Cold Skin (12 page)

‘We’re all alone . . .’

Mr Carter

Mrs Kain comes in early

with a classified she wants me to run.

For a while

I’m distracted from my suspicions.

Who do I tell?

Pete Grainger?

Or should I talk to Albert first?

Get some idea why he was standing there.

Or Paley?

Could it be?

The sleep of a honest man is sweet,

the torture of the guilty endless.

I raise the blinds in the office

and watch the ladies going into the Emporium.

Our mayor.

When I was young

my mother always said,

‘The more money, the more lies.’

It’s why I became a newspaperman.

The truth.

And now, do I know the truth?

I place my cup on the sink,

reach for my jacket and my hat.

When I close the door behind me,

I turn to lock it, then decide not to.

It’s time to start trusting my town again.

I walk down the street to the police station.

Eddie

After I take Sally home,

I wander to Taylors Bend,

where Colleen died.

No one comes here any more.

But I have to.

It’s just a river

where we dived and swam.

The evil is not here.

I hear a shuffling of feet

on the track behind me.

It’s Barney Haggerty.

He stops and looks at me,

trying to remember my name.

‘I’m Eddie, Mr Haggerty.’

He takes a swig of metho

and sways slightly.

He says,

‘I just saw your dad.

Walking by the train tracks.’

My dad should be at work.

Maybe Mr Haggerty’s had a few too many.

‘Carrying a bloody big rope, he was.’

He shakes the bottle,

checking there’s some left

before taking another mouthful.

‘I asked for a few bob.

You know, to tide me over.’

He grins at me and winks.

‘He’s a good bloke.’

Mr Haggerty turns around

like a unsteady sailor,

arms reaching to grab some imaginary rail,

and walks up the track back into the hills.

Eddie

For a few minutes I can’t move,

going over in my brain,

trying to imagine what Mr Haggerty saw.

I head for home, slowly,

wondering why Dad would need a thick rope.

Maybe Laycock has a cow caught in a bog

and Dad’s got a rope from the mine to help?

I follow the river for a while.

In the shallows,

a trout twists against the flow,

waiting for an insect to break the surface.

Maybe Dad could use some help?

If it’s one of Laycock’s bulls,

they’ll need as many hands as possible.

I spin and run back down the track,

even though I’m probably on a wild-goose chase

looking for Haggerty’s ghost.

Round the bend I see Dad,

in the distance,

with his hands on his hips,

looking across the river

to the railway bridge.

I can see the shape

of a man on the bridge.

A big man.

Albert Holding

I couldn’t wait any longer.

George Weaver told me yesterday

he’d visited Frank and Betty.

He said Betty refuses to leave the house

and wastes all day sitting in the kitchen

shelling peas, peeling spuds

and cooking meals neither of them want to eat.

Frank spends most of the daylight in the shed,

standing at the bench,

rearranging his tool shelves

and trying to keep himself busy.

George shook his head and said,

‘All those years the Japs couldn’t kill him.

And now this.’

Bugger the consequences!

This morning I marched into Fatty’s shop,

along the rows of brand new overalls

and kettles and boilers and saucepans

and more boots and shoes

than I’ll ever be able to afford.

One of the workers

tried to stop me going up the stairs to his office,

but I pushed him aside.

‘I have an appointment,’ I said.

Yeah, one that Fatty doesn’t know about yet.

He jumped to his feet when I came in.

‘What is this, Holding?’

His turkey chin kept shaking after he spoke.

‘You did it, Fatty.’

He tried to bluff his way through the moment,

accusing me of being rude,

looking nervously around for someone to help.

‘What are they going to do, Fatty?

Make me leave?

You’ve had long enough.

Now I’ll go straight to Grainger

and he can sort it.’

His eyes clouded over

and his fat wobbly legs started shaking.

He could see I meant what I said.

‘You’ve got until one o’clock.

That’s longer than you deserve.’

Looking at him made me sick.

I spat on his desk,

on the papers and the folders

he’s spent his life hiding behind.

‘This afternoon.

At the bridge over the river, Fatty.

You know where that is, don’t you?

Meet me there, or go to Grainger

and see if you can bullshit your way past him.

It’s your choice.

You’d be smarter choosing the copper, Fatty.’

Then I walked out of his neat little office

straight to the hardware counter

and bought some rope.

For once I didn’t mind spending money

in Fatty’s shop.

I kept moving all morning

trying to decide what I’d do if he showed.

Would I have enough guts to end it?

Mayor Paley

The temerity of the man.

Accusing me!

I . . . I . . . I shouldn’t have to face

such vile slandering.

The insolent way he called me

‘Fatty’ was beyond the pale.

I told him,

‘My name’s Kenneth.

Or Mr Paley to you.’

I tried to explain . . .

He was wrong.

Why would I . . .

My hands were shaking

and I could barely control my legs.

He threatened me.

I’m . . . I’m . . . I’m . . . the Mayor.

No one gives me orders.

When he left my office,

I slumped back in my chair

gripping the desk.

What can I do?

What can I do?

Eddie

Mr Paley is on the bridge,

pleading.

The thick rope is around his neck,

circles his hands,

goes down to the tracks

and under the wooden sleeper.

My dad stares across at the bridge

and reaches into his pocket,

taking out his smokes.

He casually begins rolling a fag

as if he’s got all day.

Mr Paley shouts something

I can’t hear over the swirling water.

Then he drops to his knees.

Is he crying?

Or praying?

Why isn’t Dad going to help?

He’s just cupping his hands

as he lights his smoke

in the shade of a tree

beside the river.

Albert Holding

He’s not going to jump until he has to.

I know Fatty.

There were blokes like him in the army,

working in stores,

loading ships,

doing anything to avoid fighting.

All of us cowards

got the cushy home jobs

while men like Frank went off

and faced their own tortures,

for mongrels like Fatty and me.

You could pick us out

when we returned home.

We talked louder

and exaggerated our piddling little army jobs,

or trotted out excuses about physical defects

and doctor’s orders stopping us from fighting.

All bullshit.

Cowards and bullshit.

They’re best mates.

I know Fatty

because

I know myself.

There he is,

whimpering,

blubbering.

I think of that poor girl

and what he must have done.

My hands are steady,

solid as a rock

when I light the cigarette.

The rope flexes.

Cheetham’s knot works.

Fatty can’t escape.

The more he struggles

the tighter it gets.

‘It’s your choice, Fatty.’

I hope for his sake he jumps

and tests the strength of the rope.

Maybe it won’t hold

and he’ll fall into the river below.

Then we’ll let Frank take care of him.

But for Colleen’s sake,

I hope he stands there and faces the train

and gets wiped out.

Disappears.

I flick the cigarette

and watch it get sucked under the whirlpool.

Not long now.

Mayor Paley

I tried to tell him it was a misunderstanding.

The young girl was laughing.

I thought she was interested.

I was drunk!

For God’s sake!

When I tried to kiss her

she backed away into the bushes.

I followed.

Maybe I grabbed at her skirt and pulled.

Holding punched me!

While I was dazed he tied my hands

and shackled me to this.

‘Let me go!

I’m the Mayor, you know.

What if a train comes?’

What happened with the girl was an accident!

She tried to run past me

and I grabbed her again.

I didn’t know what I was doing.

She screamed.

I thought she’d wake the neighbourhood.

The look of disgust on her face!

Didn’t she know who I was?

Once!

Only once I slapped her.

She stumbled and fell.

Her head hit a rock.

A horrid sound.

If only she hadn’t struggled.

I wasn’t going to hurt her.

When I saw the blood . . .

There was nothing more I could do.

An accident.

‘This is an outrage.

Untie these ropes!

Now!’

Eddie

Suddenly, I hear the train whistle

in the distance.

Mr Paley screams.

He’s shaking the rope

side to side.

Frantic.

He’s running on the spot,

trying to free himself from the noose.

Dad points up the tracks

and shouts across to Mr Paley,

‘It’s your choice, Fatty.’

The whistle answers

and I know the coal train

will soon be bearing down on Mr Paley.

I plunge into the water.

It’s so cold,

my breath catches in my throat.

Maybe I can get there

and loosen the rope

before the train.

Dad shouts something

as I struggle to the bank

and start climbing.

‘I’m coming, Mr Paley.’

I grab tufts of weeds to pull myself up,

my feet digging into the soft soil,

scrambling with every ounce of effort.

Mr Paley is shouting,

‘Hurry up, boy. Help!

For heaven’s sake!’

I reach the track

and see the coal train rounding the bend.

Dad screams from the bank,

‘Jump, you coward.

Jump!’

Eddie

Jump?

Is Dad yelling at me?

The water surges below.

My legs balance, wobble, step.

If my feet miss the sleepers

I’ll be trapped with Mr Paley.

The train is thundering towards the bridge.

I can see the driver

blowing his whistle,

pulling the emergency brake.

He’s shouting

but all I can hear is the furious screeching

of wheels on the track.

I leap over three sleepers at a time,

reaching out to Mr Paley

even though I’m still too far away.

‘STOP!’

Mr Paley twists to face the train.

He flings his hands up

as if he can stop it.

‘NO!’

He jumps

and I throw myself after him.

I grab nothing but air,

falling,

my arms flailing.

The river rushes to meet me.

Eddie

In my dream

I’m fourteen years old

and Dad is wearing his army uniform,

with boots and buttons polished.

Mum, Larry and me are waiting at the platform.

Dad jumps from the train

before it stops

and wraps his big arms around me.

I can smell his tobacco breath

and feel the tingling prickle of his stubble.

Although he still has his duffle bag

slung over one shoulder,

he’s so strong he lifts me in a bear-hug,

grinning and saying,

‘It’s good to be home.’

We walk across town.

I’m carrying his bag

and he’s holding Mum’s hand.

Our shack by the river

is covered in streamers to welcome him.

People from town visit all afternoon

to say hello and thank him for what he did.

Everyone points to the sign I painted

over the front door.

For my dad.

Who fought in the war,

side by side with Frank O’Connor.

Deep in the jungle,

with the enemy all around.

In my dream.

Eddie

I wake in bed

and my head is throbbing so much

it hurts to open my eyes.

Mum’s voice comes from under the door.

‘You had no right!

To put your son in danger like that . . .’

I try to get up

but dizziness overwhelms me.

I lie back

and wait for a few minutes

until I can open my eyes again.

All I remember is jumping

and the train-driver’s face twisted in agony

as I fell

and he reached out the window,

a despairing arm,

trying to catch me,

but I kept falling.

Then I remember.