Snake Island

by Ben Hobson

  ‘You don’t mean that, mate.’

  Vernon looked away. ‘I bloody do.’

  Kelly sighed. ‘Anyway, just thought you should know. He could probably do with a visit from you. Or Penelope. Or both of you.’

  Vernon turned to regard his friend once more. ‘We don’t visit him. When he’s done in there he’s done and he can come back and be whatever he wants to be, but we’re not visiting him in there. He can bloody suffer for what he did and make amends for it that way. God knows, he won’t do it out here.’

  Kelly put his beer beside his chair and stood. He walked over to Vernon, sat on his haunches and in an act of intimacy put both hands on Vernon’s hands. ‘You have a think about what you just said to me. You have a think about all the things you’ve done in your life, and what it was like for you and your dad, and put yourself in your boy’s position. I’m not going to preach scripture to you, ’cause I know you hate it, but you just think what it’d be like for you if you were in there and what you’d do to make amends. And have a think about what it’ll be like for you when you’re dying and this is how you did this.’

  ‘Bloody alright. Get off me.’

  Kelly went back to his chair and sipped at his beer. ‘You have a think.’

  ‘Get all bloody girly on me, mate.’

  ‘You think about what you said.’

  ‘Get off it. I will. Alright? Bloody hell.’

  Penelope emerged, shoving open the sliding door. ‘Can you two stop your swearing out here? You’re not in the pub.’

  ‘Sorry, Pen,’ Kelly said.

  ‘You should be sorry.’

  ‘I wasn’t swearing though!’

  ‘Man of the cloth as you are.’

  ‘I’m not in the vestments now.’

  ‘You wear those robes even when you’re not wearing them and you know it.’

  He smiled. ‘I should get going.’ To Penelope he said, ‘I just came to tell Vernon here about Caleb. I saw him today.’

  Penelope’s face curled in. ‘We don’t talk to him.’

  ‘I know. Bit unlike you, though, Pen. Not sure how you live with it being that way.’ He stood up once more and said, ‘Thanks for the beer.’

  ‘No problem,’ Vernon said, but he didn’t stand to see his friend out. Penelope did not walk him to the front door. He heard it shut gently and Penelope, her arms still folded, walked back into the kitchen. Vernon continued to stare at the grave and then stood and walked over. In the dark it appeared like concrete beside the textured grass. He scuffed his foot over it. They’d had an argument here. He and Caleb. About something stupid, something small, and Caleb had stormed indoors. Was there goodness in this world? It didn’t seem there was. He sat down on his haunches and put his hands in the dirt.

  Later that night, the two of them in bed, he turned to his wife, who had a Woman’s Weekly in hand and her glasses on, and said, ‘You want to hear what he had to say about Caleb?’

  She didn’t say anything and he watched her. What had he done to her, this kind woman, to make her so angry? Was it him? He was too afraid to ask. Soon she said, ‘No. Thank you.’

  ‘He’s been hurt.’

  ‘I said I didn’t want to.’

  Vernon sighed. Rolled onto his back and looked at the ceiling. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Well, you’ll figure it out.’

  ‘What would you do?’

  ‘I’d shut up when my wife asked me to.’

  He took a moment before he said, ‘We’ve never really talked about it.’

  She put her magazine down and placed her hands on it. When she spoke she was measured, calm. ‘What do you want me to say?’

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose …’

  ‘You want me to say I hate him?’

  He just stared at her. He wondered at her emotionless voice.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he eventually said.

  She picked her magazine back up, flicked a page. ‘I think about him every day, Vernie. Every day. And I picture her … Mel’s face, you know? Her cheek, her nose. And I’m so ashamed of him. Everybody looks at me differently now.’

  He nodded. ‘Same with me.’

  ‘It’s not the same for you though, is it?’ Another quick page turn. ‘It’s not the same. When a child does something well the man is praised for his success. When something happens … anyway. I don’t need to get into all that. People should look at us different. That boy is our fault. What he did to Melissa … It might as well have been your hands around her throat.’

  He kept watching her. He didn’t understand how he had contributed to Caleb’s crime but her words hit him square in the guts. That pelican sacrificing its blood to feed its young, dying in the process, wasting away while they prospered. What had he truly given up? He’d just left him in there. His son.

  As she’d spoken there’d been no quaver in her voice, no water in her eyes. A deep and unclimbable chasm between them and all she would do was stare at it, it seemed. And walk away. From him. He turned his light off and shut his eyes, her light still ebbing its way into his consciousness. She did not bury herself into him the way she used to. That chasm. They’d never climb out of it.

  TWO

  CALEB MOORE

  A thought clawing at him. One he didn’t want to entertain. Behind his eyes, right there. A cat wanting to get at him, scratching at a door. A constant thing. He did his best to ignore it but it was always there. He should let it in, really. He deserved to be hurt. But the few times he had let it in he’d almost killed himself. Sitting there with the razor blade staring at him. Too much of a wimp to even remove it from the packet.

  The lot of them in front of him, kicking the footy around, kicking up dust: fellow prisoners garbed in muddy white. He’d finally been cleared to re-enter the normal rhythm of the prison after his stint in the hospital wing, so he sat watching. Trying not to think too hard on what he’d done. The same battle he’d faced the entirety of his sentence.

  Her face. When he’d struck her he hadn’t been right in the head. He’d come home from a hard day and she’d just been at him about something. And then his mind had left his body. The red mist, he’d heard it called. It hurt him, what she’d said, and he’d reacted.

  Utter rot. He’d hit her countless times. On multiple occasions. And been told off by the police. And done it again. And been locked up a few days. Repentance, sorrow when he got home. On his knees more than once, crying, running his hands over her bruises. Got a few beers in, the mates egging him on, his own insecurities and failures; the cycle born anew. She wouldn’t even need to say anything. Just look at him. And it was all her fault? You best accept you did it. You best accept and live with it. Was nothing to do with her. Was everything broken in you. You live with it. The least you can do.

  He scuffed at the dirt with his foot. Quit making excuses. Do what Reverend Kelly said. One of the blokes grabbed the ball and wheeled it about, showing off, being a tosser. Another shouldered into him, too rough. The boys were all soon shoving each other, throwing punches. Two guards walked in yelling, telling them to calm down, telling them they’d be locked in their rooms, no more exercise for them. Caleb only watched.

  What he wouldn’t do to take it back. His hands around her throat. Some part of him stopping before he killed her. But he could have. Could have wrenched her spirit from her body.

  There’d been no intention in what he’d done. In the midst of it there had been that other part of him, screaming at him. Watching his actions from behind a barrier. Like his body was fuelled by something else, another soul, just for that moment. And he’d watched her eyes bulge, watched her anger turn to fear, turn to terror. He was bigger than her, much bigger. In that moment he’d stolen something from her. The noise she’d made. This was after he’d scarred her face, smashed her nose. He grimaced now remembering it, still watching the fight breaking up, the boys resuming their game. The dust rising up behind the football. He’d never forget that noise.

  Thank God
he’d stopped. She’d been right to press charges and get them to stick that final time. Right to divorce him.

  The prisoner sitting beside him was too close for Caleb’s liking. He moved over to allow the man more room.

  ‘You ever wanna run?’ the bloke said. He turned to look at Caleb, squinting in the sun. He nodded towards the tree line beyond the field.

  ‘Every second,’ Caleb said. ‘Every bloody second.’

  ‘Hard not to,’ he said. ‘It’s right there.’

  ‘They’d catch you. Then extend your sentence another twelve months, send you someplace else.’

  ‘I know. They gave us the lecture.’

  Caleb sighed. ‘You new, then?’

  ‘What you think? You seen me before?’

  ‘Alright. Bloody hell.’

  The man looked apologetic. ‘Got here two days ago. They said ’cause I been good they were sending me here for the last six months. I don’t know. I don’t know how good I been.’

  Caleb willed the man to leave. The sun was setting slowly, bleeding out over the clouds. The men and their game would soon be cleared.

  ‘You going to play?’ the man asked.

  ‘No,’ Caleb said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Don’t deserve to.’

  The man laughed, the sound cruel. ‘You a poof?’

  The man’s laughter died when he saw Caleb would not respond and he stood and walked into the game, shouting about not getting a touch, pointing back at Caleb on the bench, the word faggot piercing the air.

  As he watched the bloke expertly claim the ball, Caleb thought of his father. He’d taught Caleb how to kick. He’d been patient and able. Hold both hands on top, mate, that’s it. Look where you want the ball to go and make sure both hands are out straight, like that. Lean forward, over it. The gruff determination. Caleb felt the sun go down. Soon he was rounded up, sent back to his room. Lying on his bunk again.

  The next day Caleb was at breakfast with the others when the governor stood up in front of them. He was a weak-looking man, pudgy around his arms. A weak-looking man unable to stand up to the Cahills. Hard to blame him, really. Still, hard not to hate him either.

  ‘We’ve been leading up to our Prisoners on the Run event for a bit now, so you blokes should be used to this speech, but I gotta give it again for the new blokes.’

  The man Caleb had been speaking to the day before put his hand up and said, ‘You letting us all go then, mate?’

  The governor’s voice rose above the din. ‘This is a special charity event we do each year. You only get to come if you’ve been on your best behaviour. We gotta be able to trust you. We take all of you out onto the road and go for a bit of a jog.’

  Daryl, from the back: ‘Like to see you jog, copper.’

  Nobody laughed this time.

  The governor said, ‘Hear the lack of laughter there, Daryl? I can let one joke go, but you keep disrespecting me …’ He looked at the man. The governor shifty before them all, like he saw within them the makings of an uprising. Trying to muster his courage, plain for all to see. Hitching his pants up, sticking his neck out. ‘You won’t be going at this rate, yeah? You treat us with respect like you know how––you wouldn’t be here otherwise––and you’ll go.’

  The governor let his eyes rest on Caleb a moment too long. Then he said, ‘Right. Finish your breakfast, everybody. We’ll do some exercise after.’

  The men groaned, the wailing of cattle led to the slaughter.

  ‘Now, now,’ the governor shouted. ‘You be good about it we’ll let you play another game after, same as yesterday.’

  The groaning soon subsided. As the governor reached the door he looked back at Caleb, his mouth gripped tight. Then he turned and let them be.

  Later Caleb was on his bed, staring at the ceiling, doing his best to keep his thoughts at bay, focusing instead on the weatherboards, the sound of the plumbing in another room. Ignoring the sound of her in his mind.

  The beating that had led to the bruise around his neck, the marks across his chest, his aching leg had happened over a week ago. Brendan Cahill had shown up one day out of the blue, striding into his room. Paid off or intimidated the governor. Brendan had never liked him at school, and was still acting like he owned the joint, the way Caleb remembered. Sauntering in with a cricket bat, though he hadn’t used it. Just threatened with it, shouting, thudding it against the walls. Asking Caleb if he knew why he’d come. Caleb still had no idea. Instead of the bat he’d used his fists, relishing the sound they made as they struck Caleb. Caleb wasn’t guessing; Brendan had told him, bragged about it.

  Thing was, Caleb deserved it. Maybe Brendan was God striking him, pummelling him, making his flesh purple and yellow, green as it healed. Maybe it was God raising his cheeks up, swelling the left eye until it was just a slit through which he couldn’t see. Retribution from on high.

  Now he was sitting on his bed just waiting. That was the worst of it. Brendan had said he’d be back. Hadn’t said when. The door unlocked. The unguarded forest just near. Some fellas had run off only months before. They’d been caught. They were all caught eventually.

  This fear, though? Same thing he’d done to her. Same exact thing. Melissa waiting at home for him to return, probably feeling this same terror. Hoping that he’d changed. Despair when she heard his angry footsteps. When she saw his eyes.

  He stared at the ceiling, rubbed at his own eyes. Where was the evil born in you? Dad had been Dad. He’d been alright. Never struck him, nothing beyond a smack. Never struck their mother. He hadn’t been exactly kind, though. Just a numb type of anger whenever Caleb got something wrong. That or complete apathy. One of those dads who sat in the car the duration of their son’s footy game instead of cheering on from the sidelines. Yet he’d taught him how to kick. Even now Caleb didn’t really know his father. Couldn’t tell what made the man tick. What he valued.

  This again. Why he never let the cat in. As soon as he did it was endless misery. There was nobody else to blame for his actions but himself. What was he thinking? That because his father hadn’t said nice words to him Caleb beat his wife? Maybe there wasn’t some grand reason, some deep philosophy. Maybe he was just an arsehole, deep down, right in the pit of him. Kelly had said God doesn’t make mistakes but maybe he had when he’d made Caleb.

  Hopefully Reverend Kelly had told his father about Brendan. He prayed his father would be coming. Please God. Even though he didn’t deserve mercy, he prayed.

  He heard the door at the end of the hall open and then two sets of footsteps. He knew them instantly. Angry eyes soon stared at him through the window in his door. Caleb sat up.

  ‘You going to let me in or what?’ the voice said. Brendan. In his eyes a greedy joy.

  The governor’s voice nearby. ‘You remember now, don’t hurt him too bad.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’

  ‘I mean it. Nothing permanent. None of that bruising you gave him last time. Hard to explain when higher-ups come and visit.’

  There was a window in his room above his bed. He scrambled at the latch, trying to fumble it open. The cat had returned, running wild, chaos within. He the brainless mouse.

  The governor, after a moment, said, ‘What are you waiting for?’

  Brendan said, ‘You to unlock the door.’

  ‘It’s not locked. It’s minimum security,’ the governor said.

  Brendan laughed. The sound of the door opening. Caleb still scrambling at the latch. Two thick hands quickly grabbed his shoulders. Feet kicked at his calves. He called out ‘Governor!’ as he fell back onto the bed, but the governor wasn’t there. He went down on his stomach, Brendan’s knees in his mid-section. A couple of slaps on the neck, almost playful.

  ‘You figured it out yet?’

  Caleb breathed heavily, unable to move, feeling the sweat. ‘No.’

  A harder slap. A real wallop, making his skin sting. Then: ‘You know why I’m here?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘C
ome on, dickhead.’

  A pause. Caleb rushed out, ‘Something I did at school?’

  Brendan’s voice and his breath were dark in Caleb’s ear. Sticky. ‘Mel’s back. And I ran into her. I saw her face. I saw what you did.’

  What felt like a brick smacked into the back of his skull. His face plunged into the mattress. He had to move his jaw. A throb, a constant throb. Something somehow aching all the way to his knuckles.

  ‘I’m sorry, okay?’ Caleb said, almost repulsed by his own desperation. He tried to buck the bigger man off, felt useless, roped like a goat. ‘I’m sorry!’

  ‘I don’t give a shit what you are.’

  Then, in a swift movement involving his knee, Brendan wrenched back on Caleb’s hand, and snapped it at the wrist.

  THREE

  SIDNEY CAHILL

  He held his little girl above his head and waved her back and forth as though she were a doll. She laughed and giggled, a sound from so deep within her whole body shook. Her little chin sucked down into her chest as she tried to escape her laughing, his tickling fingers. He splashed her back into the water, her little feet kicking at the surface. He swept her back and forth and made noises for her. The water pretty cold off the mountain in the low light of afternoon. He didn’t care. Neither of them did. Boolarra, this sanctuary, was where he often travelled to escape his family. The sound of the waterfall did something to soothe him. His daughter seemed to share his happiness. Though they’d have to stop coming soon. Getting a bit too cold this close to Easter. He’d enjoy it while he could.

  He scooped her from the cold and cradled her to his bare chest. The slight breeze cooled the water even more. She laid her head against his chest hair. He imagined her hearing the thud of his heart. If only he could make it stronger, so that she might better hear it.

  Soon Sidney and his daughter were resting together on the bank of the creek in which Boolarra steadily dumped its contents. He was on his back, Amy crawling through pebbles. He smacked her hand as she grabbed one and put it in her mouth and she looked so offended, her little lip down-turning, that he laughed, and provoked in her the same. This was heaven for him. How he pictured the perfect afterlife. No pressure from anybody and just the time to simply be.