Death in Brunswick (12 page)

Carl turned to leave.

‘And forget about this.' Yanni gestured at the white powder.

‘I don't care,' said Carl, ‘nothing to do with me—I'm not involved.'

‘Oh yes you are,' said Laurie, ‘we know about you and that arse Mustafa.'

‘What! What about me and…?'

‘Get going, Cookie, you're late.'

Laurie took him by the shoulder and propelled him out of the office and into the passage.

‘Listen, sport,' he said, his face leaning into Carl's, ‘You keep your mouth shut and do the right thing down there or I'll fuckin' give it to you—I don't like give-ups, get me?'

‘Yeah, yeah.'

Carl pushed away the big man's arm and escaped.

‘Hey, Cookie! We want pizza at six-thirty, so you have it ready!'

Carl looked back. The bouncer was framed in the office door; light gleamed on his leather trousers and glinted off the studs set in a wide black wristband. Laurie turned and went back into the office, his shoulders filling the door.

Carl was shaken by impotent rage and fear. He stumbled down the stairs and back into the kitchen. He crunched his way over dry pasta shells to the dry store near the toilet. Tony's purchases were in a cardboard box near the door; he turned them over—tomato paste, mozzarella. Suddenly he was struck by the repulsive memory of some cooking school folklore. ‘The Cook's Revenge.'
Pizza! I'll give 'em pizza!

He looked round the kitchen.
Jesus, where do I start?

He fetched a broom and swept the debris into a corner, quickly washed one of the filthy pots and hid the rest in a cupboard. The plates can wait.

As he straightened up from the cupboard he felt dizzy. Suddenly he was shaking—Laurie had really frightened him. He sat down for a moment and thought.

Just let me get through tonight,
please,
and I'll never see this place again. Still, I better keep them sweet. OK!

He got up and opened the flour bin; the chalky flour was full of small black lumps.
Jesus! Looks like a mouse's sandbox.

He was seized by a wild hilarity. Shovelling the contaminated flour into a bowl, he opened a packet of yeast and pinched some into a jug.
Now warm water. No! Not water.

He looked carefully through the kitchen door, unzipped his jeans and pissed into the jug. I wonder if piss kills yeast? No, obviously not.
The mixture started to fizz.

Adding the yeast, salt, sugar and oil he mixed, kneaded and beat back the dough. Leaving it to rise, he wandered round the kitchen thinking about pizza toppings and chips. He unlocked the coolroom door, pulled out a bag of potatoes and looked for ham. The coolroom motor was silent and there was a thick musty odour.
Dear! Dear! The coolroom's broken down; this ham'll be nice and ripe. Good!

He sliced and chopped the ham quickly and grated some onion. The dough had risen slightly; he rolled it out. What about baking trays?

He opened the oven doors. Filthy, crusted grease traps lined the bottoms. He pulled them free with an effort, gave them a cursory scrape and laid out the dough.

I better make them good and tasty, keep the boys happy!

He spread tomato paste, scattered the ham, onion and mozzarella, and threw on some tinned mushrooms.
Shit! The silly bugger forgot olives.
He thought for a moment.
Will I? Yeah, the finishing touch!

He smoked two cigarettes quickly till the breath caught in his lungs. Hawking up phlegm from the bottom of his chest, he spat copiously into a jug and spread the sticky liquid over the pizzas.

He stood back and looked at them. Despite himself, he felt a little shame. The admonitions of his Scots teacher, a sort of culinary superego, came to him: ‘A good cook always tries.'
Well, I am trying—I'm trying to poison the buggers! Besides, these are just for them—I'll make good ones for the poor bloody customers.

He put the pizzas into the oven and started moodily slicing chips. He hated cooking chips—it was perhaps the most dangerous job in the kitchen, and he had a livid scar on his wrist to prove it.
Fuck it, I'm not getting burnt for those pricks! I'll make oven fries, who cares if they're greasy.

He passed the chips through a bowl of oil and strewed them onto a baking tray. Then he opened the oven door; the pizzas were bubbling and beginning to turn brown at the edges.
Jesus, they look almost good enough to eat!

Turning down the oven slightly, he slid the chip tray onto the top rack, closed the doors and went out into the club.

He could hear the thump of drums from overhead.
Must be nearly time for Sophie to come down.

He felt a yearning pain in his chest. He wasn't sure whether it was desire or thirst.

God! A tequila would be heaven!

Scrubbing the blackboard he wrote: ‘Pizza and chips'.
Shit, it looks a bit bare, maybe ‘Pizza Mousecatella' or ‘Pizza Infamita'—no! Got to stop playing silly buggers. If they find out…I better leave the back door open in case…

On his way back to the kitchen he noticed with irritation that the bain-marie trays were still encrusted with last night's curry and spaghetti sauce. Angrily he pulled them out. A wave of greasy stench rose. The power had been left on, and half an inch of nauseous soup was bubbling in the bottom.
Fuck it! I'm not cleaning
that.

He poured in hot water, covered the trays with alfoil and replaced them.

He was suddenly sickened. He walked out, down the passage and into the street.

The sun had gone from the sky and was setting huge and orange behind the freeway. The whole of West Brunswick seemed ablaze with an angry red light; windows shone and glittered, high black clouds raced overhead and a keen wind moaned down the grimy street.

Carl, a little shaken by this apocalyptic scene, hurried back inside, leaving both doors open.
Something bad's going to happen. I know it—I know it.

He started to wash dishes in a fraught and desultory way.

‘Hello, Cookie.'

He turned to see a thin girl with spiky, multi-coloured hair wearing the uniform of the day—gym slip and net stockings. She carried a drink.

‘Hi, Carmel, is that for me? Where's Sophie?'

‘She's real busy. She told me to give you this.'

‘Oh right, thanks. Listen, you tell her to get her arse down here, I want to speak to that young lady.'

‘OK, Cookie, I'll tell her.'

Carmel looked at him speculatively.

‘What's wrong?'

‘Oh, nuthin'.' She giggled and went out.

He took a drink and lit a cigarette.
Shit! The pizzas!
He quickly opened the oven doors.
Just in time!

Grabbing a tattered cloth, he juggled the trays onto the steel bench. He bent and sniffed, but he could detect only the sweet-sour spice of tomato and cheese, and maybe a slight background of ammonia.

They'll never know what hit 'em. Where's my good knife?

He hunted through the piles of dirty plates till he found his favourite Portuguese knife. It was quite blunt. He set grimly to sharpen it, using the edge of the bench.
It's my own fault. You should never leave your gear around. But this
kitchen—
why didn't Sophie tell me? Why didn't she come down? Why was that Carmel laughing at me?

Melancholy overcame him; his knife made a mournful scraping. He tested it with his thumb; there was a big nick near the handle.
Shit! There's a good knife fucked—I'll never be able to afford another.

He cut up the pizza viciously, regarding it dubiously.
Maybe I ought…

Sophie sidled into the kitchen. She looked at him, her big dark eyes serious.

‘Hello, Carl. I can't stay long; Yanni sacked Maria last night and we're real busy.'

‘Yeah, now look, Sophie, why didn't you tell me about the kitchen and everything?'

‘I'm sorry, but they've been really hassling me upstairs—I would've cleaned up but Laurie said…Yanni goes: ‘I'll get someone in the morning'—I didn't know he…'

Carl saw with surprise that she was going to cry.

‘Ah now, Soph.'

He put his arm round her.

‘No, don't, Laurie's been really carrying on about you and me—in the passage last night and that. All the girls are laughing…I got to get back!'

‘Now listen, Sophie, you've
got
to leave this joint. I walked into Yanni's office before and they were all smacked out of their heads and Laurie really heavied me. This place isn't
safe.
I'm going and you should too.'

‘No, I
can't
leave, I told you, I haven't got enough money and I got to leave home.'

‘OK, don't worry, I'll get some money and…and I'll take care of you…you could come and…well, when my mother goes, you…'

He was suddenly cautious.

‘Look, I'll work it out as long as you…you do…
like
me, don't you?'

‘Yeah,' she said slowly, serious. ‘I don't really
know
you but.'

Carl heard the thud of heavy boots outside.

‘Jesus! There's Laurie and them. Go on Soph, I'll see you later.'

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and turned to leave. He was struck again by how young she was.

She paused.

‘Geez, that pizza looks good—can I have some?'

‘Shit, no! Ah…I'll make you one later, OK? Bring me down another drink, huh?'

She shrugged and left. There was a chorus of animal cries outside.

‘Hey, come and play with this, little girl!'

‘You leave that cook alone! He'll put a bun in your oven!'

Yanni and Laurie entered noisily, followed by the three other bouncers.

‘Where's our fuckin' tea, Cookie?'

Yanni was swaying slightly, a sly fatuous grin on his plump face. Laurie stood with legs straddled, his thumbs in his leather pants, his henchmen behind him.

‘This kitchen is a fuckin' disgrace—where's our pizza? Hey! That looks
all right
.'

Laurie picked up a big doughy wedge and stuffed it into his mouth, chewing noisily. Carl backed toward the open door. Laurie swallowed.

‘Shit, it's fuckin' not bad. About time you cooked something decent.'

They gathered round the trays, scooping up the hot pizza.

‘Shit, no olives! Hey, no olives, Cookie.'

‘Well, there
wasn't
any.'

‘Dumb cunt you Tony. Where's the chips?'

Carl fetched them from the oven and sullenly watched them eat. Yanni had tomato stains down the front of his shirt. He greedily stuffed chips into his mouth.

‘Listen, Yanni,' said Carl. ‘Who's going to clean up tonight? I'm going to be flat out with this take-away stuff, and yeah! What about my money?'

‘Don't you worry,' said Yanni, his voice muffled by greasy chips. ‘I'll give you your dough tomorrow
and
a bit extra, but you'll have to clean up tonight—there's a kid coming in tomorrow to give you a hand. All right?'

‘Shit, Yanni,' said Carl hopelessly, ‘I'll be here till two o'clock in the morning!'

‘Now, Cookie, I fuckin' told you before.' Laurie leant into Carl's face again. ‘Stop
whingeing.
You do the right thing and stop hassling Yanni. He'll fix you up
tomorrow.
Just you keep them pizzas coming, all right?'

‘OK.'

He turned his back on Carl.

‘Time to get moving. Tony, you go on the door, Nick on the stairs and we'll go up near the bands, and Tony, don't let Cookie's mate in, you know Mustafa? That little Turkish cunt? Or no! Let him in, I'll fix him right up!'

They left the kitchen, taking the rest of the pizza.

Carl sighed noisily and wiped his face.
How about
that!
I got away with it! Wow! A new taste sensation. Hang on! What if Laurie gets sick tonight, or tomorrow…but I'll be gone. Fuck it, I'll worry about it later.

He washed a few more dishes and then carefully scraped and washed the oven trays. Sifting mouse droppings out of the flour with a battered colander he thought of Sophie.

I can't give her pizza, she better have chips. I don't want to make her crook. Poor Sophie—still I better not get carried away there.

He pinched off more yeast, added hot water and sugar and set the jug aside.

Yeah, Sophie…her father looks dangerous. If she moved in with me—in Brunswick! Come on—no—besides, there's Mother. I'll just have to move, a nice flat maybe.

Carl had never lived in a flat. The idea was appealing after years of broken-down terraces.

A box to live in, that's what I need. All clean shiny taps, white paint and berber carpet, maybe some indoor plants and…Sophie, well, perhaps. But the
money
! Bonds, gas and electricity, moving and proper furniture—Jesus, it would cost a bomb. If I quit here, I'd have to go on the dole—oh no!

He had been on the dole before. It had been a time of humiliation and fear. He had dreaded the fortnightly visit to the dole office and a call from a Social Security Field Officer had thrown him into violent paranoia for weeks. Officialdom of any kind reduced him to stammering idiocy.

I wish I could handle them. Doctors now—if only I could hit a doctor for a pill script instead of relying on guys like Mustafa! But I can't. Them quacks all think I'm a dope fiend.

He felt in his pocket—his mother's pills were still there. He looked at them nestling invitingly in his palm.
No! Not with chips and ovens and that! I couldn't bear a burn tonight.

He put them away.
Another big drink, that's what I need. That would get me through till nine anyway.

He wandered round the kitchen restlessly and walked into the dry store.

What else can I put on these pizzas?
He found a big tin of pineapple.