by Tim Winton
So whatever happened to whatever it takes? That bit of steely resolve had lasted all of an evening.
God, why couldn’t Gemma just go to the cops? Or pack the car, take the boy and drive north? What the hell was he supposed to do? And why him, anyway? How long could he live like this, waiting for the hammer to fall? Wouldn’t it be better to just bring it on, spare himself and the others the misery of anticipation and make something happen? That’s what the old man would have done. And, okay, there was often carnage in his wake. But that wasn’t all carelessness. Shit happened. Keely knew how merciful it could be, a decisive nature.
He needed a bit of that huge, headlong, loving force. Kindness with a backbone – wasn’t that Nev’s mantra? Why was it so hard to summon? Why wasn’t it simply there, bubbling up instantly the way anxiety did, the way this festival of second-guessing did? Couldn’t blame that on too much school, too much soft-handed generational success. It was something lacking in him. Something in the shape of him. This empty thing he’d become.
He ran his hands over the soft grain of the jarrah post. Rested his forehead on its edge a moment. Drew himself back. From torturing himself with Nev, making the poor old bugger some mythic paragon again. Like the superhero Gemma had turned him into for Kai’s sake. This business would not be resolved with an honest bit of biffo and some sorrowful Kumbayah. It was going to take more. Worse. Better. Cleverer. No point wounding them; they’d be back. If you couldn’t get them arrested you’d have to kill them. And you weren’t killing anybody.
What you needed was a few minutes’ confidence. Not the sort you got from being built like a brick shithouse, but the kind you got by being convinced. Determined. Wasn’t it hot, hurting conviction that had fuelled you all those good years? Didn’t you have some warrior in you then, when things were only as hopeless as they’d ever been, when despite that you still went at it like a good and faithful servant? With only your backbone to lean on. And the pride of still giving a damn. You could have stood before Nev then, him and his Mighty Force. With your head up.
This is it. The bounce off the bottom.
You want to walk away. But you don’t walk away.
Because here you are. Shining in the dark. Poisoned head radiating power. Parked two blocks from the problem. Smarter. Bursting. With nothing left to lose.
Across from the decaying row of houses, a spare parking bay. He backed into it and switched off the ignition. There was a light on upstairs and music audible even at this distance. Although it was nearly two, it was evident that neighbours were well-enough acquainted with Stewie’s nature to refrain from complaint.
Keely thought first about a Molotov cocktail. Simple procedure. But you couldn’t set fire to a house adjoining so many others. You couldn’t set fire to a house full stop. That wasn’t smart. Just thuggish. Cowardly.
But he was here now.
And now was the moment. Whatever he was going to do would happen now.
He restarted the Volvo, pulled out, floated around the block. There was no alternate point of access, no rear lane. Unless he could scale a wall and scuttle over the tin roofs of the markets and leap down into Stewie’s backyard. And then what? Be caught like a wharf rat in a kero tin?
Outside the football oval, in the shadow of the weatherboard grandstand, he parked, killed the engine and switched on the interior light. No. There would be no scaling of walls, no window-breaking. No fire, no charging in full of piss and vinegar. He wasn’t dealing with a neighbourhood drunk here. This was a snaky, drug-addled sociopath. Who required something a little weird, something asymmetrical. Immobilizing. Paralyzing. Keely would never pound a man’s head in, but he could surely fuck with his mind. Knew a bit about that, didn’t he?
Reached for the glove box, inspired.
There was a ballpoint, of course, and a pocket torch, a tube of hand-wipes, a notepad. Dear, dear Doris – ever prepared. Wedged into the pad was a blank and sun-faded postcard. Rio de Janeiro. The monumental statue on the mountain was all blotchy, the colour chemicals on the card were failing, but the image was plain enough – Cristo Redentor. Photographed from above, across the figure’s shoulder. And beyond the great head and the Redeemer’s outstretched arms, the teeming city below. Roiling chaos at his feet. The watchful Saviour. It was perfect. Christ the Redeemer, why not? Enough Nev in that to make you smile.
The ballpoint was dry and the ink a little lumpy at first but with the notepad as backing, he got his message written quickly enough.
Jesus loves you, Stewie.
Which is just as well.
Because we are watching you.
All day. All night.
All eyes.
Then he took the notepad and began to draw. Words wouldn’t be necessary. But it was hard work, trembling as he was, suppressing the spasms of laughter that welled up in his neck. He couldn’t believe he was doing this. He felt bloody fabulous.
He tore each picture free and laid them on the console beside him. Yes. If they wanted to play funny buggers, then this was a start.
There was no one in the pedestrian mall. As he strode beneath the frangipanis that overhung the limestone wall of the row, he felt adrenaline sparking in his lips and teeth and fingertips. The stone was rough underhand, as alerting as a cat’s tongue. Up ahead, the music was an approaching headache. The urge to laugh evaporated. He willed himself on.
The wooden gate to Stewie’s place was only slightly ajar and without the churning bass from upstairs the noise from the hinges might have been disastrous. Keely picked his way up the path onto the junk-strewn verandah and bent carefully to slip the postcard beneath the flywire door. There. Jesus on the doorstep.
Then he took the first sheet of paper. Threaded it into the ruined flyscreen.
As he turned for the path, he reeled momentarily, seeing spots. The sudden welter of smells around him pressed in. Wood rot, the inner soles of shoes. Dry mortar. Sea air. Incense. Clove cigarettes. Hash. Sweat. Sardines. Garam masala.
And.
And.
For a couple of seconds he thought he’d puke. Found the verandah post in the dark. Hung off it a while. Staring back at the red glass of the fanlight over the door. Pulsing in time with his blood. That colour. The angry music.
He felt a nail in the post rake his palm and the pain pulled him up. He impaled another sheet on it.
Then he launched himself clear of the verandah, plunged down the path and glanced off the open gate, reeling into the street to rub his hip and get his breath. He was two doors down before he felt the last sheet in his hand. He hesitated. And went back. Shoved it bloodied into the letterbox beside the gate.
And ran like a maniac.
Clambered up from the couch with a start. Fuck. It was ten o’clock. In the a.m. Mouth tasting of rusty nails. Doris’s house. Hot. Bright. Silent. And his hand smarting. A divot gouged from his palm. Felt worse than it was.
A terse note on the table. From Doris. Saying she’d given Kai his breakfast and driven him to school herself. That the boy’s sheets were on the line. And please bring them in before Gemma wakes up.
He leant against the bench with a groan.
Crept into the bathroom. Stood beneath a cold bolt of water. Drying off, he caught a whiff of tobacco smoke.
Gemma was sitting at the kitchen table with a coffee and a fag.
I woke you, he said. Staring at the note in her hands.
Bloody hot, she said. I dunno how you can sleep in it.
Pfizer, he said.
What?
Merck. Aventis.
What’re you talkin about?
Nothing.
He crossed to the living room in his towel. It was awkward rifling through his cabin bag for clean clothes, dressing in plain view: underpants, shorts, T-shirt.
Gemma wore nothing but a stretched and shapeless singlet. Her hair was crushed, damp with sweat. He noticed the points of her nipples, the back-curving thumb as she held the cigarette aloft, elbow in hand.
He
’s wettin the bed, she murmured. And no one tells me.
I guess we didn’t want to make you feel any worse, he said, pouring himself a coffee.
She squinted through the smoke. We?
I know, he said. All this.
No shit.
Why don’t you go back to bed? he asked. You’ll be knackered tonight.
I told you. It’s too hot.
I gather there was a call.
Doris. Does it all, does she?
He let it go. He didn’t feel well. The coffee was thin.
Where were you? she asked. Last night. When I was at work.
The concert. Remember?
After.
Why?
Why not tell me, Tom? I want to know what you’ve done.
Done? he said carefully.
She nodded slowly, regarding him through the haze she put between them.
Just drove around, he said.
In your mother’s car.
Like being young again.
He got up, tipped the coffee down the sink.
I think we’ll go home, she said. Me’n Kai.
He glanced back at her but Gemma’s eyes were averted. She twitched the fag with her thumb and sniffed.
Something’s happened?
I’m over it, she said. I want me own things, me own bed.
But it’s not safe, he said.
It’ll have to do.
What about Kai?
He’s not happy here.
But you said it yourself: he loves Doris.
Home with me he doesn’t wet the bed.
Keely drew a breath, but said nothing.
Have you got a gun?
A what?
You heard me.
No, he said.
She drew on the fag. Blew smoke at the ceiling. Didn’t think so, she said. Couldn’t even afford to buy one.
I don’t want one, he said.
You’re broke.
I told you I was.
Thought you were exaggeratin. But she says you haven’t got a pot to piss in.
So now you know for sure.
Look at ya, she said with a scornful grin.
What?
Never been skint before, have ya?
He spread his hands on the table.
You’re soft, Tom. That’s the thing.
You wouldn’t know, he said.
Believe me, she let out with a laugh. I know.
Tell me what he said.
Who?
You know who. On the phone.
It’s bloody hot, she said. Let’s go for a swim.
He’s texting you.
Carn, it’s hot as hell. Let’s swim.
I thought you were moving back to the Mirador.
Thinkin about it.
How does he have your number, anyway?
Where’s close?
Gemma, how does Stewie have your number?
She gave it to him, orright? Carly. The silly little bitch gave it to him. She’ll never fuckin see me or the boy again.
You don’t mean that.
I want a fuckin swim.
The river’s close.
Stinks, she said. Fuckin shithole.
Okay, he said, with puffs and sparks behind his eyes.
Fuckin jellyfish and brown water.
I said okay, alright?
Don’t shout at me, mate! I’ll bloody go on me own and you’ll be walkin.
Fine, he said, retreating to the lounge and the crackly bag of pills.
Bad thought, but the water was like novocaine. So cool at first, delicious and silky, stalking him pore to shivery pore before the numbing warmth sank in and clumsiness took hold. He felt heavy beside her, annoyed by her sudden playfulness, shamed by the hard-on he got the moment she clung to him. Steadying herself.
Gemma was no swimmer. But the way Keely felt today it was just as well. He looked about. After the shabby free-for-all of South Beach, Cottesloe was a total scene, a kind of flesh pageant.
The pair of them bobbed tiptoe on the sandbank, ducking modest waves. Laughing a little. Well, she was laughing. Keely squinted and held her hand and felt the weight of water roll by. Today a real swim was beyond him. The sun too bright. Sand in his veins.
Your wife, said Gemma. Doris loves her. Reckons she’s beautiful. Says she’s smart.
Ex-wife, he murmured. But yes, yes.
Screwed another lawyer.
Don’t want to talk about that.
And you dropped yer bundle.
Told you that already. Keely rose to his toes as a swell pushed past.
This before or after they sacked you?
I said I don’t want to talk about it.
Don’t mind talkin about my shit, but do ya?
Before, he said. All happened before.
But Gemma seemed to have lost interest. She’d turned to survey the amphitheatre of sand and grass, the fatuous tearooms, the preening oilers and cruising hipsters on the terraces.
Makes ya sad, dunnit? All them young, beautiful things.
Why?
Doesn’t make you think of bein young? she said, grabbing an arm and hanging off him.
Didn’t notice, he said.
Liar.
What are you talking about?
What do you call this, then?
She brushed a hand across his shorts and laughed. He couldn’t tell what was scorn and what was simple exuberance.
I’m going to swim, he heard himself say.
He broke free and struck out through the surf to deeper water but every turn of his head sent his brain spilling like unsecured cargo and it crashed against the bulwarks of his skull until he could take no more. He rested a moment, floating on a sudden pulse of nausea. His hand stung. Starbursts went off behind his eyes. He sculled back gingerly. Whole ocean curving away beneath him. Shining hard and horrible.
Staggered to shore.
Down a long barrel. Gemma. On a towel. In the sun. Golden. Breasts pooled against her ribs. Startled. Snapping her phone shut. As he reeled up, dripping, at the other end of the telescope.
Christ, she said. What’s wrong?
Nothing. Just. J-j-j-just …
Steadied himself. Hands on hips. Gemma sat up. Shielding her face from the bursting sun. Her limbs shone. Smoothed by water, light. Belly soft. And a glow hung over her every movement, flaring and trailing white as if some kind of phosphorescence were upon her. Felt he was standing too long. Looming over her. Saw he didn’t know her, not really. Wondered if he even liked her. Wished she’d just shut up, leave him alone. Wanted to say it, but they bounced in his head, the words. Clotted his jaw. Ground it shut. Till his teeth went into his soft, glowing brain.
Why couldn’t he sit down?
Tom, you’re starin.
Head, he said. H-h-ha.
What? What’re you sayin?
Car, he said.
What about the car?
Ahr, he said.
Staggering through shelters. Volleyball games. Across towels and glistening, leaping limbs. Towels. And scowls. Howls of outrage. The light rode right through him; through his eyes, his throat, into his belly and balls. At the steps he stumbled. Stuck. And someone caught him by the arm. Canting there.
Christ, she said. All I wanted was a breather.
Rippling steps. Leaning trees. Hot tar. The horizon lurching, oceanic. The car. The ground turning as he fell into the roasting interior. Round in circles, tighter loops and whirls. Gemma drove fast, spinning him into the roof, his lap, the green furze of golf links, screaming, slapping his belly through the cowling of his head.
Hours after the room stopped spinning, Keely lay on the couch, eyes tightly closed, throat burning, his fingers sore from holding on, unable to believe it was over. The house stank of disinfectant. A fan oscillated nearby, but he couldn’t think about oscillation or rotation of any sort, not now the vertigo had finally wandered away like a storm seeking carnage farther afield. The floor pulsed slightly, as if there were still a swell run
ning. But the turmoil was gone.
A car door slammed. Then another.
Don’t wake him up, said Gemma near the back door.
The fridge opened, closed with a rattle of bottles and jars. Keely dozed a moment, woke to the slight give in the cushion beside him. Heard the boy’s wheeze. When he opened his eyes Kai was there, studying him. Shirtless, pigeon-chested, his arms pitifully thin.
The car really stinks, said Kai.
Sorry.
Do you still feel crook?
I feel a bit better now, Keely croaked. Where’s your nan?
Kitchen. Look, said Kai, holding a book of some sort too close. It’s you.
Keely pressed the boy’s arm back gently and struggled to focus. It was an old clipping glued into a scrapbook. And there was his grinning face beside a startled Carnaby’s black cockatoo.
Where’d you get that?
The lady. Doris. It’s a whole book on you.
That’s a special bird, he murmured. Not many left.
Says it’s dangerous.
No, said Keely. Endangered. Means they might all die out.
Extinct.
That’s it.
The boy twitched the scrapbook back in order to peer at it again.
They mate for life, said Keely. They’re all left-handed.
Habitat, said the boy, quoting from the headline.
That’s the big problem.
For birds.
For all of us.
The boy drew his gaze from the clipping slowly. He examined Keely’s face, blinked.
Habitat, he said. Seven letters.
Extinct, said Keely. Also seven letters.
Kai peered at him, counting.
You think you can beat me? Keely said. Just cause I’ve had a bit of an ordinary day? Just because I’m not right in myself?
The boy lost command of his face a moment. His shy grin betrayed him.
Despite Doris’s best efforts, dinner was a subdued affair. Keely couldn’t tell whether Gemma resented having to cook or if she was simply nervous. The food was fine, but Keely had no appetite. He was still getting over his complete failure at Scrabble and Kai seemed crestfallen, even resentful. Things had started out normally enough, but a few minutes in Keely began making elementary mistakes. He couldn’t distinguish an E from an F. Ds and Bs confused him. Kai seemed to suspect him of playing dumb and looked more and more affronted, but for minutes at a time the letters of the game became inscrutable to Keely and it was difficult to tamp down his creeping panic. The call to dinner had come as something of a relief.