Blood Ties (14 page)

I rushed to the bathroom and banged on the door. “Get out, Romi! I need some first aid,” I yelled. She exited the bathroom hastily, fully dressed, hairdryer in hand. “Finish your hair in my bedroom,” I directed as I rushed past her and rummaged through the bathroom cabinet until I found the plasters. I grabbed one and rinsed my wound under the tap, then used a tissue to mop up, before whacking on the plaster. Then as if nothing had happened, I went back to chopping, not before pushing the Sarge towards the shower. In my own home, I was an absolute dictator.

Romi and I chatted while she sat at the kitchen table and applied some makeup at eight-thirty on a Sunday morning, her hair freshly washed and beautifully styled to fall in loose curls around her shoulders. I felt sweaty and dishevelled near her, but my heart wrenched at the trouble she was taking with her appearance. Teenage crushes – I remembered how simultaneously exhilarating and devastating they were.

Dad rolled into the kitchen then and offered to keep chopping while I had a shower once the Sarge was done. I think my overwhelming body odour was making it easy for him to be so generous with his help. To give the Sarge credit, he was speedy in the shower but still looked well-scrubbed, his hair damp and the scent of an intriguing deodorant or cologne lingering behind him in the bathroom. I liked it – it was masculine but elegant, a word I didn’t get to use a lot around these parts. I felt a bit diminished that I didn’t recognise the scent. It was probably something famous and popular. Something designer. He seemed keen on designer brands, judging from his clothes at least.

Ten minutes later I was clean and dressed in a dark blue ankle-length floaty cotton skirt and tight black singlet top, barefoot and hair loose, with my knife snug in the belt around my hips. I made my way to the kitchen, only to find absolute chaos. I closed my eyes briefly in temper before opening them again, not before catching the observant eye of the Sarge.

“What are you two up to?” I asked Dad and Romi in a friendly voice, wading into the middle of the mess. There were eggs everywhere, a whole dozen in the bowl, drenched in fresh herbs. I took a deep breath. “Okay, this is what we’re going to do. Romi, you’re going to be responsible for coffee and tea. Start boiling the kettle. Dad, you’re going to set the table. Now would be good. Sarge, you’re going to enjoy being a guest and sit at the table waiting patiently for breakfast. You can even bang your cutlery on the table if you’re inclined to be obnoxious.” I gave him a half-smile over my shoulder when I said that, but if he did as I suggested I’d probably fling my knife into his skull. I guess he read that in my face too because he sat at the table obediently, hands in his lap, watching me carefully with those lovely eyes.

I turned all my attention to sorting out the mess of having twelve half-beaten eggs to turn into four omelettes. By the end of thirty minutes, I thought I'd acquitted myself pretty well and finally sank into a chair, the last omelette before me. It was tasty, light and fluffy – I’d done a good job after all. But I was so hungry by then I would have eaten a cardboard cutout of an omelette and enjoyed it as much. When finished, I carried my dirty dishes to the sink and started cleaning up, Dad and Romi long distracted by a chess game in the lounge room. A hand landed on my shoulder.

In a split second, before I could even think, I spun around, my heart thumping. I pressed my left forearm across his throat, pushing him backwards forcefully towards the nearest wall, my knife out and nudging his stomach, lips snarling and eyes fierce. It was just the Sarge, I finally registered, his eyes huge with alarm, his palms up in a signal of unconditional surrender. Exhaling heavily with relief, I relaxed and let him go, re-sheathing my knife.

“Best not to startle me,” I warned.

“Okay,” he said, regarding me with wary curiosity.

“I’ll never get used to you being here,” I admitted, shaking my head and laughing at my own over-reaction, turning back to the washing up.

“You won’t have to. I should be moving into the police house tonight,” he replied, his voice carefully neutral. Diplomatically, he didn't comment on what had just happened between us, but his eyes betrayed his desire for an explanation of my unexpected aggressive behaviour. I wasn’t in the habit of explaining myself to anyone though, and I wasn't going to start now.

“Look, if it doesn’t go to plan, then you’re very welcome to keep staying here,” I offered nicely, the perfect hostess, as if I hadn’t just tried to knife him in my own kitchen.

“I know. Thank you,” he responded with an admirable level of politeness.
But who would want to stay at a crazy, paranoid woman’s house one second longer than necessary
, I thought to myself dryly. Instead of running screaming for the front door though, he shoved one of my shoulders gently with his palm. “Go join your father. I’ll wash up.”

“Okay,” I agreed immediately and scooted. I didn’t watch the game though, but headed outside to give the patrol car its weekly wash. And I had to clean my disgusting boots as well. And I wanted to visit Des and Maureen before they finally left Little Town for good. And there were all those boxes at Miss G’s place to think about. It was going to be a busy Sunday, I sighed with resignation. There was nothing for it but to set to work. Sometimes it seemed as though my life was nothing but work, work and more work.

By the time the Sarge had finished in the kitchen and realised that I hadn’t done what he’d suggested, I was chamoising the patrol car, wiping the last streak of water from its shiny surface. I’d virtually cleaned the inside the day before, so gave it only scant attention this morning. I turned when he clattered down the stairs and smiled at him.

“There you go, Sarge. One sparkling clean patrol car for you. I guess you’ll be looking after it from now on?”

“You guessed correctly.”

“I’ll miss it,” I said regretfully, glancing over at its shining whiteness. “I can’t do burnouts in Dad’s Land Rover.”

He cut me a scathing look.

“I’m joking!” I assured him.

I tipped the dirty water onto the lawn and put everything away neatly. Then it was time to tackle my vomit-covered boots.
Yuck!
Thanks for nothing, Des.
I went to the front door where I had left them, only to find them gone. Puzzled, I peeked in my room where they were scrubbed clean and buffed to a nice shine, sitting neatly in my cupboard. Incredibly grateful, I went into the lounge room to kiss Dad on the top of his head and fondly ruffle his thinning dark brown hair, thanking him for being so sweet. It was a job I hadn’t been looking forward to at all.

I pulled up a chair and watched Dad and Romi play chess for a while. Dad was going easy on her, teaching her how to play properly. She was a very smart girl and a fast learner and it wouldn’t be long before the student out-mastered the teacher. When the Sarge also came in to watch though, her game fell apart and she became flustered and distracted. Dad and I winked at each other over her head and he beat her easily after that.

To overcome her dismay at failing in front of her new hero, I suggested we go down to Des and Maureen’s place and watch them move out. It was a big event because Des had been the town’s sergeant for over twenty years and half the town would turn up to watch the spectacle of him moving on. The Sarge offered to drive us there in his car and both Romi’s and my eyes lit up at the thought. But I had to turn him down.

“Sorry Sarge,” I told him, genuinely regretful, “but I have to take the Land Rover. I don’t think Dad’s chair would fit in your little car.” I noticed Romi smile to herself in secret delight. She was obviously thinking that she’d be alone with him. “You can come with Dad and me, Romi.”

“Thanks Tessie, but I’ll drive with Finn,” she said, turning to smile up at him sweetly.

“No, you’ll come with me,” I insisted firmly. “Abe wouldn’t be happy to learn that you were driving around with a man by yourself.” I looked over to my boss. “No offence, Sarge.”

Romi’s lips tightened and she opened her mouth to protest, but the Sarge spoke up first. “None taken. I’ll just catch a lift with you as well, Tess, if you don’t mind. We can go for a spin in my car another day.”

“No problems. We’ll head off soon, will we?” I said to him thankfully, pleased to avoid a teenage tantrum, no matter how mild and well-mannered it would be.

Romi recovered her normal good temper when she realised that she’d be sitting in the back seat with the Sarge.
Hmm, this crush could prove to be problematic
, I thought to myself. I’d have to have a quiet word with Abe about the situation when I had the chance.

The Land Rover was usually parked out the back of the house, near the ramp that we’d had installed for Dad, replacing the back stairs. He wheeled down the ramp, positioned himself next to the open passenger door and slowly hoisted himself up into the seat. It was getting harder for him to do that, but he was too proud to accept any help. Yet.

I pushed his chair back inside the kitchen, locked the house and jumped in the driver’s seat. At the Sarge’s questioning look, I told him that we kept a fold-up chair in the back of the vehicle for outings. It wasn’t as comfortable for Dad and he couldn’t sit in it for long periods of time, but it was handy and more portable than his permanent chair.

I drove carefully into town – I never hooned when Dad was with me. You couldn’t hoon in the Land Rover anyway. It was ancient and like a tank. There was no such thing as a three-point turn in the old beast. It hadn’t been new when Dad had bought it fifteen years ago, but it was reliable and a good work horse. And now that the Sarge was taking the patrol car away from me, it was my only set of wheels. The cute little silver Toyota hatchback I’d previously owned had been stolen about two months after I returned to town and driven into the water-filled abandoned quarry up near Big Town. The crime remained unsolved, but I knew it was one of the Bycrafts, most probably Chad. Who else?

My insurance company had eventually coughed up the money to replace it, but I’d never found the time to buy a new vehicle, instead using the patrol car for all my personal needs contrary to every official directive. Guess I should go car shopping soon. Only problem was that I’d already spent the insurance money on replacing some of the house’s rotten timber stumps and buying the dishwasher. I’d also bought a new fridge after the antiquated one that Dad’s parents had bought him as a wedding present finally died. We’d had to live without a fridge for seven weeks during the hottest part of the year before that godsend insurance lump sum was deposited into my bank account. And I hadn’t felt the slightest bit guilty using a lot of that money to replace the fridge, just so I could have a glass of chilled water again.

The brutal truth was that I didn’t have even one cent to buy a new car. That was probably a blessing in disguise though, because the Bycrafts would only just steal any new car that I did buy anyway. Or vandalise it. They especially loved to scratch obscene words into the paintwork of any vehicle I owned. The Land Rover had more graphic graffiti on it than a public bathroom at a train station. But there was no way I was going to waste good money to get it resprayed though, so Dad and I had little choice but to put up with it. And after a while we’d grown indifferent to driving around town in a profanity-ridden vehicle, complete with X-rated etchings. The townsfolk now jokingly referred to the Land Rover as the ‘Fuck-Off-Fuller Wagon’. I noticed the Sarge’s eyebrows lowering as he took in the graffiti when he climbed into the back seat next to Romi, but he didn’t say anything.

Romi, on the other hand, had everything in the world to say and chatted and giggled excitedly non-stop the entire drive to the police station. We all silently breathed a sigh of relief when I pulled into the station carpark. It was full, even the one parking space reserved for the disabled taken. That made me angry, especially when I saw that the car hogging that space was owned by someone whose only disability was that he’d been born a Bycraft. I left our vehicle idling and jumped out of the driver’s seat, stalking over to the gang of Bycrafts lazily lounging against the wire fence, smoking, swearing, a few even drinking despite the early hour. My Jake was smack bang in the middle of them.

“Oi!” I shouted at them, careful not to get too close. “Rick Bycraft! Get your arse over here right now and move your rust-bucket or I’ll book you for parking in a disabled spot.”

“You wouldn’t dare, piglet,” he swaggered in front of his family. They all sniggered.

“Wanna bet?” I said, fuming. No Bycraft called my bluff. I turned around, jogging up to the Land Rover, leaning over Dad and rummaging in the untidy glove box for a ticket pad. I stood next to Rick’s car and commenced writing out a penalty notice. The Sarge climbed out and stood beside me in support, arms crossed, watching with interest. I appreciated that. It was good to have someone on my side for once. Especially someone so big and muscular.

“All right, all right,” Rick grumbled, sauntering over, hitching up his jeans. He couldn’t afford to get a ticket, being as dirt poor as the rest of his family. “You’re such a sour bitch, piglet. I dunno what our Jakey sees in you.”

“Shut your cakehole and move this piece of shit now,” I ordered coldly.

He slowly climbed into his car, staring at me insolently the whole way. He revved the engine loudly a few times, spinning his tyres, kicking up gravel all over the Sarge and me, reversed with a skid, barely missing our Land Rover and fishtailed out the gates, flipping me his middle finger out the driver’s window. His family cheered and hooted him in encouragement. And yes, that included my Jake.

I jumped back in the Land Rover and quickly parked it, pulling the wheelchair out of the back, opening it and positioning it for Dad to manoeuvre himself into. He wheeled himself over to the police house on the cement path that ran between it and the station, heading towards a group of his friends, Romi at his side ready to help if asked.