living here then?’
‘Depends,’ he said. He ran both hands through his long, greasy grey hair.
‘We have a standard fee of twenty dollars for useful information,’ I said.
‘Who’s the someone?’
‘Ronald Bishop.’
‘Come inside,’ he said.
I followed him down a passage dark as a mineshaft into a kitchen that smelled of sour milk and burnt fat. All surfaces were covered in dirty plates, open tins, takeaway containers, empty cigarette packets. The gas stove had a baked and blistered topping of spilt food.
‘Garn!’ the man shouted at a huge tabby cat walking on tiptoe across the littered table. It floated its flabby body across to an impossibly small perch on the sink.
‘Wanna beer?’ he asked.
‘That’d be good.’ There was no knowing how he would take a refusal.
He took two cans of Melbourne Bitter out of an old fat-bodied fridge. The light inside wasn’t working. We sat down at the table. I couldn’t find anywhere to put my can down so I held it on my lap.
‘So what, he’s inherited some dough?’ he said. He gave the can the suck of a man who measures out his days in tinnies.
‘Not that I know of,’ I said. ‘His family’s trying to get in touch with him. Did you know him when he lived next door?’
‘Fucking poof,’ he said. ‘Bloody lucky he got outta here alive. We was just about to give him a hammerdrill up the arse when he pissed off.’ He wiped spit from his lower lip with his thumb and took a packet of Long Beach Lites out of the anorak. ‘Smoke?’
‘No thanks. What made you like him so much?’
He gave me a suspicious look over the flame of the plastic lighter. ‘Bloody house was fulla kids. Sleepin all over the place. He used to come back here in the bloody middle the night, half a dozen kids in the car. Street kids they call ’em now. Bloody drug addicts. Should lock ’em away. You wouldn’t believe the bloody racket they made.’
‘So Ronald was trying to help them, was he?’
He looked at me with utter scorn. ‘Where the hell’ve you been? He was tryin to root ’em. Tryin and bloody succeedin. Half of them’s so off their faces they wouldn’t know if a gorilla rooted ’em.’
He took another measure of beer, dragged on the cigarette and tapped ash into a catfood can.
‘And how long was he here?’
‘Would’ve been about a year. Been a bloody lot shorter if I hadn’t been…’ He scratched his neck. ‘I only come back a coupla weeks before he pissed off. Bloody Moira put up with him, Christ only knows women. Used to talk to the little cunt over the fence.’
‘He just left, did he?’
‘Showed up one day in a white Triumph sports. Y’know the kind? They don’t make ’em any more. TR something. Just packed his case, buggered off. Left the old Renault standin out there. Coupla them kids took off in it. Never come back, neither.’
‘He didn’t leave because of you?’
He shook his head. ‘I hadn’t got round to him yet. He just pissed off. Reckon the cops were on him.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Two come round there a couple times.’
‘What, uniform cops?’
‘No. Plain clothes.’
‘You sure?’
He had another suck on the can. ‘I know the one,’ he said.
‘You know his name?’ I had a big swig of my beer.
‘Scullin. His name’s Scullin. He grew up round Abbotsford.’
‘So the cops came around twice and then he left?’
He nodded. ‘More than twice. Coupla times. Told Moira before he pissed off some bullshit about he’d won some money, something like that. I reckon it was drugs.’
‘Anyone else around here know him?’
He thought about it, smoke seeping out of his nostrils. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Bloke on the other side’s dead.’
I drained the can. ‘This is helpful,’ I said, getting up. ‘Much obliged.’ I took out my wallet, found a twenty and offered it. He took it and put it under the catfood can.
At the front door, I said, ‘Well, thanks again.’ He gave me a little wave.
I was at the
‘Depends,’ he said. He ran both hands through his long, greasy grey hair.
‘We have a standard fee of twenty dollars for useful information,’ I said.
‘Who’s the someone?’
‘Ronald Bishop.’
‘Come inside,’ he said.
I followed him down a passage dark as a mineshaft into a kitchen that smelled of sour milk and burnt fat. All surfaces were covered in dirty plates, open tins, takeaway containers, empty cigarette packets. The gas stove had a baked and blistered topping of spilt food.
‘Garn!’ the man shouted at a huge tabby cat walking on tiptoe across the littered table. It floated its flabby body across to an impossibly small perch on the sink.
‘Wanna beer?’ he asked.
‘That’d be good.’ There was no knowing how he would take a refusal.
He took two cans of Melbourne Bitter out of an old fat-bodied fridge. The light inside wasn’t working. We sat down at the table. I couldn’t find anywhere to put my can down so I held it on my lap.
‘So what, he’s inherited some dough?’ he said. He gave the can the suck of a man who measures out his days in tinnies.
‘Not that I know of,’ I said. ‘His family’s trying to get in touch with him. Did you know him when he lived next door?’
‘Fucking poof,’ he said. ‘Bloody lucky he got outta here alive. We was just about to give him a hammerdrill up the arse when he pissed off.’ He wiped spit from his lower lip with his thumb and took a packet of Long Beach Lites out of the anorak. ‘Smoke?’
‘No thanks. What made you like him so much?’
He gave me a suspicious look over the flame of the plastic lighter. ‘Bloody house was fulla kids. Sleepin all over the place. He used to come back here in the bloody middle the night, half a dozen kids in the car. Street kids they call ’em now. Bloody drug addicts. Should lock ’em away. You wouldn’t believe the bloody racket they made.’
‘So Ronald was trying to help them, was he?’
He looked at me with utter scorn. ‘Where the hell’ve you been? He was tryin to root ’em. Tryin and bloody succeedin. Half of them’s so off their faces they wouldn’t know if a gorilla rooted ’em.’
He took another measure of beer, dragged on the cigarette and tapped ash into a catfood can.
‘And how long was he here?’
‘Would’ve been about a year. Been a bloody lot shorter if I hadn’t been…’ He scratched his neck. ‘I only come back a coupla weeks before he pissed off. Bloody Moira put up with him, Christ only knows women. Used to talk to the little cunt over the fence.’
‘He just left, did he?’
‘Showed up one day in a white Triumph sports. Y’know the kind? They don’t make ’em any more. TR something. Just packed his case, buggered off. Left the old Renault standin out there. Coupla them kids took off in it. Never come back, neither.’
‘He didn’t leave because of you?’
He shook his head. ‘I hadn’t got round to him yet. He just pissed off. Reckon the cops were on him.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Two come round there a couple times.’
‘What, uniform cops?’
‘No. Plain clothes.’
‘You sure?’
He had another suck on the can. ‘I know the one,’ he said.
‘You know his name?’ I had a big swig of my beer.
‘Scullin. His name’s Scullin. He grew up round Abbotsford.’
‘So the cops came around twice and then he left?’
He nodded. ‘More than twice. Coupla times. Told Moira before he pissed off some bullshit about he’d won some money, something like that. I reckon it was drugs.’
‘Anyone else around here know him?’
He thought about it, smoke seeping out of his nostrils. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Bloke on the other side’s dead.’
I drained the can. ‘This is helpful,’ I said, getting up. ‘Much obliged.’ I took out my wallet, found a twenty and offered it. He took it and put it under the catfood can.
At the front door, I said, ‘Well, thanks again.’ He gave me a little wave.
I was at the
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