Derelict

DERELICT

It was the kind of day that blistered skin and bleached grass. Town life was non existent as everyone stayed out of the sun and heat. The group of twenty or so houses sat quietly in the haze and fulfilled an artist’s dream of the glory days of gold miners or foresters. Windows broken and brown-taped up in various slashes, red corrugated iron roofs covered in green lichen and spouting’s growing clumps of grass. The sleek blue car made its way slowly and quietly along the narrow gravel road.  Craig was in no hurry to reach his destination and reminisced as he drove, air conditioning roaring and window open, looking to left and right, taking in the sight of the town. Anything that proved there was life behind the tin patched rotting walls of the houses came as a slight surprise. A small red tricycle on the road, lying on its side, the occasional row of washing, a horse tethered in an empty section and then, the sound of thumping music. Craig stopped the car in front of number 15. The large white letterbox blazed the number in childlike thick red paint. Craig remained seated in his car, looking at the old house. It was worse than the others’. Even further along the track to demolition, with black, ripped rubbish bags piled in a corner of the porch and the favourite old white Zephyr lying lopsided on its hubs in the grass, one door open to let the dogs in and out.
Craig quickly unwound his tall frame from the car and walked along the crumbling path and through the open back door straight into the hot kitchen. He gestured to the girl at the bench to keep quiet as he walked carefully to the door into the lounge. From there he could see the giant, sitting side on. He shook his head as he studied the man. He had got fatter! Huge belly, neck rolls, fat jowls, and look at those legs, all purple and thick with old blue slippers stuck on the ends. As he watched, the huge man winched himself up from his slouched position in the old wooden chair. He heaved a few inches upwards, rasped against the brown arms of the vintage chair until the flesh squeezed through and surely with a plop rose above the frame of the chair where it settled and allowed its owner to rearrange his butt on the seat.  A frustrated frown drove thick, black eyebrows together over  squashed eyes and with a pursing of his fat groper lips, the giant suddenly let out a bellow: “Hey Girly, where the hell’s that damned drink?” Shining sweat swelled out of his forehead, pushed out by the frustration of the moment and he reached up to swat at his face with a thickened hand. Breath for his next bellow was just starting to be drawn when Craig moved quickly to the fridge and brought out the 6 pack of beer, gave the girl a smile and turning, roughly fully kicked open the lounge door. "Here, you dumb bastard, the girl is busy so I told her I would bring it for you". He plonked the pack of beer on the fat mans knees, hard up against the soft stomach flesh that stretched the huge brown, food stained teeshirt and he offered his hand as he grinned down at the giant.  Banjos fat jaw dropped in shock and his thick mouth opened up as far as the red corner cracks would allow. "You're gonna give me a bleedin’ heart attack, arriving outa nowhere like that, Boy! " spluttered Banjo. After a slight hesitation, a slow smile filtered through the surly anger of his expression. Brown teeth and gummy gaps showed themselves as his smile grew in intensity and then turned into a wide open laugh that exposed his chalky tongue and back teeth fillings. He reached up and grabbed the offered hand and shook it hard, pulling Craig down to look closely into his warm brown eyes before releasing the grip. With an easy grace, Craig accepted the power of the handshake and smiled deeply into the eyes of the fat man.
Craig tore the cardboard and handed Banjo a can and took one himself. The satisfying double click and hiss was followed by a duet of guzzling as they both sought to drink longer than the other. Craig gave in just before he finished and Banjo grunted happily as he drained the last drop of his and threw the can on to the brown threadbare carpet and reached for a second. Craig watched the other carefully, looking for any sign that his visit was not welcome but the opposite was obvious. He knew what was expected of him now. He grabbed an old kitchen chair from the corner and spun it around to sit on it back to front. He began to speak and watched with satisfaction as the older man sank down low and mellowed into the moment. Craig’s words flowed easily and his deep melodic voice rose and fell as he talked unpretentiously about what he
had been doing for the past six months. If story telling is thought of as a crucial aspect of humanity then Craig had it sorted. Fiction or non fiction, it made no difference to him and a mixture of both was the best. With voice and gestures and expressions, he communicated in a way that held a captive audience spellbound before him. Banjo became more animated as the story unfolded, alertly following each sentence as the sweat ran down and dripped from his cheeks and chins. He chortled and grimaced and laughed out loud and went vicariously along for the ride. Craig’s story of tall buildings, taxis and explosive meetings, grand parades and fantastic pomp and ceremony grew louder and more excited until he stood up and walked briskly around the room, arms waving and face alight as he continued to eloquently speak, reaching a finale fit for an audience of five hundred rather than one fat man. As the story ended and Craig returned to his seat, Banjo pulled the grey handkerchief out from alongside his thigh and wiped his face hard as he kept his eyes on the young man.
Emotions filled the silence in unsaid wisps, short-lived swirling around them as they sat. Ego and error quickly thrown aside, remorse ignored and excitement shared. With an awkward movement Craig leaned forward and placed his hand on the fat mans arm, feeling the tremor.
“Everything’s OK, its all set in place?” “Yes” replied the fat man.

More than a thousand mourners slowly made their way across the grass and concrete, joined together in a need to say their goodbyes. They slowly followed the huge brown coffin that was clasped by a specially made frame and carried by eight strong men. Craig struggled with the weight.
“You’re a heavy bastard”
Get yer shoulder into it, Boy.
“Did you like the ceremony?”
Too much damned nonsense
“I’m glad it all went well.”
It sure seemed to from my end.
“No pain?”
None. That drink you gave me was pretty damned good.
“Just went to sleep?”
Yep. Rang a couple o mates and had a chat after you left. Then lay in bed and drank the bastard down.
“We are nearly there.”
Hope the hole’s big enough. Bury that big ugly body as deep as you can. I was finished with it a long time ago.

The crying and keening and singing of the mourners rose in sound and intensity as the seven strong men and Craig took their final proud steps to bury the fat man.