A Straight Line to My Heart (7 page)

On sunday they have an eight-dollar dinner special at the Royal. Kayla and I never miss it. I go for the shepherd's pie with chips and she has the lasagna with chips. If you eat at the Royal, you'd better like chips.

We find an empty table in a corner, but before long it's noisy. Meat raffle's on. Charlie Dent is in charge. He's quite a poet. Especially when he works with colours.

‘Twenty-nine blue – could that be you?'

‘Thirty-three green – has anyone seen – thirty-three green?'

And he's known far and wide for this one:

‘Fifty-six pink – rinky-dink-dink!'

It's so bad it's funny. But Kayla isn't laughing tonight. She isn't all that bothered about food either. Not long into the meal she abandons her knife and fork to graze on the chips, seeking out the slightly burnt crispy ones. But she soon tires of that.

‘Can we get outta here, Tiff?'

That's fine with me. We both know a quieter place. It's a fair trek but it's on our way home and there's a short cut. In fifteen minutes we're standing at the entrance to our own private hide-out: Gungee Creek Cemetery.

I lead the way. There's one floodlight near the street but the further in among the graves we go, the more the darkness buries us.

Hot nights bring out snakes so I warn Kayla to be careful.

Immediately she shrieks, ‘Tiff! Tiff! Behind you!'

It's a feeble old joke and only an idiot would fall for it.

She cackles when I jump.

As we usually do, we prop ourselves up against the headstones of Monnie and Grogan Nash. Being buried together means they have a double-sized slab of concrete in front of them, which is perfect for us to sit on. We don't mean any disrespect. It's just that they feel like old friends and I know they'd want us to be comfy. They've both been dead for over a hundred years, but we still say hello to them. However, we don't ask how they are. That would be tactless.

From out of her backpack Kayla produces a Coke bottle. The drink's all gone and now it's half-filled with a clear liquid.

‘Vodka. Nicked it from Inky. If she misses it, which I doubt, she won't mind.' She dives back into her bag. ‘Got a couple of paper cups in here, too, somewhere, ah, here we go.'

We've been coming here for years; had a few beers on burning hot days, but we've never drunk vodka before.

‘So what's the deal?' I ask.

‘You start at the paper tomorrow. That's special.'

‘Only work experience.'

‘But you might get a cadetship – that's what you said – right?'

‘A long shot.'

‘You'll get it.'

She brushes her cup against mine. ‘Cheers! But don't scull it – that is deadly stuff.'

I take a sip, and grimace. ‘It's horrible.'

‘Give it a chance to grow on you.'

‘I've got enough things growing on me already, thanks.'

‘Drink.'

I have another gulp and roll it around my mouth. It still burns my lips, my tongue.

‘Better?'

It's the closest I've ever come to drinking diesel, but I don't want to spoil her fun.

‘Getting there.'

She doesn't see me tip it out.

A yawn is followed by a stretch, and then, as if she's in her own bed instead of on top of a gravestone, Kayla lies on her side, hands cupped under her cheek to make a pillow.

‘This wouldn't be such a bad place to end up.' A sliver of moon shines enough light for me to see that her eyes are closed; it's almost like she's talking in her sleep. ‘You'd be right at home here, Tiff. Nice and peaceful, like the library. Throw a few books in with you and you'd be happy.'

‘The dead can't read.'

‘You don't know that for sure. They could have reading clubs, right here in Gungee Cemetery. Now there's something for you to look forward to.'

‘Go to sleep, Kayla. I'll wake you up if anyone wants to read you a story.'

She's quiet for a couple of minutes but awake, and restless . . . 

‘Knock, Knock,' she says. ‘Anyone home?'

‘No.'

‘I've been thinking about things lately . . .'

A slight tension grips at me; I don't quite know why, except that Kayla sounds very serious. I'm not used to that.

‘What kind of things?'

‘Well . . . do you think I'll ever get a job?'

‘Of course, you idiot, I know you will.'

‘I've got the same genes as Inky and she's never had one.'

‘But she's got kids. That's her job.'

‘Yeah, great. Thanks for reminding me.' She sits up now, perched on the edge of the grave. ‘It'll probably be mine too. I'm getting just like her. I drink and I smoke–'

‘Thought you quit.'

‘That was last week.'

‘Oh.'

‘And in about five years from now I'll have two or three little snots and they'll make up some crappy nickname for me, like Inky, and I'll still be here in Gungee.'

‘How much of that vodka have you had?'

‘Not enough.'

‘Well you're mad. You don't have to stay here. You can leave anytime you want.'

‘I've got no cash, no car, and my mum is pregnant and she needs me – she always needs me. You tell me how I'm–'

‘Stop. Just stop, Kayla. Things will change. Life is going to work out fine.'

‘How can you say that? You don't know what's gunna happen.'

‘Sure I do. I'll become rich and famous and I won't forget you.'

‘Thanks.'

‘No problem. I'll hire you as my maid.'

‘That's right – make a joke of it. You think everything's a joke, Tiff, but it's not.'

‘Huh? I was only trying to lighten things up.'

‘Yeah, I know – and I gotta tell ya, it is so annoying when you do that. I don't need you to lighten up what I say – I need you to understand!'

‘Okay, okay. I understand!'

‘No! You don't!'

‘Fine! Whatever you say, Kayla.'

The silence batters us. It builds to a crescendo. She breaks first.

‘Damn you, Tiff. Now look what you've done.'

‘Me? What did I do?'

‘You've made me feel guilty for being so mean . . . I'm sorry.'

‘You were just being honest.'

‘No I wasn't. I was being jealous.'

‘No way! Of me?'

‘Yes, you. Your job . . . and now I feel awful, because I know you'd never be jealous of me.'

‘Don't be so sure.'

‘Oh, I'm sure all right. You never get jealous.'

‘Wrong, Kayla. Dead wrong. I just never show it.'

‘You're kidding me, right?'

‘No. I'm dead serious. Everyone likes you, Kayla. You fit in anywhere you go. You can eat anything you like and not put on weight – which isn't fair, but you can't help it – and you're pretty and generous and–'

‘Are you trying to make me throw up?'

‘All I've got is a smart mouth.'

‘That's not true.'

‘And like you say, that gets very annoying. I don't know why you have anything to do with me.'

‘Good point. I don't know either. Why should I bother with someone who says such absolute garbage?'

‘It's true about you not putting on any weight . . .'

‘Okay. From now on I'm stocking up on chocolates and ice-creams. Watch this space. Skinny me is gone!'

‘I don't want you to do that. You can be skinny. No one's perfect.'

‘Hey.' Her pinky finger nudges mine. ‘I love your smart mouth. I don't want you to change anything.'

I lean back against the cold stone and gaze around me. In among the dead there must be girls who were once like me and Kayla. They probably lived this very scene before us; asked the same questions about friendship, about life; wondered if it was all worthwhile. I think it is. Hope it is.

On saturday, while he had the Gunners for company, Reggie forgot about being sick and old. I took a ton of photos of him at the barbecue after the game: in his short shorts with his toothpick legs; tackling a giant beer like an ambitious sparrow; telling anyone who would listen what they did wrong and how he would have done it so much better. No one got upset with him. Reggie's a legend, that's what they all said. I don't think he wanted that day to ever end.

But now it's Monday. He's dressed up in his brown suit coat and pants and shiny black shoes. Wearing his natty felt hat, too – the one with the yellow feather stuck in the brim. He wants that with him when he's cremated.

All this for his appointment to see Anna.

‘She's only a doctor,' Bull reminds him. ‘Not the bloody Queen.'

‘Come from the old school, I do,' Reggie says, ‘where we had respect. A man doesn't want to look like a no-hoper.'

I ask him where his tie is, just for a stir, because I know what the answer will be.

‘Don't believe in 'em,' he says. ‘You can get in all kinds of strife with ties. Oh yes. My very word.'

I've heard his killer-tie stories many times.

It just doesn't make any sense puttin' a noose around your own neck. You put it on too tight and you half choke to death; too loose and its liable to fly up and get caught in a train door. And then there's–

But today I don't ask him to explain the dangers. I'd like to have a laugh – just to myself – but I've got somewhere I have to be.

The bus to Menindah takes an hour. I've left myself plenty of time to make it to the
Eagle
by nine.

Bull has other ideas.

‘I have to call in at the courthouse there this morning,' he says. ‘You might as well keep me company on the drive.'

‘Forget it. I'm not going with you in the cop car.'

‘Won't kill yer.' He checks out the mirror as he goes past. Looks disappointed at what he finds there. ‘You ready?'

‘Everyone will think I'm under arrest.'

‘Especially when I put the cuffs on yer.'

‘You're an idiot, Bull.'

‘So I've been told, but who cares what anyone thinks? Don't worry about it. You can get the bus for the rest of the week.'

‘But–'

‘No buts. It's a done deal. We can drop off Reggie as we go through town.'

Reggie bristles at this. ‘Nah. I'll be right. Got me walkin' shoes on.'

‘Forget that. Anna's expecting you there sometime this week.'

‘Eughhh.'

In fifteen minutes we pull up in front of Anna's surgery. Bull gives Reggie a card with the cop shop's number on it.

‘Someone should be there. Give them a bell when you're ready. They'll organise a lift home – don't try to walk it. Don't want you dropping dead on the side of the road. This is a tidy town, yer know.'

Reggie pokes his head through the window.

‘See what I gotta put up with, Tiffy? Talk about flamin' police brutality.'

‘Haven't started on you yet.' Bull winks at me. ‘You go ahead and walk home, old bloke – I've been looking for an excuse to try out the taser.'

‘Yeah, yeah.' Reggie slaps the car door. ‘See yer, Tiffy.'

We drive off quickly. I turn around, watching Reggie as long as I can. He looks unsteady on his feet.

Tell me again he's going to be okay, Bull.
I say it to myself, but somehow he hears it.

‘Stop worryin', mate.' His gnarly fist scrapes against my jaw. ‘Anna'll fix him up.'

The towns whiz by. Bull eyes the clock on the dash. ‘Should make it right on time. You must be chuffed about this. Finally gettin' a start at a paper. How's it feel?'

‘All right.'

‘Can't you do better than that? You have to be excited. You wanted to be a reporter from way back – used to cut stories out of the paper when you were a little girl. Then you'd rearrange them and stick them in a book – made your own newspapers. Remember that?'

‘Not me. I'd never do anything that lame.'

‘You gotta stop trying to be cool, Tiff. Doesn't do a thing for me.'

That's because you don't know what cool is, Bull! You've never had a cool day in your life! In fact, the only thing cool about you, is me!
I almost say those things, but then I remember he's got a gun.

‘This is your dream job,' he says. ‘You've always told me that. Right or wrong?'

‘I suppose.'

‘You're on a roll. Don't stop. Now tell me what you're really feeling.'

‘Well . . . I guess I am a little bit excited.'

‘Good.'

‘And scared – because it's all new and I don't know what I'm going to have to do or what the people will be like . . . but I think it's a good scared.'

Bull smiles. It's like he's just dragged a confession out of a suspect.

We're behind a line of cars at a traffic light when we hear a siren. I see a fire-truck across the road on our left. Cars pull over to let it pass and it sneaks through the lights and speeds off.

‘Do you think we should follow it?' I ask.

‘Why would we want to do that?'

‘In case it's a big story. I could write an eyewitness report.'

‘You've seen too many movies.'

‘I'm serious, Bull. The editor said he wanted someone who showed initiative. There's not going to be a better chance than this.'

‘But he's going the opposite way to us. If we chase after him there's a good chance you'll be late for your job.'

‘No guts, no story. Please follow him.'

He turns off the highway, mumbling to himself. And soon we're on the same road as the fire-truck, but way behind.

‘Can you go faster? I can only just see him. We won't be able to hear his siren in a minute.'

‘There's a speed limit.'

‘You're a cop, Bull.
Hello
.'

He grits his teeth and plants his foot down on the accelerator.

‘Happy now?'

‘That's much better. What about the siren?'

‘No. No. Positively no.'

‘Just a short burst to get those cars out of the way – we're gunna lose him if you don't. One tiny little–'

‘Bloody hell! This is the last time I give you a lift anywhere!'

Bull hits the siren. Cars slow and shift across lanes to let us through. We soon catch up to the fire-engine guy, who surprises us when he switches off his siren, moves to the side of the road, and stops.

‘Oh, jeez.' Bull covers his face with his hands. ‘He probably thinks I was trying to pull him over.'

‘I'll go and explain it to him,' I say.

‘No you will not. Stay here – I'll do it.'

He's about to get out of the car but changes his mind when the firey hops down from the truck and hurries back to us.

‘Everything all right, officer? No problem, is there?'

Bull leans out the window. ‘No. You're right, mate. You just keep on your way. Thought I'd follow you to the fire, that's all – case I can lend a hand.'

‘Oh, I see. Right. Yeah . . .'

This guy is sweating bullets. Nervous as. Even Bull picks up on it.

‘Anything wrong, buddy?' he asks.

‘Well, um – to tell you the truth, I wasn't actually going to a fire. It was more like a drill.'

‘A drill, eh?'

Bull gives me a knowing glance – like he's saying, ‘we're on to somethin' here' – and gets out of the car.

‘Think I might wander over and have a gander at your truck, mate.' He's already on his way, the driver trying to keep up. ‘You got some
id
I can have a look at?'

Suddenly the fire-engine's siren begins wailing.

The firey yells, ‘Rory! No! No! Turn it off!'

A kid of about six or seven sticks his head out of the window and waves gleefully to us from the fire-truck before the siren is switched off.

‘Sorry, officer.' The guy's in his sixties but that doesn't stop his face from lighting up as red as the fire-engine. ‘I'm minding the grandson this morning.' He shows Bull his
id
. ‘You know how kids are – he wanted to hear the siren. I was only going to take him around the block.'

Bull puts on his stern-copper face. ‘Yeah, well, it's not real good, is it? A man in your position should know better.'

‘I know. I'm sorry.'

‘You can't just use community property to take your grandkid on a joyride.'

‘It won't happen again, officer. I promise.'

Bull folds his arms. Sighs. Glares. And then finally . . . 

‘All right. I'm going to let it go this once.'

‘Aw, thanks, mate – officer. That's really decent of you.'

‘But if I hear any reports about you doin' this again–'

‘You won't. I swear.'

‘Go on. Get back to work then – and leave the kid with someone else next time.'

The poor firey is still muttering ‘thank you' as we drive away. I can only manage to wait ten seconds before I laugh.

‘Bull, you are such a hypocrite.'

‘Yeah,' he says, ‘but it was fun.'

Because of the fire-engine detour I don't make it to the
Eagle
till quarter past nine. Bull offers to go in with me and say it's his fault I'm late. I know it's a nice gesture, but I have to pass. Can't take the risk of him saying something dumb or tripping over the furniture or accidentally shooting the editor.

‘You're not embarrassed about me, are you?' he asks.

‘Of course not.'

Just drive away real fast so they don't see I've turned up in a cop car.