Snake Island

by Ben Hobson

  He leaned back. Seemed contented, then concerned. ‘Don’t mean to scare you. You alright?’

  Pity, again. She can’t even be threatened without being put in cottonwool. She tried a laugh. ‘Get off it.’

  ‘Never know with you women, eh?’

  She wanted to rip his face apart with her bare hands and scream into the nothing left behind.

  Instead she said, ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You understand the seriousness of what I said?’

  ‘Yeah. I get you. It’ll be fine.’

  ‘Good,’ Ernie said. He finished his beer, stood up. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘Let’s go see your man.’

  She walked home with Roger, keeping an eye on him as he swerved onto the street, no doubt waking people up with his noise. She was ashamed to be married to him.

  ‘I’ll have to arrest you at this rate,’ she said.

  He swerved back to her from the street, tripping over the gutter as he did so. He wobbled into a fence, had to put his hands out to stop himself falling into rose bushes. Leaning over as if to retch, he started coughing. There was no vomit though; her husband notorious for holding his grog.

  ‘You won’t arrest me,’ he said, spitting a bit. He was breathing like an old man on an inhaler. His back arched.

  She refused to help him home. Let him lurch into traffic, pound his face into the asphalt. Cars flattening him like that book she used to read to Peter. Flat Stanley. Flattened by a painting. Mailed himself to other countries.

  No sooner had they reached their gate than a car honked from the driveway opposite. She unlatched the rusted mechanism, her husband toppling as his full weight upon the swinging metal careened him into the concrete. He was face down, laughing. Across the road was Leroy, his old schoolfriend and one of the bloody mongrels he got around with. A number of times he’d been in her jail, locked up drunk. Her husband would have been locked up too, were he not her husband.

  Roger got to his feet, smacked her on the back. Threw an arm around her waist and pulled her close. His breath hot and vomitous. He punched into her lips with his own, sucking violently. She shoved him off.

  ‘You going out again, are you?’

  ‘My boy’s eighteen,’ he said. ‘Too right I am. My shout too. Not much good you getting all that cash from Cahill if we’re not going to spend it, is there?’

  She wanted to throttle him, choke the words back into his throat.

  ‘We’ll just go to Jared’s,’ he said as he flopped across the street. ‘Don’t wait up.’ The car’s tail-lights came on as he climbed into the passenger seat. Old Leroy was probably as drunk as her husband. The car reversed down the driveway and powered down the street. Her anger and hatred made her feel ashamed. Then came shock and sadness. How desperately she wanted that car to plough full-speed into another.

  FIVE

  SIDNEY CAHILL

  He was outside in the shed, thick in the air the smell of marijuana and plastic. The forgotten radio blaring. He hadn’t turned it off, lost in the rhythm of his work.

  There was an art to what he did. The process long and complicated. He washed his hands three times, careful to rinse them free of soap. Cut the buds carefully and placed them in little plastic bags. He used a vacuum sealer his father had ordered to suck the air out. Then he stuffed them deep within empty jars they’d bought over the summer. Tomato paste jars, hundreds of them, all then packed into boxes and stowed in the boot of his father’s old Commodore. It wouldn’t stand up to much scrutiny but Melbourne apparently wanted it done this way. Sidney didn’t know why and if his father knew, he’d never explained. The Cahills did this work their end and got paid a little extra. To his father, it was worth it. Put a dollop of tomato paste over the whole lot to hide what was left of the smell. Fool the dogs.

  He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. It was the middle of Victoria in the middle of autumn, but the shed had a climate controller for the plants and hydroponic lights dangling from the ceiling. Constant humidity at 70 per cent. He took a moment, found a beer in the bar fridge and sat down on the old red couch, staring in despair at the dope still to be packed in bottles. He sipped his beer, wished for a fan. His wife was nowhere to be seen.

  But his father was standing in the doorway. No telling how long he’d been there. He edged his way in slowly, like a snail, making a show of it. The fluorescent light above shone off his dome. He soon stood before his son, arms outstretched. ‘Thought you might want to at least try to look busy before I came in.’

  ‘You know I’ve been working, Dad. Look in the boot.’

  ‘Just you out here?’

  ‘Brendan worked all day.’

  ‘Your little one alright?’

  ‘Yeah, she’s alright.’

  ‘She with her mum?’

  Sidney nodded.

  ‘Good that. You two alright?’

  ‘Yeah, why?’

  His father rocked back on his heels. ‘You two sometimes get into it a bit.’

  ‘No more than you and Mum.’

  ‘You gotta teach a woman where her place is, mate. Your mum and I get into it but she knows when I put my foot down, that’s all there is.’

  ‘Dad …’

  ‘You gotta listen to ’em for a bit just to let them know you’ve heard ’em, you know, make them feel important. But then you gotta do what’s right. Without leadership a marriage will falter. Believe me.’

  Sidney wasn’t sure how he felt about all that.

  ‘You got another beer?’ his father asked. He sat down on the couch and waited to be served. Sidney retrieved another can from the fridge. His father cracked it open, took a swig. He shuffled an empty milk crate from beside the couch to out in front of him and plonked his booted feet upon it and leaned back. His father, it seemed, was always comfortable, no matter where he was. The same comfort Sidney felt whenever he was at Boolarra.

  ‘How was it?’ Sidney asked.

  ‘The party? You know. Alright.’ He shook his head. ‘Bloody Sharon, though. I feel sorry for her, married to that useless git. But it’s her choice, isn’t it?’

  ‘Did he make a speech?’

  ‘Not a word, mate. His own son. I said the bloody words. Somebody had to. Amazing that boy turned out alright. Mongrel dad, useless-as-tits-on-a-bull mum.’ He drank, and looked around the shed. ‘You alright with all this? Doing it by yourself? You want a hand?’

  ‘You never help with this part.’

  ‘I know. Starting to regret offering.’

  Sidney laughed. ‘No. I’d love the help.’

  ‘You going to do the rest of it tomorrow before pickup?’

  ‘This isn’t all of it?’

  ‘Nah, mate,’ his father said. ‘This is just the boot-full. Brendan didn’t tell you we were filling the back up this time too? And there’s new plants we need to tend to, get them in the humidifier.’

  ‘No, he didn’t.’

  His father nudged him. ‘Don’t look so bloody downtrodden, mate. You don’t work that hard.’

  ‘You’re in a good mood.’

  Normally Sidney blamed his father for everything, stoked the resentment like a bonfire. His mother’s unhappiness, his brother’s dominance. But, he realised suddenly, his father was trying his best. His father was a crook, but he cared for his family. They were wholly sheltered beneath his outstretched wings. Never mind what violence the beak was rendering beyond them. Painful to think about, that. He didn’t want to disappoint him, though. Sidney thought about all the compromises he’d made each day of his daughter’s life. Weren’t his father’s actions an extension of that?

  ‘Did you ever think about getting out of all this?’ Sidney finished the beer and chucked the can in the oil drum beside the fridge.

  ‘What, the plants and Melbourne and all that?’

  ‘Yeah. You know, on account of having kids?’

  ‘You kids were why I started. I haven’t been doing it that long.’

  ‘I can’t remember when we weren’
t growing.’

  ‘I suppose,’ his father said. ‘We started when you were little.’

  ‘You didn’t think this would be bad for us?’

  ‘How would it be bad?’

  ‘Because it’s illegal? You didn’t think about if you got caught? What if you got caught? We’re all little and we’re left alone without a dad. You ever think about that?’

  His father sighed. ‘You asking all this thinking of your daughter?’

  ‘I am, a bit.’

  ‘I bet you look at her little face while she’s sleeping and think to yourself you’d do anything for her. That she has your whole heart in her chubby little fist. I bet you think that.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Well. Same deal. I’d do anything for you and your brother, your sister. Your little girl,’ his father said in his soft voice. He did not look at Sidney. ‘I wanted to set you up and farming is a bloody garbage life to lead. Up at three o’clock every damn day, milking cows, in at night at seven. No rest. No weekends. I worked that for years, watched my old man work it too. I didn’t want that for you kids.’

  ‘So you grew marijuana?’

  His father laughed. ‘What else am I supposed to do with all this land? My aim is in a few years we can retire the agistments altogether. Just grow weed. It’s easy, really. Bit of a process, but we have a good system now. Except this bit. This bit’s still better than milking, though.’ Then the old man stood and clapped his son on the knee. ‘Come on, mate. Let’s get it done.’

  The two of them worked side by side well into the night. Neither spoke. Both entered an old rhythm the two of them had almost completely forgotten. Beneath the wash of the lights, as his father vacuum-sealed the plants, Sidney stole a glance and saw in his father all that had made him. This was all he’d ever stack up to be. You keep giving up parts of yourself, you end up as far down the track as it’ll take you.

  He snuck into their bedroom in the early hours. His wife was sound asleep, snoring lightly. The hazy smell of cannabis in the air. His daughter asleep in her crib, on her tummy.

  He leaned over and watched her breathing. Her arms were up and curled inward. Fine, dark curls, not nearly enough to cover her scalp completely. There was a bald spot on the back of her head, where she used to sleep. She loved being on her front now. In the darkness she was mostly shadow but he saw all these little details clear as day. He laid a hand on her and wished her goodness, before he clambered into bed beside his wife and fell asleep himself.

  SIX

  VERNON MOORE

  When he woke, his wife was already up. He found her in the kitchen staring at her coffee, not drinking, two pieces of apricot-jammed toast before her, unbitten. Her face appeared ancient and she herself barely breathing. He approached her with care.

  ‘You alright?’

  She came to and looked at him. ‘Yes. Sorry. Just thinking.’

  ‘About what?’

  His dark blue dressing gown swished against his ankles pleasantly as he reached for the loaf of bread in the basket. He put in his toast and scooped some coffee granules into his mug, trying not to think of what she’d said the night before.

  ‘You know. Just thinking.’

  ‘About Caleb?’

  Her face drew inward in that way she had. ‘No,’ she said. A shuddered breath in, and out. ‘No, I was thinking about whether to go to bowls again. Nothing important.’ She forced a smile. ‘What’re you doing?’

  Vernon poured boiling water into his mug. Against his better judgement, he said, ‘Going to see Caleb.’

  ‘Oh. You’re seeing him.’

  She had slouched. Shoulders down, back arched. Defeated, if he had to guess. Her anger absent now.

  She had forgiven their boy all his childhood wrongs, all the things he’d said to her, that time he’d decked another kid at school, the time he’d stolen. When Vernon had taken a hand to him—or had it been his belt?—she’d been there afterwards to comfort him. His little fists in balls behind her back. At the time he thought her weak. Making him grow up a wimp. But now he knew her kindness had been necessary. The boy needed to know he was loved.

  But not after hitting Melissa in the face. Not after he’d fractured her nose. The boy had hardened his mother. Vernon had thought she’d go support their son, offer her solidarity, sit beside him in the jail cell, stand behind him at the trial. But neither of them went. She hadn’t been once to see him in prison. It was like he’d never left her womb. Like he’d never existed. And they’d never talked about it. Just fallen into this new routine.

  ‘Yes,’ he finally said, ‘Bill coming out here got me thinking about him. He’s been in there two years. I think he’s suffered enough.’

  She pushed her coffee forwards. ‘No amount of suffering is enough.’

  ‘Come on, Pen.’

  Her shoulders were up again now. Resolute once more.

  He added, ‘Bill wouldn’t’ve said anything if Caleb didn’t need us for something. He’s not one to stick his nose in.’

  She had that empty stare again. Hard to tell what she was thinking. ‘Don’t expect me to come.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I know.’

  ‘So you’ve forgiven him?’

  He thought. ‘I think … I don’t know. I don’t know if I have. But he’s our son, isn’t he? We can’t just leave him there. Can we? If it’s partly my fault, like you said, then it’s my job to help fix it.’ He paused, breathing hard. She wouldn’t meet his eyes. ‘Do you want me to take him something from you?’

  At last she seemed to soften. Her face fell and she looked about, as though confused. ‘No. I mean … I don’t know what I’d … No.’

  They finished their breakfast in silence. He watched the clock on the wall, thinking about his boy. Nearly two years since he’d seen him. The same anger Penelope seemed to still hold had been present in him too since the trial. But his boy was suffering. Had been suffering. Your boy suffering and all you do is think of how it affects you. He’s a separate person from you and he’s your job and you abandoned him. Man up and do your damn job.

  He was showering when she headed out for bowls in her freshly ironed whites. She looked in on him and said, ‘Did we do the right thing? Leaving him in there for so long without visiting?’

  ‘No. I don’t think we did.’

  Boodyarn prison was bordered by a sheep farm. A dozen or so animals stood beneath a shelter, eating from feed troughs. Their black faces were in stark contrast to their white fluffy bodies. Vernon walked along the track, having parked the car at a distance, and watched them as they bleated and butted into one another. Stupid things.

  The prison building was bland. Being minimum security, there were no big fences, none of the claptrap he associated with prisons from television. Just a few solitary weatherboard cottages, a dirt yard, an administration building. All bleached white in the sun. The football field behind the prison was parched brown, lacking grass. Vernon had never visited before, had only seen the place from a distance as he drove through Boodyarn, had looked in its direction and longed for Caleb to not need this punishment. It looked no better close up.

  He stood before the administration building’s front door. Dark green, sturdy wood. He leaned against it and bowed his head. If he was a praying man, perhaps he would have prayed. Then he entered.

  It looked like an old hospital administration area. There were cracks in the weatherboards lining the walls, in the linoleum floor. The fan above him dusty with disuse. There was a middle-aged woman behind the desk, which looked like a fold-out table, messy with paper. She looked at him and smiled. ‘Yes?’

  He shuffled forward, noting the smell of dust. ‘I’m here to see a prisoner.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘you know visiting hours don’t start for another hour?’

  ‘Oh. No, I didn’t know.’

  She smiled. Maybe mid-thirties. ‘I’ll speak to the governor.’

  She went out through a rear door and he sat on a blue plastic chair a
nd put his hands on his knees. Should’ve worn something warmer.

  She soon returned and held the door open for him. ‘Governor said it’d be alright, seeing as you’re the only visitor today that we know of. But he said not to get used to it and to come in visiting hours next time.’ Still the smile. ‘Come on in.’

  ‘You don’t know who I want to see.’

  ‘Sure I do. You’re Mr. Moore, right?’

  He nodded.

  ‘I’m Garry Wamboldt’s sister. Eve.’

  He smiled, walked toward her. ‘Eve Wamboldt?’

  ‘You taught Garry woodwork.’

  ‘That was a while ago.’

  ‘Twenty years ago. It was a while,’ she smiled.

  ‘Whatever happened to Garry?’

  ‘He’s a coroner, over in Trenton.’

  As they walked down a corridor she said, ‘Your son Caleb is in the infirmary. He got a bit banged up yesterday and needed some stitches. And his wrist got broken.’

  ‘What happened?’

  She kept walking, and he kept to her side. They passed a few doorways he refused to gawk through. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

  ‘You sound like you know.’

  She breathed in. ‘I want to help, but I can’t.’

  ‘But you do know?’

  She said not a word.

  ‘Is he alright?’

  ‘He’s through here.’ She nodded towards a door but seemed loathe to touch it. ‘Go on. I’ll be waiting out in the reception. Take as long as you like.’

  He put his hand on the door. He pushed it open and walked inside.

  His son beneath a blanket on a bed, seated upright. He looked skinnier. His torso was exposed. As Vernon entered, Caleb turned to face his visitor. Upon seeing his father his face crumpled, like it had as a boy and he’d done something wrong. There was a question in his eyes. He leaned forwards and seemed to struggle a bit with a tube connected to his arm. He was all flurried, like a caught rat.