by Sue Williams
In bustled a plump, bright-eyed figure in a white coat, looking more than ready to assist any baby woolly mammoths that came his way. A badge on his coat said Doctor Rangarajan. Brad followed in his slipstream.
‘Mrs Tuplin. Marvellous!’ The doctor beamed. He had a face jam-packed with enthusiasm. Picking up a chart hanging from the bed, he did some rapid ticking.
‘You’ve done extremely well. We’ll just need to keep you in a little longer. Smoke inhalation can be a serious business.’ He hung the chart back on its hook.
‘How much longer?’ I tried sitting up, feeling sick, ‘Thing is, I’m not sure I’m safe in here.’ I’ve seen enough midday movies to know how easily your average murderer gets into a hospital when he’s motivated. It only takes one discarded white coat and he’s in. Then he creeps up to your bed, gives you the nasty final look and bam he pulls out all your plugs.
Doctor Rangarajan stared. ‘Of course you’re safe. Our care here at the Hustle Public Hospital is absolutely first-rate. And you have your son here,’ he beamed at Brad. ‘What a son, you must be proud.’
Brad looked at the floor.
‘If only I could be fortunate enough to assist my own mother in such a way, but sadly, she’s passed away.’ His smile faded. ‘At least we believe she has. She disappeared, climbing Mount Kilimanjaro. It broke my father’s heart.’ He stared off into the distance. ‘And my heart too, of course.’ Hauling himself away from his African-mountain middle distance, the doctor gave himself a little shake.
‘Yes, your heroic Brad. Saving your life like that.’
Brad? Saved my life?
‘A little bump on the head as he dragged you from your burning house.’ He waved a hand. ‘Thus the bandages. But you’ll be fine. Astonishingly fine. All thanks to Brad’s quick thinking.’
Brad turned red.
‘And did he tell you he sat here by your side these last two nights? He maintained a constant vigil. Beyond compare, this young man.’ He thumped Brad on the back.
Brad staggered and coughed.
‘But you know this, of course. You’re his mother.’ The doctor gave me a radiant we’re-all-happy-families smile. He swept out of the room in search of other baby woolly mammoths in need of cheer.
Brad dumped himself into the chair, reaching for his magazine.
‘Brad. I didn’t leave the burners on.’
‘It’s OK, Mum, accidents happen. The important thing is you’re alive.’
‘Did you turn them back on?’
He flung down his magazine. ‘Bloody typical. I should have known this would all be my fault.’
I was too nauseous for an argument. ‘I’m not blaming you. I’m just trying to work out what happened. You didn’t turn anything on after we closed, you’re sure?’
He nodded.
‘Nor me. And the shop smoke alarm. It wasn’t going, was it? It would have woken us. And Showbag would have heard it. You know he hears everything.’ Showbag doesn’t sleep too well, not since the accident. He can’t get comfortable, or so he claims.
Brad spoke slowly. ‘There was a car…’
‘What car?’
‘It drove off while I was getting you out of there…’
‘The arsonist!’
‘Calm down. Maybe the alarm was faulty, we hadn’t tested it in a while. Anyway, the CFA will look at all that.’ He sounded like he was trying to convince himself.
‘I bet someone took out the battery. That someone snuck in the back and set the place on fire. To kill us. Me.’
‘Jesus, Mum! I told you not to get involved. How many times?’
Dean walked in, heavy boots clomping on the hospital floor.
Good old Dean, six foot one of reassurance, dressed in blue, his gun close at hand, hanging in its holster. He held a bunch of deep pink roses. General MacArthurs, my favourite. Trust him to know that.
Dean’d sort this out, especially now he knew about Donald, and with Mona reported missing, he’d believe me now. Dean wouldn’t leave me on my own to grapple with a faux-doctor-murderer.
‘Thank God you’re all right.’
His voice was gruff. He bent down and kissed my cheek, looking deep into my eyes like he was searching for something he’d lost down there. ‘You remember me, don’t you? It’s Dean.’
I struggled up against the pillows.
‘Perfect timing, son.’ I lowered my voice. ‘Can I borrow your gun?’
Dean stared.
I suppose there’d be regulations about lending out his weapon, even to his relatives.
He cleared his throat, looked at the roses in his hand. ‘Anyway, let me put these in some water. I see Brad didn’t think to get you flowers.’
Brad humphed, got up to fetch another chair. He plonked it down like he was planning on using it to stab a hole right through the floor.
Dean gave Brad a little nod. ‘Colours are good for them, Brad, smells, sounds, anything that stimulates the brain.’ He spoke in a low voice, as if he thought I couldn’t hear.
Brad looked at Dean from under lowered eyelids.
Moving his chair closer to me, Dean said, ‘Now, Mum. You can’t go on like this. I’m really worried.’
He wasn’t the only one. ‘I don’t mind if you lend me some old spare. As long as it shoots OK.’
Dean patted my wrist. ‘Poor old Mum. When you’re better, we’ll have a little family talk.’
‘I could be dead by the time I’m better, Dean. I’m telling you I need a bloody gun.’
‘We’ll have a proper family conference.’ Dean sailed on. ‘There’ll have to be some changes. It’s sad you lost the place, but it’s time you made a change. It’s a young person’s game, takeaway. Time to put your feet up.’ He smiled a Gladwrapped smile.
What did he think I’d be doing with my feet up? Sounded boring as all hell. ‘Anyway,’ I said, in a louder voice, ‘Can you spare a few minutes today to show me how to use it? So I’m ready for tonight? Although I don’t mind if you stay here and fight him off yourself. Actually, I can see how you might prefer that.’
I glanced at Brad. I could have done with a little help but Brad was busy glaring at his magazine.
Dean had the sort of look he gets when he’s about to announce something worrying, like the day he told me Melissa was pregnant.
‘Mum.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘It can happen to anyone. Early onset dementia doesn’t mean you’re old, or anything. It can come on really, amazingly early. It’s better if we just accept it. You know I only want the best for you.’
Brad gave Dean an eye-flick glare.
‘Dementia?’ I struggled onto my pillows, who cared about the nausea. ‘Who says I have dementia?’
‘Yeah,’ said Brad. ‘Who?’
‘Well, no one,’ Dean took his hand away. ‘Not yet. But that’s just because Brad hasn’t had anyone look. I’ll have a little chat with the doctor. It’s the obvious explanation. For your…muddled behaviour.’
‘Muddled? Dealing single-handedly with a murderer because my cop son won’t believe a word I say? There’s nothing bloody wrong with me.’ I looked at my hands. ‘Apart from a few burns.’
‘And a nasty dog bite,’ added Brad.
A pause.
‘Some smoke inhalation. And a unique range of irritating habits.’ Brad scratched his arm. I don’t know what he thought he was smirking at. Kids.
‘Yes, apart from those, there’s nothing wrong with me,’ I snapped. ‘I don’t know how many times I have to tell you, Dean, there’s a murderer out there. You need to focus on the facts. Instead of all this waffle about dementia.’ I grabbed his arm. ‘Listen, the fella’s burned my house down. He’s dangerous. And single-minded.’ More than I could say for Dean.
Dean shook his head.
‘You need to whip me away into a witness protection scheme. Do I get a say in where I’ll be relocated? I wouldn’t mind somewhere green. I can draw you up a shortlist.’ They’d need to give me a new face, of course. I’d have to consider
my choice of nose.
‘I don’t know how you could have let things go this far, Brad, without getting her to a doctor.’
At last Brad closed his magazine. ‘Well, I reckon Mum could have a point. There’s a lot here that you’re ignoring.’
The last time Brad stood up to Dean was when Brad was twelve. Brad lost, as I recall. He always did.
‘So, let me get this straight,’ Dean’s voice was low. ‘You and Mum, in the absence of any evidence, have decided that someone set fire to the shop. To kill Mum.’
Brad nodded.
‘And why?’ said Dean.
‘Because of the body,’ I said.
‘Ah, yes. Because of all this crap about a body.’ Dean sighed, stared at the wall. ‘Look, we’re checking the place for cause of fire. OK? The CFA are looking for any signs of accelerants, signs of arson. All part of the routine. Probably, and it’s early stages, but probably all post-fire indicators will show the fire started in the deep fat fryer. The most plausible scenario is that a burner was left on. By Mum,’ Dean turned his gaze on his brother, ‘or more likely by you, Brad.’
‘What?’ said Brad.
Dean held up a hand. ‘I know you don’t like it. I mean, who’d be OK with the idea that his negligence could have killed his mother? I’m afraid you’ll just have to live with that. In the meantime, we’re waiting on the evidence. The professional knows not to rush to conclusions before reviewing all the evidence.’
That’s Dean all right. He’d be reviewing the evidence before deciding to clip his toenails.
‘Consider this, Brad. There are many, many ways in which a fish and chip shop can burn down. Burners left on, faulty thermostats, cheap power boards, dodgy wiring, just to name a few. We professionals must consider everything. That’s why we investigate the cause of the fire. Properly.’
‘I know,’ said Brad, ‘but…’
‘The professional works for a living, Brad.’ Dean’s voice rose. ‘He doesn’t fill his days demonstrating and protesting. He compromises. And he doesn’t have his aged mother look after him all his life. He doesn’t leave her to work forever. In a bloody. Death. Trap.’
So much for the early onset. I’d moved rapidly onto geriatric, it seemed.
Brad’s face turned red.
‘So, whatever paranoid little fantasies you need to clutch onto to tell yourself you’re worthwhile, you just clutch away. But Mum will be staying with me and Melissa from now on. And I’ll be watching all her comings and goings, let me assure you.’
‘You’d lock me up?’ I said.
The grey-headed body in the bed opposite perked right up. She wasn’t dead, as it turned out. She fluffed up her pillows with her skinny hands, then sat upright, settling in to watch. Her head moved from side to side, like she was at the tennis.
‘If that’s what’s needed, yes,’ said Dean. ‘Actually, that’s a good idea. The cell’s quite comfortable and Melissa’s not keen to have you in the house. Nothing personal,’ he said quickly, ‘Melissa thinks you’re terrific Mum, just terrific, but she’s busy packing for the move. We’re going to Bendigo. Traffic. Monaghan didn’t want me at Muddy Soak, thanks to you.’
A nurse came in. ‘Time for your injection, Mrs Flanders,’ she said to the tennis-watcher in the other bed.
‘Buzz off. Can’t you see I’m busy?’ Mrs Flanders batted her away.
‘And to top it all off, Vern phoned this morning.’ Dean gave me a glued-on stare.
Jesus, Vern’s notebook. Had it burned?
‘He said you broke into his house and stole important records. He mentioned industrial espionage. He wants me to investigate. He wants Monaghan involved. He wants all the bloody detectives in the state involved.’ Dean rubbed his forehead. ‘Tell me it’s not true, Mum. Tell me you didn’t break into his house.’
‘Well, I only just…’ I didn’t get to finish.
‘Mum! From here on, I have to know where you are. At. All. Times.’ A vein bulged in his neck.
Dean needs to attend more carefully to the state of his blood pressure. The stress of the job’s not doing him any good. Maybe he’s not cut out for it. It takes a certain type of person to cope with this detecting trade.
‘Look,’ Dean used a softer tone, ‘Dad would want me to look after you. And Brad, well, he’s not the right carer for you. He’s too busy wasting his life to notice what’s happening to yours.’
Brad jumped up, his magazine sliding onto the floor. ‘I carried Mum out of that bloody fire. And sat beside her for the last two nights. Where were you?’
Dean snorted. ‘I don’t have to answer to you. I was doing my job. More than I can say for you.’
‘What’s wrong with you, Dean? Why won’t you give me credit for anything?’
‘Because, Bradley, you’re a parasite. If it was just one event, I could get over it. But a lifetime of disappointment, mate, that’s harder to forget.’
‘Lifetime of disappointment? What sort of bullshit parent-talk is this? You’re not Dad, Dean. He’s dead. Get over it.’
Dean sighed. ‘You know, I tried so hard with you. Footy. Volleyball. All those jobs I put your way, the chicken factory, the abattoirs, that lamb emasculation contract. You could have done any one of them. But no. I’ve come to realise you’re just a blood-sucker, mate. Someone has to say it.’
Brad’s ears turned red.
‘So don’t go thinking this little heroic act of yours changes anything,’ said Dean.
I flopped back on my pillows. ‘So. You locking Brad up too?’
Dean stood up. ‘No space.’ His voice was a rim of ice on a dark pond. ‘Brad needs a short sharp shock. It’s time he found his own way in the world.’
A nasty silence.
Brad picked up his magazine, folded it carefully and put it on the chair. ‘You always were a bastard, Dean, and a stupid one. If you had anything at all going on inside your head you’d be able to see just how stubborn you are.’
He swung around to me. ‘And as for you, Mum. Yeah, you made up your mind about me a long time ago, didn’t you? Well, you’ll both be bloody sorry. I’ll show you.’ He stalked out, leaving behind his magazine.
Mrs Flanders stared after Brad, boggle-eyed. We were all pretty boggle-eyed. Her lips moved. I thought I heard her whisper, ‘Good on you, son.’
‘Good riddance to a waste of skin,’ muttered Dean.
After Brad had gone, Mrs Flanders curled up beneath her covers. Dean stayed on, looking grim, watching me eat my dinner, a meal of mostly lettuce since it was Brad who’d filled in the meal slip. Finally, Dean stood up.
‘I’ll be back in the morning. And don’t worry, you’ll be comfortable in the cell.’ He kissed my cheek. ‘Most importantly, you’ll be safe.’ He walked out, heavy steps, a man with work, kids and now an insane mother to worry about.
I lay there, TV flickering, showing floods and earthquakes and starving people crying out. I tried calling out a friendly hello to Mrs Flanders, still beneath her covers. No reply. Maybe she really was dead.
Time to review the situation. The situation wasn’t going well, that much was clear. My shop had burned down, and my house. There was at least one dead body, two missing people, a murderer on the loose and no one that believed me.
Only Brad, and only possibly. And where was he?
I tried his mobile. No answer. Madison said she hadn’t seen him, through the sound of ferrets squealing in the background. ‘He said he’d come around tonight to help get Tim settled in. Poor Timmy, he was abandoned.’ She spoke in an agonised whisper. ‘An abandoned ferret is a sight to break your heart.’
I hoped Brad didn’t feel abandoned. ‘Ask him to give me a call, will you Madison?’ Although it was possible I might be killed by then. I should give her some final words for him, just in case. I couldn’t think of anything worth saying. Only that I was sorry.
A nurse came in. Her name badge said ‘Wendy’ and she wore the expression of a person who’d seen the world and found it wasn’t
to her liking. She turned off the TV. ‘Time to sleep.’
‘But…’
‘No arguments.’ She pulled up the bed covers, tucking them in more tightly than I needed.
The room grew darker. I waited, buzzer finger at the ready, tensing up as people passed the door. Mrs Flanders started snoring. It was reassuring to know she wasn’t dead.
The hospital settled for the night, the night-shift staff came on duty, hushed tones in the corridors, soft-soled shoes squeaking past. What kind of shoes do faux-doctor-murderers wear? Do they squeak or are they completely soundless, leaving you no time to summon help?
I tried not thinking about Brad and whether he was safe, whether he was busy turning into a bedraggled homeless fella on some cold wet Melbourne street. I tried not thinking about him shivering in the rain, the lack of hope in his eyes. I tried not thinking about how much I’d miss him in the shop, at home. Everywhere.
I tried not thinking about how my life was shaping up, assuming I survived the night. Living in Dean’s prison cell. Watched every minute, never going anywhere. I’d never get to travel around Australia. I’d have to be polite every morning to Melissa. Admire their girls’ latest navel piercings, so they’d smuggle me in a slice of bread. I’ll admit a tear slipped out and trickled down my cheek.
Was it true what Brad had said? Was it possible I didn’t listen? You made up your mind about me a long time ago. I tried, most of all, not to think of that. Or the distance in his eyes.
I woke to the sound of footsteps in the corridor. Heavy-sounding, no squeaking, no soft soles. I held my breath. They came closer, paused. A shadow fell across the doorway.
I reached for the buzzer but it wasn’t there. Gasping, I fell back on the pillow, woozy-headed.
‘Mrs Flanders,’ I croaked as loud as I could muster. ‘Help. I’m being murdered.’
No response.
Surely the buzzer had fallen on the floor. I surged out from the covers, ignoring the woozy head. There it was, shining white on the floor. I reached down, down, down for it, feeling dizzy, my hand closing around the white plastic.
