I never saw the murderer that Christmas day. Bonnie did, and Moss – or so they said. Mama told me not to believe them.
It went like this:
Up at dawn, fighting my sister and brother to get to the tree. Satisfactory gifts to:
Me, Moss, Mama, Dad.
Best gifts to:
Bonnie.
(Typical.)
The reindeer have munched on the chocolates and nuts we left in the cracked saucer, and Santa definitely enjoyed the beer. His schooner is lip-smudged and slurry, and a puddle of brew drips from the mantlepiece.
Santa’s sloppy this year, says Moss. He seems quite miffed by Santa’s untidiness. His lower lip is so far out it could hold a pot plant.
Mama makes us clear away the volumes of wrapping paper crunching under our feet. She too is grimacing at the sticky mantlepiece, her arms folded too tight, her tongue tutting madly. Boxer is on his back feet licking at it and she shoos him away then glares at Dad, but Dad shrugs, pulls his not me! face.
Where’s Uncle Gav? Moss yells. He’s wearing his Batman mask and cape and stabbing me and Bosie with his sword.
Still in bed, I’d say, Dad smirks.
But it’s Christmas! us kids shout. Let’s wake him!
No, no, says Mama. Leave him be. It’s a holiday today, for chrissake. He stayed up late last night, and was working hard all week. He’s prob’ly dead tired.
Behind her back Dad pours a fake drink down his gullet. Yep, he says, Hell of a job he’s got.
Mama’s mouth snaps open but her eyes flicker to the angel atop the silver-tinselled tree. She says nothing (but she does cross herself).
I squint out the window for snow but there’s nothing but hot glassy sun and squawking parrots. Again I’m disappointed. The cards and carols and confectionary all promise a snowy white Christmas, but the closest thing to floating white out there are the cockatoos. The only thing cold is the esky full of last night’s beer leftovers and sludgy melted ice.
Mama and Dad argue in the kitchen as I try on my new swimmers. A bit saggy, but they’re a pretty pink. Bonnie, Moss and me dart to the pool, climb its plastic ladder and leap in. The water’s warm as a bath today. After an hour of battling with our inflatable ducks and trying to drown each other for the fancy pool-ring cactus (Share it! Mama yells) my eyes are bloodshot and puffy and my cozzie seems paler, no longer its vivid crimson. I stand up in the water’s shallow end, peering through the swelling at the others: their new swimmers are faded, too, and their eyes are swollen-red.
Mama! Bonnie shouts. Dad put too much chlorine in the pool again!
We dive back under, I yank Bonnie’s legs hard so she’s scraping the bottom and she tries to kick my chin. For a second we’re all lost within the bubbles. Then Moss is climbing my shoulders and I dive again, hoping he’ll drown; with a clever twist they’re both standing on my back now, digging their toes in as they kick, and I guess I’m on the way to Davy Jones’ locker when they both soar to the surface and I hit the air coughing and sputtering.
I’m dobbing on you both! I start to scream, but my jaw falls when I see Dad.
He’s stumbling from the garage, a half-litre bottle of acid in his hand (his standard response to an over-chlorinated pool). He tumbles to his knees and pukes on his beloved lawn, drops the bottle on the grass. (Luckily its lid is tight – I was worried we’d left it loose during our games last week.) We all climb from the pool but Dad thrusts his palm at us. He looks a bit like John Wayne in that film where he’s gets shot. Or Elvis in his only western, when he sees the flaming star and knows he’s dying.
Don’t come here! Dad says hoarsely. Stay! Stay!
I’m a bit put out; that’s how he talks to Boxer. I slide down the ladder and tiptoe towards him. His head’s hanging low, almost kissing the grass. The back door slams as Mama appears on the porch, idly wiping a plate with a reindeer-patterned tea towel. She freezes when she notices Dad and the spittle and vomit hanging from his lips. What the? she mutters.
I told you not to let your brother stay here! Dad gasps. I told you not to let the fucker drink!
What’s happened? Mama says. As she disappears into the garage we hear her scream. Then: That’s not Gavin! she cries.
No, I hear Moss shriek, it’s Santa!
He’s snuck into the garage. Me and Bonnie rush past Dad’s madly waving hands and halt at the garage door.
It’s Santa lying on the ground.
Face down.
And he’s dead.
Mama is backing out, her hand across her mouth, yelling, Get out of here, the lot of you! Now! She tugs at Dad’s arm, forcing him to stand up, and says shrilly, I’m calling the police.
But on the way to grabbing her phone she stops abruptly. Wait a minute, she mutters.
She storms upstairs dragging Dad (still a greenish colour – he’s never been good with blood) into the spare bedroom. The quilt is wrenched up over the bed, Uncle Gav’s bag and belongings are gone and it’s as if he was never there. Except for a lumpy plastic bag on the bed, a note with Mama’s name sticky-taped to it.
I think of Uncle Gav arriving yesterday. Mama had just put on her favourite Elvis Christmas album and we were singing along to ‘Here Comes Santa Claus’, dancing on the back porch as the doorbell rang. Uncle Gav hovered in the hallway like a giant, grinning, embarrassed it seemed.
After Mama took him to the spare room she and Dad had a loud whisper-argument in the kitchen. He’s just got out of prison! said Dad. You know what he’s like, he’ll drink us dry. We can’t have him here.
He’s got a job now, said Mama. At least he did some work this week. He’s done his time and he’s got nowhere to go.
Uncle Gavin wandered onto the porch and cracked open a beer. He jerked his head at the kitchen and pretended to yawn like a gorilla and me and Moss and Bonnie laughed.
Were you really in jail? said Moss. Did you kill someone?
Uncle Gav winked. Not this time, matey. Nah, I was wrongly accused and convicted.
What’s it like in there? I asked. Did you have to wear balls and chains on your feet?
Don’t listen to her, said Bonnie, and spun her finger around her ear to show Uncle Gav I was crazy.
He then told us about when he and the other crooks had meals in the jailhouse. It was every man for himself, he said, whoever was left standing got the only dinner they served. I had to fight those bastards off with my bare hands. Christmas was the worst: all we were offered was rat with apple sauce.
Eww! squealed Bonnie.
Did you get Christmas presents? asked Moss.
Yep – an extra whipping for everyone. I of course fought the screws and they respected me, they did. The head screw told me I was the best inmate there due to my brave heart and big balls, and gave me extra mouse droppings for dessert. Once they locked me in a barrel and hammered it shut but I refused to make a sound. Trying to break me, they were, wanted me to snitch. But I kept my mouth shut even though I was curled in a tight ball for a month with no food or water and my knees pressed into my forehead.
Listening bog-eyed to his tales, I wondered if Elvis, when he was in prison singing ‘Jailhouse Rock’, had been as brave as my uncle.
Dad wandered out and sat on Mama’s prim chaise longue with his arms and legs crossed and his jaw jutting like a cockie’s. (It’s his angry-but-pretending-not-to-be position.) It was that half-dark-half-twilight time and although I was starving I didn’t want to be called to dinner; I didn’t want to leave Uncle Gav. We hadn’t seen him in ages and he always made me laugh.
Dad suddenly butted in. Nobody switched on the light and in the half-shadows their voices were sharp and tense, as if they were biting off their words:
Dad: You’re here for how long?
Uncle Gav: I just wanted to see my sister, mate. And spend Christmas with the kids. I wanted to give you all a present, but…
Dad: Hmmph. (His eyes explored the room in an annoyingly exaggerated fashion.) But what? Where are these presents?
Uncle Gav: Well, I haven’t got em yet. Funds are a bit low. But you kids’ll be getting em soon. I’m coming into a bit of money.
Dad (snort): That’ll be the day.
Uncle Gav: No, mate, listen. I’ve got some ideas in the wind. Can’t tell yer yet but. (Rubbed his hand across his thinning scalp.) Christ, I thought you’d be pleased to see me. Christmas and all.
When did you get out? said Mama, appearing from nowhere like a ghost, and we all jumped at her voice: so cool, she could cut the leg of ham with it.
Uncle Gav: Um, a few weeks ago. Stayed with a friend while I worked in Brisbane but that didn’t work out.
Dad (muttering): How surprising.
Uncle Gav: Got back to Sydney a few days ago. Thought you wouldn’t mind if I just stayed here a night or two.
Mama: Of course we’re happy to have you, you’re family. But…you could’ve let us know you were coming.
Dad: Or done us the courtesy of going to a motel. The pub nearby has good rooms, I’m told.
Mama: Josh!
Dad: What? (His face as squeezed as if he’d been stung by a tarantula.)
After we finished our Christmas Eve pizza I was carrying the plates to the kitchen when the voices within sounded particularly adult. I backed behind the pantry door. Mama and Uncle Gav were in there arguing. He was obviously asking for something while Mama shook her head. No no no, I can’t, she said in a furry voice, We barely made it this year, what with Josh’s business going down the toilet…Don’t tell him I told you that! But I just can’t.
Can I at least borrow the car? His tone was whiney.
Don’t touch it! said Mama. You know it’s Josh’s prize possession.
Just then I dropped a plate – Bonnie had snuck up and knuckled me in the spine – and Mama emerged yelling at us to cut it out or she’d kill us all.
I was in bed trying to read a book Mama had given me – Coaly Bay the Outlaw Horse (about a stallion who gets sent to the knackery that Mama weirdly thought would be educational) – when I noticed Uncle Gav lingering in the hallway shadows. I raised my arms hug-like and he sidled in, looking a bit shy.
I’ve just come to say goodnight, he said as he lowered his flabby arse onto my bed. The mattress wobbled like an earthquake. Kissing my forehead, he said, You know I’d never hurt you lot.
Sure, I shrugged. Why do you say that?
He vaguely flapped his hand in the air. Just…Your dad doesn’t think the best of me.
I sat up quickly and cuddled him. His chest was rock-hard despite his saggy butt. I liked the smell of sweat and diesel and dirt and something woody, forbidden. I noticed he was wearing ugly green trousers; perhaps he was comfy in what seemed to be his prison pants. He was too fat to be one of Santa’s elves.
Have you ever seen your nana’s jewels? he said suddenly. I tensed a bit and he said, hastily, You’d look lovely in em.
Yeah, I said. I specially like the red earrings and the brooch, they’re cool. Mama says I can wear them to my wedding one day.
He hefted himself off the bed and scanned the room, as if avoiding my eyes, and after a time said, in a sad voice, I’m sure you will, girlie. Or hopefully you’ll have somethin even better by then.
That was last night, and I can’t stop thinking about his words. Dad is on the phone to the police downstairs and Mama is gripping the plastic bag and reading the note, her hands shaking, her eyes rainy.
Moss tightens his arms around Mama’s legs, presses his face into her thighs. What happened? he asks. He looks tinier than ever.
I think that man in the garage robbed us, says Mama, her mouth quivering, and Uncle Gavin ran away scared.
So it’s not Santa who’s dead?
Mama shakes her head. It’s someone who dressed up as Santa.
Who killed him?
Mama and Dad swap looks. We don’t know if he was killed. We don’t know how he, um, died. We don’t know who he is! Mama sounds hysterical now and Dad hugs her close and whispers at her to shush.
I saw blood, says Bonnie. Lakes of it. Everywhere. Like he was stabbed.
I know who stabbed the fake Santa! says Moss.
Dad scowls. Don’t be silly, Mossy.
I know! I know! It was Santa’s elf! I saw him last night drinking the beer and eating the nuts! He was wearing a mask and wearing green elf pants and gobbling like a real pig.
Is Uncle Gav alright? asks Bonnie. Where’s he gone?
Mama throws her arms in the air. I have no idea, she says. I have absolutely no idea what’s going on. No idea!
We all step back carefully; she’s on the brink of one of her full-on breakdowns. Dad sends us to our rooms (on Christmas day!), ignoring our whining.
When the doorbell dings we sneak to the top of the stairs. Policemen are everywhere, telling Mama and Dad we’ll have to leave while they remove the body and the forensic guys do their work. Yellow tape is being tied around the house, the police car alarms still whirl. A huge ogre in a suit – a detective I hope – tells Mama and Dad to sit down, asks if anything is missing. Mama treads up the stairs like a skeleton and sends us back to our rooms to pack some pyjamas and clothes. We’re going to Nana and Pa’s, she says.
From my room I hear a shocked sob, then Mama dashes back down the stairs. My jewellery, she cries. It’s gone.
All of it? booms the huge detective.
Mama swallows, squeezes her hands together. All of it, she says.
The Christmas tree looks forlorn as we depart. In the car no one says much, except Boxer barking joyfully out the window. As we drive away I see a stretcher with a bulky white sheet being jammed into an ambulance. The car radio is blaring Elvis’ ‘Blue Christmas’, but neither Dad nor Mama seems to notice. No one sings along.
Are you gonna tell us what’s going on? squeals Bonnie, finally.
Dad sighs, turns the music down. Apparently, he says, there’s been a string of robberies in the neighbourhood. By thieves dressed up as Santa and his elf. He shakes his head. Can you believe it? He glances at Mama, slumped in the seatbelt beside him, the plastic bag from the spare room on her lap.
Was it…was it Uncle Gav? I whisper. Was he the robber? The elf?
And the dead man, says Moss, a thrill in his voice, did Uncle Gav kill him? Santa?
A pause, then: We don’t know for sure.
Later Bonnie and I curl up beside Mama on Nana and Pa’s bed, and we’re asleep almost immediately. When I wake it’s late afternoon, I can hear my grandparents and Dad murmuring downstairs, and the air is hot and sweaty and on the verge of a summer storm. In the dimness I see the plastic bag from Uncle Gav’s room stuffed into Mama’s handbag. I sneak from the bed, prise it out quietly, and tiptoe to the bathroom.
Sorry love, the attached note to Mama reads. The greedy cunt took Mum’s jewels and I told him not to and we had a fight in the garage and he fell and hit his head and…Well. I never usually mean for bad things to happen but they do. Story of my life, yeah? We only meant to take a few goodies from the neighbourhood homes, the ones rich people don’t notice, just to get by. But nothing’s ever easy is it? ps I hope what’s in this bag’ll help you – and the kids – forgive me. pps Don’t tell the cops. ppps Sorry sorry sorry again.
I peek into the plastic bag. As I pull out my dead grandmother’s red earrings and brooch I hear the door stir and it’s Mama, studying me sadly.
They’re for you, she says. And Bonnie. She smiles grimly. I can’t see Mossy wearing them, but you never know.
I jump up and hug her.
Please don’t tell your father, she cries quietly into my shoulder. Your dad’s a kind man but he’s never understood Gavin, the life he led, the way he fell apart in his teens. Oh Gavin. He never meant to hurt anyone! Her whole body is shaking. He just never got anything right.
Except these jewels, I say, holding the rubies to my ears.
She smiles again, wipes her wet eyes with her t-shirt. Yes, my sweet. Except these jewels.
