Fat, Fifty and F***ed!

On the other side of town Martin Carter was also awake. He lay in bed willing his mind to go blank, with the same spectacular lack of success he'd had over the past six hours. A possum landed on the corrugated-iron roof of the house with a familiar dull thud. Martin remembered the possum trap up in the rafters of the garage, above the old two-stroke Victa. Christ, bloody lawnmowers. He was wondering how many hours of his life he'd frittered away walking mindlessly up and down behind that damned lawnmower, when he heard the Volvo's engine cut out, followed by the crunch of gravel under the tyres as she freewheeled up to the garage. Very considerate. A light touch of a finger on the bedside alarm clock and the time was projected onto the ceiling. Four-fifteen. Thank God for the Innovations mail-order catalogue. Infidelity could now be made easily visible and timed right down to the minute.

On the bedside table, next to the alarm, was a framed family photograph. Him and her. And the boy and girl. Younger then, teenagers now. Hers. Everyone in the picture looked unhappy. No way he'd fit into those trousers now, he knew. Misery might love company but it was also totally crazy about lunch. That drive-through burger joint in the new highway service area just out of town had been the final nail in his sartorial coffin.

Martin listened to careful footsteps in the hallway and then the bedroom door opened and closed. She flicked on the light in the ensuite and saw that he was awake. They looked at each other blankly, both their faces empty of emotion.

'It's late, after one-thirty,' she said flatly. 'There was a lot of cleaning up to do after the party. I'm going to take a shower. Go back to sleep.'

Water started running and he waited for the rustle of the plastic shower curtain before getting out of bed. The bathroom door was slightly ajar, and after pulling on his robe he glanced in. Her dress lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. Jesus, what that dress cost and now look at it! The mirror on the medicine cabinet was already steaming up but he could still see her reflection in it. Red scratch marks were clearly visible on her neck and shoulders. He watched impassively until the mirror fogged over completely and then walked out into the hallway.

Light was coming from under a door. The boy's bedroom. He turned the handle. The boy, sitting in pyjamas at his computer desk, looked back from the monitor towards Martin in the doorway. On the screen was an image of a scrawny, naked girl having complicated and athletic sex with several men. Martin and the boy stared at each other, their faces expressionless.

'Keeps fuckin' dropping out,' the boy said. 'It's a really shit connection. Seriously pissing me off.'

Martin stepped back into the hallway, closing the door quietly behind him. Light came from under a second door. He knocked gently and waited, then knocked again. He opened the door to the room of a teenage girl. The bed was still neatly made. Not by her, though. Lazy little cow. From the open window he could see the purple panel van parked under a gum tree. Tuesday night, so it was the turn of the apprentice plumber from nearby Cardenvale. The van's windows were heavily steamed up, even though it was a mild night. Just before he closed the door, Martin saw the family portrait on her pinboard. It was the same photograph as in the master bedroom, except in this one his head had been neatly cut out with scissors.

In the kitchen Martin put instant-coffee granules into a mug and waited for the electric kettle to boil. He swallowed his pills dry. A small white one for lowering his blood pressure, plus a blue one – a diuretic – to help the first do its job. Both blister packs were now empty. He'd refilled the prescription yesterday but had left the pills in his desk drawer at the bank. He made a mental note to remember to bring them home tonight. There was also the cholesterol-lowering drug that he teamed whenever possible with thickly buttered toast and raspberry jam. Stupid, perhaps, yet somehow perversely satisfying. Today, however, he just took his coffee out to the verandah to wait for the sunrise.

The house was a typical bush homestead, a single-storey, tin-roofed weatherboard with a wide verandah running around three sides. Built back in the late 1940s for a soldier/settler, the house and the three acres it stood on would be all his in just fifteen more years. At least that had been the plan. Low-interest staff loan. One of the perks. The bank paid him, he paid the bank. It was a sort of money-go-round. He remembered how he used to justify himself at all those dinner parties in the early days. Banking wasn't as boring as most people thought, he would say, and besides, it was secure, permanent, a job for life. Long-service leave, gold watch, superannuation, lawn bowls. That was a bloody laugh, he decided as he sipped his coffee, and the laugh was on him.

The plastic chairs on the verandah were damp with dew, so he walked across to the garage to get a rag. Inside there were still piles of fliers from the Don't Close Our Bank committee, and some SAVE THE MEATWORKS placards left over from that final, pointless rally. At least the local printer had done well out of the death throes of the town.

Something rustled in the rafters. Martin looked up. Rat or possum? Snake, maybe, after a rat. Amid the jumble of plastic conduit and copper plumbing pipes left by some former owner, he could see the wooden butt of the rifle. An army-surplus Lee Enfield .303, it had been up in the rafters when Martin moved in. Probably belonged to the original owner of the house, he'd guessed. He knew he should have handed it in during one of the amnesties, but this was the bush and things were a bit more casual. And anyway, you never knew when you might have to blow the head off some pest. They'd used those old Lee Enfields in the school cadets, he remembered, him and Starkie.

God, high school. That was a long time ago. The good old days. Were they? Funny, but he really couldn't recall.

Martin stared up at the butt of the rifle for a long time. There were cartridges for the weapon in an old shoebox somewhere on one of the shelves, he remembered. Would they still be any good? He wondered if the steel of the muzzle would feel cold against his forehead. A quick push down on the trigger, loud noise, all his problems solved. And he wouldn't have to clean up the mess for once. Did you actually hear the bang? An interesting question.