by Ben Hobson
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ he kept saying.
Vernon went to him and his son gripped him and held onto his arms, his body. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said repeatedly, a slobbery mess against Vernon’s chest. He just held him as the boy shook.
‘It’s alright, it’s alright. I’m sorry too, mate.’
His boy, like this. What he’d done. There was no lesson here for Caleb. Nothing so noble. He’d just been abandoned. That was all. The boy deserved to be punished for what he’d done, yes. Certain as the earth. Nothing he could do now would take back what he’d done to his wife. But what came after the punishment? Who was there to help rebuild him? Vernon was sorry he’d ever had the idea to be harsh. He’d lost two years—two years—with his boy on some silly notion of discipline drilled into him by the army, his father, his community, his country. His boy needed punishing, yes, but he needed his father too.
They held each other for some time, neither wishing to let go. Vernon, through gritted teeth, realised this was the first time he could remember actually hugging his son. Such shame then, almost felling him. He eventually pried himself away and held his son’s face and met his eyes. ‘You’re alright, mate. Alright? It was my fault.’
‘I shouldn’t’ve done it. I’m sorry.’ Caleb wiped at his face. Which was sunken in. On his left cheekbone, stitches covered a gash two inches long.
‘I thought …’ the old man said, then thought better of it. ‘Alright. You’re alright.’
He found a plastic chair like the one in the front office and plonked himself into it. Immensely tired, all of a sudden.
His son smiled sadly. ‘I’ve been wanting you to come for so long. I kept thinking you were ashamed of me, just left me in here to rot. That’s what it’s felt like.’ He scratched at the gash on his face.
Vernon noticed for the first time that his right forearm was in a cast. Decided not to ask about it.
‘You ever read the Bible?’ Caleb asked.
‘Got your name out of it, I think. So your mum says.’
‘I know you never read it when I was a kid …’
‘I don’t really have time for that stuff, mate. Bill Kelly takes care of all that for me.’
‘Ah,’ Caleb said. ‘He tell you to come and see me?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What did he say?’
Vernon took a moment. ‘Told me you needed me.’
Caleb nodded. ‘Anyway, you know the story of the prodigal son?’
‘Yeah, he runs away from home, right? Then goes back and the dad’s all forgiving?’
‘There’s a bit I kept re-reading in there,’ Caleb said. ‘It talks about the son being out in the pigsty eating the slop. And I kept thinking that’s where I am, and what I wouldn’t do to be able to go home and be back to normal. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t leave here.’
His father nodded. Remembered he’d taken to hanging up on his kid when Caleb tried calling home early into the sentence. That he’d help push his face into the slop.
‘I shouldn’t’ve left you in here, mate. I shouldn’t’ve.’
‘I understand. There’s stuff both of us shouldn’t of done, yeah? So, maybe we just forgive each other and move on.’
Vernon looked at his son. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
‘I know.’
‘What’s with all this?’ He indicated his son’s face, arm, chest. He hadn’t seen his legs yet and noticed for the first time a large bruise, extending from the boy’s shoulder. It was yellow and large.
‘Yeah. Well. It was worse yesterday, when it happened. Worse than when Kelly saw me, too.’
‘What happened?’
‘Not sure I want to tell you.’
‘Don’t be a dickhead, mate.’
‘You know Brendan Cahill?’
‘Sort of. A bit. I know of the Cahills.’
‘Big bastard. Mean, you know? Melissa went to school with him. They were in the same year, had a few classes together. She’s come in here to see me, did you know?’
Vernon shook his head. So, she’d forgiven him. He wasn’t sure what to make of it.
‘She moved back just recently. Told me about her new life, and all that. She’s doing well. She is.’ Caleb had been looking down while talking about his ex-wife and now looked up. ‘I told her I was sorry, you know? She didn’t say anything to that but she did nod. I hope that’s okay. S’pose I can’t do much else. Beyond never doing anything like it ever again.’
Vernon said slowly, ‘Yeah.’
‘Still can’t look at her, Dad.’ He shook his head, bunched his eyes. ‘So Brendan runs into her on the street after she got back, just a few weeks ago. Apparently. This is what he told me anyway. Saw her face, saw her nose … gets all angry about it and I can’t blame him, really, can I? And he decides to come and visit me, let me know what he thinks about the whole thing.’
Vernon knew where this was going and looked down to afford his son some privacy while he shared it. He risked a glance, though, and found his son searching for his face.
‘So he tells me this last time that he’s aiming to put a beating on me for every day I was married to her. So three years, roughly, he tells me. And he laughs, you know? He bloody laughs at me. And he gets free rein in here. Whatever he pleases. They let him in, show him to my room, and stand right outside the door while he beats on me. Brought a cricket bat last time. Dislocated this just yesterday.’
Showed his wrist.
‘Just snapped it. Doctor said he had to look at the x-rays but he thinks it’s dislocated.’
His father was silent for a moment. ‘When did this all start?’
‘First time was two weeks ago. Last week Reverend Kelly saw me and I was bruised, sure. But then he came back just yesterday.’ Caleb rolled his eyes. ‘I think he just wants an excuse to hit people.’
‘Ah, mate. I’m sorry.’
‘Just glad you’re here now.’
Vernon thought for a moment. ‘Even Eve out there, she lets him do what he wants?’
‘Ah, no, she’s alright.’ Caleb bunched his eyes again. ‘She just does what she’s told. I don’t think she likes it much.’
‘Told by who?’
‘The governor. He gets paid off, obviously, but even he’s afraid of the Cahills. You know, what they’d do to him. So he just doesn’t get in the way, really.’
Vernon reached onto the bed, sitting forward, and put one hand gently on his son’s leg. ‘Is this all of it?’
‘The damage?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Most of it, this time, yeah.’ Caleb sat up a bit. ‘How’s Mum?’
‘Mum’s okay. Misses you.’
‘She never came …’
Vernon nodded at this. Then, ‘We were wrong, mate. Both of us.’
Caleb frowned. Seemed to accept it.
Vernon said, ‘You’ve only got a bit left in here, right?’
‘Half a year or so, yeah,’ and his boy smiled. ‘I’ll be getting out for this weekend, too.’
‘What? Why?’
‘For the prisoners on the run thing they do.’
‘Ah, that’s right. Forgot they did that.’
‘I’m lucky I get to go with this,’ Caleb said, holding up his wrist.
‘They said it was alright?’
‘Long as I don’t bang it on anything.’
‘Bloody ridiculous they let you lot out for that.’
‘They say it’s to help us integrate. Everyone in here is on the last year of their sentence, here on good behaviour.’
‘Still bloody stupid.’ Vernon said. He looked at his son, saw his eyes, how betrayed he seemed. ‘I don’t mean for you, mate, I mean letting prisoners out for a jog.’
‘Governor lets us all go. So no reason I can’t.’
‘And he said he’d be back? Brendan?’
‘Well,’ Caleb said. ‘He said he owes me another three years’ worth of beatings. So I imagine he’ll be back. He’ll have to squeeze two into one day th
is rate.’
‘Bloody hell.’
‘So Mum’s okay?’
‘She’s good, mate.’
‘Will she come visit now?’
Vernon wanted to avoid this line of questioning. ‘Yeah, I imagine so.’
‘And you? You’ll be here more now?’
‘Yeah, mate. I’ll be here.’
He sat there with his son for another twenty minutes then and talked about all manner of things. Often he had to look away as his boy spoke. Couldn’t look at that scarred face. He knew, though, that he would not abandon him again. He saw it all now clear as day. He’d hidden behind his lofty ideals––that the boy needed the prison and abandonment to feel the full weight of his crimes—but, really, Vernon had just been scared. Not wanting to feel pain. A coward.
On the way home he passed by the bowls club and so he parked the car and walked inside. His wife was seated with her friends at a table in the near-dark. The pokies were glowing brightly, covering their faces in oranges, yellows and greens. She looked just like them all, their whites flashing the same colours as their faces. The fattest one, Margie, echoed a guffaw as he approached, tilting her head back like a duck swallowing. She kept on at it as he stood at the side of the circle.
She said, ‘Vernie. Vernie. We were just talking about you.’And looked embarrassed in that condescending way of hers.
He didn’t care what these others thought, only about Penelope. ‘What’ve you been telling them, darling?’
‘Oh, you know. Just your man stuff. Your adventures with the pelican.’
He grimaced. ‘What did you say?’
Margie laughed again and spoke before his wife could. ‘She said you were out there quick as a flash when she ordered you. Like you were back in the army. Henpecked rooster.’
The girls all laughed.
Vernon looked at her. ‘I’ve seen some things in the war, Margie, that were pretty terrible. Mates … So it’s not so nice to be dealing with blood of any sort. It brings back some pretty bad memories.’
Margie struggled to look abashed, and instead looked at his wife.
Penelope said, ‘He’s just playing, Margie. Aren’t you, Vernie?’
He shrugged. ‘Sure. Sure I am. Can I talk to you a second, Pen?’
She nodded and they walked to the other side of the clubroom, away from the pokies. The women returned to their former gaiety.
‘Well?’ she asked.
‘You alright?’
‘I’m alright. Dubbed two right on the kitty but Margie knocked ’em out pretty quick.’ She paused, looked down. ‘How’s Caleb then?’
‘He’s good. He’s good. I’ll tell you about it when you get home.’
‘Is that true? What you said about the war, and blood? You’ve never really talked about it …’
‘Not really. I don’t know. Maybe.’
‘Vernie …’
‘She’s a rude bugger, I don’t know why you’re friends with her.’
His wife’s hands went onto her hips and her chin jutted forward. ‘What is it then?’
‘I was wondering if you knew where the Cahills live.’
‘No, never sure exactly where. Only out in the hills, like everyone knows.’
‘What about their comings and goings, you know? Of all of them?’
‘You want to meet up with one of them?’
‘Something like that …’
She frowned. ‘Well, Margie knows Agatha. And Agatha talks to the old lady Cahill. What’s her name?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I could ask Margie if she knows anything about where they’d be.’
‘Alright,’ Vernon said, and allowed a moment for the women’s laughter to subside. ‘Don’t say you’re asking for me. Don’t ask for the address either. That’s obvious.’
‘What’s this all about?’
‘I’ll tell you later.’
‘You tell me now or I’m not asking.’
‘Sweetheart,’ he said, and put his hands on her shoulders. He tried his best to muster some kind of certainty. ‘Please. Just ask. I need to know the next time I can meet up with one of them for a conversation. That’s all. Alright?’
She nodded and shrugged his hands off and walked back to her group. Margie looked in his direction and he offered her a wave. She screwed her face up. He crept his smile wider and left.
On his way home he turned back down MacMillan Road and parked in front of Flynn’s Drapery and sat a moment. He got out and the wind buffeted him, making shutting the door difficult. He hugged his jacket around himself and ventured onto the grassy median strip.
There stood a war memorial. A fat obelisk made of slate. He ran his hands over the names etched on it and then stood back. Leaves had collected at the bottom, and were now billowed by the breeze. More accumulated as he watched.
He knew none of the men on the plaque. Or if he had he’d forgotten them. Weymouth’s name wouldn’t be there. He hadn’t been a Newbury boy. The leaves kept sliding. If he blurred his eyes they appeared a tubby snake, dozing in the sun. He knelt down and shuffled them away with his hands.
The three of them surrounded by jungle, scooping beans from tins. Vernon seated next to Kelly, Kelly next to Weymouth. Their maws not having been filled in a day. The spoons were quick, up and down. The men were dressed in their army greens, all of them coated heavy in mud. Their hats held together with rope.
He hated this place. The different trees, the way they snaked out of the ground. The sky always that duller shade of blue. What he hated most: this wasn’t home. The beans were cold. He hated that too.
‘This bloody place,’ he said. Same thing he’d heard repeated a thousand times by a thousand men.
Kelly, with a face full of beans, said, ‘Could be worse.’
‘You’re a hopeful sod, aren’t you?’
He knew of Kelly’s intent to attend a seminary, get his degree in theology. Had known it since high school. Seemed so long ago. Was only last year. Still didn’t understand it. He found his friend’s unrelenting cheeriness both annoying and inspiring. Like God spoke to him and nobody else. Vernon hadn’t felt inspired by it since they’d landed here. Hard to feel hope in the middle of Hell.
When Kelly said nothing, Vernon added, ‘What about you, Weymouth? You a believer?’
Weymouth swallowed his mouthful. Grinned. In the setting sun his teeth like beans themselves.
‘Hate him.’
‘Who, God?’
‘Yeah. Him.’
Vernon watched Kelly’s eyes dart. His chomping slowed. He was considering his moves. Strange, the glee Vernon felt. He wanted to get this bloke Weymouth to dent a hole in Kelly’s faith. As though in so doing he’d be vindicated in his doubt.
‘You can’t hate God,’ Kelly said.
‘Sure I can. I do.’
‘Why?’
Weymouth looked at him. ‘You want to save me, mate?’
‘Just curious.’
‘Yeah, you do,’ he said. He put his empty tin down and leaned back, his arms behind his head like he was lounging on a chair. ‘It’s alright. I admire it, really.’
In front of them the camp was in swing. Eating, napping, staring, moving about. The sun shimmering heat.
‘I reckon,’ Weymouth said, ‘I hate God because of what he did to my dad. My dad believed right up till he died. We had this place in the city and he couldn’t make a go of it. Had a string of jobs. Just kept failing. I used to come home sometimes from school and find him sitting in a chair, just staring at the walls, the cat on his lap. We only had a couple of rooms and so you couldn’t miss him. I used to just let him be. When Mum came home she’d shake him till he came to. Anyway. Came home one day, found him dead. He’d hung himself. From the wooden beams. Just hanging there. As still as he’d always been in the chair only now he was upright. And beside him was the cat strung up. Dead like him. He’d taken the time before he offed himself to do the cat. He’d used one of his neck ties. The little thing.
He would have had to hold it tight, with it scratching at him. Choking it dead. Its little paws. Hated that mongrel thing, always scratching.’
Vernon kept watching Weymouth, who had picked up a stick and was swishing it through the long blades of grass, some of it snaking its way around the tip. He kept pulling at it, unwrapping the green with difficulty. Swearing softly.
Soon he added, ‘Anyway. That’s why I hate God.’
Kelly said, ‘I’m sorry about your dad.’
‘Yeah. Well.’
‘If you believe God exists, though, enough to hate him … you’d have to believe there was goodness, too. Right? Can’t have one without the other. I can’t understand believing in him but hating him. That doesn’t make sense to me.’
Weymouth shook his head. ‘Naw. People being good’s got nothing to do with God. Just got to do with them being selfish. There are no real good folk. Look at my dad. He was alright. He was okay. But he was a selfish bastard. Probably thought he was doing us all a favour killing himself. Like he was some burden. Anyway. People aren’t good. They always want something in return. Every person is selfish like that.’
Vernon laughed. ‘Come on, mate.’
‘I mean it.’
‘What about charity?’ Kelly asked. ‘There are thousands of charities around the world with people working, just trying to help make the world better. They’re not all selfish. You wouldn’t say that, surely?’
‘But they all feel good doing what they do, though, right?’ Weymouth stabbed the stick into the dirt, finally done. He stood. ‘There are two types of people in the world. There are—’
‘Sinners,’ Kelly said, ‘and saints.’
Weymouth gave a strange laugh, the sound like one of the alien birds in the jungle. ‘That’s fine for you, preacher, but that’s not how I see it. There are outright sinners, like my dad choking that cat, and there’re secret sinners. Those folk pretending for all the world that they’re good, but deep down they’re just as selfish as everybody else. Wasn’t selflessness put Christ up on that cross. He was greedy, wanted glory for himself. Would he have gone up if he wasn’t sure his father’d be there waiting for him?’
