Death in Brunswick (9 page)

‘All right, Mother, I'll just have a wash and I'll be off.'

‘If you
must
, Carl. I was looking forward to a quiet chat this afternoon. I've hardly seen you since I arrived.'

‘Don't worry, Mother, I only have to work two hours tomorrow arvo and I'll have all Sunday free.'
Christ! What a thought—a quiet chat.

Carl went out into his bathroom. It was a rather squalid lean-to at the back of the kitchen. Some former tenant had painted it dark green in an attempt at hiding the mould and cracks in the plaster. There was a stained bath at one end with an old-fashioned shower rose perched insecurely over it. He took off his clothes and stood in the bath, turning on the taps and waiting. The water pressure was weak and the hot water system unpredictable. Eventually there came a lukewarm trickle.

Shit! Mother must have had a bath this morning—bugger all hot water left. What a place! Still, Mother couldn't put up with this sort of thing much longer—after South Yarra! She must go back, in what? Twelve days—not that long. How everyone used to be thrilled at living in these bloody dumps—how I hate them now.

He remembered how he and Dave, in their youth, had shared a house in Carlton—the Latin quarter of Melbourne. Dave had been a student and Carl an apprentice. How romantic they had thought the rows of dark, crumbling terraces and the Italians and Greeks who couldn't wait to get out of them and escape to the clean air and open spaces of the outer suburbs.

The two boys had fallen easily into the raffish antinomism of middle-class inner-suburban slum life. Dave had become the socialist he still was, but Carl's revolt had never taken him beyond drugs and the cliches of the dropout. As Dave said, ‘From angry youth to peevish middle age!'

Now Carl stood under the cooling water, knowing that living as he did was no longer a matter of choice. Still, he could hope.

Maybe I could cook full-time and afford somewhere better—till Mother dies anyway. Then…No, I can't work full time—my nerves…I'd be drinking like a fish. At least these dumps are cheap.

He stepped out of the bath; the concrete floor felt clammy and unpleasant. On the wall facing him was a big cloudy mirror. He saw his reflection swim forward in the sub-aqueous gloom. He looked with distaste at his skinny arms and the slight pot belly beginning under his bony chest.

Ugh! I look like a fish. A rabbit fish—Sophie'll go mad, I
don't
think. To work!

He blew dry his thin blonde hair, teasing it carefully at the crown, applying more than the usual amount of hair gel.

After all Sophie'll be seeing me in the daylight. Thank Christ I'm seeing her in the foyer—that was good thinking. It'll be a bit darker in there—God! I can't see a thing in here.

He opened the door; hanging on the back was his mother's shower bag. He had a look inside. There was a clutter of make-up and scent bottles. He sniffed a few and dabbed one under his arms.
A bit overpowering but sexy!

He looked in the mirror again. A cruel shaft of light from the door showed the patches of broken veins across his nose and cheeks and the puffiness under his eyes.
Jesus! Maybe I shouldn't have hit the tequila quite so hard last night.

Looking again in his mother's bag he found some liquid make-up. Tentatively he dabbed it onto his face. The difference was impressive. He thought he looked quite healthy—a new discovery! Now he could see why old ladies wore so much slap.

I suppose it's a bit faggoty but—‘desperate remedies'.

His confidence somewhat restored, he wrapped a towel round his waist and went inside.

‘Dear, you are getting thin,' said his mother, as he hurried nervously through the lounge room. ‘Never mind, I'll see that you eat properly from now on. If you're looking for a clean shirt, I ironed them all this morning. They were all screwed up in your chest of drawers. You really must learn to fold them.'

‘Mother! Can't I even have a bit of privacy!'

‘Now, dear, I thought you'd be pleased—what are you hiding in that room anyway? “We'll have no locked boxes” as the dear nuns used to say.'

‘Yeah, OK. Well, sorry, Mother, thanks. It's just that my room's a bit grotty.'

The shirts were neatly stacked on his chest of drawers. He put one on, enjoying its crispness, then a clean pair of black jeans, pink socks and his ripple soles.
OK. But not quite flash enough.
He tied a scarf loosely round his neck, bandanna style. He looked in the mirror.

Not bad—will I take my leather jacket? It's pretty hot and I don't want to be sweaty…I'll carry it. What time is it? Shit! I'll be late.

‘Well, goodbye, Mother. Um…I'll be going straight to work after, so I won't see you tonight. Will you be right for tea and that?'

‘I suppose so, Carl. Your sister's coming over this evening. I know she'll be sorry to miss you!'

‘I
do
have to go to work, Mother.'

‘Yes, dear, I know. I'll see you tomorrow.'

She held up her face to be kissed. He bent over her.
Shit, she
is
pretty old.

He shuffled a bit, then hurried out.

As he left, she called after him:

‘Don't forget I want you to change your name back, dear. After all, it's Charles in the will!'

*

He walked to the tram fuming again.

Shit! I've been Carl for twenty years. She's just like a vampire. She wants to take my…my soul.
He did feel threatened in a very basic way.
Take it easy—she'll forget about it—she better!

In Lygon Street he bought a paper and while waiting for the tram turned to the Amusement Section.

Alien BattleStar,
Cinema Centre, Bourke Street.
Oh yeah, right—how long since I've been to the pictures?
He couldn't remember. Was it a revival of
Citizen Kane
?

The tram arrived, throwing up a cloud of grit in the hot sunshine. As he got on he felt acutely self-conscious. It was full of school children on holidays and he felt that they were all staring at him. He thought he heard muffled giggles. What was wrong?
Maybe I am a bit…overdressed?
He unknotted the scarf behind the newspaper and slipped it into his pocket.

The tram ground its way a kilometre down Lygon Street into Carlton. He looked up from his paper. He thought nostalgically of his time here with Dave.

We did have a good time, but who can afford to live round here now? Doctors and bloody lawyers, that's who.

The Victorian terraces gleamed with fresh paint and brass door knobs glittered on stripped doors; in the shopping centre were lines of smart restaurants and gourmet delicatessens.
Maybe I could get a job up here.

He dismissed the idea. He knew he just wasn't good enough any more. He looked with envy and irritation at the well-dressed groups outside fashionable coffee shops; tall leggy blondes strode into hairdressers.

The tram stopped outside the university. A single passenger got on—a tall, shabby man in middle age with long greying dark hair. He carried a shoulder bag stuffed with dog-eared books and papers. A big earring dangled from one ear.

Jesus! That looks like Paddy Smith.
Carl hid behind his newspaper too late.

‘Hi, Carl. Long time no see.'

‘Hi, Paddy. What're you doing?'

‘This and that, mate. You still cooking? Good money in that?'

‘Yeah…I'm, I'm working in this flash restaurant ah…in the city. Five and a half hundred a week.'

‘Yeah? Amazing! No shit! Listen mate, can you lend us ten bucks? I'm on the dole and me cheque didn't come.'

‘Jesus, Paddy. I haven't got much cash on me.'

‘All credit cards now, eh? Well how about five.'

Carl handed over the money reluctantly.

‘Where you living now, Carl? We never see you round the traps any more.'

‘Ah. Right. Well, I bought a house in…
Kew.
I don't get in much.'

‘Well, good to see you, mate. Glad you've kicked on.'

The ageing hippie got off and the tram rumbled into the city.

Why do I do it? If I hadn't told such lies I'd be five dollars richer. Now I'll have to go to the bank. Why try and impress an arsehole like that? Jesus—look at the time!
He jumped off the tram and jogged up Bourke Street looking for the cinema.

*

He arrived outside with five minutes to spare. There was a huge crowd of kids pushing and shoving. He stood panting, looking at them in dismay. Staring round wildly, he saw a pub on the other side of the road. He darted through the traffic and into the cool bar.

‘A vodka and tonic thanks!'

He pulled out his money.

Shit, how much is the movies anyway? I might have to pay for her and the kid as well.
He swallowed the drink thirstily.

‘Give us another.'

Feeling better, he dodged back across the road and pushed his way through the mob into the foyer. There seemed to be hundreds of short dark girls with little children. His eye roved over a long queue at the ticket counter. Suddenly he saw her. She sat quietly near a video game. A little dark boy was leaping at the machine.

Carl slipped back into the crowd and found the toilets. Gazing into the mirror he felt a little dizzy—everything was slightly blurred. But he looked all right—quite healthy really.
Must be the exercise.
He went out.

‘Hello, Sophie, that your cousin?'

‘Hi, Carl. Yeah, that's Con. He's a real little suck. He's been driving me mad all day.'

She seemed rounder and younger than he remembered; she wore a striped T-shirt and stretch jeans.

God, look at those boobs! I'm too old—I'll be arrested!

Embarrassed he said: ‘I'll just get the tickets, shall I.'

‘We got ours already.'

‘Oh, right. Well…'

He joined the end of the queue which was shorter now.

Christ. Six dollars fifty! Just as well she…
He got the ticket and wandered back. Con had finished the game and joined his cousin. Carl and he looked at each other with mutual dislike.

‘Hey, Soph. What's he got on his face?

Shit, you little cunt!

‘Ah,' said Carl, ‘I got this rash.'

‘Shut up, you little suck,' said Sophie, seizing the child's hand. ‘Don't you take any notice of him. Come on!' And they went into the theatre.

It was a maelstrom of noise. The film had started and every child was shrieking at the top of its voice. The screen was awash with meaningless images and the soundtrack was a huge, frightening roar.

Totally disorientated, he stumbled down the aisle after Sophie and Con. The only vacant seats were right in the front. He retained enough sense to surreptitiously kick Con out of the way and sank down next to the girl. Con's cry of rage was lost in the general clamour. He stared at the screen in total bewilderment. More for comfort than with any erotic intent he put his arm round Sophie's plump shoulders. She leaned her head to his. He smelt chewing gum. His head spinning with noise and vodka, he closed his eyes.

Despite the tumult he dozed a little. Suddenly, he was awake. He opened his eyes. Beings, creatures from his worst alcoholic nightmare, groped and slithered across the screen. His heart thumping, he hid his face in Sophie's neck.

Shit! This is a kids' show?
He couldn't look, but now he
did
want to…

His hand strayed over her ripe bosom. She turned her head and he kissed her soft mouth. She responded with vigour. He felt her minty tongue pushing against his lips. Afraid she would taste his rotten teeth he closed his mouth. He squeezed a big breast.
This is more like it.
He remembered the matinees of his boyhood, the breathless excitement of his first sexual fumbles in the back row.

He slipped his hand under her T-shirt. Just then the screen exploded with light. A localised increase in the sound level showed that his advances had not gone unnoticed by the surrounding children.

‘Hey mister! Want some pepper and salt?'

‘Get your hand out of there. Dirty bugger!'

‘Jesus, Sophie!' he cried in her ear. ‘Do we have to stay here?'

‘No, I seen it three times already. Con's seen it six times. Hang on. Change places.'

There was a fierce exchange between the cousins, which he couldn't hear, but he saw money change hands in the gloom fitfully lit by enormous explosions on the screen. She grabbed his hand and led him up the aisle. He heard treble voices cutting through the roar:

‘Hey mister, give her one for me!'

Acutely embarrassed, he took her arm. She was shaking with laughter.

The foyer was comparatively quiet. He shook his head.

‘Jesus, is that really a kids' show? I couldn't watch
Psycho
all the way through till I was twenty-five!'

‘Yeah. That's nothin'. Con's seen
Night of the Living Dead
eight times on his mate's video. You should see that!'

She explained the plot of that noisome masterpiece as they got out into the street.

The sunlight struck him like a blow. He looked away, fumbled his sunglasses from his leather jacket and put them on, first wiping his face with his scarf.
Too much of that make-up. Trust that little prick to notice.

‘What about Con?'

‘He's all right, he'll come on the tram. He does it all the time. He really is a little bugger. He goes: “I'll tell on you to Uncle George for carrying on with a guy”. That's my dad. So I had to give him three dollars.'

*

They walked slowly up the street. She put her arm round him and slipped her hand into the back pocket of his jeans.

‘Where can we go?' he asked diffidently.

‘We could go to Auntie Martha's flat. She's out till six and I have to be there when Con comes back.'