Read Online The Dark Part of Me by Belinda Burns - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Belinda Burns
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Since retiring from the
police force, he’d aged a lot. His face was thinner and his hair white all over. He must’ve been pushing sixty. Slurping on his Fourex, he motioned for me to come inside.
‘So, how’s life been treating you, Rosie?’
‘Not too bad, Mr Greenwood.’ I scanned the room for Scott but he wasn’t around.
‘Call me Bill.’
‘OK.’ It was weird being back in the house but in two years nothing had changed. Down one end, the mirrored bar with the same old sign, ‘No Sheilas or Darkies Allowed,’
which Mr Greenwood had found at a garage sale and strung up as his idea of a joke. There was the vintage record player in the corner with stacks of LPs – Buddy Holly, Elvis, Neil Diamond
– on either side. In the middle of the room was the pool table, set with Tupperware bowls of coleslaw, potato salad and mixed beans, buttered bread rolls for the snags, and two casks of
Fruity Lexia wine.
‘Er, what’ll you have to drink, Rosie?’
‘Wine, thanks… Bill.’
A ripple of male laughter drifted in from the backyard and I pricked up my ears for Scott’s voice. As Mr Greenwood squirted some cask wine into a plastic cup, I edged closer to the screen
door to see if I could spy him amidst the groups of guys standing in faded jeans and T-shirts on the lawn. I spotted Bomber, and Muzza with him. They were leaning back in their chairs, sucking on
stubbies, grinning from ear to ear at some private joke. Bomber looked like he’d been pumping iron – his shoulders were busting out of a retro seventies shirt – and he’d
swapped his thick Italian curls for a blade two crew-cut. Muzza was just the same as before, except skinnier. His clothes hung off him as he slouched back in the chair, his John Lennon specs
perched on the end of his nose. Scott wasn’t with them.
‘Here you go, love.’ Mr Greenwood shuffled over with my drink.
‘Glad Scott’s home?’ I sculled the ropey stuff.
‘Yeah, but after all his gallivanting he better bloody well simmer down and get himself a decent job.’
‘They say it takes a while to settle back in,’ I rallied, anxious to defend my man.
‘Nah, I’ve got one no-hoper for a son. Don’t need another one.’ He waved his stubbie in the direction of Nick, Scott’s older brother, who was setting up on the lawn
with his band. ‘Sure, he’s not brain surgeon material but I always thought Scott’d make something of himself.’ He drained his beer and sighed heavily. ‘Isn’t
that what he went to uni for?’
I turned back to the pool table and re-filled my cup.
‘Here, chuck us another stubbie, would you, love? I’d better go fire up the barbie since no other bugger’s gonna do it.’
I handed him his beer out of the esky. He cracked the top off against a corner brick, took a long pull and exhaled, his red cheeks deflating like a balloon. ‘Why don’t you pop
upstairs and see Shirl? She’ll be tickled pink to see you.’ He prodded me in the small of my back. ‘Go on.’
But I didn’t want to go upstairs. I wanted to find Scott.
I knocked back the rest of the wine, which was starting to taste not too bad, and, once Mr Greenwood had gone, headed around past the mirrored bar towards Scott’s bedroom. I had a vibe he
was in there.
How could I forget the skull and cross-bones sticker, with the words, ‘
SCOTT’S BEDROOM: ENTER AT YOUR OWN PERIL
’ scrawled in black texta. Its childishness made me
smile and a warm glow spread from my guts down to my toes. Pressing my ear against the door, I could hear music. I opened the door and went in. The room was dark save for a pulsing green coming
from the controls on the CD player, which was pumping out low-volume techno. This was different. Scott’d always hated hardcore, refusing to go to clubs in the Valley because all they played
was ‘that stupid ravey shit for poofs and speed-freaks’. London must have changed his music taste.
I stood still, my ears straining to the possibility
police force, he’d aged a lot. His face was thinner and his hair white all over. He must’ve been pushing sixty. Slurping on his Fourex, he motioned for me to come inside.
‘So, how’s life been treating you, Rosie?’
‘Not too bad, Mr Greenwood.’ I scanned the room for Scott but he wasn’t around.
‘Call me Bill.’
‘OK.’ It was weird being back in the house but in two years nothing had changed. Down one end, the mirrored bar with the same old sign, ‘No Sheilas or Darkies Allowed,’
which Mr Greenwood had found at a garage sale and strung up as his idea of a joke. There was the vintage record player in the corner with stacks of LPs – Buddy Holly, Elvis, Neil Diamond
– on either side. In the middle of the room was the pool table, set with Tupperware bowls of coleslaw, potato salad and mixed beans, buttered bread rolls for the snags, and two casks of
Fruity Lexia wine.
‘Er, what’ll you have to drink, Rosie?’
‘Wine, thanks… Bill.’
A ripple of male laughter drifted in from the backyard and I pricked up my ears for Scott’s voice. As Mr Greenwood squirted some cask wine into a plastic cup, I edged closer to the screen
door to see if I could spy him amidst the groups of guys standing in faded jeans and T-shirts on the lawn. I spotted Bomber, and Muzza with him. They were leaning back in their chairs, sucking on
stubbies, grinning from ear to ear at some private joke. Bomber looked like he’d been pumping iron – his shoulders were busting out of a retro seventies shirt – and he’d
swapped his thick Italian curls for a blade two crew-cut. Muzza was just the same as before, except skinnier. His clothes hung off him as he slouched back in the chair, his John Lennon specs
perched on the end of his nose. Scott wasn’t with them.
‘Here you go, love.’ Mr Greenwood shuffled over with my drink.
‘Glad Scott’s home?’ I sculled the ropey stuff.
‘Yeah, but after all his gallivanting he better bloody well simmer down and get himself a decent job.’
‘They say it takes a while to settle back in,’ I rallied, anxious to defend my man.
‘Nah, I’ve got one no-hoper for a son. Don’t need another one.’ He waved his stubbie in the direction of Nick, Scott’s older brother, who was setting up on the lawn
with his band. ‘Sure, he’s not brain surgeon material but I always thought Scott’d make something of himself.’ He drained his beer and sighed heavily. ‘Isn’t
that what he went to uni for?’
I turned back to the pool table and re-filled my cup.
‘Here, chuck us another stubbie, would you, love? I’d better go fire up the barbie since no other bugger’s gonna do it.’
I handed him his beer out of the esky. He cracked the top off against a corner brick, took a long pull and exhaled, his red cheeks deflating like a balloon. ‘Why don’t you pop
upstairs and see Shirl? She’ll be tickled pink to see you.’ He prodded me in the small of my back. ‘Go on.’
But I didn’t want to go upstairs. I wanted to find Scott.
I knocked back the rest of the wine, which was starting to taste not too bad, and, once Mr Greenwood had gone, headed around past the mirrored bar towards Scott’s bedroom. I had a vibe he
was in there.
How could I forget the skull and cross-bones sticker, with the words, ‘
SCOTT’S BEDROOM: ENTER AT YOUR OWN PERIL
’ scrawled in black texta. Its childishness made me
smile and a warm glow spread from my guts down to my toes. Pressing my ear against the door, I could hear music. I opened the door and went in. The room was dark save for a pulsing green coming
from the controls on the CD player, which was pumping out low-volume techno. This was different. Scott’d always hated hardcore, refusing to go to clubs in the Valley because all they played
was ‘that stupid ravey shit for poofs and speed-freaks’. London must have changed his music taste.
I stood still, my ears straining to the possibility
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