Get a Haircut
Sarge, said Quick coming into the dry warmth of the office looking like a wilted celery, Sarge I—
Take a week off, Lamb, you look like shit.
Sarge, I—
Go now before I look at the roster and change me mind. And get a haircut.
Where will we go? said Quick that night in bed. We could go crabbin at Mandurah, or go for whiting at Parrys. There’s fish up at—
No fishing, said Rose.
What?
No fishing. There will be no fishing.
But it’s a holiday, love.
This time it’ll be a holiday without fishing.
Quick lay there, suddenly without reference. Well, what would you like to do?
Rose turned into his chest and lay her hands flat on him. Let’s just fill the car up and drive.
And drive?
And drive.
That’s …
Not the Lamb way, I know. It’s not practical, it’s probably not even safe, but for once we can just go. We’ll make it up as we go along. We’ll just … go.
Sure you wouldn’t rather go fishin?
Rose turned her nails into his flesh and he shook the bed with trying not to scream.
Lester on His Knees
Lester pulled the Harley over in the fresh, antiseptic street and lifted his goggles. He looked at the scrubbed bricks, the dinky letterbox, the planted lawns of Rose and Quick’s new place. They’d been out here getting it ready. So, this was where they’d be. Lester looked up and down the silent street. He got off the bike, dropped his helmet in the sidecar, went down the side of the house and fell on his knees to pray. Somewhere, a long way away where there was still a native tree standing, a kookaburra laughed up a cyclone of derision which brought a flush to Lester Lamb’s cheeks but did not keep him from his prayer.
Voting Day
Sam Pickles came back dejected and alone from the polling booth knowing his vote hadn’t done the country a stick of good, and that those tightfisted boss lovers would be back for another term, sucking up to the Queen and passing the hat round to the workers again with smiles on their faces. When he turned into Cloudstreet the sun was on the rooftops and a man stood alone across the road from the big house. Sam shambled on up to him, lit a fag and held it out to the stranger.
Ta.
He was black as a bastard.
Got yer vote in?
The black man just smiled. He had a Ned Kelly beard and an old grey suit on with a pair of red leather shoes that must once have cost a fortune. The toes were cut out, and the man’s toenails were horny as a rooster’s.
Well, not that it’s much use. It’s a boss’s country straight up.
The black man sniffed, still smiling. Only the bosses don’t know theys the bosses, eh.
Sam blinked.
You live there, said the black man.
Yeah. I own it. Don’t tell anyone, but in the new year I’m gonna sell it. Some rich bastard’ll come along, bulldoze it and build a fuckin great block of flats on it. Salmon pink bricks, five storeys, ugly as sin. And I’ll do orright.
Sam looked away from the house and found the black man looking at him. Jesus, thought Sam, paint him white and he might be me old man. The black man’s stare put a foul sweat on him. He damnnear asked for his smoke back.
You shouldn’t break a place. Places are strong, important.
Bloody place is half fallin down orready. Can’t hurt to give it a helpin hand.
Too many places busted.
Sam wandered half across the street, his hands in his pockets, his stump tingling a little. He turned back to the black man. I mean, lookit that joint, willya?
You better be the strongest man.
Sam looked at him. He felt blank. All he noticed was the way the black man’s shadow came out on four sides of him like a footy player under lights at training.
How did you vote today, mate?
The black man dropped the smoke and toed it. He walked away shaking his head, his shadow reeling out all sides of him as he went.
Gift Horsed
On Sunday morning, early, Dolly threw a chunk of beef into the long, wild grass. The maggies came swooping; you could hear the whooping of their wings as they came from out of the sun, wheeling round to land at her feet. Dolly’s hands looked younger with the blood and juice of meat on them. They trembled, those hands, but the birds were used to it. Now and then one of the boldest would come and take meat off her palm and the force of the peck, the beak hitting her skin through the meat sent a thrill into her.
The last birds hopped through the bloody tangle of wild oats, checking the ground for remnants. Dolly’s back ached, squatting the way she did, but she stayed there to watch the impassive heads of the magpies, trying to see a sign of disappointment or of satisfaction, or gratitude, and smiling when they left abruptly at the sound of a footfall.
Jesus, you’ll be cookin rice puddin for em next, Sam said behind her.
So you got up, eh? Here I am, up before you.
Sam stood by her, weight on one leg, with his hands in his pockets. I’ve got a bloody hangover.
Well, that explains it. You’re still a two pot screamer.
I was thinkin.
Never think n drink at the same time. Makes you miserable. What about?
Oh, Gawd, everythin. What we’re gonna do about Chub, retirement. The house.
What about the house? Dolly’s haunches hurt now, but she stayed where she was, with the breeze rattling up her thighs.
Well, it’s the twenty years come summer. Joel said we could sell after twenty.
That was to protect us all from you.
Fair enough.
But what?
Sam scratches the inside of his calf with the heel of his shoe. I thought, well, twenty years is up. We could sell. They’re goin mad in this town, buyin the old and buildin the new. We could make ourselves a pile.
And you believe in luck!
What?
Did you earn this place?
No. You know that. Joel gave it to me. Us.
You think it’s good luck to sell what someone gave you as a present, a gift?
He sighed. Joel was the luckiest bastard on earth.
It didn’t keep him alive this last twenty years.
Yeah, but it kept us alive.
Dolly spat on the ground and laughed bitterly. What’s kept us alive is that friggin woman. A dead man and an ugly woman. Vanilla icecream, pasties and mullet.