Snake Island

by Ben Hobson

‘You Melbourne?’ he asked.

  The figure did not respond and in that moment Sidney knew he was in trouble. Then he saw the barrel of a rifle—or was it a shotgun?—dangled against the figure’s leg.

  ‘I’m not Melbourne,’ he said. ‘Get back in your car.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  The gun was lifted and pointed at his chest.

  ‘Car.’

  ‘Alright, alright,’ Sidney said. He raised his arms and stepped towards his car. ‘Can I open the door?’

  ‘Bloody get bloody in the car, mate. And sit there.’

  Sidney opened the door carefully and slumped in without the aid of his hands. The figure in the dark walked around to the other side of the car and tried the handle, found the door locked. He tapped patiently on the window with the butt of the shotgun. Sidney leaned over and flicked up the lock. The man opened the door and got in.

  Sidney put both hands on the steering wheel.

  ‘What’s your name?’ the man asked. ‘You Sidney?’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Are you the one hitting my boy?’ The man shifted in the seat so that the shotgun was resting on his lap and pointing right at Sidney’s thigh. ‘Or you the other one?’

  ‘I’m Sidney. I don’t know what you’re on about.’

  ‘Right. You’re the other one.’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘You drive home, then.’

  ‘What, with you in here?’

  The old man nodded. In the difficult light Sidney could now almost see his face and it was weathered and firm. No hint of panic. ‘I want you to drive home.’

  ‘You know who I am?’

  ‘You just said you were Sidney.’

  ‘Sidney Cahill.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘But do you know who I am?’

  ‘You just bloody said that, mate. Get the car started.’

  ‘I mean, do you know who my dad is?’

  ‘I imagine he’s old Ernie Cahill.’ The old man lifted the barrel of the shotgun slightly. ‘Have you noticed I have a gun on you?’

  ‘You’re not going to shoot me.’

  ‘Just start the car, would you?’

  Sidney fumbled, had to lift his arse from the seat to get the keys from his pocket.

  ‘What’re you doing?’ the old man said.

  ‘Getting the keys out.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  Sidney stuck them in the ignition and the engine turned over. The car sprang to life, the headlights illuminating the old man’s car in front of his. If he’d had his headlights on Sidney would’ve seen the shabbiness of the vehicle. Plain as day he wasn’t from Melbourne.

  ‘You sure you want to do this?’

  The old man leaned back again. ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Knowing who my old man is?’

  ‘We established this already.’

  ‘Knowing what he’ll do to you?’

  ‘He won’t do anything to me.’

  ‘You know why I’m out here?’

  The old man lifted his head from the headrest and stared at Sidney. ‘I imagine something nefarious.’

  ‘Something nefarious? What’s that?’

  ‘I’m not an idiot. I didn’t just stumble onto you out here in the dark, sitting in your car. I know why you’re here.’

  ‘My old man is going to kill you.’

  ‘He won’t,’ the old man said.

  ‘I’m just watching out for you.’

  He grunted, clearly fed up. ‘Start the car.’

  ‘It’s already started.’

  ‘I mean put it in bloody gear and drive home, like I asked.’

  Sidney looked down the end of the road, hoping somebody would show. Nobody did. He put the car in first and crunched down the dirt, the old man’s shotgun trained on his legs.

  Sidney risked the occasional glance and noticed this man was quite relaxed, despite all that was ahead of him. He was wearing the clothes of the elderly, had his white hair combed. Looked like he was maybe seventy, an old sixty.

  Sidney said, as they rounded another corner. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I told you what I want.’

  ‘No, you didn’t.’

  The old man grunted, sat up a bit. ‘Your brother Brendan has been beating my boy up. I’m going to get him to stop.’

  Sidney took a moment, looked at the fence as he travelled beside it. Looked again at the shed he and his brother used to muck around in as it grew smaller in the rearview mirror. ‘This won’t help. This won’t stop Brendan. It’ll just make him dig his heels in further, keep on doing whatever he’s doing.’

  ‘I’m not going to talk to Brendan. I’m going to talk to your dad.’

  ‘This won’t help with Dad, either.’

  ‘Well,’ the old man said, ‘I reckon I don’t give a shit. I have a shotgun and I have you.’

  Sidney shook his head, raised his shoulders, tried to look annoyed. Bloody Brendan and his impulses. Wasn’t the first time he’d landed them in trouble. Sidney didn’t doubt for a second that the old man’s grievances were justified.

  ‘So what was I going to do?’ the old man said. ‘Go to the cops? Sharon Wornkin? She’s worse than your old man. In your old man’s pocket. So what could I do? You tell me.’

  Sidney shrugged again.

  ‘You know how bloody rude that is, just shrugging like that?’

  ‘You have a shotgun pointed at my leg, so maybe don’t lecture me on manners.’

  This made the old man laugh. ‘Have a bit of respect, mate. At least respect the gun,’ he said, and hefted it. Looked out the window. ‘I’m going to try to appeal to your dad’s sense of being a dad. A father, you know, like me.’

  ‘He won’t much like you having a shotgun on me.’

  The old man did nothing for a moment and then he removed the shotgun from his lap and laid it on the floor of the backseat, in front of all the boxes of tomato paste jars full of weed. ‘There.’

  ‘You’re trusting.’

  ‘Not really.’

  Sidney thought of his daughter again and what he would do if she were threatened and he knew that this man beside him was exercising restraint; that he, Sidney, would not be so reserved, that he would be right in the face of whoever was doing harm to Amy and he would not just be holding a bloody gun, he’d be pulling the trigger and reloading the shells and pulling it again until he was out of ammunition. The violence he felt at the mere thought was enough to make Sidney sympathise. He looked again at the old man and understood what was making him tick. He knew what he aimed to do and was confident his intentions were good, despite the gun, despite being on the end of it.

  They passed a stone memorial on their left that Sidney had never stopped to properly look at. As they rounded a bend a kangaroo stared at them in the headlights from the side of the road. Sidney slowed as they passed and the kangaroo flicked its ears and he kept on. He sped up without noticing the kangaroo on the opposite side of the road. The sound of the engine revving startled it into action and before he was able to nudge at the brakes it bounded in front of them.

  Both men were slammed forwards. Sidney’s face smashed into the dashboard. The kangaroo, limbs flailing, collided with the windscreen. There was a cacophony of destroyed glass. He was thrown back and surrounded by shrieking, half of it from him. The old man was gone, swallowed in the chaos. All Sidney could see was fur and all he could smell was animal. He’d somehow managed to slam on the brakes. The car swerved and screeched. The kangaroo was still alive. It clawed and thrummed its legs at Sidney’s chest through the space where the windscreen had been. He knew his chest was gashed by its claws. He tried to look, to not look. He pushed back at it, hands sticky with blood. No telling where the creature’s head was, what were its legs. He just felt a whirring like a chainsaw against his arm, the left, his chest. He fought again breath.

  The car stopped and the animal kept kicking. Sporadic, seconds between thrums. Sidney breathed and fought against
his weakness but knew the animal had him pinned. Somehow, though, it soon fell off him, out of the car. He slumped back into his seat and looked at the roof of the car and looked at his hand smeared with red. Amy—the last thought clear in his head before he forgot everything.

  ELEVEN

  VERNON MOORE

  The kid stopped speaking and instead seemed to concentrate all his energy on driving. His hands fixed to the wheel, gripping it hard. Both hands. Like he was still learning. Ten and two o’clock. Vernon remembered briefly teaching Caleb. The kid––Sidney, he said his name was––was going a bit fast round the bends considering the poor traction on the dirt, but Vernon was giving him the benefit of the doubt. Had driven it thousands of times probably. The gun on the floor behind was small comfort but he knew now the kid was unarmed, would have reached for something if he had it. The car was a dump, full of boxes and mess, old cling wrap scrunched up and thrown in balls near his feet.

  Vernon shifted his weight in the seat. He didn’t want violence. Just an audience. Just a sit-down, man to man, with Ernie. He wouldn’t even bring the gun in. Just the kid.

  They rounded a bend and Vernon saw the kangaroos, saw a lot of them munching their grass, saw one of them bound towards the car. The kid, in that instant, was looking in the other direction and Vernon saw the collision before it happened. He managed to duck before the car slammed into the kangaroo, his arms braced against the dashboard for impact. The thunderous smash of glass and the grunting of the animal and the swerving of the car. Vernon held onto the door handle with one hand, put the other on the handbrake. The kid was being pummelled. The massive hind legs of the animal were cartwheeling against his chest and in the dark with his head back and his mouth open he was screaming like a child. As the car slowed, Vernon opened his door, the kangaroo’s tail smacking into his head. He fell with an awkward thud onto the dirt. It didn’t take long for the car to stop completely.

  He levered himself up and hobbled as quick as he could to the front of the car, his old knees aching. The kangaroo was still on the bonnet. One of its eyes was bulging out, almost out of the socket. He grabbed at its fur and pushed it off the car. It was so impaled in the metal he had to lift it a bit. It flopped onto the dirt and lay there kicking, its tail rigid, quaking, its eyes unseeing. Just black glossy dots amid the mess. Its legs were all bent.

  He looked through the smashed windshield and saw the kid in there breathing in big hurried gasps. There was blood coating his chest, soaking his flannel shirt so that it was reflective like the eye of the roo. No moonlight in the car though. His eyes were shut in a grimace, his teeth bared. But he was breathing.

  Vernon opened the door and the kid fell onto the road, stirring dust, jarring his arm. He didn’t speak. Maybe he was unconscious. ‘Mate?’ Vernon asked, and flipped him onto his back. ‘You alright?’

  The kid didn’t answer, holding his arm to his chest, moaning.

  ‘Let me look, mate.’

  Vernon tried to move the arm but found it gripped there with a strength he had not guessed at in the kid. He tried to coax it and was reminded of the war. The kid held it steady.

  From his position he looked at the roo. Its legs had slowed, but it was still grunting, breathing hurried like the kid. It would be in pain.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Vernon said. ‘Bloody hell.’

  He scratched his head and sat and thought on his options. He looked at the roo again and walked round and opened the back door of the car and found his shotgun. He brought it out, looked around, looked at the kid. Levering down the barrel, he upended it so the two shells fell into his hands. He reloaded them.

  The roo in its glassiness regarding him with all of its life and the life of its ancestors and all that it had been and all that it might have become. Vernon put the shotgun right on that bulging eye and thumbed back the hammer and squeezed the trigger. The animal bucked as the pellets sprayed into its skull and all that it had been and all it would become became a sodden mess, soaking the dirt. The sound so loud in the still night Vernon thought he’d woken the dead. The kangaroo’s skull was no longer there. Just bits of bone, some flesh, in a strange mosaic. Its chest still moved. The horrifying sound of its windpipe still sucking air. Vernon swallowed. Limped to the car and threw the gun on the boxes in the back.

  He returned to the kid and sat down on the track. ‘You right, mate?’

  Still nothing.

  ‘You reckon the car’ll go?’ He studied it. The headlights were off. One was smashed in by the look of it, but the engine was still idling. For a moment he just watched the breeze waft the leaves. He shook his head, scolded himself and hobbled to the car.

  Sinking into the vinyl of the driver’s seat, he put the car in gear. It groaned forwards; the sound, briefly, of scraping metal. There was something stuck beneath one of the front tyres. It scraped over the road as it travelled, but soon came free. He flicked the headlights on and was surprised to find the left one still functional. The dirt road before him now white-washed with dark shadows and nothing else behind the trees on either side. He put the car in neutral and walked back to Sidney in the dirt.

  The kid struggled. Vernon levered him up by the crook of the arms and Sidney groaned and kicked weakly, still gripping his arm to his chest. He was a big heavy dangling weight to drag around to the passenger seat. Again, the war. Too old, damn it, too old. The small of Vernon’s back was dogging him and his bad knees grew more and more pained. It took him some time, and all the while he was worried that beneath the kid’s shirt there was a cavity of open wounds, a beating heart. Because if this kid was dead then so was Vernon and so was his family, and beyond that he had done something awful, hurting this kid. Bloody hell. He stopped and stretched his back, a slight relief from the weight. Don’t worry about the next bloody thing during the thing you should be worrying about. Worry about the next thing next.

  He slumped the kid into the passenger seat and levered in his legs. Sidney’s arm had not left his chest. ‘You right, mate?’ Vernon tried again to lever up the pincered arm and again was unsuccessful. It looked a right mess. He tried to jog from the passenger side to his and only managed his awkward shuffle. He climbed in and took off down the road, hoping to God Sidney would wake up enough to tell him the way.

  The farmstead was all darkness. As he approached he dimmed the lights and slowed to a crawl. Before he got too close he stopped the car. The kid was breathing raggedly next to him and between his clenched fist, across his chest, oozed a sticky mess. He’d managed to provide weak directions but beyond that he’d just been moaning. In the dark his blood the colour of ink spilled from a pen.

  ‘I’m going to take you in and get you some help. But I want you to tell your old man what happened. What really happened.’

  The kid laughed a bit and coughed. ‘You mean, you bringing me home at gunpoint?’

  ‘Yeah. That if you want to. But also the kangaroo. That’s not my doing.’

  The kid only sat back and shook his head and clenched his teeth harder, judging by the muscle in his jaw.

  Vernon put the car in gear and drove to the front of the house. At one end of the verandah a pig carcass swinging like it had been smacked.

  He shut the engine off. Opened the car door and stood next to it. Almost immediately exploding from the house came Ernie. Storming down the driveway, his cheeks red, easy to see even in the night. Vernon reached into the back seat, took the shotgun and was quick to bring it up, aiming it at the man’s chest. Vernon limped towards him hesitantly.

  ‘Ernie. Ernie!’ Vernon said.

  Ernie did not appear to see the shotgun until he was almost upon the car. He stopped in his tracks, scuffing the dirt.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘Well,’ Vernon said, suddenly indecisive.

  ‘You intend to use that thing or hold it there like you’re watering the bloody garden?’

  Vernon looked in at the boy in his car, shifted his weight from his worst knee to his less worse. With
out moving the gun he said, ‘Your boy’s in there.’

  ‘Where the hell’s the windscreen?’ Ernie said. He leaned into the car. ‘You alright in there, son?’

  ‘I’m alright.’ Then a grunt. ‘No. Not really. I’m not.’

  Ernie, with a contained ferocity Vernon found himself intimidated by, said, ‘Did you hurt my boy?’

  ‘No, mate, we hit a roo coming back.’

  ‘Coming back?’

  ‘Yeah. Coming back.’

  He leaned in again and said to Sidney, ‘Who is this bastard?’

  ‘He had a gun on me.’

  ‘So you didn’t see Melbourne?’

  A groan. ‘Just get me out, would you?’

  ‘He has the gun on me now, mate, case you can’t see.’

  ‘He won’t use it. Just get me out.’

  Ernie looked at Vernon and seemed to assess him, like he would assess cattle. He said, ‘You let me get my boy out.’

  ‘You asking? Or saying?’

  He was already moving to the car door. ‘Saying.’

  ‘Don’t you bloody move, mate.’ And although Vernon had the gun trained on him, Ernie opened the car door and helped his son out. Sidney winced again as he was scooped out. He had an arm across his father’s shoulders. Fury in his eyes for Vernon.

  They started to move to the house and Ernie said, ‘You better hope it was a bloody roo, old man.’

  ‘Wait on. Wait,’ Vernon said. Ernie kept moving. ‘Wait, damn it, would you?’

  With his back to him, Ernie said, ‘Piss off.’

  Vernon raised the shotgun to his shoulder and aimed and squeezed the trigger. This time it bucked truly and his arm flew back. He hit his mark––the pig on the verandah––the shot hitting the house as well. The sound the pig’s skin made as it was hit not so unlike a human’s. Not so unlike the roo’s skull. It made Ernie and his son stop dead. Before they could turn and look Vernon uncoupled the barrel, fished two shells out of his pocket and reloaded. He brought it up again, shaking.

  ‘Now you wait like I asked.’

  On the verandah another light flicked on and out came a diminutive woman, young, hurried and sleepy. After her another young man––Brendan, Vernon assumed––came barging out, almost knocking her down.