by Ben Hobson
Back home he opened his front door, his back dripping sweat after his effort, the night breeze cooling it against his skin. He prised his boots off as he walked inside, tiptoed over the carpet. The laundry taps provided him with water so that his wife wouldn’t hear.
It took him what seemed a full minute to shut the bedroom door. Holding the handle down, moving it in millimetres, then creeping over to the bed, removing his clothes, wincing as they rustled.
‘Don’t bother with all the silence.’
‘Bloody hell.’
‘You think I can fall asleep with you out God-knows-where?’
She flicked her light on and sat up and looked at her husband with all the derision and anger he knew she felt.
‘Come on, I told you where I was.’
‘You said you were going to find the Cahill boy and talk some sense into him, which means God-knows.’
‘Stop saying that.’
‘And you took the gun,’ she said. Then he saw it, in the dark: real hurt in her face. She was maybe crying, maybe had earlier in the night. Normally their arguments did not extend past annoyance. And she didn’t cry.
‘How do you know that?’ he asked, regretting the question the minute it left him.
‘You left the back shed door open.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Well, it was open when I looked out there, and I walked in and the gun was gone. Are you gonna tell me what you were thinking?’ She was near tears and it made him hurt. ‘What were you thinking, Vernie? What were you doing?’
He tried to shush her, cooing at her like she was pigeon, but her arms were crossed and his cooing only seemed to strengthen her resolve. He sat on the bed beside her and looked at his hands. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry is nothing. Sorry’s a rotten word.’
‘I know,’ he said, and then, ‘I was just going to scare him a bit.’
She snorted. ‘Scare him a bit. He’s a Cahill, Vernie. They don’t scare at guns.’
‘He’d been hitting my boy.’
‘He’s my boy too.’
‘Well, he’d been hitting him. I’m not going to go in there with my shoulders all slumped and ask him pretty please will you stop. People like that only understand power.’
She said nothing for a moment. Then, ‘Did it work?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did you talk to them?’
‘I talked to Ernie and he seemed to agree to get it stopped. Seemed like he didn’t know it was happening. It was his oldest, Brendan.’
‘Did you take the shotgun in?’
He nodded. ‘But I had it down. Just so they knew I was serious.’
‘And they weren’t mad?’
‘Well. Ernie was a bit.’
‘But he said he’d have it stopped?’
‘That’s what he said.’
She finally unfolded her arms but drew no closer to her husband. She said, ‘I thought I might go and visit him tomorrow.’
‘Ernie?’
‘Get off it,’ she said. ‘Caleb.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Just take him some things.’
Vernon looked at the ceiling. ‘I regret it. Not going to visit him before this. You should have seen him.’
‘You said.’
‘Don’t you regret it?’
In the dark her face was unknowable. ‘I always regretted it.’
She shuffled onto her back and rolled from him, bunching the sheets around her, flicking off her light. He said nothing else and in their now shadowed ceiling he conjured up the image of the cemetery, the concrete headstones, what it would be like to regard so many dead from above, or below. He thought of how his wife had spoken of their son since he beat Mel. Her words now. Had she really regretted it? Had she forgiven their son? He sat there on their bed staring at her back.
FIFTEEN
SHARON WORNKIN
The next morning Sharon woke late. She turned over, saw that Roger’s side of the bed was still made up. His digital clock said nine o’clock. Did she have to work today? She sat upright. Remembered what had happened the previous night. Held her face in her hands. Groaned. She had to go in later. That’s right. Afternoon shift.
She changed into her exercise clothes––loose fitting, so she didn’t feel too self-conscious––and slumped into the living room. All her joints ached with drink, with effort. Was she hungover? She hadn’t drunk that much? She turned the television on and inserted a VHS tape of Aerobics Oz Style. She hit ‘play’ on the remote and a woman, bright and cheery, coaxed her onwards. Sharon had never met a person in real life with a smile like that. The exercises never made her feel fit, but did make her feel better, like she was working towards something.
Afterwards, in the shower, she started crying. She soaped herself and rinsed and soaped again. Last night she hadn’t done the right thing. Roger would say she had. That she’d preserved herself, their relationship with Ernie. That it was important. But she should’ve acted. Stepped up. Drawn her weapon. If she’d had her weapon. Smashed their noses in with it. Let them bleed onto the soggy carpet. Let the locals witness what it meant to harm one of hers.
She sank to the floor of the shower recess and put her face on the white tiles and breathed, watching her breath make ripples that quickly dispersed. She hadn’t done a thing as her father had lopped Daisy’s head off. As Ernie had damn near ripped his son’s head off. Never stood up for a damn thing, ever.
When she entered the kitchen her son was at the bench eating Coco Pops and reading a guitar magazine. Sharon was still towelling her hair. Coco Pops hadn’t been her intention, but she found herself grabbing a bowl and pouring milk.
‘You were out late last night?’ she said to Peter.
He didn’t look up. ‘I was right here. You were the one who was out late.’
She couldn’t tell if his inattention was forced or accidental.
‘What’re you up to today?’ she said.
‘Don’t know. Might go see Cassie later.’
‘Yeah? And do what?’
‘Don’t know. What about you?’ Peter asked, still not looking at her.
‘Not sure, yet.’
‘You have the day off?’
She remembered what she’d promised to do last night. It made her angry at herself, at Ernie for having asked. She wondered if Cassie knew, how much Peter knew about what went on out there.
‘I have to go in later.’
Peter looked up finally. ‘What does that mean?’
‘I’ve got the afternoon shift. And there’s something I have to take care of. Probably be out late tonight with it.’
‘With what?’
Lying to her own son. ‘Some old bloke at Port Napier stole a car last night.’ She poured more milk into her bowl, as if to cover her shame. While she chewed she asked, ‘Did you hear what else happened last night? Down at the pub?’
‘Cassie said something on the phone about it this morning. Said there were two blokes you took out to their place. From Melbourne?’
‘Yeah,’ Sharon said. ‘She didn’t say anything else?’
‘No. Should she have?’
Sharon thought about the way she imagined the locals had looked at her as she left the pub. That they’d all known what she was. With a horror she’d never before felt she realised that her son now wore the same expression.
‘I guess not,’ she finally said. ‘What do you think of all that?’
‘Of all what?’
‘Of what the Cahills do?’
‘What do the Cahills do?’
Sharon took another mouthful as she thought about how to put it nicely. ‘With the fellas from Melbourne.’
‘Who were they?’
‘Cassie doesn’t talk to you about it?’
‘No.’
By now her son had stopped eating. Sharon put her own spoon down.
‘Forget it,’ she said.
‘No. What do they do?’
‘Just forget it,
sweetheart. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve brought it up.’
Peter looked for a moment like he might continue his questions, but instead picked up his spoon again and turned back to his magazine.
‘They’re not anybody. They’re just friends of Ernie’s.’
‘Yeah, alright, Mum.’
‘Well, they are. They were just getting drunk a bit and I wanted to know what you thought of that, getting drunk …’ Bloody hell, her words sounded strained. Not even she would buy what she was trying to sell. ‘You’re eighteen now, you know? I wanted to know what you thought.’
‘You told me to leave it and I’m leaving it, alright?’
He didn’t look up. Refilled his bowl with Coco Pops. Amazing to her how much he could eat. She remembered feeding him Coco Pops when he’d been, what, three? Every spoonful into his mouth just so. She remembered him sneezing once, and small brown globs pasting her shirt, the two of them laughing. The guitar magazine now holding his attention. His clouded eyes. He said nothing more to her. She sat watching her son in muted desperation, ashamed of her lies, every one of them burning holes in her gut.
SIXTEEN
VERNON MOORE
Near midday when he finally woke. He scrunched his hands into a fist and rubbed at his eyes. There was a sickness in the back of his throat.
He swung his legs around to rest on the floor and was met with an almighty pain shooting down both calves. He rocked back and winced and sucked in air through his teeth. His knees felt like they’d collapse beneath the weight of him. These bloody knees. He pulled his toes back as far as he could, stretching out the muscle. Probably hadn’t walked as far since his army days. Never any need for it.
He sat on the bed a bit and then, to his surprise, his wife appeared in the doorway.
‘You’re awake at last.’ She regarded him. ‘Are you in pain?’
He nodded. ‘Legs hurt.’
‘Why?’
He stared a moment before saying, ‘You going out?’
‘I’ve been out. Got some groceries.’
‘Did you get the ham? For the Easter thing with my brother?’
‘We’re going to that?’ she asked.
‘We’re not?’
‘We didn’t talk about it.’
‘We always go.’
‘I know, but with things with Caleb …’
He turned away from her, massaged his calves.
She said, ‘Where’s your car?’
‘What?’
‘Our other car? Your car.’
He turned back to her. ‘You want to spend Easter with Caleb now?’
She nodded, slow and thoughtful. So. He’d maybe helped, maybe given her permission to reconnect. Done something good. If there was such a thing.
She said, ‘I thought we could. This year. Might be nice for him. Stop avoiding the question. Where’s the car?’
‘He’s doing that run thing, though.’
‘After that, I thought. Vernon, where’s your car?’
‘I had to leave it.’
‘Where?’
‘Can we continue this in the kitchen? I want to get something to eat.’
At the kitchen counter she stood on the opposite side to him with both hands palms down. He felt the separation between them. Out the window was Snake Island. His escape. It’d be so easy to head out there. Get in the boat and just go.
He put bread in the toaster, got out the butter and Vegemite and looked at her while he waited for his toast to spring.
‘I had to leave the car. It got smashed.’
‘Smashed how?’
‘We hit a kangaroo.’
‘In the car? Who’s “we”?’
‘Yes, in the car,’ he said. He looked at the toaster. ‘Well, our car didn’t hit it.’
‘Would you just bloody tell me what happened?’ she said, tapping her hands on the benchtop. ‘And don’t lie to me, Vernie. I can tell when you’re keeping stuff from me, you know I can.’
‘Well, like Margie said, they were down that old dirt road out near Callahan’s. It was the younger Cahill boy out there. They were looking to trade drugs with some people from Melbourne. I interrupted that. We went back to their place. I was in the passenger seat, he was driving. And we hit a kangaroo.’
‘In their car?’
‘Yes. And he was hurt. So I took care of him and took him back to his dad’s.’
‘Weren’t they mad?’
‘They were mad to begin with but I think he’ll be fine.’
‘The younger one is Sidney?’
‘Yeah, that’s him. He’ll be alright. The roo cut him up a bit, though.’
‘And so what happened to your car?’
His toast sprang up and he grabbed it. While he buttered he said, ‘So I drove their car back to my car. Plan was to leave it the same way I found it. But when I got back to my car somebody had slashed the tyres.’
‘Somebody? Who?’
‘I don’t know who.’
‘Vernie—’
‘Don’t Vernie me.’
‘You know what I heard down the street? That there were some blokes from Melbourne in the pub last night, gave that young policeman Jack a bit of a hiding. I bet it was them, looking for the drugs. Dirty business.’
‘Well, even if it was them they don’t know it was me took the car.’
‘Of course they know it was you. They will have talked to Ernie. Where’s their car now?’
‘You don’t know they talked to Ernie.’
‘Where’s the car?’
He ate his toast. She could be right about Ernie. The truth of it sat like mustard on his tongue. He said, ‘I stashed it down at the river.’
‘Where you put the boat in sometimes?’
He nodded.
‘How’d you get back here, then?’
‘I walked.’
She sighed, and said, ‘You’re an idiot sometimes.’
This hurt him worse than his pained calves.
Then he said, ‘The drugs are in that car.’
‘Well, that means they’re going to want it!’
He nodded. ‘I know.’
‘So? We should go and get it and give it back.’
‘I’m not sure we should. Let’s just see how they react first. Make sure they’re leaving Caleb alone.’
‘These Melbourne guys came and thought nothing of beating up a policeman. They’d think nothing of … and me in the process? Don’t you care?’
‘Of course I bloody care.’
‘Then get the car.’
He sat there impassive. She glared at him, all the resentment in the world on her face. Him just taking it.
Soon, without another word, she stomped from the kitchen and slammed the front door. He put more bread in the toaster. Heard her car start and peel down the driveway. Once, she would have gone to her folks, but they were dead now, been gone two decades. She was probably going to Margie’s, the old bag, the gossip. Where she normally ran off to after a fight. He went to Snake Island, she went to her friend’s. They’d be talking about him the moment her foot left the car and met Margie’s pavement.
He was sitting on his chair out the back with a cup of tea, staring at the pelican’s grave, when he heard a car pull into the driveway. He creaked up, knees and calves and back aching, and walked through the house to the front door. As his hand went to the doorknob there came a pounding that rattled the wood.
‘Vernon Moore? You in there?’ a female voice shouted.
He took a moment.
‘Yeah?’
‘It’s Sharon Wornkin. The police.’
‘I know who you bloody are,’ he said as he opened the door. She stood ready at the bottom of his doorstep. Hands on her hips, eyeing him carefully.
‘What do you want?’
‘I need to have a word,’ she said.
Vernon hated the way she was looking at him. Hated her ill-fitting uniform. It bulged at every button.
‘Have it then,’ Vernon said.
‘We need to take a drive.’
‘Why?’
‘We need to have a word.’
‘You arresting me?’
‘I suppose I am.’
Absurd, the way she was looking up at him with her hands on her hips. He breathed slowly out, looked at the clouds on the horizon.
‘What for?’
‘For stealing.’
‘Stealing what?’
‘A car. Come on, Vernon, don’t make me cuff you.’
Vernon looked down at her. ‘You think that gun on your hip there scares me?’
Exasperation on her face now. ‘Come on, Vernon. Just get in the car.’
‘Alright, alright, let me get my jacket.’
He found his jacket, crumpled in a heap on the floor beside the bed, and shrugged it on. He put his keys in his pocket and went outside, deadlocking the front door. He walked to the cruiser and got in the passenger seat.
Sharon, following, opened the passenger door again. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘I’m in the car, like you asked.’
‘Not up there. Get in the back.’
‘Why?’
‘Prisoners sit in the back.’
‘Bloody hell. Get off your high horse a bit.’
She waited for him to lever himself out and get in the back before getting in herself. She started the ignition, backed down the driveway. As she looked out past Vernon’s head to the rear of the car he made sure his expression said nothing.
