Death in Brunswick (14 page)

Picking up his knife, he shakily bent to take a potato from the plastic bag, but the foul smell of preservative was too much. He ran to the toilet and leant weakly against the wall looking down at the murky circle of water in the smeared bowl.

A rush of saliva filled his mouth and he retched and spat.
Oh no, please no.

In a painful spasm he vomited. He couldn't stand. He slumped to his knees. The stink of his own sickness and old urine met him as he knelt in homage, his arms round the bowl. A solid bolt of vomit spattered into the water, and clear froth gushed from his nose.

He sank back on the hard concrete floor, wiping his mouth with a trembling hand. Surprisingly he felt a bit better. He got to his feet shakily and stumbled back into the kitchen. Through the door he could see more impatient kids waiting for food.
I can't!

But he did.

For the next half-hour he served pizza, fighting back waves of nausea.

He was sitting trying to make himself start slicing chips when Laurie strode in.

‘How's it goin' Cookie? No time for bludging—it looks a bit bare out there.'

‘Lay off, Laurie, I'm feeling really crook.'

‘What's wrong, you been eating your own grub?'

Carl looked at him with real hatred.
Just you wait!

‘No, I'm serious, I want to go home.'

‘No work, no pay, mate. No sickies here—you had it pretty good so far. Do a bit for a change, eh? Yanni's too easy on youse lot. I'll make this joint function yet. Come
on
! Slack-arse.'

He took Carl by the arm and pulled him to his feet, pushing him toward the bench.

‘I want to see that servery full. OK?' He turned to go. ‘By the way, your fuckin' mate tried to get in again. Tony gave him a big kick in the arse—from you!' Laurie gave a bark of laughter. ‘That Mustafa don't like you
at all.
You better watch out goin' home. Yeah, and listen, Cookie, I want to see this kitchen spotless tomorrow. Right?' He left.

Carl sliced potatoes, his impotent rage conquering sickness.
Three, no, four hours to go, then I'm off for good. I'll get some money out of them tonight, even if it's only twenty. I'll get a cab home. Poor bloody Mustafa—they're really bullies.

His eyes filled with tears.

The next two hours were a blur of toil. He soon ran out of flour and tomato paste and made do with chips, working in a fog of acrid smoke. The hollow boom of the exhaust fans competed with bellowing, shrieking rock'n'roll; his head ached and pounded and his eyes stung unbearably. Luckily, however, his stomach remained quiescent save for an occasional sharp pain in his lower belly. He lost count of the trays of sodden chips tumbled into the servery. At last it was twelve.

He turned off the spotlights, carried in the dirty trays and closed and locked the kitchen door. He squatted for a while, his back against the cool room. Turning, he pressed his hot forehead against the metal.

Shit, I'm too old for this, I really am. I need another holiday—fuck it, I
will
go on the dole for a while.

He looked around wearily. The kitchen was a shambles of dirty trays and plates, the floor covered with oil. He looked down at himself; his shirt and jeans were stiff with grease.
Well, the sooner I get started…

He hauled himself to his feet and shut off the fans. He stretched with relief; with the heavy door closed he could hear only a distant thudding from upstairs. He started to clean up.

*

Long after midnight he stood at the sink, drooping with weariness, his arms plunged into lukewarm water, his hands white and pulpy. Occasionally he would nod into sleep, recovering with a start.

Moving mechanically, he finished the dishes and trays and mopped the floor. He wiped down the bench.

That'll do, I
can't
do any more, fuck Laurie! Just think, after tomorrow, I'll never see them again. Well, anyway, I'm taking all my gear tonight.

He collected his knives and whisks and laid them out on the bench.
My poor beautiful knives.
He ran his thumb along the filleting blade. It shone, the only clean object in the dirty kitchen. He stood like a seedy knight, holding his knife up to the light.

The passage door flew open with a crash. A stocky swarthy man stood swaying in the doorway, his round head thrust forward. His black hair was cropped to the scalp and a white scar ran crookedly down the hairline. His brown face was lumpy and bruised and his mouth hung open, showing broken teeth. A crust of dried blood smeared under his nose. He wore a blue short-sleeved shirt, and his corded arms hung by his sides. Tattered sneakers showed under stained brown trousers.

‘Mustafa! What…what are
you
doing here?'

Carl saw that the whites of the Turk's eyes were quite red. Mustafa shuffled forward, breathing noisily, and clung to the bench. Carl backed toward the corner where the bench met the wall.

The Turk spat on the metal.

‘I thought you my friend! You cunt like the rest. Where my money? You take pills, no pay, you tell Laurie! You fucking
cunt
!'

‘Ah now, Mustafa…look…' Carl, terrified, pressed himself into the corner.

Mustafa came swiftly around the bench.

‘No!' Carl shrieked. ‘That's
enough
! Leave me alone!
All of you
.'

Suddenly full of rage, trapped, he flung up his hands and pushed Mustafa violently back and fell to his knees sobbing. He looked up, expecting the Turk to fall on him, but instead Mustafa was crouched like a blue-shirted spider at the end of the bench. Carl heard a guttural ‘Vay Canina!' The Turk fell slumped heavily forward, out of Carl's sight. There was a sharp
click
! and silence. All he could see was a bare ankle and a sneakered foot.

*

Carl knelt paralysed for a long moment. The music upstairs had stopped. He heard faint voices from outside, the slam of a steel door, and then nothing, absolute quiet.

‘Mustafa,' he whispered. He leant forward and touched the bare ankle.

‘Mustafa!' Louder.

Carl got to his feet and, his back to the sink, shuffled sideways until he could see the end of the bench and Mustafa lying, his shoulders hunched and his back curved forward. His arms were folded out of sight into his chest and his face turned away so that Carl could see only the nape of his neck.

‘Mustafa, come on!' Carl touched the Turk with his toe.
Jesus, he must be pissed, maybe he hit his head.

Carl bent and pulled a shoulder, but the Turk didn't stir. Carl pulled harder and Mustafa rolled onto his back. Carl leapt away. The Turk's face was twisted, his smashed teeth clenched, his brown eyes open and looking over Carl's shoulder into the fluorescent lights. The pupils seemed wide and soft.

Carl's gaze travelled down Mustafa's body. The brown pants had come open, exposing a black-haired belly. The blue shirt was tucked up in folds. Carl saw near the middle of his chest a small red circle on the cloth—a badge? On it was a…chip of ice? It glittered in the harsh light.

Carl leant forward again urgently. It was the broken blade of his knife. He saw the black handle lying in the Turk's hand.

THREE

Dave put the phone down quietly and thought for a moment, rubbing his grey curls. Making up his mind, he tip-toed into the bedroom. He could see the red eye of the digital clock: two thirty-five.

‘Hey, Junie.' His wife woke with a loud snort.

‘Dave! Jesus, look at the time! Come to bed!'

‘No, listen, honey, that was Carl on the phone. He's in a bit of strife. I can't make out…he seemed really freaked…I have to go out.'

‘What! Dave, you just
dare
.'

‘No, I have to go.'

‘All right, you
go
then, if you're going out boozing with that little creep…well just…Jesus!'

‘Ah, come on, baby.'

‘No, go on, piss off, and you sleep in the boys' room when you come back. I'll speak to you tomorrow!'

She turned over, plunging angrily in the bedclothes. Dave hesitated and went out.

It was very dark outside; a light rain was falling. As he sat to put on his boots, his cat curled around his leg. He stroked it absently. Shrugging, he stood, limped to his car and drove off down into Brunswick.

Turning into Basilisk Street, he parked outside the club. The neon sign was off and the street was quiet and deserted. An occasional car swished past in Sydney Road. Rain drifted slowly in the headlights. Dave switched them off, got out and tried the big steel entrance. It was locked. What did he say? ‘Passage door.' He walked back and found another smaller door; it swung open at his touch. The darkness inside was impenetrable. Dave marched heavily forward, his hands out, feeling his way.

‘Carl! Carl! Where are you?' There was a gasp and he felt the draft of movement. A hand clutched his arm.

‘Ah, Dave! I knew you'd come.'

Dave felt Carl's thin body against him. It was shaking.

‘Jesus, old mate, what have they been doing to you?' He patted Carl awkwardly on the shoulder. ‘Look, let's have some light.'

‘Wait,' said Carl. ‘Come in.' A door closed behind them and Dave heard Carl fumbling at the wall. The lights flicked on. Dave looked around.

‘What
is
going on?'

Carl's face was yellow and streaked with tears, his hands twitching and fluttering.

‘Dave, Dave, look in the coolroom!' Carl clumsily unlocked the heavy metal door. ‘Go on. Underneath the potatoes.'

Carl heard the potato bags being shifted. There was a short silence, then:

‘Shit! Who's this?' Dave came out. ‘Jesus Christ, Carl! This guy's dead!'

‘I know! I know! It's Mustafa,' Carl cried. ‘I told you about him.'

‘Yeah, yeah, but who did it? He's been
stabbed
!'

‘Dave, I did, I didn't mean to, I swear to God. He had a go at me. He was going to…I don't know…I pushed him away. I must have had my knife in my hand…he just fell over! What are we going to do!?'

‘Well, I don't know,' said Dave slowly. ‘I suppose we better tell the cops…I mean it was self-defence or an accident, wasn't it? They won't…you put him in there, did you?'

‘Yes, yes, I had to hide him so I could
think.
Dave, look, I
can't
tell the cops. Listen…look, I know this sounds…but
Mother…
she's sick. I'll never get any money…I
couldn't
go to jail. Dave, I couldn't go through a
trial
and everything…I
couldn't…
I'll…I'd
kill
myself…ah shit, everything's been really good today…and now this!' Carl was crying again. ‘Dave, we'll have to hide him or something,
please!
Dave, help me.'

‘Jesus, mate.' said Dave. ‘I've got a wife and kids…look, you'll be…they…'

‘Dave, I can't tell the cops—what if they found out about the
dope
! I couldn't go to jail, I
would
die…Dave, you always
said
that…Dave, you're my friend!'

Dave looked away from Carl's face, ugly in its terror.

‘Well, I suppose we could take him up the hills or something.'

‘Yes, Dave! That's right, in the bush! Away from here. Ah! I knew you'd help me!'

‘Look, Carl, do you swear you…OK, OK, never mind, let me think. Go and sit down and calm down!'

Carl went and sat like an errant schoolboy, his head bowed. Occasionally he glanced at Dave who stood drumming his big fingers on the steel bench top.

‘Did anyone see him come in? How did he get in? What I mean is, was there any
witnesses?'

‘No, Dave, no, he came through the back door just when they were closing. No one was round, that's why…the cops'll…they wouldn't believe I didn't mean it. They'd think it was a fight about
drugs—
how could I…'

‘OK, OK. Well, we'll have to get him into my car, that's the first thing. And then we'll take him out into the bush and I suppose we bury him…hey! Wait a minute.'

‘What? It's the only thing to do, Dave, look…'

‘No, shut up!…I just thought…I dug a fuckin'
grave
today. Jesus!
Of course.
Listen Carl, with a bit of luck, you're right.' And Dave explained.

Carl listened puzzled.

‘But won't someone…? No, let's take him into the bush.'

‘No fear,' said Dave. ‘They find some stiff in the bush every week. We couldn't take him far enough tonight to be sure. This way no one will ever find him.' He slapped his hand on the bench. ‘Come on, let's get him out.'

‘Oh, Dave, I don't think I…'

‘Come on, Carl, you're going to have to help me with this—look at me.' He took Carl's head in his hands and shook him gently. ‘Now, come on, mate, trust me, all right?'

Dave went back into the coolroom. Carl heard dragging noises, he turned his head quickly away, seeing the blue shirt out of the corner of his eye.

‘First we better get this blade out of him, just in case he ever…Now, you wait here, Carl, I'll be back in a tick.'

‘No, Dave! Where are you going?'

‘I'm just getting my pliers.'

‘Oh, Jesus!' Carl buried his face in his hands.

Soon Dave was back. He bent down.

‘Christ, you got him right between the sixth and seventh ribs. Didn't you realize…didn't you feel anything?'

‘No, no, I didn't
know.
Dave, how can you…'

‘I used to be a medical student, you know that. I've seen more stiffs…OK now.' Carl heard a sucking noise.

‘Oh Dave! I…'

‘If you want to chuck, do it now.'

‘No, I'll be all right. It will be OK, won't it, Dave?'

‘Yeah, sure. Now where's the handle…Jesus, he hardly bled at all—he must have died,
bang!
just like that. Now, we better take him out. What can we cover him up with?'