Part II of Down Under Week here at FFO...
I think it was another Aussie, Paul Kelly, who sang, "From little things big things grow." Then again he also sang, "Before the old man died." Jacqui Horwood proves sometimes those two are the same damn thing.
I think it was another Aussie, Paul Kelly, who sang, "From little things big things grow." Then again he also sang, "Before the old man died." Jacqui Horwood proves sometimes those two are the same damn thing.
Dashing by Jacqui Horwood
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Dashing.
That’s how Mum describes Dad when she tells
us about how they met. He wasn’t so dashing the night she told him she was
pregnant with me. The only “dashing” he did was out the door never to be seen
again.
After Dad came a long line of drunks, druggies,
cheats, slobs and dickheads. The only one worth mentioning is the one who stole
Mum’s car and left her pregnant with my brother, Mickey.
Mickey is three years younger than me.
We’re a team.
Mum’s latest discovery is Murray, fresh
from Sydney with his bad suits, dyed black hair and money clips full of cash.
When Mum saw him and his shiny Holden Calais, her eyes had kerchinged. She
flashed a smile and her knickers, and he’d acted like he couldn’t believe his
luck.
“He’s going to take us places,” whispered
Mum in my ear.
Yeah, Mum, he’s taken us places all right.
So far he’s taken us from one dingy roadside motel to the next in his stupid
car that he won’t let us eat or drink in. Mum calls him her prince and acts
like we’re on holiday. The way Murray talks big but looks over his shoulder
makes me feel like we’re hiding out.
The latest pit stop is Geelong. Mickey and
I get back to the motel room after a swim in the pool. Murray and Mum are
drunk, naked and asleep in the double bed.
Mercifully Murray is lying on his stomach.
Not so Mum. Murray’s snores rumble like a truck roaring through town. The place
stinks of rum and sex.
Mickey says, “I hate this. Let’s get out of here.”
Mickey says, “I hate this. Let’s get out of here.”
It’s late and there are places to check
out, corners to hang at.
“We got any money left?” I ask. Murray
regularly slings us a pineapple to keep out of his way. We spend half and save
half.
“Nuh,” says Mickey. “We’re all out.”
He gives me one of his cheeky smiles.
Mickey’s got a mop of black hair and dark, ringed eyes. When he gets an idea,
he looks like a little demon.
“Murray’s got a stack of money. Let’s rip
him off and go.”
“What? Just leave the two of them?”
He nods.
I think, yeah, we could buy train tickets
back to Melbourne. “Let’s do it.”
We fling clothes into backpacks and grab as
much chocolate and booze out of the fridge as we can carry. Murray farts and
rolls over. Mickey creeps to the pair of pants slung over a chair. He
slides out Murray’s wallet and waves it at me. I’m too nervous to stay in the
room any longer.
“Let’s go,” I whisper and we quietly slip
out.
Mickey and I run out into the main street.
Mickey rifles through the wallet and pulls out the money. He puts it in his backpack.
Time to count it later. Mickey’s slim fingers poke into all the pockets of the
wallet. He finds Murray’s driver’s license.
“Fat bastard,” he says, flinging the card
into a nearby bush. He pulls out receipts and business cards and leaves a trail
of paper behind us. Mickey grunts and yanks at a card stuck in one of the corners.
Finally it comes out. It looks like another driver’s license.
“Boring,” says Mickey. He passes the card
over. The picture on the license is definitely Murray. I read the name on the
card and my heart stops.
Murray Calhoun.
Jesus.
“Look at the name,” I tell Mickey. Mickey
reads it and frowns and then he realizes what I’m talking about.
“That
Murray Calhoun? The one in all the papers?”
Yes, that one. The mob accountant who
ripped off his clients and disappeared. Currently wanted by NSW’s finest and the
underworld’s worst.
“Shit,” I say. I look back at the motel.
“We can’t leave her there.”
“Can’t we?” asks Mickey with a sigh.
“No, Mick, we can’t.”
Back at the motel room, Mickey waits at the
door while I tiptoe to Mum’s side of the bed. A long line of dribble has oozed
down her cheek.
“Mum,” I hiss in her ear. “Wake up.” She
moans and flaps me away. I shake her till her teeth rattle. Her eyes flick open
and she stares at me confused. “What the fuck?”
Her breath smells like the s-bend of a
toilet. I shush her before she can open her mouth again and hand over the
driver’s license. She reads it and then looks at the hairy mound beside her.
“You’re shitting me,” she says. “Him?”
“Yep, him.”
“Well, that’s that then.” She stands on
shaky legs and rummages around for her clothes. She flings everything she can
find into her handbag. We help pack her suitcase. Mum gives Murray one more
look and pouts. “Let’s get going.”
Her suitcase clatters on the concrete path
past all the other motel rooms. Up ahead are two men in dark suits. I hear one
say to the other, “He’s around here somewhere.” The men step under one of the
few outdoor lights that are working. Their faces are worn and hard. They’re
scary and they’re here for business. Mickey and I put our heads down.
“You looking for that Murray guy?” says
Mum. The men stop and turn their beady eyes to her. Mickey almost chokes and
sidesteps out of view and behind Mum. Where he bumps into me.
“We might be,” says one of the men.
“He’s in Room 21. I could hear him
snoring.”
One of the men nods his thanks while the
other keeps eyeballing Mum, who straightens her back and eyeballs him back. He
grunts, and they walk away.
“Bloody hell,” Mickey squeaks. Fear has
raised his voice an octave.
Mum pulls something out of her handbag and
dangles it from her fingers. The keys to Murray’s precious car. Mickey and
I stifle nervous giggles. Mum slides us a sly smile. “Not like he’ll be needing
it anytime soon.”
