by Mark Brandi
His voice sounded deep. In spite of how shit he felt, he kind of liked it. He remembered that after he finished his beers he had a joint as well, a biggie. It seemed like a good idea at the time. He remembered having a dream about primary school, being out on the hot asphalt, and the taste of sour milk.
Whack! Whack! Whack!
‘Just hold on, will ya?’
As he pulled on his jeans, he wondered who it could be. Then he remembered. Afriki. He said they needed to talk, plan things out. But Fab was in no fit state for that conversation – Afriki would have to come back later. Maybe tomorrow.
He found a white singlet on the floor and sniffed it. Maybe on its third day, which was still fine.
He stood up. A little too quickly. The room heaved left and right, his head throbbed and he sat back down on the bed, the saliva thick in his mouth.
Then it came back to him.
Out in the car park. His hand on hers. He made her promise.
He stood up, swallowed down the saliva and raced toward the front door, bouncing off each side of the hallway wall as he went.
He opened the door and squinted, his hand shielding the morning sun. His eyes slowly adjusted.
It wasn’t what he had hoped for.
Behind the flyscreen, standing on the steps, was a man in a dark suit.
Fab pushed the flyscreen open.
‘Good morning,’ the man said.
‘Morning.’
‘Fabrizio Morressi?’
The man spoke carefully, even pronouncing his surname just right. Morr-essi, not Morrissey. No one around town ever got that right.
Fab sighed. ‘Look, I know what this is about. I don’t care about the WorkCover. Cut me off if you want.’
The man frowned. ‘I don’t know anything about that, Mr Morressi.’
‘Look, I’m pretty busy right now, so—’
‘I’m Detective Senior Constable Mackie.’
Fab shook his head. ‘What’s this all about?’
‘Mr Morressi, we think you might be able to help us with something. Something we found in the river.’
Part Three
One
This is a recording of an interview between myself, Detective Senior Constable Vincent Mackie, and Mr Fabrizio Morressi, conducted at the Stawell Police Station on Tuesday the thirteenth of May, 2006. Additional persons present are corroborator, Detective Sergeant David Mullins.
VM: Mr Morressi, do you agree that the time is now 11.35 am?
FM: Yes.
VM: Can you state your full name and address please?
FM: Fabrizio Morressi. Eight McLaughlin Street, Stawell West.
VM: Now I must inform you that you are not obliged to say or do anything, but anything you say or do may be given in evidence. Do you understand that?
FM: Yes.
VM: I must also inform you of the following rights. You may communicate with or attempt to communicate with a friend or a relative to inform that person of your whereabouts. You may communicate with or attempt to communicate with a legal practitioner. Do you wish to exercise any of these rights before we proceed?
FM: Ah... no.
VM: What is your age and date of birth?
FM: Twenty-eight years old. Thirteenth of June, 1977.
VM: Are you an Australian citizen?
FM: Yes.
VM: Are you an Aboriginal or Torres Strait Islander?
FM: No.
VM: Mr Morressi, do you know of a Mr Ronald Bellamy, formerly of Navarre Road in Stawell?
FM: Yes, I um... knew of him.
VM: How well did you know Mr Bellamy?
FM: Not very well.
VM: How did you know him then?
FM: He lived a few doors up from a friend. Years ago though. When I was a kid.
VM: Who was that friend?
FM: Ben.
VM: Ben? What was his surname?
FM: Carver. Ben Carver.
VM: Was that at... 159 Patrick Street?
FM: Ben or Bellamy?
VM: Um, Bellamy.
FM: 159... could be, yeah. Never paid attention to numbers.
VM: Do you know who lived there before?
FM: At Bellamy’s?
VM: Yes.
FM: Um, I think it was the Wolfes. Daisy, Joe and their parents. Daisy’s dead though, she—
VM: Yes, we know about Daisy. Did you know Percy Wolfe? Her father?
FM: Not really. I mean, I knew who he was. But I didn’t know him, if you know what I mean.
VM: Okay. And so the Wolfes moved out?
FM: Yes.
VM: And Mr Bellamy moved in.
FM: That’s usually how it goes.
VM: But Percy Wolfe continued to own the property, didn’t he?
FM: I wouldn’t know.
VM: Well, I can tell you that he did. And that he rented it to Mr Bellamy.
FM: Okay. But so what?
VM: Did you have much contact with Mr Bellamy while he lived there?
FM: Not really. Ben probably had more to do with him.
VM: Mr Carver?
FM: Yep. Ben.
VM: And is Mr Carver still living in town?
FM: No.
VM: Do you know where he is nowadays?
FM: No. I mean, it’s been a long time, you know. Haven’t seen him since we were kids.
VM: And when was the last time you saw him?
FM: Ben?
VM: Yes.
FM: Exactly?
VM: If you can remember, yes.
FM: Jeez, not for years. You’re testing my memory. Not since primary school, I reckon. He kinda disappeared, you know?
VM: Disappeared?
FM: I ah... yeah. I mean, I just never saw him again.
VM: You didn’t see him after primary school?
FM: He was gonna go to high school in Ararat, last I heard.
VM: So the last time you saw him was?
FM: Last day of primary school, I reckon. For certain, now I think about it.
VM: Never saw him again after that?
FM: Didn’t I just say that? Listen, can I get a glass of water or something?
VM: Ah yeah, sure. Dave – can you...? Yeah, maybe a jug. Interview suspended at 11.43 am.’
Two
Fab put on his favourite jacket. It was the first thing he bought with his pay that year – the last year of high school.
It was a brown corduroy bomber with woollen lining. In it, he was invincible.
The job at the supermarket was tough, but it gave him an advantage over the smarter and better-looking boys at school – it gave him money. He could buy clothes, a shit-box ’77 Chrysler Sigma, booze, smokes and dope.
‘Where are you going tonight?’ his mum called out. The TV was loud. He heard the gong of ‘Red Faces’. Her favourite.
He adjusted the collar in the bathroom mirror. Up or down? Down. Up looked a bit try-hard.
‘I told ya. Brad Perry’s.’
‘Who?’
‘Brad Perry!’
‘Where?’
‘At his farm.’
Silence, as there always was before the next question.
‘Will there be drinking?’
‘Dunno, Mum. Maybe.’ Fab opened the medicine cabinet and grabbed his stash, hidden in a roll of old footy strapping tape.
‘You eat? There’s bolognese on the stove.’
‘Later.’
‘Whose party is it again?’
‘I told ya, Brad Perry’s.’
It was the last week of high school and Fab wasn’t planning on coming home that night.
Brad Perry’s parties were the stuff of legend. He was a thirty-year-old guy with a panel van, ponytail and an obsession with high-school girls. Basically, he was a dick. But he threw great parties – bands, DJs, lighting – the works. At last year’s party, he’d even got strippers down from Ballarat. This year, who knew?
Another clang of the ‘Red Faces’ gong.
He carefully moulded his hair w
ith gel, gently lifting the fringe into a small wave, before checking both sides with the hand mirror. He wanted it perfect tonight. Holly would be there.
Holly Kilpatrick was from Ararat. She had blonde hair down to her arse, a wide brown face and full lips. Her tits weren’t that big, but they were hard, almost muscular, and when Fab had licked at her nipples she’d squealed. And anyone from out of town, even just Ararat, seemed kind of exotic.
‘Be careful,’ his mum said, without shifting her gaze from the telly.
‘Don’t worry. I won’t be late.’
* * *
The party was on a bush block about five kilometres out of town. At the edge of the block was dense, dark scrub where people would go to piss or fuck, but the ground there was uneven and got trickier as the night went on.
That was where Fab hid his booze, in a cooler bag under a white gum tree; he knew he’d remember that, even when he was bent.
‘Fuck mate, watch where you’re goin!’
He careened into a group of metal-heads. It was just after one o’clock. The party was really kicking off.
‘My fault!’ He held his hands up. ‘Sorry dudes!’
He stumbled away, checked his jeans for the dope and felt the foil crinkle in his fingers. One more drink, then he’d light up. It always made things a bit easier.
He strode through the long grass, reached into his pocket and pulled out his smokes. Benson and Hedges. In year eleven, he’d given up the Peter Jacksons. These ones seemed classier, with the gold packet, but not as poncy as Dunhills. He searched his pocket for a lighter, but instead his fingers found the tattered rabbit’s foot, chained to his key ring.
There was a cheer as the opening riff from ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ rippled through the chill night air. He found the cooler bag behind the tall white tree where he’d left it. Two cans left. He couldn’t think how many he’d had. Seven? Jesus. Couldn’t have. Maybe someone nicked some. He decided to drink one and put the other in his coat pocket for safekeeping.
‘Hey Fab!’ Someone lurched at him through the gloom. ‘Got a light?’
It was Dion Shea. He was zipping up his jeans after taking a piss. Dion worked at the supermarket too, but he was in the deli, which was a bit more senior. He was a dick, but Fab put up with him, mostly because he would ‘accidentally’ cut extra slices of ham for Fab to make his lunch.
‘Nah, lookin for one too.’ Fab scanned the crowd for the telltale red embers. There was a group of older guys smoking near the DJ booth, but they’d tell him to get fucked for sure. The natural order of things.
‘Over there,’ Dion said, pointing to a lone figure near the farm gate, where a flicker of light flashed and vanished.
They walked toward it, swaying into each other on the way. Fab didn’t like the idea of Dion hanging around; he was baggage, sleazy, and girls generally hated him. He’d ditch him as soon as he could.
‘Gonna pull tonight, Fab?’
‘Dunno, might head home soon if—’
‘If what?’ Dion laughed. ‘If Kilpatrick doesn’t show up? Jesus, you’re fuckin hopeless.’
He glared. ‘Is that right?’
Dion poked him in the ribs. ‘Stop thinking with your dick. It’s just a root, remember? All pretty much the same.’
‘Like you’d know.’
‘She’s got a boyfriend too, lover-boy!’
He knew she had a boyfriend – ‘Chinga’ Moloney. His real name was Louis, but they called him Chinga because he had eyes like a Chinaman. Fab heard he had been locked up at Turana for bashing his woodwork teacher. He also heard he was kind of like a pit-bull, but more violent.
‘Hey mate, can we get a light?’
Dion announced their approach to the smoker, who was leaning back against the gate. A taxi pulled in the driveway and its headlights shone from behind, making him look like something from the X-Files. He was tall, muscular, but there was something stiff about the way he stood. It put Fab on edge. He squinted and shielded his eyes from the headlights. The smoker reached into his pocket, pulled out a book of matches and threw them to Dion.
‘Is that you, Fab?’ the smoker said. Fab couldn’t place the voice.
‘Maybe.’
He tried to make out the face in the gloom. He clenched his fist. If it was Chinga, best to get one good punch in, then run. It was important to know your limitations.
Dion passed the matches to Fab. Behind the gate, the taxi reversed back down the driveway, its lights drawing into the night.
Fab lit up and kept his eyes on the smoker.
‘Don’t you recognise me?’ he said, crunching a cigarette under his foot. The lights from the party flashed red and green, then broke into a bright blue strobe as a heavy bassline kicked in. It shone in flickering bands across the smoker – first his legs, then his torso, and finally his face.
As Fab inhaled the smoke deeply into his lungs, he looked into those dark eyes and a smile turned the corners of his mouth.
A soothing warmth, a feeling he hadn’t known in so long, flooded through him; it was heavy and it was deep and it was something like home.
Three
After the second joint, Fab felt it coming. He ran to the side of the road with the whole world rolling like the ocean and his mouth full of spew.
He heaved the contents of his belly – bourbon and cola – and felt only slightly better.
Ben laughed. ‘Jesus, how much did you drink?’
Fab spat and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. ‘Not that much.’ He shivered as the wind sliced through his clothes. He longed for bed. The party had ended after the police rocked up and shut down the music. No strippers. No Holly Kilpatrick.
He staggered to the middle of the road.
‘How long you reckon it’s gonna take us?’ Ben said.
‘Dunno. Twenty minutes maybe?’ Fab angled his watch to the moonlight. ‘Three-thirty now, so I reckon we’ll be back in town by four at the latest.’
The road twisted through the Black Ranges – no one used it anymore, except farmers. It was broken and cracked, with potholes that would never be filled, especially since the bypass was built.
The half-moon shone just enough light to reveal their path, winding through a dense forest of ironbark. It suddenly felt like a long way back to town. Fab knew the way by daylight, he’d been up here yabbying more times than he could remember, but at night everything looked different.
‘Maybe someone will give us a lift?’ he said.
‘Everyone was drinking.’ Ben shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t get in.’
Fab pulled his jacket collar up against the wind. ‘Yeah, good call.’ If anyone offered a lift, he’d have said yes in a heartbeat. ‘How’d you go with year twelve anyway?’
‘Okay, I think.’ Ben shrugged. ‘Not many of us left in the end.’ He pulled up the hood of his coat.
‘What d’ya mean?’
‘Half the girls got knocked up. The boys dropped out to work on farms, or go on the dole.’
Fab wondered if he’d have been better to drop out himself. Year twelve felt like a waste of time. Could have got some extra shifts at the supermarket. If he played his cards right, Dion reckoned he might be able to get him a spot in the deli.
‘So you goin to uni then?’ Fab said.
‘Gonna try, yeah. What about you?’
Fab shot him a look.
Ben laughed. ‘Fair enough.’ He pointed up the road. ‘Hey, look where we are.’
Fab could see what Ben was pointing at. Twenty metres or so up ahead the moonlight shone on water, as flat and still as glass.
The old Leviathan dam.
‘Shit,’ Fab said. ‘Haven’t been here in years.’
The Leviathan was on the edge of the ironbark forest and was shielded from the north, but a cold southerly blew in like ice. The wind gusted and Fab pulled his jacket in tighter. ‘They reckon it’s polluted as fuck now,’ he said, ‘from the mine. Remember how we used to come yabbying here?’
‘Cour
se I do. I always did better though. You and your dog food...’
Fab laughed. ‘It was a good system! That used to be so much fun though. We had good times, didn’t we?’
‘Was great.’
‘I miss that sometimes.’
They stood in silence for a moment and Fab suddenly wished he hadn’t said it, even though it was true. Then Ben spoke, slowly and carefully, like he’d been thinking about it for a while.
‘I heard about your dad.’
The wind whistled through the trees and the thick branches moaned in the darkness. Fab swallowed and his throat clicked drily. He reached for the last of the dope in his pocket.
‘It was for the best.’
He pushed his hand deeper and felt for the rabbit’s foot, bony and dry against his fingertips.
‘Must have been tough,’ Ben said.
Fab let out a deep breath. ‘He was pretty brutal.’ He looked at Ben, his eyes sparkling in the moonlight. ‘You remember, don’t ya?’
Ben nodded.
‘I um... I’ll never forget what you did for me back then.’
‘What do ya mean?’
The wind whistled once more through the trees.
Fab shrugged. ‘By being normal about everything. Being my friend and that.’
‘Forget it. How’s your mum going?’
Fab felt his chest go tight. An old, strong current had begun to flow again inside him, pulling him deep. He couldn’t keep talking about that stuff. Not his mum and dad. Not now.
‘She’s good. But that’s enough heart-to-heart.’ He held up the foil – it glistened in the blue-grey light of the moon. ‘What do ya reckon?’
‘Another one? I dunno Fab, I—’
‘C’mon, for old time’s sake. Might warm us up.’ Fab moved up close and slung an arm around Ben, squeezing him tight. ‘I don’t see you that often y’know, and if you’re going to uni next year to become a big-shot...’
Ben smiled, easily wrestling loose from Fab’s grip. ‘Yeah, all right then. Just for old time’s sake.’
* * *
Fab sat on the ground at the bottom of a gatepost, with his body shielding the dope from the wind. Ben climbed the old steel gate and perched on top, his legs dangling and his thick, woollen duffle coat wrapped around him like a blanket.
Fab rolled the joint carefully. He was happy with his efforts – nice and tight, but loose enough to let the air through; he was definitely getting better at it. He lit up, took a hard drag, and passed it to Ben.
