The Unspoken

by Don Zelma

Chapter Twenty-seven

  Dan’s eyes sprang open like greyhound gates. The room was dark and a telephone had been ringing in his dream. His pillow was wet and he blinked at the ceiling. A mosquito began buzzing near his ear, flew nearer and nearer, then its tiny wings began feathering his ear.

  The phone rang and Dan sat up. He stared at the wall and tried to wake up. His hand reached for the bedside cabinet and lifted the handset.

  ‘Hello?’ The line seemed dead and he pulled the handset in under the covers.

  ‘Sorry to wake you,’ said a voice. ‘Is this Mr. Daniel Amos?’

  ‘Yes it is.’

  ‘This is Sergeant Ramsey at the police station.’

  He propped himself up on his elbow and rubbed his eyes.

  ‘I just tried calling,’ the Sergeant said. ‘We have a man here who says he knows you – a Mr. Ned Col.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Dan said. ‘I know him.’

  ‘He was carrying no identification and we need someone to vouch for him before we let him go. Can you come to the station?’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘If possible,’ the sergeant said. ‘He doesn’t leave until you do.’

  Surely, Dan told himself, you knew this was only the beginning. He cleared his throat. ‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘I’ll be there within a hour.’

  The officer rang off and Dan fell back to the mattress. He exhaled, staring into the dark.

  What have I got myself into?

  He rolled onto his side and saw Ruth had not stirred. He slowly got out of bed and stepped quietly to the window. His trousers were over the chair in the moonlight and he drew them up over his pyjamas. He sought his sweater from the drawer then found a pen on the dresser and wrote a note in the moonlight. The car keys rattled in the dark and he slowly made his way for the door.

  Dan pulled up out front of the station. The street was empty and it was eerily quiet. There was a paddy wagon in the drive and a few lights were on in the windows. He scaled the steps to the lobby, gently pushed onto the door, hearing the hinges quietly creak. He saw the front desk was empty and slowly walked in. A police radio squawked in the background and he heard the slap-slap… slap-slap-slap of a distant typewriter. He walked past reception and peered around the door.

  Ned Col was seated in a corner facing away and a young policeman was typing opposite him. Ned’s hair was out of its tail and his shirt had been ripped. Dan felt a sudden urge to just turn around and leave. Ned looked over his shoulder, saw him, smiled and showed his crooked teeth.

  Dan looked to his side. To his surprise, a policeman was standing not far away, staring at him. He was older than the other, perhaps fifty, and a little overweight. He began walking towards him, his heavy pistol pulling down one side of his trousers. His top lip was swollen like he had a bad cold sore.

  ‘Morning,’ the officer said. He stopped and looked Dan up and down, sizing him up.

  ‘Good morning, officer.’

  The policeman stepped around him, headed for the counter, flicking his thumb at Ned. ‘You’re here for this ratbag, are ya?’

  Dan slowly followed. ‘What on earth has Ned gone and done?’ he thought.

  The policeman stepped in behind the counter and picked up a large records book.

  ‘I spoke with a Sergeant Ramsey on the phone,’ Dan said.

  ‘That’s me,’ Ramsey said. He opened the book. ‘You a relative?’

  ‘No. I’m Reverend Daniel Amos.’

  The officer looked up. He waited then slowly looked over the counter. He saw Dan’s pyjama legs sticking out from his trousers. ‘He might need a good reverend one day,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  The sergeant rested his index finger on his swollen lip. ‘Your precious sheep gave me this.’

  ‘I see,’ Dan said. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  The officer turned a page and started writing. ‘He’s an innocent little thing,’ he murmured.

  ‘I didn’t say he was,’ Dan said.

  ‘Think he’ll repent?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Have a guess.’

  ‘I’m sure he’s sorry,’ Dan said.

  There was a brief pause. ‘Can I see some identification?’

  Dan showed him and the officer recorded his details and gently closed the book. He reached down, retrieved a large envelope and Ned’s items spilled out onto the counter. Dan recognised the tobacco and saw the novel rolled up with a pen inside it. The officer checked the items off a list. ‘One packet of Golden Virginia tobacco. One novel. One Zippo lighter and one black wallet.’

  A chair squeaked in the next room and Ned Col appeared around the corner. He’d been struck hard in the face, sporting a lump the size of a golf ball under his eye, tight and hard like a wasp sting. He clawed his hair back and walked straight out the door. Dan thanked the officer and followed him outside.

  A mouse scurried across the pavement.

  ‘Ned, wait,’ Dan said. Ned slowed ahead. ‘I’ve got your things.’ He caught up and handed Ned his wallet, tobacco and novel.

  ‘Thanks, mate,’ Ned said. He slid the novel into his back pocket. He opened the packet and began rolling a cigarette on his paunch. ‘I’ve been dying for a smoke.’ He slid the cigarette over his lip and thumbed the lighter. There were no turbulences and the smoke rose straight up through his fingers, true and straight as a plumb bob string. ‘Where’s your rig?’ he asked, smoke chugging from his mouth.

  ‘Over here,’ Dan said quietly.

  The pair walked without speaking, the sound of their steps echoing in the street. The car doors squeaked open and the men got in.

  ‘So, Ned,’ Dan said. ‘What happened?’

  Ned wound down his window and rested his elbow on the doorframe. Dan started the engine and glanced at Ned’s battered face.

  Ned looked down and checked his elbow. ‘Gee… he-he, I lost a bit of bark,’ he said. He had a line of dried blood running down his forearm. ‘I got jumped outside the pub. There was a fight then the pigs arrived.’ He gathered the hair around his face and began fixing his ponytail. He looked dreadful.

  Dan put the car in gear and gently pulled away. ‘It seems you didn’t fare too well,’ he said.

  ‘This?’ Ned said, touching his eye and chuckling. ‘The cops gave me this.’ He finished the tail and inhaled on the cigarette. ‘I king-hit the old bloke then jumped a six-foot fence but the young c—t got me. They both stuck a boot in.’ He started laughing to himself. ‘F—k, they were pissed. You should have seen their faces.’

  ‘I’ll make a formal complaint in the morning,’ Dan said.

  ‘He-he!’ he said, waving the cigarette around. ‘Go get ’em, tiger!’

  Ned reached up and slowly stroked his beard. He chuckled as he spoke through his fingers. ‘If ya gonna hit a copper,’ he said, ‘they’re gonna sort you out, make no mistake.’ He drew on his cigarette, looked out the window and exhaled a steadily flow like steam from a kettle. ‘He was gonna cuff me,’ he mumbled, ‘and I couldn’t have it.’ He looked down and stared at the burning tip of his cigarette. ‘I gotta go to court,’ he said. ‘I got no way of paying a fine. They might give me jail.’

  ‘I’ll go to court with you,’ Dan said.

  ‘Ha. You’re a good bloke, Danny.’

  Ned’s smoke was filling the cabin and Dan slowly unwound his window. He began falling deep in thought, driving without destination, until eventually the town hall tower emerged from behind the old figs. Ned leaned forward and brushed shards of glass out of his hair.

  ‘Where ya driving to?’ he said. ‘I don’t wanna go home.’

  ‘But where else can I take you?’ Dan said. ‘You look awful.’

  Ned looked at him and smiled a crooked smile. ‘Hey – you’re supposed to cheer me up!’ He looked up at the ceiling and began to laugh. ‘Ha-ha-ha-ha! You’re a funny c—t, Danny.’ His uneven teeth and the lump under his eye just made him look wicked.

  He slowly drew on his
cigarette and after a moment seemed to mellow. ‘We used to do this a lot,’ he said, gesturing at the street. ‘When me boy was a baby. You know – put him in the car and drive around to get him to sleep.’

  ‘Yes,’ Dan said. ‘So did we.’ He turned unhurriedly into Wharf Street and began heading along the river. Three minutes passed. The petrol gauge showed the tank almost empty.

  ‘Me and me missus were at the beach the other day,’ Ned said, ‘after you and I fished. We were on beach chairs, side by side, trying to get on. But I couldn’t stop this constant feeling – you know: the one I talked about. I thought of me idea to write a bit and do something half decent.’ He looked down and picked at the doorframe. ‘But there’s no way, mate… I’m f—king dreamin’ – I gotta be honest.’ He slowly shook his head. ‘Ah, f—k it...’ he whispered, as if to himself. ‘F—k it all.’ He started waving his cigarette around and gestured at the town. ‘All of this, mate – this stuff – it ain’t worth a damn.’

  It fell silent but for the constant drone of the engine. Dan was stumped – he just didn’t know what to do. He slowly pulled up at traffic lights and could smell alcohol on Ned. He pondered and looked across the river. He could see rows of head-high cane in the dark.

  ‘Hey, Danny,’ Ned said, tabbing his cigarette out the window. ‘The truth is, I called you tonight because – I gotta be honest – I simply got no one else.’

  Dan kept looking straight ahead.

  ‘I remember your face on the farm when you first came. You’re not so together as you make out. I think I kind of relate to ya. You’re battling just like me, mate. I bet money on it.’

  Yes and no, Dan thought.

  The light turned green and he toed the accelerator then continued along the river. ‘Let’s take you home,’ he said.

  Ned glanced out at the dark. ‘You don’t know what to do with me, do ya?’

  Dan thought about it a long time and couldn’t lie. He looked at Ned. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t.’ He looked back at the windscreen.

  ‘That’s all right, Danny,’ Ned said. He reached across and patted his shoulder. ‘I don’t know what to do with me either.’

  Dan could see Lamington Bridge ahead and several trawlers moored in the dark. He remembered fishing with Ned and slowly, almost subconsciously, gently applied the brakes and pulled up to the curb. ‘Come on,’ he said, cutting the engine. ‘It’s a nice night. What the heck – let’s take a stroll.’

  Ned looked at him incredulously, then shrugged. ‘Sure, why not.’

  The men got out and headed along a path towards the river. They walked through the dark and eventually found their way onto the boards of the wharf. The jetty had no lights or railings and Dan could smell the saltwater. The water looked like a lake of oil, and a pleasure boat was pulling gently at its mooring. The men reached the end and Ned eventually sat, dangling his legs over the side. Dan did the same and they sat together like father and son. The moon came out and he saw a water hen under the dock, perfectly still like a duck decoy. He glanced up at Ned. It was funny seeing the biker with his legs over the side like a boy. It was times like this you thought you could penetrate deep inside anyone, no matter how tough, and get to the bottom of what made him tick. Once again, perhaps because he just liked water, Ned had turned strangely calm.

  ‘Beating up on me family,’ he said, ‘You know I never used to do that.’

  Dan felt uncomfortable and didn’t know what to say. He glanced at the fluorescent hands of his wristwatch. ‘It’s four in the morning,’ he said. ‘Soon the sun will rise and it’ll be another day. Everything will be different like a new start.’

  The pleasure boat wheeled around in the current and the glass of the bridge mottled the city lights across the jetty.

  ‘Having little goals is more important than anything, you know,’ Ned said. ‘When you have a goal you have a place to go.’ He reached back and touched the novel. ‘I’m committing every moment to this little thing,’ he said. ‘I might get nowhere but you never know.’

  Dan was silent and later realised that he should have responded with something positive, because suddenly Ned looked away at the bank beside them, the muscle of his jaw bulge out.

  ‘I’m in big f—king trouble, mate,’ Ned said with a raspy voice.

  ‘What?’ Dan thought. He looked down, uncomfortable at what was starting to happen. He knew he was powerless to help and it was something Ned just had to handle himself.

  ‘It’s no one’s fault but me own,’ he said. ‘I can’t seem to ever f—king win.’ He cleared his throat. ‘The time’s coming, mate,’ he said prophetically. He looked up. ‘I dunno, mate, but I think I’m capable of doing bad things.’

  Dan looked down and swallowed. ‘Bad? No, you won’t, Ned.’ He waited then looked up. Ned’s bad eye had closed and his eyelashes had squeezed together into a wet strip.

  ‘Yeah, I will, mate,’ Ned said, nodding. ‘I know meself.’

  Dan could see the lights in the fluid of his good eye. Ned looked out at the river. ‘All I know is I’ve been feeling rotten for a bl—dy long time. I ain’t done nothing with what I had. I always knew, one day, if I hadn’t achieved anything I would snap. The other night I dreamed I went to the shed and felt the stock of the shotty. I slid it down from the rafters and loaded a shell. I wasn’t sure what I was gonna do.’

  Dan looked out at the river; this wasn’t a joke. ‘We need…’ he said, clearing his throat, ‘an occasional maintenance man for our hall. The roof needs fixing.’

  There was a pause and Ned responded as feared. ‘You’re trying to make me feel better,’ he said. ‘But there ain’t nothing you can do.’ Ned slowly stood. ‘Thanks for the talk,’ he said, ‘but I wanna go for a walk.’ He turned and began strolling towards the bank.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Dan asked. He could see Ned’s lumbering gait moving off along the wharf. ‘Ned?’ But all he heard was his heavy boots going away. Then, very strangely, he saw his figure jump from the jetty down into the mangroves. Dan stood and held still then started to walk after him.

  ‘You wanna join me, Danny?’ Ned shouted from the dark.

  Dan stopped halfway down the jetty and could see Ned standing near a fig. He turned and disappeared between the trunks. Dan climbed down the jetty, landed in the mud, and clambered up the bank and on through the mangroves. He was chasing Ned and, in some way he felt, his son as well. He hauled himself through the foliage, gasping, and could hear a loud noise ahead. A cluster of enormous figs loomed up in front, their giant canopies busy with roosting bats. Thousands of flying foxes were returning from feeding on Fraser Island, flapping clumsily as they came into land in the branches. Dan ran into the din. The noise was ear-splitting, like walking under a bridge with a train passing over.

  ‘Ned!’ he called. ‘Where are you?’ Goosebumps tingled down his arms and buttress roots curled across the forest floor like prehistoric snakes. He searched the shadows, stepped forward, tripped over a root and almost landed on his face. He looked up and saw Ned metres away. He was leaning against a tree trunk.

  Ned spoke, as if to himself. ‘F—k it…’ he whispered. Dan slowly stood and held still. ‘I just can’t handle it. Everything just seems so pointless.’

  Dan stepped forward and slowly pulled up. It was hard to hear over the noise. ‘I’m here, Ned,’ he said. ‘Don't worry about a thing.’

  ‘Is there really such a thing as peace, Danny?’ Ned asked, his beard moving up and down in the dark. ‘Your son once talked about how he used to have it. Is there really such a thing?’

  Dan stared. ‘Ned,’ he said. ‘You’ll find harmony in the end, I promise. Just trust me... But you need to let go of the things you cannot control.’

  Ned rested his forehead against the trunk, reached up and ran his hand through his beard.

  Dan knew that his need to know what had happened to Jay had intensified. He had few solutions for Ned but was learning and perhaps he only need retain this course, in his lat
e education, to arrive at some type of truth. Once again, he had seen the mystery of people, and was reminded that there was more beyond his fence line than he had ever before imagined.