Free Death in Brunswick by Boyd Oxlade Page B

and reached under the bed, found the pills he had dropped, pocketed them, and went back into the lounge room.
    â€˜All right, Mother, I’ll just have a wash and I’ll be off.’
    â€˜If you must , Carl. I was looking forward to a quiet chat this afternoon. I’ve hardly seen you since I arrived.’
    â€˜Don’t worry, Mother, I only have to work two hours tomorrow arvo and I’ll have all Sunday free.’ Christ! What a thought—a quiet chat.
    Carl went out into his bathroom. It was a rather squalid lean-to at the back of the kitchen. Some former tenant had painted it dark green in an attempt at hiding the mould and cracks in the plaster. There was a stained bath at one end with an old-fashioned shower rose perched insecurely over it. He took off his clothes and stood in the bath, turning on the taps and waiting. The water pressure was weak and the hot water system unpredictable. Eventually there came a lukewarm trickle.
    Shit! Mother must have had a bath this morning—bugger all hot water left. What a place! Still, Mother couldn’t put up with this sort of thing much longer—after South Yarra! She must go back, in what? Twelve days—not that long. How everyone used to be thrilled at living in these bloody dumps—how I hate them now.
    He remembered how he and Dave, in their youth, had shared a house in Carlton—the Latin quarter of Melbourne. Dave had been a student and Carl an apprentice. How romantic they had thought the rows of dark, crumbling terraces and the Italians and Greeks who couldn’t wait to get out of them and escape to the clean air and open spaces of the outer suburbs.
    The two boys had fallen easily into the raffish antinomism of middle-class inner-suburban slum life. Dave had become the socialist he still was, but Carl’s revolt had never taken him beyond drugs and the cliches of the dropout. As Dave said, ‘From angry youth to peevish middle age!’
    Now Carl stood under the cooling water, knowing that living as he did was no longer a matter of choice. Still, he could hope.
    Maybe I could cook full-time and afford somewhere better—till Mother dies anyway. Then…No, I can’t work full time—my nerves…I’d be drinking like a fish. At least these dumps are cheap.
    He stepped out of the bath; the concrete floor felt clammy and unpleasant. On the wall facing him was a big cloudy mirror. He saw his reflection swim forward in the sub-aqueous gloom. He looked with distaste at his skinny arms and the slight pot belly beginning under his bony chest.
    Ugh! I look like a fish. A rabbit fish—Sophie’ll go mad, I don’t think. To work!
    He blew dry his thin blonde hair, teasing it carefully at the crown, applying more than the usual amount of hair gel.
    After all Sophie’ll be seeing me in the daylight. Thank Christ I’m seeing her in the foyer—that was good thinking. It’ll be a bit darker in there—God! I can’t see a thing in here.
    He opened the door; hanging on the back was his mother’s shower bag. He had a look inside. There was a clutter of make-up and scent bottles. He sniffed a few and dabbed one under his arms. A bit overpowering but sexy!
    He looked in the mirror again. A cruel shaft of light from the door showed the patches of broken veins across his nose and cheeks and the puffiness under his eyes. Jesus! Maybe I shouldn’t have hit the tequila quite so hard last night.
    Looking again in his mother’s bag he found some liquid make-up. Tentatively he dabbed it onto his face. The difference was impressive. He thought he looked quite healthy—a new discovery! Now he could see why old ladies wore so much slap.
    I suppose it’s a bit faggoty but—‘desperate remedies’.
    His confidence somewhat restored, he wrapped a towel round his waist and went inside.
    â€˜Dear, you are getting thin,’ said his mother, as he hurried nervously through