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  I almost peed my pants with excitement. I wanted to put my arms around him and hug him and tell him that would be the best thing in the whole world. But I didn’t, of course. A girl can’t appear too eager, although maybe Georgina might’ve. Instead I pretended to think whether or not I had the day free and that I should probably consult with my social calendar (ha, what a laugh), but his boyish shuffling made me feel too guilty and I couldn’t continue the charade for more than a few seconds. I told him I’d love to go and that it should be fine with my dad too. I was about to invite him in for another cuppa, but he turned and hurried away so fast I didn’t even have time to open my mouth and say, “See you on Saturday!”

  But how wonderful! I’m going on a date. It’s been so long I almost don’t know what to do! When dad got up, I told him I was going to a BBQ this weekend with the fella I’ve been “seeing” lately. He thought it was just great. I could tell he felt happy for me. And so do I. Boy, so do I.

  I really have a good feeling about this guy. I really do.

  PART TWO

  The Redeeming

  CHAPTER 8

  Max had fully intended to pick up Lorraine the following Saturday a little after midday and drive her over to the BBQ at Bill O’Driscoll’s house. Had fully intended to show her a good time, meet a few of his work buddies, have a laugh, a few drinks, and, if all went well, ask her out to the movies on a second date. Or dinner, maybe to that nice Italian restaurant in the city he and Sarah went once when they were first dating and getting to know each other, Piccolo Diavalo. He had even shaved that morning, washed his hair, and dressed in his finest Levis, the ones he only ever took from the hanger for special occasions. Hell, he’d even ironed his AC-DC T-shirt and flannelette and polished up his favourite pair of RM Williams.

  Dressed up to the fuck’n nines, Maxy boy, that’s what you are. Dressed to fuck’n kill… Well, you know what I mean.

  But now the clock on the DVD player under the TV was reading 12:13 p.m. and he hadn’t even left the lounge room let alone the fuck’n house.

  He’d been pacing the floorboards back and forth for the past fifteen minutes seriously considering giving the whole fuck’n BBQ thing the flick and heading off to the Johnson farm instead. Quite frankly, he was scared shitless. He knew he was as fuck’n nervous as a teenager on a first date. Hell, it was a first date, wasn’t it? But he was no fuck’n teenager and he shouldn’t be feeling like he was in an overheated sauna struggling for breath and having his balls roasted over the hot coals. He should be calm, real fuck’n calm, as calm as Errol Flynn in a room full of teenage virgins.

  You’re a grown man, Max. You’ve been through fuck’n worse. Hell, you were married to the fuck’n bitch of the century for over five years. If you coped with her, you should be able to cope with anything.

  He stopped pacing and looked across the street through the lounge room window to the source of his consternation. Lorraine’s house looked serene and quiet. He couldn’t see any movement through her windows and the front door was shut. She wasn’t waiting for him on the porch or at the end of the driveway, which was good. He had a feeling she’d be waiting a fuck’n long time.

  He started pacing again, then stopped after two or three steps. What’s wrong with you? he said to himself. She’s already agreed to go with you. All you have to do is get in your car, reverse over the road into her driveway, honk the horn, wait till she gets in, then drive to Bill’s house. What’s so fuck’n difficult about that?

  “Nuttink is difficult ‘bout zat,” Frank Grieff said. Max spun around. The old crout was sitting on the single couch smoking his fuck’n Magic Pudding cigarette and grinning like it was a big fuck’n joint of happy weed. “You’re just a fuck’n coward, is all. Don’t even have ze balls to take the slut on a date.”

  Max gritted his teeth. “She ain’t no slut, so don’t talk about her that way.”

  Frank threw his bald head back and laughed his raspy, cancer-filled laugh. “She’s no fuck’n wirgin, I can guarantee zat,” he said.

  Max sniffed the air, pretending to smell something fuck’n horrible wafting his way. “You stink old man. Pissed ya self, did ya?” He balled his hands into fists and took a step toward the couch. “Maybe it’s your turn for a good belt’n.”

  Frank cleared his throat but otherwise kept silent, just staring back at him with bloodshot eyes and smoking his Magic Pudding cigarette, the cigarette that just didn’t get any fuck’n smaller no matter how many drags he took.

  “Or how ’bout we hook you up to the shed and get the old leather strap out of the closet to do its work?” Max said. “Waddya reckon, hey? Then how ’bout we hose you down after we finished with the strap with a cold shower?”

  The old crout took another drag on his cigarette. His frail body seemed to fade when he sucked on the end, as if he was somehow sucking himself in, disappearing into himself like a snake swallowing its own tail. He exhaled an odourless puff of smoke, cleared his throat, then said, “Tried to toughen you up, prepare you for ze vorld. But you vaz veak, piss veak.”

  “Fuck you!”

  Frank grinned back at him, as if Max had finally shown some fuck’n chutzpah after all these years. “You t’ink dis one vill be different from ze last slut you married?”

  Max gritted his teeth even harder. He could feel his molars grinding against each other at the back of his mouth, causing pain to radiate into both angles of his jaw. “I thought I told you not to talk about her like that!”

  “She’ll see who you really are,” Frank said, still grinning. “Zey all do in ze end.”

  “No she won’t!” Max’s voice had gone up an octave. He was almost shouting.

  “Sarah found out vot a veak fool you are.” Frank took a drag on his Magic Pudding cigarette, calm and relaxed, just enjoying the show. “No vonder she fucked your best mate.”

  “Shut up! Just fuck’n SHUT UP!” Max shouted and lunged for the old fucker’s throat. Frank just threw his head back and laughed, disappearing back to whatever fuck’n black hole he came from. Max punched the backrest of the couch, just where his old man’s head had been a second before, cursing himself for letting the German bastard slip through his fingers, literally.

  “I gotta get outta here,” he mumbled to himself. “I can’t handle this shit anymore.”

  He stormed into the kitchen thinking the best thing for him for all concerned right now was for him to get the fuck away and get his head sorted out. He’d take the Cherokee out to the Johnson farm and stay there as long as it fuck’n took to get himself right. He’d make his apologies to Lorraine when he got back, whenever that would be. But he’d do it. He owed her that much. Man, it was a damn fuck’n shame. She was a good chick. Maybe it was more fuck’n hope and wishful thinking than actual reality, but the potential was there for someth’n special, he could feel it in his gut.

  Still, what wasn’t meant to be wasn’t meant to be. To be honest, chicks like her didn’t hang around guys like him. She deserved better. Much fuck’n better. Maybe the old fucker was right all along, he was piss weak. She didn’t need a useless prick like him, she needed a man, a real man, someone who could provide for her and protect her from the ravages of this bullshit life. Besides, if the coppers didn’t find him, she’d find him out. The old man was right on that score too. Might not be today or next week, or even next month. But sooner or later he’d let something slip, maybe over coffee in the morning, or something yelled out in his sleep. He had to let her go before anything serious started to develop between them. For both of their sakes.

  He slammed the front door on his way out and jumped into the driver’s seat of the Cherokee, determined not to waver from his plan should he see Lorraine coming out of her house. He turned on the ignition and slammed the gearstick into reverse, just as someone knocked on the passenger side window and scared the living bejesus out of him.

  Lorraine’s face peered through the driver’s side window, her index finger still pressed to the glass where she�
�d tapped on it. She was smiling, a gorgeous welcoming smile Max reckoned he hadn’t received from a woman since before the turn of the millennium (discounting, of course, the good-for-noth’n whores at Lady Li’s who always smiled but had all the authenticity of a fake Chinese Rolex). She had painted rich crimson lipstick across her lips, some of which had smudged a little across her upper teeth, something that would’ve annoyed the fuck out of his ex-wife had he noticed but not told her, but something he now thought of in Lorraine as kind of cute in an innocent-little-girl kind of way.

  Scrubs up fine, doesn’t she Max? Damn fuck’n fine.

  “Hi, Max,” she said through the closed window. “I wasn’t sure if you were going to come and get me or if I should come over to you.”

  Max said nothing, stunned into silence as much by the surprise of her sudden appearance as by the exquisiteness of her beauty. Golden sparks glinted from her blonde hair in the noonday sun, flashes of light that brightened her face and her pale blue eyes. If only he could capture this moment forever, this angle, this light, this angelic face, he reckoned he’d capture perfection. Maybe there was a fuck’n God after all. Better still, the way she was leaning down and forward revealed every teenage boy’s wet dream, a creamy-white cleavage that offered more than just a taste of the fabulous delights cupped behind her Wonder Bra. Wedged in the tight vice of her cleavage was a crucifix on a gold chain, reminding him once again to watch his fuck’n language.

  “I… uh,” he said, wrenching his gaze from her fab cleavage. He only now realised he was talking through the closed window.

  “Shall I get in?” she said as he wound down the window.

  It took vast amounts of will power not to let his gaze fall back to her cleavage. “Uh… oh, yeah, sure,” he said.

  Well, stupid, are you gonna open the door for her? Sarah’s voice cut in.

  That was one thing she had always insisted on from the moment they met, yet one more thing she resented of him, because he always forgot: a real gentleman always opened the door for a lady. Only problem was, he was no gentleman and she was no fuck’n lady; never was, never fuck’n would be. But Lorraine surely was.

  Max got out of the Cherokee and opened the passenger side door for her. Across her shoulders she had slung a light woollen cardigan, but only now did he notice her dress, a white V-neck, sleeveless cotton number with bright red rose patterns that hugged the curves of her gorgeous ass and hemmed just above her knees, which slipped higher up her slender thighs as she wiggled into the passenger seat. Max’s first thought was to wonder if he could catch a glimpse of her G-string, which he immediately berated himself for and told himself to act as much like a fuck’n gentleman as he could. His second thought was that she must be fuck’n cold. Granted, it was bright and sunny, but who the hell wore a summer frock in the middle of winter?

  Someone who wants to make a good impression, stupid, Sarah’s voice cut in again. Though why she’d bother, I don’t know.

  For once his ex’s cynical nagging didn’t bother him. He jumped into the driver’s seat feeling like he’d swallowed a whole fuck’n jar of happy pills. Even the yapping and growling from the flea-bitten mongrel next door barely registered. “You look… very nice, Lorraine,” he said as the Cherokee reversed onto the street. “That’s a real pretty dress.”

  Lorraine beamed back at him. “Thanks. Made it myself.”

  Max didn’t want to lose the moment by glancing back at her wonder cleavage, so kept his sights firmly ahead. It made it easier to think he was lying in ambush, scoping a roo down the barrel of the Remy. That way he knew he could concentrate without getting distracted. Also seemed to heighten his other senses. He caught a waft of something else that was real nice.

  “Like your perfume too,” he said. “It’s, uh… real nice.”

  Lorraine seemed pleased he’d noticed. “Oh, thanks. It’s Chanel Number 19.”

  “Sounds expensive.”

  “Oh, no, that’s Chanel Number 5, one of the most expensive perfumes in the world. I couldn’t afford that.” She giggled. “Number 19 isn’t cheap either, but if I save up I can treat myself. It reminds me of my mother. It’s what she used to wear. She always said you can go cheap on most things, but never go cheap on perfume and make-up.”

  Max made a detour at the local shops to buy meat for the barbeque and a carton of beer. Thanks to his earlier procrastination he was running late. He knew his boss wouldn’t give a flying fuck whether he was late or early, but luckily Bill O’Driscoll’s house was only another ten minutes down ANZAC Highway toward the beach. The number of cars parked in the driveway and along the street made it easy to locate the residence, yet another 70s eyesore that littered the neighbourhoods this side of town. Though, Max reckoned, it was still a patch above his place.

  He found a spot to park the Cherokee several houses down the street, got out and opened the door for Lorraine, then collected the meat and beer from the back of the Cherokee. He ushered Lorraine around the side of Bill’s house where he could hear chatter and laughter coming from the backyard. The smell of sausages and steaks on the barbeque wafted to him even before he turned the corner.

  Several kids were jumping and squealing on the trampoline and playing on the swing set in the far corner, where a wooden cubbyhouse had been erected alongside the fence. Most of the fifty or so people Max didn’t recognise. Wives and girlfriends were gossiping in groups, some sitting on outdoor furniture, others keeping an eye on the younger children and making sure they didn’t hurt themselves on the play equipment. Most of the men had gathered in small huddles, probably talking about how the Crows’ season was panning out and their chances of making the finals next month. Either that or how many gold medals might be brought back from Beijing when the Olympics started in a few days’ time. Max located the hefty frame of Bill O’Driscoll near the barbeque abutting the rear of the house. He was with two dickheads from work that Max had hoped wouldn’t be here, Chris Jones and Kevin Sharpe. Bill had yet to notice his arrival, but the other two had.

  As he headed toward the barbeque and his boss, Max heard Kev say to Jonesy, “Christ, he actually showed up! And with some pussy too.”

  Jonesy had slung an apron over his flannelettes and jeans that said MY KITCHEN RULES: SIT DOWN, SHUT UP & EAT! He was flipping sausages on the barbeque with a pair of tongs in one hand and sipping from a West End stubby with the other, scanning Lorraine over the rim of the bottle up and down like she was some two-bit whore on parade. His gaze stopped at her cleavage and lingered there for several seconds.

  “How the hell did he pull her?” Max heard him say to Kev, who was also fixated on Lorraine’s cleavage. “You know what? I think I know her.”

  “Max!” said Bill in his excited Irish brogue, looking up. He came over and slapped Max jovially on the back. “Glad you could come.”

  “Thanks Bill. This is Lorraine.”

  Bill greeted Lorraine, commenting on how lovely she looked, then turned to Max, “We didn’t know you had a girlfriend, Max.”

  Max felt himself redden but was glad to see Lorraine smiling, hoping like hell she didn’t take offence to his boss’s suggestion. He and Lorraine followed Bill to the drinks table where Bill poured Lorraine a glass of red wine and Max helped himself to a can of West End from the carton he’d bought.

  “Where’d he find such a fine lass?” Bill said to Lorraine.

  “Under two feet of water,” Max replied. Lorraine didn’t answer, but he could tell she appreciated the joke.

  “Lucky for you,” said Bill.

  “Might throw these on the barbie,” Max said, holding up the bag of sausages and T-bones. “She’s starv’n.”

  “Go right ahead me boy,” said Bill. “We’ll look after Lorraine.” As Max headed to the barbeque he heard his boss say to Lorraine, “Sly old fox he is,” but what made him smile was the little giggle he heard in reply.

  Thankfully Jonesy and Kev had finished barbequing and were carrying a plate of steaming meat to one of the outdo
or tables with three other guys from work. The last thing he wanted was to make fuck’n small talk with them while he barbequed. He’d probably end up sticking the steak knife into Jonesy’s back. That or castrating him and forcing him to swallow his own slimy testicles as a fuck’n entrée. Now that wouldn’t be such a bad ending for the stupid prick, would it?

  After a few minutes delighting in the imaginary torture of his workmate, a voice next to him said, “What are you smiling at?”

  It was Gavin Brookes, another workmate, one of the few, along with Bill O’Driscoll, he actually didn’t mind talking too. The guy could be a bit moody at times, but hey, couldn’t we all? “Noth’n much, Gazza,” he said, feeling a tad guilty, hoping his face hadn’t broadcast the punishment he’d been considering dishing out to Jonesy. “Just think’n to me self.”

  “Mind if I squeeze in?”

  “Sure. My meat’s not got long.” Max made room for Gazza to slap an array of squid, prawns and octopus onto the hotplate. They made small talk for a while about the weather and the footy, then Max gestured to the barbeque and said, “Been fish’n?”

  Gazza squeezed some lemon juice over the sizzling seafood. “Me? Nah, just shopping.”

  “I know a good spot down south if you’re ever interested in getting away for the weekend.”

  Gazza nodded to a pregnant woman running after a toddler across the lawn, who was squealing with delight at the game of chase. By the look of her bulging belly, Max reckoned she had less than a month to go before she popped.

  “Wish I had the time, mate,” Gazza said. “This is about as far as I venture from the house nowadays.”

  Max sipped his beer and turned the sausages. “I understand,” he said. “But the offer’s always there.”

  “Thanks, mate. Appreciate it. What’s keeping you busy these days? Don’t get much chance to talk on the site, do we?”