by Ben Hobson
Kelly said, ‘Alright. That’s it then. I suppose I’ll see you in a week.’
‘Yeah. I’ll see you.’
‘You look a git without your shirt on.’
‘Shut up,’ Vernon said, and almost laughed for the first time in days.
Still huddled over, he hurried back to his car. When he got in he turned and saw his friend still staring out the window, hands still clenched. Vernon supposed he was praying. Thought he should probably join him. Instead he pulled out from the kerb and headed home.
TWENTY-SIX
CALEB MOORE
He stood waiting with the other prisoners, his forearm in a cast, his chest bandaged. They were all gathered in the pre-dawn dark at the side of the road and a few of those in the front had been given a large sign to hold. Painted across it in large red letters were the words Prisoners On The Run!!! People were supposed to honk as they drove past. At least that was the tradition. Last year the families in those cars had been waving, small children smiling in the back—a sad mockery of the life taken from these men. Or forfeited.
He scuffed the gravel with his boot. The governor was in his car talking on his walkie-talkie. The car in front of his had two men in it, one with his walkie-talkie up. The policeman had been earlier and surveyed them all, drinking from his thermos, and got back in his car and sped off. Caleb wondered where Eve was, the woman who’d saved him.
They were waiting for sun-up. Once the sun crested the hills surrounding Newbury they would begin their run. They called it a run. More of a walk, really. He was lucky he was still allowed to go after what had happened yesterday. His gut was still sore but he didn’t let on. He looked at the charcoal sky. The stars clouded, difficult to see. In all his years locked up he had rarely seen them, had been looking forward to their simplicity, the certainty they’d always be there, and these mongrel clouds had stolen them. He had to stop thinking that way. He had done this. Their lack was his.
‘Wish they’d hurry up,’ one of the other cattle said beside him, his arms folded over his chest. Was it Daryl? Caleb hadn’t bothered to get to know him.
‘Yeah, well, they’re waiting for the sun,’ Caleb said.
‘I need to get moving, ward off this cold.’ His teeth were chattering. He stared at Caleb, imploring.
‘It’s not that bad.’
They stood, these confined men now temporarily released upon the world, until at last a hint of orange oozed over the horizon. The governor got out of his car. He rubbed his arms. ‘Sun’s up,’ he said, nodding his head.
Caleb turned. ‘It’s not really.’
‘It is.’
Caleb looked again. ‘Not really.’
‘We’re leaving.’
The rest of the men didn’t talk this way to the governor and Caleb supposed that he would hesitate too, if not for Brendan Cahill and the way the governor looked at him, knowing, ashamed. If he had done his job correctly there’d be none of this pain and misery. Blaming others, blaming himself. He looked skyward, fed up with his mind. He wanted to take his brain out of his skull and make it work better. He felt defective all the way to his core.
Fed up, too, with flagellating himself. Wished he was dead, truth be told. Done with the guilt and the shame. Even that felt selfish. Feeling guilty about being mad about feeling guilty. A twisted thing, his mind. Felt like the more he burrowed into it, the more complex and disjointed his thoughts became.
The governor raised his arms and said, ‘Now, you lot remember why you’re doing this.’
‘Because you’re making us?’ a bloke beside him said.
‘You want to go back in?’ The governor shifted his feet, crunching gravel. ‘We’re doing this for charity. We’ve already made over five hundred bucks.’
‘Where does the money go?’ another prisoner asked.
‘It goes towards testicular cancer research,’ the governor said, prompting laughter, blokes grabbing themselves.
Caleb said quietly, ‘Bet it goes into your bloody pocket.’
If the governor heard this he ignored it. ‘So look happy. Wave at people as they pass. Alright? You lot with the sign, hold it up higher. Like this.’ He stepped forwards, indicating the desired height. ‘Alright? We ready? The front car will follow alongside you, so just match its pace.’
Grumbles. The governor started walking and the men with the sign set off behind him, and a moment later came the rest of the prisoners, the car with the two guards in it beside them. Shuffling like a chain gang of old. Minimum security meant they were all trusted to stay together. The penalty for desertion was longer confinement. This threat alone kept most of the men metaphorically leashed.
The sun rose higher up the sky and the mountains beneath it seemed to implode with new light. The men kept on, herded together like a mob of sheep. They passed some actual sheep on their right, content with their dew-covered grass, the newly shorn fleeces like hunks of trees, like somebody had been at them with a chisel. Caleb crunched over the bitumen and rock, his shirt warmed by the sun, the breeze on his arm hair, and he felt alive. He smiled at the sheep as he passed.
Soon the men holding the sign grew weary and passed it off to others behind. A car approached with its headlights still on, despite the sun, and honked its horn as it flew by. The prisoners cheered, pumping their fists like they were at a footy game and the Demons were up.
They kept walking and the sun kept rising, hard to look at now. A series of cars passed them, and then Caleb saw a familiar maroon car slow down in front of them and pull over. His mother’s car. The governor motioned the prisoners to halt and walked over to the car. The guard car beside them sat idling. Caleb watched from the back of the group as his father got out of the car and stood with one arm on the roof.
He heard the governor say, ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Caleb?’ his father called, his eyes searching. He soon found his son and rested his eyes on him, a smile on his face. Caleb found he couldn’t hold his gaze and looked away.
His father shouted, ‘Caleb! The Cahills are coming. Alright? I’ve pissed them off.’
The governor stepped closer to silence his father. The two men stood in heated discussion, but Caleb couldn’t hear the details.
At last his father got back in his car and spun the wheels into the gravel and took off in the opposite direction. As he drove away he stuck an arm out the window and waved at Caleb.
The governor stomped over to him and ordered him out of the group as the other prisoners watched. The governor said, ‘Get going, you lot. I’ll catch you up in a bit.’
They moved off, the car rumbling beside them, the guards within looking disgruntled. The governor stood before Caleb and said, ‘You hear your father say Cahill is coming back for you?’
Caleb stared him down. ‘And you’re going to let him again.’
‘Not after how he threatened Eve we’re not,’ the governor said. He raised his eyebrows and then his shirt and motioned with his eyes. Tucked into the front of his pants was a pistol. ‘I shouldn’t have done it.’
Caleb said nothing. Then, ‘Why did you then?’
‘It wasn’t the money,’ the governor said.
‘You should be in here with us.’ Caleb kept his voice down. ‘You’re just like us. Heard a thousand guys say that exact thing.’
The governor nodded. ‘Yeah. Eve getting her weapon out … I’ve been thinking about it all night. That was my doing. I let that bastard in.’
‘We’re all excuses.’
‘I’m sorry, for what it’s worth.’
They walked on to catch up with the rest of the men. Caleb thought of how different his father had seemed. Desperate. As if he risked everything to be here, to warn his son. The distance with which he’d always held himself gone. And Caleb, in the light of his father’s declaration, felt capable of something. Capable of forgiveness. Maybe of himself.
There was no taking back what he’d done. Instead, now, he could choose to spend what remained of his life on
something worthwhile. And finally, some semblance of clarity coursed through him. A burden relieved from his shoulders with this new revelation. There was hope yet for him. Redemption.
They had come upon a house. Turning to the governor, he said, ‘I gotta take a dump.’
‘Go, then,’ the governor said.
‘Where?’
‘Over there,’ the governor said. ‘In those trees. I’ll wait here.’
‘You got toilet paper?’
‘Why would I have toilet paper?’
‘In case one of your prisoners needs to take a dump. Like right now.’
‘Use a leaf.’
Caleb glared at him and walked down the slight embankment, balancing with his good arm held out. The dew had made the grass slippery. His terror of Cahill, the possibility that he might arrive at any time, made his bowels tighten. He kept looking up at the road for cars. Not that he knew what Brendan drove.
Through the trees he saw the governor on the roadside. He unzipped with difficulty and streamed onto a tree. The urge to shit had been a ruse but he did need to piss. The procession a distance from him now. To the right he could see the house. He glanced back at the governor, who had his arms crossed and was tapping his foot, looking this way and that. Caleb yelled out, ‘You can go on, if you like’.
A chortle. ‘Get stuffed. Hurry up!’
‘Can’t rush things, governor.’ He started to move through the trees in the direction of the house.
‘You’ve got one more minute.’
‘Or what?’ he said, stopping briefly.
‘Or I’ll come and pull your pants up regardless.’
‘I’m not some kid,’ Caleb shouted. ‘Anyway, nearly done.’ He moved quickly then and reached the tree line. The house before him had a carport and in it was a mustard-coloured car.
He stumbled into the open and ran for the car, not daring to look for the governor’s position. He expected to soon hear the sound of gunfire, but heard only the sound of his feet on the driveway.
At the car he grinned broadly. The keys were in the ignition. His parents still did the same thing, too trusting for their own good. He got in and started the engine, gunned it up the driveway.
The governor watched as the car pulled onto the road. At first he just stood there, but when he saw who was at the wheel he yelled out and ran towards the car. He couldn’t reach it. Caleb drove away, checking his rear-view mirror to see if the governor would draw his pistol. He didn’t. As Caleb passed the gawking prisoners he honked a few times, to show his support.
TWENTY-SEVEN
SHARON WORNKIN
Sharon lay still, listening to Roger’s breathing. He was on his stomach, near the edge of the bed. He never snored, not deeply. Maybe after a night on the piss. She, on the other hand, apparently snored like a rhino. She’d never really believed this. Before they had Peter, her protests at this claim would result in holding him down, tickling him, both of them laughing, his laugh sounding like he was choking. She realised they hadn’t played like that since. Was it just them? Or was this all marriages?
She looked at the alarm clock. It was only six o’clock. Saturday. The Boolarra Festival was on today, Newbury’s annual parade of hay and cattle. Clowns. Those guys on their huge unicycles. Did those have a name? Unicyclists? The festival was the one moment in the year Newbury became a tourist attraction. The entirety of the main street shut down as the utes with their displays sauntered by. She’d put Jack and Robert on to keep an eye on things this year—help cordon off the street, direct traffic, make sure people weren’t drinking heavily in public—but it dawned on her they were now down a man. Jack. Nothing much happened most years, but Robert couldn’t handle it on his own, not at his age. The Prisoners on the Run event was something else to bear in mind. Trevor was handling that. Not only was she going to have to work, it was set to be a long day.
She groaned and sat up. She rubbed at her eyes with the knuckles of her right hand and the pain in them reminded her of the beating she’d inflicted on Vernon Moore. She saw again the face of the old man, the collision of her boots into his ribs. The way he’d breathed as he’d walked up the steps of his house.
She looked at Roger again. Then at their bedroom. The money hadn’t improved their lot that much. Their house was maybe a bit better than those surrounding it, but that was all.
But she knew it wasn’t money that had driven her. It wasn’t her husband on his stomach before her, still sleeping. It would be easy to blame him, and sure, he’d definitely pushed her, but the decision had been her own. All the decisions had been, hadn’t they?
Nor could she blame her father. Her mother’s justification of her father, her excusing him, made her realise her mother believed all decisions had already been made for her. All of them. And were she to decide a different course of action—maybe she didn’t like being beaten, living in fear—nothing would happen. Even when she wanted to change her world it would remain, stubborn. And, just like the blood leaking from Daisy, Sharon’s willpower had soaked into the soil. Forgotten, like her mother’s. This moment and so many like it had enforced within her this idea: I have no impact on the world.
But this wasn’t true.
She’d gone too far with Vernon. Way too far. And she was the one who had done it. Not Ernie, or Dad, or Roger, or Peter. It had been her. Ernie had told her what to do and she had listened. She had listened.
The telephone rang, shaking her from her thoughts. She quickly put her slippers on and walked to the kitchen. She answered it on the fifth ring.
‘Hello, Sharon speaking.’
There was a sniffling on the other end. ‘Oh, hi, Mrs Wornkin,’ Cassie said. ‘Is Pete awake?’ Her voice sounded weak.
‘He’s a teenager, sweetheart, he’s not normally up until nine at best.’
Cassie sniffed again on the other end. ‘Is everything alright?’ Sharon asked.
It took Cassie a while to speak again. Sharon held the phone tight to her ear. ‘Our shed was on fire and Dad tried to put it out and … and he got burned.’
Sharon’s breathing quickened. ‘How burned?’
‘Like … all over.’
‘Are you at the hospital?’
Sounding almost like a child: ‘Is Pete there?’
‘Is Ernie alright?’
Cassie sniffed. ‘They say he’ll be okay. But they’d say that, wouldn’t they?’
‘Sweetheart, I think doctors’ll tell you the truth. Especially—’
‘He’s in surgery—Mum?’ The sound of Cassie’s muffled voice, and in the background the sound of machinery beeping. ‘Yeah,’ Cassie said to Sharon, ‘he’s in surgery now for skin grafts. But they said he’ll be alright.’
‘Who else is there?’
‘Just us,’ she said. ‘Mrs Wornkin, please, is Pete there? Can I speak to him?’
‘Yes, of course. I’ll just go get him out of bed.’
There was no response and Sharon realised the line had gone dead. She hung up the phone and walked back through the living room, thinking of the VHS she’d normally do in the morning. Why had she started that? Roger had said something about her weight.
Her son’s bedroom looked like a bomb had gone off. Surprising there wasn’t underwear hanging from the ceiling fan. Sharon hadn’t been in here in ages. Guitar propped up in the corner. Next to the bed, pictures of women, mostly skin. Some holding guitars, looking awkward. Did he really like that stuff? What had she taught him about valuing women? She waded across the mountain of clothing and other debris to Peter. Asleep, one foot sticking out from under the doona. This young man was her son. She bent down and shook his shoulder.
‘Pete?’
He moaned and buried his face deeper into his pillow.
‘Cassie called. You need to wake up.’
He pushed himself upright and turned to look at his mother. ‘What did she want?’
Sharon sat on the end of the bed. She looked him in the eyes. ‘Ernie’s been taken to hospital this mo
rning. Cassie said his shed was on fire and he tried to put it out. Something about skin grafts. Anyway, she’s upset. She sounded like she needs you.’
This news gave life to Peter’s blinking eyes. He just about leaped from the bed, landing on the pile Sharon had shuffled through, searching for something to wear. He was in boxer shorts, a blue singlet.
‘She’s at the hospital?’
‘Yeah. She’s there.’
‘She’s alright?’
‘She was pretty upset, like I said.’
She watched her son as he pulled on jeans over the shorts, slipped on a T-shirt. She said, ‘You know, you do a good job with her.’
‘Who, Cassie? What makes you say that?’
‘Just the way she sounded on the phone. Like she knew she could count on you.’ Sharon wasn’t really looking at her son anymore. ‘Hard to find a man in this world you can count on.’
Peter scoffed. ‘Don’t turn this into you and Dad.’
‘I wasn’t,’ she said, and added, ‘Really.’
Her son looked unconvinced. He dashed out the door and Sharon could hear the sound of his car keys being taken from the bowl on the hall table.
‘Peter?’ she yelled. ‘Take her something to eat. She’ll need help with practical stuff like that. Cassie and her mum. Get something for yourself, too.’
She heard him open the pantry cupboard and slam the door. Then the front door closing, the sound of his car starting up. She took another moment to look around his room before she left.
‘Shaz?’ Roger’s voice from their bedroom.
‘Yeah?’
‘What’s Pete up to?’
She went in and her husband, blinking himself awake in bed, smiled at her. She told him what had happened, and by the time she was finished he was sitting up wide awake.
‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘Bloody Ernie.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘We should do something.’
Sharon shook her head. ‘Pete’ll call if they need us.’
‘Bugger that, hey. Getting burned up. Worst way to go.’
