Crime Story

by Gee, Maurice

The water boiled. Co-habiting, she thought. Maybe it’s co-habiting for her, but Jesus Christ, getting screwed for a T-bone steak. Then she thought of someone dobbing her in and she made a cry, half scream, half growl.

  ‘You’re not right in the head,’ Jasmine said. ‘Danny told me.’

  ‘Piss off, why don’t you? Go and stand in a door up Vivian Street, they’re missing you.’

  ‘Huh!’ Jasmine banged her cup down on the table.

  ‘Try anything with me I’ll fucken kill you,’ Leeanne said.

  ‘You are. You’re mad.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m mad. Just drink your tea and keep quiet, then you’ll be all right.’ Poor old bag – thought she had a soft place for a while. ‘It isn’t you.’

  ‘Well thanks for that.’

  Sam was coming up the passage. She heard him walk and fall on his behind and pull himself up against the wall. He crab-walked into the doorway, round the jamb.

  ‘Pooh,’ Jasmine said, ‘what a stink.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  Sam walked his two steps and plopped down. He smiled at Jasmine.

  ‘Shitty kids. I hate shitty kids. Why don’t you change him?’

  ‘Strip those fancy drawers off you, I bet you stink worse. Jesus, screwing Danny and you haven’t even washed.’

  ‘What?’ Jasmine could not speak – she stuttered for words. Then she put her foot out sharp and lifted Sam, like on a spade, and tumbled him away.

  Leeanne threw the water, egg and all. It hissed into a sheet and wrapped round Jasmine’s breast. She screamed and fell off her chair, rolling on the floor.

  ‘You touch my kid … ’ Leeanne stood over her. The smashed egg crunched as Jasmine rolled on it. ‘I’ll kill you, you touch him.’

  ‘Shit. Shit. I’m burned,’ Jasmine cried.

  ‘You asked for it.’

  ‘Help me. I’m burned.’

  ‘Go in the bathroom. Run some water on it.’ She helped the woman up, propelled her into the hall and at the bath, turned on the tap. ‘Get in there. Take that off.’ She pulled the T-shirt over Jasmine’s head and helped her into the bath. Splashed water on her reddened breast. ‘Do that. Go on, you do it. I’m not going to be your fucken nurse.’

  ‘I’m hurting.’

  ‘Yeah, well, you shouldn’t have kicked Sam. Stay in there, keep the water running.’ She was sorry for the fat cow, blubbering in the bath, with her dyed hair hanging down in rags.

  Sam had stopped crying. She went back to the kitchen and found him poking at the crushed egg. ‘Come on, Sam, we’re getting out of here.’ Carried him to the bedroom, packed the nappy bag, folded her own clothes into the roll bag, with as much bedding as would fit. She took off Sam’s napkin and went back to the bathroom, wet the flannel under Jasmine’s tap and washed him clean. Put a fresh nap on and left the dirty one on the floor: who cares? She strapped him into the pushchair. ‘Okay, let’s go.’ But she left him inside the gate and went back to Jasmine, a last look.

  ‘There’s a doctor down the road and round the corner. I reckon you better get down there.’

  ‘I can’t.’ She was lying in the water, with her leopard pants still on, a splash of red on her breast as big as Danny’s hand.

  It’s going to hurt like hell, Leeanne thought.

  ‘Sure you can.’ She went to Danny’s bedroom and got a blouse and skirt from Jasmine’s bag. ‘There you are, put those on. You better try.’

  ‘Danny’s going to kill you for this,’ Jasmine whimpered.

  ‘No he’s not, ’cause I won’t be here.’ She handed her a towel. ‘Here, wipe your nose.’

  She went outside, opened the gate and set off down the road. She pushed Sam with one hand, humping the roll bag with the other. Where to now? Five dollars in her pocket and no place to go.

  She left Sam at the foot of the steps and went, listening, slow, along the passage. His door was closed, the same as before, with the brown wood shining and the knob like a crayfish eye. Locked, she bet, and him still in there rotting on his bed. But when she turned the knob and pushed, it opened with a groan and let out a stink that knocked her backwards down the hall.

  ‘Jesus, Brent, what a pong.’

  A door opened behind her and there was the nosy bitch from next door again.

  ‘Thank God you’ve come.’

  ‘Yeah, what’s wrong?’

  ‘He’s gone. He went last night it must have been. His room’s in a shambles. You can smell. Des and me went in this morning and we had to get out, it’s so bad. We were going to phone the landlord if he’s not back tonight.’

  ‘Don’t do that, he’s sick. He’s at my parents’ out Wainui,’ Leeanne lied. ‘They phoned me to come round and clean the place up.’ She lied fast. ‘I’m going to stay and look after it until he’s okay. That’s why I brought my stuff. You don’t have to worry.’

  ‘I’m glad someone’s doing something at last,’ the woman said.

  ‘Sure we are.’ She did not know what she would do if Brent came back. ‘Well, I’d better get my baby in.’

  ‘Let me give you a hand with your bag.’

  ‘I’m okay.’ And she was. Then she had a look around and wasn’t so sure. The kitchenette: dirty plates, maggots again. Dishrag stinking so high she picked it up in two fingers; uncovered the rubbish to put it in but found that full, and crawling too. The omelette she had made was rotting on the floor. And clothes in the shower, in a pool and growing mould. Sneakers as well. She opened the drawer: the money was still there. She was frightened and knew that she should take Sam away. Instead she said, ‘We’re gunna stay here, Sam. We’ll clean this up.’ She closed the drawer so that she would not see the money. She tried not to think about Brent. She tried to believe he was never coming back.

  It took her two days of hard work. She carried all the rubbish out – Mrs Casey showed her where – and washed the sheets and blankets, and washed the curtains too. She threw out the sneakers, and the leather jacket, which had slime all over it – what a waste. She washed the jeans. Scrubbed the floors, borrowing Mrs Casey’s scrubbing brush and disinfectant.

  ‘It’s nice to see that sort of thing being done again.’

  ‘Yeah, isn’t it.’

  She bought what she needed from the money in the drawer.

  ‘He wants me to pay the rent. Where do I go?’

  Mrs Casey told her and she went to a little office down on Lambton Quay and got the rent paid up a month ahead. Came home and said, ‘It’s okay, Sam. I think we’ve made it.’

  She stopped thinking about Brent. She did not believe in him. Mrs Casey said he had mentioned Australia; so he was in Oz, okay, goodbye. She put off going to Social Welfare. Next week. Next month. She would go one day.

  ‘We’re okay, Sammy boy, isn’t this great?’

  He could walk across the room now, flopping down only once or twice. He held his hands high, with his fingers going in and out like sea anemones. She loved to watch. She backed away, half a step in front, and coaxed him on. At night they slept in the same bed. She shifted him over and lay on the place he had warmed up. Then he rolled against her and his hands gripped her neck and sometimes his fingernails dug in. She thought he was having bad dreams and she whispered to him that the world was great and they had it made, the two of them; no one could touch them any more. ‘It’s only me, Sam, it’s your mum. As long as you and me, eh, as long as you and me.’ She listened to him breathing when she woke. She shifted so his breath made her throat warm and wet. It smelled like toast and jam. In the morning, in the dawn, when he sucked her breasts, he was getting her tastes, it delighted her. ‘I’m gunna have to wean you soon, boy, that’s gunna be tough.’ But not yet. Why should they? Both of them could keep on for a while.

  Mrs Casey had shown her the wash-house. She did her wash there every day, keeping it small, and pegged it on the revolving line in the yard, calling Sam, calling him sharp, away from the doberman and his bones. She went to Mrs Casey’s flat for morning tea and told her Bren
t was okay but he’d be out in Wainuiomata for a while; they wanted to keep him and she was going to stay until he came back. She did not touch his car in the street. Mrs Casey pointed it out, but Leeanne thought she wouldn’t try to push her luck that far. Besides, she had no key, and a tyre was flat. She said Brent would come for it one day. She didn’t have a licence, she said. So she and Sam walked out for the shopping; walked as far as the new park on the waterfront and watched the tugs and ferries, and the rowers in their skinny boats, and Sam played on the swings, where there were no helicopters coming in to scare him, although they sometimes landed on the wharf over the water and sent a dust of ripples running on the surface. The days were fine, the Glencoul gleamed in the sun as though it was covered in gold, but she didn’t envy the people in there. She and Sam had their own place now.

  The money still made her nervous. She left it in the drawer and took only as much as she needed each time. She put the change back beside the notes when she came home. It wasn’t Brent she was scared of but some heavy like Danny coming for it. One day she counted it and found there was $2308 left; she tried to work out how long it would last but came up with all different times. She did not waste it, did not go on splurges, but could not resist smokes, and disposable nappies, which she had never tried and thought were great, and deodorant and eye make-up. No lipstick. She had never used much of that; her mouth, Sione had told her, tasted good the way it was. She bought a cuddly toy, a panther, for Sam. That wasn’t stealing, that was a present. And anyway, hadn’t she cleaned the place up, and wasn’t she looking after it until he came back? ‘Fair do’s, Brent.’ But he was not real. He seemed like someone she had known a long time ago.

  She still put Social Welfare off. One day, when she needed to, she’d go – maybe when whoever had potted her had told them she was gone and that someone new had moved in, although you could hardly call poor old Jasmine new. She didn’t even want to say Danny’s name. She didn’t want the Welfare knowing anything at all.

  Once, in her second week, she had a bad fright. It was eight o’clock, she was washing her breakfast cup and plate, when she heard the doberman going wild in the yard. She pulled back the curtain and looked out and saw Mr Lavery running out to calm him, and two men squatting to look under the house.

  One of them knelt and laid his cheek on the path. ‘Jesus,’ she thought, ‘Brent’s under there.’ They both stood up and looked at plans. So they were carpenters not cops, although the older one was in a suit. She let the curtain drop in case they noticed her but, looking through the opening, saw them talk with Lavery, who nodded his head. They went round the side of the house, out of sight. She opened the door a crack and watched them by the gate. The carpenter brushed his cheek. He said something quiet and the man in the suit said, ‘Sure, I’ll see he’s kept tied up. No worry there.’ He turned to come into the house. His eyes were bright and blue behind little squared-off glasses. They saw Leeanne’s face before she got the door closed. She stood close to it, and heard him knock and bring Denise Casey straight out. Denise would have been ready, of course.

  ‘Mrs Casey?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m Athol Peet. Athco Properties. I thought you’d like to know that we’re repiling the house’, and he went on to say there’d be no disturbances and not much noise and the whole thing would only take a week.

  ‘It’ll be a squeeze under there,’ Mrs Casey said, and the man laughed. It was polite and business, not properly amused. Leeanne knew that her flat was next and she moved back so she could walk from across the room.

  She heard his footsteps and heard him knock – one, two, hard. He owned the place and didn’t need to behave as though opening the door did him a favour. She picked up her tea towel to seem busy.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m Athol Peet. Athco Properties.’

  ‘Yes. Hallo.’

  ‘And you’d be … ?’

  ‘Leeanne Rosser. The rent’s all paid.’

  ‘Oh, there’s no problem with the rent.’ He explained about the repiling.

  ‘Okay,’ she said, and started closing the door.

  He put his hand on it. ‘If you’ve got a minute. I’ve got the tenant down here’ – he looked at papers on a clipboard – ‘as Rosser, Brent, and he’s listed as single.’

  ‘Yeah, he is. Well, you see – ’ Leeanne took a breath. She explained, trying not to talk too fast: Brent in Wainui, Brent not well, and her coming to look after his flat until he came back. She was his sister. Brent was single all right, and so was she. ‘Like I said, the rent’s all paid. I’m looking after the place good. Well,’ she said, ‘I mean.’

  ‘What’s the matter with Mr Rosser? When will he be back?’ Athol Peet leaned down and seemed to sniff her. He bent his neck sideways to see into the room. Sam was out of sight in the easy chair, cuddling his panther, but he wouldn’t be still for long.

  ‘He’s had – ’ almost said a breakdown, but remembered that landlords didn’t like head cases any more than they liked kids ‘ – he’s got something wrong in his guts, in his stomach, and he needs my mum’s cooking for a while. He should be okay soon, he’ll be back soon.’

  ‘He’s lucky to have a mother who cooks for him.’

  ‘Yeah, she’s good.’ Leeanne was sweating. ‘I’m good at housework too. I’m looking after the place real good.’

  ‘I’m sure you are.’ He was looking at the bed, and seemed – she frowned at it – amused. ‘So, you’re Ms Rosser? How many children are here?’

  It was the pack of nappies on the bed. ‘One,’ she said. ‘But not his father. He’s in Australia. There’s just Sam and me.’

  ‘For a while?’

  ‘Yeah, till Brent … ’

  ‘Do you mind if I have a quick look round, Ms Rosser?’

  She hadn’t told him to say ‘Ms’. It made her think that maybe he was going to move on her. He had that look, and solos were fair game, especially when they weren’t supposed to be in a place. Leeanne felt a sinking in her stomach.

  He came in and looked around: the bed, the ceiling, Sam, no smile, holding his clipboard in two hands.

  ‘And this is your young chap?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s Sam.’ And wanted to say, He’s not a Maori, he’s Samoan.

  ‘How old?’

  ‘He’s eleven months. Almost a year.’

  ‘Probably just getting ready to walk?’

  ‘Yeah, he is, he’s just started. But I watch him. He doesn’t bust things. He’s good like that.’

  ‘I’m sure he is.’

  Athol Peet looked in the bathroom. ‘Mm,’ he said. He was holding the clipboard in front of his trousers. When he turned she saw his face – a little smile, a twinkle there, which might be just his glasses – and she knew: this guy’s not interested, this guy doesn’t want sex. He was satisfied already. She said, ‘Do you do it yourself? The repiling?’

  ‘No, I’ve got a carpenter. He only does piles. Most of the houses this age in Wellington are on wood. On totara. I’m redoing all mine.’

  ‘You sound as if you’ve got a lot.’

  His mouth went prim, a rosebud. ‘Rental accommodation is my business.’

  ‘How many, then? How many houses?’ She knew she could be cheeky: telling would be like eating or playing with himself.

  ‘Well, at the last count’ – he was snooty – ‘Athco had title to forty-six. Owning of course is not the accurate term.’

  ‘Jesus, forty-six.’

  ‘Then there’s bits of commercial property.’

  ‘I’d settle for just one. I’d settle for a couple of rooms like this.’

  Sam climbed backwards off the chair and walked across to her without a fall. She picked him up, then fetched his panther and put it in his arms. ‘I don’t reckon people should own more than they can use.’

  Athol Peet laughed. He seemed to relax. Looked in the kitchenette, touched the sink bench and the stove, a fingertap that seemed to say, This is mine not yours. But maybe he di
dn’t know – they didn’t know, sometimes, men, what they really meant. She thought she would stroke him a bit.

  ‘You must be pretty smart to get all that.’

  ‘Well, not smart. It’s a question of – there’s risk in it – and taking opportunities, and taking care of course.’

  ‘You’ve got enough houses to start a town.’

  ‘I’ve never thought of it that way.’

  ‘Do you ever sort of lose one? Not keep track of it?’

  He laughed again. ‘It hasn’t happened yet.’

  ‘So what are you shooting for? One hundred? Two hundred? Do you want to own the whole of Wellington?’

  ‘I like doing what I’m good at. Like you bringing up your little boy.’

  Buster, you don’t know, she thought. You come down and try it. And suddenly she was tired of him and wanted him out of her place. ‘Well, my little boy needs his nappy changed.’ The wrong thing to say to a landlord, especially when he had a sniffy nose, but what the hell, you eat, you shit, they know it too – and if they don’t they bloody should. I’m staying here.

  He said, ‘Yes, I’m sorry if I’ve kept you. I like the way you’re keeping it, Ms Rosser. Nice clean curtains. Bathroom’s clean.’

  What do you expect? I piss in the shower? she wanted to say.

  ‘So … I’ll put you down as tenant. Caretaker, eh?’ He wrote on his clipboard. ‘But let me know when Mr Rosser comes back.’

  ‘Yes. I will.’

  ‘And I hope the repiling doesn’t upset your little boy.’

  ‘No, he’ll like it. Sam’s good.’

  ‘What I’m not too keen on,’ Athol Peet said, ‘is dogs in the yard. We’ll see about that.’

  ‘Sting’s harmless. He’s okay.’ She closed the door and went to the chair. She sat down and hugged Sam and said, ‘Done it, Sammy. Got him, eh?’ What a simple sort of bloke. He was like Danny in a way. But God, how far apart they were – Danny would eat him. Forty-six houses, though. Her dad was forty-six. Her dad would have a house for every year of his life.

  She felt that Athol Peet came from a story. She couldn’t believe he was out there, moving around, with a wife and kids maybe, and just one house he lived in like everyone else. Hey, I could get him, I could have that bloke, without even screwing or anything. He might be the man who took her to the pub for a drink, then put her in a house, the best one out of his forty-six, gave it to her with no strings.