The Tax Inspector

busied herself through Cacka’s emphysema. Then she had run ahead of her feelings with brooms and dusters. Now she was going to make her grandson’s aerated brandy crusters but first she had to find the Semak Vitamiser in among the pressure cooker and the automatic egg poacher and all the aluminium saucepans she had cast aside when Benny told her that aluminium drove you crazy in old age.

People were used to thinking of Granny Catchprice as a tall woman although she was no more than five foot six and now, kneeling on the kitchen floor in a blue Crimplene pant suit which emphasized the slimness of her shoulders and the losses of mastectomy, she looked small and frail, too frail to be kneeling on a hard floor. The bright neon light revealed the eggshell scalp beneath her grey hair. Her lower lip protruded in her concentration and she frowned into the darkness of the cupboard.

‘Drat,’ she said. She pulled saucepans from the cupboard and dropped them on to the torn vinyl floor in order to make her search less complicated. She forgot Vish did not drink alcohol and he was too engrossed in his fearful diagnosis of his brother’s condition to pay any attention to what she was doing.

The word Schizophrenia had come into his mind when he looked into Benny’s ulcerated mouth and now he was wondering how he could find out what Schizophrenia really was. A saucepan clattered. His grandmother’s red setter yelped and skittered across the slippery kitchen floor.

Benny winked at him.

Vish narrowed his eyes.

Benny pursed his lips mischievously and looked over his high bony shoulder towards the kitchen, then back at his older brother.

‘Bah-bah-bah,’ he said. ‘Bah-Barbara-ann.’

Vish did not normally even think profanity. But when this quoted line from their father’s favourite song told him that Benny’s lost voice, his curved spine, his dead eyes, his whole emotional collapse had been an act, he thought fuck. He felt angry enough to break something, but as he watched his grinning brother take a pack of Marlboros from the rolled-up sleeve of his T-shirt, all he actually did was squinch up his eyes a little.

Benny lit a cigarette and placed the pack carefully in front of him on the table. He rolled his T-shirt up high to where you could see the first mark life had made on him – a pale ghost of a scar like a blue-ringed smallpox vaccination. He leaned back and, having checked his Grandma again, put his long legs and combat boots on the table and tilted back on the chair.

‘No, seriously …’ he said.

‘Seriously!’

For a moment it looked as if Benny was going to mimic his brother’s outraged squeak, but then he seemed to change his mind. ‘No, seriously,’ he said, ‘I’ve got something great for you.’

There was a long silence.

‘An opportunity,’ said Benny.

Vish was breathing through his nose and shaking his head very slowly. He brought his hands up on the table and rubbed at the cuts on his knuckles. ‘Do you know what it takes for me to come out here? Do you know what it costs me?’ His eyes were so squinched up they were almost shut, with the result that his face appeared simultaneously puzzled and fatigued.

‘I got fired from my own business,’ Benny reminded him. ‘I need you more than ever in my life. Isn’t that enough of a reason to come?’

For a Hare Krishna the answer was no. Vish did not have the stamina to explain that again, nor did he want to hear what the ‘opportunity’ was.

‘Sure,’ he said.

Benny leaned across the dining-table to pat him on his shaven head. ‘I wanted my brother … he’s here. I needed a cocktail … she’s making it. Relax … calm down. You going to have a brandy cruster? A little Sense Grat-if- ication? Put a wig on.’

Benny’s eyes were like their father’s – the same store-house of energy. Humour and malice lay twisted together in the black centre of the pupil. ‘Put on your wig,’ he said. ‘God won’t see you if you have a wig on.’

‘Don’t be ignorant.’

‘Fuck yourself,’ Benny hissed.

Vish had a hold of his younger brother’s grimy little wrist before Benny knew what was happening. Benny was a sparrow. He had light, fine bones like chicken wings. He yelped, but he was not being held hard enough to really hurt him.

‘Please let me go,’ he said. ‘You shouldn’t have called me that. You know you shouldn’t call me that.’

‘You shouldn’t have said what you said.’

‘About the wig?’

Vish tightened his grip.

‘Let me go,’ Benny said. He bowed his head until the burning end of his cigarette was half an inch from Vish’s hand. He never could stand being held down. His chin quivered. The cigarette shook. ‘Let me go or I’ll burn your fucking hand.’

‘I came here to see you,’ Vish said, but he let go.

‘Oh sure,’ Benny said. ‘You thought I’d flipped out, right?’

‘I was worried about you.’

‘Sure,’ said Benny. ‘You’ve been worrying about me for years. Thanks. Your worry has really helped my life a lot.’

‘You want me here or not, Ben? Just say.’

Benny was messing with the butts in the yellow glass ashtray, pulling the skin off the cigarette and shredding the filter. ‘I’m not joining the Krishnas,’ he said. ‘Forget it.’

‘Listen Ben, you give this up, I’ll give up the temple. I’ll get a straight job. We’ll get a place together. We’ll get jobs.’

‘Get it into your head,’ Benny said. ‘We don’t need to get jobs. We’ve got jobs. We’ve got our own business. This is what you’ve got to understand.’

‘They fired you.’

‘They think they fired me.’ Benny had these eyes. When he smiled like this, the eyes looked scary – they danced, they dared you, they did not trust you. The eyes pushed you away and made you enemy. ‘They can’t fire me,’ he said.

‘Cathy fired you. That’s why I’m here. She fired you and you went down in a heap.’

Benny took out a fresh Marlboro and lit it. ‘The situation keeps changing,’ he said.

Vish groaned.

‘No, look,’ Benny said. ‘Think about it. This is the best thing that could have happened.’

‘Then why am I here? Why did I get this call from Gran?’

‘Just listen to me. Think about what I’m saying. Cathy fired me, but she’s a dead duck. She’s got an unemployed carpenter for a drummer and a lead guitarist with a fucked-up marriage and they’ve actually got a record on the Country charts. They’re charting! Nothing’s going to stop these guys going on the road. This is it for them. What I’m saying is, they’re entitled – it’s their name too and if she wants to keep it, she’ll have to leave the business and go on the road with them. She fired me but she doesn’t count.’

‘Benny, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Then listen to me. She always thought she was Big Mack, right? She thought the Mack was hers because McPherson is her name, but Mickey Wright got a lawyer and the lawyer says the name is for the whole band. She’s got to go on tour with them or they’ll go and tour without her. She’s got to go. She’s out of here. She doesn’t count. You leave the Krishnas, fine,’ Benny said. ‘But you stay here with me. We can run this show together. I can go through the details for you any time you like.’

‘Did you work this out before Gran phoned me?’

‘They feed you at the temple,’ Benny said. ‘I know – you’ve got no worries, well you’ve got no worries here. I’ll guarantee a living. Don’t shake your fucking head at me. You can make two hundred grand a year in this dump, really. You can walk on fucking water if you want. We can set this town on fire.’

The dog came and pushed his nose up between Benny’s legs. Benny kicked him away and he went back to the kitchen, slipping and scratching across the floor to where Gran Catchprice was hunched over her defective