Slights (17 page)

  I hoped no one could hear me lying. I hoped my invention was believable.

  "That's good. Good. You'll need that. Some of the things you'll see if you do make it as a cop…"

  "Like what?"

  "I don't want to give you nightmares."

  "Nightmares are only horror movies in my brain and I love horror movies."

  "Well, one time, we were called out to a scene, in the country. Isolated. I was working as a country cop, then, one of my first postings. Ya gotta go where they send ya."

  "Yep," I said.

  "So we get called out there. Seems one of the dogs was found miles away, limping, whimpering, mad with fear. He had been badly beaten. People tried to call the farm but no answer. There was only a small family living out there, husband, wife, teenage boy. People wondered about the boy; he'd been to school for no more than a year, and done so badly family and teacher had conspired to keep him home. You find out these things when you're a cop. People get nervous, talkative, and they didn't know me. I was the new kid, and they all wanted to be the first to tell me."

  "Like what?"

  "Like why the postmaster never talked to anyone, why there were so many in the McLaclan brood, why the town didn't have a local paper. All the little details they thought I needed to know.

  "The family on the farm, they were the Thieles. Been there a long time, and only a couple of smart ones amongst them. This little fella, honestly, they'd say, you could have taught a pig more. Pigs were considered pretty dumb around there. They ate a lot of pig meat. I still can't stand the smell of bacon cooking."

  "Why? Cos you ate so much of it?"

  "Partly that. And partly because of what we found at the farm. The first thing we saw as we were heading up the driveway was the tractor out in the field. Now that was odd, to start, because he was a neat fella, the locals said. Wouldn't leave his shoelaces undone. I was out with the captain, who didn't mind a bit of hands on, and he said, 'How are you feeling?' I've never forgotten that, how he knew so soon something was wrong. We reached the farmhouse. It smelt terrible; the only movement was from the flies, buzzing around like a black cloud. The pigs were skinny and dead in the sty, the mud cracked and dry around them. One had died on her feet; her ankles trapped into the now-solid mud. Three dogs lay huddled in a pile by the front door. The captain kicked them over with his toe. They had bled from the belly, each of them, the dog on the top black, the others a dark, rust red. How are you doing?" Dougie Page said.

  "Fine," I said.

  "That's good, because I was sick to my stomach by now. It was the smell, and the flies. I still hate flies. And we hadn't even seen what was inside, yet. We picked up a shovel to move the dogs away, and we had to jump over the sludge they left behind.

  "'Ted?' the captain shouted. 'Cathy? Rob?' There was no answer, but we hadn't expected there would be.

  "I thought it was bad, the animals. Then we found Cathy. The wife. She was hanging by a rafter in the kitchen. It was a big old farmhouse, sturdy, you could swing on the rafters. Like those pipes in your kitchen, but wood. She was in her underwear, and all swollen up like a dressed balloon. Things stuck out of bloodless holes; forks, knives, like someone had thrown things at her after she was dead. Like a porcupine."

  "Or an echidna."

  "That too. Even the captain felt sick. He went to the sink to splash his face. And found a hand there.

"She wasn't missing a hand.

  "There were ants all over the floor but I hadn't noticed. We stood there staring into the sink, and the ants started crawling over our shoes, up onto our shins and they nipped us until we were stirred into movement. We searched the rest of the house. On the lounge room table were spread text books and papers, Rob's lessons. Papers were screwed up, books torn, the table deeply scored, ink dried in a puddle around a crushed pen on the floor. I didn't know if we were supposed to speak. I hoped not, because I couldn't think of a thing. It was a long, low house, and we looked in every room. We found Ted, the father, in the yard, flat on his stomach. He'd been shot in the back. His hand was cut off."

  "And what about the son?"

  "Well, we figured it this way. He was angry at his lessons, couldn't do them. Threw a fit, whatever. We don't know what came first; did he shoot his father as he ran away, or did he knock his mother silly and string her up? When did he cut his father's hand off and why? It was too late to tell. We figured he just went about his business, then. We never figured why he cut his father's hand off, but beside it in the sink were plates, three or four dinners for one, from the leftovers. So he fed himself, he slept, he did a little work on the farm."

  "Where was he?"

  "Remember the tractor? His Dad never let him use it; everyone knew that. He went out and used it, though, and he got it stuck, and he didn't put the brake on. The thing rolled over him and didn't kill him. They could tell that much. He was trapped and there was no one to discover him. No one to miss him. Both legs caught under. We don't know how long it took him to die, but the maggots were covering most of his legs when we found him. Course, that could have saved him, from infection, anyway. But he was too far gone for that. He must have swiped the things off, while he still could. I know I would have. Really, I've never been keen on meat since."

  "I love meat," I said. "And maggots. I like 'em all white and wriggly. We've got a maggot farm in the backyard."

  "No such thing, sweetie," he said, but I'd seen them out there.

  He stayed for dinner, and I wanted to hear the story again. Especially the bit about the mother.

  "Tell me again," I said. "Cos Peter's really stupid, and I want to know if he's going to go mad like that kid in your story."

  "That's enough, Steve." Dougie Page was the one man who could have stopped me from what I did, but he never did. He stopped coming around when I was seventeen, and things went off the rails a bit. I wasn't at school anymore, and I didn't have a job, either. I quit working at the corner shop, and I got my courier job when I got my licence. That was a good time. I could get a lot of customers, cruising around like that. Mum paid for most things; other money I got from selling drugs at my old school.

  I blame peer group pressure for starting me on selling drugs. I didn't want to take them and that made me a loser. Mum never even noticed, and I used to do it right under her nose. I started by selling kids the pills Mum kept; she got a new sort every couple of weeks. She told the doctors, "I don't have any energy any more. I used to be on the go all day, running about."

  This was true. My memory of her is a fast-moving blur. She was always talking, singing, she drove us places, drove herself, she did night school and day school but never seemed stressed.

  The doctors looked at her dark eyes, swollen from lack of sleep. They all thought it was because she missed Dad so much.

  I only needed to sell kids a pill each, and I made up what the pills did. They all believed. I refused to sell more than one each; I didn't want trouble. Any collapses, unexplained vomiting, and it would all be over.

  That's where it began. The work found me, really; the simplicity of it, the need. People checked me out and offered me deals; and soon I was selling other stuff, leaving Mum's pills alone.

  She had a lot of pills. They kept her even. A bit blasé, meaning she left us alone a lot. Peter had girlfriends staying the night from the age of fourteen and Mum just smiled at them in the morning. She thought discipline was a father's role. She wasn't interested in it.

  It was a gap in my life; I never got to rebel against parental discipline. I think it makes you strong, standing against people who stood stronger than you all their lives.

  Selling drugs wasn't only an easy way to make a living; it was a way to rebel against Dad, even though he was dead. As I grew older, the kids who came to me were older and older. Every time I sent them away with a taste of oblivion, I wondered if Dad could see me from his cold room. I wondered if he noticed me. When I went up to the high school, I felt like I was back in the room, without the pain or the stink. I arrived at my spot down the back without announcement, but the kids knew I was there and they slowly came to surround me. I was relaxed and impressive. These kids looked up to me; all kids do. I like kids.

  They're ever-fascinated, envious, of my scars. I'm scary. Scars are as good as tattoos. They show me theirs, and I ask for the story, listen for the slight, and I say, "Not bad." I am always scarring myself. Knives and scissors. Every time I die, I leave a mark on myself. Those I didn't do were inflicted in the room and carried with me.

  I was popular for a while. Starting getting invited to people's eighteenths. Never happened when I was that age. For my eighteenth, I wanted to clean up the backyard and hire a marquee, have a garden party, invite everyone I'd ever met. But Mum and Peter thought that was a terrible idea. Now, the garden is a reminder of my humble roots; that someone had once told me what to do. Nothing was done to celebrate my eighteenth; not one thing. Peter gave me some perfume and Mum cooked me dinner.

  Peter held his eighteenth birthday in a pub, so I couldn't go cos I was only sixteen. I'm sure he did it on purpose. People raved about it for years, reckoned it was the best party ever. Dougie Page helped pay for it, organised the bus to take everyone home, everything. I found out later that half the people there were under eighteen, so I could have got in anyway.

Dougie banged on my door with a six-pack and a bottle of whisky. We sat on the back steps for a while. He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out Dad's special little camera. Dad would never let us look into it. I've seen others since; you hold the palm-sized thing up to your eye, aim at the light, press the button. There are images presented for you.

  The one I saw had clever little pictures of New York. Dad would never let me see into his one. I tried to steal it out of his pocket once and I was in trouble for being a thief. Others, I know, display nudity and sex.

  "He left it in the squad car," Doug said.

"But it was always in his pocket."

  "No, no, he took it out at work. Didn't like it going with him where he went." He handed it to me. I held it up to the light, pressed it against my eye and saw Mum, top half, nude, smiling, holding baby Peter, who was smiling, and the photograph was happy and perfect and who ever needed a fucking daughter, ay?

  I threw the thing into the yard. Dad had always loved mementoes; let this one join the sick pile in the back. Dad loved things from places we'd been: a napkin with curried egg from Peter's lips, a bit of glass from the window I smashed, everything kept about the place like it meant something. Once he died, Mum swept it all into a garbage bag, where it tumbled and broke in a jumble. That's what should have happened. What did happen; she kept it forever. Now I've got it all.

  "I'm sorry I took so long to give it to you," Doug said, His eyes on the spot the camera landed.

  "Not to worry, it's only been twelve years. Just as relevant now, don't you think?"

  He nodded, but he was distracted, staring at the curious bumps and mounds in the backyard.

  "Fixing it up back here," I said, and I showed him my muscles.

  "Your Dad used to tell us you always were good for a laugh, Steve," he said, but he didn't laugh. I gestured and we went inside.

  "I've always felt bad about you kids."

  "We've always felt bad too," I said, then grinned as if it was a joke. "Why? Wasn't your fault, was it?"

  "No, no. But I've felt responsible. Like I should have done something for you."

  "No good worrying now. Peter and I did just fine. And you were around a fair bit, Dougie. You were there."

  "I always knew you'd be all right, way your Dad talked about you kids."

  "Yeah, well, he would've been proud."

  "Oh, yeah. Yeah. Look at you, nice home, good job. That's what he wanted to see. He wanted you to be normal."

  "Why wouldn't I be?"

  "I don't know. Alex just struck me as the kinda guy who should never have responsibilities. He couldn't cope."

  "Of course he could, you fuckin' idiot. What are you talking about? He was the best father ever. Ever. I always felt so lucky, having him as a Dad. He was such a patient, calm man."

  Dougie stared at me in surprise.

  "Hang on – you are Alex Searle's kid, aren't you?"

  I laughed. "Of course."

  "He must have been a different fellow at home, then, love. I don't wanna upset you, but he was a funny man, your Dad. Put the fear of God into anyone who crossed his path. Violent and angry, love. Without speaking ill of the dead. He was a violent, angry man."

  "Get the fuck out of here," I said. "What the fuck do you want, anyway? Dad saved your life, right? And that's how you remember him. There's nothing here for you." I kicked him hard in the shins and he was suddenly afraid. "Why come here and tell lies? What's the point?"

  "I could tell you stories," he said. "If you'd listen."

  "I'm sure you're a lovely storyteller. Go tell it to someone who gives a fuck." I picked up his bottle of scotch and threw it onto the front path. It smashed satisfyingly. He shuffled through the broken glass, turned once at the gate.

  "Fuck off before I call the cops," I said.

  "We were the cops," he said. Like some fucking clever movie. Peter's voice, talking, talking, telling lies.

  "How about I go get some fixings for lunch, Stevie? Can I do that? I need to tell you what I'm finding out."

  I shrugged. I didn't want to hear what he had to say, but I couldn't help it.

  "Do whatever you want," I said.