by Mark Brandi
And she’d quietly drift away from the pub, the town and its people.
* * *
When they were sentenced, it was the afternoon and the regulars were all in. She heard it on the radio. It was on the news. They all heard it.
Lucy didn’t say a word, but quietly mixed her special drink, left Bob in the bar, and walked to the kitchen. She went through the swinging doors, past the broken dishwasher Bob bought from the Trading Post, and into the cool darkness of the pantry. She didn’t turn on the light, but closed the door behind her, and sat down on a barrel of cooking fat.
She sat there with the cans of tomatoes, buckets of mayonnaise and tins of beetroot slices. She sat there, alone in that dark and quiet place.
And, with her special drink untouched, her chest heaved deep and raw.
* * *
Two months later, on a Wednesday afternoon, Lucy stood in the empty bar as the stark afternoon light shone through the windows. She looked out to the supermarket across the road, where three crows picked through someone’s unwanted lunch. Nearby, two African boys were doing the trolleys, both quiet and careful in their movements as they linked them in two long trains.
The locals would all still be chattering, but not for much longer. People would stop talking soon and start to forget. Some things, they would figure, were best forgotten.
At around five o’clock the cars would start to pull up with the regulars. Bernie and the rest of them – the barely functioning alcoholics who came for five or six pots and a bowl of chips, before driving home to their lucky wives.
They ogled her, she knew that. She’d see them in the mirror, sneaking looks at her legs, her arse, the eyes quickly scanning up and down before she turned. Then, after a couple of beers they’d get bolder, openly staring at her breasts as she served pot after pot, the smile hurting her cheeks.
She let it go. She had to. But the thought of them and their eyes still made her feel sick.
* * *
Bob was asleep upstairs. If he woke, she’d say she had a migraine, but he’d likely be out on his lilo for a while yet. She lit a cigarette, walked to the front of the bar, closed the latch and pulled the blinds down low.
‘Hello?’
A voice outside. She stopped for a moment, hesitated. She moved in close to the blind, the dry, dusty weave rough against her cheek.
‘Hello?’
It was unfamiliar. A man’s voice. Youngish, but not local. Definitely not local. He knocked on the glass.
‘Anyone there? You open?’
She stole a look around the blind, the light stinging her eyes. A suit and dark hair. She drew back into the shadows and pulled hard on her cigarette.
Jesus.
It was that copper. What the hell did he want?
She took another drag. Something about Fab? Something happen in jail? She stubbed out the cigarette and cleared her throat.
‘Sorry, won’t be a second!’ she said, in her best voice.
The blind whizzed up and he stared at her through the glass with a smirk, as though he knew she was there all along. Lucy pulled down the latch and pushed the door open.
‘Thought you must have closed up,’ he said. ‘Saw the blind come down.’
‘Oh no,’ she said, a smile in her voice. ‘It’s just that this light here is so bright. Bob, my husband, he reckons it’s bad for the pool table.’
She held the door open and he walked slowly inside. She watched his face for any sign of news. Nothing. He looked different than she remembered. Older, his eyes ringed with deep shadows.
He stopped a few steps in and surveyed the room. ‘Quiet today?’
‘Quiet every day,’ Lucy trotted briskly for the safety of the bar. She never liked being out on the floor. Too exposed. ‘Regulars start in about five, so if you’re looking for company they—’
‘Just a drink really.’ He walked up to the bar, sat on a stool and turned toward her. ‘A pot of Carlton will do. Name’s Vince.’
Lucy headed for the glass chiller, a stainless steel chamber Bob bought years ago, and got a pot from the cold end. It was icy and the glass stuck to her fingers.
‘We’ve met before,’ she said.
He cleared his throat. ‘Really?’
‘I’m sure of it.’
He nodded. ‘You might be right.’
She went back to the taps, but remembered the Carlton hadn’t been poured since lunchtime. She turned and caught Vince staring at his feet, lost in thought.
‘Is a stubby okay instead?’ she said.
He looked up. ‘That’s fine. Tap trouble?’
‘It just saves me pouring out a whole jug of foam for nothing.’ She shrugged. ‘Well, not for nothing... I just mean—’
‘It’s okay.’ Vince smiled. ‘I used to do bar work myself. The lines get warm when they haven’t been poured in a while.’
Lucy placed the glass and the stubby in front of him. She leaned back against the chiller and crossed her arms. He looked at her with raised eyebrows and she suddenly realised she’d left the top on the beer.
‘Sorry, one of the regulars likes it unopened.’ She cracked off the lid. ‘Force of habit.’
‘Really?’ Vince said, taking the stubby in his hand. ‘Why’s he like it like that?’
Lucy stiffened and stared at Vince. She felt her face tighten. ‘I never thought to ask him.’ She looked down at the bar where the laminate was worn almost right through from the elbows and the glasses and the years.
The bug zapper fizzled a victim as their eyes met and held for the first time.
‘I’ve been to see him,’ he said.
She bit her bottom lip.
‘How is he?’
‘Coping. I went to tell him...’
‘Ben?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did he—’
‘Not well. The coroner will investigate, but it looks straight-forward. It seems he tore up a sheet and—’
‘I read about it.’
She stared at Vince.
He took a swig of his beer.
‘It’s not right what happened,’ she said.
‘With Ben?’
‘No, I...’
‘The sentences? Well, we didn’t expect—’
‘No, none of it. From the start.’ She looked down at the floor. ‘From when they were boys.’
Vince put the stubby back on the bar and nodded.
Lucy felt the heat rush to her cheeks. She leaned back and gripped the cold steel edge of the chiller behind her. She shook her head.
‘You don’t know what it’s like here with—’
She stopped herself and stared out the window to the supermarket, out to where she’d watch him push the trolleys around, smiling with that African boy.
She took a deep breath in and out. ‘Why did you come?’
The zapper electrified another blowie. Vince reached into his jacket pocket.
‘Had to give you something.’
He opened his hand to reveal an old grey rabbit’s foot, crudely pierced with a ring of steel. He shrugged. ‘He wants you to have it.’
Lucy picked it up from his hand and studied it closely. ‘Why?’
‘He didn’t say.’
‘No, I mean, why did you come? Why all this way, just for this?’
‘I’ve got some other business here.’
‘Like what?’
‘Well, once he found out Ben was gone, there was certain information Fab was able to provide.’
‘What kind of—’
‘I can’t answer that.’
She rolled the rabbit’s foot across her fingers, feeling the thin bone within.
‘You know, I used to see him looking at this sometimes, while he was in the bar.’
Vince took a sip of his beer.
‘Sometimes when he was over the road too. He’d get this distant look in his eyes.’ She pushed it into her apron pocket. ‘When he was a bit drunk one night, he told me his father gave it to him. Only time he
ever mentioned him.’
‘I think it’s meant to be good luck.’
‘Luck?’ Lucy picked up her smokes from beside the till and slid a smooth white filter from the packet. ‘Lot of good it did him.’ She leaned back against the till, lit up, and glared at Vince through the smoke. ‘And a lot of good it did that rabbit.’
She glanced at his half-full stubby, then looked hard into his eyes. ‘Did you want another beer, or...’
‘Don’t worry, I get the message. I’ll make this one a traveller.’
He picked up his stubby, dropped a five-dollar note on the bar and turned for the door. ‘Thanks for the beer.’
As he walked away, Lucy reached into her apron and gripped the rabbit’s foot tight in her fingers; her heart squeezed and gave out one heavy thump.
‘Listen,’ she said. He turned back.
‘Thanks for coming.’
He smiled thinly. ‘No worries.’
She butted out her cigarette. ‘If you see him, tell him thanks.’
He nodded. ‘I will.’
‘And tell him I’ll come. Soon.’
‘Yep.’ He pushed open the door.
‘And tell him I...’
He looked back, the door half open.
‘Tell him I... that I changed my mind.’
‘About?’
‘He’ll know.’
Vince nodded. ‘Yeah, I will then. If I see him.’
And she watched him walk slowly into that bright white light.
Acknowledgements
My heartfelt thanks to all who have helped.
I am especially grateful to Vanessa Radnidge for her passion and belief. Deepest thanks also to Grace Heifetz for her brilliant insights and steadfast support (and for spotting Wimmera in the slush pile).
My sincere thanks to all the outstanding team at Hachette Australia, especially Fiona Hazard, Louise Sherwin-Stark, Justin Ractliffe, Daniel Pilkington, Thomas Saras, Jordan Weaver-Keeney, and Tom Bailey-Smith.
I am also grateful to Deonie Fiford for her forensic eye, and to Christa Moffitt for the most perfect cover imaginable.
The threads of this novel were first woven in the RMIT Professional Writing program (special thanks to Ania Walwicz); along its journey, it received precious support from Varuna – The Writers House, Writers Victoria (especially Kate Larsen), and the NSW Writers Centre.
To the literary prizes who saw some glimmer in this dark tale – especially the British Crime Writers’ Association Dagger Awards, the Victorian Premier’s Literary Awards, and the Impress Prize – your recognition was invaluable.
Thank you to those who read my early drafts: Tania Chandler, Melissa Manning, Jennifer Porter, Susi Fox, and Meg Dunley.
To my family, thanks for (almost) understanding why I quit my career – especially my mum and dad, who will always inspire me. To my brothers – Jim, Roy, and Gary – thank you for introducing me to the world of books.
To Andy McCann, my grade six teacher (and best teacher I ever had) – thank you.
Lastly, I am indebted to Georgia for her unfailing love and belief. And to Bridie, who was there.
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