Roadman Page 11

  Until, of course, the German brat didn’t ring or update his fuck’n Facebook after four weeks and his Nazi folks got their lederhosen all in a twist. Then the shit would hit the fan and the papers would be full of headlines about another foreign backpacker gone missing and questioning what the fuck has happened to state of the nation when tourists are no longer safe in our own country? Some bright journo might even start to ask the police about any possible link between the German’s disappearance and that of the two brats, Jade and Sal’s, you know, considering they’ve all gone missing around the same fuck’n area. Perhaps Detective Inspector you might have some fuck’n serial killer on the loose? Of course the fuck’n pigs would deny any such link; the dumb fuckers wouldn’t have even thought of it themselves yet. Might put a spark up their arses, though, and jumpstart them into some sort of serious investigation.

  Yep, he thought, killing the ignition and stepping out of the Cherokee, he was gonna have to lie low for some time, that was for sure.

  Which was kinda fuck’n fine with him, actually. Was gonna put Plan A into gear: unpack the Cherokee (mental note: remember to hide the didgeridoo in the shed), feed the cat, wherever the fuck it was, get nice and comfy on the couch and flick on the footy. The Crows were playing. Hell, they might even pull one out of the bag this afternoon and surprise the doomsayers, including him, who thought the team was too fuck’n old and too fuck’n useless to ever have a crack at the flag. Might even get stuck into that bottle of St. Agnes brandy that had been sitting on the pantry shelf since he and Frank moved in after selling up the old place in Serena in ’03. Was gonna get himself shitfaced and forget about everything that had happened over the past twenty-four hours. Wasn’t even gonna worry about a shower.

  Yep, Plan A sounded like a pretty fuck’n good plan, just as long as that bitch of an ex didn’t decide to pop around and force him to sign more fuck’n legal papers and ruin the whole fuck’n day. (Mental note #2: check the fuck’n letterbox after you’ve unpacked the car.)

  Max woke up to a noise from the front door, groggy as fuck. At first he thought he was hearing something on the TV, but the TV was muted (sometimes he just liked to watch the footy without listening to every fuck’n ad break). The footy had finished and he didn’t even know if the Crows had got up and caused an upset. They were down at halftime, that much be could remember before passing out on the couch, but now the post-game show was ending and he was none the fuck’n wiser as to who had won.

  The noise happened again. It was a scratchy type of sound, like El Stupido was trying to let him know he was home by clawing the front door. But the stupid thing never came in the front door. He had a cat flap around the back into the laundry where his kitty litter and basket was, if he ever used them.

  He propped himself up on one elbow as best he could, considering the whole right arm from shoulder down felt as numb as a rubber prosthesis before arming spittle away from his mouth. Surprisingly, he didn’t have a hangover. That’d come later, he was sure. He figured his grogginess was just from jolting awake too soon from a deep sleep (and boy, you haven’t had much of that lately, have you Maxy?). No headache, but the flickering glare of the TV screen did make his eyes hurt, which he now rubbed with his knuckles. Made worse, he figured, because the room was almost dark. Barely a glimmer of daylight was coming through the curtains, and in the surrounding semi-darkness the TV set was like some distant end of a gloomy tunnel to which he was now stumbling toward.

  That was one of the few things he remembered about his mother, before his old man beat the shit right out of her sunny smile and she was replaced by an endless stream of hookers, drug addicts, welfare sluts, and homeless desperados. “There’s always light at the end of the tunnel,” he remembered her saying.

  Was one of the few fuck’n things he could remember about her. He must have been no older than four. No wait, maybe five, because he could also remember her dressing him in his green and yellow primary school uniform and kissing him on the cheek before he hopped on his bike (the one before the dragster) and rode off to class. About the last time he was ever truly happy too, he reckoned, knowing that he was loved, that he belonged, that he was safe, that noth’n in the whole fuck’n world could ever take away what his mother felt for him and what he felt for her.

  How fuck’n stupid could a kid be? On his way to school he wondered why his mother had said what she’d said, and what the hell “light at the end of the tunnel” actually meant, but he was soon lost in thoughts of who he was going to play with when he got to school and what she had packed in his lunchbox. When the final siren rang, he cycled back home as fast as he could. The front door was unlocked, which was normal, but what wasn’t normal was the empty house. He checked the kitchen (her usual place of residence). Nope. The bedroom too (maybe she was tired and needed a nap). Nope. Not there either. The laundry. Nope. Outside in the backyard hanging up the clothes? Nope. Not fuck’n anywhere.

  He figured she must have popped down to the shops for some groceries. But the Kombi was still in the driveway. She hated that car, but drove it anyway despite the smoky exhaust and broken passenger window that was permanently stuck half wound down because she basically had no other choice. The old man kept one fist balled and the other hand tightly grasped to all the household cash, only spending what little dosh he had left over after the Griffin’s Head on things for the house. Things like used German-made cars for instance. Despite his unabashed alcoholism, the old fucker wouldn’t be seen dead in a Japanese Toyota or Honda. “Jap crap,” he called them, and he didn’t trust Aussie Holdens or Fords either, just more “useless Aussie shit” as far as he was concerned. The prick couldn’t afford a Beemer or a Merc, even if he completely stopped his nightly routine at the pub, so the only thing he could get his hands on was a second hand Volkswagon with a dent the size of a ewe in the side panel and tyres so worn they had rubbed down to the wire meshing.

  He had peeked out the lounge room window just to make sure the Kombi was still there. It was. Which meant he had no idea where she’d gone. All he could do was wait and hope she’d be back soon. He remembered waiting for her until the sun went down and his old man stumbled through the front door drunk as a fart, cursing and swearing and demanding his dinner be served, “Right fucking NOW!”

  But his dinner wasn’t served, not then, not later, and his wife didn’t come home. Not then, not later, not any fuck’n night. Frank Grieff took his frustration out on his only son. He took out his frustration on the boy almost every night his wife failed to serve up his dinner when he got home. He didn’t have a woman to beat up on anymore, so he went for the next best thing. And five-year old boys were easy to beat up. They didn’t punch back; they just bit their bottom lip and took it, one punch at a time. Until, that was, they were sixteen. Then they hit back real fuck’n hard. But the old man had eleven years to make the most of it before he had to worry about any of that. When he did, Max made sure he received every one of those punches in kind. With interest.

  Max now reached for the front door to see what had made the scratching noise that had woken him up, still groggy, still reminiscing and thinking he had probably been waiting for his mother to return home for over thirty years. He couldn’t really remember what she looked like—her face was always blurred every time he tried to recall her—which made him feel bad, and was probably the reason why he hardly ever looked through the grimy window of nostalgia. He avoided that window like he avoided the fuck’n cops. Too much pain. Too much grief. Too many surprises (ghosts?) waiting to ambush him. Far better not to bother with reminiscing if he could avoid it.

  Still, sometimes he couldn’t help it. The memories were there. Just most times he was able to keep them hidden and locked away like a photo album collecting dust in the top shelf of the bedroom closet. Sometimes they just fell out when he opened the closet and landed on the floor at his feet. He couldn’t help but look then. You kind of have to if you want to put them back up high and store them away again. Sometimes, thou
gh, you catch a glimpse of a photo, a memory, one that you thought you’d forgotten. But nah, there it was, still there. Only the longer that you’d forgotten just meant the pain was fresher the next time you looked at it. Time didn’t heal the pain. It just vacuum sealed it.

  He shook his right arm, now no longer numb but buzzing painfully with the sting of pins and needles, and switched on the porch light. As he opened the door, his gaze went straight to the stiff bundle of black fur lying on the welcome mat like a fallen photo. Congealed blood had caked in a gelatinous blob in the inside of one of El Stupido’s ears and his neck was buckled at an unnatural right angle to its body. Its right paw was bloodied, as if its claws had been pulled out, either by somebody with a pair of pliers or by El Stupido’s own desperate fight for survival, and his chest was indented by what looked like the muddy impression of a size ten boot.

  For a brief moment Max’s mind went blank, save for one thought: There’s your fuck’n light at the end of the tunnel, Max.

  Thursday, 24th July 2008

  Dear Diary,

  Just got home from the factory and I’m exhausted. There was an accident on South Road this evening, right in the middle of peak hour traffic, which held us up for ages and meant I didn’t get home till after 7 pm. Lots of people got off the bus and started to walk. I thought of doing the same thing but couldn’t face the idea of walking home. My legs were aching from standing up the whole day and I just wanted to rest. I’ve got another early shift tomorrow and don’t need to be feeling as though I’ve spent the whole afternoon in the gym doing a step class.

  I didn’t even have a good book or magazine with me. So I just ended up twiddling my thumbs and staring out the window at all the irate drivers fuming in their cars and thumping the steering wheel every so often, thinking what a shame everybody is so quick to anger these days. Why is the world so angry, so hateful? Why is there so much violence?

  Anyway, I just wanted to say…

  Friday, 25th July 2008

  Dear Diary,

  Just me again. Sorry about the interruption from yesterday’s entry but dad woke up coughing his… I was about to say, “coughing his lungs up”, but that would be a bit too close to the truth and I don’t even want to think about it. Let’s just say coughing heaps and heaps. He called out for me, so I knew it must be bad. He tries to suffer the pain as best he can and does his best not to impose on me, but when it gets as bad as it did last night I just know his pain has become unbearable, even for him. Oh God, I feel so sorry for him. Sometimes I feel so useless, like nothing I do is any help at all.

  Thank goodness we still have the medication. Dr. Joseph gave us a repeat prescription last time we were there so at least that’s something. But even the morphine isn’t working its magic anywhere near how it used to, even from just a few weeks ago. I gave him yet another extra dose again last night because I was so shocked at how much pain he was in. It helped a little, but I’m giving him so much now I’m starting to get worried about whether or not the next little yellow pill he puts in his mouth will send him to the arms of his Maker.

  That’s not the only thing that worries me. When I went into his bedroom to give him his pill I saw he was trying to hide something from me in his bin of used tissues. I pretended not to notice, but when the morphine kicked in a little while later and he was sound I asleep I snuck into his bedroom, took the tissue bin and emptied it out on the kitchen floor. I’m no Sherlock Holmes — or should I say Miss Marple or Precious Ramotswe? — but it didn’t take long to find the offending item. The red streaks were pretty hard to miss on the bleached white tissue paper.

  It made my heart sink. But coupled with what Dr. Joseph had said about his blood tests and x-rays, I couldn’t say I was totally surprised. What was surprising was how little time it took. I just didn’t think the disease would progress so quickly.

  Dad doesn’t know I know. Not yet. I will tell him at some point what I found in the tissue bin, but I need some time to gather my thoughts and emotions first. I guess we’ve gone into the next phase of the disease. Dr. Joseph mentioned dad might be needing home oxygen in the near future to help with his breathing. He also said something about “Palliation.” I think that was the word he used. I’d heard the word before somewhere, perhaps on TV, maybe ER or Grays Anatomy. Sorry, but I have to say I hate that word. I hated the sound of it when Dr. Joseph said it and I hate it even more now. Dr. Joseph didn’t actually explain what it meant, but I know all too well what it means: it means “No Hope” doesn’t it? No hope of a cure. No hope of a future. No hope of even getting a good night’s rest. Things are only going to get worse before they get worse, that’s what palliation actually means.

  Amazing what a difference a few days make. In just the time it takes to go to bed, get up for work, come home, cook dinner, and go to bed again we’ve moved from living with the faintest glimmer of hope that things will one day get better to now having that tiny hope extinguished forever. Now we’re just waiting for the inevitable.

  Oh heavens, I really shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry. I hope God will forgive me, but that’s the sad truth. I hate it, but lately I’m coming to accept that maybe the end is coming for dad and it might not be the worst thing that could happen. This lingering, this waiting for things to get better, day after day after day, has been eating me from the inside out, like it’s me that’s got the cancer. But things won’t get better, will they? Not for dad at least.

  Now we’re in a limbo state, I guess, a medical kind of purgatory: a state of waiting for the worst possible outcome with nothing but pain in between. Then again, maybe we’ve been living in limbo since the day dad received the bad news about his diagnosis and we’ve been in denial ever since. Maybe now we can’t deny the inevitable anymore. Maybe that’s what this new phase is all about—checking into reality.

  And boy does reality suck.

  CHAPTER 7

  The following weekend Max had earmarked for jobs around the house while the wintry weather held off. The usual stuff: mowing the front and back lawns, clearing the leaves from the gutters, washing the dirty laundry. Anything in fact to keep himself busy and keep a lid on the incorrigible urges to return to the Johnson farm and double-check to make sure nobody had discovered the whereabouts of his humpy and the little secrets it was keeping hidden underground.

  Max was mowing the front lawn when the sky started raining footballs. He was mowing around the water meter near the sidewalk at the far corner of the lawn, hating this god-awful chore and thinking he had better fuck’n things to do on a Saturday morning than being a good neighbour and keeping his house in order. Like sitting on the banks of the billabong sucking on some lagers and reeling in the mullet. The old crout had always made him mow the lawn back in Serena when he was a kid as a kind of punishment for missing mealtime, or not washing and ironing his clothes before the start of the week, or whatever fuck’n reason he could come up with, even just for the hell of it. Then, when the job was done, there would be no friendly pat on the back, no “T’anks son, you did a vonderful job.” Noth’n of the sort. He’d be lucky to get away with just a clip around the ears for taking too fuck’n long. It was all about asserting power over him, Max realised that now, noth’n more, noth’n less. He hated the chore back then and he hated it now.

  Then the football falconed him on the top of his head. He was just about to check the grass catcher on the back of the lawnmower when the football fell from the sky, bounced off his head and landed on the lawn, rolling haphazardly end over end until it came to rest at the base of the letterbox.

  Rubbing the top of his head, Max went to retrieve the ball, thinking he would kick the fuck’n thing down the street as far as he could or shove it into the face of whoever came to collect it. As it turned out, it was pizza face. Seems Kenny had been kicking the footy in his backyard and one of his smartarse mates had launched it as high and wide as he could over the roof and into Max’s front yard. The kid looked sheepish. Actually, more like a fuck’n
racoon. He was sporting a huge black eye that seemed to cover half the right side of his face.

  No fuck’n surprises who’d dealt that knuckle kiss to him, Max thought as the kid rounded the dilapidated fence partitioning the two yards and stopped at the bottom of the driveway. He might’ve snuck into the yard to get the ball if nobody else was around, but with Max staring him down he kept well back from the driveway.

  The kid eyed the football at the base of the letterbox. It was tantalisingly close. Max could read his expression: just have to reach down and snatch the ball, then make like hell around the back of the house and he’d be safe. Instead, he tried a little teenage diplomacy.

  “Chuck us the footy?”

  Max glanced up at the empty porch next door. The Blob was nowhere to be seen, and even the flea-bitten mutt was gone, presumably snuffling at the heels of its lard arse master. Max had the idea this was time for retribution, and not only for the falcon he’d just received.

  “Get it yourself,” Max said, nodding at the ball.

  The kid hesitated at first, as if sensing Max’s true intentions, then took two steps up the driveway and reached down for the ball, hoping for a quick getaway. Max, though, was too quick. While the kid was intent on grabbing the ball, Max planted a heavy Blundstone on the back of his left hand, pinning it to the driveway.