Chapter 5

2708 Words
3Rick Hendry stared at himself in the mirror. He had a serious case of bedhead and frothy toothpaste dripping down his chin. Add the sleep-stained bloodshot eyes and the sallow skin and Rick reckoned he’d fit right in with the extras on Fright Night. He leaned over, spat into the sink and washed his hands and face. He grabbed the comb he kept next to the sink and by the time he was standing straight again he had managed to partially tame his matted hair. His eyes remained the same. ‘I need sleep,’ he told his reflection. ‘Lots of it.’ He threw the comb back down and walked out of the small bathroom. The corridor was still dark. Outside, daylight had been waiting for action a good two hours. Insomnia followed by hours of restless half-sleep and finally deep sleep, only minutes before his alarm clock rang, made him late. Bare feet padded on the polished wood floor, ankles cracked; in the kitchen the sound of the electric kettle boiling reached a crescendo then clicked into silence. Rick walked in and, without bothering with any more light than the window provided, made coffee. A heaped spoonful of instant, a generous slurp of milk, mix together, pour in water, have a mouthful, go to the living room, get dressed—underwear, pants, socks, shoes and shirt—coffee, out the front door, tour of front yard—pick up the paper if it’s there—finish coffee, back inside, dump the mug and paper on the table, and then back to the bathroom. He was so bored with the whole routine he called his life, the stupid predictability, the numbness of his current existence. But he couldn’t change, even though his doctor said he should. Couldn’t even break the old habit of dressing in the living room so he didn’t disturb anyone else. Anyone else had long since departed. He could dress and undress anywhere he damn well pleased, but every night it was the same. The next day’s clothes laid out on the lounge, a ball of socks tucked into shoes, kettle left full and waiting to be switched on, clean mug sitting beside it. Predictable. Numb. A car horn sounded and Rick hustled back out into the living room, grabbed his briefcase and coat, and rushed out the front door. There was a time when he’d have had lunch made for him, fresh sandwiches or leftover lamb roast and some cake. But that was gone. Lunch would be whatever the nearest café was offering on special. The door slammed as the horn blared again and Rick frowned at the driver. A headache was already starting in the crease between his eyes and for a moment he contemplated staying home, lounging in front of the television, going back to bed. The moment passed before he reached the car. The door opened and Gabriela Salek, sitting straight-backed in her seat, grinned at him. Her long hair was pulled back in its usual spiky bun and her smile gleamed with her everyday enthusiasm. Rick threw his briefcase and coat into the back of the beat-up sedan, and folded himself into the passenger seat already sweating in the heat of the morning. ‘Morning, Rick. There’s coffee and a muffin there for you. Don’t knock it over.’ Gabriela nodded at the cardboard tray perched on the console between the bucket seats. Rick grunted and pulled the door shut. ‘Hot enough to roast a dinner for fifty in here. Mind if I open a window?’ ‘Still not sleeping, huh?’ ‘Told you why,’ Rick replied. He reached for the foam cup. The coffee smelled bitter and strong. Probably no milk … Rick peeled off the plastic lid and sighed. No milk. ‘You got something against cows, Salek?’ Gabriela laughed, put the car into gear and pulled out into the dead street. Rick’s house was one of few that shared the last road between the town and the bush, a narrow, gravelly track that had once been tamed with bitumen, now slowly succumbing to neglect. Each bump, each pothole was a reminder to Rick that it was probably time to let go and move on. Just like his neighbours and their falling down houses, the creviced footpaths, the dammed gutters. Nearly the whole street had packed up and moved on. Yet Rick stayed, alone with his memories and habits, and the other diehards of Everlene Street. The car dropped into the biggest pothole in the road with a bang and screech of rubber and metal. Coffee sloshed over Rick’s fingers and he swore. His headache started to pound. Soon as his own car was back on the road, he was driving himself and not picking anyone up. Gabriela leaned forward to adjust the radio volume from plain loud to blaring. And no f*****g radio either! Rick took the muffin out of its greasy paper bag and bit into it. Sugar stuck to his lips, hot and sweet. He licked his lips and washed the sticky flakes caught in his teeth down with coffee. ‘That was good,’ he said, looking around the car for the rest. Gabriela never bought just one. ‘Any more?’ Gabriela reached behind the passenger seat and pulled out a family-size bag of baked goods. Their aroma filled the car. ‘You know, breakfast’s the most important meal of the day. Save some for me.’ Rick grunted in acquiescence as he shoved another muffin in his mouth and slurped the coffee. Another day, another artery-hardening breakfast. Rick could hardly wait to get to work. Rick hung up on his wife with pleasure. He didn’t know why she persisted on ringing him at the office, but once a month, regular as his morning routine, she rang to say hallo, remind him of his shortcomings, tell him she missed him and would he please ring her parents. They still liked him even though she did not and she was getting tired of answering their questions as to his wellbeing. Just as regular, he promised he would. Both knew he wouldn’t, though really he should get it over with and then maybe she’d stop ringing. After all, who divorced whom here? He pushed away from his desk with the horrible premonition she was going to ring back, and went to the kitchen for coffee. Bad coffee, but enough caffeine to get him over this hate thing he had going with his computer, and more than enough bitterness to take his mind off his ex-wife. Rick perched his mug on the corner of his desk, sat down and stared at the computer. A print message beeped its failure at him. Rick picked up his desk phone on the first ring, ex-wife forgotten and still swearing at the computer screen in front of him that now insisted his latest story was corrupted, could not be recovered, and the machine would need to reboot. What the f**k? ‘What?’ ‘Is this Richard Hendry?’ ‘Who’s this?’ ‘No names, please, Mr Hendry.’ ‘Yes, f**k you …’ Hendry moved his mouse and clicked ‘Yes’. The screen wavered as if in thought and went blue. ‘I assure you this is a serious matter, sir. My career would be in considerable danger if it was known I was even making this call.’ ‘I was talking to my computer, not you. So why are you?’ ‘Pardon me?’ ‘Making this call. Why are you making this call?’ Rick hit the side of the monitor. The screen was still blue. He really didn’t have time for this. No time at all. ‘It’s in relation to a missing person …’ ‘I don’t do missing persons. Ring the police.’ Rick was about to hang up. The computer blinked at him, considering whether to reboot or crash altogether. He’d have to call IT and get them to go through the back-up tapes for him. It would take hours. His deadline was 3pm. He glanced at his watch. s**t! 2:45. No time. There was a frustrated sigh on the other end of the phone line and Rick paused. He didn’t have to be a complete s**t every minute of the day, did he? ‘Look,’ he said, tucking the receiver back under his chin. ‘I can give you the phone number. But I really can’t help you more than that. I’m a reporter, not …’ ‘I know that, Mr Hendry.’ The sigh again and then silence. ‘You still there?’ Rick looked at his watch. 2:46. f**k! ‘Yes, Mr Hendry. I’m still here. I can’t call the police … I am the police. And there’s not just one missing person, there’s at least eight.’ Rick froze mid-action, his hand a centimetre from slapping the monitor one more time. He diverted it to his top drawer and his mobile phone. ‘Give me a number. I’ll call you back.’ Rick pressed the numbers on his mobile as they were spoken. ‘Give me ten.’ He hung up, pushed his chair back and left the office. On his desk, the computer screen came back to life, the document file had automatically recovered after all and awaited his attention. Click on ‘Yes’ to recover or ‘Cancel’ to open a new file. It stayed that way well past 3pm. ‘So, what’s going on?’ Gabriela popped open a bottle of beer and walked from the drab kitchen into the drab living room. ‘Rick? First you miss the deadline and then you disappear without telling anyone where you’re going. Harry nearly had a fit. I swear I’ve never seen so many shades of purple on one man’s face.’ She sank into the typist’s chair by Rick’s vintage computer, sipped her beer and started going through the papers and old floppy disks that littered the table. ‘This is a hunka junk, Hendry,’ she called, picking up a 5-inch floppy and waving it in the air. ‘These old things aren’t good for anything but coasters. Rick?’ Gabriela lifted the beer bottle to her lips and spun around in the chair. What was the silly bastard up to? Far as Gabriela knew, Rick never used his wife’s old computer, hated all computers with a passion. But here it was, all set up, connected to the Internet and printer spitting out pages faster than was healthy for a dot matrix machine that should have been retired at least ten years ago. She stopped spinning to lean over the printer and lift the paper. ‘What the hell?’ ‘Gabriela?’ Beer sloshed from the bottle as Gabriela jumped in surprise. ‘I didn’t hear you come in. Help yourself to a beer …’ Gabriela gave the bottle a little shake and laughed. ‘Yeah, already did. I … ah, knocked. What are you up to? I wouldn’t have thought this computer would hook up to a modem.’ Rick shrugged. ‘It does, though barely. I’ve got a lead on a new story. Nothing much.’ ‘Enough to blow off your deadline on the Fitzgerald story? Harry fired your arse … again. So are you going to let me in on this …’ Gabriela turned back to the ream of paper folding in on itself behind the printer and scanned the top page, ‘… fairy story?’ ‘No.’ She flicked an incredulous expression at Rick and sat down on the chair to inspect the browser windows Rick had left open. ‘Legends from the Crypt? The Undead in Georgia? X-files and the Real Truth? What are you into? Share with your partner.’ ‘Not ready to share yet, Gabi. I’ll let you know when I am.’ Rick stepped forward and closed the windows down. ‘Staying for dinner? I usually get Chinese on Thursdays.’ Gabriela leaned back in the seat, swinging from side to side, eyes narrowed. Her lips thinned for a moment as she contemplated Rick’s most recent abnormal behaviour. ‘You’re the original sceptic, Rick. What is it about ghosts and ghouls that’s got you all worked up?’ ‘And you’re the original sticky beak.’ ‘What can I say? I’m a reporter too. Comes with the job.’ ‘Dinner, or do you have to get home?’ ‘How could I resist?’ Gabriela sighed and gave in. Rick could be tight as a clam when he wanted to be and pumping him for information wasn’t the only reason she had decided to visit. Her old friend and mentor looked like s**t. His job at the paper was on thinner ice than usual and, as far as Gabriela could tell, he had no life. The time had come to offer Rick Hendry a little guidance, even if she had to force-feed it to him. Rick walked across to the telephone, flicked through the various letters, bills and other bits of paper tucked between it and the wall, and pulled out the home delivery menu for his favourite Chinese restaurant. ‘Laksa sound good to you? And some beef chow mein?’ ‘Throw in some fried rice and I’m yours for life.’ ‘Bestill my beating heart,’ Rick replied, picking up the receiver, and dialled the restaurant number. He placed the order, nodding and giving monosyllabic answers as it was read back to him. ‘How long? Right, thanks.’ And hung up. ‘Forty minutes,’ he told Gabriela. ‘Another beer?’ ‘You bet. I’ll get them.’ Gabriela finished off what was left in her bottle as she walked into the kitchen to restock. She could hear Rick in the next room as he sat down on the wheelie chair and started typing. The printer had stopped while Rick had been placing the take-out order. Ghosts and ghouls! Gabriela shook her head. ‘Who would have thought it?’ She took two more beers from the refrigerator and turned to deposit her empty in the sink. The bottle of sleeping pills sat in the same place they’d been last time she’d dropped in. Gabriela put down the beers and picked up the small jar to read the prescription. She remembered when Rick had finally gone to the doctor a month ago after putting up with stomach cramps and heartburn for most of the past year. Stress, the doctor had diagnosed. No big surprise there. Rick and stress had been bed partners for years. More than she could say for Rick and that wife of his. For a while there, the two had deserved each other. Rick’s only saving grace in the union was that he didn’t find solace in someone else’s bed, whereas ex-wife, Meg, had done the rounds as fast as she could. Gabriela shuddered. What a b***h! She rattled the jar and read the label. The doctor had prescribed pills and several relaxation techniques, all of which Rick ignored. Typical … ‘Take two with food.’ She ran her thumb around the sealed cap. ‘Better not risk it.’ The computer pinged, chair wheels scraped on the wooden floor. Gabriela put the pills back in their spot as the kitchen door swung open. ‘You get lost?’ Rick asked, walking in to open cupboard doors and pull out plates, drawers for knives and forks. ‘Man could die of thirst waiting for those beers.’ Gabriela chuffed with laughter and removed the caps from both bottles. ‘Just admiring the stunning view from the window.’ She pointed a bottle toward the backyard. Leaves, dead twigs and lumps of rotting mulch covered the patchy lawn. A branch had fallen from one of the trees onto the tin roof of the garden shed in the back corner. The panel had dented, collected rain at some point, and now sported a thick coating of dried out lichen. Strings of the dead plant hung from the roof like a trail of tears. ‘What do you call that? Rustic dereliction?’ Rick moved to stand beside Gabriela at the sink. ‘More like the “winter of my discontent”. You like it?’ ‘Yeah, it’s got a kind of abandoned appeal. Bet it will look great underneath a few more layers of fungus.’ ‘Looks even better from the living room with the blinds drawn. You going to give me one of those?’ Rick nudged a bottle. ‘Sure. Sorry.’ Gabriela turned away from the window. ‘Did I tell you Annie’s got a new job?’ ‘Didn’t know she’d left the old one.’ ‘Well she has now. Onward and upward, you know. Managing some big fancy event in Canberra.’ Gabriela regaled Rick with the details while they waited for dinner, and then in between mouthfuls of the best Chinese food this side of Sydney. He started nodding off after the third beer and fell asleep after the fourth, head; fighting all the way to dreamland. She pulled off his shoes and covered him over with a blanket. The big talk would have to wait. Rick needed sleep more than lectures. ‘Sweet dreams, Rick,’ she said, turning off the lights. ‘You need them.’
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