by Scot Gardner
I bent to go through the door and chased the light. I ran hard and made good ground, but every time I got close he opened up and surged ahead. He was taunting me. Despite his short legs, Julian was fast. He ran straight and hard and didn’t seem to be feeling it. I gritted my teeth and imagined a finish line with his face ground into the soil beneath it. I could hear him breathing like a steam train. We flashed from the shadow of a tree into the glare of a streetlight and Julian tripped and tumbled. I veered wide and watched him roll to a stop against a fence. My runners skidded on the footpath. I turned with fists balled and closed the gap between us. He made no attempt to stand and fight. Holding up a hand for mercy, he clambered against the fence. He tried to get up, and then dropped heavily onto his behind.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘You win.’
I rested my knuckles on my hips and caught my breath. ‘You run like a rabbit.’
‘Yeah, and you gallop like a racehorse and all.’
We puffed some more and Julian spat on the concrete beside his feet.
‘Sorry for the . . . you know . . . facial massage,’ he said.
‘No harm done,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry about the purse.’
‘No harm done,’ he echoed.
‘I reckon we’re about even, then.’
‘Not quite,’ he said, and handed me a fifty-dollar note.
‘What’s that?’
‘Um, fifty bucks. Never seen one before? Oh, that’s right, you’re from Garland. They don’t keep small change like that, hey?’
‘Why are you giving it to me?’
‘Your half of the reward. We’ve got a thing with Bernie in Centre Management. If anybody comes to claim a lost purse or wallet, she hits them for ten per cent of what they’ve got in cash. She said the purse had a grand in it.’
‘You hadn’t even looked?’
‘Nah. I’ve tried being a scumbag, but it’s not my style.’
‘You just pissed in my breakfast bowl.’
‘Oh shit, sorry. I thought it was your toilet.’
We laughed then, all breathy and easy as if we’d been sharing jokes for years. I offered him a hand, he held my thumb in a brotherhood handshake and I hoisted him to his feet.
He opened his arms to the street. The sun had just set but the horizon still burned. ‘Welcome to West Tennant, the home of the brave and the stupid.’
He thumbed over his shoulder, towards the fence.
‘Smell that?’
Garlic. Lots of garlic. My mouth watered.
‘Lasagne. You can come in if you want. This is my place.’
I’d been set up. Played.
‘You could have asked,’ I said.
‘Asked what?’
‘I don’t know. “Would you like to come to my place for dinner?” or something.’
‘That doesn’t sound sus to you?’
I smiled a little and followed him inside.
LIES
‘MUM, THIS IS William. I found him under the bowling alley. Can I keep him? Will, Mum.’
His mother laughed and shook my hand. ‘Mandy Hillman. Good to meet you, Will.’
She was younger than I would have expected. And taller. Domestic and pretty.
‘I reckon he’s got a home to go to, Jules,’ she said. ‘Tell you what, you take him back to the alley after we feed him and if he’s still there in a couple of days you can bring him home again and keep him with you in the bungalow.’
Julian grabbed his mother around the middle and hugged her tight. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you,’ he chanted. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll look after him, you’ll see.’
‘You work for Milton’s too?’ she said, turning to me.
‘Ah, yes,’ I said, hesitantly.
A little grey-and-white dog trotted in from the hallway.
‘Booboo?’ I asked.
Julian nodded. I squatted and held out my hand. The dog made a beeline for me. Three steps short of my fingers, it ripped into a savage barking frenzy. It snapped at my hand. I stood and backed away. Snarling, it nipped at my jeans then sprang back for another attack.
A skinnier and paler version of Julian stepped in from the hall and swept the dog into his arms. He shushed it and stroked its ears flat.
‘Duane, this is Will. Will, gay brother Duane.’
‘Julian!’ Mandy said. ‘Watch what’s coming out of your mouth, please.’
Julian apologised, but Duane had already left without making eye contact with me.
‘Take no notice of the dog,’ Mandy said. ‘She’s highly strung.’
‘She’s psychotic,’ Julian added. ‘So’s Duane.’
Mandy slapped Julian on the arm. ‘Enough.’
‘Tell me it isn’t true and I’ll never say it again,’ Julian said.
Mandy sighed and turned her attention to me. ‘Would you like a bite to eat, Will? Just pasta, I’m afraid.’
‘I—’
‘Yes,’ Julian answered for me.
‘Thank you, Mrs Hillman,’ I said. ‘That would be great.’
‘Call me Mandy, please.’
‘Thank you, Mandy.’
We ate from our laps in front of a massive TV. Mandy had made the lasagne from scratch. I had to work hard not to groan with pleasure as I wolfed it down. Duane held Booboo tight while she growled. She never took her eyes off me. I tried not to move, but raising my fork to my mouth was enough to set her off.
‘She’ll get used to you,’ Duane said, but I didn’t believe him. I noticed he wasn’t having any of the lasagne.
‘Not eating, Duane?’ I asked, and Julian sighed.
‘Can’t,’ Duane said. ‘Lasagne’s poison. To start with, I’m lactose-intolerant so I can’t have the cheese or the milk and stuff. I also have a gluten allergy so I can’t have the pasta, and then again I’m vegan.’
Julian loaded up his fork and offered it to his brother.
Duane suggested Julian should leave, in a manner of speaking.
Julian suggested his brother was attracted to him and should give him oral sex.
‘You two!’ Mandy barked. ‘Grow up.’
‘It’s never going to happen,’ Julian breathed.
Duane stabbed the TV remote with his thumb until the noise became unbearable. Mandy shook her head, and he turned it down again.
As soon as I’d put a last forkful in my mouth, Julian stood and took my plate. ‘Let’s go.’
I followed him, with Booboo snapping and snarling as I passed, to the kitchen. He dumped the plates in the sink and led me into the backyard. The sun had set, but the bulb in the kitchen lit our way. Shaggy grass crowded a concrete pathway to a detached weatherboard granny flat. Julian shouldered the door open and a puff of sweaty air greeted us.
Julian stepped back and ushered me inside.
He snapped the light on. A couch and an unmade double bed dominated the room. Another television, as big as the one in the main house, hung from the wall at a slightly odd angle. Below it was a black surround sound system that looked as if it could take the windows out at half volume.
He led me to a doorway. He clicked the light on and off. ‘Bedroom.’
‘Really?’ I said. It looked more like the inside of a charity dumpster with garbage bags and clothing piled high on another double bed.
He moved to a second doorway and strobed the light there. ‘Bathroom.’
‘Okay.’
He swept clothing and DVD cases from the couch onto the floor. ‘Grab a seat.’
I crushed the corner of a partly hidden pizza box with my heel as I sat.
Julian stepped into the bathroom. ‘What do you think of No Nuts and my mum?’ he called.
I thought about my answer for too long. ‘Your mum’s awesome.’
He snorted. ‘It hasn’t been easy on her bringing up a disabled child.’
‘Is Duane disabled?’
‘Not officially, but I’ve lived with him long enough to know the truth,’ he said, and flushed. He was still shaking his penis when he
entered the room. He tucked himself away and collected a dirty glass bong, tobacco pouch and lighter. ‘Coming outside?’
Beside the granny flat, under a clothesline, sat a pair of faded and body-formed camping chairs. I eased myself into one of them. It was more comfortable than the couch and the view was eminently better – there were stars out.
Julian fussed with his smoking gear, bubbled and sighed. A cloud of dirty-sweet smoke settled around us. When he repacked and offered me the gear, I declined, content to watch the sky. An aircraft winked low above the neighbour’s trees.
‘What was with all the crap about living in Garland and the dogs and stuff?’
I wanted to answer, but it was simpler and less awkward to say nothing.
‘Not that I really give a shit,’ he said. ‘We all lie, hey? Some are better at it than others.’
The lighter scratched and flashed. Another cone bubbled to ash.
‘A tip, Will, from the master. If you’re going to spin shit, you need to make it believable. You’re not from Garland. You’re not a Westie, either, by a long shot, but you’d get away with saying you were from Treedale or Dempsey.’
‘Good advice,’ I said, but there was more.
‘And you don’t want Rottweilers, you want mongrels. Maybe cats rescued from the pound if you’re from Dempsey.’
Next moment we were bathed in light as a single headlight pulled up under the clothesline. A motor scooter. Julian didn’t move, just smiled and scrunched his eyes shut.
The rider alighted, removed gloves and floral helmet and shook her hair. I only saw her face for a second before she killed the engine and lights.
‘We have a visitor,’ the girl said.
I stood. ‘I was just—’
‘Nishi, this is Will. Will, this is my hot Asian girlfriend.’
She held out her hand and I shook it. In the glow of the cigarette lighter I could see that Julian hadn’t stretched the truth at all. Nishi was stunning. She stared at me as she held my hand and all I could do was stare back. The look in her eyes suggested she was figuring out a puzzle.
‘We’ve met before, yeah?’ she said.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Your face is familiar. Must have seen you around.’
‘Is he one of your seventeen deadly exes?’ Julian asked. ‘Should I kill him now?’
‘No,’ Nishi hissed. ‘If I had an ex that hot, do you reckon I’d be with you?’
‘On that note,’ I said, and dropped Nishi’s hand, ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
‘What sort of freak is he?’ Nishi asked Julian. ‘I tell him he’s hot and he runs away?’
‘A very polite freak,’ Julian said. He followed me to the front of the granny flat and grabbed my sleeve. ‘You can stay.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I need to clear out.’
‘We’re good?’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Better than good. Except for the part where we lost our jobs.’
‘Hey?’
‘Joanie was pretty clear about the fact that fighting at work means instant dismissal.’
‘Only if Joanie sees you.’
‘She didn’t see us?’
He shook his head. ‘No, she was miles away. I cleaned myself up before she saw me. I told her you were in the toilet. Anyway, that wasn’t a fight. That was a friendly scuffle.’
He patted my shoulder.
‘See you tomorrow,’ I said.
‘You can stay,’ he said again.
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to head back to Dempsey and feed the cats.’
‘Yeah, good one. Give me your number and I’ll text you later.’
‘I don’t own a phone.’
‘Freak.’
The lights were off at the bowling alley and my hide stank of Julian’s piss. I scrubbed my breakfast bowl under the tap in the lane, filled my camel pack and burrowed into the sleeping bag. Sleep arrived at a canter, but I managed a thought before it whisked me away – there are decent people out there.
CREW
WITH THE SLEEPING done and the dawn still some time away, my rhythm returned.
Under the cover of early dark, I donned my running shorts, shoes, shirt and work backpack and ran the long way to the gym. I flashed my membership card to sleepy-eyed Daniel, who scanned it and nodded me through. There were two guys on the treadmills, another on the bench press and a woman on a bike. All Thursday regulars. I started my routine with squats, sit-ups and push-ups and finished with a sweaty thirty minutes on the rowing machine, then shaved, showered and dressed for work. The sun hung low and bright as I walked to the laundrette. I slopped muesli and UHT milk into a bowl and read a tattered women’s magazine while my washing washed and dried. I folded and layered it in the bottom of my backpack.
The traffic was relentless on Cable Road as I waited at the pedestrian crossing. There’s no real trick to being invisible; it’s just a matter of perfecting the everyday. Normal work clothes, normal levels of hygiene and deportment, normal cadence and expression in your voice and an easy stride, and even those who know you well will look right through you. You become hidden in plain sight.
Pushing trolleys is an anonymous job. Joanie insists we wear safety sunglasses, sunscreen and our Milton’s caps on sunny days, so there are layers to hide behind. A teenager once died pushing trolleys banded together with an elastic strap when the strap let go and punched a hole through his eye socket and into his brain. Hence the safety glasses, and the rope leash. The caps and sunscreen make sense when you see Doug without his hat on – his bald white pate crusty and scabrous from a lifetime of driving trolleys under an unforgiving sun.
I realised, that morning in the brew room before the day had officially begun, that Doug’s days had rhythm too. His scabs and his six strands of hair were shower-wet, as they had been the previous Thursday morning. He was shaven, too. I wondered if someone washed his hair for him or whether they just reminded him on the day and he battled ahead with his hands that were bent and twisted by cerebral palsy. His work partner, Ricky, showered every day and wore enough cologne to be a danger around naked flame. At first glance, he looked like a shop assistant – well groomed and dressed, but he wore a watch on each wrist and checked them both incessantly. Something about his gait whispered caveman. He could have been twenty or forty.
‘What have you got for lunch today, Ricky?’ Doug asked in his halting voice.
‘None of your beeswax,’ Ricky said. ‘None of your . . . mind your own lunch.’
‘All right. You don’t have to get shirty with me.’
‘I wasn’t getting shirty. I wasn’t,’ Ricky said. ‘Just mind your own lunch for a change.’
‘Settle down,’ Joanie grumbled. ‘Would youse blokes like to have a day apart?’
‘No,’ they mumbled in unison.
‘Right then, be nice.’
‘We’re fine, aren’t we, Doug?’ Ricky said. ‘Just let it go, Joanie. Let it go.’
Jelat had a laugh at that, but it didn’t break his connection with his phone screen. Tefari was similarly screen-focused and I wondered if they were texting each other.
Joanie sipped her tea noisily. ‘Where’s Jules?’
She had a habit of asking questions to the wall.
‘He’ll be along shortly,’ I said.
She looked at her watch and tutted.
The clock on the wall said three minutes to eight and I hoped he’d front soon. If the woman in the hijab or the security video had shed light on our ‘friendly scuffle’ over the purse, I wanted him there to explain it away as he had the night before.
At eight o’clock on the dot, he pushed through the door and slumped into his chair.
Joanie shook her head and tapped her watch.
He shrugged with one shoulder. ‘Perfect timing, as usual.’
The last trolley to join our train had a used envelope in the bottom. I scooped it up, glanced at it and stuffed it in my back pocket.
‘What is the story
with that?’ Julian asked.
‘Pardon?’
‘You heard me. Do you collect shopping lists?’
‘Sort of.’
‘Sort of? How many have you got?’
‘Twenty-six.’
‘Serious?’ he said. ‘What sort of person collects other people’s old shopping lists?’
‘People like me.’
‘Yeah, well, my uncle collected trains and he was a sick bastard. Duane collects manga. Can’t work out if it’s the manga that makes him twisted or the other way round.’
‘Lots of people collect manga.’
‘Well, there’s lots of twisted people in the world, aren’t there?’
He hauled on the handle of the trolley chain we’d been manoeuvring until it stopped. He looked me right in the eye.
‘I like the little stories they tell,’ I confessed.
‘So you’re a perv?’
‘Maybe,’ I said. I handed him the list I’d collected and we read it together.
Olive oil
Coconut oil
Palm oil
Caustic soda
Smelly oils
Muffin trays
New stick mixer
‘What’s all that for? Some freaky massage parlour?’ Julian said.
‘I doubt it,’ I said, folding the envelope neatly and pocketing it.
He shook his head.
‘Ever made soap?’ I asked.
‘Make soap? Never even use it.’
‘My guess is the author of the list was making soap.’
‘Brilliant, Sherlock,’ he said, and shoved the trolleys into motion.
I jogged to catch up.
‘It’s all part of your cover story, isn’t it?’ he said.
‘My cover story?’
‘That shit you were spinning yesterday,’ he said. ‘You’re some sort of cop. CIA or NSA or something. You’re here to bust me for smoking, aren’t you?’
I snorted. ‘Well, that’s my cover blown, then. You have the right to remain silent and all that.’
‘You’re full of it, Will. Is that even your real name?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘My name is William Rushton. I live . . .’
‘Stop!’ he barked. ‘I know where you live. Don’t embarrass yourself.’
