Death in Brunswick (11 page)

‘What time is it?' she asked.

‘After four; I suppose I better go soon. What time do you start tonight, Soph?'

‘'Bout six thirty; I have to go home and change into my uniform.'

‘You going to wear that tonight! Wow! Come down and see me, won't you? You can help me carry the rice again!'

‘You're a dirty old man, like the rest of them there,' she said smiling. ‘That suck Laurie was chasing me round with his thing hanging out, what there is of it.'

‘Eh! That
bastard
! That's…that's
sexual harassment
.'

‘Yeah, well, I used to go round with him, sort of.'

‘Laurie! Ah, Jesus, Sophie!'

‘Not for very long but.'

He took the glass of water from her hand and set it on the floor, pulling her down. She lay with him, her head on his shoulder. He smelt the biscuity odour of her hair.

‘You don't still think I'm a…you know, what you said…a poof.'

‘No, of course not, that was Laurie anyway. He goes…the other day, he goes: “That Carl's a cat”, a poof you know, “and I'm gonna
snot
him one day!”'

‘Jesus!
Charming
; the sooner I get out of that place the better, and you too.'

‘It's not so bad, there's not many jobs round for girls, and I get plenty of tips and that.'

‘I bet you do, just feel that.'

He put her hand on his hard cock. She wanked him absently, saying, ‘Yeah, maybe you better leave, it
is
pretty heavy there—you know Mustafa? They really hurt him the other night.'

‘Yeah, but what's…why?…oh forget it! I
am
leaving.'

He turned towards her and kissed her nipples.

‘You got such
lovely
boobs.'

‘Come on! No look, they're really
droopy,
I'm just too fat, don't look at me!'

She pulled the rug over her. He pulled it away.

‘No, Sophie, you're lovely, really! Honest!'

He bent over her and kissed her round stomach and continued downward into the thick hair.

‘No! Don't!'

‘Why?'

‘It's not hygienic.'

‘What!'

‘No, I don't like it.'

Carl was surprised: oral sex was an invariable ritual with all the women he had had.

‘OK.'

He hugged her and put his cock between her thighs and let it rest there.

‘What's your second name?' he asked.

‘Papafogos, what's yours?'

‘Fitzgerald.'

‘What kind of name is that? You're not Australian, are you, Carl?'

‘Yeah, of course,' he said, obscurely offended.

‘You don't talk like a skippy but.'

‘A skippy! What's that?'

‘That's an
ocker
, you know?'

‘Oh right, yeah, I am though.'

This settled, he stroked her back and her ample buttocks. Slipping his finger between them he tickled her anus. She pushed him away and sat up with a jerk.

‘Just get away, Carl!'

‘Gee, Sophie, what did I do?'

‘
You
know, you're just like Greek guys, I thought you was different.'

‘What do you mean?'

He looked at her in bewilderment; she was gathering her clothes.

‘Sophie, please!'

‘Helen's husband, Nick,' she said, looking away, ‘he gets drunk and he always wants to put his thing in there, and I
won't
.'

‘Ah, Soph, come on—I never…' He took her arms. ‘Sophie, listen, I really, really like you.'

But he had to laugh.

‘What are you laughing at, Carl, just get stuffed!'

He pulled her back on the couch.

‘Ah, Sophie, calm down!'

She relaxed against him.

‘Do you really like me?'

‘Yeah, I sure do.'

He hugged her as tightly as he could. He slipped his hand between her legs.

‘Come on, Soph, we haven't got much time.'

She sighed and held his penis again.

They lay facing each other and he pushed slowly into her. She moved with him. He gazed over her shoulder, his mind a blank as the inexorable rhythm built up. It seemed to go on for ages. She clutched his back, breathing harshly again.

‘Baby! Please, baby!'

This time more urgently. He went on and on. Her vagina was looser and the pleasure not so sharp for him. She shook her head, her hair flying in his face, and kissed him clumsily. She hooked one leg round his back—he felt the heavy muscle in her thigh convulse—her cunt seemed to open and close like a great flower and he came with a slow easy pulse.

He tried to break away but she pulled him to her. Her body was wet and her breast and belly clung to him.

‘You did that time, didn't you?'

‘Mmm…yeah, I sure did.'

He felt a stupid pride; he wanted to shout from the windows:

‘I made Sophie come!'

He lay in contentment.
I feel funny—happy!
He tried to think of something to worry about—his mother—his job—but nothing happened.

Sophie shifted uncomfortably.

‘I got to go to the toilet and that, I'm not on the pill, it makes my boobs ache.'

‘Oh right, OK, just wait a bit.'

He stroked her belly and thighs; they were sticky.

‘No, Carl, I got to go. I had a baby before, you know.'

‘No, I didn't, what?…what happened?'

‘I told you, I got in trouble at school.'

‘Oh right, yeah.'

‘I had it and Dad made me adopt it. Now he thinks I'm a slut; he'd kill me if it happened again.'

‘Christ, Sophie! This is
Australia
.'

‘Yeah, but Dad doesn't know that, he thinks it's Cyprus and that. The other day he goes, he turns around and he goes, “Sophie, you get in trouble again and make your mother ashamed and I'll kill you”.'

‘Bloody old prick! Never mind, Soph, I'll look after you.'

‘Yeah, yeah, but I still have to go.'

She left the room.

Poor Soph. I'd like to…to…
He didn't know what.
What if she gets pregnant? Well, she could get an abortion, for Christ's sake. Anyway, she knows what to do.
He heard running water again and the toilet flush. He lay back and smoked a cigarette.

The icons gazed down on him with approval. He raised a finger to Sophie's father; the old peasant looked back with impotent rage.

Bloody Greeks! I'll leave that place tonight, bugger it, and I'll get a proper job with lots of money and I'll stop drinking so much and taking stoppers and that and…I can't wait for Mother to snuff it, I must make some money, then I could…I could take Sophie out, yeah.

He sighed and stretched himself; he could smell his sweat.
Shit, I need a shower.

Sophie came back. She had a short towel wound tightly round above her breasts. She stooped and picked up her clothes, her bottom appearing distractingly. He reached for her.

‘Hey, come on, Carl, it's getting late.'

Her body was damp and cool. She stroked his neck and pushed him away, repeating,

‘It's getting late, you better get dressed, I got to clean up.'

‘Shit, why? I don't give a fuck if I'm late, bugger them! Come here!'

‘No, Carl—come on, Con'll be back soon and if he sees you he'll go, “I'll tell Uncle George,” and I'll have to pay him more.'

‘Little bugger! Jesus!'

He got up unwillingly, pulling his jeans up. He noticed with surprise that he still had his shoes on.
Christ! That's a bit off
.

‘Um, Sophie, I hope you don't think that…'

‘What?'

‘Well, that I got you here just for…you know…
sex.
'Cause I really like you and that.'

‘Well, didn't you?' She was laughing. ‘Anyway I got
you
here, didn't I?'

‘Yeah, I guess so.'

‘Go on, love. I'll see you tonight.'

‘Yeah, OK.'

He put his shirt on.
Jesus! I do stink—still I'm only going to work.
He picked up his jacket. As he did so he noticed a silent sticky pool on the green plastic; while Sophie was walking to the door he wiped it up quickly with his scarf.

She waited by the door.

‘OK, Soph, see you later.'

He kissed her and she tucked his shirt in at the back.

‘Listen, you'll bring me down a drink tonight, won't you, Soph, please.'

‘Yeah, if I can, but we're going to be real busy.'

‘Well, OK, then.'

‘Go on.'

She gave him a little push out the door and closed it.

He remembered the neighbours and looked around carefully before running down the stairs. As he reached the street he saw that the weather had changed, the sky was grey and a cold wind blew from the west. He put on his jacket, shivering.

*

Now, where the fuck am I?
He started up the street. A gang of boys were skylarking on the corner; he hesitated and made to cross the road.
No, fuck 'em.
He marched on and through them, turning up the collar of his leather jacket.

Reaching Dawson Street he turned right. He could see the enormous white pile of the town hall in the distance. As he walked along he noticed a tall, blonde, defeated-looking woman pushing a pram on the other side of the road.
She looks like Prue. Fuck her—she'll get no money out of me.

But what about his daughter? He strained to remember what she looked like; he had a vague impression of white-blonde hair and pretty hazel eyes. He remembered the blue denim overalls she had worn when his wife took her for the last time.

Poor little bugger—
he was flooded with easy pity.
I suppose
she
needs money. I
must
get a better job. I didn't treat her…no, it was that fucking Prue's fault—it was! If me and…and someone like Sophie had a kid, I'd be different, I'd help and everything—I'd look after it.

A little shocked at the direction his thoughts were taking, he shook himself and hurried on in the chill wind.

Take it easy! Jesus, I only had a stray screw! Yeah, but it was so good—I was good, she really liked it—I made Sophie come!

He did a little soft-shoe on the pavement. Then he looked around self-consciously and looking up at the town hall clock stepped out soberly.
Five fifteen. Late again—stiff shit!
He turned into Basilisk Street and walked toward the club feeling for his keys.

Yanni's souped-up panel van was parked by the kerb, squatting like a black toad, flickering red flames painted down the side. A line of new posters flapped in the wind: ‘The Divinyls with Chrissie Amphlett.' He saw a picture of a tall blonde girl, her hair tossing wildly. She wore a gym slip and lace stockings, her garters showing on her slim legs.

Ah! Now I get Sophie's uniform. Silly buggers! What is this? A playboy club? They just better leave her alone.

He unlocked the side door and walked down the passage past the row of iron gas bottles and into the kitchen.
Shit!
It was incredibly dirty and cluttered. There was rice and pasta shells all over the floor; crushed pots crowded the stove and the sink was piled with dirty dishes.

Jesus, this is the fucking limit!
He plunged through the kitchen and into the darkened club. Groping through the gloom, he ran up the stairs and passed the bar. He paused, breathing the stink of old cigarette smoke and stale booze, and glanced longingly at the bottles behind the counter, but a heavy steel grille was padlocked to the front.

Yanni's office was down a dingy passage, the door painted a streaky purple with a big sign pinned to it: ‘Keep Out, This Means You.' A murmur of conversation punctuated with barking laughter came from inside.

He knocked firmly.

‘Who the fuck is it?'

‘Carl.'

‘Piss off.'

‘No—come on Yanni, I got to see you.'

‘Hang on.'

After a minute the door opened. It was Laurie.

‘Come in and don't make the fuckin' draught.'

Carl went in. The tiny room was crowded; Yanni sat behind his desk, his fat body crammed into a swivel chair. The whole crew of bouncers were sitting sprawled around, their long legs thrust out, blocking Carl's way. There was a sharp acrid odour in the smoky air. On the desk was a mirror, a thin line of white powder across it; a straw and a dismembered cigarette lay beside.

‘What's up, Cookie?' Yanni's voice was a little slurred. He looked at Carl under his heavy eyelids.

‘Look, Yanni, that fuckin' kitchen's a brothel.
I'm
not cleaning it up, you know.'

‘Yeah, well you'll have to, mate, I couldn't get anyone instead of Mustafa and the girls are too busy.'

Yanni seemed a bit apologetic but Laurie cut in.

‘Fuck you, Cookie, you want a job? You fuckin' well clean up, all right?'

He jabbed a stiff finger into Carl's chest. It hurt.

‘Well, Jesus.'

Carl was going to walk out but he remembered his pay.

‘Well, OK, just this once. What's on tonight anyway?'

‘Pizza, mate, and chips.'

‘What! Fuck it, I'm not a short-order cook. Fair go Yanni.'

Laurie broke in again.

‘You've been fuckin'
told
, Cookie. You're just here to keep the liquor boys sweet, and anyway kids want pizza and that, what's the matter, can't you fuckin'
make
pizza?'

‘Yeah, 'course I can, but what out of, though?'

‘Tony went down this arvo and got all the makings, didn't you, wop?'

‘Yeah,' said Tony, a handsome boy with dark curls falling to his shoulders. ‘Tomato paste, mozzarella and everythink.'

‘Well, gee,' said Carl weakly, ‘I hope we're not too busy.'

He just wanted to get out.

‘We'd fuckin' better be,' Yanni said, ‘otherwise we're all rooted. Now off you go, Cookie.'