Roadman Read online

  “Why? …Why? …Why?”

  He felt a tear well in his eyes then course down his cheek. Sniffing, he wiped them away with a forefinger and glanced over at the grave beneath the mantrap. “You stupid fuck! Why did you have to give me lip? Why couldn’t you just shut your fuck’n mouth and let it be? WHY?”

  In the flickering half-orange half-shadow he spied the Remy hanging on the back wall of the humpy. Maybe, he figured, he should just do everyone a favour, do someth’n good for once in his fucked up life. His last piece of charity for the world.

  He stood up awkwardly, first one leg, then the other, still clutching his chest. At least the coppers would appreciate an open-and-shut case, he reckoned. Sarah’d be fuck’n ecstatic too. She might get a bit of a crocodile tear in her eye at the sudden news, but she’d tell all her dipshit friends she saw it coming: “Max was a bit of a loner, as you know, a bit erratic, but I’m not surprised at all it came to this. You know he used to threaten me all the time,” and her friends would nod and sip their chardonnay and tell her she was so lucky to get out of the relationship before it turned really bad.

  Max took the Remy off the hook and checked the magazine. It was full, but he’d need only one for this. At least it was going to be over quick and clean, not some prolonged torture that would drag on and on. A rope and a noose slung over the branch of a gum tree was not his style; too prone to making a mistake. Hell, he could be dangling there for ten minutes choking and gagging if he didn’t get it right. Pills were useless too. Too fuck’n slow; and there was no guarantee they’d work even if you took enough of them. Wake up in the morning to this shitty life with one helluva fuck’n hangover and the ridiculous situation of having to do it all again. Anyway, he didn’t have any sleeping pills in the first aid kit. Never had the need for them out here. About the only place on the planet he was ever guaranteed a good night’s rest. Plus, at a guess he only had a handful of paracetamol and aspirin, not enough to even touch the sides of this fuck-off headache let alone shut down every major organ system in his body.

  Could shove a hosepipe from the exhaust and hook the other end into the Cherokee and turn on the ignition, he supposed. Would be quicker than pills, but even that was no guarantee either. For a start the windows might not seal properly and let too much air in. The engine might stall halfway through from idling for too long. Nah, there was only one real option. If you’re gonna do something right, do it fuck’n properly the first time.

  He pumped a bullet into the chamber and put the end of the long end of the barrel into his mouth, thinking at least it would cure his fuck’n headache once and for all. He sealed his lips around the cold metal shaft.

  So this is what your life came too, Maxy boy? Wasn’t much of a fuck’n life anyway, was it?

  As his thumb moved down the rifle feeling for the trigger, he heard someone cough behind him.

  Max spun around, dropping the Remy to his hips and pointing the barrel at the old guy sitting on the granite rock. Cigarette in hand, he threw back his bald head and laughed, a grotesque, cancer-filled cackling that sounded not too unlike an irritating kookaburra. He’d heard that cackle thousands of times in the past and it always made him feel like grabbing his scrawny neck in both hands and choking the life out of the stupid fucker.

  “You don’t have ze guts,” the old crout said with an all-too-familiar rattle in his chest. “You vaz alvays piss veak.”

  “What do you want, Frank?” Max said, still training the barrel on his old man.

  Frank took a drag on his cigarette, glanced over at the ground next to Gerhard’s grave, then said, “You know vot I vont.”

  Max stepped outside the humpy. He could make out the five-day stubble on his gaunt face and actually see the flames of the campfire behind him flicker and shine through the frail old body. The closer he got, the fainter he became. Frank coughed up a huge throat oyster and spat it at the base of the granite rock, then took another long drag on his cigarette.

  A kind of Magic Pudding death stick, Max reckoned. The more the old fucker sucked on it, the more remained.

  Camel and Marlborough’s worst nightmare—the never ending cigarette.

  “Sure, I know what you want,” Max said. The old crout had annoyed him enough. It was time to pack his bags and send him on his way. “How about I give you a piece of your own medicine instead?”

  Max fired the Remy. In the vast black silence it discharged in a loud crack that bounced off the walls of the humpy and echoed straight back at him, but the bullet went straight through the old fucker’s silhouette. It zipped through the flickering flames behind him, disappearing into the distant shadows and slamming somewhere into the ground beyond the campfire.

  Frank threw his head back and laughed his kookaburra laugh, fading into the darkness. Max pumped another bullet into the chamber, stepped forward and fired again with the same result. The old crout cackled and faded some more until he was barely visible. Max kept advancing and pumped two more rounds in quick succession into him, desperate to finish off what he’d started, but by the time he reached the granite rock the German cunt had vanished into the cold night air. But not completely. Max thought he could make out the last scornful whisper of his laugh and he pumped one more bullet for good measure into the empty space where the old fucker had been sitting.

  He managed a wan smile, thinking his old man might not have been good for fuck’n much, but the old prick had taught him something at least: when you’re giving it to someone, make sure the job is done or they’re just gonna get up and start fuck’n doing it to you.

  He armed the sweat from his brow, surprised at how wet and chilled it also felt on the back of his shirt and the nape of his neck, but at least his head felt clear. The irony wasn’t lost. After everything was said and done, his headache had gone the way of the useless cackling crout—no bullet required.

  Now fancy fuck’n that.

  Friday, 18th July 2008

  Dear Diary,

  Home alone again on a Friday night. What’s new pussy cat? Tom Jones would say. Not much on TV tonight either, except if you like footy, which I don’t mind on some occasions, especially if the Crows are playing, but I’m not in the mood for it or anything else that’s on tonight. No Gray’s Anatomy or Sex in the City on Fridays, just more re-runs of Two and a Half Men (ho hum, if it wasn’t for Charlie Sheen I wouldn’t even bother; would anyone, at least would any woman?). Channel 5 is playing one of Arnold Schwarzenegger’s Terminator movies, but I’m not up for all that shooting and violence, so I thought I’d give the TV a skip and jot down a few things that have been happening of late.

  Georgina Twelftree popped in the other night after work to say hello. It must have been Monday, because I had just got back from taking dad for his doctor’s appointment and got him into bed when the doorbell rang. I told her it wasn’t a good time (we had received a little bit of bad news from Dr. Joseph in regards to dad’s blood tests and x-rays), that dad wasn’t feeling at his best and I was way behind on my sewing (my client is rather demanding and wanted me to shorten the hems on all the skirts I’d made for her, which I’ve had unpick and start from scratch again).

  She didn’t listen, of course (does she ever?), which kind of annoyed me at first but in the end I figured her endless chatting would help me take my mind off dad’s condition and all the horrible, doomsday thoughts that were racing through my head since I’d left the surgery. And besides, the sewing could wait another day; my client would just have to wait a little bit longer for her hems.

  Anyway, I thought Georgie would only stay for an hour or so at max. It was, after all, a work night. Wrong! Duh! She didn’t leave until nearly 4 hours later. I didn’t get to bed until after 11, even though I had an early shift the next morning and had to be up at 5 a.m. to catch the bus. At that time they only come once every half an hour, so if I miss it that means I clock on after the shift starts and I get an earful from my supervisor. Plus they take it out of my pay, even if I stay later to make up for
it. So much for overtime and time-in-lieu, heh?

  I assumed Georgina had to start early at the hairdresser’s the next day too, but she had as much care for her work and her boss as she did for mine. I could tell from the look in her eye that she was on a mission, and when Georgina gets her bit between her teeth there’s nothing on this planet that would stop her getting what she wants. Poor me! Poor anybody, in fact, who gets between her and the finishing line. They say that about hippos, don’t they? (and she might be slightly overweight and a trifle unfit but I’m certainly not calling Georgie a hippo; I wouldn’t dare!) They kind of look mellow and clumsy, but what I’ve heard is that they’re quick to anger. You don’t want to get between a hippo and the water or its calf, or you can say goodbye to all your friends and family and everything you’ve ever loved and hello to a rampaging beast intent on slicing you in half with its massive teeth. More people die from hippo attacks in Africa each year than lions, or so the experts say (now where did I hear that? One of those nature documentaries they play every so often on Channel 5, I guess).

  Georgina (the non-hippo!) sat me down at the kitchen table with a bottle of Jacob’s Creek chardonnay she pulled out of her handbag (I should have known when I saw that bottle she wasn’t just “popping around” for a quick chat) and demanded to know why I hadn’t gone out with her and the girls for over six months and why I hadn’t answered her calls or SMS of late. Why she chose a Monday night to air her grievances, I don’t know. To be honest, I just didn’t have the energy to spend an hour on the phone each time she rang, let alone the energy to dance and drink the night away with a bunch of strangers at The Grand or The Richmond or whatever bar-of-the-month had taken her fancy. But I didn’t tell her that. I just told her that it wasn’t personal, that I’ve been kind of busy of late, and when she joked, “What with? A new man?” I kind of mumbled the same little white lie that I’d been telling my dad whenever he started on about getting out of the house and dating and that sort of thing.

  It was a mistake—I know, I know—I should have just told her the truth that all I’m busy with is going to work at the factory, helping dad with his food and his medication, writing down my (sexual? dating problems?) frustrations in a diary, and watching Sex and the City with the Cat (speaking of which, he hasn’t been around for quite some time now, I wonder what the cheeky devil is up to). Instead, I gave in to some inner weakness and blurted out the same line that I’d “seen” somebody new.

  It was surprisingly easier this time. They say the first time you tell a whopper is the most difficult (like murder, they say), but the more you do it the easier it gets. I can testify to that. The words, “I’ve been seeing a guy,” came out real easy, like a cowgirl shooting from the lips. More the point, it was as easy as Georgina telling the last stranger she slept with that she loved them. (Oops, bit too bitchy, sorry, but I’m tired and I’m allowed the occasional slip up now and then.)

  Anyhow, talk about putting a flame to a blowtorch. My goodness. Georgina nearly exploded in a (what’s that Russian word for those DIY petrol bombs you see rioters throw at the police and army tanks on the news? Molokov? Morotov?) cocktail of stupendous delight and uncontrolled curiosity. The way she was wiggling and squirming in her seat I thought she was having a When Harry Met Sally moment (do I dare write the “O” word in a diary?). Anyway, I thought Georgina was going to have one right there and then at the kitchen table and she wasn’t faking it either.

  And if dad had grilled me with 20 Questions, then Georgina gave me the Spanish Inquisition! Who is he? What’s his name? How did you meet? Have you had sex? Is he good in bed? Where have you done it? Has he got any good looking friends? When do I get to meet him? Ring him now!—I want to talk to him! She went on and on and on. I thought she’d never stop.

  Needless to say it was hard keeping a straight face. How does the latest Lady Ga Ga song go? Can’t read my… can’t read my… no (s)he can’t read my poker face! While I was answering her incessant questions I just thought of all the times I’d seen him. And it really hasn’t been that often, either. He seems to go away most weekends, although not every weekend. Although I do “see” him about every second or third weekend or so in the street or mowing his lawns or washing his car or up on the ladder cleaning the gutters.

  I also never told Georgina that most of the times I actually have “seen” him I was sitting in my sewing room working on a hem or a sleeve or a collar staring out of my window while he worked in the garden or on his car. He’s never noticed me, as far as I can tell.

  He seems totally oblivious of my existence. It makes me feel kind of invisible, like even if I walked outside totally naked he wouldn’t even notice me. Not that I’d ever do such a thing. Well, not sober at least (ha ha, as if).

  Now here’s a worry: am I stalking him? Does gazing at his cute butt across the street from my sewing desk count as stalking? Perving, maybe, but can it be stalking when I’m in my own house?

  I guess any decent lawyer could twist the facts enough to have me convicted of some kind of personal privacy transgression. God knows they’ve twisted the facts so tight on how my father and other workers contracted mesothelioma that we’ll probably never see a cent in compensation. The company is still not budging, even though I hear the board members are facing challenges to their positions. Let’s hope they get voted down. Or better, the sack. Not that they’ll suffer at all; they’ve got millions stashed away in their own private pension fund or untouchable family trust. But at least they won’t be in a position to make any more executive decisions that can cause more harm to people. Let’s hope.

  Anyway, I should stop. Thinking about those fat cat bastards (excuse my French) and their mongrel lawyers will only get me worked up and angry again.

  Where was I? I’ve transgressed. Now there’s a word with double meaning (what’s on your mind, Lorraine?). I mean I’ve strayed from my line of thought, not committed a crime. Although, perhaps I have committed a minor misdemeanour: last week I stole one of his letters. There, you have it; maybe I am stalking the poor guy. I can already see the headlines in the Adelaide Sun:

  DESPERATE SEX-STARVED SPINSTER STALKS HARMLESS NEIGHBOUR, DEMANDS HE TAKE HER TO BED IMMEDIATELY.

  OK, well, it’s not that bad. While I was at my sewing desk the other day I saw him back his car out of the driveway and suddenly the thought occurred to me that I could just sneak over and peek inside his letterbox to find out his name. I don’t know what came over me. I just had the sudden urge to find out who he was (I couldn’t keep calling him “him” and “that guy” for much longer, could I? People were starting to ask questions about my new boyfriend! Ha ha). Then again, Lorraine, if you really needed to know that bad you could have just asked the guy!

  No way, Jose. That would mean far too much courage that I simply don’t have. So I waited for a few minutes to make sure he didn’t suddenly return for something he’d forgotten, and that no other nosey neighbours were around to see me, then I quickly snuck across the road and flipped open the letterbox flap. The dog next to his house yapped and growled and frightened me half to death, but I figured it was too late to stop. Luckily, nobody else was around to see what all the commotion was about.

  I didn’t actually steal his letters. Just read who they were addressed to. One was addressed to a ‘Frank Grieff’ from social security or Centrelink or whatever name the government calls its handouts department these days. Not that we’ve ever had a cent from them. I earn too much at the factory (although if I had kids I’d get more money on the dole, can you believe it?) and dad is on a sick benefit from WorkCover while we twiddle our thumbs waiting for the court case and the numerous counter-appeals to be settled (don’t think about it Lorraine; you’ll only get angry).

  All right—three deep breaths. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. There, that’s better… All calm now.

  The other letters I saw were bills—First Energy, Clean-Water—and something that looked like a legal let
ter from Smith, Klein & Pickering (I hope he’s not in trouble), all three addressed to Mr. Max Grieff. I assumed that’s the guy I’ve been “seeing” (perving on, actually, Lorraine, if you’re honest with yourself, ha ha). Anyway, I know I shouldn’t have, but I did. I do feel a bit guilty about prying into his privacy like that (heavens, I’ve never done anything like that in my life, ever!) but on the other hand I do feel quite chuffed with myself. I know his name! Max. A nice strong name. A name truly befitting a white knight in shining armour (oh, yeah I can dream can’t I?). Don’t know where the name ‘Grieff’ comes from, though. Perhaps it’s European. Dutch. Polish. German maybe. Whatever, it’s exotic. At least it isn’t Smith or Black or Williams or, heaven forbid, Jackson (what would I do if he was a distant cousin? Eek, you can put ‘incest’ down on the charge sheet next to ‘incorrigible liar’ ‘pervert’ and ‘stalker’).

  There you go. That just about sums up my past week or so. My fantasy has now got so out of control I’ve lied to my father, my BFF and now my neighbour (although he doesn’t know it yet).

  But that’s how it starts, doesn’t it? A little white lie here, a little bit of untruth there, and suddenly you’re stealing the personal details of somebody else that lives next door.

  The lies might be easy at the time, but as easy as they come out the easier it is to tell more; and the repercussions are not as easy to deal with. I guess that’s the lie within the lie, isn’t it?

  Easy out of the bottle, hard as hell to put back in.

  CHAPTER 6

  Max pulled into the driveway earlier on the Sunday than he otherwise normally would. Decided it was best to get the fuck away from the humpy and lie low for a few days, maybe even a few months. Shit, he should prob’ly get the fuck away from Adelaide all together if truth be told. Still, he figured he had a bit of time up his sleeves. No need to panic just yet. The German loser wouldn’t be missed, not for some time anyway. Prob’ly had a week or two before his folks back in Naziville got a bit nervous and wondered why little Gerhard Lederhosen hadn’t emailed or Facebooked or called them for a while. Then there’d be the inquiries to the travel agent, who’d then put them in touch with the German consulate in Canberra to see if they could locate him. “Perhaps Frauline Lederhosen, klein Gerhard ist vorking as a fruit picker or on ze farms und can’t access ze internet. Mobile phones do not vork so vell in ze Australian countryside. Nothink vill be ze problem. He vill ring fery soon, I am guessing.”