Furious Fiction – August 2021

Your story’s first sentence must contain only four words.

Your story must include something being shared.

Your story must include the words PAINT, SHIFT, WAVE and TOAST.

I grabbed a pen. Not that the occasion needed more ink. The man seated across the metal table was plastered in tatts. An outline of a grenade occupied his cheek. I resisted the urge to lean over the table and colour it in.

I rapped the pen against my thumb. ‘OK, Pietro. Let’s go over this again. According to you, the 2000 litres of white paint found in your possession were a gift.’

 ‘From my mudda.’

‘Your mother.’

Pietro grinned. ‘My mudda.’

‘Are you aware that the same quantity of paint was stolen from a building site on Friday?’

He shrugged. ‘That’s a shame.’

‘Wall paint is a strange gift.’

‘I’m a rich man.’ He straightened a gold ring. ‘I’m hard to buy for.’

I folded my arms. ‘Thing is, I’m struggling to picture your mother backing her car up to Bunnings and buying 2000 litres of paint.’

‘Of course she didn’t.’

‘She didn’t?’

‘She took the ute.’

‘Hmm. Automatic?’

‘Stick shift.’

My empty stomach churned. I just wanted to go home. Not that a cooked dinner would be waiting for me. It would be beans on toast again.

I leaned forward. ‘How old are you, Pietro?’

‘67.’ 

‘So your mother is..?’

‘96.’

‘Your 96-year-old mother backed up a ute and bought 2000 litres of paint?’

He waved a hand. ‘Easy peasy.’

‘And what’s this paint for?’

‘Mudda said to me, “Pietro, if you must live in that big barbed-wire house, with all those men wearing black, riding on black motor-bicycles, at least have fresh white walls.”’

I leant back in my chair and flicked a glance through the one-way glass. No doubt Joe was laughing into his coffee. Another wasted day. I’d started before dawn, tiptoeing past Greg snoring on the couch, remote control still in hand. ‘Might take a breather from work,’ he’d said. ‘Just a few months.’ That was two years ago.

The door opened and Joe walked in. He passed me a note. ‘This should finish things off,’ he said, eyes only on me. ‘See you tomorrow.’

I nodded and read the note. Bingo.

‘Pietro, I’d like to share something with you. Surveillance footage has come to light that places you at the building site the night the paint was stolen.’

Pietro’s eyes flickered. His folded arms flexed. Working arms. Arms Greg used to have when he did more than play video games all day.

‘But look, I’m sure there’s an explanation,’ I attempted a smile. ‘What I don’t understand is how a busy man like you will have time to paint an entire clubhouse. The prep work alone will take a week, what with the sanding, taping, priming…’

Pietro nodded. ‘That is true.’

I pressed stop on the recorder. ‘I know a man that needs a job.’ I scribbled Greg’s phone number on the back of Joe’s note. ‘Can you make sure he takes it?’

We locked eyes as I held out the paper. He reached over slowly and took it. ‘I’ll call him personally’.