Tommy said nothing. Understand? pleaded the boy. He don’t really hurt me, he wouldn’t hurt me.
The man, the boy, they looked at each other and there was silence.
The boy left, banged the front door shut.
Alone, the room, the house, hummed. Tommy walked to the prayer room, opened the door. The picture on the wall. He fingered the face of Christ. A fresh stain ran down the wall. The blanket was no longer on the trunk. He walked over to it, tried to raise the lid, then noticed the small lock. He left the room and searched the house, opening drawers, looking on shelves. He found a hammer and walked back into the room. The lock was fragile. Four sharp blows, they pealed, they clanged through the house. The lock gave way and Tommy sat in the echoes. The humming continued. He listened but heard no-one human and he raised the lid.
A mountain of paper. Bills and receipts. Letters and cards, school reports. Tommy dived into the pile, fingered the bottom of the trunk and found an old photo album. Rectangular pictures of the past, gum trees and the shimmering of a lake. Photos of women with children, black women, wide flat faces. Naked children playing in the lake. Smiles, food being roasted around a bush fire. Two envelopes hid in the back of the album. He opened the first. Black and white photographs, two men in leather masks, a naked young body tied to a crucifix. The naked body being penetrated by a cock. The naked body with splashes of semen on the chest and cock. He put the photographs back. The second envelope was thicker, packed. He opened it.
And then he knew why he was here, why he had been brought here. He recognised the faces. The three schoolgirls, their young faces smiling, the blue and white checks of the school uniforms. And the pile of newsprint detailing the abductions, the rapes and the murders. He sat back. Carefully he piled the clippings back into the envelope, pushed it to the bottom of the trunk, closed the lid. In the stoned silence he waited. No voices, nothing called. He attempted to fit the lock back onto the hinge of the trunk. He had broken it. He had broken it, it would not fit.
The picture was watching him. Tommy pressed his lips to Jesus’s face. He knelt and he prayed. He closed the door and left the house. The day was becoming night and the clouds in the sky were wisps of red and yellow streaks. He breathed in the air and his lungs expanded. He was alone, the trees, the sky, it was empty of birds. He was alone, invigorated. He began to run and by the time he reached home, sweating, his breath short, his thighs aching, he was smiling widely. He went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. He closed the bathroom door behind him, scrubbed at his skin, every inch of it, shampooed his hair, brushed his teeth, brushed savagely for minutes, washed and brushed his body clean. Naked, dry, he sat in the centre of the room, looking at the Madonna’s face: still black but that was because she was waiting. It would be soon. The television was off, he sat in darkness. He sat in the silence of his home, no noise, no light, but he was not frightened.
He fell asleep and awoke to the light of early morning. He stretched and looked at the television. He wandered into the kitchen, put on the kettle. On the bench was a black video cassette. He tried not to look at it. But as the kettle boiled he turned on the television. He stirred the coffee and then, knowing this was an instinct not an act of will, he grabbed the video and slotted it into the player. The familiar grind of machinery. The naked bodies filled the screen. He came quickly.
Without looking at their faces, he prayed his apologies to the Mother and to the Child. The room was yet not his. He left the television on, dependent on—it was crucial—the noise. He prayed and promised that soon, very soon, all this would be gone.
12
Conversations about drugs war and food
They’ll win, I reckon.
Lou had the branches splayed in front of him. The pungent smell of marijuana was intoxicating. He was stripping the tightly clumped heads, tearing off the laves.
—Keep the seeds, warned Dom.
—What do you reckon? Lou insisted.
Dom looked up from the scales.
—I’m sick of hoping they’ll win. They never win.
He was to be proved wrong. Collingwood, one of the oldest and one of the most popular of the Australian Football teams, had not won a Grand Final for over thirty years. In 1990 they won the flag.
—How much can I have?
—A couple of Safeway bags full.
Lou whistled happily.
—Cool.
They were in the shed, huddled by an occasionally spasming electric heater. The light from the globe was strong and their faces were pale. The youth was sucking on a straw.
Eva hated the plants, worried about the police. Dom’s greenhouse ran the narrow gutter of the side of the house, concealed from the street by a tall brick fence, and the plastic roof was opaque. But Eva feared the helicopters.
—We don’t need to do this, she said.
But Dom wanted a boat, he wanted to pay off the mortgage and, probably most acutely, he was sick of carpentry. His back hurt, his wrists were getting stiff and he had worked for fifteen years. That already seemed too long-a time. And Eva was pregnant again. He needed the money.
—Has Tommy rung?
Lou shook his head.
—Fucking jerk, I want to slam him. He knows how worried Mum gets.
Lou paused from his task, played with the wet straw.
—I wrote him a letter.
—Did he answer it?
—No.
The brothers sat in silence. Dominic broke it.
—Got a girlfriend yet?
Lou blushed. He shook his head.
—Why not?
—Don’t know.
—Dunno, mimicked Dom. He glanced over at his younger brother, then ruffled his hair.
—Don’t!
There were ten plants in the greenhouse. An expert gardener, Dom had sired hefty booming plants. He was to make a profit of ten thousand on the dope and this did not include the generous share he was to leave aside for himself and Eva. Lou would sell most of the dope he received among his friends, keeping a little stash for himself. He found marijuana at times perplexing, the stone more anxious than pleasurable. But sometimes, if relaxed, if alone in the house, just dreaming, he found a smoke intensified every pleasure: the sensual pleasures of food and touch, of laughter and music. He was to get four hundred dollars from his dealing. He could have made maybe double that, but he preferred to give chunks of it away.
—Mum said Eva’s spoken to Soo-Ling.
—Yeah, she has.
—How is she?
Lou asked the question with a forced bravado. But he spoke low, into his chest. Dom noticed.
—You liked her, didn’t you?
—Yeah, I thought she was cool. Lou wiped his mouth, quickly, the back of his hand.
—Well, she’s upset of course. That dickhead of a brother fucking dumped her. Dom shook his head in disbelief. Where the fuck is that arsehole going to find another girl like that?
Lou fingered the plants. He couldn’t wait to wash. The pungent smell was all over him.
—What do you reckon’s wrong?
As soon as he asked the question he realised that he did not want to hear Dom’s answer. He adored his older brother, sometimes with a passion so intense he knew it to be sexual, which embarrassed him immensely. But he found Dominic complacent.
—He’s always been like this. He can’t look after himself.
The shed was tall and wide. Tools lay all over the shelves and a wall of packed boxes was covered by blankets. Lou stood up and walked over to the boxes, lifted the covers and searched.
—What are you looking for?
—Your old records.
Dominic pointed to the plants.
—Finish this first.
—Nah. I want a break.
Dom stood up and walked over.
—There they are.
There were twelve boxes of vinyl. Seven inches and twelve inches. Lou’s face flushed with excitement. Dom watched his brother take down a box and beg
in flicking through them. I should sell them, he mused, but he as yet was unable to part with them.
Dancing, more than anything, Dom missed dancing with all his soul.
The records were all marked. D and T. Mostly D.
—You got lots of Tommy’s as well.
—He left them behind at Mum and Dad’s. He didn’t want them.
Lou pulled out a record.
—Kraftwerk?
—Yeah, I didn’t realise I had that.
—It’s Tommy’s.
—They did dance stuff, kind of, didn’t they?
—Dunno. Yeah, I guess. Dominic began singing a song in his head. He clicked the beats with his tongue.
—Can I borrow it?
—Sure.
Dom returned to his seat and began putting the dope into small sandwich bags. He looked around. Lou was lifting down another box.
—No, you don’t.
—Just a second.
Dom groaned.
—Mate, get over here. This is going to take all night otherwise. I’ve got to go to bed soon.
The boy returned to his seat, a group of records in his hand. He put them down and began stripping the plants.
—What else did you get?
—Led Zeppelin. The one with that photo of the old man on the cover.
—That’s mine, said Dom proudly.
Lou checked his records.
—This. The Velvet Underground and Nico.
—Tommy’s, said Dom.
—Do you like them?
—Some.
—I like that song ‘Heroin’.
—What else you got there?
Lou showed Dom the record. A twelve inch single.
Dom smiled.
—Musical history, mate. That’s the original.
—Yeah.
—Don’t lose it, warned Dom.
—Promise, answered his brother. He even crossed himself.
The single was ‘Rapper’s Delight’. The Sugarhill Gang.
They finished stripping the plants and Dom packed the dope into shopping bags and placed them in an old trunk under a work table. He covered the trunk with thick cloth.
—Want a joint?
Lou hesitated then nodded. He watched his brother roll the cigarette. Dom’s hands were raw, the skin puffed, lined and savage.
—Have you ever done heroin, Dom?
The older brother stopped his work.
—Why you asking that?
—Just wondering.
—Are you using? Dom’s voice was suspicious.
—Dom, no, Jesus! I’m just asking.
—No, I haven’t.
Dom lit the joint, puffed and handed it to Lou.
—Have you?
—Once. The boy said it quietly.
Dominic slammed the table hard. Lou jumped back.
—You fucking little idiot!
—It was just once, wailed the boy.
Lou was silent.
—Who?
—I’m not telling.
—You fucking will!
—Would you want me to tell anyone about this? Lou pointed to the trunk. Dom was silenced.
—Fair enough. He shook his head, threw his hand towards Lou. The boy jumped back again.
—Just once?
—Promise, just once.
Dominic looked sad.
—Man, it’s fucked. What are you, grade eleven, and you’ve had smack? It’s unbelievable.
He passed the joint.
—Things are really fucked.
They finished the smoke in silence. Dom butted out the end and stood up. He touched his younger brother on the shoulder.
—Lou, please, don’t do it again. But if you do, tell me.
The boy was quiet.
—Tell me?
—Yeah, sure. Thanks, he added.
—And I’ll fucking kill you, all right? And the cunt who gave it to you.
Dom wiped the table clean, brushed the scales and hid them in a tin box. He placed a cloth around the scissor and utensils and sprayed the air with deodorant. It did not totally eclipse the smell of the drugs but it bathed it in the more subtle hints of pine.
—And what is the cup of manna?
The preacher’s strong blue eyes surveyed the circle. The chairs formed a circle and he was at the head. Ten sets of eyes rested on him, waiting.
—In the Arc of the Covenant, continued the preacher, there are the Ten Commandments; the code for life for every, every human being on this planet—black and white—there is Aaron’s Rod and there is the cup of manna. Is manna the chequebook? Is that what God’s covenant with us promises? Wealth? Money?
Again, his eyes surveyed the room. He smiled.
—Remember the children of Israel. They were loaded, his thick American accent carried a giggle, they were loaded, rich with jewels and coins when they fled into the wilderness. Do you think that they could buy their provisions in the wilderness? With money?
The old woman, Mrs Carey, started shaking her head. The preacher smiled at her, encouraging.
—No! Of course not. The cup of manna is not money, is not gold, it is God’s promise to us that if we wash ourselves in the water of his Word, He will provide. Understand? That is faith, this is faith. He banged the wood of his chair with his fist. God will provide.
A chorus of amens.
Darren, whispered, O thank you, Lord.
—And what sits above the Commandments and the cup of manna in the Covenant? Above the Commandments? he insisted. You must know, he pleaded with the circle. Come on, tell me. Tell me.
—Jesus? Mrs Carey answered shyly.
—Bless you! screamed the preacher and he laughed, a rich strong laugh that echoed through the sparse wooden building. The Mercy Seat, the seat with the blood of Jesus. We are washed in the blood of Jesus, God’s supreme promise to us. In Jesus we are pure we are cleansed we are free. Understand? In Jesus.
Darren shook, an exhilaration. O Jesus, wash me pure. The eleven bodies clasped each other’s hands, kissed, brows met brows in joy and contemplation. He experienced it, Mrs Carey’s arms around his shoulders, her frail arms, loving him; Jesus was there, loving him, washing him clean.
The preacher broke the communion with a cough. Neil was conscious of the sweat on his palm, and he drew his hand away, apologetically, from Mr Chee’s frail grip. He was blushing now as the final prayer was read. When it was finished, the group quickly dispersed. Neil took the broom and the pan and began sweeping the floor.
The Church of Christ was small, empty except for the ten rows of pews, the lectern on the raised stage. A simple white crucifix on the wall. He swept away at the dust. When he had finished he wet his face, scrubbed his hands. The gaunt preacher approached him as he came out of the toilet.
—Neil, here’s your money.
The man handed him four twenty dollar bills.
—We sure appreciate you helping us out like this, Neil.
—That’s fine, Mr Weston.
Even though the lay preacher preferred to be called Bill, Neil found it difficult to refer to a man of God by his first name. So he still called the American by his surname. Or simply, sir.
—Neil, we’ll need you early on Sunday. Expecting a big congregation. There’ll be a lot of setting up.
Neil nodded. This Sunday they were to pray for the soldiers going to serve in the Gulf. War seemed inevitable. He wondered if he would be paid any extra money. The American read his thoughts.
—You know it’s hard for us to afford even the eighty we pay you a month, Neil. We do appreciate the work you do for us. You’re one of the most committed of Christians.
—Thank you, sir. It was a mumble.
—God provides, doesn’t he?
—Yes, sir.
The American grinned. He thought Neil was slow. And undisciplined. He prayed that Neil would find, through God’s grace, the ability to overcome the laziness that compromised his covenant with God. That body, that obscene body, it spoke the
Devil’s work. Bill was thin, exercised religiously—of course—every morning, swam three times a week. His was a fit body for Jesus’s army.
—This is it, Neil, this war. This is the war that was prophesied. It’s all there, in the Book. Russia defeated, the ancient battle between Christian and Jew, Christian and Arab.
—Yes, sir. Neil spoke slowly. Is it the Apocalypse, Mr Weston?
—Sure is, Neil. The man was smiling broadly. Sure is.
—I’m ready for it.
—I know you are, Neil. But we’ll be there, we’ll be there with Jesus in the end. But we got to continue our work. We’ve got to fight the enemies of God, and that includes the Iraqis, because the Antichrist is rising. Can you feel it, Neil?
The two men nodded to each other.
—Should we pray, Neil?
The two men knelt on the floor, heads lowered, almost touching. The American led the prayer.
—Dear Lord, the time of your arrival is here and we pray that we have the strength to resist the temptations of your adversary, that we may live through the horror of the approaching war to preach your gospel. May our boys in the Gulf, all of them, American and British, and of course, the Australians, may they be victorious in their battle against the forces of evil. Above all, Lord, may our enemies hear your Word, may our enemies be washed in your Word to be reborn in your love. Amen, Lord.
There was a silence. Weston rose to his feet.
—Five-thirty, all right, Neil? On Sunday morning?
Neil slowly rose to his feet, with assistance from the American.
—You know, Neil, the American spoke warmly, gluttony is a sin.
The Australian blushed. He could not look up. Weston patted his shoulder.
—Now, now, didn’t mean anything by that. I know you’re a good Christian. None of us is perfect, boy, we’re all prey to temptation.
He smiled. And waited.
—Thank you, sir.
—That’s fine, Neil. That’s what I’m here for.
Neil watched the man walk away.
The banks were closing and he argued with the young woman at the door to let him in. She gave him a filthy look and pointed to a clock on the wall. She slammed the door.
The Jesus Man Page 18
