Who Sings for Lu? (15 page)

Blah blah blah, if Lu’s dad wasn’t such a horrible shit he’d sound like one of those telly preachers. Except Brett O’Brien was about hate and his bitterness against the world, like whoever set the price of beer — the brewery, the several fuckin’ middle-men clipping
his
ticket, the publican, and before that happened there was the government alcohol tax, oh, and GST. Drew breath to take a big swig.

Ranted on at the Housing Commission having the nerve to charge rent for such a shithole in an area that could be dangerous with these young hoodlums running loose, taking drugs like ice.
Never carried knives in our day, we fought fair and square. See if any of them bureaucrat bastards would come and live here, walk home of a night.
Went on about the price of everything under the sun, in the shade, sitting out in the rain, long as it had a price tag he could latch his anger on to. Crushed another beer can in a weak man’s hand making out he was strong, a tough guy with aluminium a kid could crush, those eyes darting around for something to pick on: an object, say the telly programme, how someone looked, what they said, a person — his wife on a mental trip to space somewhere, prattling to herself about past days; pick on drugged-out Monica who hardly ever fired back because she was too out of it to know, just sat around shivering and smoking cigarettes like each one was her last, or maybe she did hear him but didn’t care, couldn’t care.

Then he started on Lu, when she didn’t need this shit. Not on and on for ever.

‘Think you coming home with a few bags of groceries is doing your bit for this household?’ That was how he started this morning.

So she came back at him. ‘You, mate. Never went for one kid’s walk with us, s’posed to be our old man. Not one fuckin’ swim at the beach, not one visit to Luna Park or the zoo just across the fuckin’ harbour for a few cents a ferry ride back then.’

‘Not into that, am I? And what’s so shit hot about a bloody beach? You kids would’ve only got sunburnt and bawled your bloody eyes out for days.’

‘You just weren’t into taking care of your own kids. Your whole selfish life spent looking after the big kid — you.’

‘You are looking at copping something in a minute.’

‘Whoo, am I scared, after what I’ve been through in this life? Nah. And you know what?’

You know what, you know what, you know what?
It echoed in her mind.

‘I never called you Dad, not once in my life.’ Saw it hit him like a belly punch, even him. ‘And I never will. Not at your graveside, because I won’t be at your fuckin’ funeral. I’ll be out celebrating.’

Now a sudden dawning on his face. Not of guilt, it definitely didn’t look like that.

He said, ‘What d’you mean,
after what I’ve been through?
’

‘As if I’d tell you.’

But he was finally cottoning on. ‘Something bad happened to you …?’

‘If it did, where were you when I might’ve needed your fists to protect me?’

He was looking at her questioningly, like he was fast figuring it out. Not his part in it — missing part — but the story his daughter had never told.

‘I’m smoke,’ she said. Meaning gone like a wisp.

He took her quite roughly. No kissing, no foreplay, near tore her clothes off, and she was hardly ready. Still, in the circumstances, she went along with it and even tried to give back in the same crude manner. But Riley smelled of old sweat and the more pungent smell of stress. Not nice. Strong as an ox. Had to be, handling horses. Didn’t have to smell like one.

Then suddenly he stopped, moved off her and started dressing without so much as a glance — thank God, or he’d see her burning humiliation. So she got up and went through the further indignity of trying to find where he’d thrown her clothes. Damn him, he wasn’t getting in first on the verbal.

‘I suppose you’re going to blame it on what happened to your daughter?’ He just kept buttoning his short-sleeve shirt, not his usual fashionable type either. No eyes her way. ‘If so, I understand.’

He looked around for something else to occupy his hands.

‘Your “mailbox full” message can get kind of frustrating after a hundred attempts at contacting you. What are friends for?’ She didn’t expect an answer, so she went on: ‘If she’s a woman she’s there in case you want sexual relief, or inner comfort. And when you fail she’s there to make a fool of and soon blame.’

Silence.

‘Go on then, blame me,’ Bella said. ‘Blame the night, what we were doing. I can read between the lines of the newspaper reports. Got my own share of guilt.’

That got to Riley. ‘I’m sorry for just now. I really am. You can go now.’

She’d spotted him in the street during her lunch break. Followed on foot for quite some distance down lower George Street, a couple of side streets into Chinatown, stopped him as he was about to go into a very modest hotel entrance, not a foyer as such, and found him in such a dismal state he showed virtually no surprise at seeing her.

Are you staying here, at this hotel? Yes. Can we talk? Guess we can.
Her idea they talk in his room. Quite a different space to the Sir Stamford. Two star, worn out, stinking of smoke. Like his breath, though he’d previously claimed strong dislike of the nicotine habit: he called it filthy and a sign of character weakness. The same man now displaying not just character weakness but a collapse of the Riley Chadwick she knew. Funny thing, this version did not completely surprise her.

‘Well, I guess I can go back to work and not feel completely used, if you know what I mean.’

And he did know. The man’s eyes lowered; they all felt less than meaningful when impotency hit them. Silly males. Never mind he was going through a personal crisis, his potency still mattered.

‘Riley Chadwick, the whole country knows your daughter has been to hell and probably still resides there. Her parents with her. The public understands. But I don’t happen to be just one of the public. So what I see I don’t understand. It’s as if you were the one attacked and brutalised that night we were —’

‘I know where we were. Can’t help this reaction. It just — it just —’ He couldn’t finish.

This required tough love, she thought. ‘Whatever you do, don’t cry. Okay? Men don’t cry. Especially not in front of a woman. Just let it bottle up inside you — looks like you’ve taken to the bottle at any rate. That’s tough. So brave. Bet your wife admires you being there for her up in the valley?’

‘Why don’t you fuck off?’

‘Because friends don’t do that when one is in need.’

‘You don’t have what I need.’

‘No. But you could try telling me, and maybe as a friend and your occasional lover I could help.’

Took some moments before he said, ‘I’m a broken man, Bell.’

‘Can see that. Why? Did someone rape you? They sodomised her, the media says. You too? Beat you up?’

‘They may as well have.’

‘Look at me, for God’s sake. Don’t talk to the fucking wall. I’ve been hurting every moment for your girl and you and, yes, your wife too.’

‘I’m trying to make up … for what happened … but I’m right out of my depth. Nowhere to turn. Too ashamed to go home.’ His voice so drained.

‘Come back here to me, Riles. Start again.’ She started removing her clothes. ‘Make love with me, don’t fuck me. Please, Riley. Let’s share the hurt in a dignified manner. Okay, I’m not your wife. But I am your friend — a good friend. Let’s share the hurt.’

And so they did. Except she didn’t feel it had achieved anything. This man had changed.

Her daughter shoved the mobile away.

‘But it’s your friend. Maddy. Come on, darling.’

Anna just shook her head adamantly. No.

So Claire went through the painful process of receiving Anna’s good friend from music school, saying she wasn’t ready for visitors. ‘You are welcome to stay the night. Perhaps she might be up to seeing you tomorrow?’ Thankfully, a young woman mature enough to understand and she soon left, asking that her love be passed on. In tears, poor thing. Nothing Claire could do.

Angry she didn’t have a husband to confide in, his shoulder to howl on, Claire called his hotel. An Asian receptionist with limited English finally got Riley’s name and rang through to his room. To her surprise he answered.

‘You’d better come home,’ she cut to the chase. Afraid her emotional dam would burst at just speaking to him.

‘I will,’ Riley said. ‘Soon.’

‘Doesn’t feel like you will. I don’t know where your head has gone.
And is any of this making things better for our daughter? What on earth are you doing down there: surely not trying to catch these people yourself?’ The thought took root when he did not respond.

‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’ He hung up.

In the kitchen, where sun streamed in from the verandah side, she poured herself a stiff gin. Stood at the granite bench staring at the countless horses in paddocks all with heavy railing stained dark brown, movement of three-wheelers, tractors, utes, and staff tending horses from frisky foals to family-loved old mares and stallions on their last. One horse created this, himself effectively created by one small child bonding to him.
My Anna
. Now with the near destruction of the girl, the business was under threat, Straw was telling her.

And Sandy had called to tell Claire he had grave concerns for his investment. She said she understood and was doing the best she could, as was Straw; agreed Riley was indispensable — but he was inconsolable too. What could she do?

Fiddling idly with Anna’s cell phone, Claire found herself going through the photo file, or rather continuing where she’d left off. For no other reason than something to be distracted by, as playing music — something she loved ordinarily — had no appeal.

So it was just photos flicking by, the sounds of birds and insects coming through open doors, Claire feeling as miserable as ever. More images of herself, which a mother couldn’t deny pleased her, even if Riley featured a lot more. A few not so clear. Madison putting on a face, a group of three young men with Anna and Madison in the centre and the males affecting drooling expressions for Anna, amusing in any other circumstance; several shots of an older man whom Claire assumed was the cello teacher Anna raved about, quite a dishy fellow.

The last photo was very grainy, doubtless taken at night. Of a woman sitting in awkward position, turning away as if from the camera. The very last image and it had come out poorly. The very last image?

My God.

Jay and Bron not used to this: pubs, sports clubs, night clubs — ‘Who’d have us, eh, Jay?’ — places where ordinary and, it would appear, not so ordinary people gathered to consume the liquid that had a bonding effect. From little sets of pairs, up to groups of a dozen or more
workmates
having a few wets after work, one big community like they were now at the Friar Tuck Hotel out in Blacktown, western suburbs, far from the hostile city the duo were used to.

Sure, it helped they had a glow on from being the winning team in an eight-ball competition, a $1000 cash prize getting them and their new mates pissed. Noticing though how victors must attract others, even blokes they could tell wouldn’t normally give them the time of day.

Blokes having a laugh, taking the piss, kept shaking their hands with apparent genuine admiration. Beating all-comers clearly some feat.

‘Ain’t laughed like this in how long, Bron? Since the Muzzies?’

‘I’d say that long, yeah,’ Bron said. ‘And they’ll keep, don’t worry about that.’ Bron still burned over it and fair enough too. Just plain wrong, out of proportion to what they did, just whistling and complimenting some chicks.

‘Since the Lebs,’ Jay got more serious. His eyes saying:
Since the chick in the park.

Those years of being bored witless, growing up and hanging out where you shouldn’t, learning to play pool one way of making up for it. Older guys taught you tricks, learned you the hard way by taking what precious little stolen cash you had on you. Parents back home who couldn’t care less where their kids were.

‘Bit different, this,’ Bron said and threw his mate a high-five. Two hands smacked together like a pool ball hit sweetly.

Up went the hand of a new mate for a high-five too. The pair gave him one each and they laughed. Nice bloke. Haden was his name. He worked for a construction company, not a qualified tradesman but learned from experience, which he said they — meant them, Jay and Bron — could get if they were willing.

‘Doing what?’ Jay taken aback on both their behalf.

‘Working on a construction site. Laying steel.’

‘Nah. Don’t think that’s us. Is it, Bron?’

No way. Bron shook his head.

‘Take home more than you won in the pool comp. Every week,’ Haden said.

‘What — a grand? A week?’

‘More. Twelve hundred if you work Saturday till lunchtime.’

‘Every week?’

‘Long as you turn up for work. No days off ’cause you’re hung over. The boss is Eyetie. They love you if you work hard.’

‘Break your fuckin’ legs if you don’t,’ Bron joked.

‘Do if you mess with them.’

‘Twelve hundred, in the hand?’ Jay the spokesman for two who had never been gainfully employed, not ever.

‘Each.’

That spun them out. In fact stunned them to silence. Thought Haden meant combined wages. Just exchanged glances that they thought it was a lot of regular money coming in. An awful lot.

‘We’ll think about it,’ Jay said. And then, ‘How come the birds are on their lonesome, Haden?’ At a trio nearby.

‘They’re local yokels. You can tell how they act like they own the place. Stick ’em in a pub down the road and they freeze. They’re not spoken for.’ He gave the duo a look, especially Jay. ‘Good-looking bloke
like you would be fighting them off, wouldn’t he?’

‘Had my moments.’ Moments was right — maybe two. He didn’t know the first thing about chatting up a girl. ‘Do us a favour will ya …’ Jay asked Haden if he wouldn’t mind inviting the girls over for a drink on them. Time to confer with Bron.

‘Where will we do it if we get lucky?’ Jay wanted to know.

‘Jesus, I don’t know. Why ask me?’ Bron taken aback. ‘Tell them we live other side of the city, can we go back to their pad?’

‘I want the dark one.’

‘So do I.’

‘Toss you for her.’

‘With my own coin.’ Grinning at each other. This was turning out some night. Maybe more than that.

Least till Jay said, ‘No anal, Bron.’

‘Don’t raise it, man.’

Bron fussed at his clothing in sudden self-awareness neither of them was dressed to kill. Too long living rough in the car, score a bit of dough from a cash snatch from a small store, book a cheap motel room till the money ran out, hit the road again. And never once discussing that night.

When they saw the women looking their way with open approval, Bron said, ‘I think we’re in here, mate.’

‘So do I.’ Jay got on what he thought was a cool look. ‘Act the winners we are now, Bronny boy. We got cash to lash on them.’