The teacher’s look says, you’re a bloody liar, Kane.
Dylan watches him walk away across the dusty asphalt and for a delicious second thinks about a metre of water pipe and how the man’s skin is the same pinkish-brown as the mannequin’s.
Minutes pass slowly at school to become hours which will assemble haphazardly into days whether he likes it or not. Not that the passing time changes anything. Ian Cartwright is still alive and with every breath he takes into his lungs he sucks a little more life out of the Beals.
Dylan is aware now of the different stages in a fortnight and what they mean. The Beal family cycle, Kirsty called it, beginning with the few days spent repairing the damage after Cartwright’s visit, followed by a fabulously free weekend when they are like the earth at its farthest point from the sun. From there, remorseless forces pull them closer and closer to Sunday afternoon. He doesn’t suffer its heat like Tim but he burns all the same.
That bastard shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it.
When he rings Kirsty on Friday night to ask how she is, it’s there in the things she says. ‘I don’t know what to do, Dylan. Don’t know what to say to Tim. Maybe you can do something. He listens to you. Can you help him?’
She doesn’t know what question she’s really asking him.
‘Look, I’ve got a busy weekend coming up, I… I… don’t know if I can get round.’
‘Then at least speak to him on the phone. Please, Dylan. I’ll take the phone in to him now.’
He can hardly say no, but what’s he going to say? He can hear Kirsty calling through the house. ‘Tim, Tim, Dylan wants to talk to you.’
No he doesn’t.
‘Tim, open the door.’
There’s a muffled reply, mostly swearing, then Kirsty’s on the line. ‘He won’t open the door,’ she says, letting Dylan off the hook. He doesn’t have to find any words, doesn’t have to face Tim’s misery. He doesn’t have to do a thing.
Dylan tries to buy a headlight
Dylan looks out over the bus driver’s shoulder, wondering when to press the button that’s already beneath his thumb. Ahead, as far as he can see and on both sides of the road, cars are crowded nose to tail inside picket fences, the sun glinting on their polished chrome, and every word ever used to describe a bargain shouting from windshields daubed with fluorescent paint. The Motor Mile, they call it, and somewhere along this gaudy strip is the dealership where Kirsty’s mother once worked. There it is, Donovan’s. The bus is past it before Dylan can pick out the sign but he doesn’t have far to walk back from the stop. The entrance to the spare parts department is down a side street.
That’s the easy part done. He takes his time covering the last fifty metres to the door. What’s he going to do when he gets inside? What’s he even here for? That’s much harder to work out.
The sliding door opens into a surprisingly large space, plastered on every surface with motor racing posters - there’s even stuff hanging from the ceiling, cardboard Commodores by the look of them, covered in advertising logos. Running the full length of the far side is a counter with computer terminals every couple of metres and rising behind, row after row of shelving. For a moment Dylan thinks he’s stumbled into the library at school. But the school library is a place run mostly by women; this is a man’s place. The hard tiles underfoot are scuffed and showing their age, there are no chairs, in fact the only furniture, if you can call it that, is a water cooler in the corner.
Dylan takes all this in at a single glance because his attention is immediately drawn to the service bench and the tall figure in a navy blue shirt with Manager embroidered above the pocket.
‘Yes, we’ve got ’em in stock,’ Ian Cartwright is telling a man Dylan can see only from the back, and after copying a long number from the monitor in front of him onto a pad of scrap paper, he disappears into the storage area. This gives Dylan a moment to get a grip. Will the sunglasses do their job? He’d barely said a word in the Beals’ lounge room that first Sunday, so his voice isn’t likely to give him away. He’s carefully chosen different clothes, even his hair is shorter after a cut last week. But he can’t do anything with his face except the sunglasses.
Cartwright is back in less than a minute. ‘You’re a lucky man,’ he says with a smile as he holds up a length of radiator hose. ‘Computer says we have five but this was the last one in the box.’
The customer says something Dylan can’t hear and the men share a chuckle. When the man has paid and carried his precious radiator hose out through the sliding door, another takes his place ahead of Dylan. Needs are stated, questions asked, the computer consulted. Another light-hearted comment, a bit of banter between the men. It is all so blokey, so friendly. What am I doing here? Dylan asks himself.
Then it’s Dylan’s turn at the counter.
‘What can I do for you, young fella?’
There’s no sign of recognition. Strictly business, with a wink towards Dylan’s age. No different from what he’d expect anywhere else.
‘My father’s sent me in to get a new headlight.’
‘Headlight, eh? Been teaching you to drive has he? Don’t tell me - a post jumped out at you and broke the light.’
‘Er, no actually, I don’t have my learners yet. He’s just busy this morning.’
‘Fine. What model are we looking at?’
‘Sorry?’
‘What kind of car is it? There’s dozens of different headlights. I can only get you the right one if I know the model and the year. Might even need the series number.’
‘Oh.’ Dylan had decided on the headlight story during the bus ride from home but he obviously hadn’t thought it through well enough. Think! He pictures Eric’s car. ‘I think it’s about ten years old, a station wagon.’
‘Doesn’t matter if it’s a station wagon or a sedan. Look, it seems like your dad’s given you a bum steer here, my friend. Have you got a mobile? Good. Why don’t you ring him. Tell him you need the model, the year and the series.’
Cartwright looks over Dylan’s shoulder to where three other customers are now waiting. ‘Tell you what. So you don’t have to line up again, come back to the counter here when you’ve spoken to your father, okay.’
Dylan steps away towards the water cooler, his mobile in his hand. He’s not really going to ring anyone, certainly not his father who’s half a world away nor even Eric who wouldn’t know what he was talking about.
Cartwright is busy with the next customer, treating him with the same easy humour that all his customers seemed to get, even teenage boys who didn’t have a clue what part they wanted. Christ, the guy had even been good to him, offered to let him jump the queue once he was ready.
Dylan turns into the corner and puts the phone to his ear as though he’s listening to his call ring out at the other end. This is pointless. He should leave before Cartwright sees through the sunglasses and knows he’s being stalked. That’s what he’s doing, isn’t it? Stalking the guy. This whole idea was stupid, so bloody stupid.
He glances over his shoulder. No one will see him go and what does it matter anyway? Cartwright’s not even facing the counter now. He’s turned to one of his assistants who’s come to ask a question.
For a moment Dylan sees something familiar. The expression on the young guy’s face. He’s staring up at Cartwright and because of the angle, Dylan can see his features clearly. There’s fear in his eyes and in the uncertain set of his jaw. With the silent phone still fixed to his ear, Dylan listens to an entirely different conversation.
‘I’m busy with a customer.’
‘Yeah, I’m sorry, Ian, but I’ve got this guy on the phone and I’m pretty sure he’s quoting the wrong part number.’
‘Can’t you work it out yourself?’
‘You told me to check with you. ’Cause of last time, remember? I got it wrong and you said…’
‘I know what I said. Oh, Jesus, you’re a waste of space, Jason. What’s the use of paying you if I have to do your job
meself?’
Jason stands mute before Cartwright’s contempt. The exchange has been whispered but the room’s not so big that every word can’t be heard by those standing around waiting to be served.
Dylan looks around. There’s a third body behind the counter, a girl in her twenties. She’s thin-faced with straight brown hair hanging partway to her shoulders, some strands noticeably longer than others.
He takes a closer look at the girl and sees more. Though her eyes seem focused on the screen in front of her, Dylan can see that she’s listening intently as Cartwright dresses down the unfortunate Jason. The company t-shirt goes loose around her shoulders, like she’s suddenly made herself smaller. Jason’s the target this time, but she’s had her turn, and she will again before much longer.
Dylan sees that Jason’s been dismissed now. He returns to the phone at the far end of the counter and begins to speak apologetically. It’s an old phone with a coiled chord snaking down from beneath his ear to the base beside the computer. Tiny tremors make it dance in the air, giving him away.
Oh God, it’s here too. Dylan sets out for the door again.
‘Hey, matey, couldn’t you get onto your dad?’
‘Oh… er, no, he’s out of mobile range.’
‘Too bad. Get him to come in himself next time, eh? And tell him to see me. Ian’s the name.’ He fixes Dylan with an exasperated look meant to draw him into the sad secret. ‘These two couldn’t find their own arseholes with a map.’
He waves a hand airily at his assistants as some other words follow under his breath. One of them is certainly useless and Dylan can guess the rest.
The door rolls back on its runners, letting Dylan through. Fresh air hits him like a punch in the guts. He barely has time to close it behind him before rushing to the curbside where he empties his stomach into the gutter.
13
Dylan gets some help with his possum problem
‘Well now, there’s a face like thunder if ever I saw one,’ says Eric when he opens his front door.
Shut up. Don’t say a freaking word, Dylan seethes inside his head.
Out loud, he can’t swear at his grandfather, but he’s been ready to punch something since leaving the Motor Mile an hour ago. Punch something, kick something, stomp it to pulp.
‘You left a message on my mobile. Said I should stop if I was coming by on the bus.’
‘I left the message, yes, but it’s your grandma who wants to see you. Come on in.’
He’d been hoping Eric would have some job for him to do, something practical that would need his hands and all of his concentration. He can’t back out now, though, and before he can blink he’s in the familiar dimness of their lounge room accepting a glass of Coke.
‘I wanted to show you this,’ says Fiona, unfolding a sheet of paper. She takes something loose from inside the two halves, a photograph, and places it face down on the rosewood table beside her chair. ‘This is a letter from your father. He’s talking about his new little boy, but see here, Dylan,’ she adds, pointing out a place among the hand-written lines. ‘He mentions you.’
Dylan takes the letter between his fingers and reads:
He’s just wonderful, Mum. Much better for Alison than either of the twins and they came together of course making things four times as hard. He’s sleeping through the night already. I remember Dylan was good like that for Rosemary. Is it a boy thing? Anyway, I’m the proud father of two sons now, even if they are a long way apart in age as well as distance. I missed out on watching the first one grow up and I’ve always regretted that so I’m going to enjoy every minute with son number two.
That’s it. The next paragraph describes Peter Kane’s problems with his new job and Dylan only reads the first couple of lines before handing the letter back.
‘There, you see. He hasn’t forgotten you, Dylan. He’s very aware of you here in Australia and you saw what else he wrote, that he regrets not being here to watch you grow up.’
Is she serious? Does she really think that one paragraph in a letter will make him feel any different? Especially a paragraph like that. So he bloody regrets not being here to see him grow up. That’s supposed to make it all right, that’s supposed to make him go warm and fuzzy inside?
He wants to shout at his grandmother, but again he can’t. It wouldn’t be right and so the words sink down to where they came from, unspoken and hot as branding irons.
Fiona slips the photograph back inside the letter but it drops out as she turns away. Dylan ducks down quickly and scoops it up from the carpet.
As he’s guessed, it’s a picture of Peter Kane and his family with pride of place taken by the newest arrival. The boy is Dylan’s half-brother, if he wants to think about it that way. He decides against it, deliberately, stubbornly. He can’t help inspecting his father’s wife. Pretty, slim. The baby’s in Peter’s arms, old enough to keep himself upright and cling to the heavy jumper with his head against his father’s chest. The picture reminds Dylan of the one he saw in Kirsty’s room. Tim and Tom Beal before the poor bugger died.
‘How’s your possum problem?’ asks Eric out of the blue.
It’s such an abrupt change of subject that Dylan takes a few moments to understand what he’s saying.
‘Oh… oh, yeah, fine. I caught the bloody thing first time. You were right about apple with a dash of vanilla. But I haven’t had a chance to look for the hole where it’s getting in yet. Been a busy week.’
‘Need any help?’
This is a touchy subject as always and Dylan’s about to shake his head for the usual reasons. No, wait. Maybe this is the thing he needs, the job he’d been hoping Eric would have waiting for him when he turned up just now.
‘Actually, Mum’s gone to some big-time rehearsal at the Cultural Centre. Said she’d be gone all day.’
‘Well then, why don’t I drive you home now and bring my ladder with me.’
Half an hour later, Eric’s station wagon, with extension ladder protruding from the rear window, pulls into the driveway. The Corolla is gone, as expected.
‘You can keep going through the carport if you like, Grandad.’
When Dylan shoulders the door of the old garage aside the possum stirs and watches them nervously as they inspect it together. ‘It’s a big one,’ says Eric. ‘A brush tail, not a ring tail.’
Dylan’s not listening. He can see the length of water pipe leaning against the wall and tiny fragments of the mannequin. This is where Tim killed a man. Except he’s still alive.
‘Grandad, you were in the army, weren’t you?’
‘Not by choice. National Service. That was before I met your grandmother and we came out here to live.’
‘You were sent to Malaysia.’
‘It was just called Malaya in those days and actually I spent most of my time in Singapore.’
‘So you’ve fought in a war.’
Eric Kane snorts a quick blast of air down his nostrils. ‘It wasn’t important enough to be called a war. A communist insurgency they called it.’
War, insurgency. Dylan isn’t interested in the finer points. ‘Did you kill anyone?’
His grandfather straightens up suddenly and stands considering him in the half-light of the garage. His smile has gone, replaced by something more serious. ‘That’s not a question a man expects to be asked, Dylan.’ His eyes look the boy up and down, surprised to find so much of him, perhaps.
‘No, not me. Some in my barracks saw action up country, but I got off rather lightly. Never fired a shot in anger, to be honest. Wasn’t cut out to be a soldier, really. More of a lover,’ he says with a wink.
This isn’t what Dylan wants. He knows his grandfather is a gentle man, but he wants more than self-mocking humour.
‘Would you have done it, though, if you’d been with those other guys?’
Eric is taken aback this time and lets it show. ‘Is this about something at school?’
‘Sort of. Not for an assignment or anything.’
/> ‘Ah, you and your mates are solving the problems of the world over your sandwiches, is that it?’ His face softens to show that he likes the idea. ‘Like that stuff you were telling me about solar cars and wind power.’
‘Something like that.’ He doesn’t press any harder because he can see an answer building behind his grandfather’s eyes.
They leave the possum and return to the backyard. ‘Let’s look at the guttering where the deck meets the rest of the house. I’ve got a hunch that’s where it will be,’ says Eric. While they’re extending the ladder and setting it in place, he returns to Dylan’s question.
‘About what you were asking before,’ Eric says, ‘Sometimes life can be cut down to bedrock. Do you know what I’m saying? Another man tries to take what’s yours, or perhaps he simply wants to kill you for who you are. Then you have no choice. Kill him before he kills you.’
‘So you would have killed one of those insurgents if you’d had to?’
‘I would have returned fire if my company’d been attacked, of course I would. That’s what all the training’s for. No time for philosophy when someone’s shooting at you. If you don’t fight back, you might get killed and that tends to be a good incentive.’
He laughs briefly at this and starts to climb the ladder. He stops on the fifth rung and looks down at his grandson. ‘Or one of your mates might get killed ’cause you didn’t do your bit and that would be worse than being killed yourself, if you ask me. Let your mates down and it’ll stay on your mind for the rest of your life.’
He climbs the rest of the way until he can use his hands to feel under the tiles where they overhang the guttering. ‘Ah-ha, here it is. Just big enough to get a tennis ball through, but that’s all they need, little devils. The question is, how are we going to block it up?’
The problem is solved when they find some galvanised sheeting in the old garage. Eric cuts off a piece to the right size and shape and then it’s back up the ladder to hammer the sheeting into place.
‘Done. Your possum will have to sleep in the trees tonight like he’s supposed to.’
Kill the Possum Page 11
