How Not To Commit Murder - comedy crime - humorous mystery (33 page)

‘What?’ His voice rose again. ‘You sound like my fucking wife. What’s it to you?’

‘Nothing. I’m just interested.’

‘Scotch on the rocks. Johnnie Walker, black label. Anything else you want to know?’

‘That’s all.’

Frank hung up. Reuben didn’t like Scotch. But if he did, Johnnie Walker black label would be his favourite.

‘Who was that, Uncle Reuben?’

Indya regarded him with solemn curiosity, hugging her dolls to her chest.

‘Just a friend. Come on, let’s get back on and finish our ride.’

‘Are you playing doctors and nurses?’

‘Yeah, something like that.’

‘Why did he call you Littledick?’

‘It’s just a nickname.’

‘Mummy doesn’t let me say dick, but I say it at kindy. Me and Ethan whisper it so Miss Watson doesn’t hear.’

‘Just as well,’ Reuben said. ‘Miss Watson sounds far too young and innocent for such language.’ Indya giggled and he fastened the helmet back on her head before she could elaborate any further.

As they started off, a huge clap of thunder struck. It echoed around them and seemed to shake the earth. Indya gave a muffled squeal. Then came the rain in fierce, driving sheets, and in a few seconds they were saturated. There wasn’t much point trying to find shelter. Reuben turned around and mouthed ‘you okay?’ to Indya. She nodded. She’d pushed Ken and Barbie right down her front, but they were still getting soaked. It hadn’t been much of a ride for them.

They were about two kilometres from home. Reuben bent his head against the onslaught and rode at a snail’s pace. His breath was fogging up the visor and he could hardly see. After the initial shock, he enjoyed the sensation of the wet clothes against his skin – it was cool and refreshing, and strangely exhilarating.

He was a child again, playing out in the rain while Mum was at work, knowing how much she would scold him (no, worse, give him a beating) if she could see him. That was part of the fun of it. Once he was wet through to the skin, he couldn’t get any wetter, so he stayed out in the rain while everyone else cowered inside – racing up and down the street, slipping and sliding in the mud, tilting his head up and closing his eyes as it pounded his face, mouth open to drink it in.

Then he rushed inside, peeled off his saturated clothes and had a shower. By the time Mum came home, he was in front of the TV in his pyjamas, the washing machine chugging away in the laundry. She hugged him and told him how wonderful he was to do the washing. If it occurred to her that the only time he did the washing was when it rained, she never let on.

The rain was easing as he rode through the front gate into the carport. Reuben dismounted and took off their helmets. Water dripped in puddles around them. Indya was a picture of pathos, her thin dress plastered to her body and her hair hanging like a rat’s tail, but her eyes were bright.

‘That was fun, Uncle Reuben.’ She held up the soaked Barbie and Ken, their rosebud lips still parted in vacuous smiles. ‘And they liked it too.’

As Reuben led her around to the back door, he realised it was the most fun he’d had with his clothes on for a long time.

Jo rushed over and scooped Indya up in her arms. ‘Darling! I’ve been so worried about you! Look at you!’

‘But Mummy, I was having fun!’ Indya wriggled out of Jo’s arms.

‘You won’t think it’s so much fun tomorrow when you wake up with pneumonia.’

With a venomous glance at Reuben, she bustled Indya off to the bathroom. Nancy, tight-lipped, followed them in. Reuben went into the bedroom, stripped off his clothes and stood in the shower, the warm water streaming over him. As well as his other numerous faults, it looked as if he were also responsible for the weather.

By four o’clock Indya was dressed again, her clothes fresh and warm from the dryer. As they were all getting ready to leave, she said, ‘Can we go for another ride in the rain soon, Uncle Reuben?’

‘Don’t be stupid, Indya,’ Wayne said.

‘Don’t call her stupid,’ Jo snapped. ‘It’s damaging to her self-esteem.’

Indya ignored the comments, her self-esteem appearing remarkably intact. She looked up at Reuben. ‘Can I help you with your operation?’

‘What operation?’ Then he realised what she meant. ‘I don’t think...’

‘I’ve got a nurse’s hat. Can I be a nurse?’

‘What on earth are you talking about?’ Jo said.

‘Uncle Reuben said it on the phone. He’s going to play doctors and nurses and do an operation.’

Sudden silence, as if someone had pressed the mute button on the conversation. Nancy dropped something on the kitchen floor that made a clang. All eyes were on Reuben. Alex cleared his throat.

‘That was just a private joke between friends, honey,’ Reuben said. ‘Does anyone want this left-over ham?’

After they’d all gathered up their presents and hugged and kissed their goodbyes, with Reuben deserving only of air kisses and suspicious glances, they stood out on the street by the cars and talked for another half an hour.
Why don’t women know
how to say goodbye?
When men say goodbye, they leave, without further ado. For women the word ‘goodbye’ triggers the memory of several important topics that must be discussed right at that moment. Indya became bored and pinched Brayden. He wailed. That was the signal for them to bundle themselves into their cars and drive off.

The rain had only briefly cleansed the air, and an oppressive mugginess settled in again. Carlene slumped onto the couch. Her hair was lank and stringy, her face flushed. She’d managed to sneak in a few sips of wine during her hosting duties. Reuben poured himself another glass of red. He had a feeling he’d need the fortification.

‘So,’ Carlene said, ‘what’s this about an operation and playing doctors and nurses?’

Reuben came and sat down beside her. ‘Just me regressing back to my childhood again. Nothing to worry about.’

‘I am worried. Who were you talking to on the phone?’

Why did Indya have to be such a know-it-all busybody? Sadly, there was only one person he could have been talking to on the phone on Christmas Day.

‘Finn rang me to wish me Merry Christmas.’

‘And you’re going to play doctors and nurses with him?’

‘Of course not. We were just reminiscing about our school days when we played doctors and nurses.’

‘And performed operations.’

‘Pretended to. It was all very innocent.’

‘Of course.’

‘I don’t know what you’re so shitty about – it’s the truth. Anyway, I’m the one who should be shitty with you, and in fact, I am.’

‘Oh, really?’ Her voice held a dangerous note. ‘And why is that?’

She knew why. She wanted to make him say it.

‘You know very well why. The gift certificate. Besides the fact I don’t need counselling, which you don’t seem to understand, life coaching is a total wank. I don’t need some buffed, puncy tosser telling me how to live my life.’

‘It seems to me he might have a better idea than you do. Tell me, what are your goals? What do you want to achieve in life?’

Her questions were impossible to answer. He’d been living from day to day, ricocheting from one event to the next. Employment, yes, an unfortunate necessity of life. Over and above that, he hadn’t the slightest idea. A family? A home of his own? Stability? Predictability? It was too depressing to think about. Yet it’s what Carlene wanted.

‘I don’t know,’ he muttered.

‘See?’ She sat up, eyes sharp with triumph. ‘That’s exactly what I mean. If you don’t know what you want, how can you hope to get anywhere? If you don’t have goals, next thing you know, ten years will have passed and you’ll still be a kitchen hand in a crummy cafe.’

‘It might be boring and dead-end, but at least it’s honest. And what’s wrong with not knowing what you want? I’ve only been out of jail for six months, it’s going to take time for me to work all that out.’

‘A very convenient excuse. How long are you going to use that one for?’

‘As long as I need to.’

The ceiling fan whirred above them, going at full pelt but barely moving the air. He’d wanted to ask her this question, it had been on the tip of his tongue for a while; but he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. Now he had to.

‘Why did you marry me?’

She met his gaze, twirling the ends of her hair around her fingers. ‘What a question! Because I love you.’

There was no tenderness in her words, rather an air of accusation. Honesty came in so many shades and subtleties – he hadn’t always been honest with Carlene, but he owed her this now. And himself. If he didn’t say it now, it might never be said. He took a deep breath.

‘I think you’re mixing up love with rescuing. You see me the same way as the refugees and the orphans you’re trying to save.’

‘That’s bullshit! And you accuse me of psychoanalysing!’

She swiped at the tears running down her cheeks. ‘So why did you marry me?’

‘I thought it was what I wanted; that marriage would help me to stay straight. But now I’m not so sure.’

She stared at him, glassy-eyed. When she spoke, her voice was just a whisper. ‘What about love? You said you loved me.’

He couldn’t bear to look at her any longer. He dropped his gaze to the floor. ‘I thought I did. I talked myself into believing it. The joke’s on me now, I conned myself instead of everyone else.’

He looked up at her. ‘And you, too. I’m sorry.’

‘Sorry doesn’t cut it, I’m afraid.’ She sprang up from the couch and stood in front of him. ‘You’ve humiliated me in front of my family, you’ve lied to me, for all I know you’re probably having an affair; and worst of all, you don’t love me and never have! I’ve just wasted the last six months of my life!’

He watched her as she marched into the kitchen, grabbed a tissue from the box on the fridge and blew her nose with a fierce honk.

‘I think I should leave,’ he said.

She stopped mid-blow. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I need some space; to think things through. It’ll do us both good to have some time apart.’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘Don’t you tell me what’s good for me! And don’t give me that “need some space” bullshit. Next thing you’ll be saying, “it’s not you, it’s me.”’

Reuben got up. ‘I’ll pack some things.’

‘Wait a minute!’ Tears welled up again in her eyes. ‘You’re not serious! Where are you going?’

He shrugged. ‘I’ll find somewhere.’

A look of panic flitted across her face. ‘So you’re going to
her
place.’

‘I’ve told you, there’s no
her.
’

What else could he say to convince her? He felt as if all the life had been drained out of him by a super-suction hose. Looking at her flushed, tear-stained face, he couldn’t even summon up the energy to feel compassion.

He went into the bedroom and threw some clothes and a toothbrush into an overnight bag. His body moved as if on automatic pilot. He didn’t have a clue where he was going, dimly aware that at five pm on Christmas Day, his options were limited.

When he came back out into the living room, the TV was on – some Christmas sitcom full of American twang, canned laughter and people in Santa hats. Carlene was on the couch staring at the TV screen, tissues curled into a tight ball in her hand.

‘Well,’ Reuben said. ‘I’m going. I’ll be in touch.’

Carlene kept her eyes on the TV. ‘Don’t expect me to be hanging around waiting for you to call.’

‘Right, I won’t.’

He stood there; bag in hand. The air was thick with emotions untapped, words unspoken. How had this happened? Last night they’d made love, Carlene tipsy after a couple of Christmas Eve drinks, giggling as she wrapped a piece of tinsel around his erect penis.
It’s only for a few days. Breathing space. For both of us.

As he turned to go, Carlene said, ‘I hope you’re not going to drive.’

Reuben looked at her blankly then down at the Barbiemobile keys in his hand. She was right. He’d probably be over the alcohol limit. The cops would be out in full force – the answer to his accommodation problem was not a hard bunk in a watchhouse cell.

‘Of course not,’ he said.

He left the living room before she had time to say anything else – there was no point in prolonging the moment. As he closed the front door behind him, a car horn in the distance shrilled the first line of ‘We Wish You a Merry Christmas.’

CHAPTER 27

‘Where to, mate?’

‘Twenty-four Hill Street New Farm, thanks.’

The taxi driver did a U-turn with a screech of tyres and headed in the direction of Gympie Road. Despite the cab being air-conditioned, there was a huge sweat stain across the back of his white shirt. He reeked of onions and cigarette smoke.

‘Had a good Christmas, mate?’

‘Yeah, fine.’

It’s not over yet. Maybe the next few hours will be an improvement
. Who was he kidding? Even Thommo hadn’t been too pleased to hear from him. Reuben had been just about to hang up when Thommo snapped, ‘Yes?’

He sounded out of breath.

‘It’s Reuben. I’ve got a favour to ask.’

‘Bloody hell, mate can’t it wait? This is not a good time.’

‘Sorry, I hate to do this to you on Christmas Day ... Merry Christmas, by the way.’

‘That’s not what I meant. What do you want?’

‘A place to stay. Just tonight. Carlene and I had a bit of a blue.’

He gave a loud sigh. ‘Whatever. My day’s ruined anyway, you may as well come over and finish it off.’

‘Thanks, I really appreciate it. What’s your address?’

Thankfully the cab had arrived within five minutes. Reuben stared out the window as they passed shops, warehouses and factories, still and blank-faced. There were few cars on the road and the odd sprinkling of pedestrians. Thankfully the cab driver didn’t pursue further conversation but turned up the music – Frank Sinatra belting out ‘My Way’. At least it was better than Christmas carols. Only just.

The cab turned into Fortitude Valley and down Brunswick Street. When Reuben had last lived in this city, The Valley, as it was known, was the ‘Kings Cross of Brisbane’, full of seedy strip clubs, drug dealers and streetwalkers. Now it was the home of ‘cool’, with its bold, shiny shopfronts, intimate pubs and glitzy nightclubs. The seediness was still there but it had gone underground.