by Ben Hobson
‘As long as you do.’
‘I said I bloody get it.’
That smirk again. ‘You get riled up quickly, don’t you? Man like you should have more patience.’
‘You’re in my house talking to me like I’m thick in the head. And my son’s there next to you, bleeding all over the place because he was out doing something for you lot. You need to show some damn respect!’
His father rarely raised his voice. Easy to see he was rattled. The younger man did not seem put off. He smiled as their father’s red face breathed in front of him. He stood and walked slowly over to the door.
‘Sharon, you alright if we leave you here?’
‘I’ll find my way home, sure.’
With his back to them he said, ‘A person who commands respect doesn’t have to throw a tantrum about it. They just have it. And clearly, you don’t. I’m not having a go. Just addressing the problem.’ He turned to face them and fiddled with the wedding band on his finger. ‘I understand things happen, make no mistake, but if you’d been doing things the right way, nobody’d dare cross you. If this town truly feared you, we wouldn’t be here. You don’t command their respect. Which is, I’m sure, something you’d love me to keep from the higher ups. And you—’ he looked at Sharon—‘need to be of more help. How did something like this happen without you knowing about it?’ He looked around at all of them. ‘Get it fixed. You have two days. You hear me?’
Ernie made no motion to say he’d understood.
‘You hear me?’
‘We bloody hear you,’ Brendan said.
‘Good.’ The young man smiled. To Sidney, he said, ‘Hope your arm gets all better. You think it’s broken?’
Sidney grimaced. ‘Doubt it. Hurts to move, though.’
The young one nodded once. When nobody said anything further he said, ‘I want you to confirm to me you heard what I just said.’
‘I heard you,’ Ernie said.
‘You heard me say what?’
Ernie’s voice was lower, quieter. More awful. Somehow the Melbourne bloke still didn’t seem to care.
‘Two days.’
‘That’s right. That wasn’t so hard, was it? Judah and I will see you then. I’m Martin, by the way.’
He extended his hand and crossed some of the living room to reach Ernie, who shook it carefully. Sidney could see a pistol in the man’s belt. So the removing of their weapons outside had been a charade. Martin knew what he was doing, knew their father saw it, knew he wouldn’t say anything about it. That he held all the power.
Ernie followed them out to their car and Sidney heard it peel down the driveway.
Back inside once more, Ernie looked around the room then walked over to Brendan, who was still leaning against the wall. Brendan did not see it coming. His father’s fist swung and hit him hard in the throat. He went down coughing, scrabbling on his knees. Sidney sat up. Sharon looked stricken, scrambling away.
‘Dad, don’t,’ Sidney said.
‘Ernie,’ Sharon said.
Ernie was beyond hearing. He kicked at his son’s legs, stomped on his feet. Thudding against the carpet. Brendan scurried like some hunted mouse, whimpering. Sidney remembered a time he had ridden on Brendan’s back, at play in the front yard. Sidney did his best to stand. His mute wife was still sullen. He wobbled on his feet. Cassie had run. Brendan crawled out the front door, trailed by his enraged father. Sidney made it to the front door, his sore arm still pinned to his chest, sparing a look for Sharon, who had shuffled closer to the fireplace. Sidney followed his father and brother into the moonlight.
On the verandah Brendan, pitiful, went for the stairs leading down to the grass, blubbering like Amy. His father caught up quickly, grabbed his shoulders and wrenched him back onto the verandah. He kicked him in the arse—a move that looked like mockery to Sidney—and Brendan crawled forwards, then rolled over. The pig behind him swaying slightly.
‘Dad, Dad, please,’ he said. He was in a panic.
‘I haven’t even bloody hurt you yet. You know what you’ve done?’
Brendan stopped crawling the moment his father’s open hand rested on his face.
‘Dad,’ Sidney said from the doorway.
‘You shut up,’ he said. ‘And you,’ he said, turning back to Brendan, ‘you know what you’ve done to us?’
‘Dad. Please.’
‘Dad,’ Sidney said. ‘Come on.’
‘I won’t tell you again to mind your bloody business, messed up arm and all. Go back inside.’
Sidney said no more but did not retreat. His father’s hands moved down his brother’s face and squeezed into his neck. Brendan made no attempt to remove the fingers. Just let them be, let them squeeze. Sidney saw his face turn red in the moonlight.
His father lifted Brendan from the verandah by his neck. Feet scrambling for purchase. He was choking, spluttering, pleading with his hands, pawing at his father’s like a kitten. His father pushed him backwards into the pig carcass. With his free hand he opened the gut and forced his oldest’s head inside.
‘Smell that, mate. You smell it?’
A muffled reply from inside the pig.
‘That’s the smell of a mongrel death. What you’ve invited on all of us with what you’ve done.’ He held him there. Brendan’s feet were wriggling, trying to take the pressure off his back. The pig bucked and swayed. Brendan’s head gone completely, like it had been lopped off. Sidney started forwards, thought better of it, stopped.
‘Dad, he’ll suffocate in there.’
His father relented. Brendan collapsed out of the pig, his head red and trembling. There were bits of flesh sticking to his beard and from his lips dangled a mixture of snot, saliva and blood, not his. He was crying, turning away from his brother, from his father, with the shame of it. Sidney wanted to tell him not to mind, but didn’t. Instead he looked at his father, who showed no remorse. He was sitting cross-legged on the verandah. He stayed that way, watching his oldest blubber.
Sidney walked back inside. His wife had moved and was now seated on the couch, staring vacantly. Sharon was still by the fire, her face to it, golden light licking her. She would not turn to Sidney as he shuffled in.
‘What was all that?’ Sarah finally asked.
‘Lot of help you are.’
‘It’s your family, Sidney.’
He looked at his wife, studied her eyes. ‘You’re high.’
She nodded slowly. ‘I am a bit.’
‘Lot of help, aren’t you?’ he repeated.
‘I’m not the one with the useless arm and the cuts across my chest.’
He had no reply to this and walked down the hallway to check on his daughter, to see if the noise had woken her.
She was still asleep. Would sleep through anything. She was lying on her side, one hand near her mouth, which was twitching like she was feeding. Her little ears covered by the pink beanie his mother had knitted and his wife had put on her. The room smelled like weed. With her hair covered by the cap, she could have been bald. She had kicked her rug off and it was bunched at the bottom of the cot. Her precious toy kangaroo in the corner.
That sticky smell in the air. He waved his good hand over her face. Kissed his fingertips and held them to her temple. There’d been men in the living room with weapons. His father talked a big game but he’d been the cause of all of it. Without him, who knew who Brendan would now be?
Sidney sat and watched Amy for a long time, until he heard his wife call, ‘The doctor’s here.’
He stayed another moment, just watching her suck air. Then he left the room, closing the door quietly, and with one arm still holding his chest, re-emerged in the living room.
He said, ‘You shouldn’t yell out like that when she’s sleeping.’
Sarah gave him a look. ‘What did you want me to do then, Sidney? Send you a message with my mind?’
‘Just walk down the corridor.’ He sat down beside her on the couch and tried to put his hand on her knee. She did not unfo
ld her arms, so he left off. Sharon was in the kitchen, doing something. Fiddling with the teapot by the sound of it. His mother likely still in her room. Cassie had run off permanently, it would seem. Probably using the phone in their parents’ bedroom to call Peter.
The doctor came in from the verandah, flanked by Sidney’s father, whose face showed nothing of his previous exertions. Nothing of the anger, or the violence. Brendan was nowhere to be seen.
Doctor Wilkie removed his glasses to rub his eyes before kneeling down beside Sidney. He said, ‘Alright, let me take a look. You want to lie down here or in your room?’
‘Amy’s asleep in my room.’
‘Here it is, then.’
Sidney lowered himself with care down on the couch. Sharon entered, two cups of tea in her hands. Ernie took one. She looked at Doctor Wilkie, lifted the other cup to him, received a shake of the head and started drinking herself. If the doctor was surprised to see her out here, he didn’t show it.
‘You alright in here, doc?’ Ernie asked. The doctor nodded. ‘Sid? I’ll be in the kitchen. I got something I want to talk with Sharon about.’
‘You leaving?’
‘We’ll just be in here.’
‘You know you went too far with Brendan.’
His father looked at Doctor Wilkie, then at his son on the couch, forcing a smile to his lips that looked fake to everybody present. Good thing the doctor was more focussed on Sidney’s arm, which he moved a little, levering it up by the forearm. His father walked into the kitchen, Sharon trailing.
‘Does this hurt?’ the doctor asked.
Sidney nodded through clenched teeth as the doctor moved the arm to afford him a clearer view of his chest. Sarah’s hand had at last found his own and he took from her the comfort she offered.
‘What do you think?’ Sidney asked.
‘It’s not all that bad, son. Your chest is a mess. Some of the cuts are deep, but nothing drastic. Ernie said you struck a kangaroo and it went through the windscreen?’
Sidney nodded.
‘So these scratches on your chest are from the kangaroo kicking at you?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And it was kicking a while?’
‘Under a minute, I guess. But it felt like forever.’
‘Well,’ the doctor said, standing up, ‘I have to say you are terrifically fortunate. I’ve seen kangaroos do far worse than this in far shorter time. He took his glasses from his nose again and rubbed at his eyes. ‘I think you’ve dislocated your shoulder. You’ve never done that before, have you?’
Sidney shook his head. ‘No. Is that why it hurts to move my hand? I thought it was the cuts.’
‘You might be just nervous about moving it. Try squeezing mine now.’
The doctor put his hand in Sidney’s. Sidney tried squeezing. It felt weak, but better than before.
‘You’re alright there. Might be just the shoulder affecting it. That you can squeeze at all means all feeling should come back. Well. We’ll have to put your shoulder back in. Which will hurt. But it’s not broken, which is good. And the scratches on your chest and arm will need stitches.’ Sidney felt sudden shame at how he’d reacted. He thought his chest had been opened up, his heart beating furiously outside his chest. ‘You might’ve fractured a few ribs as well, but nothing can be done for that besides letting them heal. We can’t cast a ribcage after all, can we?’ He smiled. Sidney wasn’t sure if what he had said was a joke. ‘Besides that, it looks like you’ve got a concussion, judging by your pupils. So you’ll have to stay awake tonight for a bit before you go to sleep.’
‘Why?’
‘You might have a brain injury. It might be bleeding. And the way to tell is to check that you’re alert, and not slurring words, or getting dopey, over six hours. So your wife will have to help you. How have you been, Sarah, since you had Amy?’
‘I’ve been good.’
‘She’s sleeping well?’
‘Yeah, she does.’
‘Still feeding?’
‘Once or twice a night now.’
‘Good, good,’ he said. ‘So you two will need to stay awake for the next six hours. And Sarah, just keep an eye on him, okay? Can you do that?’
‘What if he does get a bit dopey?’ Sarah asked.
‘If he starts acting like he’s drunk, you need to take him to the hospital instantly.’
‘Okay.’ Sarah gave his hand a squeeze. ‘I can do that.’
‘Now,’ the doctor said, standing up. ‘Let’s pop that shoulder back in.’
Later, in their room, his arm in a sling, Sarah was on the bed and he was standing looking at their daughter. He had black, bristly stitches lining his chest. He couldn’t shower and was covered still in dried blood. He felt awful, a touch woozy.
She said, ‘You alright?’
‘You ever think about what it would be like for us to move away from here?’
‘Out of Newbury?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I think about it all the time.’ She had one leg up, crossed over the other. Normally, he knew, she’d be smoking something, but he’d asked her not to.
‘Do you?’
‘I think about moving to Devonshire, you know. Closer to my folks.’
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Except I don’t know what I’d do there.’
‘For work?’
‘I could figure something out, I guess.’
‘Is that something you’d like to do? Move?’
He sighed. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Probably be better for her, growing up away from all this.’
He nodded. Said, ‘Did you hear Dad beating on Brendan?’
‘I heard it, yeah. It sounded bad.’
‘It was bad. He hasn’t gone that far for a long while, not like that. Not since we were kids. Not sure I want Amy growing up around that.’ Even as he said it, it felt wrong. Like he’d betrayed his family, who he was.
‘We could do it, you know,’ she said. ‘We could just move away. Dad’d set you up in the shop or something. We’d make it work.’
Sidney nodded and looked at his wife. ‘Love you.’
‘I know.’
‘Wish you smoked less pot, though.’
‘Shut up.’
‘Hard to see you sometimes, with the cloud of smoke around your face.’
She laughed. For a moment he thought she was going to throw a pillow at him.
He came over to her, sat on the bed. ‘I don’t know, I keep trying to think what’s best for her. What she needs. And she doesn’t need all this. The future here is nothing good. Maybe in Devonshire she could have a shot at being a normal kid for a while.’
His wife cuddled into him. ‘You alright?’ she asked.
‘I sound alright, right?’
‘There’s free pot here, though.’
He nodded, didn’t laugh. He held her for a bit and watched their daughter’s crib. It wasn’t long before she woke up for her nightly feed. Sarah went to her, shushing her, lifting her, kissing her. He sat on the bed and watched his wife feed his daughter and wondered what things would be like someplace else.
FOURTEEN
VERNON MOORE
When he got home he turned the headlight off, the one that still worked, and sat in his driveway in the darkened car. The front of his house now seemed imposing. He knew his wife would be asleep but would wake as soon as he entered and ask questions. Which he’d evade until she pressed. And she’d press. He sighed.
Vernon turned around in his seat and levered a jar out of one of the cardboard boxes on the backseat. He shook it near his ear. No discernible noise. He manoeuvred himself so he could better see the backseat in its entirety. Pressed to the sides with boxes.
He twisted off the top of the jar and held it upside down. First a small amount of paste, then a few vacuum-sealed baggies fell into his palm. He held them up in the difficult light and squinted. Hard to see, but he guessed what it was. Weed. He’d heard the Cahills made their money this way. H
e’d never tried it, though he’d caught students smoking it a few times in his day. Mostly the nonacademic ones that took his classes. He didn’t mind those kids. Preferred simple to stuck-up.
He put the baggies back into the bottle and the bottle back into the box. He sat again and looked at his front door and half expected his wife to be standing there like some unearthly spectre eyeing him, judging him in her pink fluffy bathrobe, her face all sunken as though from a dream. Her eyes shadowed, hard to fathom. He opened the door and stood a moment beside the car. Thought of his own car still parked out in the bush. He’d have to sort it out. Wouldn’t he? Could there be something made of this? A new bargaining chip. Do as I say or you won’t see the car again. Then they’re shooting his kneecaps and beating his son’s head in worse. No right way through it. He climbed back in and started the engine and looked to the doorway again for his wife. He thought of going inside to tell her his business but instead he backed out.
He drove towards Newbury until he hit a fork in the road and turned left, towards Devonshire. He drove another minute before making a right onto a dirt track. His one headlight cast over dense forest and imagined animals. He reversed the car neatly beneath some low-hanging branches and got out.
There was a river nearby. People launched their boats down a small mud ramp. Nothing man-made. Only locals knew this place. He took a few steps in shifting mud away from the car and then turned to gaze upon his subterfuge. You’d have to know it was there to look for it. Otherwise it’d look like some bloke gone night fishing. He thought about the boxes. He walked up the slope, pushing himself up with his hands on his knees, and met asphalt.
He walked back to the fork in the road and waited for passing cars to give him a lift. In his youth he had been a man of much greater endurance. It pissed him off, being old. The walk ahead of him would be massive. Kilometres. Unfortunately Port Napier did not offer much to entice traffic in the middle of the night. He didn’t expect he’d see a car before he made it home. He started walking, regretting not bringing a drink of some description.
When he came to the cemetery he stood a moment with his elbows propped on the fence and regarded the stones and thought of all the people buried there, skeletons in the earth, and thought what it would be like if they were to rise from their graves and come for him in the dark with their arms outstretched. Or if they’d walk at all, or float like spectres, and he thought of all those he’d known who were now dead, all who’d perished in the war, and old Barney his boss who had died on the job, teaching kids, supervising, a heart attack as he pointed to the flower parts on the blackboard, noting the stamen. How he’d fallen. Even Vernon in the building nearby heard the sound of his body colliding with the laminate. Dead, skeletal now, all of them. Weymouth in the ground. His one good eye forever staring straight into Vernon. Who would be dead too, eventually. Though would he know it then? His son in there with him too, all of them, every person, every son, every daughter. Dead for certain. What was the point? If nothing mattered then nothing bloody mattered and he might as well just lie down in an open grave here now and let nature do its work.
