Fat, Fifty & F<li><li><li>ed! Read online

  Dedicated with much love to the gorgeous Wilma Schinella, my inspiration, muse, main squeeze, partner-in-crime, editor-in-residence, travelling companion par excellence, and general all-round extraordinary human being.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Many thanks to Morris Gleitzman, who read an early draft and enthusiastically encouraged me to keep going; Australian Voices in Print, and Irina Dunn at the NSW Writers Centre, who announced their 2003 Popular Fiction Competition at exactly the right moment; agent and competition judge Selwa Anthony, who read all the entries and decided mine had something extra; Bob Sessions, Publishing Director at Penguin, who agreed with Selwa; publisher Clare Forster, who guided me along a new path with humour and grace; designer Nikki Townsend, whose cover you couldn’t miss at a mile; and again, SuperAgent Selwa Anthony, who has been there every step of the way, with Selena Hanet-Hutchins just a half-step behind her.

  FAT,

  FIFTY

  &

  F***ED!

  GEOFFREY McGEACHIN

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  PENGUIN BOOKS

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Penguin Group (Australia), 2004

  Text copyright © Geoffrey McGeachin 2004

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  penguin.com.au

  ISBN: 978-1-74-228622-8

  one

  A three-quarter moon sat low in the night sky, its pale glow illuminating the lumpy puddles of vomit dotting the deserted forecourt of Burrinjuruk’s two-star Truck-on-Inn hotel/motel. It was just on four in the morning and the biggest party in the small town’s long history had finally fallen on its face. Security spotlighting flared around open-topped 44-gallon fuel drums overflowing with greasy paper plates, chop bones, crushed beer cans and flattened wine casks. Buttressed by glistening piles of empty stubbies and longnecks, the drums cast elongated shadows out across the silent roadway. The sound of a tinny guitar and drunken singing from an upstairs room indicated that some die-hard revellers were determined to party on downhill into the rapidly oncoming dawn.

  In a parking area behind the motel, the passenger door of a cherry-red Kenworth semitrailer swung open and a thin, dark-haired, forty-something woman lowered herself tentatively to the ground. She stood for a moment, swaying on her stilettos, then established balance. With the flat of her hand she attempted to smooth the creases out of her cocktail dress but quickly realised it was a lost cause. She glanced at the gold Lady Rolex on her wrist and swore. Moving slowly, with the studied inelegance of someone trying to persuade themselves they’re not too drunk to drive, the woman tottered across the uneven asphalt towards a row of parked cars. She took the crumpled silk knickers protruding from her handbag and tossed them in the general direction of one of the overflowing bins. They missed.

  Her car, a newish, metallic-silver Volvo Estate, stood out among the collection of dented and aging hatchbacks, utes and panel vans that crowded the car park. She backed out too quickly and the Volvo’s rear bumper nudged one of the temporary wooden barricades set up for the party. She swore again. Luckily for her, the motel had an extra-wide driveway to accommodate the giant, long-haul meat trucks that were its main customers. The Volvo found the approximate centre of the exit ramp and pulled slowly out onto the empty roadway, beneath a neon sign flashing the message: GAS-GRUB-GROG-24/7.

  Five kilometres further down the road, Col Curtis twisted in his seat and scratched awkwardly at his left shoulder. He glanced across at the speed radar. Dashboard-mounted, the unit’s digital display indicated it was currently in standby mode. Curtis’s white, police-issue Land Cruiser was tucked discreetly into Burrinjuruk’s only major side street, next to the bank. Sergeant Colin Curtis was in a very good mood. Drunks and speeders hadn’t been a problem tonight, which was absolutely fine by him. He knew most of his local troublemakers would have passed out at the motel by now, and the recently opened bypass was already taking nearly all the heavy through traffic away from his patch. Things had certainly changed since he first arrived in town.

  For many years Burrinjuruk, nestled at the bottom of a steep hill, had been a notorious late-night speed trap. Interstate truckies, operating on amphetamines, low profit margins and impossibly tight schedules, loathed the township. From midnight to dawn, with all sensible civilians tucked up in bed, the truckies considered the deserted roadways their own and they had hated Burrinjuruk’s former resident cop with a passion. Curtis’s predecessor was an officious bastard and it was his technique, as much as the speeding tickets and demerit points, that riled them. Hand raised and waving his radar gun, he would leap dramatically from the shadows out onto the highway, posing heroically under the town’s single streetlight. One dark night, an unknown driver used his rig to turn the officer into a thirty-metre, red, pink and brown smear on the bitumen. There were no skidmarks on the roadway, nor any other evidence of swerving, braking or evasive action by the truck.

  The following morning, a service station forty k’s down the highway reported a forced entry. Nothing was missing, but a high-pressure water cleaning gun had been used and neatly replaced. Forensic police from Albury carefully collected some bits and pieces from the service-station drain to add to what had been scraped off the highway in Burrinjuruk.

  The funeral was not well attended and was marred by derisive, staccato airhorn blasts from passing trucks. As the deceased officer’s replacement, Colin Curtis had represented the state’s police force at the service.

  Sergeant Colin Curtis liked his new job, and the truckies liked his attitude. They slowed down a little and he eased up a lot, but only from midnight to dawn. During daylight hours the road rules were rigidly enforced. Burrinjuruk, a quiet town and a one-man station, turned out to be an ideal posting for Curtis. A house and his sergeant’s stripes came with the job. There was no way he would have been promoted in the city, even with his record. You had to go along to get along in the big smoke, and there were some things he just wouldn’t do. This little town was better than most city precincts for an older officer, and anyway, he had really hated all those years of being Constable Colin Curtis.

  Though technically off duty from ten, Curtis spent most nights like thi
s, in uniform, in the Land Cruiser, parked next to the bank. He was just reaching for his thermos of coffee when headlights appeared over the crest of the hill. The radar beeped a moment later. Curtis glanced over at the display. Forty. He shook his head. As good as any breathalyser reading at this time of night. Drunks either drove too slow, to avoid attracting attention, or too fast, hoping to get home before the accident happened. The car rolled past and Curtis frowned. There was only one Volvo like that in the whole shire. He looked at his watch. Ten past four. She was really rubbing his nose in it this time. Let it go, he decided after a moment. Poor old Martin was going to have enough on his plate this morning without having to bail out the wife on a DUI.

  The Volvo disappeared into the night. Curtis twisted in his seat as the itching started up again. Sitting up high, he rubbed the troublesome shoulderblade against the headrest. He liked the itching, even after thirty-odd years. It usually kept him awake all night, which was exactly the way he liked it. When you’re awake you can’t dream.

  two

  On the other side of town Martin Carter was also awake. He lay in bed willing his mind to go blank, with the same spectacular lack of success he’d had over the past six hours. A possum landed on the corrugated-iron roof of the house with a familiar dull thud. Martin remembered the possum trap up in the rafters of the garage, above the old two-stroke Victa. Christ, bloody lawnmowers. He was wondering how many hours of his life he’d frittered away walking mindlessly up and down behind that damned lawnmower, when he heard the Volvo’s engine cut out, followed by the crunch of gravel under the tyres as she freewheeled up to the garage. Very considerate. A light touch of a finger on the bedside alarm clock and the time was projected onto the ceiling. Four-fifteen. Thank God for the Innovations mail-order catalogue. Infidelity could now be made easily visible and timed right down to the minute.

  On the bedside table, next to the alarm, was a framed family photograph. Him and her. And the boy and girl. Younger then, teenagers now. Hers. Everyone in the picture looked unhappy. No way he’d fit into those trousers now, he knew. Misery might love company but it was also totally crazy about lunch. That drive-through burger joint in the new highway service area just out of town had been the final nail in his sartorial coffin.

  Martin listened to careful footsteps in the hallway and then the bedroom door opened and closed. She flicked on the light in the ensuite and saw that he was awake. They looked at each other blankly, both their faces empty of emotion.

  ‘It’s late, after one-thirty,’ she said flatly. ‘There was a lot of cleaning up to do after the party. I’m going to take a shower. Go back to sleep.’

  Water started running and he waited for the rustle of the plastic shower curtain before getting out of bed. The bathroom door was slightly ajar, and after pulling on his robe he glanced in. Her dress lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. Jesus, what that dress cost and now look at it! The mirror on the medicine cabinet was already steaming up but he could still see her reflection in it. Red scratch marks were clearly visible on her neck and shoulders. He watched impassively until the mirror fogged over completely and then walked out into the hallway.

  Light was coming from under a door. The boy’s bedroom. He turned the handle. The boy, sitting in pyjamas at his computer desk, looked back from the monitor towards Martin in the doorway. On the screen was an image of a scrawny, naked girl having complicated and athletic sex with several men. Martin and the boy stared at each other, their faces expressionless.

  ‘Keeps fuckin’ dropping out,’ the boy said. ‘It’s a really shit connection. Seriously pissing me off.’

  Martin stepped back into the hallway, closing the door quietly behind him. Light came from under a second door. He knocked gently and waited, then knocked again. He opened the door to the room of a teenage girl. The bed was still neatly made. Not by her, though. Lazy little cow. From the open window he could see the purple panel van parked under a gum tree. Tuesday night, so it was the turn of the apprentice plumber from nearby Cardenvale. The van’s windows were heavily steamed up, even though it was a mild night. Just before he closed the door, Martin saw the family portrait on her pinboard. It was the same photograph as in the master bedroom, except in this one his head had been neatly cut out with scissors.

  In the kitchen Martin put instant-coffee granules into a mug and waited for the electric kettle to boil. He swallowed his pills dry. A small white one for lowering his blood pressure, plus a blue one – a diuretic – to help the first do its job. Both blister packs were now empty. He’d refilled the prescription yesterday but had left the pills in his desk drawer at the bank. He made a mental note to remember to bring them home tonight. There was also the cholesterol-lowering drug that he teamed whenever possible with thickly buttered toast and raspberry jam. Stupid, perhaps, yet somehow perversely satisfying. Today, however, he just took his coffee out to the verandah to wait for the sunrise.

  The house was a typical bush homestead, a single-storey, tin-roofed weatherboard with a wide verandah running around three sides. Built back in the late 1940s for a soldier/ settler, the house and the three acres it stood on would be all his in just fifteen more years. At least that had been the plan. Low-interest staff loan. One of the perks. The bank paid him, he paid the bank. It was a sort of money-go-round. He remembered how he used to justify himself at all those dinner parties in the early days. Banking wasn’t as boring as most people thought, he would say, and besides, it was secure, permanent, a job for life. Long-service leave, gold watch, superannuation, lawn bowls. That was a bloody laugh, he decided as he sipped his coffee, and the laugh was on him.

  The plastic chairs on the verandah were damp with dew, so he walked across to the garage to get a rag. Inside there were still piles of fliers from the Don’t Close Our Bank committee, and some SAVE THE MEATWORKS placards left over from that final, pointless rally. At least the local printer had done well out of the death throes of the town.

  Something rustled in the rafters. Martin looked up. Rat or possum? Snake, maybe, after a rat. Amid the jumble of plastic conduit and copper plumbing pipes left by some former owner, he could see the wooden butt of the rifle. An army-surplus Lee Enfield .303, it had been up in the rafters when Martin moved in. Probably belonged to the original owner of the house, he’d guessed. He knew he should have handed it in during one of the amnesties, but this was the bush and things were a bit more casual. And anyway, you never knew when you might have to blow the head off some pest. They’d used those old Lee Enfields in the school cadets, he remembered, him and Starkie.

  God, high school. That was a long time ago. The good old days. Were they? Funny, but he really couldn’t recall.

  Martin stared up at the butt of the rifle for a long time. There were cartridges for the weapon in an old shoebox somewhere on one of the shelves, he remembered. Would they still be any good? He wondered if the steel of the muzzle would feel cold against his forehead. A quick push down on the trigger, loud noise, all his problems solved. And he wouldn’t have to clean up the mess for once. Did you actually hear the bang? An interesting question.

  *

  Martin showered and dressed without disturbing his wife. He seriously doubted whether a rifle going off in the garage would have disturbed her either. His total elimination from her life really wouldn’t disturb her all that much, he realised. They were already well on their way to that particular situation anyway.

  The girl came into the kitchen as he was rinsing his mug in the sink. The boy was hunched over a bowl, noisily shovelling cereal into his mouth.

  ‘Oohh, check it out, the almost new suit,’ the girl said. ‘Well, I suppose today is kinda like a funeral.’

  She was sixteen now and actually very pretty. Martin was always intrigued by the way that sneering, whining voice could make her appear so ugly.

  She smiled brightly at him. ‘At least now we can get out of this shithole of a town,’ she said.

  The boy glanced up. His cold smile was a challenge. ‘Yeah,�
�� he said, ‘maybe go some place with decent broadband access.’

  Martin picked up his car keys and briefcase from the hall table and glanced at the closed bedroom door. He studied his reflection in the mirror over the table. Not too jowly, considering, and at least he still had most of his hair, even if it was greying rapidly at the temples. The empty look in his eyes was what scared him the most. He shook his head slowly. What in hell happened to you, Martin Carter? he asked himself.

  As he carefully backed the Commodore out past his wife’s badly parked Volvo, Martin noticed someone had thrown up over the rear offside panel. Beer, charred steak and stomach acid were probably not that good for the shiny Scandinavian paintwork, he thought, but decided against stopping to hose it off. Must have been some party. Retrenched slaughtermen, some with redundancy cheques for over fifty thousand dollars in their pockets; long-distance truckies out for a good time; an ocean of beer – and his good lady wife.

  The drive into town took barely five minutes. For the first year he had walked it as part of an exercise regimen, but then he’d stopped caring. She’d commented that it wasn’t really fitting anyway, whatever the hell that meant. Martin looked at the dashboard clock: 8.50. God, not even nine o’clock and it was already a shit of a day. He didn’t really expect things were going to improve.

  three

  Burrinjuruk had begun its life as a stopping place for overland cattle drovers needing to graze and water their stock. Later the town served the same rest and refuelling function for truckdrivers using the highway to deliver live cattle to the meatworks, or to pick up the resulting output, chilled, frozen or vacuum-packed for export.

  With the new bypass in place and the impending closure of the meatworks due to a business rationalisation by its owner, Burrinjuruk had begun to die. Boarded-up shops and empty homes were more the rule than the exception along the once thriving main street. At least parking isn’t a problem any more, Martin thought as he pulled the Commodore up in front of the bank. On a whim he rolled the car forward into the only posted no-standing area in the whole town. Bugger it, he decided, who cares?