Black Teeth (31 page)

end tape series ozk016

52

Around two o'clock I reach Albert Park. The weather has thawed; sunlight even broke through as I drove down Spencer Street. Upon arrival, I feel optimistic: I leave my jacket and gloves in the car.

As troubling as the Alamein transcript was in its agrammatic monotone, it confirmed what I've been hearing and saying since yesterday. Piers
knew
that Rudy had struck Cheryl and killed her—it was the only explanation for the vase in his workshop. He sat in a cell for eleven years and waited for Rudy to come forward, until one day last month when he stopped waiting.

So that's reason number thirteen: Piers said as much to Tristan Whaley.

Reason fourteen is: it explains why he didn't want Ken Penn to give evidence at the trial. Penn thought Piers was too embarrassed by his wife's involvement with the old man across the road, but actually Piers knew Penn would incriminate Rudy and he wasn't having that. His own fucked-up loyalty to his murderous son.

Fifteen. Piers changed his will. When he realised that Rudy was leaving him to rot, he decided he'd rather bequeath everything to some arsehole in prison than to the boy who killed his wife. But still he wouldn't ‘turn dog'.

Beth didn't call me until my third cup of coffee and my twelfth re-read of the interview. So badly I wanted to tell her all this, but at that moment we had enough to talk about.

I reach Rudy's door and ring the bell, shift the package from one armpit to the other. Tyan said to bring a gift so I brought a gift. Not
that it doesn't feel lame. Then, even as I hear footsteps beyond the door, I'm filled with panic.

The black teeth. I don't have the black teeth on my hand.

My gloves are in the car.

What with everything else, I overlooked the essential falsehood all this bullshit relies upon.

I search my body for the black texta, remember having it as I left the flat. Then I feel it poking my groin, pull it free but it comes free of my grip, somersaults into the garden.

Someone unlocks Rudy's fat oak door. It opens.

My right hand drives into my pocket.

What Rudy does first is react to my face. Like he's never seen a black eye before. It's like someone's having open-heart surgery right in front of him. He doesn't speak so much as moan.

I say back, ‘Hi, Rudy.'

‘I'm sorry,' he pushes out, looks to the ground. A child ordered to apologise.

‘I think I look better like this. What do you think?'

Beth appears in the darkness behind him and he seems relieved.

‘Anthony's here,' he pronounces.

‘Hello.' She doesn't bother to stamp down a knowing smile.

‘So you're Beth?'

‘In the flesh.'

‘Come in,' says Rudy.

The front room has been entirely reorganised, surely by Beth when she took the pictures yesterday, each furniture piece arranged in its own space like a classroom. The front blinds are open, the first time I've seen that, though the lace curtains are drawn to keep in the privacy. No contract on the piano stool. Rudy must have filed it away.

‘Thank you for your phone call,' I say to Beth. ‘I was worried my friendship with Rudy was finished.'

‘You weren't easy to find,' she replies. ‘There are lots of Anthonys who work at Fortunate Insurance.'

‘It means a lot that you took the time to call my office.'

‘It's really important that the two of you bury the hatchet.'

‘I agree. It's really important that the two of us remain friends.'

And we both turn to Rudy, watching for a sign that our pretence holds water. It does, insofar as Rudy hasn't been listening, is busy scanning the damage to my face.

‘Oh hey,' I say. ‘This is for you.'

The parcel jammed under my left arm presents a problem: there follows a long moment of weirdness as I try to grip it with my left hand, to keep my right firmly shoved in my trouser pocket. Co-ordination fails me and the gift falls to the floor like a steel brick.

‘Whoops!' I laugh, retrieve the package one-handed and hold it out.

Rudy grasps it and tears at it without a second thought, eyes alight like a child on Christmas morning. Inside he discovers a cream cardboard box ablaze with assurances regarding the chocolates within.

He seems baffled. ‘Okay.' I'm sure he meant to say thank you. After a moment of hesitation, Rudy sets the gift down on the dustless ottoman.

‘And look…' I begin. Today's fragment of insight into Piers's mind surely indicated that no one could have made friends with him while he was in jail. But it's necessary for me to maintain that I did. Or else neutralise it.

‘I'm sorry for what I said. About your dad. Things were crazy in those days.'

This is supposed to remind Rudy that Piers was crazy in those days and might have said anything. But instead it reminds
me
of how Piers might have said anything. Like implying his son was a shark.

‘It was so long ago that I just don't remember anything properly. I shouldn't have mentioned it to you.'

‘Yep,' Rudy says back, head twitching up and down to ward off any more talk on the topic.

‘I just want you to know that I'm sorry.' I look to Beth. She's grinning broadly. I am too. Hopefully Rudy will start grinning soon and then we'll all be grinning together.

‘Yep,' Rudy says. His face darkens. ‘Now hold out your hands.'

53

My hands in my pockets feel my testicles shrink. Rudy has sussed it. What was the giveaway? My nervousness? The stupid face on my face? Beth picks up the chocolates, places them on the floor and perches on the ottoman, an audience.
She must have told him.
That's why she's so smug. Was this her plan since yesterday? Is Rudy going to crack it again? Is she going to join in? And MyEffingGee, the look on Tyan's face when he finds out I've botched it.

All of this is in my head and I say, ‘Pardon?'

Rudy is sangfroid, like he's had time to really come to terms with it, how betrayed he's been. The tiny eyes don't dance, the broken tufts of hair don't beg for sympathy.

Rudy's serious face says, ‘Hold out your hands.'

‘Why?'

‘Just
do it!
'

I do it. Slowly draw them from my pockets and present them, palms up. Wait to be asked to turn them over.
When he does
,
am I going to run?

‘
I've
got something for
you
!' Rudy declares.

Out of nowhere he drops a wooden box into my waiting paws.

Beth beams on.

A chess set. Folded closed and fastened by a metal clasp. It rattles in my hands. Rudy must see the relief in my face, thinks it's joy.

‘Yeah,' he guffaws. ‘That's the one I played with…with my dad.'

And despite the adrenaline in my system, my certainty two seconds ago that the charade was over and I was about to be set upon
by at least one demented maniac, what I'm thinking is:
Your
father's dead. How did
you
know to bring a gift?

‘Oh.' My eyes flash at Beth, who appears slightly confused by my confusion.

‘It's to say sorry,' she says.

‘Beth told me…' Rudy says. ‘About how you only just met with… up with your father.'

‘Riiiiiiiiiiiight,' I perform comprehension. ‘Thank you so much. I've played chess a few times, but never against a person.'

‘I mean…' Rudy flusters, flaps his genuinely tattooed hand in the air to help him think. ‘I mean, you can play
draughts
with him. I don't know if the chess bits are in there.'

And I'm like, ‘Okay.'

‘It's very thoughtful of you, Rudy.' Beth stands and clasps her hands at her waist like a governess. ‘It's very thoughtful of him, isn't it?'

‘Yes,' I glower at my stupid chocolates.

‘I think you should say sorry, Rudy.' She gently touches his shoulder.

‘
I did! I am!
' Outraged by her implication that he didn't, isn't. Then he cools, remembers
his
script, the one she wrote for him. ‘I mean…' And he faces me straight on. ‘I want to be friends.'

It sounds rehearsed, but still he means it.

‘I want to be friends too.' I attempt to match his seriousness. ‘This means a lot to me.'

Perhaps for the first time ever, Rudy holds my eyes.

‘Now Rudy…' Beth's voice is so wholesome I almost laugh. She pats her handbag. ‘Remember we have these DVDs to return.'

‘I don't want to.'

‘Remember, you said we had to.'

I say, ‘I have to go anyway, Rudy. But before I do, can you and I have a word in the kitchen?'

Rudy doesn't nod or answer but rather turns straight for the hall and I follow, don't risk a glance at Beth, enter the kitchen and catch a glimpse of the refrigerator. Who knows what strain of swine flu percolates within, but on the door there's a photograph of Cheryl
Alamein—the same photo Rudy held up on the front page of the
Daily Sun
nine years ago. Beside it is pinned a flyer for a local tradesman, from back when this house had a use for tradesmen, then a lost dog poster with the Alameins' home phone number and a picture of Busby the cocker spaniel. Who abandoned Rudy in disgust, according to Piers. Who Rudy never stopped searching for, according to Beth.

I can't linger at this museum too long, usher Rudy into the pantry.

The shelves are unstocked and blotted with dirt, stencilled in by the jars and the tins and the
life
that once filled this space. At some point Rudy cleared them out, which didn't eradicate the stink of old mushrooms.

‘Don't worry, you're not in trouble.' This is a reaction to the trepidation in his face. ‘I just had to check. Are you still on for Friday night?'

‘You mean…Glen Tyan?'

‘Yeah.'

Rudy nods in big motions.

‘Yep. Yeah. I'm going to do it.'

‘You know it's very dangerous, what you're planning. I mean… Anything could happen.'

‘Yeah.'

‘I mean…It's dangerous for you.'

‘I know.'

‘Rudy, you could die.'

A shrug. That's all he offers. I wait, give him time to speak. To insist that he doesn't want to die. To announce that he never really planned to kill himself with Beth's car. To conclude that this is all a stupid idea and what he really wants to do with his life is parkour.

But he says nothing. Just waits for whatever else I brought him here for.

‘You know…' I say, ‘I used to play draughts with your dad. In the clink.'

He subjects me to another gaze of utter disbelief.

‘Only we called it checkers,' I say.

‘Who won?'

This is what Rudy wants to know.

‘Ummm…He did. Mostly.'

‘He used to beat me too.' He's visibly defeated.

‘Did you ever visit Piers when he was inside?'

‘No.'

‘Why not?'

He shrugs and stares at the ground.

Sixteen. He never tried to visit his father.

‘All right. I'll be in contact Friday, to let you know that the policy is active. Sound good?'

‘Yes.'

‘Okay. Right now I've got to get back to work. I'll call you Friday.'

‘Okay.'

We emerge from the kitchen like two guilty toddlers. Beth stands and swings the handbag onto her shoulder.

Our march continues out the door and Rudy scrapes at his patchy hair like the DVD place is somewhere special. I put the draughts board under my arm, my right arm this time, my right hand still safe in my pocket, feel the chillsome air and use it as an excuse to hurry away, wave goodbye, give Rudy another meaningful nod, tell Beth it was nice to meet her. The pair hike off towards Montague Street and I reach my car. Get in. Even start the engine. Even drive around to the other side of the block.

Then I park, take my gloves and jacket this time, jog along Montague, see their huddled shapes moving away to what I assume is a clutch of shops. After this, after they seem to be well and truly settled into their journey, I turn back onto Grand Street, back through Rudy's front gate and push my hands in and up against the glass of the window angled to the front door. The one Beth unlocked while I was in the pantry with Rudy.

54

I've cracked the glass, can see it in the top corner now that I'm inside and locking the window. A slight crack, not enough to notice at a glance, a tiny testament to how long these frames have been shut, their function forgotten. Just lucky my hands didn't tear through and bleed on the carpet.

My footsteps on the carpet smack loud because I'm here alone and in secret, also because some segments have worn through to the plastic weave. In the kitchen I sit at the glass table after brushing off a chair which sends toenails and whatever crap showering to the floor. Above me the telephone is secured to the column and I consider it like a blank canvas.

After talking with Tyan last night I thought spoofing a caller ID was the solution, being simple enough software and I could do it from my flat. But sooner or later this will all be reviewed by the Homicide Squad, maybe even the Cyber-Crime Department, and I have to assume even they can unspool a trick like that.

Then I thought of suggesting Rudy make the call himself. I considered that for a nanosecond. Rudy would misstep, panic, mention my name or Beth's or Tyan's, and then everything would become four times more complicated, maybe impossible. If I do it, I can hang up before I say anything stupid.

The likelihood is that I'll be asked to leave a message and I run through it out loud before picking up the receiver. I found her number on the
Daily Sun
website, wonder how to say her name as I listen to the ring, resolve to use only her first name.

She answers. At least I think it's a she—a buzzy monotone like she's talking through gauze.