True West Page 5

  ‘Like I said, Kinslow will be back tonight.’

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  ‘You didn’t tell me your name.’

  ‘You didn’t ask, or tell me yours.’

  ‘My name’s Lee … Southern.’

  She laughed. ‘I know what it is. My name’s Frankie.’

  ‘Frankie.’

  ‘For Francesca.’

  Which explained the dark hair and eyes.

  ‘Can I help you, Lee?’

  He realised he’ d been staring. Frankie brushing her hair

  was a simple domestic moment, but then again he’ d grown up in a house without women.

  ‘They’ve got something of mine. I want to be on my way,

  but …’

  Now she looked concerned. ‘You can’t leave.’

  ‘Because you’re supposed to keep me here. Comforted.’

  She tossed her brush onto the unmade bed. Stood square

  on, then softened her posture, stroked her hair and wrapped a strand around her fingers, put on a girlish voice. ‘Is that what you want? To be comforted?’

  She was good.

  ‘I don’t want anything from you. I don’t have anything you

  want, either. I just …’

  She crossed the room and took his arm, led him into the

  corridor. He let himself be led, could hardly feel his feet on the boards or the touch of her fingers. She guided him into a bathroom and stood him in front of the mirror.

  His face.

  A livid pulpy mess.

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  Unrecognisable, except for his eyes, slitted through the

  black swelling.

  ‘So there you are. They nearly had to kill you, I was told. I don’t know what they want from you, and I don’t care. But you need to rest up.’

  ‘How long was I –’

  ‘Two days.’

  He looked at her reflection in the mirror. She didn’t look

  away.

  ‘I put your books on the shelf. The usual shit, but also Blake.

  Keats. Nietzsche too. Thus Spake Zarathustra. I’m intrigued.

  Have you read them all?’

  Lee nodded, but it was a lie.

  ‘Come with me. I’ll bring morphine tonight, but in the

  meantime, codeine will have to do.’

  In the kitchen Frankie lifted off a sopping filter from

  over a glass, wadded it and tossed it in the bin. ‘That much paracetamol would blow your liver. But here, drink this.’

  The liquid was bitter and he lifted the glass until he felt her hand on his arm.

  ‘Easy, tiger, I said half. There’s twenty Panadeine Forte’s worth of codeine in that glass. We don’t want you OD’ing.’

  Lee put the glass on the bench. Frankie passed him a mug of water to cleanse the bitterness.

  He allowed himself to be led into the yard. He stood there like a docile child while she carried over a chair for him to sit in. He planted himself and sprawled, tilted his face into the sun.

  ‘Anybody else, I’ d park them in the shade. But you, you’re 54

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  so tanned. I envy you.’

  Her voice came from a long way away, or somewhere

  underwater, or from behind the cumulus clouds that scudded

  to the horizon.

  ‘You said they nearly killed me. Why didn’t they?’ he asked, unsure whether the sounds had made it out his mouth.

  ‘And I said I didn’t know. I guess they want something from you.’

  She was close, seated in the shade beside him, and he opened his eyes.

  ‘What do they want from you?’ he asked. ‘Why are you here?

  Are you with the … APM?’

  She didn’t answer him. She was looking at something in

  her lap that interested her more. ‘I’m interested in this book.

  Instead of Mein Kampf, you have this.’

  Lee’s eyes had closed, and it was too much to open them.

  ‘They’re my father’s books. We, him … we’re not fascists.

  We’re not even nationalists. We just don’t trust the state. Nazi Germany was just another oligarchic state that guaranteed the enrichment of a few billionaires.’

  ‘That’s an impressive vocab. You didn’t learn those opinions at school.’

  The change of tack confused him. ‘My mother was into

  books. She taught me to read early, before I went to school.’

  ‘What about this one? Have you read it? It’s Michael Bakunin: Selected Writings.’

  Fortunately, a book that Lee had read to his father often. He heard himself begin to speak. ‘You and I, we weren’t made for 55

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  living like this.’ Eyes closed, Lee lifted a hand and wafted it at the suburbs. The best he could do. ‘Ever since the industrial revolution, anarchism is the best response we have to state socialism, and to corporate capitalism. We aim to live in

  communes of like-minded people. Freedom for ourselves and

  respect for others like us. Recognising the power of no state or government but our own community.’

  Lee had been speaking automatical y, and by the time he

  finished he’ d forgotten where he started, or the reason why he’ d been speaking. It was all rote learning from his father’s lessons. He struggled to open his eyes, but couldn’t. His limbs felt moulded to the chair. He was numb and euphoric at once, only the cool air in his lungs a sign that he was alive.

  ‘Just, wow.’

  Whatever he’ d said, it made an impression.

  ‘We didn’t have a television at home,’ he said. ‘Just books.’

  ‘You’re so naïve … brainwashed.’

  Now Lee opened his eyes. Frankie smiling, but no

  friendliness there, her eyes cool with malice, and something even more hurtful – disappointment.

  ‘Kinslow’s guys,’ she said. ‘They’re kind of comical. Like

  boys playing soldiers. But you, you real y believe that stuff.

  You must’ve had some upbringing. I feel sorry for you.’

  Lee struggled. Did he believe what he’ d said?

  Frankie didn’t look at him as she stood to leave.

  *

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  It was dark when he awoke. Someone had draped a blanket

  over his shoulders and his feet were hot. He hadn’t noticed the fire-pit earlier in the day, but now it was heaped with glowing coals. Lengths of jarrah sleeper were laid across it giving off orange licks and what was that smell?

  Beside the fire-pit was a smouldering fence post. It was

  blackened and paint-blistered and someone had put it on the fire. Someone had also taken it out.

  In the light of the fire he saw the dried bauble of blood on his forearm and realised that he’ d been injected again. He didn’t mind, instead rolled his neck, felt a rush of nausea and staggered toward the nearest tree and vomited a thin gruel.

  A hand on his shoulder. Not leaving as he retched. Patting

  him like a mother.

  ‘Frankie?’

  ‘No lad, she’s at work wiping arses and nicking pil s. Our

  own twisted Florence Nightingale.’

  When there was nothing left in Lee’s stomach, the hand

  lifted from his shoulder. He turned and looked into the face of the man called Kinslow. Salt-and-pepper goatee beard, eyes flickering with reflected light.

  ‘Now do you want me to tuck you into bed, or would you

  prefer to come and join our brotherhood?’

  There was nothing in Kinslow’s eyes to confirm the implicit mockery, only the same look that Lee recognised from just

  about every man he’ d known – predatorily reading him for

  weakness.

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  ‘Some of the boys wanted to mess with you, out here
alone by the fire, after what you did to them earlier. Can you manage to walk?’

  Yes, he could walk, and more. ‘Give me my Luger, and I’l

  be on my way.’

  A dark flare went off in Kinslow’s eyes, but only for a

  moment, and the smile never left his face.

  ‘Can I call you Lee?’

  ‘I’m serious about the Luger. You’re gonna want to –’

  ‘Shut the fuck up, boy. We plan on giving it to you, on the condition that you tell the lads the story behind it. Some of them have got SS daggers and German helmets and the like,

  but your gun is something else. Indulge ’em, and I’ll give it back.’

  ‘I can do that.’

  ‘Good. They told me you’re clever.’

  Lee drew the blanket around his shoulders and scuffed sand

  off his feet, following Kinslow through the back door into the brightly lit house that was loud with laughter and music.

  There were a few young men in the kitchen who watched

  him closely. They wore stovepipe jeans and tight-fitting Bonds t-shirts. They didn’t look particularly hard, sipping on cans of Emu and smoking. He could tell from their body language

  that they were close friends, and the fact that they were away from the noise coming from the front room told Lee where

  they fitted in.

  The floorboards in the corridor trembled.

  ‘The English,’ Kinslow muttered, ‘they got to dance and sing.’

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  It was music like Lee had never heard before, fast and

  heavy, overlaid with enough singing voices that he couldn’t tell the singer from those singing along. The chorus was about stealing and then he was in the room and Kinslow nudged the wall-socket by the door, killing the tape deck.

  There were a dozen or so arm in arm in the middle of the

  room, and a couple didn’t realise that the music had ended.

  Their voices tapered off and they turned to Kinslow, then

  looked Lee up and down. Some of them wore baggy woollen

  pants and braces, others jeans and those col ared white shirts.

  Two were shirtless and the Celtic cross tattoo was on their arms and chest. Some were pasty and overweight and others

  were dark and lean. Some had short hair and some had long.

  The three who’ d bashed him were seated on an overstuffed

  chintz couch in the corner. One sported a black eye, another had his fist bandaged. The biggest one, who’ d applied the

  cattle prod, hid his smirk, and like the other two got to his feet, clearly acting under orders and reluctant about it. They pushed through the dancers and came to Lee, thrusting out

  their hands to shake.

  ‘Terry, Gaz, Robbie … this is Lee Southern. I know you’ve

  met but this time you meet as comrades. Equals. Stronger in unity and all that.’

  There was a knock on the front door and Kinslow left and

  the music started up again. Like a game of statues, those in the room resumed their dancing. Lee shook hands with the three

  young men. The biggest one leaned in.

  ‘I’m Robbie. It’s our job to show you round, take you out on 59

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  the road with us. It’s my job to get rid of you, if you fuck up.’

  He squeezed the bones in Lee’s hand. His breath smelled of

  chip oil. His eyes were bloodshot.

  Lee smiled. You never telegraph a crime, even to friends,

  even as a warning, unless you’re an idiot.

  Lee took his hand back and let his eyes drift across the

  crowd of dancing and drinking men. Robbie reminded him

  of Danny Hislop, an old enemy. The same dull eyes and

  fighter’s swagger, leaning forward as though eager to attack.

  Danny Hislop was in Lee’s class at school and they’ d grown up together in the Knights’ family. Despite this, they’ d always been rivals. ‘Keep away from that prick,’ his father always said.

  ‘He’s got that look in his eye. In the old days they’ d take a boy like that into the woods and put an arrow into him, or club him to death. Hunting accident, or a falling branch. Push him off the edge of an ice floe, walk him into a peat bog, or slit his throat and put it down to a snapped fence wire. So that his mother didn’t feel like she’ d borne a monster.’

  Jack Southern had been right about Danny, that was for

  sure. The reason Lee was now in Perth. The reason Emma had

  moved back to the city.

  Because Lee was ignoring him, Robbie put an arm around

  his shoulder, gave him a little bump. Most men take a lot of working up to reach a state where they can hurt someone,

  but that look in Robbie’s eye – he was always ready. The meaty arm sat heavy on Lee’s shoulders, a moment or a whim away

  from a choke-lock, but Lee didn’t shrug it off – he didn’t have anything to prove.

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  The music died again. Kinslow had returned. ‘Alright,

  Vil age People. Time for the poster-units to go to work. You know your sectors and your team leaders have the muster

  points should you get separated. All weapons get left here, and that is an order. Especial y you Pommy blokes – knives

  get left here. We don’t want any negative publicity now that the election’s coming. Should it come to that – ambush by

  Bogs or Abos – then you’ll need to be resourceful and fall back on your training. In an urban environment there’s weapons

  everywhere if you know where to look. Team leaders meet

  back at the depot at o-five hundred hours. Let’s get the message out there. Go!’

  The room cleared and then it was just the five of them: the three youths, Lee and Kinslow. Robbie and his two mates

  looked like the cats who got the cream. They hadn’t been sent out to glue up posters through the night. Robbie still had an arm around Lee’s shoulder, and Lee shrugged it off to face

  Kinslow, who was cupping his hand around a cigarette, prison style.

  Kinslow nodded, smiled. Reached behind his belt and drew

  out Lee’s pistol, passed the Luger over butt-first. Lee took it and popped out the magazine and saw that it was empty.

  Nothing in the chamber either.

  ‘I put ’em in the drawer by your bed.’

  Handing back Lee’s gun was a surprise to the other three.

  They looked at it enviously. Lee clapped the magazine in and passed it to Terry, the smallest one, whose green eyes and red hair and creamy skin made him resemble a painted statue. He 61

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  stuck his tongue out the side of his mouth and pointed the

  gun at Gaz, the second one, who laughed, because everyone

  saw him flinch.

  ‘No offence to Lee, but that’s why I removed the bullets.

  Stupid there can’t be trusted.’

  Kinslow’s insult stung, and Terry handed the Luger to

  Gaz, shifting their attention off him. Robbie pretended to be uninterested, but had taken on an oddly formal posture, like a soldier stood down but waiting for orders.

  ‘Wonder how many Jews this little baby’s shot?’ Gaz asked.

  Kinslow looked to Lee, who nodded. ‘My grandfather took

  it off a German officer outside Tobruk.’

  ‘SS?’

  ‘German Africa Corps.’

  ‘They was brave men,’ Robbie said, ‘Rommel’s soldiers at the Siege of Tobruk. Some of ’em got their livers eaten by Maori, I heard. What happened to the officer?’

  ‘Lee’s grandfather shot him. With that pistol. Right in the head. Isn’t that right, Lee?’

  Lee looked into Kinslow’s eyes, who’ d obviously heard the

  story before. Again he wondered – the delirious past days and nights – how much
he had said.

  ‘I knew … know your father. We were in Vietnam together.

  At Balmoral.’

  Lee looked to Kinslow with a renewed interest, because

  Lee’s father wasn’t the only Knight to serve with the 3 RAR.

  ‘You in contact with other Knights?’

  ‘I am. Yes.’

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  There was enough in Kinslow’s eyes to make Lee take the

  Luger off Robbie, who was weighing it in his hand, sighting into the fireplace. Out of habit, Lee held the Luger by his side, semi-concealed. He’ d wondered why they were looking after

  him – now he knew.

  ‘Don’t worry, son. I know what you did, and I know they’re

  looking for you. I told Greg Downs that I hadn’t seen you, but that I’ d keep an eye out.’

  Greg Downs, who’ d stepped in to take Jack Southern’s

  position as president of the Knights. Who most people

  believed had killed Lee’s father, to avenge the death of his brother Brady Downs, found buried in the dunes behind Lee’s family block on the Greenough River. The police were led

  there by Brady’s burnt-out Statesman, found in some bushes

  not far away.

  ‘He know my wheels?’

  ‘He figures you’re driving a Sandman. That you’ve probably

  gone bush, but just in case, got the word out.’

  Kinslow was telling the truth but he had plenty of reasons

  to lie. Greg Downs would love to get his hands on Lee, while Kinslow would get a good deal to hand him over. Some of

  those weapons the Knights had famously hidden in the bush.

  Lee didn’t like the look in Robbie’s eyes. ‘What?’

  Robbie looked to Kinslow. ‘He comin with us?’

  Kinslow shook his head. ‘He isn’t right, yet …’

  This appeared to please the other two, but it made Robbie

  even more suspicious.

  Kinslow saw this and grunted. ‘Nor is he ready. You’re going 63

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  to rest up here, aren’t you, Lee?’

  Lee had no intention of resting up. Now that he had the

  Luger, he could get back on the road. Start again where nobody knew him.

  ‘The boys and I have some things to discuss. A bit of privacy, thanks Lee. How ’bout you go to your room for a bit.’

  That made Robbie swell with pride. He sneered at Lee’s

  shrug and retreat out the door, even as the others gathered around Kinslow, who dropped his voice and leaned in.