Cold Skin (9 page)

Read Cold Skin Online

Authors: Steven Herrick

Tags: #JUV000000

BOOK: Cold Skin
8.19Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

and suggests a reward.

He calls it ‘an incentive’.

I waste valuable time

explaining that it isn’t how things work.

He keeps repeating,

‘No stone left unturned.’

As if it’s all so easy.

Like getting elected Mayor

when no one else wants the job.

Sergeant Grainger

The Johnston twins don’t say much.

They saw Larry Holding

hanging around behind the pub

and admit drinking their fair share.

For two years they’ve been going down the mine

and have faced worse things

than a suspicious policeman.

They keep calling me mate

to remind me of my place.

Les says,

‘I passed her a shandy and she took a drink.

That’s all.

She’s too young anyway.’

Then he realises how that sounds.

‘Sorry. I didn’t mean nothing.

She’s Frank’s daughter, for pity’s sake.

No one in their right mind would touch her.’

Barry says,

‘Look. She left before the other two girls.

That’s all we know.

Ask them. They’ll tell you.’

They’re both dressed in overalls

preparing for the next shift.

Les glances at his watch and reaches for his bag.

‘Do us a favour, mate.

Don’t mention the shandy to Frank.’

Mr Butcher

Hard working men like me

should be left in peace

on a Sunday afternoon.

I’ve only just walked in from the train.

Sergeant Grainger is too interested

in what time I left on Friday night.

He should mind his own business

but something in his manner

tells me not to provoke him.

I answer his questions,

as honestly as I need to,

but I’m hardly telling the town cop

what I do away from school.

That’s my secret.

‘I caught the evening train,

same as always,

to stay with my mother.

She’s getting on in years, you know.

No, I didn’t see anyone else on the platform.

Yes, I know Taylors Bend.

Doesn’t everyone?

It’s a lovers’ lane, or so they say.

Yes, I’ve been there.

Alone.

I take a book and read,

enjoying the outdoors.

It’s good for the health,

even in this gritty town.

No, I haven’t been there this week.

I had dinner on Friday at the Sunset Café

and I caught the train to be with . . .

‘What!

You want her phone number?

What is going on, Sir?

I don’t want you disturbing her.

Look, I’m not answering another question.

What happens in the city is private.

Between my mother and myself.

It’s not for anyone in this town to know about.

That is the end of the matter.’

Sergeant Grainger

Butcher is a snob.

You don’t need police training to see that.

He almost had a fit

when I suggested phoning his mother.

The old dear is probably as pompous

and insufferable as her son.

No doubt I’ll get a lecture in manners

from the old woman as well.

Bugger it.

I’ll look up Mrs Butcher

in the phone book.

A cold call should put the wind up her son,

the stupid wowser.

Butcher’s respected in town.

Not liked, but respected.

That won’t stop Frank though.

If he hears I’m suspicious of anyone

he’ll beat the daylights out of them.

I’ve got a few days

before Frank and his mates

start getting pushy.

I don’t want them deciding who’s guilty.

A vein throbs in my temple

like a loud ticking clock.

Albert Holding

I came out here for a smoke

and to get away from the wife.

She’s been on and on about the pub,

the beer,

my mates and me getting drunk,

ever since the war.

War!

What does she know about it?

To blokes like Frank it meant starvation

and brutality beyond imagining.

He once told us, over a few beers too many,

that the lucky ones were those who died early.

The others came home to a life in the mines,

with nothing to look forward to but Friday arvo

and a mate at the bar who understands.

He’d wake up at night to thunder,

thinking he’s under attack

when it’s only rain on the roof.

I spent too long in the desert driving trucks

when I could have been beside Frank

and had the honour of getting beaten to a pulp

by some slit-eyed bastard with a skeleton grin.

Some blokes reckon I was one step away

from a white feather in the mail.

Cheetham had his excuse,

being deaf in one ear.

But all I got was some pea-brain army doctor

scrawling ‘not for the frontline’ on my report.

When I pushed the white ant for an answer,

and stood close enough

for him to count my nose hairs,

he had the hide to say,

‘It’s not only the body that has to be fit, Holding.’

I almost slugged him, then and there,

but they had military police

stationed outside his door.

He’d been punched a few times before

by the look of him.

Cheetham and me wandered around in a daze

for a week

until they stationed us in the Alice,

a million bloody miles from Frank and our mates.

When I got home

I thought the wife would understand

and wouldn’t nag me

about going back down the mine,

where the enemy is a thousand tons of dirt

held up by timber studs and a few nails and bolts.

After the war I was going to make up for lost time.

But the time I spent away,

it’s still lost.

No matter what I do,

it stays lost.

I pull hard on my durry

and watch the heavy clouds roll in.

It’s going to rain for Colleen’s funeral.

As it should.

At least that’ll keep my wife quiet,

for an hour or two.

After the funeral.

That’s when I’ll make my move.

If Grainger can’t put two and two together

then I’ll do it for him.

No one in this town will think of me as gutless.

Not this time.

FIVE
Burning candles

Eddie

The Catholic church is full to bursting

with every pew taken

and people crowded along the walls

and at the back.

They shut the mine for a shift

and the shops are all closed.

The school has a day off

and we’re spending it here with Colleen,

her coffin near the altar,

with a photo on top.

Her long blonde hair

shines from behind the glass

and I can hear Mrs O’Connor

crying in the front pew.

I’m wearing Dad’s army boots,

polished with spit and rags,

because my feet are too big for my good shoes

and Dad said we weren’t buying new ones,

not for a funeral.

Sally and me are sitting close,

listening to the priest

talk about God calling his children home,

welcoming them to his side,

asking us to pray for those lost

and those reunited.

I close my eyes

and imagine the river at Taylors Bend.

A bunch of us from school

went there one afternoon to swim.

Colleen sat on the wild grass beside the bank

and laughed as I dive-bombed from the tree

and nearly flooded the beach.

The priest asks us to stand

and hold hands to give us strength.

He prays that peace be with us

and I’m pleased to feel Sally’s warmth

and look into her sad eyes.

We sit down again and I glance around.

My family are in the pew opposite.

Larry is looking at the altar.

Mum is clenching her hands tight in her lap

and Dad stares straight ahead,

not a muscle moving.

Mr Carter is sitting near the front.

His paper said Colleen was a ray of sunshine

that bathed our town in a glow,

bright enough to stay with us for ever.

When this is all over,

I’ll thank him for honouring Colleen.

The priest calls us to sing

but all I hear is the sound of hard rain

falling on my empty town.

Albert Holding

Christ almighty!

I can’t put up with this much longer.

The organ’s grinding on,

putting my teeth on edge,

and the wife is crying by the bucketful.

If the rain crashes harder

I won’t have to hear this singing.

Paley’s weasled his way into the front pew,

wiping his pudgy face with a white handkerchief.

I remember him on Friday,

drunk and backslapping,

offering the shout.

I was outside under the sarsaparilla vine,

watching him buying friends at the bar,

until the girls came along

and I turned my attention to them.

The town prays to a God

who takes young girls

and welcomes the killer into his church.

Believing,

it ain’t worth a pinch of dust.

There’s a trick I learnt in the army,

on the parade ground

listening to the drill sergeant bellowing insults.

I stand straight and stare forward,

close my mind to everything,

feel my breathing steady

and try to sleep, with my eyes open.

I spent long days at the base camp

working on doing nothing but this.

It’s probably the only good thing I learnt,

along with how to roll smokes with one hand

and how to hate someone

and never show it.

Mr Butcher

Sergeant Grainger is up the back

looking for a sign, a weakness.

I dare not turn around to see him.

I stare straight ahead at the statue of Mary,

her immaculate heart,

and think of what to do.

But what I can’t get out of my mind

is the sight of blonde hair

through my fingers.

I tighten with the memory.

Of course!

There’s my answer.

I’ll pay for a mother.

My blonde friend must have a mother,

or an aunt,

anyone who’ll be Mrs Butcher

if someone rings.

Simple.

A few pounds for answering a phone call.

I hope mother is like daughter,

willing to provide a service.

Anything to get rid of Grainger.

It’s a waste of my wage though.

The money would be better spent

on soft warm silken pleasurable things.

Sally

As we follow the procession out of the church

I want to hold Eddie’s hand

but my dad is watching,

so I walk quietly beside him.

I hear his sharp intake of breath

as we see the rain falling on Colleen’s coffin.

Mr O’Connor and some miners

load the coffin into the wagon

for the short trip

around the corner to the cemetery.

We all follow in the rain.

Eddie opens an umbrella

and holds it over my head,

and instead of saying thanks,

I look at his downcast eyes

and say,

‘I love you.’

It just came out.

I looked into his eyes and saw love.

I thought I saw love,

so I mouthed the words.

The rain tumbles down

as we reach the old iron gates and file through.

Eddie’s worth more than anything to me.

So I’m glad I said it.

Eddie

It’s like the first time we kissed

beside the river

and I fled as fast as my feet could take me.

Only now,

I’m holding an umbrella

in a line of people.

There’s no escape.

I focus on the hearse up ahead

and think of Colleen

being lowered into the ground.

I’m afraid of hearing

the thump of dirt on her coffin,

and her mother wailing

while Mr O’Connor struggles

to hold himself steady.

Sally’s words dance, uninvited,

inside my head.

I move the umbrella closer to Sally,

so I can feel the drops of rain

on my face,

cooling my skin

and rolling down my cheeks.

I feel too much.

Let the rain wash it away.

Mr Carter

As the rain drenches us all

I close my eyes for a minute

and pray for my Grace

to be with the young girl

and to tell her of our thoughts,

our sorrow,

and to forgive us.

The Lord sends these things

to test our spirit,

and while we can’t make sense

or understand why,

we must believe and accept.

Mr O’Brien leans heavily on his cane

beside the grave.

As we all start to leave,

I touch his arm and say,

‘Can I walk with you, Bob?’

He was a watchmaker,

before the war, before his injury.

His workshop next to my office

rang with chimes and gongs,

and I marvelled at his dexterity,

his long fingers tinkering

with the crowded workings

of all manner of clocks and watches.

We slowly file out of the cemetery,

his cane tapping a route home.

He says,

‘Sometimes it’s all right being the way I am.

Not having to see things.’

When we reach his front gate,

he holds out his hand and asks,

‘Are you still a Catholic, Mr Carter?’

Before I answer,

he adds,

Other books

Amazon Awakening by Caridad Piñeiro
Quick by Viola Grace
Deadly Dreams by Kylie Brant
Blood of Eagles by William W. Johnstone
A Country Gentleman by Ann Barker
Food Over Medicine by Pamela A. Popper, Glen Merzer
Fever by Friedrich Glauser
Our Favourite Indian Stories by Khushwant Singh