Mike Dixon

„To Charlie!‟
Her eyes were pink like a white rabbit‟s and her skin had
a strange pallor that he had not seen before. As she with-
drew her hand he saw the distinctive marks of skin cancer.
„Charlie said you was to come?‟
David nodded.
„How is he? How‟s my Charlie?‟
„He‟s very well and sorry he can‟t be here,‟ David lied.
„I real want to see him. He‟s the only one who cares,‟
she sobbed. „It was him what had the door fixed. They
came and smashed it down. Told us to get out. But they
didn‟t count on Charlie. Charlie knows how to get things
fixed. Charlie knows people.‟
The candle on the table flickered and went out.
„But, he couldn‟t get them to turn the electricity back
on.‟ The old woman fumbled with a lighter. „Bloody shits!
They turned that off … and the water. We have to bring it
up from the street now.‟
Her arthritic fingers struggled to get the candle lit again.
„Mrs. Johnson … Doris.‟ David thought it time to approach
her on the purpose of his visit. „Charlie asked me to
collect a suitcase he left with you.‟
„Yes, my lovely. He did, didn‟t he? He told you to come
and see old Doris.‟ She ran her hand over his close-cropped
hair. „You do look so much like him. You‟ll be his sister‟s
boy … the one that married a soldier and went to live in
America.‟
David nodded. „My father was in the American Army. We
used to live in New York.‟
„And that‟s where you live now … with my Charlie.‟
„No. I‟m now living in Australia. My father was killed four
years ago and my mother took me to live with my grandfa-
ther.‟
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