Death in Brunswick (16 page)

They drove south into Brunswick. Carl was silent now and when Dave glanced at him he was staring straight ahead, his face lined and haggard in the pale light. There was something uncharacteristic, unnatural in his stillness.

The car pulled up outside Carl's house.

‘Carl, you OK? You got some pills? I know you don't sleep too good…and after that!'

‘No, I'm fine,' Carl said slowly, his voice without colour. ‘Something happened to me back there when you were away. I feel different than I ever felt before…yeah, I'm OK.'

He turned, looking Dave straight in the eyes. For some reason Dave wanted to look away, but he couldn't.

‘You know why we had to do all that, don't you?'

‘Yeah, sure,' Dave said. ‘You couldn't tell the cops, they wouldn't believe it was an accident…you said.'

‘Yeah, there was all that, but not just that. My mother. I told you she's left me all that money. Anything like this, she'd cut me out—I know her.'

‘Ah, come on, she couldn't be as bad as all that. It wasn't your fault. Anyway,
money.
Shit!'

Dave felt uncomfortable, queerly embarrassed.

‘It's OK for you,' Carl said in the toneless voice. ‘You're happy, I'm not. I never have been, ever. Maybe I never will be, but that money'll give me a chance. You can't understand that, I know. You probably think I'm a real creep. Well, I can't help that.'

‘Ah well, yeah, all right mate. Look, you better get to bed, I got to get home. June'll kill me…sorry…I mean…' Dave was puzzled, even a little scared, by Carl's manner.

‘Yeah, June,' said Carl slowly. ‘You won't tell her anything about this, will you? Or anyone else.'

‘No, of course not. June wouldn't understand. And as for anyone…I'm an
accessory
now.'

‘Yeah, that's right, you are. Ha!' Carl gave a short bark of laughter. He looked around at the peeling weatherboard cottages, the dusty ti-trees, shabby in the dawn light. ‘I'd do anything to get out of here. I don't want to live like this any more. I'm too old.'

‘OK, mate, bedtime!' said Dave. ‘I'll ring you tomorrow, after…you know. Where will you be?'

‘I don't know,' said Carl, opening the car door. ‘I have to go to work for a while, in the afternoon.'

‘Shit? Will you be able to handle that?'

‘Yes, I will,' Carl said flatly. He turned and went up his front path.

Dave stared at his back.

‘Jesus!' he said to himself. ‘He must be in shock or something.'

He started the car as quietly as he could and drove home.

*

After an uncomfortable few hours on the spare bunk in the boys' room, Dave woke to the sound of clashing pots in the kitchen. The boys were up and he could hear them noisily enjoying their breakfast, their shrill conversation punctuated by June's hoarse cries of admonition.

He got up and pulled on his jeans. As always in the morning, his knee throbbed and ached. This time, however, there was a sharper, gnawing pain. He bent and rubbed his leg hard, digging his fingers into the wasted muscle below the joint. The hurt eased a little and he straightened with difficulty and limped heavily into the kitchen.

June was washing up, her back rigid and her face averted.

‘Hiya, Dad, how come you slept in our room? You having a fight with Mum, are ya?'

‘Morning chaps! I don't know, did I? Am I?' Dave said, addressing June's back.

‘Yes, we bloody well are!' she said, turning angrily. ‘Do you know what time you got home? You woke Leon and it took me
hours
to get him down again. Didn't you bloody hear him?'

‘No, hon. I was pretty tired and that, I tried to be quiet.'

‘What the hell were you
doing
, anyway?' She looked at him narrowly. ‘Look at you! You're covered in…what is it?
Mud.
Look, it's even in your hair, and you stink. I can smell you from here.'

‘Daddy smells!' The boys were delighted. ‘Daddy stinks!'

June turned on them.

‘Get outside, you boys, you're no better. Go on,
out.
Bloody males!'

The boys left, chastened.

‘Now, Dave, I want to hear what you were doing last night. Out boozing with Carl, were you?'

‘No, Babe, I swear I didn't have one drink. Look, Carl was in a bit of trouble and I had to help him out, that's all.'

‘What
kind
of trouble? Little prick, he's old enough to look after himself. What are you? His bloody dad? Come on, tell me, what kind of trouble? I
am
your wife, you know.'

Dave was too tired to think of a convincing lie. He stood stolidly, looking down.

‘I can't tell you. I promised…Look, I've got to have a shower, I have to go to work soon.'

‘You stay right here, Dave. I'm sick to death of this male bonding business. Bloody men, they stick together like…like maggots! If I was out all night, you'd want to know where I was, wouldn't you? So spill it!'

‘June, I
can't
, please, I promised. Look, I got to go to work.' He trod lopsidedly into the bathroom.

‘Well, I might just not be here when you get back!'

‘Fuck! Fuck!' he said, sitting on the toilet and peeling off his clay-smeared jeans.

He stood under the shower, frowning worriedly, his mild eyes looking through the falling water. His great torso and thick arms sat oddly on his short legs, the left twisted and withered.

After the shower he felt better; his knee felt looser and ached less. He went to dress. Pulling on clean jeans, T-shirt and socks, he looked round for his boots.

‘Shit!' He remembered…suddenly the previous night became real. ‘I
can't
tell June, and that's that.'

Putting on his old sneakers, he went out to look for her.

She was in the big back yard feeding the fowls. The boys played quietly in their tree house and Leon slept in his cot on the back porch. The air was heavy and warm.

‘Well, I've got to go, Junie.'

‘You still won't tell me, huh? All right. You be back by one-thirty. I'm going out.'

‘Yeah, sure, OK, hon. Look…'

‘You want to know where I'm going?' she said fiercely. ‘I'll
tell
you. I'm going to the Women's Refuge Collective meeting, and we'll be talking about your kind of crap, you can bet your life on that!'

‘God, June! You can't talk about our private life in
public.
Jesus!'

‘Oh yes I can, you creep. This is a
political
issue. It's about time we women got together to stop this male bonding bullshit. Now get out of my sight!' She turned back to the chooks, flinging feed at them. They clucked with alarm.

‘Daddy's in the shit!' The boys hung grinning from the tree house like gibbons.

‘Shut up!' Dave shouted, and they fell silent, surprised; he was usually so good natured. He strode out to the car, swinging his bad leg.

*

Driving to the cemetery, he realized that he had left without breakfast. Stopping in Sydney Road, he went into a hamburger shop filled with the Saturday morning crowd. While he waited for a steak sandwich, he watched the Greek couple behind the counter working together—the wife deftly slicing onions and the husband flipping hamburgers and fried eggs on and off the hot plate. He thought of June and sighed.

Still eating his sandwich, he pulled up at the cemetery gate—it was open. He drove in, stopping outside the caretaker's cottage.

‘Hey, Blue! You there?'

Bluey came out blinking in the hot sunlight. He looked much as usual—no worse for his debauch.

‘How you feeling, Bluey?'

‘Not too bad, Dave, old mate—bit of a head but. How's the gun gravedigger this morning? By Jeez, you look a bit fucked yourself, you been on the piss too?'

‘No, mate, my leg's playing up a bit, that's all. You heard from the undertakers? Who is it?'

‘Murphy's,' said Bluey. ‘They're gonna be a bit late, eleven twenty or so.'

‘Murphy's? How come? It's an Italian job, isn't it? What about the Casteluccis?'

‘Ain't you heard? They're in strife with the tax boys. They've had to close down for a bit. By Christ, they're sly buggers, them Casteluccis…couple of years ago, before your time it was, they used to get up to some tricks, by Jeez they did!' Bluey cackled. ‘They'd have them stiffs stacked up in them holes like…like fuckin'
egg boxes
! They was selling plots three and four times over! Them was the days!'

‘Yeah, I heard,' said Dave. ‘Look, Blue, here's your spare keys.'

‘Ta, Dave. Listen, mate, thanks for locking up and that. I couldn't fuckin' scratch last night…I'll tell you what, it ain't my job, but I'll help you fill her in. How about that?'

‘No, Blue, you don't have to…'

‘No, mate, fair's fuckin' fair. You want a cuppa tea or a heartstarter maybe?' Bluey winked. ‘I am, by Christ.' He turned back into the cottage.

‘No thanks, Blue. Don't forget you'll have to bring the covers and straps.'

‘Yeah, no worries, see you in a while.'

Dave drove down the hill, parked and looked at his watch—ten to. He got out and limped up the slope as quickly as he could. The sun was very bright now. Granite and marble gleamed in the rain-washed air and water droplets sparkled on every leaf.

Soon he reached the open grave. He looked about carefully. His shovel lay on the gravel path, the blade spotted with rust. There was a confusion of footprints and the mud was churned and furrowed around the clay heap where Carl had lain.

He hesitated and then looked into the hole. It looked all right except for one edge which was broken away. He straightened it with the shovel.

Then he cast around, looking for his boots, and found them lying some distance away. Flies buzzed around thick dark stains on the soles. He turned away in disgust, fetched his shovel and buried them hurriedly. Returning to the grave, he started to smooth the gravel path, filling in the deeper footprints.

A big grey American car drew smoothly up at the bottom of the hill. Dave could see chaste lettering on the door: ‘Murphy's—The Grief Managers'. A spare, balding, middle-aged man got out. He was dressed in a black coat and striped trousers.

‘How you goin', mate? Dave, isn't it?' The undertaker was puffing slightly from the short climb.

‘Yeah,' said Dave. ‘How you doin'?'

‘Buggers are late as usual. Wog funerals—I don't know. Still, they really spend. Wait till you see the casket. It looks like a space capsule! Imported American, it is.'

‘That so,' said Dave indifferently.

‘Yep. Ah…bit untidy, mate. Don't you reckon?'

The undertaker was looking at the grave. ‘Better clean it up a bit—you'll have to take those props out anyway. Where's the covers?'

‘Bluey's bringing them up. Here he comes now.'

Dave climbed down into the hole, knocking out the props as he went. He paused as he reached the final set, then planted his feet firmly onto the bottom of the grave. He moved his feet cautiously. He could feel the edges of the coffin boards through the thin covering of gravel.

He threw the props out. Bluey's wattled face appeared.

‘Need a hand, mate?'

‘No, I'm right.'

He pulled himself up.

Dave and Bluey spread green tarpaulins over the pile of clay and Dave started to smooth the gravel again.

‘Jeez, what was you and Mick doing' up here yesterday, dancing or what? I thought you was the
gun.
You left a bit of a fuckin' mess.'

As Dave filled in the footmarks, he recognized the prints of Carl's ripple soles.

‘Off you go, Blue' he said, ‘they'll be here soon. You'll have to meet them and fill in the book.'

‘Come on, Blue,' said the undertaker. ‘I'll give you a lift.' He looked at his watch. ‘They should be here in seven minutes exactly.'

Dave laid stout woven straps across the hole—these were to lower the coffin—and wiped clay from the headstone. Soon he saw a long line of cars slowing at the cemetery gates and then winding down towards him.

First the undertaker's car drew up with Bluey in the passenger seat like a debauched Charon. Then came the hearse, low and sleek, its roof heaped with wreaths.

Dave could see that the casket did indeed resemble a piece of space hardware; round nosed and streamlined, it gleamed dully under more flowers.

The following line of cars bunched up and there was the usual unedifying, confused competition for parking spaces in the narrow driveway.

Black-clad mourners gathered as the casket was slid from the hearse. The procession, headed by a priest, formed and mounted the slope—the undertaker, walking to one side, directed the straggling line with restrained gestures. The heavy metal box bobbed and swayed as its bearers shuffled awkwardly up through the crowded graves.

Dave withdrew discreetly, taking his shovel, and sat behind a large monument some distance away. Bluey joined him.

‘Jeez, I'm
rapt
in wog funerals,' Bluey said gleefully. ‘You watch, there'll be some sheila trying to throw herself in—they'll be screaming and carrying on—beauty! Them wogs, if you cut their throats and took off their hands, by Christ! They'd talk with their feet!'

‘Shut up, Blue,' said Dave. ‘Christ, have some…Jesus, I wish it was fuckin' over.'

‘What's up you? You're gettin' paid, aren't you? Time and a half after twelve…you sign on, didya?'

‘Shit! No, I forgot…come on, come on!' Dave said, watching the priest. ‘Get on with it.'

‘We'll get a good tip with Murphy's, too,' Bluey continued, ‘not like them Casteluccis. You know they charge the family ten bucks for gravediggers and give us one. Wog cunts!'