by Ben Hobson
At the station, she showed him to a plastic chair for him to sit on. He was reminded of the prison chair in which he’d sat the previous day.
Sharon approached the counter, which looked like a kitchen bench. Sitting behind was a young policeman––judging by his face, the one who’d encountered the Melbourne thugs.
‘You okay, Jack?’ Sharon asked him, leaning forward awkwardly on the counter.
‘That Vernon Moore?’
‘I’m right bloody here,’ Vernon said. ‘Don’t need to talk about me like I’m not.’
The injured man looked at him. ‘Are you Vernon Moore?’
‘I just said that’s me.’
The cop turned back to Sharon. ‘Is he in trouble?’
‘Hand over your things,’ she said to Vernon. He grumbled, stood, and handed over the car keys and wallet. The injured bloke put them in a small, white basket, and said, ‘He need a room?’
‘Yeah.’
‘They’re all free. Take the end one.’
‘Sounds like I’m checking into a resort,’ Vernon said, and was ignored.
‘Good. Alright,’ Sharon said. ‘Can you help me get him in there?’ The two of them walked Vernon down a corridor. He couldn’t help but feel he was already manacled, a prisoner from a time past. They led him to a cell, iron bars, and sat him down. A strip of bench lined one side entirely and in the corner was a steel toilet. Sharon stood at the entrance while Jack helped him inside.
‘I was in the war, you know,’ Vernon said, and felt a git for doing so.
‘Yeah? Your legs hurt or something?’
‘Yeah. They do.’
‘Maybe you’re just old? Nothing to do with war?’
‘You speak to all your elders like that?’
‘Can I have your hand, please?’
Vernon offered him a hand, his wrinkled palm upright. Before Vernon could react he was handcuffed to the bench, through a small metal hoop. He shook the metal. Cold against his skin.
‘Now, come on, Sharon. There’s no need for this.’
Jack looked at his sergeant and received a nod of recognition for his efforts. He left the cell, leaving Vernon alone with Sharon, who stood in the doorway with her arms crossed. Some primal fear of confinement, reminiscent of his army days, surged through him.
‘There’s no bloody need for the cuffs!’
‘Sure there is.’
‘You wanted to have a word? Let’s have the bloody word. Get these off.’ He shook his manacled hand. ‘Take them off and we’ll talk.’
Sharon did not unfold her arms. ‘We’ll talk in a bit.’
‘What do you mean? Come on. Sharon!’
‘I’ve got some work to do, then I’ll be back.’
‘You mongrel,’ Vernon said as she shut the door. ‘Come back! At least undo the cuffs.’
He sat there alone. Sat and stared at nothing at all. He couldn’t even put his head in his hands. He rattled the chain, squeezed his wrist with his other hand. Truly a prisoner now. His thoughts turned to the pelican again and its outstretched wing, caked in gunk. Its prison was within it, plastic choking the life from its lungs. Imagine swallowing that whole.
The pelican. The image of it. Babes at its breast, open wounds flowing. Their greedy beaks overflowing with the life of their mother. And now, maybe too late, he’d finally given something of himself for his son. Being locked away in here felt noble. And stupid. The pelican’s plan sounded like it would work. He barely had a plan. Probably he’d only made things worse.
He sat for what felt an age. His knees ached, but it was too awkward to get his hand there for a rub. He started to call out. Nothing specific, a primal yell, bouncing off everything. He wondered if Jack was still about. He yelled again. Sitting on the bench made his arse cold. He managed to massage it, the old flesh moulding to his fingertips. He was at this task when he heard, footsteps approaching, the door open.
‘It’s about bloody time, Sharon. I need to piss.’
Instead Vernon saw William Kelly’s face. The man wore none of his usual smile, or ease.
‘Bill,’ Vernon said.
‘Hello, Vernon.’
‘What’re you doing here?’
William did not sit. He stood near the door––was he scared that his old friend had turned feral in imprisonment, would claw his eyes out on approach? ‘Margie called me. Told me what you told your wife. I couldn’t find you at your place, so I asked your neighbours. They said you were bundled into the back of a cop car.’
‘Everyone’s a bloody gossip. You can sit down, mate. I don’t bite.’
William Kelly shook his head. Then sighed. He shuffled over and sat beside him. Indicating the cuffs he said, ‘These hurt?’
‘A bit. Did you see Pen?’
Kelly nodded.
‘She alright?’
‘To a point.’
‘Does she know I’m in here?’
He nodded again. ‘She’s still with Margie, at her place.’
Vernon looked at the floor. ‘Good. Good. That’s good.’
‘Bit ironic, isn’t it, mate?’
‘What’s that?’
‘You arguing with me two days ago about your son being in jail, and how what he did was wrong. And here you find yourself imprisoned. All on account of your boy. It’s ironic.’
‘Hilarious.’
‘I didn’t say it was funny.’
Vernon said, ‘Is she alright, though? She’s not worried.’
‘She’s fine. I think she’s more mad than anything.’
‘Yeah. That sounds like her.’
Kelly asked, ‘You going to tell them where the car is?’
Vernon shook his head. Huffed a bit, looked around at the cell.
‘What’re you going to do, then?’
‘Can you go and talk to Sharon for me? I don’t even know if I’m actually under arrest.’
‘What do you mean you don’t know?’
‘Don’t they need to press charges or something? She just walked me in here and cuffed me to the bench. Said something vague about me stealing a car, but there wasn’t anything specific.’
‘Did you steal it?’
‘I borrowed a car somebody wants back.’
Kelly frowned. ‘Okay, I’ll have a word with her.’
‘Thank you.’
‘But you still haven’t answered my question.’
‘I said I borrowed it.’
‘No. What are you going to do?’
‘I have no idea, mate. I just want to go home. They said they’d leave off Caleb. I’ll give them the car back.’
‘Alright,’ Kelly said. ‘Alright. You need anything else?’
Vernon looked at him. Held up his hand as high as it would go and shook the cuffs. ‘I need to get out of here. Get out of these.’
Kelly stood. On the other side of the door he said through the bars, ‘Sorry, mate, I have to lock this.’
‘I get it.’
He turned the key in the lock.
‘I don’t get it, actually. Where does she think I’m going with my arm chained to this bench?’
‘It’s just procedure, mate. I’ll go and talk to her.’
His footsteps down the corridor, the door opening and shutting. The fear in Vernon’s breast whispered to him through the handcuffs. He would never get out of them. Would be forever chained to this bench.
It took a while—he estimated half an hour—before he started to panic again. William Kelly did not return and Vernon kept straining for the sound of the door. Sharon had done something, sent the preacher, his promise of salvation, home. Locked him up too, maybe, somewhere different. Vernon struggled to imagine Kelly abandoning him but with each passing minute he grew more anxious. What could they be talking about? Sharon convincing his friend of his poor character? He didn’t even know what he’d been charged with.
What seemed an eternity passed. He looked at the walls and his hands and kept shifting his wrist beneath the metal. His son had been thr
ough this exact circumstance and he, his father, had been entirely absent. What must he have felt facing this on his own? After Mel had gone to the cops, that poor girl, they’d seized his son and placed him maybe in this very cell. When Vernon learned what had happened he had taken the boat out to Snake Island and camped there for several days. He had left behind his wife and son. Abandoned them both. He hadn’t been thinking properly. His son, his boy, must’ve been sitting here waiting for somebody to come, just as Vernon now was. Somebody he trusted. The worst sort of betrayal. The sun rising and setting and his father on the beach with a fire cooking cans and watching the waves, doing his best not to think of his boy striking that young woman in the face. His own flesh, rending violence on something so innocent. That lovely girl.
Is it that all creatures are made to suffer? The pelican in the wasteland. Is that all God created when he birthed the world? Kelly knew how to phrase a thing. And if there was no God, was there any point to the suffering? No, there was no divine purpose. They just existed and suffered and died and that was all. That felt far truer.
When he’d returned from his Snake Island escape, Penelope had not spoken to him for days. He’d been surprised to find that she, too, had not visited their son. The two had accidentally fallen into agreement; they would punish their son with their absence, cast him into isolation to teach him repentance.
And so his boy had remained on this cold bench, waiting. He couldn’t imagine. All his anger had been focussed on Brendan when he’d done far worse to the boy. Should have taken that shotgun and pointed it at himself.
The sun had set, the light stretching across the floor and winking out entirely, before the door down the corridor finally opened. It had been so long that Vernon held no hope of seeing William Kelly emerge from the darkness. His pessimism proved justified. Sharon Wornkin looked at him through the bars, draping her forearms casually over the metal struts.
‘How’s it going, Vernon?’
‘How do you think? I’m thirsty, to begin with.’
She stared a moment longer before unlocking the cell door. She sat on the bench next to Vernon.
She said, ‘Now, have you had a think about what you’ve done?’ Like she was scolding a child.
‘Give it a rest, Sharon.’ When she said nothing he sighed. ‘You want to know where the car is?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘What will happen to my boy?’
Sharon had her hands pressed together between her knees. ‘I don’t know anything about that.’
‘You talked to Ernie, didn’t you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Come off it. You’re in Cahill’s pocket, aren’t you?’
Sharon seemed to sink into the bench for a moment. Her whole body slumped forward. Vernon felt he had the upper hand finally and added, ‘You’re a coward. I know you think you’ve got the whole town fooled, but they know. We’re smarter than you give us credit for.’
He felt the force of his words. Every one of them seemed to land on her back and make her slump further.
‘Everybody knows you’re in his pocket,’ he went on. ‘Woman in your position should stand for something.’ He snorted. ‘Reckon I can’t bloody talk, though, being the same. Cowards together. Well.’ He sat back. ‘Guess that’s what my dad taught me. And what I gave to Caleb. Your dad teach you that, too? Teach you to obey, do as you’re told?’
Vernon could feel the change in the air as soon as the words left his mouth, unsure of what had happened. She stood up, looming over him. He wasn’t immediately intimidated and so didn’t shrink away.
The fist he noticed too late, as it was swinging towards his temple. The pain spread to his jaw, his tongue, his fake teeth, as he sunk into the bench. His ears rang. He blinked, fell back, his hand still chained. Something hazy in the air. The shadow before him raised a leg and Vernon lifted his free hand to fend off the boot as it struck his chest. He noticed, absurdly, her pants stretching at the crotch. He clenched his teeth to keep them from rattling. Her boot struck again. Maybe cracked his sternum, the ribs. Couldn’t use both arms to shield himself. He coughed, spluttered. The boot kept striking him what felt like everywhere. He was too old for such a beating and he knew he would die if it went on. The wind knocked out of him made him desperate. Clawing at her boots like a child.
She stopped. ‘You’re the coward,’ she said.
Vernon made no reply. Couldn’t if he wanted to.
‘Where’s the car?’
Vernon shook his head, tried to mumble something.
‘Shit. Shit,’ Sharon said. She swept back her hair and held the back of her neck, pacing the cell. ‘I’m sorry. Vernon? I’m sorry.’ Coming back to him, she reached out to place a hand on his shoulder but Vernon, mustering his pride, managed to shrug it off.
Vernon found his voice. ‘It’s downriver.’
‘Where?’
‘At the turn-off toward Port Napier. Boat launching spot.’
Sharon stood seemed to want to say something else but instead she undid the cuffs, gentle with his bent wrist. Then she left the cell, locking the door again.
‘If it checks out I’ll come back and let you out,’ she said through the bars.
‘My boy,’ Vernon croaked.
Sharon looked hard at him. ‘What about him?’
‘He’s getting beaten.’
Sharon sighed. It seemed genuine. ‘I know.’
‘So Ernie did tell you.’
‘Yes.’
‘What will happen to Brendan?’
He felt like he was staring through a haze. He’d collapsed beside the bench, one hand on it, his chest near the floor. He imagined he made a sorry picture. Mangled and broken like so many soldiers, so many skeletons crawling from the wasteland, so many pelicans choking on plastic.
Sharon said, ‘Nothing. But he’s been told to stop.’ A moment. Then she said, ‘I’m going to check the car’s there. If it is I’ll come back and let you out.’
He understood now why he’d been sitting there so long. She’d needed Jack’s shift to finish. He heard her walk down the corridor, which sounded like it stretched on forever. In his haze, he struggled to decipher the sounds: her footfall, the opening of the door, the whisper of the heating unit humming elsewhere, the electricity in the walls. The thrum of his heart, the goodbye of Sharon’s car.
Vernon levered himself up and fell upon the bench, one arm crooked beside him, the other dangling to the floor. A sharp knife in his chest with every breath. He breathed.
They sat in Sharon’s car in the dark outside his house. It hadn’t taken her long to return to his cell, to help him stumble to her cruiser. There were no lights on and he knew that Penelope was still at Margie’s. He couldn’t look at Sharon sitting in the driver’s seat because in this woman was the embodiment of all the terror in the world he had ever felt. Not being aware of impending affliction, not having the slightest sense about what had been coming, felt to Vernon like a betrayal of his years. By now he should know some things. It had been just like he was back in the war, traipsing through mud, jungle, never knowing when he might stumble into the enemy. Their rifles, their bayonets. Men beside him, Weymouth, getting shot to shit. Without warning. This woman beside him unchecked in her rage had borne this same fear into him, like he was five decades younger. He wasn’t scared of her. He was scared of how her boots had shown him how little he really controlled things. He was still struggling to breathe. His lap, hands crossed. The radio on, a distant drone.
‘You need help with the door?’ Sharon asked.
He shook his head.
‘Look,’ she said. Then, ‘I had to do it. I was told to do it.’
‘What, beat me up? I don’t give a damn if you were told.’
‘You shouldn’t have said what you did.’
‘Was true, wasn’t it?’
A few breaths from her, still angry. He struggled with his own. Each one felt as though he’d swallowed something sharp, which jabbed him in the l
ungs as he breathed out.
‘You want to go to the doctor?’
‘You want to take me?’ He fumbled with the handle, managed to lever it inwards and the door fell open. His arm still throbbed. He threw his legs out, wincing, and heaved himself upright. Shuffled slowly to his front door, neglecting to close the passenger door. He heard it shut behind him. Then the sound of the car pulling down the driveway, driving down the road.
At the door, shaking, fumbling his keys. Cursing as he dropped them. Bloody piece of shit. Bending down. He finally managed to twist the deadlock, and wobbled inside.
Nobody had been home since he’d left earlier that day. The toaster was still out on the bench where he’d left it. He felt an enormous need to see his wife. A desperation.
Instead he sat on his couch. Studied the void of the television screen, the empty blackness that reflected the same in him. He sank back, lifted his legs, swung them up––a quick drawing in of breath. Something in there was bad for sure. With one arm holding his chest, his face an unknown, bloodied disaster, he closed his eyes and drifted off. The last thought before he went to sleep was of his wife. A memory of the two of them driving someplace, Penelope laughing. When they had been young.
He woke to a knocking on the door. He struggled with his eyes and feared for a moment he had died, that this inability was what death was: an immobile, terrifying, eternal inaction. Soon, though, he managed to focus. He rubbed a swollen hand against his forehead and sat up, felt the pain in his chest blossom and spread, seep into all his parts. He groaned loudly.
From outside, shouting. ‘You alright in there?’ It was William Kelly.
‘Yeah, yeah. I’m coming.’
He crept upward, found his footing, walked to the door, his breathing a pain. It was a new light outside, but hazy and dim. Morning. As Vernon passed the kitchen he looked out at his favourite chair on the verandah, and the mudflats beyond. The haze had descended over all of it. If the pelican had been there this day he would not have seen it flapping.
