The Dark Part of Me (26 page)

What was he playing at? Did he want to apologize? Unbloody-likely. I knew him for what he was now and I despised him – for rooting Trish and for what he’d done to Danny. This was my
chance to tell him what a piece of scum I thought he was.

‘Yeah. Fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll get my car.’

Scott got in and we took off, the Falcon tailing. Being Christmas, the roads were eerily empty. For the first few minutes, we didn’t speak. Scott stared out the window. I planned my
attack, trying not to inhale the sexy smell of him, sitting bare-chested so close to me. I was still in my bikini. Scott leant forward and pumped the air-con.

‘Do you mind?’ I snapped. ‘It’s freezing.’

‘It’s fucking boiling.’ He jabbed it off. ‘What’s up your bum?’

‘Nothing’s up my bum.’

As the temperature rose around us, we sped along in frosty silence up the hill, past my old primary school and the used car yards, shooting the lights on orange. I simmered, waiting for the
right moment to let rip. Scott turned to me and smiled.

‘I’ve been thinking about us a lot lately,’ he said. ‘About the good times we had before I went away.’

‘Have you now?’ I said, thinking about him rooting Trish and not bothering to visit me at the hospital.

‘Yeah. We had something special, didn’t we?’

‘Maybe. Maybe not.’ He’d fucked Trish. He’d fucked Danny over.

We pulled up on the side of the road. I cut the engine and sat looking out the window at Dad’s shabby block of brick units. Scott’s lips brushed my bare shoulder. His hands were in
my hair.

‘Don’t,’ I said, pushing him away.

We got out of the car and waited on the pavement for Mr Greenwood and Dad. From the house across the road, I could hear a kid singing ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas’ accompanied by
the tinny tape recording. As soon as the song finished, there was loud clapping and adult laughter.

‘Rosie… ’ Scott started.

‘What?’

‘Merry Christmas.’

‘Yeah, whatever,’ I said, wondering why he was being so nice. He started humming the carol we’d just heard. ‘Stop that, would you?’ I said, prodding him with a
stick. ‘It’s really annoying.’

‘Sorry,’ he said, sheepishly.

A second later the Falcon turned the corner and glided to a halt. Mr Greenwood bounded out of the car and opened the back door. He pointed at Dad, cop-style. ‘Nice and slow out of the
vehicle, Trevor. No funny business now.’

Dad scowled at him. ‘I’m not budging till you take these bloody handcuffs off me. You can’t treat a bloke like this!’

‘I think you can take them off him now,’ I said to Mr Greenwood.

‘The offender should be confined before removal of restraint,’ he prattled.

‘Give it up, Dad,’ said Scott. ‘It’s Rosie’s old man, not Hannibal fucking Lecter.’

‘Language, boy,’ said Mr Greenwood, but he removed the handcuffs anyway.

‘Go easy on me, big fella. You’re not a copper any more,’ Dad slurred, getting out of the car and tripping over the gutter. I took him by the arm. ‘Thanks,
daughter,’ he said, quietly.

Dad’s bedsit was at the top of a three-storey block, but I’d never been inside before. For a long time after the accident, Mum wouldn’t let me near him and then, when I was
older, we’d always meet up on neutral territory. As we trooped up the stairwell, the air was damp and musty, and I dreaded to see what his place was like. We stopped outside the front door;
13b with the paint peeling off. I turned back to Dad for the keys. He fumbled in his pockets, his hands unsteady and his eyes watering, then he passed me a single grubby key tied to a loop of
string. I unlocked the door and pushed inside.

It was the smell which hit me first; the smell of damp and moth-balls, stewed prunes and stale beer. It hung thick in the air, clinging to my skin like Mum’s invisible germs. As I checked
out the place, I thought how much she’d hate it. How disgusted she’d be at the unwashed plates stacked high in the sink, the litter of crunched-up tinnies scattering the carpet, the
uneven matchstick blinds cloaked in a decade of dust. It was embarrassing to have Scott and Mr Greenwood see it. I pictured all the lonely nights, weekends, years Dad had spent in this dive. He had
an alright job selling life insurance, so I couldn’t understand why he didn’t get somewhere decent. There was little, if any, decoration, except for his trusty, plastic Buddha, which
sat on top of the telly, and, on the back wall, my old favourite, the vegetable poster which used to cover one of Dad’s kicking holes in the hallway. I went up to it and stared at the smiling
carrot and couch potato and the peas in their cosy pod. It was like seeing old friends again.

Dad had opened a fresh beer and was loading one of his beloved cricket videos into the machine. Scott and Mr Greenwood were standing around looking uncomfortable and sipping on Fourex tinnies
which Dad must’ve given them. I glanced over at Scott and he winked at me like we were all sweet and rosy again. I still had no clue as to why he’d come, what he was trying to
prove.

‘What’ve you got there?’ Mr Greenwood asked as the telly buzzed with snow.

‘Most legendary Test of all time. Centenary Test, 1977. Me and my mates, Keith Tillney and Dicky Coombes, went down to Melbourne on the Greyhound. Still reckon it was the best day of my
life. You were only a couple of weeks old,’ he said pivoting around to me. Typical. Mum’s got postnatal depression and Dad runs off to watch cricket with his beer buddies.

‘The Poms were alright then,’ quipped Mr Greenwood. ‘They put up a decent fight.’

‘Yeah. S’pose. That fidgety 174 from Randall.’ He jabbed fast-forward on the remote, lifting his finger at exactly the right spot. ‘Greig bowling to Hookesy. Take a look
at this cameo knock-fest.’ They were spellbound as the Aussie batsman slogged five fours in one over. Each time Hookes hit a four, Dad leapt up, sloshing beer on the carpet. By the end of the
over, Mr Greenwood and even Scott were doing the same. ‘And then there’s Marshy’s golden century.’ Dad pressed pause and dashed across to the bar fridge for more beers. I
followed him into the kitchenette.

‘Don’t you think you should slow down a bit?’ I said, standing in front of the fridge.

He made one of his awful scrunched-up grimaces. ‘Arrghhh, Jesus, yer sound just like your mother. Can’t a bloke have a few on Christmas Day?’ He pulled the beers out of the
fridge and replaced them with warm ones from a carton on the floor, before padding back to the telly. I decided to do the washing-up. There was no detergent, so I used coal tar shampoo from the
bathroom. I fished the crud-encrusted plates out of the sink, filled it with scalding water and set to work picking the gunk off with my fingernails, squirting the coal tar at the grime while Dad
dragged Scott and Mr Greenwood down his memory lane. The next time he got up for more beers, he came over to the sink to see what I was doing. He picked up one of the freshly washed plates and
stared at it for a long time, turning it over and over, inspecting it from every angle.

‘Good work,’ he said, pulling three more cans out of the fridge.

Mr Greenwood’s mobile went off. ‘Yes, love, we’re on the way.’ He hung up and turned to Scott. ‘You’d better come, too, boy. Now that your mother’s got
over the shock of your big announcement, she’ll be wanting to celebrate.’

My guts slurried. Celebrate? Celebrate what? I waited for Scott’s response. I lowered the plate into the sink and listened, my ears grown elephant-sized.

‘Tell them I’ll be home soon. Rosie’ll give me a lift.’ Scott raised his voice and shouted, ‘Won’t you, babe?’

‘What?’ I shouted back, like I hadn’t been eavesdropping.

‘Give me a lift home?’

‘Yeah, alright.’ Perhaps he wanted to apologize for not coming to see me in hospital after all. Or come clean about Trish. One thing was for sure, I’d find out what he had to
celebrate. Mr Greenwood headed for the door.

‘Thanks for the beers, Trev. You watch yourself, now. Next time I won’t be so easy on you.’ He took the cuffs out of his pocket and shook them at him, grinning.
‘I’m warning you, mate.’

‘Arrhhh, shut ya gob, Bill,’ said Dad.

‘Don’t be too long now, boy,’ Mr Greenwood nodded at Scott. ‘Sooner or later you’ve got to face up to your new responsibilities.’

I stepped out of the kitchenette. ‘Merry Christmas, Mr Greenwood.’

‘Yeah, you too, Rosie.’ He winked at me and disappeared out the door.

I stood for a while in the lounge room. Lillee was bowling. Dad was sitting forward in his chair and Scott was leaning against the armrest, riveted to the telly. It gave me a warm feeling,
seeing them together. I headed back into the kitchenette to finish the dishes, but within a few minutes there were raised voices coming from the lounge room.

‘But everyone reckons the Aussies are better than ever,’ argued Scott.

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about, son. The new breed may be pretty slick on the one-dayers but they haven’t earned their Test stripes yet. Not in my book,
anyway.’

Scott wasn’t backing down. ‘Nah, Mr Williams, you’re behind the times.’

‘Hey, now you listen here, you little twerp. You bloody watch what you’re saying.’ I recognized the switch in Dad’s voice, the menacing rumble which foreshadowed a
violent outburst. A plate I’d been drying slipped out of my hands and smashed on the floor. My ears burned hot and my neck stiffened. Dad came storming in, his rage quickly transferred from
Scott to me.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’

‘It was an accident,’ I stammered, kneeling down to retrieve the broken pieces. He loomed over me, his fists clenching in and out by his side. Beyond him, I could see Scott, hovering
in the background, not knowing what to do. Dad took a step closer, a piece of plate crunching beneath his soaked tennis shoe. I bowed my head and continued collecting the bits of broken plate into
a pile.

‘Leave that!’ he boomed at me. ‘Look at me!’ He kicked the pile of bits out of the way and dug into my shoulder with iron fingers.

‘That hurts!’

‘Look at me!’

I forced my head up. His rough hand moved over my face like a blind man’s. I closed my eyes and prayed that he wouldn’t hurt me. He twisted back my fringe, pulling the hair off my
forehead.

‘Rosie, are you alright?’ Scott called out.

‘Mind your own bloody business!’ Dad roared.

I stood up. Dad was tracing one thick finger up and down the ridge of the scar. Not daring to open my eyes, I let him stroke away until my whole head was suffused with a cool, tranquil calm.

I opened my eyes. ‘Dad?’

He looked away, shielding his face with one big hand, as if ashamed of his emotions.

‘It’s OK,’ I said, not sure if I should hug him.

He let out a huge groan. I reached across, my fingers resting lightly on his forearm. He turned to me with bloodshot eyes.

‘It was an accident,’ I said, patting my fringe back into place.

‘No, it wasn’t,’ he said. ‘It was my stupid bloody fault. I could have killed you.’

I tried to imagine living with that guilt for all those years. ‘Dad, stop it. There’s no point.’ I took his big hand in mine and gave it a little squeeze. I wanted so bad to
make him smile.

‘Just don’t… don’t waste your life like me.’

‘Come off it, Dad. You’re not dead yet. Maybe you could try and meet someone?’

‘What, like your mother?’

‘At least she’s happy.’

‘Happy? Do you think she’s happy? With that poofter?’

‘Yeah, she seems to be.’

‘Did she like her present?’

I’d used the money to buy eckys off Trish. ‘You mean the one from me but really from you?’

‘Yeah. Did you get her something nice?’

‘Yeah, a lovely gold bracelet from Oroton.’

‘Good,’ he said, nodding his approval. ‘At least that’s something.’

Dad stood at the window, waving down at us, a fresh tinnie to his lips. I couldn’t believe, after all the years, that he’d said sorry. As I gripped the steering
wheel and sped off down the hill, I wondered if things would change between us now or if it was too late for that. His words had left me with a light, expanding feeling in my chest, but my initial
high ebbed away and my mind turned to Scott, who was sitting beside me, fiddling with the hem of his boxer shorts. Although he’d wanted to drive, I’d insisted on taking control. My
anger was back on track and no amount of sweet talk was going to put me off this time. I had more than a few things to say to him about screwing Trish, and I wanted to know what his big
announcement was, too. I settled back into the driver’s seat, still in my bikini, speeding along the deserted streets.

‘What was all that about?’ said Scott.

‘Nothing.’

‘Did he used to hit you?’

‘No.’

Scott pointed at my scar. ‘I thought you got that falling off a bike.’

‘We were in a car accident when I was five. Dad was driving maggot. My head smashed through the windscreen. I was in hospital for three weeks.’ We stopped at the lights. Water
mirages shimmered crazy above the bitumen.

‘How come you never told me?’ Scott said.

‘I dunno.’ I shrugged impatiently, thinking about the stuff he hadn’t told
me
. ‘You fucked her, didn’t you?’

‘Who?’

‘Trish.’

‘No, I didn’t.’ He was smiling.

‘There’s no point lying. I know for a fact.’ I was pushing eighty in a sixty zone.

‘I didn’t fuck her.’ Scott ran his fingers through his hair and clicked his tongue. ‘She’s hardly my type.’ He glanced at the speedo. ‘Slow down,
hey.’

But I pressed my foot harder, hooning bevan-style around the Denmac Ford roundabout. ‘What is your type?’

‘Fiery redheads,’ he grinned.

‘Ha!’ I threw my head back and laughed. ‘Yeah, right. I heard you were banging some Asian chick overseas.’ An image of them fucking crammed my head.

‘Who told you that?’ Scott looked out the window.

‘Why didn’t you come and see me in hospital?’

‘Because your psycho mother would’ve killed me.’

‘I bet you went and saw Bomber.’

‘He’s my best mate.’

‘And what am I? Just some slut you used to fuck? You’re such a prick.’ I did a u-ey at the lights and sped back the way we’d just come.