Short story: The good neighbour

August 28, 1996
Issue 

A short story Craig Cormick

Booom! The magpie on the electricity line simply explodes. Bloodied black and white feathers flutter down into my yard like reddened ash and snow.

I carefully put down my garden shovel and look up. I have to shade my eyes to see there are two more magpies still up on the wire. Dark silhouettes against the bright sky. They look around cautiously and move from leg to leg. They don't appear to know what has happened either. One opens its wings a little, then folds them back again. Then Booom! It too explodes.

Feathers and gore splatter down into my yard. Raining red, black and white. The last magpie now looks quite nervous. And then I hear it. The dull click-clack, clack-click of sliding metal. It comes from over the back fence. Joe's place! My crazy Yugoslav neighbour.

I ponder this for a moment, look at my shovel on the ground, look towards Joe's place, and decide it might be worth a look. I begin weaving my way through the plum tree branches in front of the back fence. The fallen plums squelch under my feet. They need raking. And the trees need trimming. The branches interlock like a barbed barrier that quickly entangles me.

I keep scrabbling at the branches until I am close enough to the fence to see over. And I can see Joe. He is pointing a high-calibre rifle at me. He is peering at me through a telescopic sight. Barely three metres away. The glass lens of the sight hiding his wild eye that is staring at me. Aiming at me. That glassy-eyed sight is more menacing than the dark gaping mouth of the gun barrel.

He lowers the rifle.

"Oh, it is you. Hullo!"

He talks loudly. Almost shouting. As he always does.

I don't know what to say. I never do.

"What are you doing?", I ask.

"I'm shouting blood birds", he says.

I nod. "Yes. I can hear you."

"You can not hear", he says, lowering his thick joined eyebrows across his eyes. "I have silencer. Is very good."

I give a frown of confusion.

"Shouting!", he repeats louder, and raises the gun towards the overhead wire.

"Shooting!", I say.

"Yes."

We stare at each other for a moment. He pats the wooden stock of the rifle affectionately.

I have to ask. "Why?"

"Those bloody birds, they look at my vegetables!"

I knew he was jealously possessive of his vegetables. They were awesome. Tomatoes the size of rock melons. Strawberries the size of tomatoes. Vegetables you'd covet and never want to eat, they were so fine.

"Those bloody birds may not look at my vegetables", he says.

I nod again. He has been digging all around the garden. "What are you planting?", I ask him, trying to change the subject to something less dangerous.

"Landmines", he says. "They very good."

I can only nod once more.

Then he points an accusing finger at me. "You don't pick your plums", he says. "You waste them."

He snorts out through his nose. Then sniffs in. Deeply. Collecting a big noisy gob of mucus. "So I take them", he says. He spits to the ground. A huge gob. As if challenging me.

Sure enough, all the plums on his side of my trees are gone.

I shrug. "Are they good?", I ask.

"They make good sljivovich", he says.

"What's that?", I ask.

He looks at me with contempt, as if I am an idiot. "Brandy. Like kirsch. Is very good."

The thought of him drunk and waving his rifle is not something I wish to dwell on.

"Okay", I say. "Nice talking Joe. Gotta get back to my garden."

And I disentangle myself from the branches, back into the safety of my own yard. Booom! The third magpie explodes, sending gore and feathers raining down on top of me.

The next afternoon I am out in my garden again, staking my thin and scrawny tomato plants, when I hear the gurgling cry. A shiver runs up my neck. It comes from Joe's place. It sounds like somebody choking. I'm having trouble with the plastic coated wire ties. They are left over from kitchen garbage bags and aren't really long enough. Or perhaps being strangled. I try twisting two together. No. More like choking. But I can't make them join properly. It's the gurgling that's unnerving.

I've heard all manner of strange sounds from his place before, but I had preferred to ignore them. Like a good neighbour. I try to tie knots in the ends of the wire ties. But they won't hold. I drop them to the ground and look over towards Joe's yard. I fight my way through the squelching plums once more to peer over the fence.

There are chooks hanging from the clothes line. Bound by the feet. Throats cut. Dripping blood into the soil. They are still moving. They are alive. Just.

Then the back door suddenly opens. Four people come out. Followed by Joe. He is still holding the rifle. Patting the wooden stock affectionately. He directs them to take up shovels and forks and begin working on the edges of the garden. He's dug up all the lawn right up to his back path. Turned the whole back yard into garden.

Joe sits on a chair, holding the rifle under one arm, and he takes out several long bullets from his pocket and begins filing the points flat. I move the branches to see him better. He looks straight up and sees me. His eyes are sharp for an old man.

"Hullo", he says, and waves to me.

"Hello", I say, and wave back.

"You have visitors?", I say.

"No. They are trouble makers."

I look at them more closely. I know these people! There is the postman. Two ladies who doorknock for the Jehovah's Witnesses and one of the boys who does the milk run.

They look over at me nervously. Joe smiles. "They are helping with my garden."

I point to the chooks hanging on his line.

"I didn't know you kept chooks", I say.

"I don't"

"Aha."

"Blood and bone is good for the vegetables", he says.

"Yes. I've heard that."

"You got cat?", he asks.

"Yes. Two."

"Put them in garden. Very good."

His helpers look over to me again. They are rolling their eyes. They seem upset. But they appear to be in good health otherwise.

"Okay. Gotta get back to my tomatoes", I say. I wave to Joe. And then to his helpers. Sort of one gardener to another.

I put Joe and his gardening out of my mind for the rest of the day. The sun is shining and the cricket is on. An international match. Somewhere in Asia. Sri Lanka or Pakistan maybe. It's hard to tell when the volume's down low. I have a couple of beers and then go to bed early.

But late in the night I am woken suddenly by a loud explosion. A sharp "wooomp!" that rocks my windows. I get out of bed and look outside. A large red fire is burning in Joe's yard.

Not even pausing to put on my dressing gown or slippers, I run into the backyard. I make my way up to the fence again. The squelching plums are slippery underfoot, and the branches pluck at my pajamas and my skin. I fight my way through.

There is a car burning in Joe's driveway. A police car! And he is dancing around in front of it. Silhouetted by the bright light. He has the rifle in one hand and a near empty bottle in the other. He is staggering unsteadily and singing some song in his own language. Not singing. Shouting.

Then he suddenly drops the bottle and points the rifle at me. There is no retort, but I hear the bullet strike the wooden fence just to my left. I drop to my hands and knees. Sinking into the rotting plums. The click-clack, click-clack of a new bullet entering the chamber sounds terrifyingly close and loud. Another bullet strikes the fence. Splintering the old wood. Further away. Then another. Down near the corner.

Cautiously I rise back up and peep over the fence. He is not shooting at me. He is shooting at his garden. By the light of the burning police car I can see his melon-sized tomatoes exploding. One by one. The red gore splatters the fence behind them. Outlining the holes in the wood like bloody wounds.

That's it! I decide. Enough is enough. I work my way free of the clinging branches and go back inside my house. The man is crazy! From now on I am going to ignore everything that happens over the back fence. Everything. I put my TV on to some late night replay of the Olympics and turn the volume up loud.

Then I stand at the kitchen sink and wash the squashed plums from my hands. But no matter how hard I try, I cannot scrub away the deep red stains.

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