Better Safe Than Sorry

‘Orlright. Go on then. Just a pot though mate.’

‘What’s a flippin pot? Do ya wanna schooner or a middy?’

‘Middy. Sorry me Victorian slip’s showin.’

He waves at the bartender, watches the pour and counts over some cash. You’ve got to appreciate the cheap beer at these Central Coast RSLs.

‘Travellin are ya?’

‘Yeah, Headin north. Just passin through.’

‘On yer own?’

That look on his face. He thinks I'm too old. Probably I am.

‘Yeah. Well, I had a busy month or two. Due fer a rest. I’ve been helpin me granddaughter get rid of a rat.’

It had been upsetting her for a while, and I noticed the other day that it had made a bloody mess of her garden.

‘A rat?’ He asks.

‘Have you got grandies?’

He nods and grins. 'Little girl, just 6 months old.'

‘Well then yer know all about it. Yer’d do anythin for em, right. I once had a tee shirt that read “You can’t tell me what to do, you’re not my granddaughter!” I loved it. It was bloody perfect. My missus and daughter though! You shoulda heard them! Anyhow, you get the picture. It’s been this way since she was born, no different now she's grown-up, and it’ll be this way till I’m dead.’

‘Yer not thinkin of dyin are ya?’ He says grinning.

‘Well, since you raised it, I’ll tell yer. It ain’t gunna be long now. But keep that between us orlright?’

No-one needs to know, especially her. She’ll find out soon enough, and she’s just recovering from her grannies passing last month. A couple of weeks’ll make no difference.

He looks a bit shaken. ‘Jesus! That sounds serious.’

‘The doc says it’s in me head, and he didn’t mean my imagination, I arksed him to be sure. Na, it’s growin between me prefrontal-sumthin an the what’s-a-ma callit. Long story short its been growin away for some time.’

I know, I shouldn’t have ignored the headaches, but with Nancy’s health failing and all. Anyhow, he said I’ve got six weeks and I’m already four down.

Now he’s looking at me all concerned, like I shouldn’t be drinking.

To reassure him I say. ‘Generly I’m feelin ok, but last week I caught meself flirtin with Shirl at the post office, which isn’t like me, maybe the doc’s right about that an all, said I might notice a change in me personality.’

‘Jesus. Ok. So what’s this all about a rat?’

I give him a look to see if he’s really interested and I remember back two nights previous. It was freezing. One of them crystal clear Melbourne winter nights that end in a frost. I had plenty of layers on over my long-johns, but my old gloves were a bit thin, and the damp was seeping into my boots. I wanted to stamp and clap my hands, but I’m not stupid. If the cunning little bastard had heard the slightest noise out of place it would be game over. So I sucked it up and hoped my teeth didn’t start chattering.

So I tell him. ‘Righto, if yer can picture me, I’m standin under a weeping acacia, up against an old paling fence. As luck would have it, there’s a missin paling so I’ve got a clear view across the next yard to the side of me granddaughter’s house. Her bedroom’s at the front, and her winda’s protected from the road by a nice thick pittosporum hedge. It’s nicely clipped, even if I do say so meself.

Anyhow, it was when I was clippin and weedin a week ago that I noticed. Bloody rodent marks in the soil under her winda.’

He all but scratches his head, wondering where this is going.

I say. ‘I know what yer thinkin. You probly reckon I’m goin to a lot of trouble. Well let me tell yer. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Remember I’m countin days now and I’d like to fix this last thing for me granddaughter afore I leave the stage. That’s why I’ve got the rifle.’

Probably shouldn’t have said that. His eyebrows have cocked up on his forehead about where his hairline used to be.

‘Now steady up! It’s not fer meself. It’s fer the rat.’

I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but his right eyebrow has ticked up another ¼ inch.  

‘Oh! So yer reckon it’s overkill! Well, l’ll give yer the mail, yer can’t over-kill rodents. There’s nuthin deader’n dead. Anyhow, better safe than sorry.’

Well, it isn’t my gun. It’s my old mate Pete’s. Pete’s away up north with his missus in their van. Part of the annual grey-nomad migration. From time to time, while they’re away I check in on Pete’s steers for them. The house key is in a key safe. The code is Pete’s birth year. Well it’s either that or your post code isn’t it? So as expected, the code on the gun safe and ammo box are the same as the house.

The hardest part of the whole operation was the bloody drive all the way out to St Andrew’s in the dark, on the narrow, winding country roads. Especially with my eyes playing up. The Doc mentioned that too, about the eyes.

I can’t help myself I need to tell him about the night scope.

‘So, I borrowed the gun from me mate Pete. It’s got one of them new fangled night scopes. Pete reckons he can hit a fox 200 meters across a gully at night. I thought he was bullshittin but now I believe him.’

He’s got a question. ‘Ok, right, so your granddaughter lives out in the bush somewhere?’

For once I bite my tongue. ‘Yer could say that, yeah.’ I say.

If you call Brunswick the bush.

‘So anyway, musta been around 10:30, I see somethin movin under the hedge.’

I’m caught up in the memory now.

‘I slowly pick up the rifle and slide the barrel through the gap in the fence.’

I can’t remember when I last shot something. I might have been a teenager. But, no worries, it’s like falling off a bike.

‘I’m too short to reach the top rail of the fence, so I decides to kneel down and rest my left hand on the centre rail. I line up the sight and night becomes day, far becomes near. And there he is under her window. The magnification is so high I can’t see more than a 4inch circle. I have to move the gun about very slowly to see all of him. I want to make sure it’s the right rat. The one in the photo.’

His eyebrows go up again. If we go on like this they might flick right off.

‘Hang-about! What photo?’ He says raising his hand like a traffic copper.

‘The photo? Didn’t I tell yer? Oh sorry.’

It must have been a week or so after Nancy’s funeral. I was struggling a bit without my Moon n’ Stars. I mean 65 years married and that whole time I never cooked anything except on the bbq.

‘Well yer see, I don’t cook fer meself much, so me granddaughter, bless her heart, had come over an cooked me a roast.

Anyway, yer not interested in all that guff, point is we was lookin at photos from the funeral. Photos me son Billy had took, of people standin around having afternoon tea. So, there I was, tellin me granddaughter who’s who, when she swears and grabs a print. Stares at it, then demands ‘Who’s this grandpa?’

‘Your Aunty Ros.’ I say.

‘No. The man behind her?’’

I looked closely, but I didn’t recognise the man. One thing was clear though, he was staring hard across the room at my granddaughter. It fair put the wind up me!

‘I says to her, I never seen him before, an she says, ‘Well I have.’ Then she just shuts-up.

‘Tell me.’ I says.

She’s angry. I can see her fists are clenched.

After a bit she says. ‘I think this man is following me. I’ve seen him outside the gym, on the tram, at the IGA, in the entrance foyer of the building where I work, and even walking around the park opposite my house. And now I find out he was at my Gran’s funeral!’

‘Jesus.’ I say, an me heart was breakin I can tell yer.

‘But now I’ve got a photo, I’ll go to the police.’ She says.

And she does, only they reckon their hands are tied cause the bloke hasn’t actually done nuthin.’

I don’t understand how this stuff works. Don’t they keep a register or something? Well, it wasn’t long after that I saw the mess under my granddaughter’s window, and I’ve been watching here for a few hours every night since.

She doesn’t know. I never told her. Probably should have but it’s too late now.

Old mate’s gone quiet now, so I carry on with my story.

‘So the rat crawls across the lawn on his hands and knees. He stops under her window, waits a bit, and then slowly stands up. I slowly raise the sights, an bugger me if he isn’t fiddlin with his fly as I scan past his legs. Well, Sunny-Jim, I thinks to meself, yer just made me job a whole lot easier. The night-sight is a miracle, but I already told yer that. I can see where his nose is pressin against the winda-sill, I can see light from the room reflected in his eyes, I can see the hairs in his ears. I squeezed the trigger like they teach yer in them Jack Reacher novels.’

The rifle bucks and the crack is so loud I might have pissed myself a bit.

‘Anyhow, I blinked when it went off and so I don’t know what happened.’

In truth, there was something under the window. I breathed in through my teeth. I didn’t like that bit. I steadied the sights so I could see. He’s flat as a shit carter’s hat. And he’s not moving. Good enough.

Old mate’s eyes are fixed on my face, but there’s a lot going on behind them.

‘Jeezus, look at yer face! Hook line and sinker!’ I say, and I slap him on the shoulder for good measure. The tension eases in his face and shoulders, he lets go a long breath and shakes his head. I laugh, a little too loud maybe.

‘It’s a good yarn yeah? I’ve been workin on short stories while I’m drivin, I reckon that’s me best so far?’

He looks at me through narrowed eyes. ‘Well, you had me going, you old bastard.’ He slaps the bar. ‘I need to take a leak. And it’s your shout.’

As he walks away, I see him pull out his phone. I don’t like to walk out on a shout, but better safe than sorry.

As I pull out toward the highway in Pete’s old Nissan Ute, I’m distracted by the bright yellow light from a large neon billboard. The passenger side wheel drops into a rain filled pothole with a thump and the Ute rocks sharply, and my head bangs softly against the side window. It feels like a hot knife behind my eyes and for a moment everything goes black. I sit dead still and breath slowly until I can see again. Then before I drive off, I glance over at the back seat. The flashing fourex sign lights up the car twice every second and is reflected in the long cylindrical barrel of the rifle.

Better safe than sorry.