by Zane Lovitt
I tell him, ‘You can walk it from here, I reckon.’
His face is one of such wide-eyed expectancy it’s like he’s waiting for me to tell him where we are. Then he grins.
‘It’s like you’re my mum and dad.’
My response is a snort and a nod. I guess it does seem that way. Mum behind the wheel, Dad giving directions, baby-Rudy warm in the backseat on a freezing winter’s night, watching out the window as the moon follows them home. Maybe it brought back memories.
‘Which is which?’ I ask. A joke that Rudy doesn’t get. But he chuckles because chuckling is how you forget what you’ve come to do.
‘The thing is, we’re not your mum and dad, are we, Rudy?’ This is Beth, talking into the rearview. We’re not far off, I say to myself. Rudy’s parents didn’t want him. They saw him as a burden and raced to abandon him. Now here we are, just as treacherous, ushering him to his doom.
Beth says, ‘Your mum and dad are dead.’
Not even that can kill off Rudy’s desperate grin. Stay on the lollercoaster. Don’t let it stop.
I’m like, ‘I’m not sure I could pull off high heels, Rudy. What do you think?’
Rudy guffaws with the back of his throat, mouth wider than it needs to be. Beth turns to him, bassfaced.
‘Are you ready?’
In return she receives a wide smile like he doesn’t know what she means but he’s too polite to inquire.
‘Rudy?’
Big shrug. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Anthony can walk you to the door if you like.’
He’s just as surprised as I am.
‘Yeah. That’s…That’ll be good.’
‘I can’t do that.’
‘We’ll be quick.’
‘Just to the door, Anthony.’ She beams.
‘If I get spotted then I’m screwed.’ I try to communicate using just my tone of voice that if I’m spotted then she, too, is screwed.
She matches my tone.
‘It’s. Dark.’
‘Pleeeeeeeeease,’ squeals Rudy, like we’re talking about an ice-cream from the ice-cream truck.
‘Please, Anthony,’ says Beth. She stares me down. ‘For Rudy.’
I can barely see out these windows, but what I can see is quiet and suburban and deserted. A weeknight in workaday country.
‘No,’ I say to her, sharply, then rotate to the effervescent child in the back seat. ‘It’s not too late to back out, Rudy. If that’s what you want.’
‘Mmmm,’ Beth confirms, to my surprise. She rotates too. ‘It’s okay if you want to give up.’
Rudy lowers his head and he’s silent. Then he appears to laugh at nothing. Then another big shrug.
Beth is thoughtful.
‘I guess the question is, what does your father mean to you?’
I stop nodding along. The boy chuckles again, a titter quelled by the steel in Beth’s eyes.
‘For some people, they don’t care about things like that. Family. Some people don’t care about the blood in their veins. Maybe it’s not important to you, Rudy.’
‘It is.’
‘Well, that’s what you need to ask yourself. Do you feel that bond? Do you have that sense of belonging?’
She doesn’t have to look at me for me to know she’s mocking my words. And while I know that, I’m listening as keenly as Rudy.
‘Does it mean something to you? If it does, then I don’t know if you have a choice. Are you your father’s son?’
Now she nods, like she wants a response.
‘Yes,’ Rudy says, meekly.
‘You can’t just say it, Rudy. You have to do it. Or else, hey… Maybe Glen Tyan isn’t such a bad—’
‘No,’ he interrupts. Absolutely sure of that one thing.
‘Then it sounds like you know what to do.’
Rudy swallows using all the muscles in his neck. He turns to the car door and peers at it like he’s been given his punishment and he’s to administer it himself. Then in a quick scurry he mumbles, ‘Okay bye,’ and gets out.
The door slams shut and his figure lingers there through the frost of the window. In this private silence I want to say something. Can’t think of what.
She speaks, only softly, only after it’s apparent that this is the end.
‘Luiks like ah am th’arsehole ye think ah am.’
I don’t know what to say to that, either. So I’m like, ‘You should go. I’ll catch the train.’
She looks at me, almost worried for me.
I say, ‘Better the car’s not seen.’
And I’m out the door too. The Volvo pulls away and Rudy and I watch it go. I wonder if I have some inspirational words for Rudy.
Nothing.
I just lead the way.
68
We trudge the cold path onto Suttle Street and the house looms ahead like the structure itself holds a shiv behind its back. We are siblings, Rudy and I. Twin sons of the orphanage. On approach to repair our orphan pasts.
My gloves and scarf keep me warm enough but Rudy’s only insulation is his jumper and tracksuit pants. He’s shivering, though maybe not from the cold. I walk ahead and he comes on with his bald head bowed and I decide now that Rudy won’t get another word of encouragement from me. If he can’t do it, if he can’t so much as get inside the house without a push, then that, I believe, is a suitable line to draw. Tyan will just have to live with it. If that’s what happens, then what happens next is I take Rudy home.
This resolution is put to the test when we reach Tyan’s gate. I wait for Rudy to turn the handle, don’t gesture or speak, just wait. Rudy seems to recognise that this is a threshold moment and his moon-face shines hot, wants me to tell him what to do; considers me, it seems, more than the house or the gate. But he reaches out, gently depresses the metal lever and we pad to the driveway. It’s too dark to spot our reflection in the police glass and that’s enough to convince me that it’s too dark, now that we’re off the street, to be spotted by sleepwalking neighbours.
Along the crumbled drive I turn back every few steps to be sure Rudy is there. He is, sharpened toothbrush at the ready, glaring at every black window because the terrace on Grand Street doesn’t have windows like this, and also because of who’s inside. The rose bushes appear especially thorny in the dark and while I try to keep my footsteps as quiet as possible I know that Tyan can hear them, is listening out for them.
Can he tell that there are two of us?
We pass the garage, move away from the patio entrance, partly because I don’t want to demonstrate that I know my way around, also because it’s actually the smart approach. The lawn is quieter, darker, a less likely direction—Rudy has to arrive in the belief that we are ninja. But then, on the far side of the weatherboard shed, painted a colour I can’t determine for all the darkness but which is flaking off in handfuls of hard dandruff, Rudy’s pattering steps come to a stop and I turn to see why.
He says, not whispering, ‘Anthony?’
I do whisper. ‘Yeah?’
‘What’s, like…?’
‘Oh,’ I hush, looking around at nothing to see. ‘I just…I’m not sure where…Is this the way?’
‘I mean…’ Rudy lowers his voice now, steps closer. ‘Like, what’s actually…?’
‘What?’
He looks down at his toothbrush. ‘Yesterday…I found a pen in front of my house. And like, there was a crack in the glass in the window.’
I shrug, big so Rudy can see it. ‘Yeah?’
‘Also,’ he continues, ‘I got phoned by Fortunate Insurance today. They asked if I wanted to buy the policy. And I said I already had, and they checked and said I hadn’t.’
‘Right…’
‘Also, I heard your phone. Yesterday. Upstairs. At my house. Is that…did it?’
Despite what this means—that I’ve failed and that I’ve failed Glen Tyan—what I’m thinking is, Good for you, Rudy. Finally a note of suspicion as the entire world conspires against you.
&nbs
p; ‘Glen Tyan is waiting. He’s got a gun. He knows you’re coming.’
All that planning and commitment. Done away with in a whisper.
‘How…? How?’ The question is all-encompassing. Rudy’s teeth chatter in the cold.
‘I told him.’
His eyes bat. He tries to understand. He bites his lip as he tries. Bunches the skin around his eyes.
‘Why?’
What I say next I don’t whisper because I want Rudy to hear.
‘He’s my dad.’
And in response the full moon springs from its hiding place and glows all over Rudy, who steps back, cocks his head a fraction of a degree but otherwise registers nothing.
‘But…’
‘And my name’s not Anthony. It’s Jason. Jason Tyan.’
‘Ummm…’ Still blank-faced, imitating the moon.
‘And I don’t sell insurance. And I was never in Severington. I never met your dad.’
‘You’re his…your father?’
‘Yes.’
‘But he…’
‘I know.’
‘He lied—’
‘He thought Piers was a killer—’
‘He wasn’t.’
‘I know.’
Cloud sucks up the moonlight again and Rudy’s face dissolves into darkness. In a moment my eyes will adjust, but all I see now is a black figure stuck against a grey lawn.
‘So what do we do?’
After a silence, he says:
‘Let’s go.’
‘You mean, let’s go home?’
‘Nuh. No. Let’s go.’
‘Inside?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yeah.’
‘All right. That’s okay. But you have to know, if we go in there…’ Steam from my mouth gathers around my head and seems to hang. ‘He’s got a gun.’
‘I know.’
‘There’s only one way this can end.’
‘That’s okay. I know. It’s okay.’
Beth was right. Her stories about Rudy. It’s what he’s come here for. I nod, grasp his shoulder. All the pain of his existence buzzes through my hand and we are resolved.
‘Okay then, matey. Let’s go.’
He doesn’t hesitate, leads us to the rear patio, seeing better than me. He raises the doormat and takes out the key. The hanging pots squeak gently like a horde of frightened mice.
Rudy whispers, ‘Can you open it?’
He offers the key. I shake my head.
‘I’m sorry, matey.’
He waits, still. I can’t hear him breathe, can’t see his face, can feel his apprehension but that might be my own.
He jabs the door with the key, hands shaking, looking for the lock. It opens silently. I can smell the oil Tyan must have applied to the hinges to keep them quiet.
Rudy doesn’t go in. So I take his hand, the one that isn’t holding a weapon, and I say, ‘When you’re ready.’
69
The vestibule is just as dark as everything outside and we probably should have brought flashlights. More than anything it’s sonar we use to navigate: the sound of our breathing tells us where we are, the creak of the floorboards relays our progress. I wanted Rudy to lead the way, but it’s me, really, who finds the kitchen door.
‘There’s another door here.’ This is a whisper into what I think is Rudy’s ear.
He squeezes my hand.
‘I can’t open it, Rudy.’
Silence, then the sound of fingernails licking the wood veneer, then the bass thunk of a spring catch released.
This door is oiled too. I only know that Rudy has opened it by the cold air that sweeps across my face, this interior colder than the winter outside, like it’s been refrigerated for hours. More like years.
A tug on my hand. Rudy steps into the kitchen. No tripwire, no gunfire. Just old sneakers on linoleum. It seems the blinds are open but it makes no difference to the darkness. I try to follow, try to blink away the dark, try to make out the figure of Tyan hiding under the table or in the hollow by the stove. From behind me comes another gust of air, this time it’s the door that swings shut slowly on its spring.
Tyan must have heard footsteps on the driveway, must have been impatient when Rudy didn’t instantly show himself and he must be ready to pounce. But I don’t know. He might be standing two feet away, tracking us with night-vision goggles.
Before I can further think on it, the hallway lights up. Rudy squeals.
Tyan, silhouetted in the kitchen door by the dim orange bulb behind him.
‘What the fuck are you doing here?’
He wears jocks and a singlet. How a real man dresses for a killing. Legs so pale they glow in the dark. I can just make out his face, his look of perplexity, almost hurt.
‘He wouldn’t come alone.’
Rudy shudders with a guttural moan, steadies himself and clutches the toothbrush to his chest like it will save him.
‘He knows,’ I say. ‘He knows what’s happening.’
Rudy’s big eyes, pinned on Tyan’s belly button.
‘I know…’ He moans it.
Hovering there is Tyan’s right hand, something black and glimmering. The sharpened toothbrush falls to the lino. Rudy doesn’t notice. He’s too busy hyperventilating.
What I notice is the draughts board. It’s under the fridge, jammed beneath one corner in place of the newspaper. Deep in this tension, that’s what draws my eye. Tyan has used the board to stabilise his refrigerator. I wonder if he said ‘I’m sorry’ out loud when he did it.
‘How does he know?’ Tyan doesn’t take his eyes off Rudy. ‘You told him?’
‘He just kind of…figured it out.’
‘Stop fucking holding hands, would you?’
Rudy’s hand has felt so natural in mine that I’d forgotten it was there. Instantly I release it and it hangs in the air like an astronaut cut loose. Then Rudy plants it on the kitchen sink, keeps himself standing.
‘You can’t be here,’ Tyan says, flicking the gun at me. ‘Go over the back fence. Don’t make noise.’
‘Okay.’
I move a few steps to the table, cling to it for balance.
‘Go on, then.’
‘Okay.’
I do not move.
‘I know…’ grinds out Rudy again.
Tyan makes a disgruntled face at me, rotates slightly to address the other weirdo.
‘If you know…then you know.’
He adds, by way of consolation, ‘I’m not going to give you some big speech.’
Already Rudy is nodding.
‘But the fact is, I’m sixty years old. You think I’m going to sleep with one eye open the rest of my life?’
And then, without warning, a kind of compassion comes to him. ‘I’m sorry about this.’
Although Rudy nods, face screwed into a toddler’s tantrum, he is reversing. His back hits the door, presses against it.
I feel a heavy pain in my chest, realise I’m holding my breath.
Tyan’s speech, the one he wasn’t going to give, continues.
‘You remember the day I come there? To your house? And the bloke took our picture for the paper? We talked. You knew I wasn’t a bad sort of a bloke. And now here you are. It can’t go on, mate. It has to end.’
‘I know…’ Rudy manages to raise his eyes. When he says it again it’s found spit and anger. ‘I know.’
‘Fuck you. What do you know, hey?’ Tyan, working himself up. ‘What do you know? Your father killed Cheryl Alamein. He killed your mum.’
‘No…’
‘You told the fucking paper—’
‘I didn’t—’ Rudy yells at the floor. Voice cracks. Both hands pinned to the door like a prisoner.
‘But now your life’s turned to shit and you need someone to blame. Why not muggins here? Poor bastard just doing his job. And so here you fucking are.’
My stomach is in spasm, searching for air.
‘No,’ Rudy cri
es. So certain despite his ignorance. ‘You lied. You lied about it. You said it was my dad and he didn’t!’
‘Pick that up.’ Tyan gestures at the toothbrush on the lino.
So slowly, in spite of his tears and that mouth drawn open by invisible hooks, Rudy bends down and grasps the shiv. It takes three attempts.
To this phenomenal sight, Tyan says, ‘You’re a fucking joke.’
He raises the black glimmer, levels it. Arm straight like a gallows.
‘Nargh…’ Rudy moans. ‘You did lie.’
Blood bashes my eyeballs.
Tyan: ‘I did my fucking job.’
‘You lied.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘He didn’t.’
‘He did.’
‘Tell him.’
They each snap their heads to me.
I gulp a tonnage of air. Those words were the cork that stopped the bottle and now my head swims and I suck in the full atmosphere of the room, don’t notice the acrid taste now, clutch the table edge, blink yellow flashes in the dark.
‘Tell him,’ I say again before anyone can change the subject.
‘What?’
‘You have to tell him.’ Dry mouth. I swallow. ‘After that, you can…whatever. But you have to do this first. You have to say it. You thought Piers was lying.’
‘He was fucking lying.’
‘The Polygraph…’ I push fists into my abdomen. ‘You thought he was lying so you fixed him up.’
Tyan, in jocks and a singlet, looks at me like I’m ridiculous. ‘You’ve swallowed his bullshit, have you?’
‘Look at him.’ I gesture at Rudy’s cramped, melting figure, face frozen in that butoh agony. ‘He can’t hurt you—’
‘You did it,’ is all that Rudy whimpers.
‘Piers Alamein killed his wife.’ Tyan shouts it at both of us. A ligature to tie off the discussion. And it’s there, in that adamance, that I see a crack.
Rudy doesn’t. He slides down the kitchen door, mimicking the tears that slide down his face. His backside reaches the lino, knees wrap up to his chin.
