Free Cold Skin by Steven Herrick Page B

the cemetery,
    his cane tapping a route home.
    He says,
    ‘Sometimes it’s all right being the way I am.
    Not having to see things.’
    When we reach his front gate,
    he holds out his hand and asks,
    ‘Are you still a Catholic, Mr Carter?’
    Before I answer,
    he adds,
    ‘If you are.
    And I hope you are.
    Burn a candle for Colleen
    next time you’re in church.’

Eddie
    Sally and me walk along the banks of the river
    without saying a word.
    Kingfishers and swallows,
    creekdippers and acrobats,
    swoop along the surface.
    We duck under the branches of the willows
    and cross the stream.
    The water swirls around my knees
    as I grip her hand.
    We take nervous steps
    through the cold rush,
    our feet gripping the stones below.
    When we reach the far bank
    I struggle out onto the high ground
    and help her climb up the track.
    On Jaspers Hill
    we lie in the grass
    under the cliffs,
    away from town,
    away from the memory of yesterday.
    Sally kisses me
    and I don’t want to run this time.
    I wrap my arms around her.
    Then, in one quick movement,
    Sally leans back and takes off her jumper,
    tossing it behind her.
    She’s wearing a thin top
    that clings to my fingers
    as my hands drift over her body.
    Sally grips my shoulders.
    Her nails press into my skin
    as she moves closer.
    I smell her faint perfume,
    feel her lips,
    soft and welcoming.
    My hands fumble under her blouse
    exploring, awkward.
    Her hand slips into my shirt
    and I almost jump in fright.
    I don’t know what to do
    with her fevered skin tingling
    under my big clumsy hands.
    She takes my hand,
    placing it between her legs,
    and the shock of her warmth
    surges through me.
    She pushes me back
    and we are rubbing, touching, fondling,
    doing things I’ve only dared think about.
    Sally’s breathing, my hands,
    her lips, her face, her skin,
    her smell, her touch,
    fill my afternoon.

Albert Holding
    The pub is quiet
    with me and Johnno the bartender,
    alone,
    drinking the bitter brew of a desolate afternoon.
    I told Laycock I was finishing early
    and walked off before he could respond.
    There’s nothing at home for me.
    I’m holding a glass of the only friend I’ve got.
    Johnno sips his beer
    and rabbits on about last Friday
    and how everyone drank far too much,
    and when Sergeant Grainger came in on Saturday
    asking him to name the drunks,
    Johnno scoffed and said,
    ‘Every bloke in town, mate.’
    So we’re all suspects, I guess.
    I lean close to Johnno,
    raise my glass,
    swill it down
    and say, ‘Thanks.
    One more for the guilty.’
    He looks at me in horror.
    ‘Guilty of being drunk on Friday, you drongo.’
    He pours another as Fatty comes through the door,
    looking pale and bloated,
    like a fish tossed up on the bank.
    He puffs,
    ‘Just a shandy for me, thank you.’
    He sits beside me at the bar
    and starts on.
    ‘I’m so sorry for the parents.
    It’s a bad business for Burruga.
    A blight on our future, you could say.’
    I down my beer in one gulp,
    and say,
    ‘There’s only one bloke who can make it right,
    Fatty.’
    I leave my money on the counter
    and walk out.

Sergeant Grainger
    The clock ticks past two in the morning
    and the kettle boils on the stove.
    Another cup of tea is better than sleep.
    I’ve had a week of stories:
    beer on Friday till closing,
    rude singing, bad jokes,
    and staggering home to a cold dinner
    and an angry missus.
    Some blokes want to take up a collection
    for the O’Connors,
    to help with the expenses,
    and they asked me to look into it.
    Everyone mentions how pretty Colleen was.
    They didn’t see her like me,
    at the end,
    on the sand.
    That’s what I can’t shake.
    It keeps me awake,
    going over every detail.
    Particularly the Holding family.
    No one saw Eddie on Friday night
    and all he told me
    is he sat up a tree beside the railway station
    watching Butcher run late for the train.
    So if I believe Eddie,
    I should talk to Butcher again
    and make more calls to the city.
    Still no mother.
    Albert Holding was as