Frederick's Coat (8 page)

P
rotect yourself at all times is right. This one came out of nowhere. Shane had a split second to take in the guy’s intent: it’s all in the face. He’d seen a doco some while back on the rec room TV about the brain, and how face recognition is the way humans identify a friend or a foe, so he was able to block the first blow and come back with a counter, a right cross learned from his friend Johno.

Shane knew he was in for a blue by the guy’s rage. Knew what caused the rage — the P Shane had sold him.

No matter how hard he hit Buzz, the bloke kept coming on. He hit him and hit him, got plenty in return. Though Buzz was podgy from working too long in the kitchen, scoffing out on slices of white bread and no restraints on the butter, too many puddings, the drug made him quite another creature.

He was grunting, yelling and soon he was roaring, no different to a dog with rabies or something. P did this to some people, turned them into super monsters, super everything. Shane never understood what they got out of it, other than the initial rush and, so he heard, a sense that they could do anything.

The guy’s hands got through Shane’s punches and he felt an almost unbelievable pain to his larynx, the smell of Buzz’s breath in his face, some mouth disease, his mad screaming and, way in the back of Shane’s mind, the thought that he might have brought this on himself.

He needed help, his Italian mates to come to his assistance or guards to pepper-spray Buzz, belt him over the head with their hardwood clubs,
take him out at the ankles — just snap the bones with their weapons — or put one across his dial to bring him down in his drugged-out tracks. Jesus, something had better happen. Shane’s best blows were doing nothing and he was running out of puff. Fear was extracting its share of energy, too. Where were his boys?

No sound more relieving than that of screws’ boots running, yelling, ‘Stop! Stop your fighting! We’re giving you fair warning.’ To cover themselves.

What Shane did was pure instinct. He’d never before had the need or circumstance to drive the fingers of both hands down behind a man’s collar bones and push and dig for all he was worth.

He pushed until it felt like his fingers had gone right through the skin. Then he yanked with all his strength and felt Buzz’s hands release their death grip on his throat.

The guards got there at the same time. They didn’t discriminate between assailant and victim, clubbed both men to the floor, and as Buzz put up resistance — only because he was P-ed up — and Shane didn’t, they kept hitting Buzz with clubs, fists and boots till he fell quiet, like a wild animal subdued, panting, moaning.

Shane had gone into a passive curl in case the prison guards’ blood lust stayed up. He got a kicking, too, but way less serious.

There’s no justice in this world, at least not for maximum security inmates before a judge. He sentenced ‘Buzz’ Michael Ferryman to three years, added to his twelve-year sentence, and to Shane Arthur McNeil he said, ‘You appear to have been attacked first and yet on the other hand Mr Ferryman alleges you supplied him with the amphetamine drug that induced his manic rage, and I have no reason to doubt his word on this, given your guilty plea. You are as bad as each other.’ And he gave Shane the same sentence, three years on top of his fourteen. Might as well have called it a life sentence — the end of his life.

A decent lawyer would have ripped the judge apart for taking one inmate’s word against another’s, and Shane should have taken up
his right to be legally represented, but he just didn’t feel he could be bothered with going back and forth to court, locked in the prison van like an insane citizen removed from society and not seen for a long, long time.

For some time afterwards Shane felt genuinely aggrieved. He wasn’t getting out till 2007 — if he didn’t lose any remission time; would have done thirteen years by then, when he’d found his limit already.

So what was the point of living?

He’d learnt to speak Italian, using up a sweating, often despairing lot of his spare time. So what? Get out and get a job as a fucking translator? Like where? He only did it to get in with the Eyetie boys, and it worked.

Fact was, he’d reached his mid-thirties before the lights went on and he was staring at this … this
punk,
this immature know-all who actually knew nothing except his own inner despair and his impulsive stupidity. So much of his life spent inside, and now his first foray into selling drugs and it was a disaster. Something felt wrong inside, eroding away, like a part of him was infected, or seriously ill, maybe even dying.

It did occur to him that it might be the company he kept, since the Italians ran most of the money-making activities in the prison. But then how could they be responsible? Not as if they weren’t selling the same drugs, though neither of the main players, Gerardo and Tito, dirtied their hands with the stuff. And as no one attacked the other ‘family’ members it must be something about Shane McNeil, his poor judgement of who to sell to, his flaw of firing before he aimed. The Eyeties were the only friends he had, so it wasn’t as if he could drop them out.

One thought he did seize on in his despair: he would never return to prison. Never. He’d do an apprenticeship course, say a motor mechanic — no, a carpenter. Different jobs over the years in prison, like making leather goods, had proved he was good with his hands. Or maybe a plumber — he’d heard they charged a very high hourly rate. But then
again, doing that dirty work, unblocking someone’s toilet, cleaning out drains full of unspeakable objects? And for only a
wage
. Nope, not him. Could hear his father’s words, the contempt for making an honest living, same as Johno’s father and grandfather. As if nothing was more shameful than being paid.

Gerardo’s cell was more like — well, not a hotel, that’d be pushing it a bit in a max sec — but maybe a cheap motel with minimal furnishings, like a bed, plastic desk and chair and a toilet, and magazine pictures of old Italian villages plastered over the walls — not one girlie porno pic.

‘You are weakening?’ said Gerardo.

‘Who doesn’t when the doors get locked on our little homes?’ Shane said. ‘Only time we can become ourselves, right?’ He needed confirmation that he wasn’t alone in having this thought. A little hurt by his friend’s accusatory tone, his glowering frown. Even the way Gerardo’s coal-black eyes seemed poised to look away. ‘I’m just saying, I’m doing it hard, Gerardo.’

‘And no one else is? Huh? Four hundred and thirty-five guys here like we’re in some army marching in the bitter cold, with no let-up, no warm places to take a rest. So what do we do? We keep walking. We’re in a war, Shano. We’re marching in Napoleon’s army, crossing the Alps with Hannibal.

‘But one day, huh, we get to fall into a big spa in our own modern times at a five-star hotel with two, three, beautiful hired women each. Drown in champagne, in your case beer, fuck yourself stupid. Sleep in a bed with finest cotton sheets, wake up, screw again, crack a bottle, order up room service: poached eggs and salmon, hollandaise sauce thick all over. So come on, Shano. We can’t be having you drop off along the way. Still got some distance to go.’

‘Appreciate your words, Gerardo. This is between us, right?’

‘Sure between us. What, you think I’ll put word up on the letters board? Tell me, talking about letters, you get many people write to you?’

‘Why’re you asking that?’ Shane’s tone defensive.

‘Because I don’t think you do. No? Or yes, you hear from your girlfriend, your mother who always loves you no matter what bad shit you get up to? Huh? Tell Gerardo.’

‘I used to get a few,’ Shane said. ‘No girlfriend. Could never hold onto a woman for long. Dunno why. My mum wrote quite regularly but haven’t heard from her in over a year. And maybe never again when she hears the latest that I’m here for three more years. Fuck.’
Fuck.

‘I am glad to hear you don’t call her the old lady, how the Aussies do,’ said Gerardo. ‘So disrespectful. She’s your
mother,
and Mum is all right too. Please, I interrupted you.’

‘Right through my sentence at the Bay she wrote. My old man only the once …’ He stopped at Gerardo’s raised hand.

‘I’m sorry again. Calling your father the old man is not so bad, not even to Italians. I think because we don’t love them so much as respect, if at all. Plenty guys in here hate their fathers, huh?’

‘Not me. I’m adopted but if my real mother and father turned up I know who I’d still be calling my parents. My mother, anyway. Letters since I been here …?’ A sigh escaped before Shane could check it.

‘Guess the answer’s not a one the last year or so. But—’ His turn to lift a hand, or rather a finger. ‘I know if my mate Johno Ryan knew where I was he’d have written as well coming down, I’d say, at least once every three months to visit me. At least.’

‘Not the first time you mentioned his name. You want us to try to find him with our contacts? We know a lot of people in Sydney. All over Australia, round the world, actually.’

For a moment Shane wanted to say yes.

‘No. I’ll let him be. Who knows, he might be doing time again himself back in the Bay.’ Yet felt in his heart that his friend had found a new life.

‘Or he might not be,’ said Gerardo in a tone that was hard to figure. Then he grinned. ‘I was thinking. What if I got you a pen pal? Put you back into contact with the outside world. Might save that mind of yours from turning in on itself, you think?’

‘Anything that works, Gerardo. Yeah. I’d like that. You mean someone Italian? We could write in Eyetie. You mean a woman or …?’

‘I think a woman you fall in love with this side of the fence becomes something else in your head. Understand? We keep it simple, like this Johno guy — as if it’s him writing to you. I’ll arrange someone to write.’

‘I really appreciate that.’ If this guy had said go and stab someone he would. ‘I’ll come right,’ he said.

‘You have to,’ said Gerardo. ‘How about Paolo — remember him? Good-looking bloke, came here from a medium security to finish off his sentence because they couldn’t handle him. Yet, how do Aussies say, butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.’

‘Yeah. I do remember him. Nice guy. Never stopped smiling,’ said Shane.

‘Yes, but when he stops smiling you wouldn’t wanna be around,’ said Gerardo. ‘I’ll ask him to write to you, seeing you two will be closely associated when you get out.’

‘Thanks,’ said Shane. ‘Just when you get round to it. My flight home isn’t due for a long while.’

‘My friend, we’re not on a plane,’ said an unsmiling Gerardo. ‘Like I said, we’re on foot, marching. And it’s in cold that ain’t gonna let up for a long time. So who’s going survive it, huh? I know I am.’

The eyes asked: Are you?

I
t was seeing the bank deposit slip his lawyer had posted that made Johno realise five years had gone by at a furious pace. In selling the original building and the business as one, he’d retained the right to the name and the practice of displaying Danny’s works to the public. Danny looked on them as ‘childish’, but Johno said he might appreciate dusting them off one day to measure his development. ‘And you can always show your grandchildren.’

The bar in Ultimo, central Sydney, had been a steal. The previous owner had given his soul over to the drink, but, after talking to the few stalwart regulars, Johno discovered the place had once thrived. Using what the Penrith experience had taught him, he bought the building and his first task was to upgrade the three floors of long-term accommodation. With ground and first-floor bars, a natural separation took place — more blue-collar on the ground floor, white-collar upstairs — but Danny’s handiwork adorned the walls of both areas and all the patrons appreciated him.

One of the registered shareholders was Danny Ryan, not Daniel as most people supposed he’d been christened. It’s the name Johno and Evelyn agreed on, from the lovely song his old man used to sing, and pretty damn well too. ‘Danny Boy’ could be made poignant, with the right voice. Johno liked singing in the bath, especially duets with his son. The accountant said a family shareholding had tax advantages, given Danny was the sole beneficiary of a trust.

His father’s mate, Dave Wright — Wrighty to everyone — had told
Johno, ‘Be a good listener, especially in the hospitality business. The whole world wants to talk, and always about themselves. You cop their talk and jewels will fall into your lap. And if they don’t have jewels then they’ll love you for just listening. This love converts to money.’

His accountant’s reports of a growing bank balance said Johno Ryan was listening well.

The beauty of capitalism: up the rent paid to his property company, but justified by the tripled revenue. Reduce the eleven dingy rooms to six, each with its own bathroom and completely done up. Fully rented they made forty per cent more than before with a better class of
long-term
tenant, bachelor types with mysterious jobs who mostly drank alone in the bar, or with each other in the painful silence of loners, but always paid their rent on time.

A new valuation on the building showed that Johno Ryan had made, on paper, close to half a million. A figure he’d never previously even dreamed about. And it didn’t feel like a lucky break as much as seeing the opportunity. The money itself had more abstract meaning: he wasn’t materialistic. If he was measuring anything it was how well he was doing at being a father. At all times the question: is Danny okay?

Wrighty and a very proud Laurie often came in for drinks and, though Wrighty advised Johno to find another place to keep his business momentum going, he didn’t want to change Danny’s school again. The last change had left the boy very unsettled and therefore Johno too. Instead he drew up a lease with agreement to purchase, at market price in twelve months’ time, a quality three-bedroom apartment on the ninth floor of a twelve-storey apartment building not far from the bar, with not bad views of the city, including a sliver of Sydney Harbour. Mavis Wilkinson, effectively a mother to Danny, moved in with them. The new place suited Johno’s late hours and most of all it gave Danny stability.

Danny, the boy born different, whose dreams were like movies, who wanted to know about everything; Johno the father, who had few answers and sometimes wished he was better educated.

Danny, in front of the mirror with the little hat he’d bought from a second-hand clothes shop for a few dollars, staring at his reflection, adjusting the brimless cap, a pleased smile growing as if from deep inside. Turned to his father, ‘You like it, Dad?’

‘You look cool,’ said father to a son who was just different.

Water fascinated Danny. His fingers would feel its texture like a blind person reading Braille; and when he gazed, transfixed, at the bath filling, Johno would wonder what the boy’s eyes were seeing that his did not. When Danny drew or painted water it had depth and every surface had light bouncing off it, just as every liquid human and animal eye he depicted held a tiny spot of reflected brightness.

Already his art was leaving a father’s basic understanding behind. The boy’s school reports were fulsome in their praise, yet sometimes expressed ‘concerns about Danny’s social development’ because he had no close friends. Though the reports didn’t suggest Danny suffered from bullying or being unfairly singled out. Johno knew his son, and instinct, if not plain observation, would tell him if the boy was being picked on.

Sometimes, though, he wished he had someone to share these thoughts, to talk them over with, so he didn’t make a mistake or impair Danny’s artistic development. Someone more special than Mavis. But he wasn’t really after a long-term relationship.

When he wished, Johno didn’t have to work too hard at finding a female companion for the night, given he was proprietor of a pub, and to keep things away from home, namely Danny, he either booked a hotel room or went to her place. The women he was drawn to tended to be uncomplicated, just out for sexual encounter, no more, no less. As one of them said, ‘Our conversation could fit into an egg cup.’ Those seeking love he avoided.

Every Sunday, weather permitting, he and Danny walked through Hyde Park to a cafe on Williams Street that served great maple syrup pancakes, Danny’s favourite breakfast. When they were out he saw how timid his kid was. He tried not to think about it, tried not to feel ashamed, and thought he had no regrets about not teaching the boy
how to fight. But he was concerned by Danny’s lack of even an atom of aggression and his serene indifference to any boy trying to let him know who was top dog. He always happily succumbed. What if another kid hit him? The thought almost made Johno ill.

Still, though Danny might not be equipped to handle the real world as Johno knew it, much of his appeal lay in his trusting innocence and, of course, his total absorption in his art. And he was growing more handsome by the day, not just in the eyes of his biased father; everyone remarked on Danny’s extraordinary looks.

Almost invariably, when they were walking through Hyde Park, Danny would pull back on his father’s hand when he saw some homeless person slumped unconscious on the grass, or muttering to himself and flailing at whatever dwelled in his imaginary world. A drunk might ask, ‘You got two lousy bucks, mate?’ in a sullen manner that annoyed Johno but only evoked Danny’s sympathy.

One day Danny asked his father, ‘Can I give someone ten dollars as a surprise?’

Time to offer his son a lesson in life. ‘No. It just goes on booze.’

They walked on. Then Danny said, ‘But some of them are mentally sick, too.’

‘Sure,’ said his father. ‘But no one can save the world. Mental problems or drink, nothing we can do.’

Danny said, ‘Dad, what’s a drunk? I mean I kind of know, but I don’t.’ Sounded younger than his ten years, though he drew and painted like someone much older.

‘Someone who starts drinking soon as he wakes up,’ said Johno. ‘It’s like a sickness.’

‘So why can’t we give one person ten bucks?’

‘Dan, I said no.’

‘I’d hate to have no home …’

‘We all would. This city must have hundreds, maybe several thousand, homeless.’

‘You sell alcohol.’

‘To people with jobs. Well, most of them.’

‘I’ve seen some people in your bar who look like that drunk. How come you like them?’

‘I don’t, actually.’ Johno amused at the kid’s insight. ‘Not that kind of customer. If they can get past Tahu, one of us will kick them out. Or the other patrons will complain.’

‘But I’ve seen people drunk in your bars.’

‘Sure. Just my drunks have a bit more dignity. And when they don’t, they’re asked to leave. I’m not saying it’s these people’s fault.’

‘We could still help, couldn’t we?’ And when his father didn’t respond, Danny said, ‘It’s not fair. Ten bucks isn’t much.’

Johno stopped and looked around the park, took a rough head count. ‘This park has about a dozen homeless people. That’s a hundred and twenty bucks before we even sit down to breakfast.’

‘Don’t we have the money? I heard you tell Granddad you made lots from buying the building.’

‘You win.’

‘Can I have all your coins?’

‘Pushing your luck now, kid.’

‘Please, Dad?’

Emptying his pocket of change, Johno said, ‘You should forget becoming an artist and go into business.’ When he put a hand on his son’s shoulder, he felt the slightness and delicacy of his build. How would Danny fare when life got rougher?

From then on giving a few dollars to the homeless became a habit. Most were alcoholics, a type Johno had no time for — the loss of dignity, pride, a home — but the act of giving grew on him, and one day he found himself explaining to Danny what he meant by saying, ‘There but for the grace.’

‘I’m grateful I’ve got a sound mind and body,’ he told his son. Danny really got that one. Johno didn’t tell the boy that his old self would have called these people losers.

One of the upstairs hotel residents was a man named Wilson Reed. Mid-forties, a university lecturer who kept to himself, he drank a few whiskies and always stood alone, like some semi-banished person, in the alcove on the way to the toilets.

On Friday and Saturday nights Danny’s Drawings pumped and things could get a bit boisterous. Because it was a city bar, Tahu Kanohi, who now covered security at the pub, kept two bouncers on the front door while he moved around, using charm and a friendly Aussie–Maori sense of humour to keep out troublemakers and win patrons over. Tahu was also learning bar management, which Johno was happy to teach during less busy times. A slightly smaller version of Dixon, and as intelligent, Tahu didn’t, however, have his father’s super-violent streak. But if trouble started, it was always Tahu who finished it.

On several occasions Tahu had to be summoned to extract Wilson from a possible roughing-up for being in the way of patrons going to the toilet. He liked Wilson, though he didn’t exactly move with alacrity when asked. Grumpy, he would stand his ground and say, ‘I’ll move when asked in a civil tone.’ Wilson even dared to warn Tahu not to mess with his ‘democratic right to dignity’. Everyone saw Wilson as a figure of amusement, though a few wiser heads showed more respect and called him ‘Prof’.

One Saturday night Wilson’s potential antagonists — always younger, drunk men — were distracted by a big league game on the television. Johno wasn’t as interested as he used to be in the game: reminded him of prison inmates at each other’s throats, except the chaos was organised and structured. He took a turn serving drinks to give the barman a cigarette break.

‘Good evening, Johno,’ Wilson said. ‘I’d like another whisky, please. No ice. Oban, and the fifteen-year-old, not the ten.’

‘There’s a difference?’ Johno asked, but only to know.

‘Yes. Of five years, but it’s exponential.’

Not a word Johno had heard before. ‘Is that right? Have I got a price difference?’

‘No. But you should have.’ Wilson gave him a look; all his
expressions
stayed within the awkward range. ‘However, I’m picking your margins are such it’s neither here nor there.’ Couldn’t hold Johno’s gaze, too diffident.

‘No margin, no business,’ Johno said.

‘I understand. But I’m still left of you enterprising capitalists.’ At least he smiled.

Johno said, ‘I didn’t know it was a political thing. I just run a bar, like I used to run a restaurant.’

‘And I’m sure the restaurant was as well run as this place.’

Johno grinned. ‘If only you knew how green I was, Wilson. You don’t like rugby league?’

‘State of Origin, yes. It’s like watching evolution in its most elementary form: cavemen against cavemen, valley against valley. Otherwise as a cultural practice, watching it like these poppy-eyed, mindless, would-be brutes? Absolutely not. By the way, your son has talent.’

‘Why we’re named after him,’ Johno replied.

‘But if you don’t get him proper training he’ll develop bad habits and his talent will be wasted.’

The thought had occurred to Johno but he hadn’t followed up on it. He served drinks and chatted to Wilson in between.

‘You an artist yourself?’ he asked. Wilson was dressed like no one else in the bar — old tweed jacket over a faded yellow woollen polo neck. ‘Or do you just teach it?’ Wilson frowned. ‘Did I say something wrong?’

‘Yes. But not if you didn’t mean it, and I think you had no idea. To explain: there’s a saying that those who can, do, and those who can’t, teach. Happens to apply to me,’ said Wilson. ‘I had dreams once, the talent too, so people said.’

‘Just didn’t work out?’ Johno was being polite.

‘No.’ Wilson said. ‘It did not.’ He was tall and thin; Johno couldn’t ever recall seeing him eat, even though the bar sold a lot of meat pies and toasted sandwiches, which Mavis prepared every morning once she’d got Danny off to school, and a chef did basic meals.

‘So what exactly do you do at the uni?’

‘I lecture in fine arts. Should have been head of department but that didn’t work out either. I’m an ordinary lecturer.’ Such could-have-been talk normally came from the mouths of perennial losers, but this was a university lecturer and he was a permanent tenant in this building — and he drank downstairs?

‘I’m honoured, mate.’

‘Please. Don’t be. It’s embarrassing and hardly an honour. I kept missing my boat, you could say.’ The shy personality wouldn’t have helped, the way he ended a sentence in a short, nervous chuckle and his eyes fled from Johno’s gaze.

‘You know something? I kept missing mine too. If it hadn’t been for Danny being thrust on me when his mother walked out, then I wouldn’t be here.’

‘I did wonder — about his mother.’

‘Now you know. Hope you don’t mind me asking, but why are you living here?’

‘Another missed boat, I guess. I’m a single man, so why would I buy a house? I’ve got my own bathroom now, thanks to you, and a bar in my backyard. I have a hot lunch at the staff cafeteria and that’s about my life. And I do like my work.’