Black Teeth

by Zane Lovitt

  ‘Did you do a disclosure statement?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A medical statement.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did you tell them about your heart?’

  I’m not supposed to know about Rudy’s heart, but at this particular moment I think I can drop that particular masquerade.

  Rudy blanks. ‘I don’t…’

  ‘I managed to fudge it for my policy, Rudy. If they find out about your heart problem, they’ll withhold the coverage.’

  ‘I don’t have a…what heart problem?’

  ‘AVRC or whatever it is. The same as your dad.’

  He shakes his head, tiny titters of denial. ‘My heart is normal.’

  I blink back in time to my conversation with Tristan Whaley. Am I remembering this right? The interview with Piers Alamein…

  ‘I heard that you did. That he did.’ I say this meekly, my face one tight knot of confusion.

  ‘Where did you hear that?’

  My feet tremble over the bricks. The unstable ground beneath me is a brilliant metaphor.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I peter out. ‘I guess I’m just…’

  Maybe Piers wasn’t talking about a heart condition when he said he’d left Rudy ‘the blessing of a short life’. Did he have some inkling, even back then, that his son couldn’t go the distance? Did he look up from a game of draughts one day and think, ‘This kid is just as batshit as me.’

  ‘Today’s the day, Anthony. I thought you’d be happy.’

  ‘I am, Rudy. It’s just…Don’t be hasty.’

  ‘Uh?’ He picks up the hammer, cracks it gently into the rubble. ‘If anything I have to make up for not…I’m not hasty enough.’

  ‘But tonight? You don’t know if Tyan will be home.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘He’s a cop. You won’t be able to corner him.’ This is my real life spray-and-pray.

  ‘He’s old.’

  ‘He might have a gun.’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘Just let it sit for a couple of days. Think about it.’

  ‘It’s all I think about.’ Rudy screams this and his voice fractures and I flinch, can’t help a derpy glance at the fences around us, hope this is private. He notices, waves the hammer at the outside world.

  ‘They all think I’m like this total monster.’ His anguish is not what I expected. His self-awareness absolutely not what I expected. ‘And I am. I’m not normal, right? And now I can cancel it all out. So that none of it exists anymore. You see?’

  His eyes squeeze shut, seem to force down what’s erupting inside. The hammer thumps blindly into the bricks.

  And he’s like, ‘This has to end.’

  Beads glisten on his dusty bald head and tears blossom in his eyes again, just as ready to ambush him as they were yesterday. He grabs at his face, squeezes it between his palms, mangles his cheeks and eyes.

  ‘This has to end.’

  He’s right. It does have to end. If only because he’s got nowhere to sleep anymore. The point of demolishing this bungalow is to ensure he goes through with it. Not like last time with Beth’s car. Scorched earth, applied against himself.

  And Tyan will be pleased. That it’s going to end tonight. The sooner he finds out, the sooner he can limber up.

  ‘I have to go, Rudy. So…’

  He sways for a moment, slumped and sullen, then climbs down off the second storey and approaches and I extend my hand.

  We shake. For a moment I glimpse the two sets of black teeth. They almost touch, then don’t.

  ‘I don’t like goodbye,’ he says. ‘Goodbyes. It was hard with Beth.’

  For him it probably was.

  He says, ‘I know you’re looking out for me. That makes you a good…good.’

  ‘You’re good too, Rudy.’

  I want to tell him how stupid it was that I ever thought he could harm his own mother. But everything I can say has been said.

  ‘See ya later, I guess.’

  He turns back to his wreckage.

  I stumble through the bungalow, out the door, back onto the cobblestones. As I trudge away a window opens behind me. Rudy on the first floor.

  ‘Don’t worry about me, Anthony.’ The grey soot within takes its chance to escape, like a bomb just detonated. ‘The roof fell on me and look, you know? Not a scratch. Nothing can hurt me today!’

  60

  Tyan’s like, ‘There you fucking are.’ Forever the parody of himself. ‘Come on in.’

  He isn’t smoking at this very moment, but you wouldn’t know it from the smell. I make for the kitchen, get there and turn to face him. ‘I have news.’

  His hairy white legs have followed me, wearing the same skimpy shorts as always. It’s warm in here and I’m glad to have shed the polar fleece. Maybe the cigarette smoke accomplishes that, but also the heater burning high on the kitchen wall, a string hanging from it like it’s fishing for plastic dongles and it’s caught one, not reeling it in, enjoying the moment.

  ‘So do I,’ Tyan grins. Great. Everybody has news.

  He comes past me, finds his cigarettes. ‘You first.’

  ‘You said you didn’t want to wait, you don’t have to wait. Rudy says he’s coming tonight.’

  Tyan lights up, takes the stick from his mouth. Smoke oozes out of the hole it leaves.

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘He and Beth went and got him a real insurance policy. Not like a bullshit one, a real one. He’s covered as of today, so he’s doing it tonight.’

  ‘Thank Christ,’ Tyan says. ‘I thought the wait might put him off.’

  ‘I don’t think anything’s going to put him off.’

  More thoughtful smoke dribbles out as Tyan tips back against the kitchen bench.

  ‘This Beth. How involved is she?’

  ‘Rudy told her the whole plan. But she stands to make a lot of money if Rudy dies, so she’ll keep quiet. She knows I’m working for you but she doesn’t know that you’re my…we’re related. Probably related.’

  ‘Good.’

  I remember that she only hooked up with me for the angle it provided, feel that memory laugh at me then dip back under water. ‘I doubt anyone would believe her if she did come forward.’

  ‘Who have you told about me and you?’

  ‘Nobody.’

  ‘Not your mates?’

  ‘I don’t…no.’

  ‘What about Facebook or something.’

  ‘Don’t use it.’

  ‘Who have you told about Rudy?’

  ‘Nobody.’

  ‘Just Beth?’

  ‘Just Beth.’

  ‘Your phone records will say you’ve been in touch.’

  ‘My phone isn’t in my name. I’m a freak when it comes to privacy.’

  A sideways glare as Tyan leans to ash his cigarette. When it returns to his mouth he’s contemplative.

  ‘Today’s the day.’

  ‘Apparently. So don’t knock yourself on your arse like you did the other night.’

  ‘Hey?’

  ‘When you got pissed. What…two nights ago.’

  Nothing from him but big eyes, trying to remember.

  ‘When you told me that story. Of that dude you shot.’

  ‘Hey?’

  His horror is genuine.

  ‘Yeah…’ Nothing to do but keep talking. ‘You were going to lock him inside and tell the police it was a siege or something. But then he died. Or something.’

  If I tore my face off and revealed myself to be Lee Harvey Oswald, Tyan would react like this. His dafuq face. Eyeballs straining, bottom lip trembling, the rest of him paralysed. The heavy drinker’s no-archive directive. With a derpy scratch of my elbow I try to change topic. ‘So what’s your news?’

  He scowls, breaks from his trance.

  ‘Ummm…I got a phone call. This morning. From Ralph Yates. He’s a senior in the Homicide Squad. Said he got a tip that Rudyard Alamein was planning something, didn’t know what. But
I should be careful because it sounded like the kid was nuts.’

  His face fills out with a smile.

  ‘What that means,’ he explains, ‘is that now, any deadly force used by me is justified because I’ve been told that Rudy is dangerous. So of course I’m going to shoot to kill.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘I don’t know what you did, matey. But it worked.’

  ‘I rang a reporter at the Daily Sun. Nina Chiancelli. Do you know her?’

  ‘Yeah. She’s done the crime desk for fucking decades.’

  ‘I told her I was Rudy, said that something was going to happen. Didn’t mention you.’

  He nods, assessing. ‘Sounds like we’re laughing.’

  ‘But I said it’d be Friday. Not tonight.’

  The same nod. ‘Who cares? It’ll only matter that he’s wacko.’

  ‘Your mate…He’s not going to, like, put surveillance on Rudy or anything?’

  Tyan’s use of cigarette smoke is a gift. It communicates without words. This time it snorts out his nose.

  ‘What, you reckon they’re made of fucking money? He knows I can handle myself.’

  The hand with the cigarette comes at me and I flinch. But the hand rests on my shoulder.

  ‘Listen. You did a good job. Anybody else your age would have shanked it.’

  I don’t notice the smoke that’s wafting up my nose.

  Tyan’s like, ‘I’m trying to tell you that I’m…’

  But he draws his arm away and drags on the cigarette. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That.’

  He points to my elbow. I look and see the chessboard there. It was still in the car from yesterday and I came in with it.

  ‘That’s, um…That’s a gift for you.’

  I offer it.

  ‘It’s a chessboard. Or a draughts board. It doesn’t have the chess pieces.’

  Tyan drags again, says nothing.

  ‘It used to belong to Rudy. It’s old.’

  His big man hands take the set, hold it up for appraisal. ‘Expensive, is it?’

  ‘I guess. I don’t know. I thought we could play some time.’

  Tyan unsnaps the gold lock and looks inside at the red felt and the marble pieces. ‘Nice,’ he says, closes it. Inspection over.

  I say, ‘Don’t leave it out for Rudy to see tonight.’

  ‘Why not?’ He seems to genuinely wonder.

  ‘Because…’ And I realise he’s right. There’s no reason why not.

  ‘So I’ve been thinking,’ Tyan says, putting the box on the kitchen table. ‘Maybe we should do that test. The DNA…the paternity test. So that it’s official and everything.’

  ‘Yeah, no…That’d be great.’

  ‘I don’t really know how to do it…’

  ‘That’s okay. I’ll look it up.’

  ‘And if Friday night is free now, how about we go for dinner? I’ll pay.’

  Friday. It feels like years away.

  ‘That sounds great.’

  He holds out his hand and we shake. Just like I did with Rudy half an hour ago.

  ‘Good luck,’ I say. I think that’s also what I said to Rudy.

  ‘You’ll never have to draw that silly thing there again.’

  He’s talking about the fake tattoo.

  I’m like, ‘Can you call me tonight? I mean…Just to tell me it’s over.’

  He nods his sage nod. ‘All right. Yeah.’

  ‘Okay. Good luck.’ I try to find something else to offer but it’s not there.

  Tyan walks me to the porch and I leave with an awkward wave. From the gate I look back and see him disappear behind a closing door.

  61

  By the time of Beth’s second call today, I’ve found a clipping that mentions a young Desmond Jeremy Carne, the name he was born with. It’s on the State Library website, from their archive of the Truth.

  The heater pukes its warmth in my face but somehow I’m still cold. Clouds outside gather like a gathering storm, but don’t they always look like that? The light from my displays is a soft sideways snow.

  I do not answer the phone. I hope she’s fretting that she won’t get to me in time. Hope she’s pacing that tiny living room, waiting for the call back that’s never going to come.

  YOUNG WIDOW HAS HER DUCKS IN A ROW

  12 March, 1975

  JEFFREY MARCHAND

  Society Writer

  POULTRY baron Henry James Blake, 50, announced on Tuesday his engagement to Lydia Anne Carne, 29, confirming rumours that have had tongues wagging ever since the pair were photographed together on Oaks Day last November.

  Despite the 21-year age gap, close friends of Blake—a millionaire by way of his syndicated Gippsland farming—told the Truth the pair were ‘simply perfect for one another.’

  Mrs Carne became a mother when she was only 16, and her first marriage, to Franklyn Carne, took place, it would appear, to the sound of a shotgun ratcheting a shell.

  However, Franklyn Carne was killed in a machinery mishap in 1973.

  Since that tragedy, Mrs Carne has employed herself as a seamstress while also raising her son, Desmond Jeremy Carne, 13, who is said to remain deeply affected by his father’s death.

  Mrs Carne has been at her wits’ end to provide young Desmond with a father and financial security. It seems that fortune has now smiled on them both. And a very broad smile it is.

  Mr Blake first met Mrs Carne when she was engaged to produce a First Communion gown for his son, Gary, also 13.

  It would seem that romance lingered not long upon the vine, but blossomed and was harvested in quick succession. The pair shared regular picnics together with their sons (and Gary’s pet dog, Conan!), soon to be stepbrothers and to share the name of Blake.

  It is said the boys are becoming fast friends.

  While there has been much tut-tutting in response to the announcement, given Mrs Carne’s Anglican upbringing, this writer heartfully congratulates the pair. Gone are the days when sanctimonious wowsers should be permitted to come between a man and a woman very much in love. Heaven forbid they come between a nubile young woman and such a poultry amount of money (pun intended!).

  It is worth noting, however, that the bride-to-be and young Desmond were baptised in St Patrick’s Cathedral in a hastily arranged service in February, attended by Blake and close relatives. That should put anxious minds to rest.

  A wedding day has yet to be announced.

  Superimposed behind the words is a photo of Henry and Lydia, their faces clean white in the overexposed style of the day. He is smiling, hair thinning, tall and dripping with wealth. She does not smile, her hair held aloft in the form of a miniature beehive, but peers back at the camera like she knows what the accompanying text implies.

  There’s no picture of Desmond.

  After another hour’s searching, it’s clear that Desmond Jeremy Blake is one more numpty with no existence on social media. Just like Tyan and Rudy. All the players in this comedy seem to have missed the digital revolution. It’s like they never left 1999.

  So I have to scrounge.

  By the time of Beth’s third call, I’ve found tax summaries. His primary occupation at the time of Cheryl’s murder was ‘pest extermination’. He gave his address as a Mornington caravan park.

  Desmond had a son of his own in 1985, with a woman named Maria Talumbi. They named him Franklyn after his late father. Des and Maria were never married and from what I can tell they never lived together. That they met at some point is about all I can discern.

  His income tax is regular and neat and he never paid money to Maria or his son. It’s not clear he had any contact with them at all. They were listed as dependents when he applied for a small-business grant in 1998, but that appears to have been a lie. And he didn’t get the grant.

  Then, in 2000, there’s this.

  LIFE SENTENCE FOR GRANNY MURDER

  June 21, 2000

  NINA CHIANCELLI

 
Crime Reporter

  A Mornington man has been sentenced to life imprisonment for smothering to death his 53-year-old mother in her Ivanhoe mansion last year.

  Desmond Jeremy Blake, 37, pleaded guilty to the charge of murder but otherwise made no comment to investigators. His motivation for the crime remains unknown.

  On June 15th 1999, police were dispatched to the Ivanhoe address after Blake telephoned emergency services and said his mother, Lydia Blake, was not breathing.

  Paramedics found the front door unlocked and treated her at the scene. She died en route to Royal Melbourne Hospital.

  Desmond then attended the home of his stepbrother, Gary Blake, 38.

  Gary, his wife Katrina and their 5-year-old son were shocked when Desmond entered the house carrying a cotton sack at around 3 o’clock that afternoon.

  Inside the sack were animal remains.

  Gary told the court that Desmond believed the remains were that of a family pet that had been missing for more than twenty years.

  He told Gary that he’d killed the dog in 1975, and had dug up the body ‘just to see the look on his face.’

  Desmond also told them that he’d suffocated his mother. He didn’t know if she was alive or dead.

  Police were called and Desmond made no attempt to resist arrest.

  Lydia Blake was twice widowed. Her first husband died in a workplace accident in 1973, her second husband succumbed to emphysema in 1989.

  She was known for her charity work and her commitment to children’s health.

  Gary Blake, speaking to reporters outside court after the sentence was handed down, spoke fondly of his stepmother.

  ‘She was always raising money for something.

  ‘The whole bottom floor of the house is lined with certificates and letters from people thanking her for her work.’

  Desmond Blake was estranged from his family in the years leading up to the crime.

  ‘Des was always the bloke who didn’t fit in. He moved out when he was a teen and we only saw him on and off.

  ‘He told us he was working. But who knows what he was up to all that time?’

  So a week after Cheryl Alamein is murdered, Desmond Jeremy Blake kills his own mother for no discernible reason and goes to Severington for life. The end. Despite a load of google dorks on Desmond Blake, Gary Blake and Lydia Blake, there’s nothing more to the story. Blake never explained what his motive was.