by John Larkin
‘So you’re one of the boys?’
The ape creature bristles at this. ‘No. I’m not one of his boys. I don’t go around barbecuing old people while they’re asleep. I’m a professional.’
I snort back another laugh. ‘A professional what?’
There’s a pause while the ape creature licks his wounds. It’s safe to say that his day is not quite panning out the way he’d hoped. One minute he’s planning a bit of bed-top wrest- ling with Serena, and the next he’s hiding butt naked from the resident psychopath. Now he’s been ridiculed by a gun-toting street kid.
‘Where are you staying?’
I think about lying, but given what he’s doing with Serena, it’s not as if he’ll be having a heart to heart with Creepo any time soon. ‘I’m living on the trains.’
‘That’s rough.’
‘I can look after myself.’
‘Yes,’ he agrees, staring at the gun. ‘It seems as though you can.’
The milk is simmering in the pan so the ape creature makes me my hot chocolate. When he’s finished stirring it he turns around and offers me the mug.
‘Just put it on the bench.’
He smiles and does as I order, then goes back to making his coffee. I gulp down the hot chocolate, feeling the heat and sugar flowing through my body.
‘Take it easy. You’ll burn your stomach.’
‘Shut up!’ I snap, refusing to be nagged by adulterous, crooked ape creatures; even ones that make a lovely hot chocolate. ‘I haven’t had anything to eat for three days.’ It’s not exactly true but it’s close enough.
‘Would you like me to make you some breakfast? The fridge is well stocked.’
‘No thanks. I’ll get something later.’
‘You don’t trust people.’
‘People yes. Men no.’
‘Probably wise given your domestic circumstances.’
‘What do you know about . . .’ I trail off, trying to think of a better word than ‘stuff’. He might look like the Wild Man of Borneo but he speaks well. ‘. . . about things?’ Brilliant. It’s as if I’ve swallowed a thesaurus.
‘I know something of your dear uncle Tony, and believe me, after I’ve seen some of his handy work on Serena’s beautiful face, I’ve often fantasised about parting his hairline with a meat cleaver.’
‘So why haven’t you? Are you chicken or something?’
He sips his coffee. Despite his shaggy exterior, he actually seems quite nice.
‘Alas, I fear that I wouldn’t adjust too well to prison life. I’m a lawyer, you see.’
‘So, you’ve put people in jail. Don’t want to say hi to them there?’
‘No. It’s the ones that I haven’t been able to keep out of jail who might have an axe to grind with me, or else insert it somewhere I have no desire to see an axe inserted.’
I actually laugh at this.
‘So I hang around the edges of Serena’s life, waiting for her to call. Pathetic I know, but what can you do? I love her, you see.’
‘Why don’t you just run off with her?’
‘Dear, sweet Serena has become accustomed to the lifestyle that your uncle affords her. She keeps me around for a bit of an illicit thrill, I suspect. I suppose between the two of us we make her happy. Besides, I don’t think you quite realise just how dangerous your uncle is.’
‘I’ve got some idea.’
‘Visits in the night?’
I look down and say nothing.
‘Serena hinted that something was afoot. You poor thing.’
I want to shout at him that there’s nothing poor about me. That I’ve got a plan. A to-do list. That I’m going back to school, to university, and then to work for Médecins Sans Frontières and come up with a cure for that eye-eating African worm. But I think we’d both know that that will never happen. The closest street kids get to Médecins Sans Frontières is being treated by them.
I give him a wide berth and take a plastic shopping bag from the cupboard and stuff in my wet clothes, cash, Bleak House and Creepo’s gun.
‘What are you going to do with that? The gun, I mean.’
‘Chuck it out. In the river or something.’
‘A wise course of action. Show me.’ He makes a clapping gesture, meaning I should pass him the gun.
I give him an ‘as if!’ look but then hand it to him anyway.
‘Now, I’m not much of an expert on these things but if you want to keep your head in the vicinity of your shoulders, may I suggest transporting it with the safety catch on.’ He holds the gun up to the light and then flicks a small switch on the side. Then he points it at the wall and squeezes the trigger. Nothing.
‘Unless you’re planning on becoming an assassin, I suggest removing the silencer. May I?’
I shrug and he unscrews the silencer and puts it in his pocket. He hands the gun back to me and I stuff it back into the plastic bag.
I stand up ready to get the hell out of there. ‘Why are you still here? You know how psycho he is but you’re sitting here drinking coffee.’
‘A slight problem with my departure plan, I’m afraid. Deadlocked doors. Front and back. Thought I’d have a cup of coffee while I wait for a locksmith I know. Though locksmith is a fairly loose term for this particular tradesman. Anyway, there’s plenty of time. They’ve gone up the coast looking for you, from what I could gather through the door.’ He looks over at me. ‘Finished?’
I nod and slide my cup over to him.
‘Better tidy up. Don’t want to leave any evidence of our little confab.’
He actually seems quite sweet as he tends to our cups, rinsing then under the tap and carefully drying them. I really wish Serena would divorce Creepo and marry this guy, despite what I said about him being an ape creature. Maybe he is her knight in shining armour after all – okay, hairy armour.
‘It’s okay,’ I say, getting up from the kitchen chair. ‘We can get out.’
He follows me through the kitchen and into the garage. I hit the button near the door and the garage door starts to clunk open.
‘Interesting,’ says Serena’s knight. ‘Deadlock the doors but leave the garage open to all comers.’
‘I’ve worn shoes with a higher IQ than his.’
‘Ah. Don’t underestimate your foe,’ he admonishes. ‘Your uncle may be lacking a little in the area of book smarts, but he more than makes up for it when it comes to the streets.’
He steps outside while I hit the button that closes the garage door and then I follow him out.
‘I’ll call a cab. Can I drop you anywhere?’
‘No thanks,’ I reply. ‘I’ve just got to get my stuff, it’s around the side.’
‘Risky. Remember what I said about underestim- ating him.’
He reaches into his wallet and hands me a card. It reads:
Marco Rossini – Lawyer and Accountant
He is smart.
‘You never know,’ he says. ‘You might come into some money that needs . . .’
‘Dispersing?’
‘Exactly. That’s a much nicer word than laundered.’
I don’t know what he’s going on about but I thank him anyway.
‘How do I open a bank account?’
‘Do you have ID?’
I nod.
‘Just go in and open one. Put my office address down to have your statements sent to if you need an address. Or ask them not to send you statements. The notes are not sequential, are they?’
I don’t know what he means so I reach into the plastic bag and hand him one of the bundles. He flicks through it.
‘It’s fine. Don’t dump it all in at once, of course; that might raise a few eyebrows given your tender years, but otherwise everything’s okay. Banks wan
t to take your money. It’s what they do, after all.’
I thank him and say goodbye. He walks off down the street calling a cab on his mobile. I’m about to chuck his business card in the gutter but on second thought decide to shove it in my pocket.
I retrieve my bags, climb over the fence, and then I leave that horrible house for ever.
Five minutes later I’m back inside, creeping up the stairs with a bag full of dog poo.
WHAT WERE YOU PLAYING AT?
I couldn’t help myself. I was gone. That was it. Finished with them. The house. Everything. Time to get on with my life.
So why go back inside?
It was pretty childish, I suppose. But then again, I was a child.
Go on.
After I’d stuffed my wet clothes and everything into my backpack, I took off. Although I’d hardly slept a wink in the last three nights, I was buzzing. I’d survived another close encounter of the psychotic kind and I also had someone that I felt I could go to for help if I really had to. Anyway, as I was walking through the park towards the train station, I almost stepped on it. It was disgusting. A complete gross-out. I mean, what sort of person lets a dog take a dump like that and not clean it up? And this was a seriously big dog. Either that or someone had been taking their rhinoceros for its morning walk. And it dawned on me – Creepo was getting off scot-free. He’d done so many disgusting, shitty things and there was nothing happening to him in return. No retaliation. No consequences.
So what did you do?
I scooped the poop. I got the plastic bag for my wet clothes out of my backpack and, this was the really disgusting bit, turned it inside out and somehow managed to pick up that steaming pile of pooch poo. I could feel the heat it was giving off through the plastic. I was gagging the whole time. After I tied up the bag, I ran back to their house, climbed the fence, raided the gnome and crept upstairs.
What did you do with it?
I emptied the bag halfway down the side of his bed, between the sheets, and then I carefully remade the bed. He was going to cop it. Even if it was just on his feet.
It wasn’t much really, was it? A bit of dog poo in his bed? They could have come back.
Yes, but they didn’t. And you’re right. It wasn’t much. But it was something. Something that Matilda might have done. I wanted him to know that it was me. To put him on notice. I wanted him to know that from now on there were going to be consequences to his actions.
BY THE TIME THE TRAIN PULLS INTO THE STATION THE PEAK HOUR IS over. Adults are at work, kids at school.
I’m jealous of those kids. I can feel them out there learning. Getting ahead of me. I was going to try to find myself a school today but after what happened last night, that’ll have to wait until tomorrow. At least.
Now that I’m away from Creepo’s house of horrors my guard comes down and I can feel just how tired I am. I can barely keep my eyes open and I have strange pains in my chest and head, not to mention the back of my neck. The trouble is, I haven’t got anywhere to sleep. I know that there are probably hostels for the homeless in the city, but I’m pretty sure they’d be locked up during the day to stop us from lingering. And besides, I’ve decided to avoid the city. The thought of being alone there, at night, with all the drunks and weirdos freaks me out. The bright lights might attract the homeless, but some of that glitter will undoubtedly come from the red-light district and I’m not going there. Never. There are leeches there who’ll stick poison in your veins so that you’ll stick strange men’s things in your vagina to be able to afford the poison for your veins. Death lives down that road. And not a very pleasant one.
I get up and slouch over to the map above the train’s door. We’re coming to a junction station for a new line that services the leafy northern suburbs. That could be a safe option. I bet very few psychos prowl the ivy belt. I could curl up on the seat and go to sleep. Or else I could stay on this line and head back up to Death Valley. To my weekender. To Creepo.
Looking at the map again I notice that there’s a mega-mall a couple of stops along the new line that now has its own underground station. I’m not really big on the whole shopping thing but at least there’ll be food, crowds, anonymity.
When the train stops I pick up my gear and haul my exhausted butt down the escalator to the new line. I lug my stuff on board the train that’s sitting there and slump down onto the seat opposite a young mother who’s obviously on a day out with her daughter. Shopping maybe. Off to yum cha perhaps.
The kid smiles at me and she’s so cute in her little tartan dress and geisha girl hairdo that I smile back. Mum isn’t happy. She yanks the kid’s arm and snarls something to her in Cantonese. Mum then glares at me and is unable to prevent herself from sneering and muttering under her breath. I give her my best ‘Screw you!’ look so she gets up and yanks the kid across the aisle to another seat, almost dislocating her shoulder in the process. She loves the kid so much she’s actually abusive in her protection of her. I’ll never figure people out.
With a grunt the train shoots into the tunnel and I’m able to see my reflection in the blackened window. I take one look at my bedraggled features, my hollow, sunken eyes, my pasty face, my greasy hair and am half-inclined to move seats myself. It dawns on me that I have all the drawbacks of looking like a crackhead without any of the benefits. Not that there are any benefits to being a crackhead, other than death maybe. But still.
It seems to me that a shopping centre’s role is to stop people from thinking. About life. About the universe. About death. About the oblivion that awaits us beyond our last breath. Come to think of it I could probably do with a bit of shopping myself. Stop being so emo about the misery that’s waiting for us in the afterlife and get on with the business of enjoying life while it’s here.
I slide into a booth in one of the cafés just off from the food court. It’s still early so there are plenty of spare tables. There are a couple of groups of cackling mothers. Free for the day now that the sprogs have been dropped off at school. Half of them are in lycra, either coming from or going to the gym, or maybe because they think they look good in lycra. They don’t. It’s not hard to eavesdrop because they’re basic- ally yelling. They’re discussing the shortcomings of someone who hasn’t turned up yet. From what I can gather the missing woman’s husband sucks. Maybe this is Serena’s coffee group.
I look at the menu but nothing really grabs me. I’m so hungry that I’m not hungry any more. I must be like one of those marathon runners whose energy levels drop so low that their bodies start devouring them. I reckon my body has given up waiting for food and it’s starting to eat me from the inside out.
A young guy emoed up in black and with about a kilo of hair gel sitting slimily on his head eventually swaggers over. He gives me a sort of why-aren’t-you-at-school? look, but he doesn’t say anything. Playing truant officer would obviously cut into his grooming time so he decides against it.
‘What can I get you?’ asks Herr Gel, who I’ve decided is German, purely for the gag factor. Herr means Mister in German. I read that somewhere. And for some reason Kugelschreiber means pen, which seems like a lot of effort just to say pen.
I stare at the menu again. My heart isn’t in it, but I can’t let my body carry on devouring me. If I keep this up I’ll simply cease to exist. Or else wind up in a psycho ward with my eyelids sewn shut like the other foodie freaks.
‘A mango smoothie and a cheese and avocado toasted sandwich.’
‘What sort?’
‘What sort of what?’
‘Cheese.’
‘The yellow sort.’
Herr Gel finds this absolutely hilarious. He snorts like a Colombian airport beagle. ‘Swiss? Cheddar? Plastic? Edam?’
‘Swiss.’
‘Bread?’
Who knew ordering a sandwich would be this difficult?
‘Whatever.’
‘White? Wholegrain? Brown? Low GI? Thick crust?’
‘White!’
Herr Gel jots down my order with his Kugelschreiber but mercifully they obviously only have one type of mango so with a ‘back soon’ he smiles at me and walks off.
‘Samsung.’
‘I’m sorry?’ he says, turning back.
‘I’d like my sandwich to be made in a Samsung toaster. I’m assuming we get a choice.’
Herr Gel points at me in that ridiculously uncool way that some guys do. ‘You’re funny.’
And you care more about what’s on your head than what’s in it.
I pull out The Old Man and the Sea just to give myself something to do while I’m waiting. Try to shut out the cackling mothers.
Eventually, just as the marlin makes a last, desperate bid for freedom, Herr Gel swaggers back with my order.
He places the toastie and smoothie in front of me and then undertakes an elaborate bow. ‘Madam.’
I flash him a smile on and off and then take a long sip of my smoothie. One sip, that’s all it takes and I can feel the energy flooding back into my system. My body backs off cannibalising me.
‘Good book?’
I’m busy hoeing into my toastie like a shark into a marlin, so even though my mouth is half-stuffed with sandwich I tell him that it’s a classic, which comes out more like ‘cwassic’. I also spray some flecks of toast across the table. Charming.
Herr Gel picks up my book and examines it like it’s a dead fish. ‘Pretty boring title if you ask me.’
‘I’ll tell Mr Hemingway next time I see him.’
‘He should have called it The Old Man and the Sea Monsters. That would have been more interesting. Would have sold more too, I bet.’
I haven’t got a clue if he’s joking or not. I’ll have to get better at this sort of stuff.
‘I’ll leave you to it.’
I flash him another smile.
‘Hey, listen. There’s a toga party at uni on Friday night.’
I almost choke on my sandwich. ‘You go to uni?’
