Roadman Read online

  Max gestured with the tin of Kitty Kat and spoon. “Look’n for me cat,” he said, and tapped the spoon three times on the can like an MC trying to hush an audience and get their attention—Tink! Tink! Tink!

  Warren took a gulp of beer, belched, and forearmed his mouth. “The fuck’n thing better not come anywhere near my house,” he said, then turned and merged back into the shadows, his mongrel at his heels.

  Max considered asking whether or not they’d seen anyone knocking on his door, then thought better of it. The teenage brats wouldn’t have noticed a fuck’n thing, too busy twisting their tongues together to worry what was happening next door, and ol’ shit-for-brains was too fuck’n unreliable when he was sober let alone when he’d been sinking down the lagers since knock-off. Maybe the fuck’n dog saw something.

  Max grabbed the bin from the side of the house and put it on the sidewalk for the garbos to collect in the morning, then headed back indoors wondering where the fuck El Stupido had gotten to. Wasn’t like him to miss his dinner. Then again, maybe he’d found himself some female company and decided to give the ol’ Kitty Kat a skip tonight. Still, it was a mystery, and he liked fuck’n mysteries as much as he had liked his old man’s beatings.

  Thursday, 19th June 2008

  Dear Diary,

  Where has the time gone? It’s been nearly a week since I started writing this diary and it seems like only yesterday since I put the pen down. Oh well, what can you do? I had good intentions of writing every day, but maybe that’s a little bit unrealistic for me. I guess it has to become a habit, doesn’t it? Like going to the gym, or going for a run, or eating healthy food. Or, I suppose, like crying in your bed.

  Maybe for me I should just look at this as a ‘part-time’ diary? Nothing too serious. Just a part-time thing, like me and Geoff Redman used to be. Well, that’s not quite true, is it? I was serious. Very serious. He wasn’t. Maybe that’s what scared him away. Maybe that’s what scares most men away, seriousness—the threat of not being able to go out with their mates like they used to. Because that’s what it comes down to with guys, doesn’t it? The fear of losing their youth, losing their mateship, of growing up and taking responsibility. They fear change. Seriously.

  Maybe that’s what scares men away from me? They see someone who wants to lock them in the home and never let them out. Which is just ridiculous. I’d let them out once a year (ha ha! just jokes). But maybe that’s it. Georgina says I’ve always been too serious, ever since she’s known me at high school at least. She also says I think too much, which always perplexes me, as if thinking too much is somehow bad. Anyway, perhaps thinking too much makes me too serious. Maybe I’m too serious too soon with men, which wouldn’t have anything to do with my age would it? Tic-Toc the Menstrual Clock.

  Perhaps I should try a different tact. Be less serious. Be less needy. Take Georgina’s advice, just spread my legs and think less. Perhaps I should start to look at men like they look at women: just for sex. Then maybe I wouldn’t fall too heavily for the next beau that knocks on my front door (when will that be, next century, ha ha?) and get all excited about wedding bells and babies in prams the minute he says hi. I’ll just say, “Hey, let’s not be too serious. Let’s just have a part-time relationship. It’ll be purely sexual, nothing else. We can (excuse my French) be fuck-buddies. How does that suit you?”

  But is that what I really want? Just sex? (Well, a little bit wouldn’t be so bad, actually. It’s been so long I’m getting what Georgina would call, “Cobwebs down there!”) I guess I want it all. A man. Sex. Children. Sex. A happy family. Sex. OMG I am getting desperate, aren’t I? It’s been so long I’ve forgotten what it’s like.

  All right, let’s change the subject. Something a little less heated. I had a visit from my little black friend the other night. He’s so cute. He’s also rather large. I guess his long fur and his big bushy tail makes him look bigger than he really is, but even still he’s much larger than any other house cat I’ve known. I think he thinks he’s a lion. He’s very affectionate nonetheless. He sits on the backrest and drapes himself over my shoulder when I watch TV (he’s no lion; he just a big sook). I wonder who he belongs to. His real family must be somewhere in the neighbourhood, maybe even on Amesbury Road. I should follow him next time he wants out and see where he heads. But what will that prove? Maybe he doesn’t belong to anybody. He might be just a very promiscuous cat, visiting every family in the neighbourhood that gives him a good feed and a cuddle.

  I wonder what his name is. Can a free spirit have a name? Maybe I should just call him “Cat”. That way he doesn’t belong to me or to anyone else in fact. That way he’s free to visit whoever and whenever he likes, including me. Would I get jealous? No, of course not. It’s quite the opposite: I’m happy he’s a free spirit and happy he visits other families. After all, I’m not his first and I can’t imagine that I’m his last either.

  Now here’s a thought: would I feel the same about a man? Would I be happy that he’s a free spirit, visiting me and other women whenever he wants? If not, why not? Possession, I guess. I can’t feel comfortable without possessing a man, a partner. Cats are one thing, but men, humans, are another. I really couldn’t ignore my future lover’s name and simply call him “Man” now could I? Or would this solve my ‘part-time’ relationship issues? Me Jane. You Tarzan. “I’ll call you ‘Man’ and you’ll call me ‘Woman’ and that will solve all our problems and we can have sex without the guilt of possessing each other.”

  It’s a silly thought. We might be different, we might be from Venus and they might be from Mars, but when it comes down to it men and women simply aren’t able to have a relationship without ownership. Free love isn’t really free; there’s always some kind of cost.

  In fact, I’m happy with that. I don’t want a man who’s a free spirit, spreading himself around like a feline Casanova. I want a man who wants me as much as I want him. I want a man who wants kids, who wants a family.

  Now where on Earth do I find him, the Internet?

  Sunday, 29th June 2008

  Dear Diary,

  Can you believe it, another ten days gone? Just like that, a blink of an eye. I know what they mean now when they say time goes quicker when you’re older. They also say it goes quicker when you’re having fun. But I think it just goes quicker when your life is spiralling out of control, like the last whirlpool of bathwater down the drain. (Or, as Georgina would most likely say, “Like shit flushed down the toilet.”)

  Cat has been back a few times for some food (he likes fish, not from the can, mind you, but fresh from the supermarket and cut up into bite size pieces—he’s not fussy is he? No not at all!). And of course a cuddle while I get my fix of Sex In The City or Desperate Housewives or Grey’s Anatomy. He makes me laugh. I truly swear he knows what’s going on in these shows. I see him watching the TV screen when he’s on my lap or draped over my shoulders on the backrest (his favourite position by far), and sometimes he even jumps down and sits right in front of the screen, head cocked, ears pricked, watching and listening to everything. Once, during Grey’s Anatomy, he even put his paw on the screen as if trying to catch something. I couldn’t make out what he was interested in. Maybe he thought it was a mouse, or bird, or something tasty.

  But when he gets up and heads to the back door I know my visit is over and it’s time for somebody else to enjoy his company. I find myself getting sadder and sadder each time he leaves me, which is silly really, isn’t it? He isn’t my Cat. I should be just grateful for the time we have together. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I just ignored his wishes and refused to open the door. Would he attack me? Would he ram the door? He’s big enough to put a big dent into it if he did.

  But I haven’t had the courage to try that little experiment, not yet anyway. Hmmm. That’s just me getting too possessive and needy and lonely (there, you have me in a nutshell, don’t you?). And there’s an idea: should I get a pet of my own? I could get a female cat. That would entice my litt
le Casanova to stay a bit longer, wouldn’t it?

  Well, it’s a thought. I’ll keep it as that for the time being. For now, I’ll keep doing what I do, going to work, earning some extra cash with my sewing, helping dad, and all the while waiting for my next visit from my feline friend and hope his stay isn’t too brief.

  At least dad has been better lately. In fact, he’s had a good week so far. The coughing hasn’t stopped. That hasn’t changed. He coughs all night, then sleeps all day. But when he’s been awake this week he seems to be in better spirits. He’s been holding his food down at least, which is a godsend. That’s something I’ll never get used to, the vomiting. The coughing I can handle, even though it keeps me awake at night. But the vomiting makes my own stomach churn. I try not to show it. Dad feels bad enough as it is. Not the illness, I mean, the fact that his only daughter has to nurse him with very little chance of it ever ending (well, ending in the good sense, getting back to health, not the bad sense). He tells me I should go out more, meet some people (read between the lines—meet a man!), and he’s right, of course, I should go out more and socialise. But how realistic is that? What if he gets really sick when I’m out at dinner with Georgina or meeting up with some of the girls at work for a few drinks? I’d never forgive myself. Especially if he…

  Well, let’s not think about it. Sometimes I’ve even had to lie to him, which I absolutely hate doing. But he can be very persistent, or abstinent, or whatever the word is for never giving up on something and letting it go. Especially on the topic of getting out of the house and “Doing what women your age should be doing,” as he would say (more than once). The other day, though, I don’t know what came over me. I was tired, I guess, and didn’t have the energy to get into an argument over going out and socialising, no matter how minor. It just came out. I told him that I’d already met somebody, hoping that it would be the end of the 20-questions session.

  Duh! It only fired him up. I should’ve known better, but it was too late, so I kept with the lie. Anyway, it was kind of true. It wasn’t a big lie. I actually have seen the guy quite a bit over the past few months, mainly during the week. “Seen,” though, in the literal sense, not the romantic or biblical sense. I see him sometimes on my way to the factory and when I get home, when the shifts are more sociable that is and I’m not heading out at six in the morning or getting back at midnight. But sometimes I don’t see him for weeks at a time.

  In fact, I don’t know if he’s ever noticed me or knows I even exist. Our eyes never meet and we certainly don’t exchange greetings. Not even so much as a “Hi!” or “G’day.” He’s kind of cute, in a roguish way that is—scruffy wind-swept locks, a permanent three-day growth, medium sporty build, strong princely arms, arms that could pick you up and carry you away to your castle in the forest, and, from what I could see from a distance, a nice firm behind that looks absolutely wonderful in a pair of jeans. Yet I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile. He always seems lost in his own thoughts.

  So, anyway, if you really want to play lawyers and judges it wasn’t such a bad fib. Technically I have “seen” a new man, and that’s what I told dad to keep the peace. Dad, though, kept pushing, kept asking questions. Maybe it was the medication, I don’t know. I upped it ten or so days ago, around my last diary entry in fact (dad doesn’t know about the extra doses, or at least if he’s noticed he certainly hasn’t said anything), as he seemed to have hit a real dip and I figured it wouldn’t do any harm to add just one more pill to his daily regimen. I just hope Dr. Joseph doesn’t find out, or if he does, turns a blind eye.

  Anyway, for better or for worse, it’s been a good week for dad since I’ve increased the medication. I’ve even heard him laughing once or twice at something on the TV, so that has to be good doesn’t it? But the side effect of all this is that he hasn’t stopped asking questions about my “new man”. I’m in too deep now to stop the charade. He actually believes I’ve met somebody. He didn’t at first, but when I told him we’ve been out to lunch (yes, OK, the fib is growing) something seemed to relax in his eyes, as if all the stress and worry had gone away, and I simply didn’t have the heart to tell him it was just an old spinster’s fantasy.

  I didn’t have the heart to tell him his only daughter is a no-good, big fat liar.

  CHAPTER 5

  The next time Max headed for a weekend away at the humpy he was in one major pig fuck of a mood. First Jonesy at work. Then Sarah, nagging him about the divorce papers almost every bloody day. Had to stop answering the phone in the end to try and get some fuck’n peace. He’d even pulled the line out of the socket to stop it ringing. But even that didn’t stop the bitch leaving messages all day and night. Kept leaving messages at work too, causing Bill O’Driscoll to get all sweaty and red in his chubby face and pull out whatever white strands of fluff remained on his freckled scalp. Worse, his old man wouldn’t stop his incessant bullshit either. Even waking him up in the middle of the night to give him a mouthful about something he did as a kid fuck’n years ago. No fuck’n peace. It was doing his head in. Whole thing had been building up all week like a pimple on his arse that he couldn’t squeeze.

  Been building up your whole fuck’n life, if you really want to get down to it, he thought, reversing the Cherokee out of the driveway. The Remy jumped on the passenger seat next to him and the fishing tackle and ammo rattled in the back of the vehicle as the wheels rumbled over the guttering and onto the street. Then he thrust the gear leaver into first and sped off toward ANZAC Highway. He needed this weekend away. Needed it bad. Needed to get it out of his fuck’n system like a badly overdue visit to Lady Li’s in China Town (he did like the Asians, he had to admit, so much more fuck’n polite than the drugged up Aussie whores he’d had to deal with in the past).

  And there you have it, don’t you Max? Probably half the fuck’n problem, tied up in one, isn’t it? Got yourself so worked up about not getting laid that you could take the Remy sitting right next to you and shoot up the whole of Amesbury Road as you drive by, then start on the next neighbourhood, then the next, and the next, until everyone in happyville got what was fuck’n coming to them. Probably shoot up half of North Plympton before you got even close to feelin’ good again.

  Max grinned at the thought. Probably start with Shepherd’s fuck’n mongrel next door. Would shove the barrel down the fuck’n thing’s gullet when it came tearing down the driveway yapping and growling and telling him to get the fuck away from its flea-ridden dog patch. He’d make sure the barrel was the whole way down the dog’s stinking gullet before he fired and blew its arse straight off. Then The Blob himself. He’d amble up the porch as easy as John Wayne or Clint Eastwood and put the barrel right between his eyes while he sat on the couch swilling beers. Pull the trigger before the fat prick knew what was going on, before he could even say, “Get off ma’ fuck’n porch, ya fuck’n cocksucker!” Then the others, except pizza face. Would probably let the Shepherd boy get away; the kid would be the only one, though. The rest of the neighbourhood would go down, including his bitch tease. Be doing the kid a favour. Save him a lot of head fuck in the future. And a lot of his hard earned too.

  He turned right off ANZAC Highway onto South Road and over the Cross Road overpass, still musing on the “Massacre of North Plympton”, as the local rags would put it, his five fuck’n minutes of fame. The Saturday morning traffic was almost as bad as rush hour during the week, if not fuck’n worse. It darkened his mood still further. Not only was every mum and dad in town on the road, so were all the fuck’n grannies and grandpas and nannas and papas and omas and opas of this fucked up fishbowl city, old fuckers who normally stayed at home during the worst of the weekday traffic, too scared to venture outside if there were more than three cars in sight. The whole of fuck’n Adelaide was on the road. His road. South Road. Off to watch the kids play footy or netball, or to get the fuck’n groceries for the week. Or, even worse, just going for a pleasant Saturday morning drive to fuck off everyone else that actually needed to ge
t somewhere. To rub it in, they were all doing forty clicks in a sixty zone. Fuck, it was times like this he wished he had a tank. Just roll over the top of the fuckers or blast them out of the way.

  He cursed himself. It was his own stupid fault. Really, he should’ve known fuck’n better. Now it was going to take him twice as long to get to the South Eastern Expressway, where at least he could put his foot down and make some serious mileage. Should’ve gone last night and beat the traffic out of the city like he normally did. That was always Plan A. Plan A was always good. Plan A always fuck’n worked. Go on a Friday, get back Monday morning, get as much out of the weekend as he fuck’n well could. But did he do that? Nah, he’d knocked off late from the construction site and was just too fuck’n tired to do anything when he stumbled through the front door. He didn’t even have the energy to microwave a frozen lasagne let alone drive all the way to Serena. Gone to bed with only the liquefied contents of a six-pack of West End sloshing in his gut.

  As he accelerated with the traffic (Wow! We’ve reached fifty fuck’n clicks! Time to put on the party hats and fuck’n rock ‘n’ roll!), he suddenly remembered that he’d forgotten to feed the cat before he slumped into bed. God knows what the fuck’n thing had for dinner. El Stupido was again MIA when he’d arrived home. Hadn’t even showed up this morning for his breakfast bowl of milk, which was odd, fuck’n odd. If he got lucky this weekend and bagged a roo, he might bring some back for the stupid thing. Cat couldn’t resist roo meat. Just about drove it wild.

  The Cherokee came to a stop at the next traffic lights. Although Plan A had gone AWOL with El Stupido, Plan B had been to go to bed early and get up at the crack of dawn. That way he would only lose the night. Which wouldn’t be so bad. He could still do his hunting and fishing and make the most of the daylight hours. But that didn’t happen either did it? He usually didn’t need to set an alarm clock. Normally he’d be woken by El Stupido jumping onto his bed demanding his bowl of milk. Either that or by the fuck’n magpies singing lullabies in the neighbour’s elm tree just as the sun rose over the hills and cast its dawn rays through his bedroom window. Sometimes he was even woken earlier in the pre-dawn by the newspaper van screeching its tyres down Amesbury Road and the thwack! of The Adelaide Sun landing on neighbourhood driveways.