Malcone Station (a short story)

This idea came from a castle/museum I visited in Germany last year, which conspicuously neglected to mention its dark past as a school for Hitler Youth, focusing on the building's bland other lives

I

To this day, the road up to Malcone Station is wide enough for one car at best. Sure, a bicycle coming the other way might be able to squeeze past if you really want to spin the roulette wheel. But that’s one hell of a gamble to make over the five or so hours it takes to cycle that route. And that’s assuming the car coming the other way even sees you.

The gravel on the road to Malcone station never crunches as it slips over the edge of the bluff. It simply disappears into the canopy of green below. No sound at all. Without seeing it, you wouldn’t know anything had ever gone off there.

It’s hard to say whether Yani Malcone gravitated to this isolation, or was born from it. That type of question didn’t tend to be asked back in his day.  

 II  

“Michael! How was the drive?”

Michael’s answer wasn’t honest. It’s hard to be honest with a guy like Patches Malcone. That underbite, those outsized green eyes, his restless toe shuffling. Every interaction you enter with him feels like an audition for the one role he really cannot afford to blow.

As he stepped across an ungraded, stony driveway, Michael spouted off some over-complimentary quip about the beautiful scenery he’d encountered on the way here. He held back the news that he’d had to miss the footy to come out here. He held back the news that the boys would be way too pissed for him to join them by the time he got back into town.

Patches was the first living soul he’d seen in over three hours, yet still, the cheerful beep, beep of the car’s lock as he pressed down on his key pad gave Michael a surge of comfort.

They took the shortest route through the pleasantries, and ended up on the property tour much earlier than Michael could have hoped for. Michael’s testis tingled at the sight of those work sheds, the machinery and the neglected but salvageable remains of a perfectly good maize crop. Six rugby fields could have fit into the space laid out before them. Beyond that, dense bush and unhikable cliffs stretched for as far as they eye could see.  

“My Grandaddy opened his own veins for this land,” stated Patches. His eyes welled up with prideful tears as he beckoned towards the sieve-like fence before him. Michael nodded with his arms folded and swallowed a lump. A chicken on the wrong side of the wire, sidestepped the heir to Malcone station’s clumsy lunge before he’d even got his oversized gumboots off the ground. 

“Is that the hanging shed?” asked Michael with dinner plate eyes as he broke off from Patches’ tour route and jogged towards a small concrete structure connected to the edge of the farmhouse. Patches met him by the rusted metal door with the smile of a proud father. 

“Sure, is Mikey!” he said, nodding. “Every cut of famous Malcone meat, every tender steak that you ever bought from us was carved in this little room!”

He patted the mixed concrete wall and licked his lips. Then lapsed into what appeared to be some troubling calculation before adding, “until, the divorce proceedings put a hold on us operating out of this site of course--”

Michael pressed his own brows together, watching Patches closely with his lips flattened into a texture-less, placeholding smile. He glanced towards the shed’s mesh window and back to the man’s green and white striped chest—Marist club colours--puffed out in all sincerity. For a moment this piqued his curiosity. Barring his poor form with the chicken earlier, Patches did have the build for a half-back—maybe once upon a time. That was a prems jersey though…could he have made it along to trainings from all the way out here? Suddenly a darker explanation for the jersey entered Michael’s head and he almost gagged. 

Fighting back the swelling urge to ask if he could take a look inside the shed, Michael released an exhale and turned away. He pointed further down the hill. “Do you mind if we have a look at the boundary fence? That was always the one part of the stories, I couldn’t get out of my head.”

Patches tilted his head on hearing this, and studied Michael in the way a kid might look at his friend who’s just chosen vanilla in favour of all other ice cream flavours. Nonetheless, the heir to Malcone Station did not expand his expression into words. He drew his chin into his neck and lead the way down the path. Michael felt any brownie points he had earned with his interest in the hanging shed being reneged with each squelchy step they took down the hill. Patches maintained a puzzled crinkle across his lips for the whole walk.   

 Michael did his best to minimize the mud and shit covering his pure-leather dress shoes as he followed Patches through a series of locked wooden yards—freshly churned up by what looked like hundreds of mini-hooves. He all but gave up on this effort by the time they reached the wall of mesh wire on the edge of the bush. With hands on hips, Michael marvelled at the looming fence above. Taller than a lock being lifted in a lineout, bent on an inward incline and topped off with spiralling rolls of razor wire.

“Your Uncle sure didn’t want any of his sheep escaping ay?” said Michael with a twist at the corner of his lip.

 Not a scrap of humour breached Patches’ close-set eyes as he snapped his head sharply to meet Michael’s gaze. He reached out to brush the wire and shook his head. “Do you know what happens when an animal gets out in this part of the country?” 

Michael felt those eyes judging him for every second that he failed to answer. But he was lost for words. Even amongst the deep heat fumes of countless club rooms, Michael had never encountered such casual crudeness as this. Sure, he’d baited the guy, referring to them as animals though? That was next level. 

 Eventually Patches released a scoff and turned back towards the farmhouse. “If you decide you want to get serious about farming one day, you’ll realize that any precaution is better than dealing with lost stock.” 

With a heart thumping loud enough for Patches to hear, Michael nodded and clenched his jaw.

III

“Patches. The place is great.” Said Michael over the Malcone dining room table. “It’s exceeded everything I expected to find here today.” Michael dropped his eyes. “I’m just gonna need to apply a small discount to my original offer on account of the access road in here.” He glanced back over his shoulder to where his Volvo waited just on the other side of the glass door.

The spike of rage that crept behind Patches eyes--searing, high concentrate heat--sent Michael’s restless leg syndrome off big time. Yani Malcone had worn that same look on the front page of the Ruapehu Bulletin for about three weeks straight. He’d worn the same look in court. First trial Michael ever sat in on, probably the last as well. Half the town made the trip down there. Not every day a local boy makes the news. Patches’ infamous uncle had donned the same receding hairline, and the same wiry, forged-in-the land-frame as his nephew.

With a heart vibrating with all the chaos of a loose ruck, Michael put down the dirt flavoured coffee Patches had brewed for him and traced his index finger along the land map in front of him. He followed the route he’d driven down this morning.

“See these?” he asked as Patches leaned over the map. The failed farmer’s breath made the hairs on the back of Michael’s hand wave ever so slightly as he nodded. Michael used his finger to emphasise the sparse number of lines forking off that main route, each leading to dead ends in their own right.  “Without more than one reliable entry/exit route, the only way we’re going to generate the customer volume that I’m projecting for this place, is if we create helipad access.”

“Helipad access? You gonna run sheep out via a goddamn helicopter?” erupted Patches.

Michael held Patches’ gaze for a short stretch before deciding to ignore the statement. “Look Mr Malcone, I’m not talking a huge price gouge here…” He glanced out the window at the run-down tractor shed beyond the driveway, and released a deliberate sigh. “But if you’d just consider the niche market you’re selling to here. We could afford to knock one of the zeros off our offer price and you’d still be getting a phenomenal deal.” 

“Niche market? Land values are growing like damn ragwort at the moment, and this is a farm with a reputation!”

Michael pulled back. “C’mon…Patches, you’ve got to know that Malcone station’s value doesn’t exist in farm form anymore…” he lowered his gaze to avoid the humble, though visibly cared for living room within which he sat. “God….at minimum you’d have to tear down all these buildings…and even then, people are funny about lingering energy….”

“Lingering energy? Are you a land agent or a damned hippy?!” Patches leapt to his feet like he was getting up for a try saving tackle. The green-eyed man waved a finger in front of Michael’s nose. A thick line of saliva trailed down his chin, “The only lingering energy in this place is the former revenue stream of Malcone Meats.”

IV

 Raindrops started bouncing off Michael’s bonnet before he had time to climb inside, but not by much. Patches raised the hand he’d extended for a shake, and turned it into a wave. He mentally crossed off the last name magneted to his fridge door as crunching gravel and the Volvo’s reverse beep blended with the pattering rain. City car—it was a wonder that thing even had enough grunt to make it out the gate. These land agents never bothered to use the turning bay; never wanted to show their back to Patches by the end of one of these tours. Funnily enough, their backs were all Patches wanted to see by this point.   

By the time he’d locked the dogs up—bowls full of possum-meat tucker, licking their chops, staring up at him for the cue to eat—it was too dark to make out the house’s border against the hill. The kitchen light burned a warm orange. Patches wiped off his hands- a sheen of raw fat covered them, thick in smell and feel. Through the window Pam’s shape bobbled about, her eyes narrowed in concentration.

Patches’ gumboots squelched as he made his way down the unpaved path, locating the wood pile by feel, and picking up a thick block of Macrocarpa he’d eyed up earlier in the day. The heavy dew left its bark damp to the touch. He reached down and patted among the sticks with his free hand. Only a few pieces of decent kindling left, but enough for tonight. He’d get the axe out tomorrow morning.

“Don’t tell me…” Pam raised both hands to either temple and closed her eyes. “They’ve put down a deposit and they’ve got three sons lined up to take over the farm.”

Patches dropped the wood with a sigh, and picked up a piece of newspaper from the pile beside the fireplace. He turned his head. The smell of tree sap filled the living room. “Any sons they’ve got are probably too scared to dirty their damn sneakers to even come out this far,” he said.

Pam’s smile lines compressed into deep creases as she looked at him. “Well. We’ve got to figure something out. Kiwi-Bank aren’t ringing us because they want to organize dinner!”

The ball of paper in Patches’ hand dropped to the tiled burn-guard between his legs. He hung his head after it. Despite the woollen socks he’d worn all day, a trail of sweaty toe prints marked the way from the front door to his squatting position, as if he’d wandered over in bare feet. That’s how Pam made him feel in moments like this. Naked. No matter how many layers he put on.

He took another piece of newspaper and began scrunching in double time. “Think I’m gonna head down to the Pub,” he said.

“You’re joking...I’ve just put a roast on.”

Patches swallowed.  “Always tastes nicer the next day anyway.”

V

A waft of beer infused carpet washed over Patches the moment he pushed through the door, sweeping all the tension from his shoulders, neck and spine, out into the draught. Bon Jovi howled away at a low volume from the dimly lit corner. He scanned the three figures at the bar and paused on a cap wearing man by the far end whose eyes didn’t leave the TV screen overhead. A burly man in Swazi-green from head to foot, sat directly in front of the taps. He turned his head slowly. Patches raised his eyebrows twice. The man nodded.

By the time Patches reached the bar. A heady pint waited for him. Jerry, the elderly bartender, didn’t even look over as he stretched his forearm out on the bar top and resumed his conversation with the fourth body in the room—a red faced boy who had only started coming down to the valley a handful of weeks back. He was dressed in Moleskins and a tucked in collared shirt.

 The glass was as wet as that Macrocarpa log Patches had picked up earlier. He wrapped it up and rounded the bar.

The man in the cap—forehead stamped with a faded-yellow stag symbol-- chewed his cud like a heifer as he studied the screen. Patches feigned interest in the muted sitcom until it reached the ad-break. Patches turned his head. “Wasted my time with another one of those cashless Cockies today.”  

Stag cap snorted.

Patches gulped down a sip. “I shoulda known better Brycey,” he said. “Shoulda told em not to bother the minute he mentioned he was an Aucklander.”

Bryce cleared his throat, drawing his eyes back up to the screen where two city types were chatting in a loft apartment. “That’s where the cash is gonna come from though ain’t it?” he said without lowering his gaze.

Patches nodded. “True, true.” He took a sip. “Just wish they’d be straight up about what they could offer before they—” Patches shut his mouth as the man from in front of the taps picked up his beer and carried it over to the corner directly next to him. The man pressed his moustached lip to the edge of his glass and stared up at the TV as though Patches’ questioning eyes weren’t drilling into him like a post-hole-borer.  

The show reached another Ad-Break without a word exchanged between the three men. Patches drained his last mouthful of his beer to more silence. ACDC’s, you shook me all night long started up and reached its chorus, still without a word. An extra drawn-out fertilizer advert reached its closing jingle. The moustached man finally spoke up. “You don’t need to worry Patch. I knew your Pa before he passed—there ain’t many blokes out there who can run a block like he did. ‘Course it’s gonna take a while to find the right buyer.”

Brycey released an encouraging grunt. “That’s true mate. You Malcones are good people—” From across the bar, the young bloke’s messy head of hair popped up. His half-wonky eyes narrowed as if this might help him listen in harder. Brycey continued, “--anyone who recognises the name….and I guess has the cash…will realize what happened to the farm wasn’t your uncle’s fault.”

The young bloke’s eyes shifted to Patches and lit up further. He whispered something to Jerry—who’d just settled his forearms over the bar, in his patented start-of-a-new-story posture—picked up his beer and started rounding the stools.

Jerry’s cloudy eyes trailed after him, his slack mouth half agape. Brycey eyed the bloke with a frown, but continued as he was, “Divorce is a bitch mate…no matter how bright you are with the old finances.”

The young bloke’s stride slowed a little as he heard the word divorce. He tilted his head and paused like he was about to turn back. The brim of Brycey’s muddy, off-khaki cap shook as he continued. “Those women and their god damn lawyers—” spit built up in front of Brycey’s clenched teeth as he drove his fist into the bar. “They take a good man. Drain him for all he’s worth.”

Patches accepted the fresh beer Jerry placed down in front of him with a nod. Export Gold. The sight of that labelled pint—one of the three fancy glasses Jerry reserved for the regulars--set off a saying in Patches’ head, “Why stock anything but Export Gold?” The answer? As Jerry had stated many times: “that’s a good question.”

Patches dropped his empty on the other side of the bar and picked up his freshie, trying not to look at the young bloke pulling out a stool.

“Problem with these agent jokers is—” Patches looked up from his glass and realised he had the whole bar listening in. “They always reckon I’m in some hurry to sell. So, I can move somewhere else.” He shrugged and scanned the rosy faces that surrounded him. “I guess they look at the state of you buggers and think, shit, I’d get the hell out of here if I was you!” This spurred a rumble of laughter around the bar. Noticing the young bloke had a grin on his face, Patches decided he might be alright after all. He shrugged and released a sigh, “But where else am I gonna go? Move to the city?” he scoffed and shook back teary eyes. “I’ll tell you, the moment Me and Pam cash in, we’re gonna find another bit of dirt down here in the valley, so we can get back to farming, having a laugh here at the pub every Friday and maybe going on the odd pig hunt if I’m feeling young.”

Grunts of approval swelled up, the moustached man tapped his hand along to Cold Chisel’s Kay San and Jerry poured another round. The sit com had ended by now and the TV showed a serious faced news anchor reading off a prompter. In between songs, all you could hear was sipping.

The young bloke’s chair screeched as he sat up straight. “Hey you’re Patches Malcone right?”

The beer curdled in Patches’ belly as he looked at the outstretched hand. Sleeves pulled up to the elbow, strong looking forearms, but with a bit of fat around his face. Probably one of the stock agents from the city. He nodded.

“I read about that place,” said the bloke. “How many tourists did your uncle have cooped up out there?”

Anyone who’d just taken a sip, held the liquid in their mouths as this sentence sunk in. Patches wished he could retract his head into his Swan-Dry jacket like cock on a cold day. A Slash guitar solo roared away in the background, taunting with its sleezy swagger, as if to accentuate the young bloke’s pig of a question.

Brycey was the first to recover. He showed everyone his two-thirds-full set of teeth and pointed his finger to the man’s drink. “Mate, is that your first beer you’re sipping away at there?” He looked up at the bloke’s face with a taunting jeer, “You’re mixing up real life with your towny movies, I think.”

Despite the swell of laughter that this provoked. Patches couldn’t ignore the weight entering each of his bar mate’s eyes. He’d finished his drink, but even Jerry was avoiding eye contact.

The young bloke shook his head. “Na bud. I’m sure of it. Yani Malcone was the name.” he nodded as though approving his own statement.  “Surely news of that one Swiss backpacker made its way down here? Escaped on a kid’s pushbike they reckon.” He looked around the regulars, seeming to think he was one of them. “If not for her, chances are old Yani woulda gone on doin his dirty business to this day.” 

If Patches had a fringe, it would have been brushing peanut dust off the bar in that moment. This was it. Toothpaste out of the tube. Too scared to see the face of Brycey in particular, he stared into the dregs of foam at the bottom of his glass. Even if the rest of them didn’t believe it now. Brycey, would dig into it tomorrow. Like he always did. And the new bloke wasn’t even finished.

 “I heard they want to turn the farm into some sorta tourist spot. Y’know for horror buffs or something. That true Patchie? I heard you’re not ready to acknowledge it.”

Patches’ belly felt bloated as his mind shifted through his options. Move into town? Nope. The dirty looks Pam got just doing the grocery run were already bad enough. Soon it would the same down here. He’d be the rapist’s nephew from this day forward. And once the Valley wives caught wind of it? God.

He felt a firm hand on his shoulder and knew the time had come. Brycey’d want confirmation from the Clydesdale’s mouth. Of course, he had to tell him. He lifted his eyes slowly and met Brycey’s bloodhound face. Lips all heavy. Looking back at him as though he wished none of this had come up.

Patches lifted his hand so to spare his mate from having to ask the question. But the words caught in his throat. He swallowed, frozen.

Brycey winked at him. Then he grinned. Patches’ head began to spin. Had he lost track of how many beers he’d drowned tonight? He looked up at the other faces. Nope, they all kept their eyes pointed down at the bar top. Perhaps it was Brycey who’d been boozing too much.  

Brycey turned his eyes to the young bloke and in a louder voice than Patches had ever heard him speak he said, “It was a divorce destroyed that business mate. The Malcones are good people.”

The young bloke released a scoff, “Na bud,” he said, shaking his head, his voice wobbling with city-kid confidence.  “I read that article right before I came down here. There was a photo of Patches here on the third page.”

Bryce’s face didn’t even flicker. “It was a divorce.”

Before the man could throw another comeback out there, Jerry was around his side of the bar. “Try drinkin a water or two with your booze, next time ay?” he said, gripping the bloke by his checked elbow and leading him to the door like a lamb on pet day. When he was done, he poured another drink for Patches. The four of them stayed there till closing. Not much more talking went on. It felt good.