Blood Sunset

by Unknown

  ‘Oh no.’

  ‘He wants my help but he doesn’t want to hear what I’ve got to say.’

  ‘What’s there to say? She needs to stop. You know how many drug overdoses we see in emergency every weekend?’

  I nodded. ‘I know that, but it’s complicated. He wants me to talk her out of it. I think he wants me to scare her.’

  ‘So what are you going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You want me to talk to her? I could tell her about all the kids we see on the weekends. That’s scary, just the number of them coming in.’

  ‘And so could I, El. I could also tell her about all the brawls, assaults, rapes and car accidents we get because people can’t handle their drinking. Do you think that’ll turn her off alcohol?’

  ‘You can’t make that comparison. Alcohol is legal. Ecstasy isn’t.’

  ‘Doesn’t automatically make one more dangerous than the other though.’

  ‘Right.’ Ella finished the glass of water in one gulp and picked up a bottle of wine off the bench. She held it in the air like a trophy. ‘This is alcohol, Rubens. It’s been around for centuries. Jesus Christ even drank it, so we know exactly what it does to us over time, and we know exactly what’s in it. Look, it says it right here on the label.’

  She swayed on her feet, trying to read the alcohol percentage information. She’d obviously drunk more than I thought, and I knew there was no point doing this now.

  ‘Look, I know all that,’ I said. ‘Let’s not talk about it now. I am worried about it. I mean, it could just be a phase and she’ll grow out of it, or it could get worse. But I need to think it through before I speak to her. I want to make things better, not worse.’

  She put the wine down and raised her palms to the air, feigning indifference. ‘Fine. Let’s go back to bed then.’

  18

  WE WERE IN THE DRIVEWAY OF a vacant office complex, the car creeping over smooth bitumen. Tyres sloshed in puddles. It was dark and cold and I knew how it would end. The concrete and glass surrounds were as familiar as my bedroom. The door was unlocked but I didn’t open it. Could’ve but didn’t. Don’t know why. Headlights framed a rusty skip bin.

  The car stopped and the driver said nothing as I slid out, silent, floating. Sirens in the distance. Why were they taking so long? I wanted to scream but nothing came. The driver stalked around the bonnet, gun trained on me. His hand tightened, squeezed. The gun exploded and I felt the bullet pierce my shoulder but I didn’t fall. Hadn’t then, didn’t now. The driver came towards me, headlights catching his face. It was Anthony this time.

  I started awake, panicked, drew a breath. One, two, where the fuck am I? Something exploded again. Crash! I looked about the room. Someone beside me, in the bed. Ella. I took another breath. Bang! Something outside. Bottles smashed and tumbled. A garbage truck. What was it they said about dreams? And why was Anthony the shooter?

  I sat up, sheets damp with sweat, mouth dry as a ditch. The clock read 5 a.m. I rolled off the bed, muscles stiff and rigid. The window was bare, blinds left open from the night before. Light piercing the window slats brought back memories of when we first moved into the apartment and couldn’t afford blinds. The east window had always woken me at sunrise. I sat down again and stroked Ella’s forehead but she didn’t move. A throbbing in my head reminded me I’d consumed too much alcohol and probably needed more sleep, but I was awake now and wanted to make the most of the day.

  In the bathroom, I searched for painkillers, feeling like a burglar ransacking the drawers, not knowing where anything was any more. Eventually I found a packet of aspirin and swallowed two tablets before showering and dressing in the same clothes I’d worn the previous night.

  ‘Are you leaving?’ Ella croaked, eyes barely open.

  I smiled and sat down beside her. ‘Just going to make breakfast.’

  ‘Can’t wait to use the new apron, huh?’

  In the kitchen, the fridge was near empty, save for a few vegetables, margarine and juice. I figured Ella probably ate out a lot these days. Hopefully that would change soon. I headed downstairs, a cheeky smile stretching my face as I recalled staggering into the elevator last night.

  Outside, I stopped on the pavement and almost had to remind myself where I was. Ordinarily the city skyscrapers – less than two kilometres away – rose high over the rows of terraces that lined the children’s playground opposite the apartment building. But not today. Today I couldn’t even see through the park. In winter there were days like this, when clouds of fog settled on the city and dropped visibility to less than a hundred metres, closing airports, constipating the main arterials and making everyone late for work. But this wasn’t fog, it was smoke, and I’d never seen it this bad.

  Then there was the smell; the rich, pungent scent of burnt timber. Unlike the sour odour of exhaust pollution, it wasn’t offensive, but its origin was equally ominous. A giant monster was raging. Last I’d heard it had killed fifteen people, destroyed more than fifty homes and almost a million hectares of forest. Countless livestock and wildlife had been lost too. Walking to the convenience store on Lygon Street, I wondered how long my folks would be safe. After loading up a basket with eggs, bananas, bread and milk, I stood at the counter and noticed the headline on the morning Herald Sun: LOOTERS.

  ‘Ah, don’t tell me . . .’

  Scooping it up, I read the caption underneath: Heartless thugs raid empty stores as town flees and more homes burn. There was a photo of a man running down an empty street with what looked like a DVD player in his hands.

  ‘Can you believe this bullshit?’ the cashier said angrily, pointing at the photo. ‘The firemen are up there trying to save the joint and this cocksucker’s helping himself to the TV shops.’

  The story outraged me too, just as the editor had no doubt intended. It was bad enough that some of the fires had been deliberately lit. Now they were looting the shops. What next, people’s homes? I wondered what Edgar Burns would say about it.

  ‘They’re not just trying to save these towns,’ I said. ‘They’re dying to save them. Just yesterday five firefighters were brought into the Alfred Hospital for burns and smoke inhalation. One of them had burns all over his face. He’ll never look the same again.’

  The cashier shook his head in disgust. ‘They oughta line those scumbags up and let the whole town throw rocks at them, then send them off into the bush with no clothes on. See how long they last in the wild with all the hungry animals.’

  I liked the idea but Edgar’s was better. ‘No, you know what they need to do? They should chop off his old fella, fry it up in a pan and make him eat the bastard.’

  ‘Bloody oath, man,’ the cashier laughed. ‘That’s brilliant.’

  I handed over the money and carried the groceries back to the apartment, where we ate breakfast, then went out onto the balcony, trying to make out the buildings through the smoke. At one point the peak of the Eureka Tower – currently the tallest apartment building in the southern hemisphere – was just visible. Other than that, we might as well have been staring at a dirty bed sheet. It wasn’t long before I had my first sneezing fit for the day. Ella laughed at me and said she was all out of sympathy for sick people, but agreed to find me a Zyrtec on the condition that I do the washing up.

  I thought about sneaking in with her while she took a shower, but didn’t want to push it, unsure how much alcohol had played a part in her decisions last night. The ember had caught and a flame had flared. All I needed to do was shelter it and keep it going. In lieu of this, I considered asking Ella if she wanted to come with me today to visit Mum then decided it was too soon. There were some things I needed to do on my own. By the time she’d dressed I needed to get going. She drove me home and we agreed to meet again that night at eight for dinner, this time at an Italian restaurant on Lygon Street.

  I fed Prince and changed into a pair of trousers, white summer shirt and black leather loafers. On my way out of Albert Park I stopped at the
village and bought a bunch of flowers from the florist and a vanilla slice from the bakery, one of Mum’s favourite treats. By nine I was on the Calder Highway, pushing one-ten as the city traffic cleared, driving through acres of dry and barren farmland, a channel of grey smoke plumed on the horizon. It looked like a giant mushroom cloud rising up beyond the Macedon Ranges. All around it the sky was dirty orange, and I lowered the window and let the hot smoky air slipstream over my face, sparing a thought for the fire crews and the thousands of people who lived in its path and couldn’t just close their doors or turn off their televisions when they were over it.

  When the pine plantations took over and I could no longer see the smoke clouds, I began sorting through my CDs, looking for something to listen to. Though I kept all my original albums in my lounge room, I had copies of all my favourites in the car. Among them were Jet’s Shine On, Cold Chisel’s Breakfast at Sweethearts and even a few AC/DC classics like Back In Black and Hells Bells. There were also a few mixed compilations Anthony had downloaded for me from the internet. I was usually happy to put these on shuffle and let the machine decide what I listened to, but today there was no question about it. I knew what I wanted to hear and found it towards the bottom of the console. Crowded House’s Recurring Dream.

  Skipping to track 16, ‘Something So Strong’, I listened to Neil Finn sing a beautiful story about the power of love, how it could let you soar as high as the clouds, or just as easily spit you out and crush you to the core. Hearing the lyrics now, after spending the night with Ella, I understood what Finn meant when he spoke about bringing life to frozen ground. But the sad irony was not lost on me either. The band’s drummer, Paul Hester, had hung himself from a melaleuca tree in Elsternwick Park, near Brighton Beach, a few years back. I remembered stepping out of the shower the day it happened and hearing it on the news. Couldn’t believe it. But how many suicide jobs had I been called to over the years? Had to be at least a hundred, maybe more. Dr Wong had told me once that over two thousand Australian men killed themselves every year. Relationship breakdowns were among the most common reasons. Love and jealousy. Something so strong.

  I muted the stereo when the track ended and rang Anthony.

  ‘How’s your head?’ I asked when he picked up.

  ‘It’s still in the toilet. Been there since about 3 a.m. when I finished praying to the big white god.’

  I almost asked what he meant, then realised he was talking about vomiting. There was a double standard in there somewhere, I was sure. A father wondering why his kids experimented with drugs, then getting so drunk in front of them that he finished the night puking in the toilet.

  ‘Must’ve been the food,’ I joked. ‘I think the meat on the spit was a bit off.’

  Anthony croaked out a laugh. ‘Could’ve been the gravy, had plenty of that.’

  ‘You mean the kind that comes in a bottle with a blue label on it?’

  ‘That’d be the one. What’s up, Rubes?’

  ‘Been thinking about Chloe,’ I said. ‘I’m going to talk to her this week. Any ideas where to catch her? Don’t really fancy doing it at your joint. Maybe somewhere else.’

  ‘Good point.’

  I overtook a semitrailer, eased back into the left lane. I could hear Anthony emptying bottles into a rubbish bin. ‘If it’s not a good time maybe I’ll call back?’

  ‘No, sorry, just cleaning up. Go on.’

  ‘Your daughter, Andy. Where do I find her?’

  ‘Ah, right, her work’s probably best.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Service station in Brighton. New Street, near North Road. If you drive down –’

  ‘I know where it is. Time? Day?’

  ‘Okay, ah, Tuesdays and Thursdays. Morning shift. Six till two. Best time’s in the arvo, I reckon.’

  ‘Consider it done, mate. You never asked me to do this, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I mean it. Far as she’s concerned, I’m doing this off my own bat. It’s gotta be that way or else it won’t work. It could backfire and I’d never hear the end of it. Agreed?’

  ‘Fine. Thanks again for this, Rubes. I appreciate it.’

  When I passed a ‘Welcome to Kyneton’ sign, I got to the point. ‘Look, I need a favour from you, actually. You have clients at your gym paid for by DHS? Young kids? Teenage screw-ups.’

  ‘Like Chloe, you mean?’

  ‘I won’t even dignify that, Andy. This is serious. I’m talking about state wards. Hard-case junkies.’

  ‘Ah, sure. Youthies, we call them. Youth workers line it up and get the funding. The kids come in a few times, lose interest, never come back. Course we’re happy to keep receiving the money.’

  ‘You have access to names?’

  ‘I might. What I do with the names is another matter though.’

  ‘Don’t shit me, Andy. Important case, this one. Get a pen.’

  ‘All right. Let me go inside.’ I heard him opening and closing doors before he came back on the line. ‘Go on. Shoot.’

  ‘Dallas Boyd and Derek Jardine.’

  ‘Done. What are you going to say to Chloe? I reckon you just –’

  ‘Don’t worry about Chloe. Just worry about the names. I need to know if they’re clients of the YMCA – anything you give me might help. Write the names down, Andy. Use the pen.’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘How soon can you get back to me?’ I said, hoping he could do it right away.

  ‘System’s not automated yet. I’ll need to check the files. What sort of case? Rape, murder?’

  I said nothing.

  ‘Come on, man, if I’m gonna help I wanna know. Shit, what if they come after me?’

  I turned off the highway into the main town centre. At the roundabout I went right, into a residential street.

  ‘Gotta go, Andy. Find me the names, call me soon as you can.’

  ‘All right. You’re no fun at all, you know that?’

  ‘Catch ya.’

  I switched off the phone and stopped outside the nursing home. An ambulance blocked the entrance and paramedics were pushing a stretcher towards it. There was an elderly woman under a white blanket with people fussing over her. My heart skipped a beat. It was my mum.

  19

  MUM LAY ON HER SIDE, eyes closed. Her face was distorted, a permanent frown etched on her forehead.

  ‘She had a fall,’ one of the paramedics said, ushering me to her side. ‘Landed badly. Nurse found her on the floor.’

  ‘Mum,’ I said, touching her shoulder. ‘It’s okay. These people are taking you to hospital.’

  ‘She knows that. Do it every fortnight,’ said the medic, moving around to the front of the ambulance while his colleague got the gurney ready for loading. I turned to the nurse, a thin woman about my own age, gaunt face. I’d met her when we’d first moved Mum into the nursing home but I couldn’t recall her name.

  ‘What does that mean, every fortnight?’

  ‘Check-ups. Hospital rehab. Rotating tests, sometimes X-rays, sometimes MRIs or cat scans. Your brother, Anthony, often comes up for them. Of course this one wasn’t scheduled. How’d you know to come so soon?’

  ‘I didn’t. I was just visiting,’ I said, watching the medics load the gurney into the back. One of them followed Mum in. ‘Where are you taking her?’

  ‘The usual.’

  I looked at the nurse, embarrassed at not knowing what ‘the usual’ was.

  ‘Kyneton Private,’ she said.

  ‘Mind if I ride in the back?’

  The medic on the inside clipped an oxygen mask to Mum and said, ‘You can ride up front. Not in the back.’

  ‘What about you?’ I asked the nurse as I opened the passenger door. ‘Are you coming?’

  ‘I’ve got forty-three other people to look after, plus there’s a whole swag coming in from Bright in case the bushfires hit there. Sorry.’

  ‘I keep odd hours,’ I called after her as she walked away. ‘Shiftwork makes it hard to visit.’ />
  She nodded, sympathetic.

  ‘I’ve been off work a long time too. Only been back a month,’ I added, feeling stupid. Who was I justifying myself to? Her or me?

  After I climbed in, the driver radioed through a status call to the hospital and we drove out of the nursing home.

  ‘A fall?’ I quizzed him. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Don’t know. Nurse says she must’ve fallen out of bed. Hurt her hip.’

  I winced. ‘How bad?’

  ‘Don’t know that either. She’s not able to communicate that to us, so we’ll have to wait for the X-rays. Hopefully she’s just bruised.’

  An overwhelming sadness hit me as I thought about Mum’s fragility, how old and defenceless she’d become. Driving along the town perimeter, we passed teenagers riding BMX bikes on a dirt path. As kids, Anthony and I had had bikes. I’d fallen once, leaving my arm lacerated and swollen. I remembered the pain and the shock, and my mother’s firm but caring hands washing the gravel and dirt out of the wound. I remembered her telling me to breathe slowly, ignore the sting of the Betadine. I remembered her patience, but most of all I remembered her always being there.

  ‘How could she have fallen out of bed?’ I asked.

  ‘Happens all the time. They get up, go to the toilet, slip. Sometimes they have nightmares, roll right out of bed. Sometimes they do it deliberately, like they want to hurt themselves. You know, for attention.’

  ‘Attention?’

  ‘They get lonely in there. We get a few at Christmas time, sometimes Easter.’

  ‘You mean when they miss out on important occasions?’

  The driver nodded. ‘Wedding anniversaries and birthdays are big ones too.’

  The light turned green and we drove the last few kilometres in silence. Mum had missed Christmas, and now Jonathan’s eighteenth birthday. But surely she wouldn’t do that to herself . . .

  ‘She’ll be okay,’ the driver said as we pulled into the hospital. ‘A fall’s never good for the elderly, but your mum’s a real fighter. They say she can’t speak, but I don’t believe that. She just looked at me, told me all I needed.’