Read Online Death in Brunswick by Boyd Oxlade - Free Book Online

I’m late.’
    â€˜That woman’s got you by the balls,’ said Clarrie. ‘If my missus said fuckin’ boo to me after the pub she’d get the biggest backhander you ever saw.’
    â€˜Yeah?’ Dave grunted.
    Jesus, imagine hitting June! She’d belt me back and then be off to a woman’s refuge like a rocket. Could I hit her? No, Jesus! I suppose I’m not really working class, not like these blokes anyway.
    â€˜What was wrong with the boss today, Dave? He’s a bit shitty on you. You been revolting again, you fuckin’ commo.’ Clarrie winked at Arthur.
    â€˜Ahh! Fuck him,’ said Dave. ‘He wants me to go for leading hand and work full-time. I told him to stick it.’
    â€˜Jesus, Dave, I wish he’d fuckin’ ask me. I been there five years and I’m still a Grade Two. What’s wrong with you, Dave, is you got no ambition. He went to fuckin’ uni, you know, Arthur.’
    â€˜Yeah, is that right? What was you doin’, Dave?’
    â€˜Medicine,’ said Dave shortly. ‘I dropped out halfway.’
    â€˜You must have been fuckin’ mad. Jesus, you’d be on what? Five hundred a week now, silly bugger.’
    â€˜Listen, Dave,’ said Clarrie, ‘you want to take that leading hand job, otherwise we’ll probably get some wog.’
    â€˜Yeah, well, I got to go now,’ said Dave, standing abruptly. ‘See you Tuesday.’
    â€˜All right Dave. See you, mate.’
    Dave left. He sat in his car for a while waiting for the traffic to ease. How he hated them talking like that! Their racism, their brutality, sickened him sometimes. They were like stupid dinosaurs. Was that his beloved working class? No, they weren’t all like that. Anyway, whatever I chose, I’m happy anyway.
    He started the car with an angry twist of the key and drove home.
    *
    The boys greeted him with enthusiasm.
    â€˜Hey, Dad! Did you bury many stiffs today?’
    â€˜One or two. You fed the rabbits yet? Come on, it’s nearly teatime. Where’s your mum?’
    June was in the bathroom, washing the baby. He kissed her.
    â€˜You did go to the pub, Dave. Jesus!’
    â€˜Ah, now babe, I got home early, didn’t I? What’s for tea?’
    â€˜You’ll have to heat it up. It’s wholemeal spinach flan.’
    â€˜Jesus! Will the kids cop that?’
    â€˜They better,’ she said, swirling the water vigorously round the baby. ‘They’ve been driving me mad today with that video. Why did you ever buy it?’
    â€˜Junie, what would you do if I gave you a backhander?’
    â€˜What! Now stop your silly jokes, Dave. Go and start tea. I’m late.’
    Dave went into the kitchen. The flan was on a bench. It looked like a green-brown cowpat. Still, it could be worse. At one stage June had made them eat brown rice and seaweed till the boys rebelled. Dave used to take them on secret trips to McDonald’s. He still felt a little guilty about that.
    He put the loathsome object in the oven and filled a pot with potatoes. Surreptitiously he tipped in two tablespoons of salt. June caught him.
    â€˜Dave! You change that water straight away. I don’t want you dying of high blood pressure and leaving me to bring up three boys on my own.’
    Dave changed the water.
    â€˜Now,’ she said, ‘I’ve put a bottle in the fridge. Give Leon a feed at seven and don’t let the boys stay up late.’
    â€˜Yeah, OK, Junie. See you soon.’
    She bustled out.
    After tea, Dave slumped into his favourite armchair and read the paper—the Age—fucking capitalist press. He was always meaning to cancel it. The baby lay on his chest sucking its bottle in a sleepy way. The boys were playing their video games again, but with the sound muted. The stereo played softly—Paul Desmond.
    The baby finished its bottle.
    â€˜Hey, kids, take this to the kitchen and bring me a