Luck in the Greater West (16 page)

Whitey left the cop station and headed straight for Booze World. The fuckwits came to get him at work. The pigs actually came into the shop and told the boss they needed to talk to Mr Patrick Irvine White. It was close to knock-off time, but he'd still get docked for leaving fifteen minutes early. Whitey doubted he'd keep his job after this. Sacked 'cause the pigs were stupid, stupid fuckwits. Whatever the fuck that was, it had fuck-all to do with him. Going on and on about Natalie and some other chicks. Giving me a piss test. Asking about Lebanese blokes who I sell to. Same shit as last time. And some other crap about forcing women to have sex. For a second Whitey had feared that Sonja's parents were trying to have him charged. But the questions were too wide of the mark for that. The only worry was the piss test. He hadn't had a smoke for a few days, but it was probably still in his system. Well, they'd let him go for now. But the pricks wouldn't give any documentation to prove that they'd fucked-up. His boss'd never believe that he was innocent of whatever it was they'd pulled him out of work for.

He was close to tears, but turned them back inside to evaporate into anger.

It was a fair walk to Booze World, but Whitey was flying. He could already see the barn-style roof reflecting the whiteness of the twilighting sun over the grey-green suburb.

—Whitey, mate. Haven't seen you in donkeys, Agro said, slapping the counter with his meat-tray hands.

—Yeah. How ya been? Whitey asked. He felt better. He had friends in the drug and alcohol industry.

—Not bad, mate. Not bad. What ya after?

—Somethin' ta get wasted.

—That's the spirit. In fact, I've got just the spirit for it. Agro pointed to the floor stack of Wild Turkey. Twenty-four bucks fa you, mate.

—Sold. I'll get a couple a cans for the walk too, Whitey said, taking his hands out of his pockets and grabbing a bottle.

—So. Got a job? Agro nodded at Whitey's Greedos garb.

—Maybe not fa much longer.

—That good, hey?

 

He could hear the voices in his flat as he approached the door. Sonja's brother and sister were over again. He put his key in and turned the worn lock.

—Patrick, Sonja said. What happened? The police were looking for you.

—So you told them where I work? Whitey grunted and put the bottle on the kitchenette bench.

—Of course not. I did let it slip that you were at work. They asked me where you worked but I said I didn't know. They said they'd check with the Welfare Centre.

—I've told you, don't trust 'em.

—I'm sorry. But I didn't tell them, Patrick, I promise.

—Yeah, okay.

—So what was it about? she asked, and ran her fingers through her sister's hair.

—I have no fuckin' idea.

—Hello, Patrick, Polly said.

—Hi, Poll. Sorry for the bad language.

—Hello, Patrick, Peter said.

—Hi, Pete.

Whitey opened the bottle and poured a glass half full of bourbon. He added a dash of Coke.

Sonja turned toward her sister and whispered something. Whitey snarled and drank off the glass. He poured another.

—Let's go back home, Sonja said, and touched her brother's shoulder.

—Bye, Whitey waved.

Whitey put on Anthrax's
Among the Living
and poured another bourbon. He had to put the glass down and air-drum to the title track. He then air-guitared the verse riff and drank off the bourbon. Another was definitely in order. He drank it. He'd totally forgotten why he was drinking until Sonja came into view and turned down the stereo.

—Leave it, Sonja, he said, and stumbled up to increase the volume again.

—It's way too loud, Patrick.

—‘Follow me or die', he said, complete with satanic hand sign.

—Patrick, settle.

—Don't be a bitch.

—Don't say that, Patrick. I'm not a bitch.

—Just let me listen to my music, okay?

—Why are you acting like this?

—Why do you think?

—I have no idea, Sonja replied, and turned down the stereo further.

—Because no matter what I do, the pigs come in and fuck me up. I mean, really, this time, I haven't done anything.

—Look, I'm sorry. But why are the cops always after you?

—'Cause I'm known.

—Will they ever leave you alone?

—I doubt it.

—It freaks me out a bit, Patrick. I mean, you're not bad, my dad's a much worse person than you are. But you can't seem to stay out of trouble.

—Yeah, well, this is their fucking trouble. Not mine.

—I don't think I can live with it, Patrick. The cops'll never leave us alone, will they?

—They'll never leave me alone.

—That's what I mean. I don't think I can live with it.

—Then go.

 

Sonja sat in front of the television, close, so she could hear it above the music. The dialogue meant nothing though. She'd never felt like this about Patrick. She'd never been angry with him. She hated it. She hated herself. She breathed deeply and tried to relax her tensed facial muscles.

 

—What? Whitey grunted at the old guy standing at his door.

—Jesus, Sonja said from behind Whitey.

Whitey turned to face her. He was at that stage of drunkenness where he was still aware of and comfortable with the slowness of
his movements and reactions, and not afraid to cock his head, slowly, like a confused beagle.

—That's my — she began, and looked past Whitey to the man. Dad, what are you doing?

—Sonja. Is this him? Zakhar asked.

—What's going on, Dad?

—This is not right, Sonja. I think it is time things change back.

—What the fuck's goin' on? Whitey snarled. Is this ya dad?

—Yes, she replied.

Whitey tried to focus on the man. He had something of Sonja's eyes about him. Other than that, this man was totally foreign to him.

—Look, mate, Whitey said. This is not a good time. I've had a cun — I had a shit day today.

—I think Sonja should come back tonight, Zakhar said.

—Come back? Come back where?

—To her home.

Zakhar was suddenly in the flat. Whitey hadn't noticed him walk past. Sonja had just as suddenly sat down. The two were talking. Whitey couldn't think what he should do. His senses totalled tasting the bourbon coming back up his gullet. But in the next second he'd grabbed the man by the back of his shirt.

—Get out, Whitey growled.

Somewhere Whitey heard Sonja say
Don't
. And the room was murky. One of them slapped him. Across the cheek. Whitey pushed out blindly, and all three hit the carpet.

Whitey got to his feet as quick as if he were sober. Sonja was lying down, holding her shoulder. Her father had sat up.

 

Sonja had expected one of her parents to come to the flat eventually; they were virtually next-door neighbours, after all. She
thought it would be her mum though. And if it ever was her dad, she assumed it would be because he was drinking again. He seemed sober. And most of all, he seemed strong. She felt herself loving him again, or even loving him for the first time, involuntarily, and painfully in her chest, and in a way she'd wished she could always love him. And then, like some stupid school drama production, all three players had crashed to the floor.

She'd hurt her shoulder. But the pain was nothing compared to the tsunami of emotions that had dumped her. Patrick looked too young next to her father. He looked like a kid who'd just tipped a fish tank onto the carpet. And her father. Who got up off the floor without looking like the rickety old drunk he usually did, and spoke evenly to Patrick.

—Sonja will come back with me tonight. We can talk tomorrow, or when you are sober.

—Dad, let me talk to him for a minute, she said.

She could tell that her words stunned Patrick. Far more than her father's slap to his face.

—Shut the door, Patrick ordered as her father walked out.

—Look, Patrick, she began. There must be something going on at home. Maybe I should go back with him.

—Home? Isn't this your home?

—Yes, but so is my parents' place.

—Oh. Piss off then. Go with 'im.

 

Whitey looked around the flat for the bottle after they'd left. He'd begun to think that Sonja's father had taken it with him until he found it on the stove, far more depleted than he thought it'd been.

Abdullah could hear his mother through the metal and reinforced-glass door. It pissed him off. She was goin' on and on in Lebanese about his cousins. How it was Dad's fault for not severing ties with his brother once they'd moved to Australia. Abdullah wished his cousin and uncle were here now. It was pretty mad to be in the lock-up. Proved toughness. But there was no one to share it with. And it was gettin' fuckin' old: just sittin' here, listenin' to Mum, and not knowin' what the fuck else was goin' down.

He'd been charged. Assault. Sexual Assault. Detaining Without Consent for Advantage. It'd all get sorted though. Once they'd listened to the full story. Surely these fuckin' pigs'll be able to see they were just fucks. They won't even tell him which chicks were sayin' shit about him. He didn't know the names of all the chicks he'd fucked anyway. Fuck. That sounds mad. He'd had so many bitches he didn't even know all their names. Surely these fuckin' Aussies'll understand: Aussie chicks are sluts. Ya fuck 'em, but don't marry 'em. Who'd marry a chick who all ya mates've been through too? Guess Aussie blokes have to, 'less they marry a wog chick.

A cop unlocked the door and opened it a little.

—Your mother wants to speak to you, mate, but we're going to have to take a statement off you first. You can have legal advice at this stage if you wish.

—What's legal advice? Abdullah asked.

—Obtain a solicitor, or call yours if you have one.

—Nah, I wanna tell youse my side.

—Won't be long, mate.

The cop smiled as he closed and relocked the door.

Whitey woke up on the floor. He looked over at the bed. It was empty. He sat up and looked at the clock. Nine-thirteen. It must be am. Shit, is it a weekday? Friday. Late for work. Did Sonja go to school? He couldn't remember much since arriving home from the cop station. Except the dim lighting in his flat (the ceiling bulb was still on), and a thick, numb feeling about Sonja. She was going to leave him. Or had left. He knew that much. Not from memory. From the atmosphere in the flat.

He got up and stripped off his dampish clothes. He stumbled into the shower because he'd been working long enough now for it to be an involuntary thing. The sliver of soap was having trouble penetrating the alcoholic sheen on his body. As long as it could hide the stink. He dressed in his unironed shirt and pants and crossed the vacant streets to Greedos.

The coffee made him nauseous. He headed out of the tearoom to go for a spew and saw Mr Hardy, who looked at his watch.

—Mr White. Everything all right?

—Yes. It's all sorted out. It was a mistake.

—What was a mistake? Mr Hardy asked, and swapped a handful of papers to his other hand.

—The police. You know. How they came here yester—

—No. I think you've made a mistake. Patrick, you'd better come up to the office, mate.

Whitey's nausea receded, but it left his brain and face on fire. There was ice in his legs though.

—I made my own inquiries with the police yesterday, Patrick, Tom Hardy said as he got behind his desk.

—Then you know it's a mistake.

—They told me you have a criminal record, Patrick. In fact, you've been incarcerated.

—Yeah —

—It's up to each store manager to make a decision about employing individuals with criminal records, Patrick, and I think, due to yesterday's little visit occurring during your probationary period, I'll have to let you go.

—Let me go? That's the sack, isn't it?

—It's the sack, yes.

—Should I go now, or do I have to work the rest of the day?

—You have to work the rest of the day.

But Whitey crossed back over the highway ten minutes later.

Sonja had felt strong all day. She'd felt more like a woman than she ever had before. But now, as she pulled the clothes out of the bag she'd brought from Patrick's flat back to her parents', she cried. Just tears and a shiver. But it was crying; and she hadn't felt it coming. It was just sad. Sad to think of him over there and herself here. Her clothes looked sad. She wiped the tears off her cheeks. Because he was probably drunk again. And it wouldn't be long before another visit from the police. But he would hug her now. And that was so important. Jesus. What had she talked herself into?

But there was no one else she could talk to but herself. Not her parents (they'd just tell her to forget him, come home), nor the other kids at school (they wouldn't know what the hell to say), nor her teachers (she still loved Patrick; she didn't want to get him into more trouble). But that was the problem. He was trouble. He didn't mean to be. But he'd always be in trouble. The only way he'd ever have any decent money would be from living just outside the line of trouble. It was the only way he'd ever known. They'd had money when he was selling drugs. Since he'd been working they'd been poor. He seemed to be able to handle it. But Sonja found it
depressing. She'd never experienced anything beyond poor since her family had emigrated, and had never really expected to. And it wasn't the extra cash she and Whitey didn't have now so much as the loss of any spontaneity in their lives. It was just lean and boring. Except for him coming home drunk more often. Or bringing booze home. She could never imagine Patrick going back to school. She'd asked him a few times whether he'd consider going back to school. He didn't even realise you could complete high school as an adult. He'd laughed at it. And university; he'd said he didn't know exactly what that was. He would never have a good job. Or a well-paying job. And it wasn't because he didn't deserve it. Patrick was a good person. He was really the best person she'd ever met. But his life was the way it was. Sonja had absolutely no idea how she would go about changing Patrick, or even suggesting changes to him.

Sometimes she'd hear other girls at school talking. Talking about their boyfriends. Their boyfriends all sounded like kids. And it made her feel good to know that she had a man. But she'd also hear them talk about what their boyfriends did. University, apprenticeships, working toward things. And the plans — however shallow and probably unrealistic — that the girls would talk about made Sonja feel as if she'd missed a whole era of her life. As if her plans had been made — she'd decided to become an adult, at sixteen.

Moving back with her family presented itself as a fresh start for her. A clean page, with a sober father. And a clear mind. But it was going to be complicated, she could tell.