Coming Home to Roost

by Mary-anne Scott

  ‘You must know. I left it over there with my tools.’ Stan looked at his pile of tools as if he was going mad. ‘Someone’s been into my gear.’

  Who the hell cares about your bloody tools? Arnie’s been zapped. ‘I don’t know,’ Elliot said in a barely civil tone. ‘I came back from parking the van and found the drill plugged in and running.’

  But as Elliot said the words, the realisation of what had happened began to run through him as sure as the electricity had run through Arnie. ‘Oh god,’ he said. ‘He was using the drill.’

  ‘He must have been using the drill to test the circuit.’ Stan shook his head in disbelief. ‘Doesn’t he have the right gear?’

  ‘The van was parked miles away and he had the wrong tool bag.’ Elliot backed over to the wall and slid down until he was sitting on the floor. The ambulance officers were ready to go and they hoisted the stretcher. All that was visible of Arnie was his head under an oxygen mask. His wrinkles had slipped down behind his ears and his face was smooth and grey.

  Two police officers darkened the door and one of them shone a torch into the room.

  ‘Let me do the talking for a bit, eh?’ Stan stepped forward and Elliot leaned his head on the wall. The weight of knowing what had happened fractured his thoughts into different images. He saw the drill running, guiding Arnie. He saw himself, bending down to switch it off, and worse, he saw himself shaking his head at Arnie’s stupidity for leaving it operating.

  ‘Test, prove, test,’ Dad used to say, and Elliot now knew exactly why Arnie had been running Stan’s drill.

  A police officer knelt down beside Elliot and asked if he was okay and what his name was. Then he wanted Arnie’s name and their relationship to each other.

  ‘What d’ya mean? He was my boss, we didn’t have a relationship.’ Elliot could hear his voice rising and Stan put his hand on his arm.

  ‘I think the boy needs some treatment for shock. He’s soaked through. I might get him up to the hospital now.’ Stan pulled Elliot’s arm and hauled him off the floor.

  ‘He’ll need to come into the station this afternoon for more questions. He can go now,’ the policeman said, tapping his notebook, ‘but headquarters at three this afternoon for a formal interview.’

  ‘Leave your tools,’ the other policeman said to Stan. ‘I need to take photos. Someone will have to be stationed here until the power is sorted. It’s bloody dangerous.’

  ‘I’ll get this boy to hospital then I’m getting my stuff,’ Stan said. ‘I’ve got a day’s work booked in.’

  ‘Oh my god, how could this happen?’ Elliot climbed into Stan’s truck, clasped his hands between his knees and put his head down.

  ‘All too bloody easily.’ Stan started the engine. ‘Put your belt on; we need a chat.’

  ‘I get it now — what Arnie was doing. I’ve probably killed him by turning that bloody drill off. Ah, shit.’

  ‘You won’t have killed him; he’s a tough old bastard. But you might need help — a good lawyer perhaps.’

  ‘Arnie was in the cupboard, way down. He couldn’t hear me calling him and we were arguing and nothing was going right.’

  ‘Don’t start heaping blame on yourself. What Arnie did was shortcut his way to isolating the circuit. An old soldier like him should’ve known better. Turning the drill off doesn’t make you the executioner. But you may need some help, is all I’m saying.’

  The word ‘executioner’ crashed like a gong. There were basic rules that protected electricians and between the two of them Arnie and Elliot had broken quite a few.

  ‘Come on, first thing is to see how Arnie is. I’ll bet he’s having a cup of tea by now,’ Stan said as he parked in the hospital grounds.

  There was no cup of tea. Arnie was still being processed. Elliot had to fill out a raft of forms before he and Stan were put in a small room to wait for a doctor.

  ‘I can’t hang around long,’ Stan said. ‘I’ve got some young guys I need to supervise at another site and I need my tools.’

  ‘That’s fine.’ But it wasn’t fine. How would he get back to the van? How could he help Arnie? What about the jobs they had lined up?

  An elderly, tired-looking doctor finally came in and asked if they were next of kin.

  ‘He doesn’t have anyone, except the boy and he’s not related,’ Stan said, nodding at Elliot. They were both leaning on the wall heater and their clothes steamed. ‘This is Elliot Barnard and he lives at Arnie’s address.’

  ‘Hello Elliot. Mr Cashwell’s had a massive shock and it travelled across his body, so it stopped his heart, not good for anyone, let alone an old man.’ The doctor asked Elliot, ‘How old is he, do you know?’

  ‘Nearly eighty.’

  ‘Well, that’s impressive. He’s very strong.’

  ‘Can I see him?’

  ‘They’re getting him ready to go up to ICU and he’s still unconscious, but I can take you past in ten minutes.’

  ‘I have to go,’ Stan said. His cellphone was on silent and he kept checking the screen. ‘Will you be okay to get back? Do you have money for a taxi?’

  ‘Yes thanks,’ Elliot said. ‘I appreciate everything.’

  ‘Not at all. Don’t forget you’ve got the police station this afternoon.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Alright. I’ll be in touch.’ He shook Elliot’s hand and laid his other hand on top. ‘Now you listen to me, he’s going to be alright. Okay? Okay?’ Each ‘okay’ was punctuated by another handshake and Elliot wanted him to go as he could feel himself getting tearful.

  Elliot waited for the doctor to take him to see Arnie. He put his head back on the wall and banged it a couple of times as if he could strike out the stupidity of the day. Why didn’t I go and get the right tools? Why the hell didn’t I call out to Arnie before he cut, and, shit, why did I answer my phone? Arnie had a big thing about phone calls when they were working. Not that anyone rang Arnie except for Dorice.

  Dorice. He would need to contact her, and his parents. Elliot leaned his head against the wall and kept it there. He wished he could ring Zeya back.

  Arnie looked much the same: grey and marble-smooth. A mask still covered his nose and mouth, and his eyebrows, which Arnie himself had described as prodigious, stood up wild and wiry on his face.

  ‘You’ve got megabrows,’ Elliot had told him once. ‘You can get those attended to, these days.’

  ‘No way. They’re like cat’s whiskers; my inbuilt protection radar to keep me out of danger.’

  ‘They haven’t worked today,’ Elliot whispered, and then he remembered Flotsam and Jetsam and the grim reality of Arnie not being home to feed his boys.

  Two parking fines were flapping on the windscreen of Arnie’s van by the time Elliot got back to it. He drove to the brewery to collect the tools and found the door locked. ‘Aaah, shit!’ He rattled the handle and kicked the steel panels in frustration. ‘Arseholes,’ he yelled at whoever had locked the door and then he stomped back to the van. He needed to see Dorice.

  ‘Oh, dear boy,’ Dorice said, and it took Elliot a moment to realise she meant Arnie. ‘I’ll get up to the hospital immediately.’ She reached for her coat and as she buttoned it she kicked her shoes off and slipped on some sensible flats. ‘Driving shoes, Elliot,’ she explained when she saw him watching. ‘It’s dangerous driving in high heels.’

  Elliot nodded. The idea that shoes might be dangerous seemed more possible after this morning’s event. ‘I have to go to the police station. I’ll see Arnie again after that.’

  ‘I thought something must have happened,’ Dorice said. She shook out a strip of plastic and flicked it open to make a cover for her hair. ‘Arnie said he’d call in this morning but he didn’t show up.’

  ‘He didn’t tell me.’

  ‘You two seem to be out of sorts.’

  ‘We are. Were.’

  ‘It’ll come right,’ Dorice said. ‘He’s very fond of you.’ She picked up her keys and juggled them in her hands for a mom
ent. ‘Use my phone if you have any more work you need to cancel today, then get on home and have a break; I’ll ring you.’

  Elliot rang the foreman on a job they’d booked in for later that day. It was a beautiful home, nearly finished, set behind electric gates, and Arnie and Elliot were supposed to be meeting someone there to alarm six valuable paintings. ‘I can do the job,’ Elliot said. ‘I’ve a meeting at three and I can come straight after.’

  ‘We’ll leave it, I think,’ the foreman said. ‘You don’t have your ticket, do you? I know you’re competent but you’re still unqualified. If anything happens to one of those paintings, it’s going to be me who cops the blame. Sorry, but I’m going to use another company.’

  ‘Bugger you,’ Elliot said to the phone when he’d hung up. He pushed the chair back to leave, but instead he turned Dorice’s chair around and sat staring out the window behind her desk. The sight of the rain falling in torrents made him weary. He was mesmerised by a blocked downpipe on the back of the building, which overflowed occasionally in noisy plops.

  ‘Everything alright?’

  Elliot spun back to see Mr Rashim at the door. ‘Oh yes, well, not quite, no.’

  Mr Rashim bowed slightly and Elliot took it as a cue to keep talking. ‘There’s been an accident, it’s awful but Arnie’s in hospital. I’m just sitting here getting myself together,’ Elliot said as if he had to explain his reverie.

  Mr Rashim nodded his head and then he said, ‘And?’

  Elliot stumbled on with the story. ‘It’s quite hard to explain what happened; it was partly the tools he was using because his main kit was in the van, miles away, but—’

  Mr Rashim looked as if nothing was going to surprise him. ‘And?’

  ‘He cut through a main phase wire with non-insulated pliers.’

  ‘I see.’

  Elliot didn’t like Mr Rashim’s tone nor the way he said nothing for a while.

  ‘My Zeya called me,’ he said at last.

  ‘I’m sure Arnie’s going to be fine. It’s the cats of course who’ll be wondering, well, me too, and Dorice is up there now and I’m going home to get changed.’ Elliot choked and plopped like the blocked drain. Eventually he found the mute key to his mouth.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear about Arnold. It’s terrible news. I will put a hold on his supplies and everything that’s here can wait on the premises.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘I don’t know if you know this but I’m an electrician too,’ Mr Rashim said. ‘Things like this don’t happen unless someone has taken a risk. Arnold is a skilled operator but he’s got some old ways that are not appropriate for today’s work environment. It’s a shame you had to see what you saw.’

  ‘I’m fine, honestly. It was a bit of a chaotic day with the weather and—’

  ‘I’m also a father; and I know what’s been going on with you and my Zeya. She promised me that she wouldn’t use her phone for any inappropriate calls and she’s let me down. She’s handed in her cellphone to me.’ Mr Rashim pulled it out of his pocket and held it up. The phone looked as menacing as a small, black hand grenade. ‘Zeya understands that there is to be no relationship between you two, and she’d like me to tell you that from now on she’ll be concentrating on her studies.’

  ‘She, um—’ Elliot felt desperate. ‘Is she okay? What happened in Burma? Please Mr Rashim, it’s not—’

  ‘Let me save you from embarrassing yourself. Zeya and I are very close and she brought me her phone this morning. Naturally she was upset because she heard Arnold—’ He looked at Elliot with some compassion. ‘It must have been terrible for you. I will help you in any way I can. Zeya, however, is none of your business and she will be concentrating on her studies.’ He gave his last sentence slow emphasis.

  Mr Rashim put Zeya’s phone into his pocket and Elliot imagined him reading his texts; the times he sent love and kisses. Right then he wanted to smash Mr Rashim’s smug fatherly face.

  Each step that day seemed extraordinary, even going back to the house, alone, in work hours was weird. Elliot let himself in and stared at the normal mess of their lives. He felt like an intruder.

  The cats were curled up on chairs in Arnie’s lounge. Jetsam got up and wound himself around Elliot’s legs. ‘Hello, boys,’ he said in an Arnie way. He kicked his wet shoes off and walked towards Flotsam. His greeting sounded phony even to himself, and Flotsam didn’t buy it. With the tip of his tail raised, he stayed perfectly still until Elliot was nearly able to touch him.

  ‘He’s not coming home today.’ Elliot reached out his hand and Flotsam made two graceful jumps to land on the windowsill where he was out of reach. He turned his haughty cat-face to the glass.

  ‘Shit, cat. I didn’t bloody know he was using the drill as a circuit tester; gimme a break.’

  Elliot made six pieces of toast and spread them thickly with Vegemite. He lit the fire and left the glass door open as he huddled in front of it, trying to get warm. The wind blew and rattled the flue, a sound that seemed more lonely and spooky in the middle of a workday.

  He needed to talk to someone — have a go at telling the story — and Elliot thought it might be a good idea to ring Deeks before he rang his old man. It was school hours but Deeks liked to think he was exempt from a nine-to-three ban on phone calls.

  ‘What the fuck? You’re kidding me, right? Oh my god, you mean he’s electrocuted? Will he die?’ Deeks registered ‘high’ on the reaction scale. ‘Were there sparks? Burnt skin? I’ve heard that—’

  ‘No, there wasn’t burnt skin. Much.’

  ‘Oh, shit. What did your old man say?’

  ‘I’m going to ring him soon.’

  ‘Oh, poor you. Was it your fault? I mean did you actually do it? Are you like, responsible?’

  ‘No.’ Elliot tried not to think back to the moment when he’d seen Arnie unscrewing the plug and holding the pliers. Was he responsible? He should have yelled something. He’d ignored his gut feeling because his phone was ringing. A decent guy wouldn’t have done that. Zeya had been ringing and he’d sacrificed Arnie for Zeya.

  ‘You haven’t told your old man about Lena, have you?’

  ‘What?’ It took Elliot a moment to even think who Lena was.

  ‘Just do the whole lot in one go, man. Hit him with all your problems and go for one badass reaction instead—’

  ‘Cut it, Deeks. I’ve gotta go. Ring you later.’

  ‘Dad? Can you talk?’

  ‘Hang on.’ His father told someone in the background that he needed to take a call and then said, ‘What’s up?’

  The story took a long time and Dad wanted every detail, and then repeats of what he called ‘crucial moments’. Elliot remained crouched in front of the fire, feeding it twigs and pine cones as he relived the nightmare.

  ‘I don’t know, Elliot,’ Dad said at last. ‘What a disaster; a series of errors and shortcuts. What you tell the police — well, I just don’t know.’

  ‘I’m due at the station soon.’

  ‘Who was ringing you?’ Dad said over the top of Elliot’s words. ‘I mean it’s a critical manoeuvre and you take a call?’

  ‘Not someone you know.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Dad’s voice was harsh.

  ‘It was a girl.’

  ‘Jesus, Elliot; I’d fire one of my workers for that.’

  ‘I know, I stuffed up.’

  ‘You stuffed up, alright.’

  ‘Do I tell the police that or not?’ Elliot could hear a frantic baby edge in his voice.

  ‘Shit, I don’t know. I’ll ring my lawyer and have a chat and ring you back.’ There was silence but Dad didn’t hang up. ‘You didn’t knowingly electrocute Arnie; that’s the bottom line. The idea of using a drill to show if the wires are dead or not — well it’s crazy, dangerous. I’ll ring you back.’ The line went dead.

  Elliot had a quick shower and when he got out the phone was ringing. He ran to answer it, shivering in a towel as he stood beside Arnie’s bed
. It was Dorice wanting to give a detailed account of her visit to the hospital. In essence, nothing had changed, but Elliot listened to her, trapped in Arnie’s room, shackled to the phone. He stared at Arnie’s few possessions and took in the order apparent in their arrangements. One side of the wardrobe was open and the clothes hung according to colour; light through to dark; left to right. Who does that to their clothes?

  There were cat photos down the length of the wall behind the door. Each photo had an identical frame and name plaque, and each cat had a similar look to his current team.

  When Dorice finally released him, Elliot went for a closer look at the cats. He counted nine in total. There were also pictures of navy vessels and a photo of Arnie as a young saluting officer. He had the same piercing eyes under his eyebrows, which were extra bushy even then. Elliot read the name at the bottom: Arnold Reginald Cashwell. He chuckled. Reginald! He wished that information had been available earlier.

  As he moved around the room, he paused to examine a bookcase with navy memorabilia. He picked up a brass bugle with a knotted bandana around it and was just going to blow when he felt a presence at the door that made him drop it back on the shelf. Flotsam sat like a statue, regal and disapproving. Elliot cleared out to get dressed.

  It was nearly time to leave for the police station when Dad finally rang back. His lawyer’s advice was to answer the questions about what Arnie did and why. There would be a Health and Safety enquiry and that’s when things would get more technical. ‘So at this stage,’ Dad said, ‘give the basics and don’t be falling on your sword. You answered the phone; it was stupid but not a crime.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘It would be a crime though if you worked for me.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’

  ‘I’ll ring you tonight.’

  ‘I might be up visiting Arnie.’

  ‘Let me know when you’ve finished with the police.’

  Elliot had the interview in a room with two policemen. An air of impending trouble set in as one police officer shut the door and leaned on it as he faced Elliot. ‘What happened to Arnold Cashwell?’