On Cringila Hill

by Noel Beddoe

  He’s wearing a t-shirt and underpants. He rises, draws on jeans, socks, sneakers, a spray-jacket. He brings a stuffed manila envelope from beneath his pillow, a backpack from underneath his bed.

  From the hallway, he can see that there’s light in the lounge room, not room lighting but the colours of television transmission that fall through air, spill across furniture and the linoleum covering on the floor. His mother sits on a lounge, watching the images without any audio. Jimmy stands at the doorway, glances at the screen. A family is depicted at Christmas time. On a table are a turkey, vegetables, expensive-looking bon bons. Everyone is well dressed and smiling. A little girl carries a beautifully wrapped gift around the table, to show it to her handsome grandfather.

  Jimmy’s mother has become aware of his presence and turns to watch him.

  ‘What’s this?’ he asks her.

  ‘Some advertisement,’ she answers.

  They speak to each other only in English, which is a source of pride to her – the homes of many of their neighbours have no English among adults.

  ‘What you doin’?’ she asks.

  ‘Advertisement for what?’ he asks, so as not to answer the question yet. He goes and sits next to his mother. She is in a nightdress, dressing gown and slippers.

  ‘Christmas. You pay them every week then comes Christmas they send you a hamper.’

  ‘Yeah? Maybe a good idea.’ Jimmy watches a well-dressed woman smile while her husband carves the turkey at the table, which is something he’s never seen a person do in real life, and distribute the meal to people’s plates. The television scene is set in a big house with hanging paintings and stylish furniture.

  ‘The hamper comes at their Christmas,’ his mother tells him, ‘not at our Christmas. Now, my handsome son, why are you up and dressed? What are you doing?’

  ‘What,’ he says, ‘you can’t sleep?’

  ‘Not too well last night.’

  ‘Bad dreams?’

  ‘Maybe. You think you not gonna answer me you’re wrong.’

  ‘Going fishin’,’ he says, and notes to himself he must find a way to buy a couple of bream before he returns. ‘Tide’s just right.’

  ‘Fishing! Who you goin’ with? Your grandfather?’

  ‘Nah.’ He lies, knowing it would be too easy for her to check. ‘Couple of the boys. Gonna ride down the hill.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘Couple of the boys. The Nameless Ones.’ She reaches, grasps his shoulder under one of her strong hands, gives it a little shake. ‘Shoulda said your grandfather,’ she says. ‘He’da lied for ya. You gonna get inta trouble, you know. Trouble, one of these days. Maybe then you learn.’

  ‘Nah. Not gonna get inta no trouble. My beautiful mother never gonna let that happen.’ He reaches over to kiss her cheek. On the television there’s a close-up of a freshly cut Christmas tree decorated with wrapped presents.

  ‘Be sure you get back for breakfast. There’s mashed potato. Gonna make you potato cakes and bacon, go with your coffee.’

  Jimmy reaches for her hand, squeezes it, kisses the dry skin of her forehead.

  ‘Nearly time I go down the school anyway,’ she says, ‘do my shift.’

  Jimmy keeps his pushbike leaning up against one of the foundation pillars of the house. His mother has told him ‘Chain it! Lock it! Bring it inside!’ but Jimmy’s got respect on the street and to appear insecure might put an idea into someone’s head. He always leaves the bike in view of all-comers.

  Mounting the bike he pedals out of Cringila, down Flagstaff Road, freewheels down Cowper Street, past the hospital, past a church. After the Warrawong shopping centre he rises up off the seat and pumps hard through the hills to reach the Port Kembla CBD.

  There’s no cloud this morning and dawn is coming so it’s grown very cold, but Jimmy’s exertion builds up a beading of sweat across his forehead. He’s panting by the time he reaches the top of Wentworth Street. He pauses there awhile because he wants to appear relaxed and composed when he enters his meeting. Beneath him the street is empty and still. Shop windows are dark behind their protective sheets of wire mesh. Jimmy checks out the graffiti on the walls to see who’s been by, smiles at the filthy assertions made there about the sexual habits of one of the deputy principals of Warrawong High School. In the last of the still night nothing moves – although there’s a ship in port even the prostitutes are not on the footpaths because of the cold.

  Jimmy pedals the bike into motion, belts down Wentworth Street, sweeps right into an alley, bumps along a laneway between rubbish bins, makes another right. He stops the bike before the roller door of a low cement-brick building. After a time the door shudders, there’s a clanking, it jerks up sufficiently to admit him. He wheels his bike into the darkness. The door lowers. Someone switches on an electric light.

  He’s in a garage, a factory-like space with room for perhaps eight vehicles. The only car on the floor is a very old Volvo sedan. A swarthy young man stands by the door, black hair and straggly beard along the line of his jaw, a thin moustache above his mouth. Not overly tall, he’s very broad through the chest and shoulders, though you wouldn’t have thought him a body builder. His neck is thick, and so are the links of the gold chain he wears around it. He lowers the roller door and Jimmy leans his bike against a wall, rests a hand on the Volvo’s roof.

  ‘Feizel,’ he says. His companion nods.

  ‘Dimce.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What you call me, Dimce? Name’s Jimmy.’

  ‘Hey, Dimce is what you was called when they christened you in that little church round the corner you people got. Is what I’m gonna call you.’

  ‘You figure.’

  ‘Yeah. Is what you was named before your god. Gonna protect your soul.’

  ‘Protect my soul?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Fine. You call me Dimce. I’m gonna call you Ferdie.’

  ‘Ferdie.’

  ‘Yeah, Ferdie. Good version of Feizel.’

  The two young men chuckle together.

  ‘Cos we all Australians now,’ Feizel says, and they laugh again.

  Jimmy draws the envelope from beneath his shirt, gives it to Feizel, who takes it to the back of the Volvo, opens the boot and throws it in. He brings out a cardboard carton.

  Jimmy says, ‘No countin’?’

  ‘That’ll be the day.’

  Feizel brings the carton to Jimmy, who pours the sealed clear-plastic sachets into his backpack. Job done they stand together awhile. Feizel says, ‘How’s it been?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘On the street. Anything unusual?’

  ‘Nah. What? No, nothin’.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, I just heard somethin’.’

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘Heard somethin’ about some guys from Wollongong. Italians. Heard they’ve maybe got some thoughts.’

  ‘Nah. Nothin’. Not a thing. All the same as usual.’

  ‘Yeah, well, anything comes up, just give me a call. Keep an eye, you know? Give me a call, anything bothers you.’

  Jimmy laughs. ‘What, call on a fat Turk help me handle some Italians from Wollongong?’

  ‘Anythin’ doin’, you just call your Uncle Feizel.’

  ‘I ever need my Uncle Feizel because there’s some Italian guys from Wollongong, let me tell you, my good friend, that day I’ll be mountin’ up the old Palomino, givin’ a big wave with my sombrero and ridin’ off into the sunset.’

  ‘I’m just sayin’. You just keep an eye out, give me a call if anythin’ bothers you. That true, you usin’ that Piggy?’

  ‘Yeah, I take Piggy along. Watches my back.’

  ‘Piggy?’

  ‘See, people don’t understand about Piggy. Piggy stands up. Somethin’ comes up, strikes him a particular way, Pi
ggy can go crazy.’

  ‘Piggy can go crazy?’

  ‘I’m tellin’ you. I get angry. Piggy goes crazy. There’s a difference. And besides, he works for what I can give him, which ain’t much.’

  ‘Yeah, well …’

  ‘So, what about Queensland. You goin’?’ Jimmy asks.

  ‘Nah. I’da liketa, in a lotta ways. But you know, my mother, my sisters … I can’t leave them at this time. And relocatin’ them up there, I mean, no way could we make that work. And, besides, I wasn’t really what my cousin needed. He got in touch with me out of trust, you know, but still, I wasn’t exactly the thing he needed.’

  ‘Yeah. What did he need?’

  ‘Fresh face. Someone the coppers didn’t know yet. Young person, looks nice, fits in with the people get on the strip up there. It’s mainly pills up there, you know? Not what we do, the weed, someone gets home from work, has a smoke on the back verandah, tries to calm down, get the works off of his mind. Up there the kids wanna take pills, dance all night.’

  ‘Like Wollongong.’

  ‘Yeah. So I talked to my cousin.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘We wondered maybe would you like to go up?’

  ‘Me? Ah, Feizel, this is where I live.’

  ‘Yeah. Ah, well. Just askin’.’

  ‘Got my mother, got friends …’

  ‘Got your grandfather …’

  ‘Well, yeah, I do, I got the old man, important to me.’

  ‘For now.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just sayin’. None of my business. Still lastin’, that feelin’ you got, you and old Lupce? Maybe not forever.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Forget it. None of my business. Anyway, up on the Gold Coast, a thousand a week he’s payin’.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Yeah. Got a flat you could have, coupla streets back from the beach.’

  ‘What’s he doin’ with a flat?’

  ‘It’s the money up there, I’m tellin’ you, people save their money, get up there, wanna party. So he’s got the flat. Bought it a certain way. Wants it occupied, can’t put in a tenant in the normal way so it houses who takes the job. Then, build up business, there’d be a share, and we’d have you up there, me down here, plus my cousin, could be useful.’

  ‘Nah. Forget me. It’s good you’re not goin’, but. I’d need to make new arrangements, might be difficult. But, nah, I’m not leavin’ Cringila.’

  Their business is finished, but they enjoy each other’s company and don’t yet want to break up.

  Feizel says, ‘you saw Abdul get hit.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m just sayin’.’

  ‘Bullshit! Where you get shit like that?’

  ‘He was walkin’ down off the Hill and someone pulled over in a van and whacked him and you and the Pigman walked away nice and cool, then you ran up the alley shittin’ yourselves.’

  ‘Where you get this stuff?’

  ‘Ah, Jim. It’s Cringila Hill, you know? Somethin’ happens, it gets into the air, people breathe it in and they know. Do you know who whacked him?’

  ‘Do me a big favour. Forget this shit. That’s all I need, some shooter somewhere thinkin’ there’s a kid called Jimmy Valeski knows about Abdul gettin’ whacked. Nothin’ in that for me, I can assure you. Who done it? How the fuck would I know?’

  ‘Yeah, well, just sayin’.’

  After a short pause Jimmy says, ‘My mum will be finishing cleaning the school soon. She’s gonna make me potato pancakes for my breakfast.’

  ‘Potato pancakes?’

  ‘And bacon. And coffee.’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘But I need to get down to the harbour, get a coupla fish from a boat if one’s just in.’

  ‘Why the fuck you need fish?’

  Jimmy laughs. ‘It’s a long story.’ He stops smiling. ‘Gotta go. And no more. No more about me seein’ what happened to Abdul.’

  ‘Who’s Abdul?’

  Jimmy laughs, nods. He goes to his bike, wheels it to the roller door, draws on the chain to raise the door. Outside the air is a little thinner with daybreak closer. He looks back to his friend.

  ‘That was strange, you know,’ he says, ‘about Abdul.’

  ‘Yeah. He got killed.’

  ‘No, it’s more than that. I’m dreamin’ about it. Bad dreams. I mean, him gettin’ killed, that’s big enough, but let me tell you, it’s bigger even than that.’

  ‘I thought you didn’ know nothin’.’

  ‘Jus’ sayin’. Kid gets killed like that. Very strange.’

  ‘Yeah? Well …’

  Jimmy nods, shrugs, mounts his bike and rides away.

  Chapter Four

  Gordon can feel the warm soothing flush of his medication. He struggles from the car and joins David Lawrence on the footpath. They look up to the house owned by the parents of Abdul Hijazi. The house stands on the high side of the street. Further above, to the west, the street ends at the base of a steep, grassed slope with a water tower at its crest. The Hijazis have a set of wooden steps up to the house. Gordon stands at the bottom and looks up at it frowning. At last he slowly ascends, one right-foot step at a time, dragging his left foot after, pausing now and then. All the way to the top he grips the wooden handrail. When he comes to the door, it’s opened by an old man.

  The first thing Gordon notices are the bags of flesh hanging loose beneath Mr Hijazi’s eyes and jowls. His chest and shoulders have slumped over his low-slung belly. He wears a woollen cardigan, which is too loose around his paunch, his trousers are secured by a leather belt strapped outside the trouser loops. He watches without interest while Gordon runs through his introductions and offers his condolences at the loss of a son. When the detective has finished the old man gestures that the two policemen should come in, and he stands aside to admit them.

  There’s a formica-top kitchen table and some tubular metal-framed chairs just inside the entrance. A television in a corner of the lounge room runs a video with dialogue in Lebanese – on the screen two handsome young people converse intensely to each other before a backdrop of snow-capped mountains. In front of it, a heavy woman in a long gown and headscarf sits in a woollen-upholstered lounge chair. She turns her gaze away from the television, sees the newcomers, drags herself from the chair, turns down the television volume while leaving the picture in place and shuffles from the room. Soon the men hear the clink of activity in the kitchen. Mr Hijazi gestures at chairs and the three men sit at the table. Gordon gives another standard interview opening, repeats that he’s sorry that Abdul is dead, can only try to imagine the sense of loss of the parents. He wonders if, since he has spoken to other police, anything has occurred to Mr Hijazi that could, in however small a way, have anything to do with what has happened. The heavy man shrugs, pulls down the corners of his mouth, folds his hands in his lap.

  ‘Nah,’ he says. ‘Nothin’ else. Nothin’ gonna change. Nothin’ gonna change now about Abdul.’

  ‘When first he was released,’ Gordon says, ‘Abdul was sent away, away from Cringila, to be safe. People were worried for his safety. But then he came back.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Why did he do that? Why did he come back?’

  ‘Said he wanted to. Said he weren’t no more safe, up there in Sydney. Said, “Cringila’s my place. Whatever gonna happen to me can happen here.”’

  ‘He expected that something bad could happen to him?’

  ‘Yeah, he did.’

  ‘Did he say what?’

  ‘Nah. Wouldn’t.’

  ‘When he first came back he stayed with his brother at Cordeaux Heights.’

  ‘Yeah. A little while. But then he said where he belong is Cringila.’

  ‘Yes. How were things, when first Abdul was relea
sed?’

  The old man scowls, looks through his lounge room window.

  ‘Ah,’ he says. ‘People outside all’a time, standin’ down inna street, takin’ photos. I come, I go, they shoutin’ things – “Mr Hijazi, how you feel?” How they think I feel, my little boy’s just got killed? Everyone act like they own it all, own Abdul, own me, own what’s happenin’. Cameras, cables, yellin’ at ya like dogs – like a pack of dogs! When they say first judge was wrong, people in the papers, on the radio say, “Keep him in, keep him in!” What they care about how his mother feel? How we all feel? Trial was wrong, he shouldn’t be in. His mother cryin’, cryin’, can’t get outta bed. Who care about her? She lie in bed, she sick, who care? Get their pictures. All that matters to them. Like a pack of dogs. Then the police talkin’ at her, got an interpreter cos she got no English, you know? “What about this, what about that.”’

  ‘When something like this happens, Mr Hijazi, our society has got to respond.’

  ‘Yeah? Respond! They say trial’s no good but we gotta pay money, get him out, Abdul. Where I get money? Me an’ his brother gotta get money, get him out. Gotta get money from a bank, gotta mortgage again. Paid off the mortgage when I got some money when the steelworks sacked me, now gotta mortgage again. Rich person got a son’s in trouble, no worry, find the money. No rich people in Cringila.’

  ‘Mr Hijazi,’ David says, ‘the bail will not be forfeited now that Abdul is … deceased.’

  Mr Hijazi looks at Gordon.

  ‘What’s he mean?’

  ‘He means Abdul’s dead,’ Gordon says, ‘so you’ll get your money back.’

  ‘Yeah? What about interest? What about fees? Judge done somethin’ wrong first time, I gotta mortgage again.’

  ‘Yes,’ Gordon says. ‘It must seem very unfair.’

  Mrs Hijazi comes into the room carrying a tray and places small cups of steaming, dark coffee in front of each man. There are little plates with pastries on them. She gestures to the men with a hand – go on, drink the coffee, eat the pastries. Her face is grey, her eyes expressionless. She shuffles back to the armchair, sits, watches the television although she has not again turned on the soundtrack.