III

I was lighting the last candle on the table when I heard a knock on the door. I checked my collar in the hallway mirror and walked as calmly as I could to see who was there.

My mother was wearing her favourite red jacket. I helped her out of it and it smelt like lavender and fresh skin after a shower. I asked her if her journey had been pleasant. She said that it was fine but she wanted to know who owned the black car in the driveway. Did I have friends over? I laughed in a way that was almost convincing and told her that the neighbours had parked in my driveway by mistake. They had dementia I explained – I had no idea why the government let them drive when they couldn't remember where their house was. Wine?

We made our way into the kitchen and my mother asked me if I had been well. I told her all about my work – how I was getting a promotion in the office. (I work in a law firm – it is my job to make sure all the paper clips are kept straight on documents that are going out of department). I was being given a contract to research new staple technology and I believed I could save the department tens of thousands of dollars a year.

My mother said it all sounded very interesting. She asked if we could play any music – she had a splitting headache and wanted a break from talking for a few minutes. I dashed into the lounge room and tried to find my favourite CD – I was sure she would like it.

As I walked off the carpet and onto the linoleum, there was a smash above our heads. The building shook a little, like it was turning over in its sleep. My mother looked up from her wine, a questioning look on her face.

"What was that, Bud?"

I told her that they were doing work on the telephone lines and that it was only supposed to take a few minutes. The banging continued, dull thuds from upstairs like a heart beat from the attic. My heart was beating louder too. My mother would be sure to hear it. I slotted the jazz into the CD player and explained to her that it was my favourite CD because it marked the change between old and post-contemporary jazz and then went out into the garden to vomit.

As the last bits of tuna sandwich emerged from my stomach, I began to hear them screaming from the attic. They were having an argument now. I couldn't stand this any longer. I took long strides up the stairs – I was going to get them out even if I had to carry them.

IV

But when I made it up the stairs they were already out. They were covered with grease and mould and blood and god knows what else. They were wrestling each other on the carpet and I watched as my cleaning bill went through the ceiling. I yelled out to them to stop.

The tall one quickly got to his feet and wiped himself down. He said he was sorry about the noise – they were just having a friendly argument about what to kill the last pigeon with. He faltered before he said pigeon.

"It's a real bastard, this one," added the short one.

The tall one continued and said that he felt it was a simple relocation job; the short one said he thought they needed the big axe. He pushed by me and went downstairs to get it from their car. The tall one tried to stop him but he was already gone, leaving a river of green footprints flowing over my white carpet.

I turned to the tall one and said that they had to leave. They were making me look like an idiot in front of my mother. She had been very upset by all the loud noises.

That's when I heard her. My mother laughing from downstairs. The room seemed to shatter like a stain-glassed window. He was talking to my mother.

I walked down the stairs slowly. I didn't really want to find out if it was true or not. There they were, in the hall by the door, laughing and chatting away. He was leaning up against the wall, chest curved out and smiling – award winning toy boy smile that made me want to rearrange his face with a can opener. The tall, serious one followed behind me and I saw him put his head in his hands. My mother turned to me when she heard me reach the bottom step.

"Why didn't you tell me you had friends over?" she said.

"They aren't really my friends. They're just fixing my pigeon infestation."

"And why didn't you invite them to dinner?"

"I didn't think that would be…"

"Well then, I'll make up for your lack of manners and invite them to stay. Now boys, you just finish what you were doing and come down and get some food."

The two men went outside to their car. The tall one was speaking to the shorter one under his breath – he seemed agitated. I turned to my mother.

"Do you really want them to stay?" I said. "They're handy men, you know."

"Don't be a snob, Bud. Remember your father was a handyman."

I cringed a little on the inside.

"Oh," she added, "And you should get them some towels for the shower."

I'd get them towels. But I wasn't making them soufflés.