead. It had died quite suddenly a few months ago after eating some spoiled meat. Paterson pushed the catalogue back under the mattress and listened. It was quiet, sure enough, but in an unsettling way. He swung himself to the edge of the bed and slid his feet into his slippers.

  ‘Hello!’ he shouted. ‘Is anyone there?’

  Only the silence answered. He reached into the corner of the room for his rusty seven iron and, making a tentative move into the hallway, shouted down the stairwell.

  ‘I’ll have you, you mongrels!’ he called. ‘I’ll give you two minutes, then I’m coming down.’

  This time the noise, and the presence, was confirmed. Something, maybe a pot, maybe the frying pan, hit the floor with a clatter.

  ‘Right,’ said Paterson. ‘Get ready to wear it.’

  He lifted the club and, switching on the hallway light, began a slow, cautious descent into the murky depths below.

  ‘I’m warning you,’ he said. ‘If I catch you in my shop, you’ll get the hiding of your life.’

  He reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped into the darkness.

  He sensed it immediately. The stench that came with thirty years of dressing meat in the rooms next door had long since entrenched itself into every wall and into every stick of furniture Paterson owned. It was, for him, a permanent reminder of his trade. But now he could sense something else, something foreign, and close, something that didn’t belong. He began swinging his club, wildly. It met the still air with a swish.

  ‘Come on, you buggers,’ he said. ‘I’ll have you.’

  He had pictured kids, maybe two of them, up to no good or after the contents of the till. In his mind they were Noongar kids. In his mind they were always Noongar kids. But as the lights came on and he felt the seven iron ripped rudely from his hand, he could see. They were all adults, and white. There were five of them. He could see four men and one woman, and they were all armed. With his own knives, if you don’t mind. And they were locals. He knew that in an instant. Why else would they hide their faces behind those stupid masks? Each wore the face of a familiar comic book hero. Batman, Spider-Man, Wonder Woman, the Hulk and, to add some Australiana, Blinky Bill. Paterson turned to retreat up the stairs, but felt a knee give way as his own golf club struck home.

  ‘Not so fast, prick,’ said Batman.

  ‘Who are you?’ Paterson shouted. ‘What do you want? I’ll call the cops, I will.’

  ‘Well, you do that. Go on. Call them, Paterson,’ said Spider-Man. ‘We’ll be long gone by the time they get here. It’ll take us just a minute to deliver our message.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘Have a fucking guess.’

  The knives seemed to cut the air. The butcher used a false bravado to hide his fear.

  ‘You don’t scare me,’ he said. ‘I asked you. What do you want?’

  ‘You don’t need telling,’ said Wonder Woman. ‘You know why we’re here. We thought you might have stopped it all by now, but you haven’t, have you? You’re still messing with the kids.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Paterson, inching back. ‘I don’t. I’ve done nothing wrong.’

  Despite his fear, the butcher couldn’t help but feel just a little aroused. He knew all too well the effects of power in situations
such as this. But he was usually the one wielding it. He looked deep into their dark eyes, searching for something, anything, that he might recognise. Blinky Bill, he thought, seemed the more reticent of the five, and, in his bearing, he seemed naggingly familiar, but other than that there was nothing.

  ‘Don’t worry, you gutless fuck,’ said the Hulk. ‘We’re not going to hurt you. We should, but … Consider this a warning, eh? Here’s the deal, Paterson. We’re giving you a week. If you haven’t packed up and cleared out of town by then, we’ll be back for you. And we won’t be so gentle next time. We might take a part of you with us when we go. Have you got that?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’ve got that,’ Paterson said.

  ‘Good. Now turn around,’ said Batman. ‘Look back up the stairs.’

  Paterson did as he was told and looked into the yellow light of the hallway upstairs. After a moment, stillness came.

  ‘How long? How long do I have to stay like this?’ he said.

  His question met with silence. He risked turning his head. They were gone. Bastards, he thought. He would find a way.

  He got to his feet and entered the kitchen, reaching into the pantry for the bottle. He took a long, mean swallow, savouring the burn at the back of his throat. He glared out the kitchen window, letting the grog focus his thoughts.

  Brats, he thought. They were all brats at some stage. He would get them if it was the last thing he …

  The clatter of the screen door. Paterson scowled. A figure stood in the doorway. The koala. He still held a knife.

  ‘What do you want now?’ said Paterson.

  SUNDAY

  It had taken Probationary Constable Danny Arbor only a short while to realise that the young men of Chatton were just a few snags short of a barbie. Every Sunday morning, Arbor had realised, all he needed to do was drive a few kilometres out the Ashby road, park the paddy wagon in the copse of trees at the bottom of Norman’s Hill, aim his radar gun back towards Chatton, and wait. And every Sunday morning, guaranteed, it wouldn’t be long before he heard the distant roar of a high-powered engine and saw, yet again, the latest attempt by a Chatton youth at the Australian land speed record. Perhaps they were a chop or two short, as well, he thought.

  Today was no different. Arbor had barely settled in and had just begun to feel the sweat building inside his shirt, when he heard a faraway rumble, getting closer.

  Here she comes, he thought. Or rather, here he comes. For it was always a guy. And Arbor knew, by instinct, by the sound of the engine, that it was a Monaro. And that meant it was Colin ‘Nobby’ Rodgers. Rodgers had the only Monaro in town.

  How ‘Nobby’ got the nickname, Arbor didn’t know. And he didn’t want to.

  But sure enough, as the car became visible at the top of the rise, Arbor could see the redhot paint job glistening in the sun and the mirage-like haze forming in the searing exhaust. He aimed the gun and waited … 150 … 180 … 200. Rodgers was already well over the limit. But he was going faster still. Arbor waited some more. He had a fair idea what Rodgers had in mind. He let the boy reach the magical 250 klicks before pulling the trigger. And, almost immediately, Rodgers backed off. He had reached his target for the day. Arbor alighted from the wagon and waved him down.

  Rodgers pulled up in a cloud of gravel. Arbor could feel the pellets bouncing off his shins.

  ‘Hey, Constable,’ said Rodgers. ‘How’s things?’ His face was flushed and he was wearing a beaming grin. ‘I didn’t even see you there.’

  ‘Obviously not,’ said Arbor. He decided to keep it at least a little bit official. ‘So, Colin. Have you any idea what you were doing there?’

  ‘When? Where? No. What?’

  ‘I clocked you at 250. Fucking crazy if you ask me. Where’s your licence?’

  The boy reached for his wallet.

  ‘I’ll get that in writing, won’t I?’ he said. ‘It’ll be something to show my mates.’

  ‘Yeah, you can show them the fine, too,’ said Arbor. ‘And the demerits. Is this right? It can’t be. It says you’re clean.’

  ‘Yeah. That’s me,’ said Rodgers. ‘I’ve been a good boy. So what do I lose?’

  ‘Twelve hundred bucks. And seven points.’

  ‘Fuck me.’

  ‘I know. You should have thought about it beforehand.’

  Arbor stepped closer and passed back the licence. And, although he didn’t drink it, he knew its smell. Rodgers stank of beer.

  ‘Have you been on the grog, Colin?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I … I swear, Constable Arbor. Not since last night.’

  ‘Still, I think we’d better check, eh?’

  ‘Ah, shit, no.’

  ‘Turn off the engine, Colin. I won’t be a minute.’

  Arbor reached into the paddy wagon for the breathalyser kit.

  ‘Have you done this before?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah.’

  There was a ring of defeat in the young man’s voice.

  ‘Okay,’ said Arbor. ‘One long continuous blow. Until I tell you to stop … Okay, stop.’

  He checked the reading.

  ‘Bad news, Colin. You’re reading 0.07. I’m afraid you’ve earned a trip back into town.’

  ‘Ah, what? Shit. I’m telling you, Constable. My last drink was about midnight. Two o’clock at the latest.’

  ‘We can check it again back at the station,’ said Arbor. ‘In the meantime, get out and lock up your car.’

  ‘What? … I can’t,’ said Nobby. ‘I can’t leave it here. You’ve no idea what sort of hooligans live around here.’

  ‘You’ve no option,’ said Arbor.

  Nobby wound up his window and alighted.

  ‘Does your old man have a key for it?’ said Arbor.

  ‘Yeah, I think so,’ said Nobby.

  ‘Then we’ll ring him,’ said Arbor. ‘He can bring someone to pick it up.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks, Constable,’ said Nobby. ‘Why don’t you really stick me in it?’

  ‘Please yourself, Colin,’ said the constable. ‘It’s absolutely no skin off my nose. Are you going to ring him?’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose.’

  ‘Smart move.’

  Regulations told Arbor that Rodgers should sit in the back of the paddy wagon on the trip to the station, but the truth was he didn’t want to make the boy’s morning any worse than it was. He let him ride up front. As he drove, he listened as Rodgers, full of apologies, explained his predicament to his father. After only a few moments, the boy turned to Arbor.

  ‘He wants to speak to you.’

  ‘Put him on speaker, then … Yes, Mr Rodgers?’

  ‘Yeah, Constable. Listen, I want you to do something for me.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘When you get back to the station, I want you to kick that stupid little bugger’s arse for me. All the way up Palm Street. You got me?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve got you. Consider it done.’

  Arbor grinned at the boy. Colin was cowering.

  ‘Shall I give him some stir as well?’ Arbor asked.

  ‘Yeah, you do that,’ came the answer. ‘And throw away the flaming key. I don’t want him back.’

  ‘I’ll put him back on, shall I?’

  ‘Yeah, if you have to.’

  The boy turned his phone off speaker and resumed his conversation. Arbor set his eyes on the road to town. He could just see the top of the silo behind the trees. It wouldn’t be long. Not more than a kilometre away, he guessed. Only one victim for the morning, he thought, but at twelve hundred bucks and seven points, plus whatever came of the drink driving offence, it wasn’t a bad day’s work.

  ‘Matt Todd was asking for you. Something about footy.’

  Sergeant O’Reilly was at the PC, playing Scrabble. He didn’t look up.

  ‘Yeah, thanks, Sarge,’ said Arbor. ‘I said I might have a squiz at the game this arvo. I’ll catch up with him later.’

  ‘You weren’t out for long.’

  ‘No, but I bagged a b
ig one. Young Rodgers here. He was doing 250 down Norman’s Hill. And he read 0.07.’

  ‘You stupid bugger,’ O’Reilly said to the boy. ‘Are you trying to kill yourself?’

  ‘Yeah, all right,’ said Rodgers. ‘My old man’s already read me the riot act. I don’t need it from you as well.’

  ‘If I was your old man,’ said O’Reilly, ‘I’d knock your fucking block off.’

  ‘Take a seat, Colin,’ said Arbor, as he reached into a cabinet.

  ‘Put your elbow on the scales, Constable,’ said O’Reilly. ‘Earn the little bugger some prison time.’

  ‘You can’t do that!’ said Rodgers.

  ‘Can’t we?’

  The boy was trembling now. Arbor put him at ease.

  ‘Relax, Colin,’ he said. ‘The sarge was just winding you up.’

  ‘Well, it worked,’ said Rodgers. ‘Bastard.’

  O’Reilly laughed.

  ‘Here,’ said Arbor. ‘Blow in here again.’

  The boy blew.

  ‘0.06. It’s come down a bit, but …’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘It still means your licence. Three months probably.’

  ‘Shit. What can I do?’

  ‘You can try a urine test if you like,’ said Arbor. ‘Or a blood test. But that would need Doc Phillips.’

  ‘What’ll that do?’ said Rodgers. ‘The piss test?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Arbor. ‘You might be lucky.’

  ‘But, what?’ said Rodgers. ‘As it stands, I’ve done my licence?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Then let’s give it a burl.’

  Arbor picked up the phone.

  ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’ laughed Rodgers. ‘He’s going to take the piss?’