15. Snake tattoo

 The interior of the little round caravan was gloomy and thick with a dead rat smell that must’ve been coming from outside. She could only stand straight in the middle section and the thought of being confined made her desperate to stretch. She pushed the tiny slide window open and sucked deep breaths of fresh air. There was the distant sound of the tinny megaphones – look at this one.. 

He’d be out on the boards now, green robe, hands taped, showing off the footwork.

She remembered exactly the first time she saw him. It was the Armidale show, New South Wales, 1958. She was a dancer then. She’d always liked the older blokes, didn’t know why. The moustache had a lot to do with it – not the David Niven type – more the Errol Flynn. Flynn had been a boxer too. What was it about a moustache? A thin little line of clipped black hair? Just the thought made her blush.

She thought to light the lamp but decided against it. People took it as an invitation and she didn’t want to be seen right now. Most everyone would be at the showgrounds but there was always a few stragglers in the caravan park. She couldn’t sit on the step for the same reason.

She pressed the side of her face against the wall to catch a glimpse of the lights. They were parked at the sideshow alley end and she could catch snatches of a fairground speaker – I feel so broke up I wanna go home.

As she moved the shade a slash of light came at an oblique angle and caught the red and blue on her arm. She made the movement and watched as if it had nothing to do with her. The snake writhed in a sinuous movement and she dipped her wrist to make it look as if the head on the back of her hand was sniffing the air. She was twelve when her father took her to get it. She needed a drink.

She ducked her head and rustled round beneath the sleeping child to find the hidden bottle, took a good slug of the rum and remembered there’d be tobacco too. She found the tin and rolled herself a smoke.

Living dangerously. He always won his fights but he was one of those who had to take punches. Sometimes it made him quiet but sometimes it made him mean and she was already in the shit with him.

The rum warmed her belly and provided momentary relief from the anxiety transforming it to resentment. It was his lie in the first place. She’d latched on to it though. It was their secret and their bond. For four years they’d managed to live in denial. Never mentioned it. There were no distant relatives, no such thing as common-law adoption.

And now there was someone sniffing about.

She took another slug on the rum to fortify her against the admission. Somewhere back on the track was a grieving mother. Get a grip.

When he came through the door he was still in his robe and boxing boots. He was way too early. He grabbed the bottle from her and took a deep hit.

“It’s the cops,” he said, “we gotta go.”

In the back seat she wrapped her arms around the little boy as they idled the stolen car and the stolen caravan out into the night. The tattooed snakehead rested on his chest. He was five.

(c) 2012 Ray Lillis