by Ben Hobson
Sidney walked to the shed. He stuck his head inside. His brother had taken most of the tin drums of petrol, which were used to fuel up in a pinch, and moved them to the other side of the shed. There were still hundreds of pots of marijuana growing at the other end of the shed. The humidifier in the back was pumping air; Brendan looked sweaty.
Sidney stepped into the shed. Brendan, hefting a drum, first smiled at him then grimaced, swallowed and glared, like his true mood had swallowed the false.
‘What’re you doing?’
‘Just organising.’
‘You want a hand?’
‘No. She’s right.’
Sidney paused. ‘You know, Dad didn’t mean it.’
Brendan shook his head. ‘It’s not that. I was an arsehole. Wornkin said she got the car back, right?’ He started his walk back to the drums.
‘Why’re you moving the fuel?’
‘Needed doing.’
Sidney nodded, knew that wasn’t true. Brendan probably just needing to do something physical. How he’d always been. ‘She said the car’ll be here this afternoon.’
‘And all the boxes were still in it?’
‘She said so, but she wouldn’t know different.’
‘Alright then,’ Brendan said, hefting another drum. He waddled back across the shed. His shirt was pasted to his back with sweat, the tendons of his arms stretched.
‘How’s her rash?’
‘I think it’s alright. It’s calming down.’
‘That’s good.’
‘What did you mean you were an arsehole?’
Brendan set the drum down and looked at him. ‘That mongrel deserved all he got. Deserved more. But I’ve never done nothing to cause you or Cass harm. Or Mum and Dad. And that’s what I did.’
Sidney nodded. ‘That you apologising?’
‘I guess it is.’
‘So that’s why you’re in the mood?’
‘Well, that, and Dad stuck my head inside a pig and held me there and tried to kill me.’
Sidney laughed, and Brendan joined him. And in the sound of their laughter was the reassurance that the family would soon return to normal. The thought gave Sidney pause. Their normalcy might not be something he wanted. Brendan claimed to be sorry—but how long would that last? Was normal Brendan something either of them wanted?
He watched his brother a moment longer, his great hulking frame, then walked from the shed. He sat inside at the dining table and listened for his little girl’s crying, but no crying came.
Later that afternoon he heard a car approach. Sharon had been and gone, leaving the Commodore, Cassie driving her back into town. Cassie claimed she was going to visit Peter anyway, but maybe she was still aiming to avoid things. Brendan had checked on the product, satisfied himself it was all there, and their father had clapped him on the back. The two had even shared a smile. They had all been there except for Cassie. Even Sarah had emerged; Amy had been on Sidney’s arm. The family’s malaise had slowly lifted. Brendan had taken Amy and thrown her in the air and caught her in his arms. She had laughed and laughed and gripped a hold of him as he had counted up to three, on the three launching her, her little legs churning, delight and terror on her face. Sidney had watched, his arm around Sarah.
The car trundled up the driveway and stopped before the house. It wasn’t a car that Sidney knew. He was on the verandah with Amy, playing with her dollhouse, trying not to strain his arm. Amy was making the dolls collide with each other, knocking down her father’s efforts with unrestrained pleasure. She giggled as she struck his blocks and sent them sprawling, a small dam of colour.
‘Brendan!’ he shouted now, standing up, his eyes not leaving the car.
‘What?’ his brother said, from inside.
‘You hear the car?’
‘Who is it?’
‘Don’t know.’
Nobody was getting out. Sidney squinted to see who was inside. The driver killed the engine. Then the door opened and out stepped the old man. He was limping.
‘You got the gun this time?’ Sidney demanded. He looked to his daughter.
‘No, mate,’ the old man said. ‘No gun.’
Sidney looked at him. The old man’s face was swollen and he was slumped over. He had been on the receiving end of something bad. He was holding his belly as though he had been gored.
Brendan appeared beside Sidney. ‘What do you want?’ he said to the old man. Coldness in his voice.
‘Just want a chat with Ernie.’
‘You bring your gun?’
‘Ask your brother.’
Brendan leaned over to Sidney. ‘You take Amy inside.’
Sidney scooped up his daughter. As he turned to go he caught the old man’s eyes and saw shock.
‘Didn’t realise you had a little one.’
‘Yeah. Well.’
Sidney walked inside. He shuffled down the hallway. Their father was on his bed, his feet up, reading a novel, an alien of some sort on the front. He looked up as his son entered the room.
‘Who’s outside?’
‘The old bloke. Vernon?’
His father instantly stood. He strode down the hallway and only said, ‘You give that girl to her mother.’
Sidney followed. He entered his room and saw his wife on their bed, staring at the ceiling. Either deep in thought or completely out of it.
‘You need to take Amy.’
‘Why?’
‘You just do, alright? Here.’
He placed his daughter on the bed. Sarah remained lying down, his daughter clambering over her as he shut the door.
There were voices in the kitchen. He heard the kettle being boiled. He went in and found the three of them already around the table.
The old man looked up at Sidney and smiled sadly. ‘Count the days with her, mate. Like that’—he clicked his fingers—‘and they’ll be grown up and arguing with you.’
Sidney did not know what to say to this. He sat down next to his father, who said, ‘So what do you want, Moore?’
The old man sighed. ‘Suppose you know why I’m looking like this.’
Ernie said nothing, had his arms crossed.
‘Anyway. I came up here to call a truce. I want to apologise for taking the car, for taking your son by gun point. I was wrong.’
‘Bloody right you were,’ Brendan said, not looking at Vernon. Ernie’s face betrayed nothing.
The old man paused a moment. ‘That’s what I said. I know I did wrong.’
‘Right,’ Brendan said. With the kettle boiled he put some tea bags into some cups and poured in the water. Nobody spoke. Brendan busied himself, maybe in an effort to avoid doing with his hands what he truly wanted. Soon he approached them all with steaming cups, the old man included. He sat down next to Sidney, still without looking up.
‘So I want to apologise for all of it,’ the old man continued. ‘I hope you can understand’—his eyes took in Ernie’s—‘that I was a father doing something desperate, and nothing more. Never meant any harm for your boy here. How’s the arm, mate?’
Sidney shrugged. ‘It was just dislocated.’
Ernie said, after a moment, ‘Is that it?’
‘Well,’ the old man said, shifting in his chair, sipping at his tea. ‘I was hoping to just chat and sort it all out.’
‘Sort what all out?’
‘My boy. Leaving my boy alone. Me leaving you lot alone.’ Ernie said nothing to this. Finally he added, ‘Come on, mate. Already feel like a git doing this.’
‘I already told you I’d tell my boy to leave off yours.’
‘You know what I want, mate. I want your guarantee.’
‘You’re not in a position to bargain.’
The old man breathed out slowly. ‘I know I’m not. I’m not trying to bargain.’
‘I’ve known blokes like you my whole life, Moore. Wondered why I didn’t recognise you. It’s because you think you’re not a part of this town. You don’t get involved, don’t talk to people. Y
ou think you’re better than the rest of us. When I was at school there was a bloke like you in my year, thought he was better than everybody else because he was better at everything. Better at school, at footy, at everything. At getting with women. Stole my missus. Thought he could, anyway. Just entitled to it. Really thought the lay of the land was I’d just roll over, accept it. Just the way he thought it was, how the universe worked. Taught him he was wrong with the band end of a broken beer glass. Still can’t look straight, last I heard.’
Silence immediately following this. Ernie sipped at his tea.
‘Bloody hell,’ the old man finally said. His hands splayed out on the table. His eyes took in their ceiling. ‘I was trying to come up here and talk to you. Not get all huffy about it.’
‘Point is people can think they’re above the rest of us all they like, they’ll still get hurt the same. You think you’re entitled to something here? You’re not.’
The old man’s eyes tightened. ‘I came up to give you my apology and I’ve done that. Didn’t ask for a speech. Didn’t need one.’ He sat back, crossed his arms. ‘All I want is your guarantee. That’s it. I think that’s bloody reasonable.’
‘I don’t guarantee anything.’
‘So I guess that’s all I’m getting then,’ he said. ‘Suppose I should leave.’
His father said nothing for a moment. Sidney looked at all the silent men, unfolded his arms and said, ‘At least finish your tea.’
‘I think I’ll go.’
He stood. Sidney and Ernie both remained seated but, to Sidney’s surprise, Brendan stood. ‘I’ll see you out.’
The old man took a moment, surveying the room, then nodded.
‘I don’t think I’m better than people.’
‘You act like it, but,’ Ernie said.
The old man paused, then nodded again and turned, hunched over, limping. Brendan even held the door open for him.
After they’d exited, his father turned to Sidney and said, ‘Some nerve, hey.’
‘He was just trying to apologise, Dad.’
Ernie shook his head, leaned back on his chair. ‘He was trying to manipulate us into getting his way.’
‘You just said the other night you’d do anything for us. He’s just doing that, isn’t he?’
Ernie nodded slowly, breathed out. ‘Yeah, I guess.’ His shoulders slumped a bit. He leaned forward, the chair resting, and took some tea. ‘How’s the rash on your little one?’
‘I think it’s clearing up.’
‘Good,’ his father said. ‘You moisturise her skin?’
‘You know about this?’
His father laughed a little. ‘I used to put you on my arm, like this,’ he said, and positioned his arm horizontal to the table, indicated the length of his forearm. ‘You used to fit right here.’
‘You say that a lot.’
‘Do I?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well. I used to put that moisturiser all up and down your back. You used to get a bad rash on your back when you slept at night. On your butt.’
Brendan re-entered the house. He walked to the table and slouched into a chair. Ernie’s arm lowered.
‘You didn’t kill him, did you?’ he asked.
‘No. He’s alright.’
‘You didn’t say anything else to him?’
Brendan shook his head.
‘I want this done with. It’s finished now. You understand me?’
Brendan nodded. ‘I get it.’
They sat around the table drinking their tea. Sidney watched his brother and his father and tried to see something of his daughter in them but couldn’t. She was wholly unique and a part of him. These men were not. The thought arrived with no sadness. Just a deep understanding of something he had known since Amy was born.
TWENTY
VERNON MOORE
It was hard to tell how his apology had been taken, with Ernie as gruff and unreadable as he had been the first time Vernon had been here. And he had some bite to him. Summed up Vernon pretty well. It was unnerving, really. In the end Vernon knew he’d done all he could to right the situation, and as he left their front verandah he hoped it was for the last time.
There was a magpie sitting atop a fence post near his car. Vernon walked, with Brendan keeping pace. He was not afraid of Brendan, strangely. The big lug was mostly talk and hot air. But the bird gave him pause. As he opened his car door he watched it gaze at him as though it knew him.
As Vernon climbed into his car Brendan stepped so close to him he was no longer able to shut the door. Brendan looked down at him, one arm resting on the doorframe. There was a bruising around the edges of his eyes, on his throat, that Vernon had not before noticed. A sneer in his eyes. This man who had beaten his son.
‘You get what you wanted?’ he asked.
Vernon shrugged. ‘What I’d really like is for you to take a giant step back so I can shut my door.’
Brendan snorted and wiped a hand across his nose. Purple lined his neck. He straightened up but was still close enough to block the door. Vernon, childishly, wanted to kick his shins. ‘You raised a real good one there,’ Brendan said.
‘You trying to bait me, son?’
Brendan grinned again. ‘No. Nothing like that.’
‘I got two words for you: piss off.’
Vernon leaned across Brendan’s body and managed to lay hold of the handle. He pulled at the door. Brendan didn’t move. Vernon sighed and put his hands on his legs.
Brendan said, ‘You need to know something, old man. There’s no way your boy is getting off that easy. I decide what I do, not my father.’
‘Could’ve fooled––’
‘Things might quiet down for a bit but your son will get what’s coming to him, one way or another.’
He stopped talking, thrummed his fingers across the metal of the door.
‘I saw her, you know. I’m not just letting that go.’
Vernon looked at this large man before him. He said, ‘I remember you, at school. Remember some of the other teachers talking about you. You were one of those kids always up the back of the oval, smoking. Right?’
Brendan nodded.
‘Yeah, I remember. Bit of a dipstick, they said. There’s no shame in it. Some people are born with brains and some aren’t. You and your mates up the back smoking didn’t have a couple of brain cells to rub together. Bet you smoke half the weed you grow and that’s just killing more of the limited power you got up there.’ Vernon pointed at Brendan’s forehead. ‘What I’m saying is: you don’t have the balls, or the brains, to go against what your old man says. He’s the alpha male and you’re just some runt dog in the pack with a few muscles behind you. My boy’ll be just fine. Now move your damn leg before I snap it off you.’
He looked into Brendan’s eyes and saw little there. They flitted from his face to his leg to the door to the fence post. He had certainly comprehended what Vernon said but if he planned to do anything with the insult, he was taking his damn time. The threat was absurd. Vernon was half his size, was half his size on his best day.
Brendan stepped back, allowing Vernon to shut his door. ‘Thank you,’ Vernon said. As he reversed down the driveway he looked back at Brendan as he stood there watching and said, ‘Mongrel,’ under his breath. Violent men were almost always stupid as well. They couldn’t argue their way out of things, so they hit their way out instead. A cornered rat used what teeth it had.
TWENTY-ONE
BRENDAN CAHILL
Brendan drove to Mel’s parents’ place, where he knew she was living. That bastard Moore. The bastard. The grass out the front overgrown, engulfing the pavement. He sat in his car and watched the house. Rubbed at his neck, his hands making the pain sharpen again.
He got out. He strode to the front door and stood there like an idiot, before knocking hurriedly. Noise from inside. Then she was at the door, dressed in a flannel shirt, tracky-dacks. The television behind her blaring. She squinted against the light.
/> He despaired at seeing her face up close. What that little bastard had written. There was an ugly scar, over her eyebrow. He must have really smacked her. Her nose was the worst of it. Not set properly. That mongrel Moore maybe never let her go to hospital to see about it. Too chicken-shit.
He felt vindicated.
‘Mel,’ he said, hoping he didn’t appear as awkward as he felt.
‘Brendan? What are you doing here?’
He fidgeted, and stopped himself. ‘I just thought I’d check in on you.’
‘Why?’
‘You seen Caleb recently?’
She stiffened, hugging her shirt around her. He immediately regretted saying his name.
‘No.’
‘You heard what I did?’
‘No. Brendan. What did you do?’
He looked around at the porch. Looked at the overgrown grass. Then back to her. ‘I did to him what he did to you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean I walloped him, Mel.’
Her eyes widened.
‘I just beat on him, same as he did to you.’
‘Oh, Brendan.’ She looked back inside the house, and when she turned again there were tears in her eyes. ‘I didn’t ask you to do that.’
‘I know. But I thought—’
‘I just wanted to be done with it. With him.’
‘He deserved what he got, Mel. Look at your face.’
‘I didn’t want you doing that. I didn’t want him hurt that way.’ She wiped at her eyes, then said angrily, ‘You leave him alone. I don’t want you hitting him anymore.’
