Terry Roach died for the first time during the summer of 1993, though no one seemed to notice. Everyone just kept plodding along the way they always did, as if nothing had happened.
No one really talks about it, maybe no one's really noticed, but the fact is, if you're born in Bundleton, there's a good chance you'll be leaving there in a coffin. It's not a dangerous place, it's not hard to leave, people just tend not to, not for long anyway. Some make a brief escape but something always brings them back. If it weren't for the fact that the nearest cemetery is two towns over, most people would never leave at all. Bundleton is the kind of place where a man can disappear. It's an anonymous place full of anonymous people. Nobody interesting ever came from there, nobody interesting ever goes there, it just exists, pleasant enough that people born there rarely leave but boring enough that outsiders rarely stay.
*
Ned pulled his car into the driveway and wrestled the bent key from the ignition. He slid the badly packed bags off the back seat and carried them up the steps to the front door. It was wide open and the TV blazed loudly in the front room.
'That you Ned?' a voice bellowed, barely audible over the booming set.
Ned's reply was lost amongst the rapid fire nouns blasting from the horseracing commentary as he headed down the hall toward the kitchen, hungry and itchy from the drive. 'Fellas' he mumbled, walking past the archway that linked the front room and kitchen, casting a glance at the two stale masses of flesh reclining within.
Ned made himself a sandwich and went to join his elders in front of the TV, his brother Shane reclined on the sofa, belly exposed, ankles five feet apart, a plate of bacon and eggs resting on the crotch of his tracksuit pants. Ned's father Terry was in the armchair next to the front window, sitting with a slightly more modest posture but with his plate of food in the same relative position. Ned stood in front of Shane and blocked his view of the television, the age old Roach custom that silently communicated that some space needed to be made on the sofa.
'The dog took a shit on your bedroom floor while you were away' announced Shane as Ned squeezed himself between the grubby arm of the sofa and the grubby leg of his brother.
'Awesome' Ned muttered under his breath.
'I got Little Jake to kick it out the door and spray some deodorant on the carpet'.
'Thanks mate, you're a fucking saint'.
*
Little Jake is the youngest permanent member of the Roach household, the son of Ned's sister Jodie. His dad, Big Jake, lives in the house too. He works as a delivery driver for Newman's Supermarket in town which allows him the good fortune of being able to spend long stretches of the day away from the Roaches. He and Jodie met at Newman's when she was 16 and started working weekends on the meat counter. Jake was 23 when he started seeing Jodie, though the disparity in age didn't seem to bother Ned's parents, he had a job and a car, things neither of Ned's parents had managed to possess for a good while. Ned was twelve when Big Jake moved in after knocking-up Jodie and when Ned's mum bailed, Jake and Jodie took over the running of the household, allowing Terry to contentedly rot in his reclining chair, unmolested by parental duties.
*
Terry, motioned toward the fridge without moving his head from its position on the armchair headrest, 'there's bacon and eggs in the fridge if you want.'
'Nah, I'm alright thanks'.
'Did you see the cricket while you were away?' asked Shane between mouthfuls of bacon.
'I listened to it on the radio, wasn't too good'.
'They're shit! I'm better than some of the myths in that team' Shane declared without a hint of hyperbole.
Ned let out a short burst of laughter, 'you're only the third best player in this room, fourth if Rooster was in here'.
Shane's attempt to retort Ned's doubt but in his haste inhaled a chunk of bacon. The ensuing coughing fit projected the half chewed contents of Shane's mouth back onto his plate, as well as onto the carpet around his feet and a few stray pieces onto Ned's bare foot.
'Ah ya grub!' snapped Ned, frantically shaking his foot, flinging the regurgitated bacon to the floor.
Shane managed to gather himself after a minute, washing down the obstruction with the breakfast cola he had wedged between the sofa cushions.'Rooster!' Shane bellowed, 'Rooster! Get in here.'
Rooster slunk slowly through the front door and into the room, approaching cautiously, unsure if he was going to be kicked or fed.
'There you go'. Shane pointed to the mess at his feet.
Rooster sniffed at it for a few seconds, before snapping it up. Rooster licked the carpet briefly, before Shane nudged him away with his greasy foot, inspiring him to wander to the centre of the room, plop himself down and chew at the bare patch of skin where his tail joined his rump.
Ned leant back into the couch, hit by the familiar tang of cigarettes and wet dog that emanated from the threadbare headrest. The couch had seen better days. Ned recalled when it was pristine, a fecal brown colour that his mother insisted was called puce. When new it had been ritualistically covered in a bed sheet in a vain attempt to keep it clean. He never understood his mother's logic when it came to this, sure the couch was clean, but the grubby bed sheet made it look dirty anyway. Thinking back, he realised that his mother had probably never bought many nice things, and knowing that under that bed sheet was a clean couch gave her a sense of pride, however small. After a few years though, she stopped caring much about the state of the house, and the sheets stopped appearing, at which point the couch began its transition to the stain-covered monstrosity that it now was.
The three Roach men sat in front of the TV watching the sports updates silently until a bang from outside motivated Terry to move his head from the stained armchair headrest and peer out the window to see what had caused the disruption.
'It's just Crazy Ron' Terry announced assuredly.
'Is that spastic bringing more shit home? Fucking idiot' Shane snapped.
Ned flicked Shanes fat earlobe, 'leave him alone, he's alright'.
Shane continued unperturbed, 'I was talking to a bloke who works at the welding joint on Nixon Street up at the pub the other day. He told me Dickhead next door put in an order for some stupid metal box he'd drawn with his pencils. Bloke said the thing's the size of a fucken shed. They had to deliver it in parts. Silly prick!' Shane punctuated his story with a shrill, expectant chuckle but was met with silence.
'Good on him. At least he's not sitting on his arse all day, like you.'
'Fuck off Ned. I'm a busy man, I run a business.'
Ned raised a quizzical eyebrow. 'Since when was selling half smoked ciggies to high school kids a business?'
'Whatever' Shane snapped dismissively, 'he makes us look bad, creeping around and stealing people's garbage.'
'It's not Ronald making you look bad, mate'.
Shane chose not to continue the discussion, and refocused on the motor racing highlights.
The next half hour passed in silence, aside from the sound of cans of Newman's Select Cola opening, the associated gas emissions, and the wet, smacking sound of Rooster chewing himself. After the cricket highlights had been shown the third time round, Terry decided it was time to change the channel. He brought up the program menu and he and Shane engaged in a brief debate regarding what to watch. Shane emerged victorious, due more to his father's lack of will than any oratory or persuasive skill, deciding that some Japanese MMA was the order of the afternoon. The idea of watching two sweaty, semi-nude men locked in an aggressive and prolonged embrace didn't appeal to Ned, and he took this as his cue to leave.
YOU ARE READING
Tip Rats
General FictionNed wants to make something of his life, he's just not sure what that something is. He's watched his father rot in front of the television for as long as he can remember and he's afraid he'll end up doing the same. That's what the little town of Bun...