Death in Brunswick by Boyd Oxlade Read Free Book Online

found her looking suspiciously at an ashtray.
    â€˜Who’s been smoking?’
    â€˜Ah yeah. Well, Carl was round…’
    â€˜That wimpy little prick! What did he want? I’ll never forgive him for what he did to poor Prue and that lovely little girl!’
    â€˜Now, babe, it wasn’t all Carl’s fault. I mean, Prue is a lesbian.’
    â€˜No wonder, and what’s wrong with that, anyway?’
    â€˜Oh right, honey, yeah, but listen! How about this!’
    And he told her about Carl’s mother and the famous legacy.
    She listened impatiently.
    â€˜Well, if he does get all that money—and I hope his mother lives for ages—I do hope Prue gets at least half. I know he hasn’t been paying her maintenance. I’ll write to her tonight. She’s living in New South—on that commune, what is it? Amazon Acres.’
    â€˜Now June. You better not interfere,’ Dave said, amused, but a little alarmed.
    â€˜Dave, just go to work! I’ve got to put the baby down and you’re in the way. Go on!’
    Dave trod heavily down the front path. He was limping slightly.
    â€˜Hey, Dad, where ya goin’?’
    â€˜I’m off to work, kids.’
    â€˜Can we come, Dad? We want to dig a grave!’
    â€˜Next time maybe,’ he said easily.
    â€˜Don’t you dare , Dave! You keep those kids out of that dirty place!’
    June’s voice, roughened by years of yelling at recalcitrant children, carried effortlessly from the house. Her pupils called her Miss Vinegar. Dave shrugged at the boys, went out the gate and climbed into his battered Holden.
    *
    He sat for a moment reflectively kneading his bad leg. He knew that he couldn’t work as he did for too much longer—maybe he could get a job with the union. He was a good shop steward, after all. That would make June happy. He released the brake and drove off in a cloud of smoke.
    Gunning the old car down into Sydney Road, he nipped neatly in front of a tram. Changing up with gusto, he drove toward Coburg enjoying the crowds out for Friday afternoon shopping: Greeks, Italians, Turks, Lebanese, Chinese, Vietnamese. What a place! He was a little early so he parked the car, got out and wandered up and down Sydney Road for a while, looking at the shops and enjoying the people. He paused as he always did at a big Italian furniture store, gazing with wonder and amusement at the extravagantly carved chairs and tables. He stopped at a delicatessen and bought a quarter kilo of fetta cheese. He sat in his car eating the salty slab.
    Why did Carl hate Brunswick so much? He didn’t have to live round here.
    He shook his head and restarted the car. Driving north up Sydney Road and turning up Bell Street, he came to the cemetery gates.
    The main gate was locked. He sounded the horn and waited till the caretaker came out of his bluestone cottage and undid the padlock with a great rattling of chains.
    â€˜Hi, Bluey. How you goin’?’
    The caretaker leaned in the car window. He was a bit drunk and Dave could smell heavy wafts of beer. Bluey’s face was flushed and raddled, veins crawled over his pitted nose, and an incongruously youthful shock of ginger hair stood above his forehead.
    â€˜There you are, Dave. Come in to help Mick, have ya? He’s got your tools.’
    â€˜Where is it, Blue? Not a sinker is it?’
    â€˜No, no, mate. She’s an old one, not six foot, down in C3, in the wog section, you know.’
    â€˜All right. Ta, Blue. Listen, mate, you’ve started pissing on a bit early, haven’t you? Don’t let Bruce catch you. You know the rules. The Trust’ll arsehole you if you don’t watch out.’
    â€˜Ah, fuck Bruce and the Trust. You’ll look after me, Dave, you’re the shop steward.’
    â€˜Yeah, well. Be careful, Blue, all right? You owe me your last sub, by the way.’
    â€˜Yeah, yeah, off you go, Dave.’ Bluey stepped back.