I Am the Messenger - Page 154
After I've walked in, I retire to the lounge room and sit there, completely exhausted, on the couch. Close to five minutes later, Marv calls and tells me. He doesn't say hello.
"We'll go tomorrow."
"About six?"
"I'll pick you up."
"No," I say. "I'll drive you in the cab."
"Good idea. If I get the crap beaten out of me, we might want a car that starts first go."
The time arrives and we leave my place at six, making it to Auburn by nearly seven. Traffic's heavy.
"I hope the bloody kid's still up," I wonder out loud.
Marv doesn't answer.
Pulling up at 17 Cabramatta Road, I can't help but notice it's exactly the same sort of fibro shithole the Boyds used to live in back home. We're on the other side of the road, in typical messenger style.
Marv looks at the clock.
"I'll go in at seven-oh-five."
7:05 comes and goes.
"Okay. Seven-ten."
"No worries, Marv."
At 7:46, Marv gets out of the car and stands there.
"Good luck," I say. God, I can hear his heart from inside the cab. It's a wonder it isn't bludgeoning the poor guy to death.
He stands there. Three minutes.
He crosses the road. Two attempts.
The yard is different. First go--a surprise.
Then, the big one.
Fourteen attempts at knocking on the door. When I finally hear his knuckles hit the wood, it sounds like bruises.
The door is answered, and Marv is there in jeans, nice shirt, boots. Words are spoken but I don't hear them, of course. I'm clogged with the memory of Marv's heartbeat and the knocking on the door.
He walks in, and now it's my heart I can hear. This could be the longest wait of my life, I think. I'm wrong.
About thirty seconds later, Marv comes rushing backward out the door. He hurtles. Through the doorway and onto the yard. Henry Boyd, Suzanne's father, is giving Marv a hiding he won't soon forget. A small trace of blood flows from Marv to the grass. I get out of the cab.
To give you an idea, Henry Boyd is not a big man, but he's powerful.
He's short but heavy.
And he has the will. He's a kind of pocket-size version of my Edgar Street message. Also, he's sober, and I don't have a gun.
As I cross the street, Marv is splayed on the front yard like a frozen starjump.
He gets kicked.
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