Death in Brunswick Read online

  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. H
is 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.’

  She looked at him sideways with narrow black eyes.

  ‘Yeah. Great. Let’s get a cab.’

  He felt an erection growing embarrassingly in his jeans.

  ‘Oh, hang on, Sophie. You got any dough? I forgot to go to the bank. I’ll pay you back tonight. You’re working, aren’t you?’

  ‘It’s OK. Auntie Martha’s given me twenty bucks for Con.’

  They hailed a cab and sat in the back. She gave the driver directions to a street in Brunswick of which Carl had never heard.

  ‘Is that close to the club?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure is. I wouldn’t miss tonight with the Divinyls. There better be a big crowd. Yanni’ll go broke soon if it doesn’t pick up.’

  ‘Is that right?’ said Carl, thoughtfully. ‘Listen Sophie, what’s going on there? What really happened with Mustafa the other night?’

  She gave him a warning look and nodded toward the driver.

  ‘Nothing. I’ll tell you later.’

  They sat in silence as the cab turned up Sydney Road. She held his moist hand. He remembered with sudden panic certain episodes of shaming impotence.

  Maybe I wont really try. I’ll just see if I could if I wanted to.

  He looked at her profile. There was a bloom of fine dark hair on her upper lip. Her full mouth was slightly drawn up over her white teeth. She sat relaxed and quite composed. Despite her youth, her big Greek nose gave her real authority. He dropped her hand hopelessly.

  ‘How old are you Sophie, for God’s sake?’

  ‘Seventeen. Why? How old are you?’

  ‘Um…nearly thirty…one. I feel a bit old, compared to you, you know?’

  ‘What for? My girlfriend Helen, she’s married to this guy, thirty, and she’s only sixteen. Anyway, you don’t seem like as old as him.’

  ‘Oh, right, yeah, good.’

  He took her hand again. She smiled at him and tickled his palm. Starting, he looked round. The cab had turned left past the Town Hall and they were heading into West Brunswick.

  Here the houses were shoddy, jerry-built, twenties villas, all crumbling stucco and ugly little diamond paned windows. On their front porches sat shapeless black clad women. The streets were wider here and papers blew about in the gritty wind. Dark clouds loomed to the west over the freeway.

  The taxi drew up outside a block of red-brick flats. She paid the driver and they crunched over orange scoria spread on ragged black plastic. Discouraged palms drooped over a line of letter boxes stuffed to overflowing with advertising leaflets.

  ‘This is a real dump!’ She ran up the concrete steps. ‘Come on!’

  He tried to keep up with her. A studded belt was slung around her hips. He followed her round bottom. How do they get those jeans on? After the third floor, he was panting.

  ‘Where is it, for Christ’s sake?’

  ‘Here we are,’ she called down, her voice echoing in the concrete shaft. He plodded up slowly.

  She was unlocking a scarred front door. There were kick marks all over the lower part.

  ‘I bet that’s young Con.’

  ‘Yeah, but he’s not really a bad kid, just a bit of a smart-arse. Shhhh now. Come in. The neighbours are real nosey round here. They’re liable to tell Auntie Martha and she’ll tell Dad.’

  He looked round cautiously and saw a curtain move at the next flat. He slipped inside without telling her.

  She shut the door. Clumsily, he grabbed her.

  ‘Hang on. I’ll just pull the curtains.’ She moved away. ‘Want some coffee?’

  ‘Yeah, OK, I guess so,’ he said awkwardly.

  She went out. He looked around. Jesus! He was in a lounge room lined with what seemed a hundred icons and photographs. Melancholy Hellenic eyes followed him as he paced about restlessly.

  He sat down on a low couch covered with hard slippery green plastic. Facing him was an immense TV set. On the top, he saw with interest, was a collection of bottles. He got up and looked: Metaxas brandy, ouzo and some anonymous purple liquid. Glancing round, he had a quick swig of ouzo. Its aniseed flavour reminded him of sweets. He drank again. Wow! That’s stronger than I thought.

  He heard Sophie returning and sat down.

  ‘You like Greek coffee?’

  ‘Yeah. I don’t know. I never had any, I don’t think.’

  It was thick and sweet and went pleasantly with the taste of ouzo. He sat back.

  ‘What’s all these holy pictures? It’s like a church!’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said, giggling. ‘Auntie Martha’s really holy all right. Her husband got killed back home in Cyprus and she’s always trying to get hold of him. She has holy women round here all the time. They have…you know? Like in The Exorcist? Look, here’s Uncle Nick and here’s Dad.’

  Carl examined the photograph.

  ‘Which one’s your dad?’

  ‘Dad’s the biggest.’

  Oh yeah, he would be. A huge peasant with a heavy moustache glowered from the picture. He held a rifle in his knotty hands.

  ‘Jeez, he looks a bit…grim. Does he give you a hard time?’

  ‘Yeah, sometimes. I got in a bit of trouble a while ago, at school, you know, and he thinks no one’s going to marry me.’ She shr
ugged. ‘Ma sticks up for me. She’s all right but, ’cept she doesn’t speak any English and I don’t speak Greek too good now.’

  ‘What kind of trouble?’

  ‘With this guy at school. I was going to East Brunswick High and Dad took me away and sent me to a Greek school, but I left.’

  ‘Poor Sophie.’

  He put his arm round her.

  ‘It’s OK,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’m pissing off from home as soon as I save enough money.’

  ‘What does your old man think of you working at the club?’

  ‘He knows Yanni’s family. He thinks Yanni’s a nice boy—the fat suck! If Dad just knew!’

  ‘What do you mean? Jesus, that place gives me the creeps!’

  Carl stood up and nervously roamed round the room.

  ‘I’ll tell you another time.’ She was frowning a little. ‘Don’t worry about it. It’s nothing to do with you.’

  Carl sat down again.

  ‘Rotten place,’ he said fretfully. ‘I’m leaving soon anyway.’

  ‘Yeah? We didn’t think you’d last long.’

  ‘I’ll miss you though, Sophie.’

  ‘Oh yeah.’

  She put her hand on the back of his neck. Taking heart, he put his arms round her and pushed his hands up her T-shirt, stroking her warm smooth back, trying to work out the mechanism of her bra fastening. She arched her body against him.

  I’ll just go a bit further. He was haunted by memories of sexual fiasco. He gave up on the bra clip and moved to her front, cupping his hands over her breasts. How different bras are now. He remembered the sturdy constructions of his youth, all bones and rubber. His wife had never worn one. He thought of her aggressive pointed dugs with distaste.

  Sophie leant back in his arms with her eyes closed. She sighed deeply. Shit! I think she’s enjoying it.

  ‘Sophie, do you really like me?’

  ‘Yeah, of course. My girlfriend, Helen? She saw you the other day. She goes: “Carl’s a real spunk, like David Bowie,” with your blond hair and that. It’s really nice the way it’s all back at the sides.’

  He passed his hand over his head, remembering to avoid his temples.

  ‘Yeah, really. David Bowie, huh?’

  Encouraged, he continued his explorations, pushing his hand down at her back.

  ‘Ow!’