On Cringila Hill

by Noel Beddoe

  Gordon says, ‘Sure.’ He peers up the lake at the yachts. ‘You once raised a matter with me.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘You spoke of a murder, you called it another murder, as I recall. Do you want to talk about that a little bit more?’

  ‘Nah. Thought about it. One person left could tell about it. You could strap him to a table, put electricity on his nuts, he ain’t gonna tell ya nothin’. He’d like it, defyin’ ya. What happen’ is what happen’. No good’s gonna come.’

  ‘I think that witness you’re describing is your grandfather.’

  Jimmy turns his head, gives a pleased smile. ‘That what ya think?’

  ‘It is. I think the dead person is your father.’

  ‘What interestin’ thoughts you got,’ Jimmy seems amused.

  ‘I’m not going to let it just be ignored, Dimce. There’s another person involved, it’s important to me. If I ignored it I’d have no way to go on. It might cost me, but I’m not going to turn away.’

  ‘Yeah? Soun’s pretty impressive.’

  Gordon looks at his young companion. ‘This is what I was taught – bad things happen, and society has got to respond. We live in a world where things have to get put to rights.’

  ‘And you’re the putter-to-rights person, are ya?’

  ‘Seems that way.’

  Dimce smiles at Gordon. ‘Lotsa luck,’ he says.

  ‘Now,’ Gordon says, ‘I have to get back. I’ve got a lot of ground to make up at home and I suspect things are about to get a lot worse.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, good luck wit’ that too.’

  They watch each other awhile. It’s become very cold. Gordon gives Dimce a nod, and shuffles back to the car.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  When Dimce gets home Piggy’s on the verandah. ‘Wha’s happenin’?’ he asks, sitting down next to his friend, his back against the wall.

  ‘Feizel got a message from some Italians. They wanna meet him.’

  ‘He goin’?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘When’s that gonna be?’

  ‘Five-fifteen tonight.’

  ‘Just when the sun’s goin’ down. Bad time. Why’s he goin’?’

  ‘Says he don’ go, they gonna come lookin’ for him through town. Better this way, get over whatever’s gonna happen. They say they jus’ wanna talk, but he don’ believe that.’

  ‘Yeah, well, who would? Who’s he got with him?’

  ‘I’m gonna go down.’

  ‘Jus’ you? Tha’s what he’s got?’

  Piggy nods.

  ‘What, he asked that you should go?’

  ‘Nah. Tol’ me not ta but I’m goin’. I went to see him, talkin’, what we was sayin’ before, what if there’s a place for me. Then he tol’ me this stuff.’

  ‘He tell ya to tell me?’

  ‘Nah, he said not ta. Says you goin’ to Queensland, don’ work with him no more. Says not your problem.’

  ‘An’ you’re goin’?’

  ‘Yeah, maybe can do me some good with Feizel, if I help him.’

  ‘An’ maybe get ya killed. Those boys play rough, if they the same ones we met inna alley. Well, they play as rough as they know how ta play. You go down you jus’ be a distraction to Feizel, maybe make the difference where he gets hurt real bad.’

  ‘Aw, Jim …’

  ‘No point not facin’ how things are.’ Dimce reaches up his left arm, tries to flex his hand. ‘Where’s this ta happen, do ya know?’

  ‘Carpark above the league’s club in Port Kembla.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll go. You stay away, is the best help you can give.’

  ‘That’ll be hard for me to do. Truth is, I’d hoped maybe I could sort somethin’ out, provide somethin’, be a big help, settle things, but it’s too soon.’

  ‘Why’s it too soon?’

  ‘Right boat’s not in town. Gets in next week.’

  Dimce shrugs – his friend is talking in riddles.

  ‘You got that bad arm, Jim.’

  ‘Yeah, well, we’ll work roun’ that.’

  When Piggy is gone, Dimce rides down to Port Kembla. The parking lot is up the hill from the club so that when you stand on it you are level with the top storey. He has put on a jacket, because of the wind, and he has his hands in its pockets, looking around. The cement surface is uneven where some slabs have subsided and weeds are growing up out of the gaps. He notes that; he doesn’t want to trip up his footing and fall. To his left he can see the eastern end of the steelworks, great silo buildings, chutes for product to go down, rusty-metal walkways.

  He steps down from the elevated parking area, which is the size of several football fields. He prowls its edge, finds an area of brick reinforcing that has crumbled. He kicks and prods – half a house brick comes away. He collects this up, wonders where Feizel plans on parking. As near as possible to the entrance, he guesses, close to public scrutiny. He places his half-brick under some weeds, rides back home, to wait for it to be time.

  Around five Dimce heads back down to Port Kembla. He waits in the laneway next to the parking area. He can see Fiezel’s old Volvo parked where he’d expected, near the eastern entrance. Feizel leaves the car, stands waiting, checks his watch. In the failing light, two figures reach the top of the hill, approaching from the direction of the highway. They’re walking, which surprises Dimce – he’d expected a car. He gets on his pushbike, starts along the laneway. His hands are trembling and sweating, he feels ill. The two men are walking quickly towards Fiezel. One reaches out to push him, Feizel withdraws a little to give a bit of space, shakes his head, takes up a stance for fighting.

  Dimce rides up quickly, tosses the bicycle to one side, stoops and scoops up his half-brick in his good right hand, gets up, advances on the little group. One of the strangers creates a bunched fist behind his back. Dimce gets closer, they’re bigger-looking to him now. He trots the last of the distance, someone turns at his approach, lifts his eyebrows in surprise, and Dimce swings through the brick with all of his weight and strength, aims for the exposed right cheekbone, hears the crunch. He sees the head swing around on the neck, knees give out, and while the companion has turned to look Feizel lifts up his right arm, pushes his weight forward, leans in, sweeps his arm through and he hits the man’s temple with his right elbow, follows through. When his man is down, sprawling on his knees and chest, Feizel kicks him twice, once around the kidneys, once in his jaw. Dimce looks at the two. The first man down is on his side, his body is trembling, he’s coughing up blood. Dimce hears a running sound and turns to see Piggy coming hard across the parking area. He’s carrying a cut-down baseball bat.

  Feizel says, ‘Get inna car.’

  ‘Nah, I got my bike.’ Dimce looks around. No one else is approaching. He throws the half-brick bouncing across the cement.

  ‘Get inna fucken car!’ So intense is the command that Dimce shrugs and goes to the vehicle. Feizel has it moving before his passengers have their doors shut. Dimce can see that Feizel’s hands are trembling.

  To Piggy, Dimce says, ‘I tol’ ya not ta come.’

  ‘An’ I tol’ ya ta get fucked,’ Piggy says. Dimce scowls at his young friend. ‘Jus’ in my mind, Jim,’ Piggy says. ‘Never say it out loud to ya.’

  ‘Where’d ya get that bat ya got?’

  ‘Stole it from school. Cut it down myself, with a saw I stole. Not as good as what I intend. But was bes’ I could do, short notice.’

  They head back through the hills. Feizel parks in the street below Dimce’s house.

  ‘I like that bike,’ Dimce says. ‘Go back tomorrow, is gonna be gone.’

  ‘What, you was gonna take it up to Queensland was ya?’

  ‘Well, maybe no, but I liked it. Coulda give it ta someone. Coulda give it ta Piggy.’

  ‘I’ll buy Piggy a bik
e. Get him a good bike. No way to know who’s aroun’, how they travellin’. Not havin’ you out on them streets, not know who maybe is lookin’ for ya.’

  ‘How ya feel?’

  ‘Fucken terrible. Like I wanna vomit.’

  ‘Me too. Always feel that way after that sorta stuff.’

  They climb from the car and lean against Dimce’s front fence. It’s dark, now, and very cold.

  ‘Know why we can do this business?’ Feizel says. ‘Cos we can handle that shit. If you carn, better stay off the streets. Streets no place for someone carn handle that shit. That one you hit. How bad hurt ya think he is?’

  ‘Bad enough. He’ll see hospital. I hit him onna cheek but, not onna temple. Hit him onna temple, maybe kill him. Is somethin’ my grandfather taught me. Don’ hitta temple ’less ya mean it.’

  ‘They gonna be gettin’ sick of you, boy.’

  ‘Well, they wanna catch up they gonna have ta come ta Queensland.’

  ‘Yeah. Good. Tell ya what else I think: after that thing happen to Abdul, people gonna be thinkin’ “guns”. Next time them boys come back, gonna have a gun, more likely than not.’

  Quietly, Piggy says, ‘You’re right about that, Feizel. I’m sure about that. Been thinkin’ that for a while now.’

  ‘See, day gonna come,’ Feizel says, ‘we standin’ here, car gonna pull by, slow down, window’s gonna be down, someone gonna start blazin’ away at us.’

  A car turns into the street, comes towards them, slows, pulls up opposite them. The three boys stand, watching. They are very tense. A girl gets out, maybe twelve years old. She has on a pretty dress with bows. The car waits for her to go up to her front door but she turns, waves.

  ‘Hello, Jimmy,’ she says.

  Dimce waves in return. ‘Hello, Lucinda,’ he says. ‘Hope you had a good time.’

  ‘Oh, I did! I had the best time.’

  ‘Yeah, tha’s good. Tha’s nice.’

  The three boys watch the little girl vanish into her house on the lower side of the Hill.

  When the car is gone, Feizel says, ‘I tell ya what I need. Gonna need a gun.’

  ‘Oh, Feizel! Come on! Where ya gonna get a gun? What ya gonna do? Walk inna some pub, say, “Anyone wanna sell me an illegal firearm?” Great way to meet an undercover cop, it seems to me.’ He chuckles, hugs his arms across his chest in the cold. ‘Do that, the guy you talkin’ to gonna be the Chief of Detectives.’

  ‘Don’ do nothin,’ Piggy says. ‘Jus’ wait awhile.’

  Dimce goes on, ‘An’, ya get a gun, what ya gonna do wit’ it? I’ll tell ya what: gonna shoot your dick off.’

  ‘Nah,’ Piggy says. ‘You’d go up to the Bangalow forest, learn to use it, fire off some rounds for practice.’

  ‘Soun’s like you been thinkin’ ’bout this.’ Dimce looks at his friend.

  ‘Yeah,’ Piggy says, quietly. ‘I have.’

  ‘You expectin’ them back?’ Dimce asks Feizel. ‘Them, someone else. You think this the end? What, you know what this is ’bout, who’s doin’ it?’

  ‘Yeah, I think I prob’ly do. Maybe this is a guy got big plans. Someone wants to go ahead in a big way up north, in a not-so-big way down here and put the two together. Someone thinks he’s smart. An’ he is smart, but maybe not so smart as he thinks he is. An’ I guess he hears enough to know you were goin’, maybe thought you was already gone, get me at a weak time, maybe bring me back in later, but lower down the tree. An’, see, Jim. I’m not gonna let him do that. This is somethin’ I built up, takes care of me, takes care of my family, some my frens. Don’ suit me, jus’ get crushed unner, be the way someone else wants I should be, just cos he can think of ways to use more money.’

  ‘If ya get a gun, ya gonna kill him?’ Piggy asks.

  They think about that for a while. Eventually Feizel says, ‘Tell the truth, I don’ think of that as my firs’ option. But I’ll tell ya this – there’s a guy called Vincenzo. Maybe he took on a bit more than he thinks.’

  ‘I’m goin’ in,’ Dimce says. ‘Not gonna be roun’ too much longer. Wanna spend the night wit’ my mama.’

  ‘Sure. Be careful.’

  ‘An’ ’nother thing. Don’ call me Jimmy no more. Not my name.’

  ‘Ah. Wha’s your name?’

  ‘Dimce. Dimce Rodriguez.’

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  He’s started packing for Queensland but it’s hard for Dimce to choose what to take. He works through his possessions. Some he associates with events from long ago: many things he values will need to stay, but he reasons that he may be able to return for them when he’s settled. He tries to keep his pile of items-to-be-packed as small as he can.

  He freezes. There’s a knock at the front door, so quiet as almost to sound apologetic. Dimce wonders; has someone found him, have they arrived to take revenge? He hears his mother walk through the house, then her violent shouting, the swearwords in Macedonian. Dimce rushes through the living room. His mother comes stomping back into the house from the verandah, brushes by him. Her head is back, she is scowling. There’s no choice but to see what’s happened.

  The door has been left open, the verandah light is on. Lupce is out there. He is mopping at his cheek with a handkerchief. Dimce comes all the way out of the house, stands before his grandfather. Lupce is stooped over in a way he never was before. Dimce sees sunken cheeks, eyes that have sunk back deep into the skull, the dark flesh around the eyes. Things have slipped a long way very quickly. Lupce finishes the cleaning up he’s doing, stands with the hand holding the handkerchief before his chest.

  ‘My daughter just spit on me,’ Lupce says.

  ‘Grandfather …’

  ‘Nah. Is okay. Is fine. I don’ come roun’ here too much no more. Maybe she don’ get too many chances ta do that. Plus you goin’ ’way, is what I hear. Maybe she blame me for that. So is a small thing, someone spit on me. Didn’ use to think that. Is way I’m thinkin’ now. Small enough thing.’

  The old man’s breathing is laboured. Dimce can hear the air catch and rasp as it struggles down to his lungs, hears the wheezing.

  ‘This what I notice,’ the old man continues. ‘You don’ come see me. You don’ come see me no more.’

  ‘Grandfather, after what you done, what we talked ’bout – what you think was gonna happen?’

  ‘Tell ya, can answer that. When I done that thing I thought you was maybe gonna grow up to be able to talk proper cos you didn’ get your brains scrambled by bein’ hit inna head too much.’

  ‘Yeah, well …’

  ‘Gonna tell ya ’bout that cos I been thinkin’. There was this thing happenin’ to my daughter, happen my gran’son. Coulda gone on, had people talkin’, come see ya, talk to ya mama, talk to me, go away, come back, he hit ya again, go on an’ on. Or I could stop it. Final. I had the way I could do that. So I done it. Tell ya somethin’ else. That time I done that thing, I didn’ care what anyone was gonna do ta me.’

  There are things Dimce could say, but he sees their pointlessness.

  ‘Anyway. Tha’s not what I come to say. You goin’ away. I heard that. Well, not too hard to hear that, cos is what lots of people are sayin’. So I wanted say goodbye. Wanted to say good luck. Decided I needed say somethin’ to ya. I love ya. Much as ever I love anyone or anythin’. An’ I can remember all sorts of things we done. I sit on my verandah, you know, smoke a cigarette, remember things. Take you down to the beach, walk up through that forest down there, carry ya. I’d hold ya up, show ya them leaves there was. You’d reach up, touch them leaves, touch ’em wit’ them little fingers you had. Didn’ weigh hardly nothin’ when I lifted ya. An’ you whisper to them leaves, whisper to ’em, touchin’ ’em. An’ then ya smile at me. Tell ya what ya was sayin’, give me that smile – ain’t the worl’ a wonnerful place? An’ was wonnerful for me, the worl’, down there in that little
forest because you was seein’ it. And down onna beach, we’d go up the rocks, look down at them little crabs lived up there. We used to call that, “Lookin’ for Mr Crab”. Always talk English to ya. Thought it be good, ya grow up talkin’ English, would help ya. An’ ya point at them crabs on the rocks an’ ya say, “Hello Mr Crab,” an’ then laugh an’ laugh.

  ‘Then one time I had go down to Canberra. I was gone awhile, come back, come to see ya an’ ya come runnin’ cross the room, smilin’, grab me roun’ my belly, you shoutin’, “Papa!” An’ I ruffle you hair, an’ I say to ya, “Hey! I missed ya.” An’ you look up at me, smilin’ and ya say, “I missed ya too, because I love ya.” That time, you was this ole,’ and he holds a hand straight out from a wrist, palm downwards, next to his right knee. ‘Then I tell ya how I felt; I felt my chest was gonna bust cos my heart was so full. I think, “What was that feelin’ I felt that time? Wha’s the right word?” Listen what people say, wait ta hear the right word. Then I heard the word: word is joy. We had each other, I had ya to love. An’ I thought, well, this makes it all alright, all that mud an’ shit I walk through all my life. This is what was for, this little boy be safe, have good chances.

  ‘So. Them things don’ happen so much for a person, this ole world. So come to say thanks to ya, for all them good things ya give me. Been good, havin’ ya to love. Now, good bye. Good luck to ya.’

  The old man watches his grandson for another moment, then turns and descends the stairs. Dimce goes to the railing, watches his grandfather go out onto the street

  Dimce calls out, ‘Papa!’

  His grandfather stops, waits, draws more erect but is still looking ahead.

  Dimce cups a hand to one side of his mouth, ‘Goodbye, Papa.’

  Then he watches his grandfather walk to the end of the street, turn a corner and vanish down Cringila Hill.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  It’s Sunday and Peter Grace is back from his break at the caravan that he keeps onsite in a park further down the coast. The weather has been poor, which has given him something to complain about. He’s pleased: he likes to complain and he’s very good at doing it.