‘I’m awake now.’ Judy met his eyes. ‘There’s only so much I can sleep, before I wake up and realise I’m still here.’
‘God. You really look like her,’ he let slip. It was the eyes: bloodshot like Paulina’s after a bender, and shaped like hers, though the blue-grey colour was all wrong.
‘I don’t.’ Judy seemed almost offended. ‘It’s kind of you to say, but I don’t. She looked much more like her father.’
‘There’s a resemblance,’ he insisted. ‘Around the — whole face. The eyes and the cheeks and the, um, mouth.’
He didn’t want to insult her — these weren’t things Paulina liked about herself. She liked her hair, her legs, her arse. Not her face.
‘She got her father’s Slavic good looks. And his nose. She didn’t get my nose.’
Judy’s nose was straight and thin, almost to the point of over-refinement. Just a white lady in her fifties, he reminded himself. Nothing special at all.
‘Yeah, that’s different,’ he agreed. ‘Your colouring’s different, too. But everything else … You’re very similar.’
‘We’re not, though.’
Caro ahemmed ostentatiously. ‘Excuse me, young man, but are you going to introduce yourself? Or are you just going to stand there gawking all day?’
‘Sorry …’ His brain took a while to recover his own name. ‘It’s Jesse.’
‘Jesse. Yes.’ Judy smiled placidly. ‘I’ve heard of you.’
Then she drew up her legs and skimmed her eyes over the bedcovers.
Face glowing, Jesse perched on the bed’s edge. ‘Yeah. We were good friends.’
‘Not a boyfriend, though?’ Caro cocked an eyebrow.
‘Just friends. Good friends.’
‘I find that hard to believe.’ Caro spoke over his head. ‘He’s very dark and handsome. You know Paulina’s type.’
Judy glanced at him. ‘She did have a type.’
‘You’re very dark and handsome.’ Caro’s gaze was both lewd and accusing. ‘I bet they get you to play Gideon King in all the re-enactments.’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘“No”? Did I say something funny?’
‘Sorry.’ He straightened his face. ‘Just, I could never play Gideon King. I don’t have mutineer blood. Fairfolk’s very particular about that kind of thing.’
‘But you’re an Islander?’ She scrutinised his skin. ‘You have … the accent.’
‘I’m third-generation. Dad’s parents were Maltese.’
‘And your mother?’
‘She grew up on the mainland.’ Jesse met her narrow blue eyes. ‘She was Yuggera.’
‘Yuggera.’ Caro half smiled, like she had him all figured out. ‘That’s a Queensland group, isn’t it?’
‘It was Yuggera land before the queen put her name on it.’
‘And how did your mother end up on Fairfolk? If you don’t mind me asking.’
‘She worked as a cleaner on a cruise ship, ma’am. Came here on a day pass. Met my dad.’
‘I see.’ Caro bristled at his deadpan delivery. ‘Well, you’re very striking. You’re sure you and Paulina were just friends?’
‘It was … complicated.’
‘It’s a simple question.’
‘We …’ He could almost hear Paulina laughing at him. ‘… Hooked up. Yeah. But we were better as friends.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘It’s complicated, like I said. She was a complicated chick.’
‘And you?’ Caro was looking at his skin again, the tattoos on his arms, in a way that made him wish he’d worn long sleeves. ‘You’re not complicated?’
‘No offence, ma’am. But I came here to pay my respects, not to talk about myself.’
Caro didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘No offence, young man. But you’re going to have to get used to talking about yourself, when the detective asks you the same questions.’
‘Sorry, what?’ Jesse looked from Caro to Judy, who was staring into her lap, eyelashes pale and lank. ‘Detective?’
‘The homicide detective, from Canberra. He’ll want to know all the details of your complicated relationship, I’m sure.’
‘Homicide.’ Jesse’s throat constricted. ‘I thought it was … I mean, the way she was … she was so depressed about turning thirty?’
‘Oh.’ Judy’s raw eyes lifted to his. ‘You did know her well.’
Then she covered her face and wept.
Washing his trembling hands in Vera and Rocky’s peach-hued bathroom sink, Jesse half expected to see blood mixed with the water. A mind-fuck. The worst fucking mind-fuck of his life. Trust Paulina to still be at it, from beyond the grave.
Jesse sat on the fluffy peach toilet lid and got out his Camels, hoping Vera would understand; surely now, of all times, she’d understand people needed to smoke inside the house sometimes?
Sometimes I sits and thinks
And sometimes I just sits
He read the quote on the framed picture of a winged little girl with her undies down, squatting on a toadstool, and thought, actually, probably Vera wouldn’t understand. Anyone who willingly displayed pictures like that was a loose cannon.
‘Paulina, you bitch.’ Jesse cried into his hands. ‘You wanted this.’
‘Have a nice smoke-break, did you?’ Caro asked, looking almost envious.
‘S-sorry.’ Jesse looked at Judy; her face like a lost battle. ‘I’ll go.’
Caro closed the bedroom door behind him. ‘We’re not done with you, yet.’
Then she sat on the bed beside Judy, stretched out her legs.
‘Sorry.’ Jesse settled on the floor among the luggage. ‘I don’t know what to tell you.’
‘You can start by telling us where you were on Good Friday.’
‘Yeah,’ Jesse said, then saw what she was implying. ‘Wait: you seriously think I—?’
‘I think this is a very serious matter.’
‘Yeah, sorry.’ He looked at Judy again; she was picking some lint off her shirt — his shirt. ‘Hey! That’s my shirt!’
‘Excuse me?’ Caro cried.
‘My Bauhaus shirt.’ Jesse gestured wildly. ‘Oh, wow. I was wondering where that went. Paulina must’ve stolen it.’
‘This?’ Frowning, Judy plucked at her shirtfront. ‘I just wear it because … it has her smell.’
‘I’m glad she took it,’ Jesse choked out. ‘I’m glad. It’s yours.’
Judy sniffed the sleeve, shut her eyes.
‘Good Friday.’ Caro’s voice told him he was staring too much, again. ‘Your alibi?’
‘Sorry. I was working.’
‘On a public holiday?’
‘Yeah. Um. I work for the family business; Easter’s one of our busiest times.’
‘And what business is that?’
‘Camilleri’s. The butcher’s, ma’am.’
Judy let out a small sob; covered her face again. ‘You’re a butcher?’ Caro glowered.
‘Like I said, it’s the family business. I …’ He saw Judy’s shoulders shaking and felt faint. ‘I’m an artist, too.’
‘An artistic butcher. How interesting. Drawing, painting?’
‘Yeah, both. I painted the mural at Mutineers’ Lodge. I do tattoos too.’
‘But you were butchering on Good Friday?’
‘I was helping Dad prepare the orders for Easter.’
‘Just your dad?’
‘It’s a family business, ma’am.’ Jesse hated his dad in that moment for making him come here. ‘Look, do you want his phone number? Jesus, I wouldn’t lie about that, okay? Paulina was a friend of mine.’
Caro looked at him for a long time; so long, he had to look down at his sandals.
‘And what time did you finish work?’
‘Around two.’
‘Then what?’
‘I went for a drive. I heard the supply ship was coming in. There wasn’t much to see by then. I bummed around at home till dinnertime. It was raining.’
‘Then what?’
‘I went to Dad’s for dinner. I live in the cottage behind his house. He fried some fish, for Lent. My sister called. She lives in Brisbane. I got the call about Paulina … later.’ His nose stung. ‘Toa, the chef at Mutes’. He wasn’t specific. I really thought it was … self-inflicted.’
Something flashed across Caro’s face, jagged as lightning. She touched the crease between her eyebrows, appeared to smooth it with her fingers.
‘Well, it wasn’t. She fought very hard.’ She put an arm around Judy, who was tugging tissues from a box, trembling all over. ‘Dozens of stab wounds. A broken pelvis. You can’t know how hard she fought … unless you were there, of course.’
‘I wasn’t.’ Jesse pinched the pain between his eyes. ‘Jesus. I wasn’t.’
‘Then you won’t have any problem giving your fingerprints?’
‘Jesus, lady, how many times do I have to tell you? She was my friend. I’d never hurt her. I …’ He reached into the pocket of his cargo shorts. ‘I made this for her birthday. I was gonna give it to her; now I can’t. Here.’
Caro snatched up the CD, though he’d meant to hand it to Judy.
‘“Ulvini Songs.”’ Caro read aloud. ‘Does that mean something? In your little language?’
‘It’s Fayrf’k for “old woman”. It was just a dumb joke, with her turning thirty.’
‘You joked about that? Knowing how depressed she was?’
‘Sorry. Just, she was always calling me a baby cos I’m younger, so I called her “ulvini”.’
‘I see.’ Caro frowned. ‘And you drew this … album art?’
‘Yeah.’ He crawled closer to the bed. ‘It’s another dumb joke. See, she’s driving the bus, being queen of the ulvinis. And those in the bus are all the old people on their “Nearly-Dead Tour”. Um, just ignore the guy with the rabbit ears. And, yeah. That camel behind the bus is me.’
‘Very … creative,’ Caro murmured. ‘You’re not bad.’
She passed the CD to Judy, who looked at it vacantly.
‘Sorry if it’s in bad taste.’ Jesse watched her hopefully. ‘I just meant to make her laugh, Mrs Novak—’
‘Do you see a husband anywhere?’ Caro snapped.
‘Ms, sorry. You can keep it, Ms Novak. I want you to have it.’
Judy looked up, and he got the creeps all over again; she looked so much like her.
‘I don’t want it,’ Judy mumbled, shaking her head.
Jesse hadn’t prepared for this.
‘But, it’s for you.’
‘No,’ Judy said firmly. ‘It was for Paulina.’
‘But, you’re the closest one to her. I want you to have it. Like the shirt.’
‘I don’t want it.’ Judy shook her head again, harder. ‘Or the shirt. Please, if you just give me a minute to dress. Or I can get that woman to wash it and give it to you tomorrow.’
‘No,’ Jesse pleaded, though he didn’t know why it mattered so much. ‘Please. Keep them.’
Judy tossed the CD on the bed. ‘I don’t want it. Take it away. Please.’
‘But, please, Ms Novak, I—’
‘Oh, for chrissakes!’ Caro grabbed it. ‘You’re lucky I don’t smash the thing!’
Then she steered Jesse out the door. He tried to get one last look at Judy, from over Caro’s head. Caro noticed. ‘Haven’t you seen enough?’
‘Sorry.’ Jesse winced as the door slammed, leaving him with Caro in the hall. ‘You won’t actually smash it, will you?’
Caro patted her pockets. Her face had that ragged, hungry look Jesse knew well.
‘Here.’ He offered her a Camel. ‘Bes’ take it outside, but. Vera hates smoke.’
Caro stuck a ciggie in her mouth. Raised her brows expectantly.
Jesse lit her up. All at once, it hit him hard again.
‘What?’ Caro blew smoke towards the kitchen. ‘Are you going to tell me I look like her, now?’
‘Sorry.’
‘Fingerprints.’
‘Yeah.’
‘If you don’t give them, I’ll know.’
‘Yeah.’ Jesse sighed. ‘I believe you.’
NICE GIRL
Paulina dressed like a nice girl for her meeting with Rita. But right after her contract was signed, she went and sat on the bench outside Foodfolk with her skirt pulled up and legs stretched out, smoking rollies like the girl she was. That’s when she saw him again.
‘Hey, you! What’s your name? Your real name, not your camel-name.’
He stopped short. ‘Oh. You.’ Looked at her skirt. ‘You’re dressed different.’
‘I know, right?’ Paulina rubbed the fabric of her flowery skirt. ‘I’m dressed like a nice girl today. Like a girl you’d take home to your parents. Can’t say the same about you.’
‘Yeah, cos I’m not a girl.’
Paulina cacked it. The guy shook his head, strolled into the shops.
She was ready to strike again, as soon as he came out.
‘Oi! What’d you buy? Choc-milk? Camels?’
He looked into his shopping bag. ‘No. Just normal stuff.’
‘Oi!’ She patted the bench. ‘Sit!’
He sat, all embarrassed. Paulina curled up her legs, turned her body towards him, and smiled sweetly. Then she made a grab for his shopping bag.
‘Geez, mothballs? Chicken Tonight? Choc-ripple ice cream? That’s soooo lame.’
He snatched his shopping back. ‘Do you always hang around Foodfolk criticising people’s shopping?’
‘I do now! I got a job.’ She gave him her hand to high-five; he didn’t. ‘Watch out. Starting tomorrow, I get to criticise your shopping every time and get paid for it.’
‘I bet the pay’s shit.’
‘At least I won’t spend it on mothballs, Camel.’ Paulina poked the camel tattoo on his bicep. ‘Hey, tell me your real name?’
‘Jesse.’
‘Girl’s name!’
‘No. It’s only a girl’s name when it’s Jessica.’
‘What’s your surname? Ooo, let me guess, is it King? Carlyle? Greatorex? That’s my favourite, cos of Great-O’s. Do you know the Great-O White Shark Grill? I love them.’
‘They burned down.’
‘I love, love, love them!’ Paulina giggled. ‘Oi, is it Stevens? Turner? MacArthur? White? Um, that other W-one; I always forget—’
‘It’s not Wotherspoon. It’s not a mutineer name. Don’t bother guessing.’
‘Aw! Fine. Tell me.’
‘Camilleri.’
‘Camilleri!’ She bit her lip. ‘Italian?’
‘Maltese.’
‘Maltese!’ Paulina smirked. ‘My friend Carli married a Maltese guy. He’s a sensitive bugger like you. Can’t take a joke.’
‘I like funny jokes.’
‘Yeah? Say something funny, then.’
‘My humour’s too sophisticated for you, eh.’
‘What, cos I’m a mainie?’ Paulina scoffed. ‘Wait: if you don’t have an island name, does that mean you’re a mainie?’
‘Nay. I was born here.’
‘Does your mum have an Island name?’
‘She was Yuggera.’ He saw the question mark in her face. ‘Aboriginal. From Brisbane.’
‘Really?’ Paulina leaned forward. ‘So, like, you’re even more of a mainie than me, if you really think about it.’
‘That’s not how it works, eh.’ Jesse stood up. ‘I bes’ go.’
‘Aw! Don’t leave me, Jesse-Camel!’
Jesse indicated his shopping. ‘Melting.’
‘You’re leaving
me for choc-ripple ice cream?’ She grabbed his hand. ‘Please, Jesse-Camel. Just one question?’
Jesse sighed.
‘Just one question.’ Paulina gave him a gooey look. ‘Do you really have good taste in music? Or was that shirt you had on the other day from, like, a bargain bin?’
In Jesse Camilleri’s cottage, sorting through his CD collection, Paulina was happier than she’d been in weeks. Also, hornier. He really did have amazing taste.
‘Deep! Jesse, you’re beautiful.’
‘… Thanks.’
Jesse wasn’t on the floor with her. He was on the couch, watching her touch his stuff with a look of horror-struck resignation.
‘What’s your favourite track?’
‘Uh, “Marlene Dietrich’s Favourite Poem”, probably.’
‘Ha! Sensitive bugger.’ She was blushing, though. ‘Mine’s “Cuts You Up”, thanks for asking.’
‘That’s a good one, too.’
She sorted some more CDs into piles: stuff she liked, stuff she didn’t know, stuff she scorned as hippie music.
‘Another Beatle? One minute you’re cool, next minute you’re my mum.’
‘How can you like Elliott Smith but hate The Beatles?’
‘Told ya, hippies are lame! Like that air-freshener in your Camel-mobile.’ She’d already told him exactly what she thought of his red Commodore, and everything in it — especially the marijuana-shaped air-freshener. ‘Peace, love, groovy baby. Fuck off!’
‘Uh huh.’
Paulina made a peace-sign with her fingers, stuck her tongue between them, and wiggled it around. That shut him up.
‘Oh, Jesse,’ she cooed, moments later, holding up Souvlaki. ‘Beautiful!’
‘Yeah, it’s one of my favourites,’ he said coolly — as if she didn’t already want to fuck his brains out. ‘Like I said, though. You’re wrecking my order.’
‘Like I said: my order’s better.’ She pointed at the piles. ‘Cool. Lame. Borrowing!’
‘You can’t borrow all those.’
‘I’ll take some today then bring them back and take some more.’ Paulina grinned triumphantly. ‘I’m coming here every day, Jesse-Camel.’
He didn’t say anything. But he did look at her legs when she rearranged her flowery skirt around them.
The Newcomer Page 7
