Free Death in Brunswick by Boyd Oxlade

have to work tonight you know—till one o’clock.’
    â€˜Now Carl. You’re a young man. You should have plenty of energy. It’s just your bad habits. You had nearly a quarter of a bottle of spirits when you got home last night. I don’t like to see you drinking so much.’
    Christ! She’ll be marking the bottle next. He controlled himself.
    â€˜Well, I was a bit upset.’
    Take it easy.
    â€˜Now, dear, just try and please your old mother. I haven’t got all that much time left, you know.’
    â€˜Oh Mother, Doctor Lee said you were quite well. You just have to give up those cigarettes, that’s all.’
    â€˜Doctors don’t know everything. Now off you go, outside—I want to have a rest.’
    She turned up the music and settled back.
    Carl wandered out into his back yard. It was a maze of overgrown native trees, grey-green spiny grevilleas and untidy ti-tree. Over all hung the cat’s-piss smell of wattle. He found it terribly depressing. No wonder the early explorers succumbed to melancholy, surrounded by this sort of thing. He sat down on the bumpy brick paving.
    He felt trapped; a Carl at bay, bailed up by circling mothers.
    Maybe I could go interstate—I could say I had a job in Sydney or something. I could write to her—tell her any bullshit. No, it wouldn’t work. I just haven’t got the money. Anyway— he had a feeble burst of spirit —I won’t be forced out of my own house. God, listen to that awful music.
    He paced around like a prisoner in an exercise yard, whistling the alto solo from ‘April in Paris’ .
    That’s what I’d like to do—lie back and have a couple of drinks and listen to some bop. But Mother hates jazz, and as for boozing in the afternoon…! How long till work? Five hours! I’ll go spare! I will—and I’ll fuck things up and then I’ll be sorry. Like she said, in four or five years I could be pretty well off—four or five years!
    He sat down again, looking at his dilapidated outside lavatory.
    What did she mean, she drew up the will? Does that mean she hasn’t signed it? She’ll keep it hanging over my head like a…a sword. Still, half her china and silver and that—why, that could be worth, what? Ten thou at least. You only have to look in antique shops. Christ! As soon as she wheezes her last I’ll have that gear in an auction so quick…! But I’ll have to be a good boy till then—no wonder Dave was laughing.
    Why has she always tried to make me into something I’m not? He remembered his kindly, ineffectual father— she really tried it on you too, you poor old bugger. He remembered his mother’s scorn and rage when his father had gone bankrupt. And when he took us out of those expensive schools—Jesus! We got into him too. How we must have hurt him. Carl was filled with self pity and regret. Well, I can’t do anything about it now—ah shit, and I felt so good coming back from Dave’s. Hang on, that’s something I can do—nick some pills…
    He went inside. The symphony was coming to its loud and messy end. His mother was lying back with her feet up. Carl noticed with disgust the varicose veins over her shins.
    â€˜I’ll just tidy up your room, Mother.’
    â€˜No need, dear,’ she said, with her eyes closed. ‘I did it this morning.’
    â€˜Well, you might need some flowers or something. I’ll get the vase from your side table. You like boronia, don’t you? There’s some out the back.’
    â€˜That’s very sweet of you, dear. You could put the kettle on too.’
    Carl hurried into his mother’s room, closing the door. He examined the bedside table. Linoxin, Kinidin — everything except Soneryl.
    That’s funny, where’s the stoppers? Don’t tell me she’s a wake-up. Where…?
    He saw her handbag on a chair. Quickly