The Dragon's Skin. Ross Gray

have a crater over there if that was his plan. But, whatever fate he wants her saved from, he obviously thinks it’s worse than death. He’s screaming for help.’

      To an old campaigner like Collison, that was axiomatic. The trouble is, if you can’t convince the poor bastards that help is on its way, they may resort to the final solution – or dissolution. ‘Is that who he wants you to bump, someone who’s a threat to his daughter?’

      ‘I think so. He won’t give details until I agree to do it.’ He turned his face from the window and his features were darkened, but Collison could see the small shadow-etched curl in his left cheek that betrayed a smile. ‘He assures me it’s someone who deserves to die.’

      ‘Oh good,’ said Collison. He appraised the dark form embroidered in the lace of the curtain. ‘Is there anything else I need to know but they,’ thumb over shoulder, ‘don’t?’

      ‘You know Ben. All over the place like aunts at an Italian wedding.’ He moved the curtains aside once more and stared thoughtfully through the window. ‘Today he’s as focused as the mother of the bride, no doubts how this day will end – for him.’

      They stood in the false gloaming of a dimly lit room on a wet afternoon in silent contemplation, of each other, of their own doubts and fears, of the consequences of the next utterance. A buzz of voices and activity reached them from the other room. The man by the window suddenly spoke.

      ‘You know the ring-a-rosy: Ben loses job, Ben steals, gets caught, goes to gaol, Sharon shacks up with someone till Ben gets out – anything to protect the kids. She didn’t go back to him last time. That was about four months ago.’

      ‘Shit. It’s not Sharon …?’

      Cardigan man shook his head. ‘No. Then Sharon’s dead, Ben’s in gaol, what happens to the kids? Ben is terrified his kids will end up like him, in institutions and foster homes. Dysfunctional parents they may seem, but they love those kids. The day Sharon realised she was pregnant they stopped using hard drugs – both of them – just like that.’ He chuckled softly. ‘Found larceny a lot harder to kick; but, they had mouths to feed. Anyhow, Ben says he has open access to them, so that’s not the issue. And he worships Sharon the lover, but she was a gift he always expected the gods to snatch back. No, he’s lost faith in Sharon the mother. Ben thinks she’s into something that puts the kids in jeopardy. That’s my guess.’

      Collison accepted the point with a grunt. ‘Why not do the job himself?’

      ‘C’mon, Don – Ben? Carry out a killing? He’s an echidna not a boxing kangaroo. He’d have to steal the price of a hitman, and his larceny’s strictly small change. He’s violence phobic – if he was going to commit suicide he’d use a Freudian slip.’ He smiled sadly.

      ‘Blowing up a day-care centre is passive protest, is it?’

      ‘Ben and Briette are the only two at risk.’ He turned and gazed thoughtfully through the window towards the centre across the road. When he turned back to the room he seemed to have resolved something.

      ‘Why not just ask you? For old time’s sake,’ said Collison.

      ‘I don’t know,’ the man said. ‘Maybe he’s more perceptive than I thought,’ he added, as if to himself. ‘I can get them out, Don, no dents, no scratches. If I can’t persuade Ben or find an opportunity to take him cleanly, I’ll make the promise.’

      Collison lofted his chin and scratched his neck as he considered the words. ‘Let’s give the caucus a little background, so they don’t sulk. And then do it,’ he said. ‘Lay the warm and fuzzy stuff thick. You know boys: take the toys out of the box and they want to play with ’em before they put ’em back.’ He swung abruptly towards the door, then hesitated and glanced back. ‘If you have to make a promise will it be one you intend to keep?’ he asked.

      ‘I think it’s in the best interests of us both if I don’t answer that. Don’t you?’

      Collison snorted.

      ‘Oh, and Don? No wire.’

      ‘Just bugger this one the same way you did the last.’ He jabbed a blunt finger at the other man. ‘But leave the fucking phone over there on speaker!’

      ‘And no body armour.’ He hooked his thumbs in the soft wool of the cardigan. ‘It gives me a … cuddly look.’

      Collison held the man’s gaze, trying to penetrate its languid blue surface. ‘Your funeral,’ he said, shrugging. ‘Tell me something. You’ve gotta be shittin’ yourself, but you act like you’re going to tea with a maiden aunt. What’s the gimmick? Or don’t you give a stuff?’

      ‘I die before I cross the road.’

      Collison’s eyes dug at him to unearth any irony, then, ‘How very Zen of you,’ he snarled. ‘Anything else I can do to protect and serve?’ he added and yanked wide the door.

      ‘May I borrow an umbrella?’ asked the man in the cardigan as he passed by.

2

      When Ben Bovell got out of bed early that morning he was surprised how refreshed he felt. He must have slept soundly last night. If he had, it was the first time in years.

      The irony didn’t escape him.

      Then he noticed how calm he felt. He was eating his breakfast – Coco Pops and cold milk – when he noticed. He noticed that he hadn’t had at least two fags before breakfast, one before and one after he got out of bed. And he noticed that he didn’t really want one. He was glad about this because Brie didn’t like the stench on his breath. Today of all days he wanted to do nothing that drove a smile from his daughter’s face.

      He smiled at the tattered movie poster on the back of the door: a horse and his buckskin-clad rider, both of them pissed, leaning against a wall. He noticed he felt good. He took his feelings and laid them on the scratched and stained Formica table top beside the cereal bowl. And he reflected upon them. Perhaps reflection is too sophisticated an act to attribute to Ben. He looked at them. And he was pleased with what he saw. The mere fact of their existence seemed to validate his plans for the rest of the day. Ben didn’t recognise euphoria. Such a state was alien to him when he was stone cold sober.

      Once, when he was in prison, he’d seen that Mel Gibson movie about Hamlet. It was shown in one of the classes that he took which earned brownie points for parole. He hadn’t understood a word of it. But the bloke who taught the class explained that Mel was nuts because he couldn’t make up his bloody mind to do something. That whole ‘to be or not to be’ bit. But Ben wasn’t nuts.

      And Ben Bovell wasn’t ‘Benny’ today. Ben was most definitely ‘Ben’. And Ben was going to take arms against Benny’s sea of sorrows. Ben was going to end them. To be, to be, to be. To be Ben.

      And then not to be.

      He looked at his watch. It was a good one. He needed a good one for today. He’d nicked it. Plenty of time. Today had more than enough hours. He felt pride in his cool calm. He felt he was behaving just like his hero. He’d see him today too. There was plenty of time.

      He decided to have another helping of cereal. There was some left in the box and he may as well finish it. He emptied the contents of the inner bag into his chipped bowl then folded it neatly. He flattened the box and pushed them both to the far side of the table. He poured the milk and then reached across and switched on the electric jug. It was bought for a couple of dollars at a Brotherhood shop and the automatic cutoff didn’t work. He noticed the Heinz Baked Beans tin in the corner near the fridge was full, so he swapped it for the SPC Two Fruits tin. As he settled back into his chair and scooped up his cereal he listened to the slow, metallic tock of the roof leak in the tin and the warm throaty groan of the jug. For some reason the sounds were like music.

      Ben was living in a two-room fibro