Cold Skin Read Online Free Page A

Bend,
    where Colleen died.
    No one comes here any more.
    But I have to.
    It’s just a river
    where we dived and swam.
    The evil is not here.
    I hear a shuffling of feet
    on the track behind me.
    It’s Barney Haggerty.
    He stops and looks at me,
    trying to remember my name.
    ‘I’m Eddie, Mr Haggerty.’
    He takes a swig of metho
    and sways slightly.
    He says,
    ‘I just saw your dad.
    Walking by the train tracks.’
    My dad should be at work.
    Maybe Mr Haggerty’s had a few too many.
    ‘Carrying a bloody big rope, he was.’
    He shakes the bottle,
    checking there’s some left
    before taking another mouthful.
    ‘I asked for a few bob.
    You know, to tide me over.’
    He grins at me and winks.
    ‘He’s a good bloke.’
    Mr Haggerty turns around
    like a unsteady sailor,
    arms reaching to grab some imaginary rail,
    and walks up the track back into the hills.

Eddie
    For a few minutes I can’t move,
    going over in my brain,
    trying to imagine what Mr Haggerty saw.
    I head for home, slowly,
    wondering why Dad would need a thick rope.
    Maybe Laycock has a cow caught in a bog
    and Dad’s got a rope from the mine to help?
    I follow the river for a while.
    In the shallows,
    a trout twists against the flow,
    waiting for an insect to break the surface.
    Maybe Dad could use some help?
    If it’s one of Laycock’s bulls,
    they’ll need as many hands as possible.
    I spin and run back down the track,
    even though I’m probably on a wild-goose chase
    looking for Haggerty’s ghost.
    Round the bend I see Dad,
    in the distance,
    with his hands on his hips,
    looking across the river
    to the railway bridge.
    I can see the shape
    of a man on the bridge.
    A big man.

Albert Holding
    I couldn’t wait any longer.
    George Weaver told me yesterday
    he’d visited Frank and Betty.
    He said Betty refuses to leave the house
    and wastes all day sitting in the kitchen
    shelling peas, peeling spuds
    and cooking meals neither of them want to eat.
    Frank spends most of the daylight in the shed,
    standing at the bench,
    rearranging his tool shelves
    and trying to keep himself busy.
    George shook his head and said,
    ‘All those years the Japs couldn’t kill him.
    And now this.’
    Bugger the consequences!
    This morning I marched into Fatty’s shop,
    along the rows of brand new overalls
    and kettles and boilers and saucepans
    and more boots and shoes
    than I’ll ever be able to afford.
    One of the workers
    tried to stop me going up the stairs to his office,
    but I pushed him aside.
    ‘I have an appointment,’ I said.
    Yeah, one that Fatty doesn’t know about yet.
    He jumped to his feet when I came in.
    ‘What is this, Holding?’
    His turkey chin kept shaking after he spoke.
    ‘You did it, Fatty.’
    He tried to bluff his way through the moment,
    accusing me of being rude,
    looking nervously around for someone to help.
    ‘What are they going to do, Fatty?
    Make me leave?
    You’ve had long enough.
    Now I’ll go straight to Grainger
    and he can sort it.’
    His eyes clouded over
    and his fat wobbly legs started shaking.
    He could see I meant what I said.
    ‘You’ve got until one o’clock.
    That’s longer than you deserve.’
    Looking at him made me sick.
    I spat on his desk,
    on the papers and the folders
    he’s spent his life hiding behind.
    ‘This afternoon.
    At the bridge over the river, Fatty.
    You know where that is, don’t you?
    Meet me there, or go to Grainger
    and see if you can bullshit your way past him.
    It’s your choice.
    You’d be smarter choosing the copper, Fatty.’
    Then I walked out of his neat little office
    straight to the hardware counter
    and bought some rope.
    For once I didn’t mind spending money
    in Fatty’s shop.
    I kept moving all morning
    trying to decide what I’d do if he showed.
    Would I have enough guts to end it?

Mayor Paley
    The temerity of the man.
    Accusing me!
    I . . . I . . . I shouldn’t have to face
    such vile slandering.
    The insolent way he called me
    ‘Fatty’ was beyond the