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

beer. Good boys.’
    He drank from the can, occasionally giving the baby a sip. He was tired and his leg ached. Soon he fell into a light doze. The baby slept, its soft head under his chin. The boys were reading quietly: battle comics, strictly forbidden. Dave woke sometimes, savouring the peace.
    At eight forty-five, his eldest son tugged at his arm.
    â€˜We’re goin’ to bed now, Dad. You better put Leon in his cot, otherwise Mum’ll kill ya.’
    â€˜Yeah, OK, kids,’ Dave mumbled. ‘Good boys.’
    He slept on…
    â€˜Dave! What are you doing?’ June had returned.
    â€˜Give me that baby! Honestly, Dave, you’re always either asleep or making a mess!’
    She snatched the baby. It had wet his T-shirt.
    â€˜Oh well. Yeah. Sorry, babe.’
    He went back to sleep.
    â€˜You coming to bed, Dave?’
    â€˜In a minute, hon.’
    He slept on, the TV flickering blankly. After midnight sometime the phone rang. Dave woke with a start.
    Jesus! Who’s ringing at this hour? Shit. The baby’ll wake up and June…
    He lurched to his feet, stumbled to the phone and lifted the receiver. He could hear a strange panting noise like an animal. Then:
    â€˜Dave! Dave! You there, Dave?’
    â€˜Yeah. Who the fuck is this?’
    The voice was unrecognizable.
    â€˜Dave! Come quick.’
    It was Carl.

TWO
    As Carl left Dave’s street, he looked at his watch. It was only twelve. He was surprised at how early it was, then he remembered that his mother had woken him at nine. He wasn’t used to getting up before eleven.
    I had better go home—Uncle John mightn’t have left. I might find out something more…Jesus! Thrown out of my own house!
    He tried to feel indignant but he couldn’t. He felt good, sort of lightheaded—a bit distant from everything—it was the music at Dave’s, his friend’s reassuring good humour and something else.
    Maybe those pills from last night—Soneryl! I must sneak into Mother’s room today and cop some more of those. Who needs Mustafa when I’ve got good old Mum!
    Turning into Stewart Street, he saw a line of flapping posters: ‘The Marquee Tonite. Friday. The Divinyls.’ Each poster was plastered on top of inches of others, a palimpsest of forgotten enthusiasms. He thought of work with very little of his usual anxiety.
    Bugger it. If it gets too heavy down there I’ll just quit, and if they give me a hard time, I’ll just call Dave. Dave could be very formidable, as Carl well knew. Good old Dave. As he said: ‘Take it easy’, and I will! And Mother couldn’t give me all that much trouble. After all a hundred thou is serious money—everything’s all right, isn’t it?
    Carl crossed his fingers. He was a great one for crossing his fingers, touching wood and similar rituals. Now he counted the lamp posts to Lygon Street. If there were more than, what?—twelve—he was all right. One, two, three, four—shit! There were at least fifteen.
    He hurriedly turned down a lane. Ah, it’s all bullshit anyway. But he felt the familiar cloud of impending doom.
    The lane was unspeakably dirty. The refuse from take-away shops and greengrocers spilled into the gutters. There was the sweet, foul smell of decay. Nearby, acrid steam drifted from the back of a drycleaner’s.
    Why does Dave like it so much round here? He likes poor people. Fuck that! With some money I could get out of this shithole. He thought of leafy avenues, quiet empty streets, an occasional big car whispering by.
    Suddenly a big Alsatian barked at him from an open back yard. Carl hesitated and carefully walked past, hugging the other side of the lane. He saw with relief that the dog was chained. Looking round, he threw a mouldy orange at it. It lunged in a frenzy and he hurried into Lygon Street.
    Around the corner was a laundromat. A few depressed, fat women in moccasins waited by the