Crazy Cornelius & the Magic Pills Ch. 08

To make matters worse, the people supervising were strict and smoke, meal and break times, even for the bathroom strictly controlled. Cornelius felt like he had travelled back in time to Victorian era England and was in a workhouse. He also felt like he was back in high school when he observed the work for the dole participants who were allowed to use the computers, and they were the squares, squats and teacher's pets who got all the privileges and perks while all Cornelius got was sent to the headmaster's office, and not to get elephant stamps.

When it was time for home, Cornelius departed in a foul temper and came back on Tuesday for seven and a half more hours of complete and utter misery at this shit-heap, his body posture reflecting the immense personal sufferance he was enduring. When he got home he hoped Danielle would let him suck her toes to help him feel better, but his wife was busy grading essays for a Year 9 class so was not open to the idea.

Sulking in the cold backyard after getting busted by his Mum for pissing off the dog again, Cornelius went into the shed to look at some of the junk he had scavenged out of some dumpsters on the weekend. Most of it was cans and bottles, but there was a bag filled with lots of unsold books of raffle tickets, which were to raise money to greet dying wishes of children with terminal cancer. Too bad they were out of date by close to two years.

Cornelius looked through one of the raffle books, noting that the date drawn on the tickets was 24th of July 1996. This was printed in black print, and if one had a black pen it would be easy to change the 6 to an 8 so the date drawn would be 24th of July 1998, a date not yet reached. Cornelius owned a black pen. He grinned as a plan filled his mind.

*

The next day, the weather over Sydney had improved with a cold morning but a sunny day. Cornelius was dressed up in his work clothes for work for the dole, but his car was parked next to a phone box on Sydney's North Shore, Cornelius on the phone to the work center in Balmain, holding his nose to emulate the sound of having a cold.

"I'm really sorry, but I came down with this cold overnight, I won't be in today, hopefully better tomorrow," said Cornelius to his supervisor, before putting down the receiver and walking to his car in perfect health, laughing at his deception then and more deception to come.

His shirt, tie and trousers made him look respectable. Respectable like a young man who sold raffle tickets to help kids sick with cancer. He looked up the street, this area was filled with older people who had money. Perfect targets who would not pick up on the neat alteration to the tickets he would sell them.

Cornelius's plan worked a treat, and by the end of a day of door-knocking he had a cloth bag filled with cash. Thursday was an even nicer day for Sydney, very warm for this time of year although the forecast was a change to cloudy conditions in the afternoon, and rain by evening.

At home Cornelius acted like he was still in a bad mood which was true. One thing he had inherited from his father was misanthropy so he was still pissed about having to go back to work for the dole tomorrow as he would need a medical certificate for an absence of three days otherwise his benefits would be cut, and this overshadowed his plans for today of walking around in the nice sunshine in a nice part of Sydney selling dodgy raffle tickets to unsuspecting grannies.

Cornelius left the house to Faye's relief, and Erica entered, dressed for university wearing a pink long sleeved jumper, blue denim overalls and sneakers on her feet. Faye was wearing a jumper, jeans and sneakers rather than her work clothes. Things had been hectic at the office for the recent end of financial year, and Faye had worked extra hours, so now was having an extra-long weekend, taking off Thursday, Friday and Monday.

Danielle was long gone, driving off early to beat the traffic on the long drive out to Cabramatta, so for the moment it was just mother and daughter at home.

"So what are your plans for the day Mum?" Erica asked. "It's such a nice day today."

"We're going to catch a train into the city, have a bit of a walk around and then get the ferry to Taronga and go to the zoo," said Faye. "We haven't been in ages?"

"We?" Erica asked, the young girl adjusting her glasses and trying not to show her concern and dismay.

Her mother laughed, somewhat unconvincingly. "Sorry I meant to say I. Who am I, the Queen of England?"

"Well, have a good day Mum," said Erica.

"You too Erica," said Faye. There was the sound of animal feet on the floor, and in walked Alistair, the blue heeler holding his lead in his mouth. "I think Alistair wants his walk, Erica. He's such a clever boy learning to carry his lead like that, aren't you Alistair?"

Erica went out the front door, and looked into the lounge room where the shrine her mother kept to her father's memory sat. The eyes of her late father seemed to follow her from out of the photograph and Erica scurried outside, wanting out of there.

Thanks to recent inheritances Gavin and Erica had a choice of three modes of transport to university -- his car, her car or the bus. The young couple chose public transport today as it would be a chance for them to work together on an assignment for their statistics unit which to nursing seemingly had negligible value but was part of the degree and therefore compulsory. Also there were special events happening at the campus today and on Friday, so students were warned parking would be limited.

Gavin and Erica sat on the bus together as it passed by Faye Hawkins, who was walking Alistair on his leash, the blue heeler clearly excited and pulling on the lead. As her mother and the dog vanished into the background, Erica could not fight her feeling of disquiet.

*

The library for one of the suburbs on Sydney's North Shore was not open at such an early hour, but there was one car parked there already, a very run down and poorly maintained car that looked ready for the scrap yard. The driver was not an eager book worm waiting for the opening of the library, but a certain lanky young man who was using the public telephone outside the building to feign cold and flu symptoms and get out of work for the dole.

Having completed one act of deception Cornelius Hawkins adjusted his tie and shirt so he looked really smart, then went back to his vehicle to engage in another, selling expired raffle tickets with altered draw dates to unsuspecting buyers.

It all started well, Cornelius getting an old lady and her even older sister to buy two tickets at two dollars each, and then an old man who answered the door carrying a ginger cat bought three for five dollars then decided to help the sick kids even more so gave Cornelius another five dollars for three more tickets.

Smiling and coveting the cash, Cornelius went to another house and rang the doorbell. To his great pleasure, it was answered by another old lady, short in stature who appeared quite infirm. She looked to be of Pacific Islander background, and as soon as she spoke her New Zealand accent confirmed this.

"Can I help you Sonny?" she asked Cornelius.

"Good morning Ma'am," said Cornelius politely. "Lovely day for a walk by the Harbour, or helping to bring some joy to the lives of sick children perhaps?" He held up the raffle ticket book. "We're having this raffle to raise money to help the wishes of sick kids come true, a worthy cause don't you agree? We'd appreciate any help, and there's great prizes -- a car, a Gold Coast holiday and a trip to the snowfields among others. Just two dollars each, or three for five? All tax deductible. So Ma'am, would you like to help the lives of sick children so much better?"

The old lady stared at Cornelius, clearly struggling to understand what he said and she reminded him a bit of his paternal grandmother. Was this going to work? Then she smiled and said, "I get my purse."

Cornelius could not believe his light when the old lady returned with her purse and pulled out a green one hundred dollar bill. "How many I get for one hundred dollars?"

"Well, today's your lucky day Ma'am," said Cornelius. "For 100 dollars, you get eight tickets. How good is that?"

Grinning and nodding, the old lady handed the cash to Cornelius and he in turn handed her eight raffle tickets. "Thank you so much Ma'am," he said. "You've helped the lives of so many children less fortunate than us."

Cornelius could barely conceal his delight at how the con trick had worked so well on this dotty old lady, if she had queried it he already had a line planned to laugh it off as a joke. Then as if by magic things only got better as the old lady took out a yellow fifty dollar bill and offered it to Cornelius. "I want to donate more money to the kids."

"Thank you so much Ma'am, your generosity is much appreciated," said Cornelius, taking the fifty dollar note and stashing it with the hundred. "As long as you don't tell my boss I did this, but I'm going to give you two more tickets for free to thank you for your kind donation? How good is this?"

The old lady grinned vacantly as Cornelius gave her two more tickets. "Thanks again Ma'am, and have a nice day. I'm pretty sure you'll win a prize."

Cornelius went to the house next door where it was answered by another old lady, but this time the stupid miserable cow-faced old bag with her hair in curlers slammed the door shut in his face. Fuck her. Perhaps the neighbors on the other side would be more generous? Cornelius was walking up the front path to test this theory, when he heard a male voice with a strong New Zealand accent call out.

"Hey you over there, yeah you, the con artist! I'm talking to you, cunt!"

Cornelius turned and to his horror saw two middle-aged Maori men both dressed in suits and ties approaching him, the one who had called his name brandishing the raffle tickets. Two very tall Maori men, well over six feet six, huge muscles. Behind them were six Maori youths as big as the two men, some of the boys wearing school uniforms, others dressed in Rugby union clothes. All of them looked angry. Very, very angry.

"You think it's funny to sell used raffle tickets for a kids' cancer charity?" roared the first man.

"And to our Mum who has Alzheimer's?" yelled the second man. "We're going to kick your arse for you boy!"

Quite sure he didn't want to get his arse kicked by eight angry Maori men and boys, Cornelius ran away and the Maoris chased him. At one stage it seemed they were certain to catch him, but a calculated gamble of running through somebody's garden and over their back fence then out through another house into the next street seemed to work.

However, Cornelius knew that this was only buying time and soon the Maoris would be here to cut him off, so Cornelius needed a place to hide and fast. Passing a house where the garage was open, Cornelius looked in and saw a dressing table, another table with six chairs, a grandfather clock and a wardrobe, all antiques in the same style and dark color of wood.

Dashing across the street, Cornelius dashed into the wardrobe, closing the door behind himself. Although muffled he could still hear the voices of the angry New Zealanders as they came up the street looking for him.

"Did you see which way he went?"

"No, we lost him, he must have doubled back. Fuck!"

"He must be somewhere, let's keep looking for him. He took Grandma's money, and he must have ripped off other people too."

"I want to kick his arse."

"Nah, we need to get to work and school, but not before we call the cops to report this."

Cornelius remained in the darkness of the wardrobe, breathing heavily until he was sure the Maoris were gone and he definitely wanted out of here before the police arrived. He went to edge the wardrobe door open and found to his horror it was stuck -- he couldn't open it at all. He tried again, no way was it opening. Trying to force the door open Cornelius managed to hit his elbow and a nerve, resulting him passing out.

Slumped unconscious on the wardrobe floor, Cornelius was unable to hear a large truck pull up into the street and come to a stop opposite this house. Two men got out of the truck which bore Victorian registration plates and the logo of the transport company. One was a man aged in his early 50s, the other a tall skinny guy aged about 25. The front door of the house opened and out walked a woman with grey hair and glasses, aged about 70.

"Good morning Mrs. Richardson," said the older truck driver offering his hand to the lady, his friendly voice conveying a Manchester accent. "I'm Derek and this is Scott, and we're here to collect your furniture for you."

"Good morning," said Mrs. Richardson, shaking hands with the truck drivers. "Thank you for being so punctual. The furniture is in the garage, I'll show you."

She led the way in and showed the two men the furniture to be transported. "There's the clock, the dresser, the dining table plus six chairs and the wardrobe."

Derek admired the furniture and smiled. "Now Mrs. Richardson, these are beautiful pieces of antique furniture. I'll give you a minute or so to change your mind."

"I most definitely won't be changing my mind," said Mrs. Richardson. "They are going to be part of a colonial-era house on the Mornington Peninsula that has been converted into a museum and then they will be gone from my life. And not a moment too soon."

The jovial Derek grinned. "If you'd tell me how much the museum paid for them, I'd match their offer and then more on top. The wife and I would love to have antique oak furniture so magnificent at our house, even if it meant taking out a second mortgage."

The younger man Scott, whose Australian accent contrasted from the Mancunian accent of Derek was not such a fan of antiques, but even he was impressed. "They really are beautiful Mrs. Richardson, my girlfriend and I would love them too."

Mrs. Richardson gave a thin-lipped smile. "You most definitely wouldn't want any of these in either of your houses, I can assure you of that. I didn't sell them, I would never sell them to a person who planned putting them into their house, I gave them away to that museum near Frankston, and I'm paying the freight too. In fact I would have paid the museum double what we paid for them to take them away, if only to be rid of them. Just be careful when you're transporting them, okay?"

Derek assumed she meant care during transit so said, "Of course Mrs. Richardson, we take great care with all items transported. They'll be secured with ropes, bubble wrap to prevent scratching during transit..."

"No, I don't mean that," said Mrs. Richardson. She drew her breath. "Look, please don't think me crazy but there's something very wrong with this furniture. My late husband Alan and I never believed in the supernatural before and would have scoffed at what I'm about to tell you now. To make a long story short, we saw and fell in love with this furniture at an antiques shop in the Blue Mountains, but as soon as my husband and I brought the furniture into our home things started to go wrong for us. We lost money in an investment that had always been secure, and then our pets - two cats and a dog -- got sick and died within weeks of each other. None were old, and none of them were sick before."

Mrs. Richardson cast a glance at the furniture and continued her story. "We have three daughters and our eldest was hit by a car and sustained a broken leg, our middle daughter's marriage broke down suddenly and inexplicably and our youngest daughter was diagnosed with breast cancer and is still undergoing chemotherapy now. One of our grandsons was severely injured when he was hit in the face by a cricket ball at school, my niece had a miscarriage and our oldest granddaughter was bitten by a venomous snake and only just survived. Then my husband Alan fell ill, was diagnosed with mesothelioma and gone within six weeks. Alan was a retired bank manager, he never worked with asbestos. It may just be coincidence, maybe I'm looking for blame in a misguided way, I don't know but what I do know is that all the problems started the day we brought those things into our house."

"I'm very sorry about your husband and family," said Scott sympathetically.

Derek was equally sympathetic. "Yes, very sorry for your loss, I can't imagine how hard it must have been for you. We'll get this furniture loaded onto the truck and out of your life and on its way to Melbourne right away."

"Thank you," said Mrs. Richardson, watching in relief as Derek and Scott used trolleys and ramps to get the furniture onto the back of the truck, where it was secured along with other items already collected during the morning before the drive down to Melbourne.

"This wardrobe weighs a bloody ton," said Scott, as he and Derek secured it with ropes.

"Solid oak, it's to be expected, although it did seem heavier than the other things," agreed Derek.

With the load completed, Derek and Scott secured the truck and checked all the items on the manifest. Scott got into the passenger seat and Derek in the driver's side, the older man starting the truck and driving off down the street, Mrs. Richardson looking in relief as the furniture vanished out of sight around the corner, hopefully never to be seen again.

Unaware of a passenger definitely not listed on the manifest, Derek drove onto the freeway, and soon the truck was crossing the Sydney Harbour Bridge, Scott looking at the sunlight glinting off the Opera House windows.

"So, did you really believe the lady when she said the furniture was cursed?" Scott asked.

"Oh, most definitely," said Derek.

"Come on, how can furniture or any other inanimate object be cursed?" laughed Scott. "Although I did have a betting ticket at Flemington Racecourse the other week, I swear that was cursed."

"I take it you don't believe in the supernatural?" Derek asked.

His younger colleague laughed. "No, of course not. It's just superstition, old wives tales, fairy stories."

"I wouldn't be so sure," said Derek. "Did I ever tell you about my sister Fiona, back in Manchester, years ago?"

Scott shook his head. "No."

"Well, she and two girlfriends after they left home moved into a flat together," said Derek. "Everything was fine, until Fiona bought an antique doll at a market. I saw the doll, it was a big doll, very pretty, Victorian era clothes, long blonde hair and big blue eyes. She couldn't believe it was so cheap. Anyway, a few weeks later they began noticing that the doll kept turning up in places where it shouldn't be. Like it would be in the sitting room when they went out to work, and when they came back it would be in one of the girls' bedrooms sitting up, on the kitchen bench or even in a wardrobe. This went on for weeks and they noticed that the flat seemed unusually cold even though it was summer and all had an odd feeling that they were being watched. But as soon as the doll was removed, no more problems."

Scott grinned. "Do you know where the doll is now? It sounds like a great Christmas gift for my sister."

"Yeah, ha-ha," said Derek. "I had another experience myself, my wife and I were looking at houses and her younger brother came with us, he was still at school, thought about becoming a real estate agent when he graduated. Anyway, we look over one house and it was perfect, just what we were looking for. But as we went through it I just had this strange feeling of dread, of foreboding as though somebody was telling me not to buy this house. I thought I was going crazy, until we got outside and my wife and brother-in-law said they felt the same thing, like a premonition of doom. None of us had ever felt like that before. Obviously we didn't buy that house, and we wouldn't have thought anything more about it, except six months later we were driving down the street where it was, and the fire brigade were there mopping up, the house had been completely destroyed by fire earlier that morning, caused by faulty electrical wiring."