Double Take (23 page)

Trent threw the white carnation he'd been holding onto the wood, and the flower skipped along the smooth surface, slid off the end of the coffin and disappeared into the dark void. He stared in horror. It wasn't supposed to do that. A quick assessment of the situation convinced him there was nothing he could do about it. Not without getting his tan-coloured slacks dirty, and as his washing day was still three days away he decided against it.

Trent reflected on the disappearing flower. For many years, his father had seemed to just let his life slip away. Other than work and watch his favourite football team, he barely did anything. Certainly nothing that he talked to Trent about. The heart attack had come completely out of the blue. Trent didn't even get a chance to say goodbye. He drew a shaky breath and forced back tears, grateful for the dark glasses he'd grabbed from the car at the last minute.

Max approached the pit and tossed his flower onto the coffin. It landed on top, centred almost in the middle—the way it should be. The four other people at the funeral followed their lead and each threw the single white carnation they were given during the service onto the coffin. Those flowers all landed on the polished wood. Trent now wished he'd waited and thrown his flower last. The resistance provided by the other flowers on the coffin stopped new ones from sliding off. He'd remember that for next time.

He turned and walked with his brother towards the funeral home. As they left the gravesite, he heard the unmistakable sound of dirt being thrown onto the casket. It made the coffin sound empty, which was ridiculous of course. Based on the size of the coffin and the size of his father, there was very little empty space inside. Trent noticed a tear trickling down his brother's cheek. It took all his restraint not to reach over and wipe it away. He forced down the lump in his throat, resisting the urge to start crying again.

With only four guests to thank, the funeral was over in a matter of minutes.

“It was good of you to come, Aunty Tracy.” Max leant in to kiss her cheek.

She squeezed Max in a bear hug and then turned to Trent for the same. “Now you boys just ring me if you need anything. Okay?”

“Okay.” Dad's sister was a bubbly mountain of a woman, always quick with a smile and a cuddle. Her life was a whirlwind raising nine children and three foster children. That probably explained why Trent and Max rarely saw her. He was surprised she was here; Max must have called her.

Trent invited Aunty Tracy and her husband Uncle John to join them for a drink at the Broadway Hotel.

“Oh, no thanks darlin', we need to get dinner on the go before the hungry hordes get home.” She laughed with a hearty chuckle then put her arm around her husband's waist and the two of them wandered towards their car.

Murray's two neighbours were the other guests. Susan and David shook hands with both Max and Trent and gave their condolences before they too left.

Twenty-six minutes after lowering their father's body into the ground, Trent and his brother were left standing alone in the middle of the car park at the funeral home.

The sun, now sitting low on the horizon, cast a golden haze over the immaculately manicured gardens. Trent didn't need to look at his watch to know it would be about 5:40 p.m. Max leant against the bonnet of Trent's car, and with one foot propped up on the bumper bar, he lit a cigarette.

“You know I hate that.”

Max shrugged. “I know.”

Max probably lit the cigarette on purpose, just to annoy him. But Trent didn't bite this time. Being confronted with other people's filthy habits was unavoidable; dealing with it was the challenge. He'd learnt a couple of tricks to help him get by. Counting was one of them. And there were plenty of carnations in the funeral parlour's garden to keep him busy while Max sucked poison into his lungs.

“Looks like it's just you and me, bro.” Max blew a fine stream of smoke out of the side of his mouth. Thankfully the breeze caught it and steered it well away.

“Yeah. Should we still go?” Trent was keen to get back to his dad's home and start sorting everything out.

“Absolutely. I need a drink after that. I'm driving.” Max flicked his lit cigarette into the garden bed.

“Max! That's how bushfires start. We're in a drought, you know.”

“Sorry, officer.” Max stepped into the garden and stomped on the cigarette. When he lifted his foot a wisp of smoke curled up and quickly vanished in the breeze.

Trent glared at his brother until he picked up the litter. When he turned back, Trent tossed him the keys.

“I can't believe we won't be sharing a whisky with Dad ever again.”

Max let out a gush of air. “I know. Just the two of us from now on.”

The ride was a quiet one. By Trent's calculations it should have taken a maximum of forty-seven minutes, but Max had no sense of direction and had a difficult time navigating all the one-way streets. This added an additional twelve minutes to the trip. After Max had driven around the same block three times, each time arriving at the same intersection where they could see the medieval-looking building but weren't able to turn in to, he slapped his thigh in frustration.

“Jesus, Max, what're you doing?”

“Chill out, dude, we'll get there.”

“Yeah at closing time if you don't hurry up.”

Finally, after another trip around the block, he was able to turn in to the Broadway Hotel car park. “There you go. Told you to chill out.”

“About time, I was gearing up to take over.”

“Not in my new car.”

Trent laughed. When Max had rung to tell him about his
new
car, Trent had pictured something completely different. It didn't help that Max had omitted to tell him that the car was nine years old and had hail damage in nearly every panel. Max was ridiculously excited to have his own set of wheels and that's all that mattered.

As soon as Trent walked into the public bar, he knew why their father had loved the place. The walls were covered in all manner of paraphernalia celebrating Murray's favourite football team, the Brisbane Lions. Trent considered his dad a crazy fanatic. He'd never missed a home game and he spoke about every player as if they were his own son.

The public bar smelt of old carpet, stale beer and sweat, and the furniture was old, shabby and mismatched. Trent chose the strongest-looking stool amongst the rickety collection at the bar. “I'm so glad Dad saw the Lions make the finals. It would've been one of the highlights of his life.”

“He's talked about nothing else for the last three weeks.”

Trent was sorry now that he hadn't seen his dad since that last game. It would have been great to share that achievement with him. He had moved onto university campus almost three years ago and although they were on the phone to each other all the time, he usually only visited at Christmas and birthdays.

“How's your football going?” Max had changed a lot since he'd taken up playing club football a year or so ago. He'd filled out, grown more confident and no longer backed down from a challenge. Really different to the kid Trent still remembered him as.

“It's great. Rough, though. We've won as many as we've lost this year. You should come and watch a game sometime.”

“Yeah. I should.” Sport wasn't one of Trent's favourite things to watch.

“Got a home game next weekend if you're still around.”

Trent just nodded. Although he loved his job and loved living in his own place, he did miss his family. He'd need to make more effort now that there was only the two of them. He remembered the last football game he went to with his dad—almost five months ago. The Lions lost. It wasn't a great night out. In the last year, he'd only seen him four times. Each time had been brief. He was saddened by this fact.

Sounds of a horse race were coming from another room, along with the familiar jingle of a poker machine. The money-sapping devices were in nearly every Queensland pub and club, beckoning their next sucker player with monotonous tunes.

“Do you think Dad played the pokies?” he asked.

“I don't think so. I don't think he bet on anything.”

Trent tried to picture his dad sitting there slotting coin after coin into the machines, praying for the elusive big win. Thankfully the image didn't form and Trent was certain his father wasn't a gambling man.

A chubby middle-aged man with a five o'clock shadow and thinning grey hair threw a tea towel over his shoulder and walked over to them. “What can I get you fellas?” he said.

Max ordered a XXXX beer and Trent decided to have the same. It was a little tribute to his dad. They sat in silence until the beers arrived.

“There you go, lads. Looks like you need these.”

“Thank you.” Trent handed the barman a ten dollar note. “Keep the change.” The barman probably thought he was a good bloke, but the truth was Trent didn't want the change jingling around in his pocket. The man nodded his thanks and tucked the note into his jeans. Trent wondered if any of that payment would actually make it to the till, but he quickly dismissed the thought. Today wasn't the day for his forensic analysis skills to surface. He tasted the beer and had to force down the bitter liquid. “Oh boy, that's rough.”

Max swigged down a large mouthful. “You're just not used to it.”

“That's true.” Trent was more of a red wine drinker. “I don't know if I'll be able to finish this.”

He placed the glass back on the bar as he glanced at the surroundings. Trent's job as a rookie forensic analyst had taken him to three public bars over the last year and this one looked similar to the others, with a cigarette machine in the corner, toilet sign hanging over the doorway and several lonely-looking men lounging about.

Trent kept his hands in his lap, resisting placing them on the smooth wooden bar top. Western red cedar, he guessed. Well-worn, too. Thousands of people had probably rubbed their hands over the polished wood—his father included.

“If Dad was here as often as you say,” Trent said, “then he probably knew the names of everyone in this room.”

“Maybe. As far as I know, he never went anywhere other than here. But he still seemed bloody lonely to me.” Max drank a large gulp of his beer and seemed oblivious to the bitter taste Trent experienced. “When was the last time you saw him?”

“About two months ago.” Trent was depressed by this admission. It now seemed so long ago. “I was working a crash scene at Carindale and arranged a time to see him before I went home.” He reflected on that brief visit. “I went into great detail explaining all about the forensic evidence I'd found at the crash site, but Dad barely contributed to the conversation. I felt like I was intruding on something, so in the end I didn't hang around the full hour I had scheduled.” He sighed. “What about you?”

“I saw him the day before he died. I needed a few bucks.” Max shrugged.

Trent wasn't the least bit surprised about that, Max was always asking for money. “Did he seem okay to you?”

“Like he always was, just watching TV, nothing really going on. He certainly didn't look like he was about to have a heart attack, if that's what you mean.”

Trent still couldn't understand how his dad died without any health warnings in the lead-up to the fatal attack. “Forty-four is so young.” He shook his head, trying to fathom how something like this could happen.

“Hey, Ned.” It was one of the men in the corner. “Have you seen Murray lately?”

Both Trent and Max looked over their shoulders.

“Oh shit, Trent. These guys don't know.” Max stood up. “We have to tell them.”

“Hang on, Max. You can't just walk over to them and blurt it out. You need to be tactful.”

“What're you talking about? I'm always tactful.”

“No Max, you're the opp—” Trent didn't finish his statement because Max had already grabbed his beer and headed to the table at the back of the room. Four men were seated at a round table designed for six and Trent had the impression they were waiting for another couple of guys to join them. It was easy to imagine these men frequenting this table on a regular basis.

“Hey, fellas,” Max said to nobody in particular.

They nodded at him but didn't respond.

“We heard you asking about Murray,” he said. Trent arrived at his brother's side.

“Yeah, do you know him?” This was from the only one of the foursome who didn't have grey hair.

“May I?” Trent pulled out a chair, sat and placed his glass on the table. “I'm Trent and this is my brother Max.” Max was still standing. “Murray was our dad. I'm sorry to tell you that he died of a heart attack on Monday. His funeral was today.”

Max's jaw dropped, but Trent chose to ignore it.

“Jeez,” said one of the men. “I had a beer with him on Sunday. He seemed okay to me.”

“It was very sudden.” Trent said it matter-of-factly.

“Sorry to hear about your dad.” The man behind the bar obviously didn't have any trouble with his hearing. “He was a really great bloke,” he said.

“Thanks, mate.” Max raised his glass as a salute and upon seeing this, Trent repeated the gesture.

“I'm Allen,” said the one Trent thought was the youngest. “That's Johno, David and Davo, and Ned's the guy behind the bar.” Trent instantly memorised their names.

“It's nice to meet you all,” he said.

“He talked about you blokes a lot,” Allen said. “He was real proud of you.”

“Really? So how do you know him?”

“We used to work together,” Allen said. “Baggage handlers, at the airport.”

“We all lost our jobs in the last year or so. Murray was the last man standing. So to speak,” Davo said.

“Working there's probably what killed him,” David said and Allen and Johno nodded in agreement.

“Nah, I reckon he died of a broken heart.” Davo shook his head. “That woman of his…” Davo's voice was that of a lifetime smoker, hoarse, brittle and barely audible. The other men nodded their heads in agreement.