by Zane Lovitt
‘Marnie,’ I say from the door.
‘Hi.’ She tightens her scarf around her neck. Seeing me has made her want to choke herself.
‘How are you?’
‘Fine.’
She never asks me how I am. It’s not that she doesn’t care, she just goes taut at the start of conversations.
I’m like, ‘I’m sorry about the other night.’
‘That’s okay. Look…’ She shifts her weight, settles it into one sneaker. ‘I’m not happy about you, like, analysing my life. I should be able to tell you about my stuff when I’m ready.’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’
‘But I’ve been thinking, and if you want, I’ll tell you about it. It’s all come out since anyway.’
I have no idea what she’s talking about.
She says, ‘He told me. My father, I mean. I made him tell me. That’s what changed my mind.’
I rewind my brain to our last conversation. In the alley behind her work.
She says, ‘He said he did it for me. The dodgy deals. Wanted to leave me something. Like an inheritance, you know?’
I’m nodding along like I do know. Her parents, the embezzlers. I asked how she went from singing their innocence to abandoning them in a matter of hours.
‘It was like he was telling me it was my fault. Or I mean…’
I don’t know if I can handle an information dump right now, so I try to tie the conversation off.
‘I’m sorry I crossed the line the way I did. I had no business digging into your life.’
She offers a modest smile, swings her purse from her shoulder and digs inside. The rustle of keys.
‘We’re not having a lot of luck, are we?’
‘No. But that’s my fault. My mind is really scattered at the moment.’
She lingers, perhaps hoping I’ll ask her out again. Somewhere to make it up to her. Somewhere that isn’t a pizza joint. When I don’t, she pantomimes a glum shame-about-that face and makes for her door.
‘Look,’ I say. ‘I’ve got the most intense workload right now. Let me get through this and then maybe we can hang out.’
‘Okay,’ she says, pushing her apartment door open. ‘Good luck with all that work.’
I can’t tell if that’s sarcastic.
For the coming hours I’m at a loss. Even someone as talented as Beth isn’t going to have Rudy eating out of her hand until at least midday, so I should do some work while I wait for the promised phone call. But I’d only flub it.
I could call Tyan and ask how he is. But he’ll have the hangover of ten men for the next couple of days, which probably won’t improve his disposition. Instead I eat toast and play around online, google Tyan’s football team, the Hawthorn Hawks. Apparently they won some big game last season. What if I’d reconnected with Tyan a year ago? Would we have shared that moment? Did Tyan watch it on TV alone? Did he weep with happiness? Would we have wept together?
In the midst of these daydreams and my memories of Saturday, it occurs to me to check my Brett Sherez email address, the one I created for Tristan Whaley. I’m only killing time, so I’m surprised to find that Whaley has been in contact.
From: Tristan Whaley
Date: Sun, July 19, 2012 at 5:31 PM AEST
Subject: Transcript
To: “Brett Sherez ([email protected])”
Dear Brett
A pleasure to meet you on Saturday.
Further to our conversation, I inquired with my former office manager at Joad & Clark as to any residual documentation relating to the Alamein matter and, given things appear to be on the slow side this weekend, they happily unearthed this file from the transcription archive. Unbeknownst to me, audio files are transcribed automatically, and were as far back as 2004. In your capacity as Rudyard Alamein’s legal representative, it is appropriate to forward this file to you, with the assurance that there is no further material in the possession of our office or myself in relation to this matter.
Reading over, I find myself recalling one of the more surreal interactions of my career. His comments regarding his son are particularly troubling, though it should be apparent he was not of the soundest mind. However, I speak in part of my remembrance of the interview; I wonder how much of that recollection—his fearsome anger, his unrelenting tears—is properly conveyed by this scant document.
Given the sensitive nature of the contents, I will have the original file destroyed upon your request. A destroyed-material receipt will then be forwarded to you by Joad & Clark. Please let me know how you wish to proceed.
Yours Sincerely,
Tristan Whaley
Attached is a plain text file: 20041105AlameinP001.rtf. I’m barely able to lay the mouse pointer over it to double-click. Outside it starts to rain. I start to read.
51
file 20041105AlameinP001
tape ozk0161655date deleted W-A
UNKNOWN: (inaudible)
W: That’s all right. I’m a criminal solicitor from the firm of Joad & Clark.
A: You came here.
W: That’s right. I’ve taken an interest in your son’s wellbeing.
A: My son.
W: That’s right. I’m recording this, Piers. This is a dictaphone. Is that all right?
(5-second interval)
W: Would you like a drink? Some water or tea?
A: I keep my fluids up.
W: Officer, we need some tea.
UNKNOWN: I’m not a fucking café, mate.
W: I saw the kettle as you brought me through. I don’t suppose you know if he takes milk or sugar.
UNKNOWN: (inaudible)
W: One with milk and sugar and one with just milk. Please. This isn’t my first time here. I’ll sign a waiver if you like. It’s only tea.
(5-second interval)
W: And excuse me. Would you get a blanket? This man is freezing.
(5-second interval)
A: (inaudible)
W: What’s that?
A: (inaudible)
W: I can’t hear you when you cover your mouth.
A: Did the dog come back?
W: Which dog is that?
A: The dog that ran away.
W: The dog that ran away.
A: Busby. The fucking dog.
W: It’s all right. No no no. It’s okay. Please calm down. I’m afraid I don’t know about the dog.
A: The dog knew. That’s why.
W: Right.
A: It’s interesting, you see. Outside, dogs are good. They mean loyalty. In here, dogs are bad. If you’re a dog then you’re the opposite of loyal.
W: What is that? What you’re playing with there.
(5-second interval)
W: It’s all right. They’re bringing a blanket.
(5-second interval)
W: What is that there?
A: The teeth.
W: Teeth?
A: Our idea of loyalty.
W: Right.
A: Loyalty was the first morality. Before there was law. Before there was love. Before there was God.
W: I see.
A: But not before there was family.
(5-second interval)
W: Piers, I want to determine how you’re being treated.
A: It’s all back to front here. They think. They think solitary confinement is a punishment.
W: You prefer not to be in the company of your fellow inmates?
(5-second interval)
W: Was that marking put on your hand with your consent?
A: Consent. Consent is a story you heard once.
W: Why do you say that?
A: Consent is a legal fiction.
W: What do you mean?
(5-second interval)
W: Piers, I’ve heard about your last will and testament. One that you’ve produced during your time here.
A: Use normal words.
W: May I ask, have you written a will whil
e incarcerated?
A: Use normal fucking words.
W: It’s all right. It’s all right. I will. I’ll use normal words. Please try to relax.
(5-second interval)
W: Thank you so much.
UNKNOWN: This one’s sugar.
(5-second interval)
A: No.
W: Piers, you’re shivering.
A: No.
W: It’s all right. Just leave it with me.
(5-second interval)
W: Would you like yours with or without sugar?
A: (inaudible)
W: It’s all right. He’s gone now. You don’t have to cover your mouth.
A: Milk.
W: Sugar?
A: Yes.
W: All right. Good. A lovely hot cup of tea. Now, you were telling me about your will. You produced it recently? In the last twelve months?
(5-second interval)
A: It’s tainted.
W: Is it?
A: I can taste it’s tainted.
W: Would you prefer we swapped? Mine isn’t tainted. I’ve checked and it isn’t.
(5-second interval)
W: Is that better?
(5-second interval)
W: Piers, does the new will include provision for your son?
A: Where is he?
W: Where is he? He lives in the house in Albert Park. You remember the house.
A: He said I should confess.
W: You mean the newspaper? Yes, I saw.
A: He said it.
W: When a newspaper smells a scoop, they’re like a shark that smells blood.
A: The newspaper is not the shark.
W: You think someone else is the shark?
A: No. Sharks kill to survive. They’re not assassins.
(5-second interval)
W: Piers, is it your intention that Rudy should be thoroughly disinherited?
(5-second interval)
W: They told me at the front desk that you don’t permit your son to visit. Why not?
A: He has to come forward of his own accord. When he does, then ask me about forgiveness.
W: Forgiveness for what?
A: The very worst of crimes. Though perhaps it is what we demanded.
W: What did he do?
A: I choose not to say. There’s a man in here who did the same thing. The same crime. His eyes are broken.
W: What did Rudy do?
A: I choose not to say. In here they call it turning dog. I won’t turn dog.
(5-second interval)
W: Do you miss your son?
A: Do you miss your tea?
W: This is my tea.
A: No, this is yours. And you’ve got mine. It’s got my DNA and I shunned it. Because it’s tainted. But I never turned dog.
(5-second interval)
A: Busby knew. That’s why he ran away. Perhaps he saw. He never turned dog either. Because he’s a dog.
(5-second interval)
W: Piers, is Rudy provided for in your new will?
A: No.
W: Why not?
A: Not in the way you mean.
W: In what way?
A: I’m leaving the boy something more. Something special. A family heirloom.
W: What heirloom?
A: Something incredible.
W: What is it?
A: The blessing of a short life.
W: What does that mean?
A: Yes.
W: What do you mean?
A: Yes it has a meaning.
W: What is it?
A: African children are the same. The dead ones, I mean.
W: I see.
A: The dead ones have a meaning.
W: Right. If I arranged for a psychological evaluation for you, Mister Alamein, would you consent to that?
A: They don’t know it. We all know it but we don’t want to say it. They die for a rock. That’s a meaning. None of us get that. I won’t get that.
(5-second interval)
A: Just a shade of a garnet. Not a ruby.
(5-second interval)
W: I’m sorry, Piers. I didn’t want to upset you.
A: Insects or children. Children or insects. It’s biological. Reverse larval. (inaudible)
(5-second interval)
A: You think I (inaudible).
(5-second interval)
W: It’s all right. Come on, now.
(5-second interval)
W: It’s all right.
(5-second interval)
W: Perhaps I’ll go.
(5-second interval)
W: It’s all right. I’ll go. I might come back when you’re feeling better.
(5-second interval)
W: I’ll come back when you’re feeling better.
UNKNOWN: (inaudible)
end tape series ozk016
52
Around two o’clock I reach Albert Park. The weather has thawed; sunlight even broke through as I drove down Spencer Street. Upon arrival, I feel optimistic: I leave my jacket and gloves in the car.
As troubling as the Alamein transcript was in its agrammatic monotone, it confirmed what I’ve been hearing and saying since yesterday. Piers knew that Rudy had struck Cheryl and killed her—it was the only explanation for the vase in his workshop. He sat in a cell for eleven years and waited for Rudy to come forward, until one day last month when he stopped waiting.
So that’s reason number thirteen: Piers said as much to Tristan Whaley.
Reason fourteen is: it explains why he didn’t want Ken Penn to give evidence at the trial. Penn thought Piers was too embarrassed by his wife’s involvement with the old man across the road, but actually Piers knew Penn would incriminate Rudy and he wasn’t having that. His own fucked-up loyalty to his murderous son.
Fifteen. Piers changed his will. When he realised that Rudy was leaving him to rot, he decided he’d rather bequeath everything to some arsehole in prison than to the boy who killed his wife. But still he wouldn’t ‘turn dog’.
Beth didn’t call me until my third cup of coffee and my twelfth re-read of the interview. So badly I wanted to tell her all this, but at that moment we had enough to talk about.
I reach Rudy’s door and ring the bell, shift the package from one armpit to the other. Tyan said to bring a gift so I brought a gift. Not that it doesn’t feel lame. Then, even as I hear footsteps beyond the door, I’m filled with panic.
The black teeth. I don’t have the black teeth on my hand.
My gloves are in the car.
What with everything else, I overlooked the essential falsehood all this bullshit relies upon.
I search my body for the black texta, remember having it as I left the flat. Then I feel it poking my groin, pull it free but it comes free of my grip, somersaults into the garden.
Someone unlocks Rudy’s fat oak door. It opens.
My right hand drives into my pocket.
What Rudy does first is react to my face. Like he’s never seen a black eye before. It’s like someone’s having open-heart surgery right in front of him. He doesn’t speak so much as moan.
I say back, ‘Hi, Rudy.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he pushes out, looks to the ground. A child ordered to apologise.
‘I think I look better like this. What do you think?’
Beth appears in the darkness behind him and he seems relieved.
‘Anthony’s here,’ he pronounces.
‘Hello.’ She doesn’t bother to stamp down a knowing smile.
‘So you’re Beth?’
‘In the flesh.’
‘Come in,’ says Rudy.
The front room has been entirely reorganised, surely by Beth when she took the pictures yesterday, each furniture piece arranged in its own space like a classroom. The front blinds are open, the first time I’ve seen that, though the lace curtains are drawn to keep in the privacy. No contract on the piano stool. Rudy must have filed it away.
‘Thank you for your phone call,’ I say to Be
th. ‘I was worried my friendship with Rudy was finished.’
‘You weren’t easy to find,’ she replies. ‘There are lots of Anthonys who work at Fortunate Insurance.’
‘It means a lot that you took the time to call my office.’
‘It’s really important that the two of you bury the hatchet.’
‘I agree. It’s really important that the two of us remain friends.’
And we both turn to Rudy, watching for a sign that our pretence holds water. It does, insofar as Rudy hasn’t been listening, is busy scanning the damage to my face.
‘Oh hey,’ I say. ‘This is for you.’
The parcel jammed under my left arm presents a problem: there follows a long moment of weirdness as I try to grip it with my left hand, to keep my right firmly shoved in my trouser pocket. Co-ordination fails me and the gift falls to the floor like a steel brick.
‘Whoops!’ I laugh, retrieve the package one-handed and hold it out.
Rudy grasps it and tears at it without a second thought, eyes alight like a child on Christmas morning. Inside he discovers a cream cardboard box ablaze with assurances regarding the chocolates within.
He seems baffled. ‘Okay.’ I’m sure he meant to say thank you. After a moment of hesitation, Rudy sets the gift down on the dustless ottoman.
‘And look…’ I begin. Today’s fragment of insight into Piers’s mind surely indicated that no one could have made friends with him while he was in jail. But it’s necessary for me to maintain that I did. Or else neutralise it.
‘I’m sorry for what I said. About your dad. Things were crazy in those days.’
This is supposed to remind Rudy that Piers was crazy in those days and might have said anything. But instead it reminds me of how Piers might have said anything. Like implying his son was a shark.
‘It was so long ago that I just don’t remember anything properly. I shouldn’t have mentioned it to you.’
‘Yep,’ Rudy says back, head twitching up and down to ward off any more talk on the topic.
‘I just want you to know that I’m sorry.’ I look to Beth. She’s grinning broadly. I am too. Hopefully Rudy will start grinning soon and then we’ll all be grinning together.
‘Yep,’ Rudy says. His face darkens. ‘Now hold out your hands.’
53
My hands in my pockets feel my testicles shrink. Rudy has sussed it. What was the giveaway? My nervousness? The stupid face on my face? Beth picks up the chocolates, places them on the floor and perches on the ottoman, an audience. She must have told him. That’s why she’s so smug. Was this her plan since yesterday? Is Rudy going to crack it again? Is she going to join in? And MyEffingGee, the look on Tyan’s face when he finds out I’ve botched it.
