This Excellent Machine

by Stephen Orr

  Mum said, ‘Your dad helped Pop buy his horse.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘But that was before it broke its leg.’

  Pop half-ran up the stairs. Damn it, I thought. There was gonna be more. ‘Bloody beautiful,’ he said, alive, glowing.

  ‘So, what did you make with yer ten dollars?’ Mum asked.

  ‘Nothin’.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘I invested the lot on the next race.’

  ‘Dad!’

  ‘It’s money in the bank.’ He showed her the form. ‘Classy Chloe. John Frew, trainer. He works his horses, and they win. Twelve-sixty a win, three-ninety a place, either way.’ He waited for us to declare him a genius, but Mum said, ‘How much did you win?’

  ‘Don’t worry about that. Just thinka the money. Coupla thousand of them gold coins.’

  Driving home, Mum said, ‘Fifty bucks. A week’s shopping.’

  Pop said, ‘You never know—win or place. But if you wanna go back next Saturday?’

  I waited at a light. ‘I can drive you, Pop.’

  But Mum said, ‘Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea.’

  The map was missing, gone from its usual hiding spot (and with the shed locked). Pop had looked everywhere. ‘I mighta had it in me pocket, and it mighta dropped out.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘If I knew I’d look, wouldn’t I?’

  He searched gaps in the shelves, lifting the tarp to see if it was under the camping gear. ‘Hold on … hold on.’ He checked the lock on the door, turned to the louvred windows, fiddled with them. ‘Loose.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Someone coulda removed them, got in, taken the map, replaced them.’

  I checked. They seemed okay. There were even cobwebs.

  ‘Or …’ He studied the roof iron, the walls. ‘You could remove a sheet, and replace it.’

  ‘Someone’s got in?’

  ‘John. Remember, he saw the map?’

  ‘He wouldn’t steal that. Cash, or ciggies.’

  He was taken by the idea. ‘No one else knows.’

  It didn’t make sense. ‘Pop, I reckon you left it somewhere.’

  ‘I check every day. You and him are the only ones who know. Unless yer mother made you destroy it?’

  I followed him out of the shed, down the drive, the street, towards the Burrells’. There was a paddy wagon in their drive. ‘See, he’s in trouble,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t know.’

  He whispered, ‘Unless it’s Gary?’

  ‘Let’s go home.’

  Too late. Two officers brought John out in handcuffs. He didn’t resist. Anne followed, saying, ‘Can’t he at least pack some clothes?’

  ‘You can bring ’em in, missus.’

  Pop walked the last few steps to the drive, and stopped the policemen. ‘What’s going on?’

  They walked around him. One opened the back door and tried to push John in.

  John said, ‘It’s not me, Doug. Alan’s stolen some stuff, and said I was with him. But I wasn’t.’

  Pop seemed confused. But he said to the coppers, ‘Aren’t you meant to have some sort of evidence?’

  They asked him to move; he refused.

  ‘You can’t just take people away. It’s not Russia. He says he wasn’t there, you don’t have no evidence, so how can you arrest him?’

  ‘That’s it,’ Anne said. ‘It’s all down to that little crim. He lies about everything.’

  ‘You’ll need to undo these,’ Pop said, indicating the handcuffs. ‘And go away and get some evidence, then come back.’

  I noticed Curtis at the front window—stony-faced, refusing to acknowledge me, or anything going on.

  Pop put himself between the policeman and the door. ‘We got a lawyer next door. You can just wait. I’ll go get him.’

  The policeman tried to put John in, but Pop shouldered him, and the cop said, ‘You do that again, you’re in there too. Got it?’

  ‘He’s starting a new job,’ Pop said.

  Didn’t he take your map? I wanted to ask. But he’d changed his mind. The stripes and uniforms and blue lights brought out the best in him.

  ‘What’d he say?’ Pop asked John as he was pushed in and the door closed and locked.

  ‘You can’t take him,’ Anne pleaded. ‘He’s told you what he’s done.’

  ‘I’s coming to tell you,’ Pop said to him. ‘Harry’s got a start date. August ten.’

  The car grumbled, and filled the air with lead.

  ‘John?’

  Anne grasped the back door, and tried to open it. ‘We’ll have you out in a jiff.’

  ‘August ten,’ Pop said. ‘I’ll tell him. Don’t worry about this little prick. We’ll sort him out.’

  Curtis had gone, but the curtain was still moving. The car drove off, hmphed onto the road and cruised the length of Lanark II. Anne turned to Pop and said, ‘When it was done, he was at home. They said the third, but he was with us, Doug.’

  We went home and Pop returned to the shed to search for the map. I sat in his chair, put on the telly and watched football. It made as much sense as anything. I picked up the TV Times, opened it to Sunday and saw the map, flattened between the pages. The highway, the side roads, the cross. ‘Pop, I got it!’ I called.

  Val stood on a stool and attempted to pick small, shrivelled mandarins. She was sure Mum would want them. I held a plastic bag, and she dropped them in. ‘Tell her there’s plenty where these come from.’

  She was still in her nightie, but often was until lunch, or early afternoon. Dressing-gown open, revealing an old age of broken capillaries. Slippers, too, with flapping soles.

  ‘Keep some for yerself,’ I said.

  ‘The boys don’t eat them.’ Plop, as the scrotal fruit dropped into the bag. ‘Peter used to throw them at David. I’d come out, callin’ at them …’ She stopped and her eyes settled on something near the house. ‘Jesus.’

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  She tumbled, corrected herself and ran towards the back step with the mandarins. Kneeling down, she looked under the house. ‘I’ve never seen him before.’

  I knelt beside her and searched the musty darkness. There was railing all around but she pulled it back and said, ‘Carn, kitty.’

  ‘Not one of yours?’

  ‘Never seen him. White, with a marbled head.’

  I heard a squeak.

  ‘I can see him,’ she said. ‘Little boy cat … can you see him, Clem?’

  I couldn’t, but she had special cat sight.

  ‘Carn, darling.’ She ran inside, emerged with a biscuit, knelt and tried again. ‘It’s only about a metre. You could just about fit under, Clem.’

  Val’s house? But what could I say? I laid down and eased my head under the floor. It smelt like old stew and gas, or the throne after one of Pop’s sessions. I wriggled under, and felt Val pushing me. Soon I was within reach, got him around the neck and started wriggling out. Moments later I emerged into the light.

  ‘Isn’t he a gem?’ she said, taking him, kissing him on the head. The cat didn’t fight her. He knew he was on to a good thing.

  We went in—cat, mandarins and me—and she filled a saucer of milk, and cut fritz from a roll and watched him eat.

  ‘Providence,’ she whispered.

  ‘How’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘He takes away and He gives.’

  ‘What you gonna do with him?’

  She gave me a look. ‘He’s a bit thin, but we can feed him up.’

  I thought of Ernie and Pop and the street and the council, and everyone, really. I could smell cat shit on my shirt. Stale fat. David came in, pulled up to the table and said, ‘Where’s she come from?’

  ‘He,’ Val corrected. ‘He was under the house.’

  David studied him. ‘All on again, eh?’ And smiled.

  ‘No,’ Val said. ‘This one’s special. He was sent. So we gotta protect him.’

  ‘How?’ I asked.

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nbsp; ‘Keep him in the house, don’t let Ernie see, whatever happens.’ She picked him up, settled him in the crook of her arm and started stroking him. Soon, he was half-asleep.

  Dave said, ‘Doug still teaching you to drive, Clem?’

  ‘He’s trying.’

  And Val said, ‘Imagine. You gettin’ yer licence. I’s only just changing yer nappy.’

  ‘Few years ago,’ I said.

  ‘Not when yer our age, eh, David?’ She held the cat’s head so it couldn’t help but look at her. ‘I reckon I’ll call yer Providence.’

  ‘That’s got a nice ring,’ I said.

  Then to continue the naming, she said, ‘I used to bath you and Jen. If yer mum was late home, and sometimes Doug was down the pub with Ernie. Tip water on yer head … and you had them little bum dimples, didn’t he, David?’

  But he just nodded.

  ‘Bit of a shame.’ She picked out a mandarin, examined it, and seemed pleased. ‘What you gonna do next year?’

  ‘Uni, perhaps.’

  ‘Be good if you did law, eh, Davo?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You interested in that?’

  ‘Perhaps. Maybe arts. Writing. I like books.’

  ‘That’d be alright too.’ She nodded, and David followed suit. ‘Dickens is the go, eh?’

  ‘David Copperfield?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s a good one.’ She checked that Providence was real. Examined his teeth, and eyes, then mine. ‘Peter reckons you’re writin’ your own book?’

  ‘It’s just a first go.’

  ‘Reckons it’s about all of us.’

  ‘Sort of.’

  I couldn’t help but think of the passage I’d just finished. Annie Douglas, pushing her disabled son down the street, stopping in front of Chris Knowlson’s house.

  Nice music, Mr Knowlson.

  Kamahl. He’s my favourite. What about you, Mrs Douglas?

  Nat Cole. Nice and smooth.

  That’s how they’d start off, anyway. Then there’d be issues over barking dogs, and Chris would call the council, and they’d send someone around, and it’d get worse.

  ‘Mrs Masharin reckons you should write about what you know.’

  ‘Well, that’s easy, you know us. There’s nothin’ you could say that’d upset us.’

  You and yer dogs, Mrs Douglas. Keep me up all night.

  I keep them inside. You’re determined to make trouble.

  ‘I can think of plenty to put in,’ Val said, sitting forward. ‘Remember that sports day, when David and Peter came along?’

  I could. Father and son day. Pop had promised to come, but had fallen sick (not that it’d stopped him working in the shed). So, Mum’d asked the brothers, and they’d agreed. They’d walked me to school, and signed up for the 200 metres and longest kick. David wasn’t so bad, but when Peter joined the other dads for the shot-put … Business shorts and long socks and sandals, an early Catweazle beard that had already yellowed around the mouth from the smokes. As I called, Carn, Peter.

  And Trevor Smith: Why d’you call your dad Peter?

  He’s my neighbour.

  Funny sort of neighbour. Looks like he’s been smoking something.

  He’d come last, of course, because all the other dads had beefsteak legs and thunder thighs and wore shorts way too small. But as we walked home I said, Thanks for taking me.

  No worries, Clem. Any time. Me and Dave know what it’s like.

  ‘So you gonna put that in?’ Val asked.

  ‘Don’t know yet.’

  ‘Main thing is, have a bita yer mum, and Pop. They did most for you. What’s it called?’

  ‘This Excellent Machine.’

  ‘Right. What’s the machine?’

  ‘You know, you go in one end and come out the other … different.’

  ‘That’s for sure.’ She pointed to a black-and-white photo of a young woman and man. ‘Me and Sid, many years ago. You wouldn’t recognise me now, eh?’

  ‘I can still see you.’

  ‘And David, there.’ She indicated a boy with a dangerous grin. ‘Main thing is, don’t put him in it.’ Pointing to number 35. ‘He’s a horror. Woulda been good livin’ here, if not for him.’

  Providence was almost snoring.

  She gathered her nightie in her lap and said, ‘Coupla cats never hurt no one. What sorta person woulda dobbed me in? What d’you reckon, Clem?’

  ‘Maybe it wasn’t Ernie?’

  She waited, unsure.

  ‘Pop isn’t always sure what he’s doing.’

  ‘Doug?’

  ‘I mean, he can’t drive. He just about killed this kid on a bike the other day. And half of what he says doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Doug?’

  ‘You can’t get angry with him, Val.’

  ‘Jesus, but I told Ernie …’

  I’d put that in, too. Chris Knowlson in his yard calling, I don’t know what you’re on about, Annie.

  You know.

  Check yer facts.

  ‘I’m sure he wasn’t thinking,’ I said. But she must’ve been remembering the hundreds of times she’d looked after us, the bowls of sugar and bags of mandarins.

  ‘I must talk to Ernie, and say sorry.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have said anything.’

  ‘No, it’s all good, Clem.’

  The front door, and steps in the hallway. Peter came in wearing his council chamber best, his 1969 special. He stared at Providence. ‘Mum … what you done?’

  ‘He was under the house. Tell him, Clem.’

  ‘I had to drag him out.’

  Peter opened the fridge and poured himself water. ‘Well, I did what I could.’

  ‘How’s that?’ Val asked.

  ‘This Alan character, he reckons John helped him steal vodka. But John swears black and blue. And I tend to believe him.’

  ‘What about Anne?’

  ‘Sittin’ in the corner crying. Don’t think she knows what to believe.’

  ‘You gonna represent him?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s the thing,’ he said. ‘This tall fella comes in—defence attorney—and says, I’ve got it, Mr Donnellan, is it? And I say, I think I’ll take it, but then Anne looks at me, then John, so …’

  ‘You can only offer,’ Val said.

  ‘They’re nuts,’ Dave added. ‘Some kid, I bet?’

  ‘Yeah … a kid.’ He stroked the cat’s head. ‘Might be best, anyway. I haven’t kept up with it.’

  He studied the lino, and knew. There’d be no legal renaissance. Once you’d started mowing your yard with a scythe.

  23/v/84 Mr Thomson is the opposite of everyone. Sits, most lessons, reading the newspaper, occasionally scratching his arse, before turning the page and saying, ‘Everyone okay?’

  Sometimes Thomo would go on about Leonardo, or Titian, and how they were fakes and how their assistants did all the work. Probably because he was a failed artist. He’d shown us his watercolours, all runny and obvious and dull, and told us what competitions they’d won (local council stuff, mostly). He’d produced a Mona Lisa and said, ‘Really, it’s quite ordinary, but the ages have chosen to remember it.’ In the same way they’d chosen to ignore him.

  To fix the problem, he read the sport section while we kept busy. Today, it was portraits. I had Jen’s tarot cards, so I pulled one, and began. The Devil. Big smile. Black eyes and a couple of decent-sized horns. It wasn’t like he was going to check, so what did it matter?

  Curtis was busy. Her name was Tracey, and he’d taken a liking. They’d spent a few lunches together, holding hands, sitting behind the Moreton Bay at the far end of the oval. At first I’d joined them, but then he’d said, ‘Listen, Clem, me and Trace just wanna talk.’

  Now they were drawing each other. Thomo was busy with a kettle and plunger in the corner, tuning the radio to the races, peering out of the window to see if there was anything on the horizon: fame, a better job, talent.

  Trace asked me, ‘What yer drawin’?’

/>   I showed her the tarot card.

  ‘The Devil, eh? He’s got big ears too.’

  I didn’t reply. She was pretty thick. Curtis could do a lot better, but she was well put together, for her age.

  ‘Aren’t you meant to draw a person?’ she said.

  ‘He’s a fallen angel,’ I replied.

  She didn’t get it. ‘But he’s not a person.’

  Thomo sat down and tasted his coffee. ‘Everything okay?’ Like he cared. He was our Nick replacement, but he was no Nick, or teacher, or anything, really. He’d told us he was on a contract and would be out on his arse come December, so I suppose the incentive wasn’t there.

  ‘Devil’s real, eh, Curtis?’ I asked.

  ‘Too right,’ he replied. ‘While I was with the spirits who dwell suspense, a lady summoned me.’ He put his lips to her neck, and pecked her white skin.

  ‘That’s disgusting,’ one of the other girls said.

  Thomo looked up from his paper. ‘What?’

  ‘Tracey kissed Curtis.’

  Thomo shrugged. As long as no one got pregnant on his time. ‘Give it a rest, Colin.’

  ‘I’m Curtis.’

  Tracey said to me, ‘You live next to Curtis?’

  ‘Yes.’ I continued copying my devil: red leotard with a big arse and ball pouch. Loaded and ready to fire thunderbolts. Like Curtis probably, as he took her hand and stroked it.

  She returned to her boy lover. ‘That’d be nice, bein’ that close, eh?’

  ‘We hang out,’ Curtis said.

  I examined her dress, undone to the third button. Black bra. That was all it came down to, surely? Curtis was determined to conquer his personal wilderness, desolate for seventeen years.

  ‘Me and Clem have grown up together, haven’t we, Clem?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Got up to a lot of trouble, haven’t we?’

  ‘Some.’

  ‘Like what?’ Tracey said, smiling.

  ‘Can’t tell you. I’d have to eat you afterwards.’

  ‘Gross,’ the same girl said.

  Thomo: ‘Come on, it’s not a coffee shop, I want results. Full face, quality stuff. No bullshit.’

  ‘We used to go in the substation, didn’t we, Clem?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And throw sticks at the high voltage lines.’