Another great story by Mark Brandi who's descriptive writing has an ability to visually set the scene. I was taken along every step of the way with the main character Tom in this poignant story, always hoping he would make a go at a new life and never being sure if he would. Not knowing where this story was going or would end added to its continual suspense. Slowly the reason for Tom's prison time is disclosed. Haunting memories make him question if he can break free from the shackles of his past. The past is always with Tom and eerily creeps into the present revealing to the reader who Tom is through his memories and dreams. Tom's vulnerability makes him an easy target right from the start, like many who are released from jail with no firm ground to stand on. This ongoing problem in society is covered realistically. Mark Brandi is at his best, can't wait for what is next.
Some favourite quotes -
So, what brought you to this here, Eden?
I watch the smoke drift from the end of his cigarette.
I got told it was a good place to crash. It's safe, guess that was wrong.
The city never felt like home but now unknowable, another country.
Death is the great leveler we all become neighbours whether we like it or not.
If I end up back on the street I'll be back inside soon enough, I've seen it happen too many times, blokes got released and couldn't get stable accommodation, whatever they earned inside would be gone pretty soon. The friends they used to have didn't want to know them, their family burnt too many times. In the end the only people that would accept them were other crooks, before long they breach their parole or reoffend, either way they would be back inside.
I head straight through the middle of the Cemetry this time via North Avenue, there's a cool and gentle south westerly and all is quiet, suddenly I hear wings flapping above, I look up, a tawny frogmouth or maybe a fruit bat silhouetted through the slate grey sky. Once I get to the blue stone chapel I turn right and take Seventh Avenue back toward the shed, I keep an eye out but don't see a fox this time. During the day I'd taken care to look for any dens, I figure they might be living under the old broken monuments, beneath the cracked ledger stones that lie flat atop the graves in the cool dark void where the earth has sunken in.
From somewhere deep in the trees I hear a currawong call then I hear the bolt of the rifle slide back and forth.
The man reaches under the table places a sheet of paper on top, something seems to alter as he passes me the form, a quick shift in his gaze left then right, it's something I've learned to trust, the physical, eyes, mouth and skin. The flush of pink as blood pressure rises.
I keep my eyes down try to keep the sound out, I watch the foot path, street signs when needed, avoid eye contact with those passing, cross the road on the red man, through the Burke Street mall pass competing buskers, dark skinned men in traditional outfits playing the pan flute, an extremely loud pop band over the road, shoppers heading this way and that, noisy trams with bells ringing, smokers on steps, traffic, shouting, music, construction the endless crush of people, exhaust fumes and bodies, food and decay. I'd grown used to the quiet inside, the system, the repetition, the routine.
The way I see it we have no real control over our lives no matter what we think.