The maskeys, p.28
The Maskeys, page 28
‘Billy wanted to bury her on the farm,’ Hilda said, snipping in derision at her son.
Billy was exhausted by the whole ordeal; he choked up.
Rodney took over. ‘Help me, Billy. I know what to do.’
Rodney always knew what to do.
Fumbling with her arms and legs, the two Maskey men removed Celeste’s lifeless body from the skip and laid it out on the back seat of Gayle’s truck.
‘Where will you take her?’ Billy asked, as they tried to reconceal her in the blanket.
‘Probably better you don’t know, Billy. You don’t know anything, remember that.’ Rodney smiled reassuringly at him. He touched his arm. ‘It’s gonna be alright, Billy.’
Hilda held Damon close, while the brothers chucked the remaining marijuana stalks into the skip.
‘You better leave town for a while, Mrs Maskey,’ the weasel said.
‘Take the little baby with ya.’
‘Yes,’ Hilda said.
‘But don’t waste time,’ he warned.
‘No.’
‘I’ll take care of things here.’ He jumped into the truck and drove out of the tip, in darkness.
Billy and Hilda watched. ‘Come on, darling,’ she said. ‘Let’s hurry.’
Driving from the tip, Rodney bashed angrily on the steering wheel. ‘Fuckern stupid idiot bitch,’ he cursed, of Hilda.
Remaining as calm as he could, the weasel drove back through town on his way to the Knuckle. And Sandra. He hoped the cops had cleared off. And he hoped upon hope, that she was there. That she was hungry. And that he could entice her to eat a meal already killed. If not – his mind raced – he would have to bury Celeste somewhere she would never be found.
Gripping the wheel tightly, Rodney checked the rear-view mirror to see Celeste’s body lying like a parcel on the back seat. He had no time to feel sympathy for her. There was more work to be done for his family: another mess he had to clean up for the losers.
He drove past the hospital, the post office, the Potter’s Gallery and the hotel, and Serenade watched. But Rodney did not see her standing there. He doesn’t see everything. Like Serenade does.
Serenade was concerned for Rodney. For the ominous task that lay ahead of him. But for the victim of Hilda’s rage, wrapped like fish and chips on the back seat of Gayle’s truck, Serenade had no sympathy.
She unfastened her sling and, holding the bandage high, dropped it into a bin at the side of the kerb. ‘That bitch had it coming,’ she said.
To no one in particular.
Epilogue
Caleb wasn’t doing so good. After so many months without a single word from Celeste, he found himself longing for his fiancée more and more. She was the mother of his child, after all. Sure, she was a pushy, nagging pain in the arse; but the more time he spent separated from her, the more he had come to remember her good points. How smart she was. She was smarter than he would ever be. How ambitious she was as well. For him. And her family.
And – she hated Rodney.
When, after eighteen months away, Hilda finally returned to Longwhile, this should have made things better for Caleb. But he became glummer than ever. Hilda didn’t have much sympathy for him. She was busy with her own little one now: the love-child that had come as a result of her affair with Eric Lunarzewski – the reason why, she said, she had been forced to leave home so suddenly.
A bully-little-boy he was too: Michael Maskey!
Big for his age. Only fifteen months old, but walking and talking already. This new little brother made Caleb feel even sadder. Triggering in him terrible loss for his own son.
Now, Caleb had two new brothers.
His mother could see he was struggling. But his ignorance in these matters was for his own good. She wished Billy was still at home to help guide Caleb. But Billy hadn’t been doing so well either, and had left for the city. So, it fell to Hilda to reinforce all of the good things that had happened to the family of late.
George was okay after his stroke; and with artificial legs, he was in no more pain. And Rodney, able to take up George’s slack, was at the head of the family fold. And in the weeks since Hilda had returned to Longwhile, that was the story she liked to recount most: her returning home to the sight of George dozing on the front verandah, while Rodney mowed the grass, on the zero-turn mower, with a great big grin on his face!
But none of this, it seemed, could cheer her second-born son.
And where was Caleb anyway?
Hilda worried, looking around the family seated at the dinner table. Everyone was waiting to eat. George. Rodney; his lovely fiancée, Leanne. The baby Michael too, in his high chair. And where they’d always been – Flicker and Morgan, their empty seats still right there. Unfillable. Irreplaceable. Never to be forgotten.
Everyone was hungry, and Caleb was late again.
When Hilda heard the front door open and then slam, it was with some relief. And when she recognised Caleb’s familiar footfall up the hallway, she began to put food out on the table. ‘Caleb, you’re late, again.’
‘Sorry, Mum,’ he said, as he went to sit.
‘Wash your hands first,’ she said, directing him to the sink.
Caleb did what he was told. He dried his hands on paper towel, and the corners of his mouth turned down when he saw his new brother, Rodney, lifting the baking dish of roast meat out of the oven. He sure had managed to weasel himself into the family unit, Caleb thought, darkening. Always on hand to help. Always on hand to consult with Hilda.
Caleb sat, and took the plate of vegetables handed to him by Leanne. He gave her a cautious smile. She was okay, Rodney’s fiancée. Happy enough – didn’t speak out of turn. But she was pregnant. Rodney would be giving George and Hilda a grandchild soon, while Damon – their first grandchild, the one Caleb had given them with Celeste – was God knew where. And no one seemed to give a fuck. He frowned.
‘I heard news in town,’ he said, glumly helping himself to some meat.
‘Yes, what was that?’ Hilda asked, as everyone dug into their food.
‘That old witch, Serenade. She had a stroke. A bad one. Right there on the footpath. She’s dead.’
‘Oh, that’s awful – awful news,’ Hilda said, genuinely concerned.
‘Is it?’ he said, with a bitter note in his voice.
‘Of course. She’s been a very good friend to this family for many years. Hasn’t she, Rodney?’
‘Guess so,’ he responded. ‘Old people have strokes, don’t they, Dad?’ he said, looking at George. ‘How old was she – a hundred?’
He enjoyed his own quip.
Caleb looked sourly at him. What was he even doing here at this table? The little weasel.
‘You should be putting more food on your plate, love,’ Hilda said to Leanne, passing her some vegetables. ‘You’re eating for two.’ Rodney touched his beautiful girl on the tummy, and smiled.
And what was it with Rodney’s new teeth, Caleb wondered. All capped and white. Who did he think he was – Robbie Williams?
‘Let’s have a toast to Serenade,’ Hilda said.
Those who could, raised a glass.
‘To Serenade,’ Hilda toasted.
‘To Serenade,’ they repeated.
Caleb locked peepers with Rodney. ‘And the Reynolds bitch has been up on the Knuckle – snooping about with dogs.’
‘A lot of good that’ll do her,’ Hilda sneered, rolling her eyes.
‘Been up there for months, apparently,’ Caleb went on, ‘looking for something.’ He reached for the loaf of bread and tore off a chunk. ‘Anyway, she found some human remains. Dug em up with her bare hands, is what I heard.’
Everyone listened.
‘Some dead girl,’ Caleb said, taking a bite.
Rodney blushed hard.
‘Who will that be, I wonder?’ Caleb chewed.
Acknowlegements
This book could have found no better champion than Barry Scott. My eternal gratitude to him and to all at Transit Lounge. To Kate Goldsworthy, thanks for your patience trawling through all the commas and for trying to teach me how to catch my own fish. And to Peter Lo, for the outstanding cover design – Bravo! To my dear friends Eric Swan and Cyrus Irani, I’m indebted for your enthusiastic reading of early drafts. Your feedback was invaluable to me. To the unforgettable Tama Magpie, just know, I will always be a ‘German homosexual’ when it comes to you!
Finally a big shout-out to everyone; readers, family and friends, who enjoyed and supported my first novel – Low Expectations. Notably, Jock Serong and Emily Spurr.
And to my partner in life and crime, Darren – you are everything.
Stuart Everly-Wilson lives on unceded Bundjalung country in Northern Rivers NSW, with his partner and the ghost of Aspro the dog. The Maskeys is his second novel.
Stuart Everly-Wilson, The Maskeys
