Dancing Home

by Paul Collis

  Fingers slowly raised his head and looked to see Blackie staring hard out the window. Blackie had found out the hard way that love is much more than a four-letter word. Blackie began to sing the Rolling Stones song ‘Far Away Eyes’. Fingers held the letter softly and gazed again at the faded words on the dirty paper. He passed it to Rips who looked at it. But Rips couldn’t read, so Fingers read it aloud before he passed it back to Blackie and joined Blackie in the chorus.

  Blackie smiled a sorry smile of regret as he finished the song. ‘She had them eyes,’ Blackie said, pointing to the letter, wondering what made such a sweet girl like her dance for a bastard like him.

  The men fell quiet again. Fingers broke the silence with, ‘Fuck, Blackie! Who wrote that letter, man?’

  They watched Blackie collect himself and clear his throat before saying, ‘Jest someone I used to know. The Force has been my boss for too long time now, boys. I’ve been sleepin under strange, strange skies, brothers. Fucked … I’m fucked.’ And with those words, the time for talking about women had passed.

  Fingers silently indicated to Rips to follow him out of the room.

  He looked back at Blackie once more before closing the door softly behind them, leaving Blackie to recoup alone with his crooked dreams and desires. Fingers and Rips had another cup of tea and talked about the state Blackie was in.

  ‘Fucken hell, Fingers … What ’appened to ’im?’ Rips asked.

  Fingers thought for a while then answered. ‘He took my part with a Thompson from Wellington …’ Fingers began.

  ‘Which one?’ Rips interrupted.

  ‘Tyrone … Know him?’ Fingers asked.

  Rips rolled his eyes and nodded, yes.

  ‘Well,’ Fingers continued, ‘he was looking to smash me because I’m the skinny whitefulla in the pub. Bet, Blackie stepped in and smashed him instead!’

  ‘Yeah!’ Rips said excitedly.

  ‘Oh yeah. Blackie give it to him, alright. He can still fight, the cunt, hey? But afterwards, all the Wello crowd jumped him and tore him ta pieces … Me and Silvia dragged him away jest before the coppers turned up. That’s how come he’s here, we brought him,’ Fingers concluded.

  Both men took the enormity of the situation in, quietly considering it all.

  They wondered what was to become of Blackie. They agreed that the Blackman was headed for an early grave if he didn’t take a pull and settle down somewhere quiet.

  Rips found Fingers an easy man to speak with and so poured his heart out as a man is prone to do when full of speed and overjoyed with the possibilities of a new love in the offing. Rips reminisced about gaol times, and hard times he’d gone through, with and without Blackie, over the years.

  ‘I membar dat riot at Cessnock – me and Black … Bout five years ago now … Dey put me and him in solitary for four days? Bashed the shit outa us, ay?’ Rips recalled. He showed Fingers a half-inch scar above his eye from the batons used on him.

  Fingers acknowledged and nodded, screwing his face up at the very thought of being smashed like that.

  Rips spoke of his own mother, who was very sick in hospital, back home. ‘Yeah bud, me ole mum, she’s real crook, back ’ome in ’ospital. She’s dying. Won’t be long to go ’fore she goes. I gotta git ’ome ta see her.’

  Fingers was a little saddened when Rips left, saying that ‘he wouldn’t be long’, that he ‘had to git smokes, and would be back’.

  Chapter 11

  Dreamin at Dot’s

  Blackie woke in the mid-afternoon to the faint noise of people talking. He strained to hear who they were, but their voices were muffled by the storm that continued outside. Very gingerly, he made his way down the hallway towards the living room. He recognised Rips’ laugh and the soft strumming of a guitar. Blackie was pleased to see him when he walked into the lounge room. The small crowd of Fingers and Dot, Vince and Ralph, Rips and Tegan, and a stranger woman and her baby presented a cosy picture. The mob gasped when they saw, bent before them, Blackie, with his face bloodied and bleeding again.

  ‘Ya right there, bra?’ Rips asked.

  ‘Yeah, um sweet, man,’ Blackie muttered.

  He felt so seedy from drying out from beer and speed. He was as shaky as he was weak. Dot helped him back to the bathroom and patched him up again. Together they returned to the lounge room minutes later, Blackie looking a little fresher.

  Silvia broke the tension with her bright voice, and went and sat beside Blackie, asking, ‘Hey. Remember me from last night, Blackie?’

  Blackie looked at her, half-recognising her as the woman from the cemetery, and sat himself up a little straighter. He shook his head.

  ‘Naa. Not really. Was you were at the cemetery?’ he asked.

  Fingers told him that it was Silvia (who had been buying cigarettes for her father from the bottle shop at the pub they were at last night) who had helped him drag Blackie away, and into her car, before the cops had shown up.

  ‘Far out!’ Blackie said. ‘Youse know each other then, ay?’ he asked.

  The long and short of it all was that Silvia’s mother was a close friend of Dot’s. Dot had nursed Silvia’s mum as she suffered with cancer. First Dot cared for the sick woman in hospital, and then, later, Dot nursed her at her home. During the end period, Dot had grown close to Silvia, and treated her as family.

  ‘There ain’t no secrets in this little country town, huh? Well, thas the good thing bout ’em, I s’pose. Everyone knows everyone. People help ya when ya in trouble. Thanks sis for gittin me away from there. But I don’t remember much about it at all. Who was that bloke I had a crack at? He’s got a big mouth, and a stand-over. Don’t like bastards like that,’ Blackie scoffed.

  ‘Wello mob. You know him Black. He’s a Thompson,’ Fingers informed him.

  Blackie nodded, thinking before he asked, ‘He’s a boxer, ain’t he? Heard that name before. You know him, Rips?’

  ‘Yeah, I know him. I know all his mob! I played footy against ’em in district games before. They all think they can fight a bit. Tyrone’s Golden Gloves or somefin. Sta, sta, stand-overs and posers, thas all, the bastards. I downed big Leo – eldest bloke – years ago!’ Rips said. ‘Hit ’im in de guts and on da chin, and, Leo went arse-up.’

  The boys laughed with Rips.

  ‘You a fucken good’n’alright Rips, wished I was dere when you drove ’im,’ Blackie said.

  ‘Yeah, I got ’im alright, bruva. Two good hits – bang, bang! Big Leo was fucked in da dust!’ Rips laughed.

  Tyrone was reportedly a better fighter than his brothers. Silvia excused herself and disappeared into the kitchen where Dot was busying herself with cooking cakes and preparing food for the twins’ party. The three men sat and chewed the fat and tried to pretend that the fight Blackie had got himself into the night before was over and done with by now, that there wouldn’t be men on the street looking to finish him off if they ran into him.

  Dot came back with a tray filled with cups, sugar and more boiling tea. Silvia followed her, carrying another tray loaded with cupcakes and biscuits. Everyone dug in, except Blackie. When Dot offered him some, he said, ‘Naa. Not for me, Dot. Gotta watch me weight!’

  They laughed and began to relax, and then Fingers piped up and said, ‘Hey Dot? Whatcha think this means? I had a dream that I was in a plane, and it started to fall outa the sky. Everyone was screamin and stuff, but I just sat there. Everyone ran past me, staring at me. And, then the next minute, the plane jest landed safely and then I woke up!’

  Dot, amongst her other fantastic abilities, was a renowned dream reader. She carefully considered the question, and then after some more pondering, replied, ‘Well, you know how you feel like a fish out of water sometimes around my mob, when they jest talk over the top of ya and you’re not recognised sometimes?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Fingers spluttered.

  ‘Well, I thi
nk it’s about that stuff. But this time, you’re in the driver’s seat, babe. You know deep down that people come to you when they’re in trouble and stuff. I think the dream was someone talking to you, reminding you that you are a good man, and not to be frightened of anything,’ she decided.

  Everyone considered in silence what Dot had said before Blackie nodded his head in agreement and winked at Fingers saying, ‘You da man alright there, big fulla!’

  Silvia was the next to share her dream experience.

  ‘I had a dream that I came into a lota money, and I got outa this rat-hole town!’

  Everyone laughed. Rips stuck his hand up like he was a school kid or something and finished up by skiting, ‘I, I, I deed! I deed! I deed won a lota money – last night! And I am gittin outa this rat-hole tanight!’

  Discussion centred on how much was Rips’ great fortune, and what he intended doing with his windfall. The conversation then drifted from one topic to the next with everyone putting their two bob’s worth in along the way.

  Fingers said that he wished that he had enough money to take Dot and the kids back to his country, back to New Zealand, to see the land of the long white cloud – to drink and eat from that country’s great fortune.

  ‘Long time since I’ve been home,’ Fingers said sadly. ‘It was beautiful in Auckland when I was young. Used to go to the bay with me uncles and fish all day. Plenty a fish there boys. Yeah. Beautiful.’

  Dot said she wished that she could have her life all over again, just so she’d not make the mistakes she’d made along life’s highway. Wished she’d never taken to drinking when she was a teenager. Wished that she’d spent more time saving money instead of spending it. ‘Bet. I’m glad I met you my baby,’ she said, looking at Fingers. ‘You’re a good man and worth more than gold to me …’

  Fingers smiled his broken-mouth smile, turning red in the face.

  ‘Love ya, Dot,’ was all Fingers could utter, becoming choked.

  Rips wished that he was as free as a bird, rich as a king, and to sing at the opera house to an audience of all his mates, with his mother in the front row, right next to Tegan! Tegan punched him on the arm and told him to stop being silly.

  She said she wished she owned a big ship to sail to all the exotic places in the world.

  Dot asked, ‘What do you wish for, my cuz?’ directing the question at Blackie.

  Blackie thought about it for a while, and then said, ‘Ahh, God. Nothin much. Place of me own, I s’pose.’

  After a little while, the conversation was beginning to dry up.

  ‘What do you dream about, Blackie?’ Silvia asked.

  Blackie glanced around, nervously, seeing the distance between them narrowing in each heartbeat. He got her intention right. Her question was as loaded as the Bible – full of promises of love.

  It seemed she’d taken a shine to him, but he had a kind of indifference when questioned about love and affection.

  He had his reasons – and they all related back to Gillian. He did never stay long enough in one place to make things work out with women.

  Thinking of the woman who’d written the love letter he carried, and how she’d loved him, he spluttered, ‘I don’t dream, sister. Men like me. Don’t dream.’

  The words were hard for him to say, they felt like they were stuck halfway in his throat, but he somehow managed to cough them up. That put a dampener on everything. And Blackie regretted it. Oh no! He knew that he’d said too much, so he shifted away, towards the corner of the lounge, leaning on the arm rest.

  He’d hoped that the harshness of his truth might turn her off him. The moment caused all to stop speaking. They looked away from each other, waiting for something else to restart another conversation. A silent icy breeze snuck in under the door. The cold air made everyone shiver.

  They looked at each other with wide eyes. All thinking about ghosts. The scent of jasmine came to Blackie’s mind. His nan was calling him again. He still had business to finish with her. He felt the need to vomit and grabbed Rips’ arm for assistance to the bathroom. They’d just made it to the bathroom doorway when he vomited. His spew flew into the tub, and onto the floor, as he staggered to the toilet bowl. The sour taste of his vomit burnt his tongue and gums.

  ‘Gord! … Fuck!’ he groaned.

  Rips gently helped him to his feet as he reached for the washbasin. Rips turned back towards the doorway and saw the women with the young boys hiding behind their skirts, giving them the hint to leave. The spectators returned quietly to the lounge.

  From behind, Fingers asked cautiously, ‘Yar right dere, bruz?’

  ‘Yeah, he be right. I got him,’ Rips answered, without turning around. ‘Shut the door there and I’ll clean him up, bud,’ he said.

  Blackie washed his face, rinsed his mouth, squeezed a big blob of toothpaste on his finger, ran it back and forth over his teeth. The taste of the peppermint burnt the mouth ulcers more, but had the effect of leaving him with a cleansed palate. Exhausted, he collapsed back onto the toilet seat. Catching his breath, he looked at Rips, who just smiled and shook his head. From inside of a neatly folded handkerchief, Rips retrieved a small plastic satchel filled almost to the brim with fresh, base speed. Rips looked at Blackie and, without saying a word, offered the drug to him. Blackie looked up and, for a second or two, struggled with his ethical dilemma.

  ‘Do I take the shit, or can I be strong and wait until the kids get their birthday party outa the way?’ he asked himself.

  But, the sour smell of the drug possessed a strong attraction. And, as usual, the speed had the best of him. So, with regret for his weakness (and in shame), he took the satchel into his shaky hand. He bowed his head as his guilt was plain to see, and then … the deed was done.

  He found his little pocket knife and dug it deep into the speed. He withdrew the blade, full of the shit – way more than a gram. He licked the blade clean, screwing his face to the taste. He never hated himself more than he did right there. And so, he plunged the fucken knife back in again. And repeated the act. He wished he’d die from it. Then he remembered: ‘Be careful what you wish for, blackfulla.’

  He held the speed suspended in his mouth somehow without touching his ulcerated tongue for a few seconds, and then he rushed to the washbasin and gulped water from the tap to wash it all down. His mouth burnt, and his eyes watered more. As he stood bent over the basin, unsure whether he was going to throw up again or not, he passed the drug bag back to Rips. He passed the knife too, and then Rips dug in to get a big dose of the Force for himself. Blackie made way for Rips to drink from the tap by returning to the toilet seat. He buried his head into his hands and closed his eyes. He heard the tap being turned off, ‘Creak,’ and then Rips said,

  ‘Ya right dere, cuz, or what?’

  Blackie looked up feeling his heart beat wild in his chest and nodded that he was okay.

  ‘Hey bruz,’ Blackie said. ‘How bout takin us down to the chemist?’

  Without thinking about it, Rips said, ‘Yeah. What ya wanna go down there for?’

  ‘It’s me guts. Look how swollen it is. Like I’m fucken pregnant or somethin. Git somethin ta make me shit or somethin. Haven’t done a shit in about four days, or a week, I think. Maybe thas what’s wrong with a bloke. And, me guts is real hard. It hurts, man,’ Blackie moaned.

  ‘You looked fucked alright, old mate,’ Rips declared.

  Chapter 12

  Ghosts in Black Skin

  It was 4 pm. Tegan was driving them through empty streets towards the town centre. The gutters were filled with splashing water and Tegan’s little car was being rocked as it rolled along. Blackie looked at the wild weather, loving its wildness. The Force had kicked him into life and he began to feel a bit better.

  ‘Where we goin, man?’ Blackie asked Rips.

  Rips looked at Tegan, who seemed unsure of what to make of the stran
ge question Blackie had come up with. He looked at Blackie to ascertain if the Blackman was pulling his leg or not. Seeing Blackie’s glassy eyes shining like diamonds in a fog and the serious look on Blackie’s face, Rips roared with laughter. Blackie was peakin. Rips felt the speed beginning to stir the good feelings inside his own head and was beginning to want Tegan again in the ways in which he had had her last night.

  ‘Ya wanna go to da chemist, don’t ya? Ya silly bastard!’ Rips laughed.

  ‘Huh? Ah, yeah, thas right. Fuck man, I’m wrecked!’ Blackie said meekly, before he too erupted into laughter.

  The three enjoyed the stupidity of the moment. They laughed their way down towards Darling Street. Turning the corner, their joy quite abruptly turned to dread with the appearance of two police cars, speeding towards them with lights flashing, but speeding in silence without sirens blaring. They all held their breath and exhaled huge sighs of relief after the cops drove straight past them, without giving them a second glance.

  ‘Yeah! Git fucked ya dogs,’ Rips said aloud, watching the coppers disappear into the driving rain. ‘Pity ’alp the poor bastard they’re afta,’ he said softer.

  ‘Yeah – jest glad it’s not us, bud,’ Blackie answered nervously.

  ‘Hey man! Where’s the fuckwit?’ Blackie asked.

  Rips thought hard about the last time he’d seen Carlos.

  ‘Hmm, thas right,’ he replied. ‘The last I saw him wuz at the pub last night. I told him to meet us back there this arvo. I’ll go and have a look when we drop you off, ay?’

  Blackie was glad to be inside the warm chemist shop. The rain made him hurry, and it made him cold. The chemist smelt clean like eucalyptus trees after rain. The smell took him back in his mind to times of his childhood – to times he’d went walking in heady heat before rain, to when all the birds fly, fly away, leaving the beautiful smell of eucalypt hanging all over the place. He remembered how he enjoyed following centipede tracks along the sand hills. He made his way slowly to the counter at the far end of the shop, only to be faced with a line of four elderly women. Three of them sat there, looking all bent out of shape in their motorised chairs, waiting patiently. The other woman stood resting on her walking frame while being served by a young white woman who looked splendid in her immaculate, white uniform. Blackie made his way to a chair and plonked himself on it. He closed his eyes and followed the action by listening to the conversations and the ringing of the cash register.