by Tim Winton
‘Whew,’ said Egg, ‘what a nostril thrasher. This is sputagenous olfactorizing.’
‘Eh?’
‘It stinks to the max. On a scale of one-to-ten it’s a – ’
‘Fifteen,’ said Lockie. ‘Who would do this? This is terrible.’
‘Anyone who could get away with it.’
They looked at the steaming gunk that fell from the pipe and behind them the whole of Angelus Harbour lay rancid and still, choking on algae and poison.
‘Makes you sick, doesn’t it?’ said Egg.
But Lockie was too busy to answer. He was already losing his Fruit Loops and his five slices of toast and his morning cocoa over the side of the tin canoe. His ears rang. He saw blotches and stars and lights. He whooped up some nasty looking breakfast leftovers and he got mad as hell.
fter dinner that night Lockie still felt a bit crook, but not bad enough to get out of drying the dishes. He hated drying dishes because the Sarge always washed and the Sarge was a rotten washer-upper. Fast and useless, he got suds all over the kitchen and plenty of plates in the rack but everything was still covered in gloop that you had to wipe off yourself with the tea-towel.
‘You still look a bit green,’ said the Sarge from behind his Santa beard of bubbles.
‘And I’m gunna do something about it, too,’ said Lockie, wiping furiously.
‘A lie down is probably best. I’ll finish up here.’
‘I mean about that stinking mess they’re putting into the harbour.’
‘It’s pretty rotten,’ said the Sarge.
‘Rotten? It made me sick as a dog!’
‘Well, you did paddle halfway up the pipe.’
‘Sarge, I was on the harbour! Our town’s harbour. People go swimming and fishing in that.’
‘Mad sods.’
‘It’s right in the middle of the town!’
The Sarge wiped his sudsy beard off and looked at Lockie.
‘But what can you do, mate?’
‘I’m gunna stop it.’
‘You’re thirteen years old, Lockie.’
‘How about you help me?’
The Sarge went back to washing up. ‘I’m the Law, remember. I can’t take sides. Besides we’re still new here. I have to be a bit careful.’
‘Sides? What about right and wrong?’
‘Right and wrong aren’t always the words I’m allowed to work with, mate. Try legal and illegal.’
Lockie chucked the towel on the sink and stamped off. Unbelievable! Of all people he figured the Sarge would be with him on this.
He slammed the door of his bedroom so hard the knobs fell off – plunk – inside – kerplunk – and outside. He lay on his bed fuming.
After a while his mum came knocking.
‘Lockie?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Can I come in?’
‘I guess. You pay the rent.’
‘Where’s the doorknob?’
‘On the floor isn’t it?’
‘I can’t see it anywhere. Just open up.’
‘Orright.’
Lockie got up and found the doorknob on his side but when he tried to fit it back on it wouldn’t go; it was bent out of shape.
‘No good, Mum. I’m stuck.’
Lockie was half relieved. Mrs Leonard had come in for a heart-to-heart and she was a bit of a demon for parental talks, excruciating talks on any subject. It could be sex, homework, drugs, peer group pressure or screwing the lid back on the toothpaste. Whatever it was, it was always In-Depth. It was like being interviewed by ’60 Minutes’ on TV. Mrs Leonard called it ‘Keeping in Touch’. Lockie called it major embarrassment.
There was a tap at the window and Lockie got up on one elbow to see his mum standing out in the dark, waiting patiently. You had to love her for it; she was like a dog at a bone.
Lockie pulled up the window.
‘Nice try, love.’
‘The knob is busted, honest.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Have a nice day, Mum?’
‘Oh, I washed nappies, took Phillip to the park, cleared the frogs out of the laundry. Pretty exciting. I didn’t go swimming in industrial sludge, though, nothing exciting like that.’
‘I wanna stop it, Mum.’
‘So I gather.’
‘I’m scared about the future.’
‘The future usually looks after itself.’
‘Are you with me or against me?’
‘Well, I’m in the yard and you’re in the house.’
‘Can you help me?’
‘Lockie I’ve got a baby and a lot of – ’
‘Orright,’ said Lockie, flopping back onto his bed ‘Don’t bother.’
‘You don’t have to speak to your mother like that,’ said the Sarge suddenly appearing at the window.
‘Sorry.’
Lockie’s parents looked at each other and shrugged. Somewhere in the house Blob was trying to gnaw Phillip’s leg off with her new tooth. It sounded like The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Lockie stuck his fingers in his ears and closed his eyes. Aaarghhh!
ext morning Lockie went up to Egg’s place. All the way up the street you could hear Nirvana screaming out of Egg’s stereo. It sounded like a headbangers’ thrash at the Baptist Church. It made Lockie smile. Definitely the church music of the future. Move over Mrs Pisslethwat and the plastic organ. Brethren, get down! Sisters, gimme high voltage! The minister playing guitar with his teeth. He could see it now.
In Egg’s room the music was so loud you could almost see it like shuddering fog. Wallpaper started to peel. Egg’s potted geranium looked punch drunk and deaf. Lockie felt nails rattling in the floorboards. It was a long time before Egg noticed Lockie. This was because Egg was on his back with his legs pedalling in the air. His attention was taken up with trying to be Angus Young from AC/DC. His guitar was an oversized wooden spoon, and he gave it all he had.
Lockie hit the stop button and Egg suddenly went scarlet.
‘Oh. Hi.’
‘Hi.’
‘Just . . . doing my exercises.’
‘It’s orright,’ said Lockie, trying not to smile. ‘I use a tennis racquet. It’s perfectly normal.’
Lockie and Egg wandered up to the local milk-bar without talking much. Lockie looked about carefully to check for passing surfers, but he was safe for the moment. Still, his feet sweated till his extra-wide thongs had puddles in them. Egg looked particularly boganic today. They shared a milkshake and then fed some change into a pinball machine that didn’t stir. They stuck in some more money and didn’t even raise a lightbulb. It just ate their money as if it was perfectly entitled to it. Lockie protested to the shopkeeper who threw them out and told them never to come back. Lockie’s rage returned.
‘I talked to my oldies,’ he said as they sat on the sticky pavement. ‘People go brain-dead when they reach thirty.’
‘My old man said he’d love to help us save the planet but he’s too busy trying to save his job,’ said Egg. ‘Mum said we’re all doomed anyway, so why bother.’
‘See what I mean?’
Lockie kicked a Coke can across the pavement and the shopkeeper came and said he’d call the police.
‘Call the police, then!’ said Lockie.
‘Oh, acquainted with the police, are you?’ sneered the shopkeeper, a bald little bloke with a cascade of fat over his trouser belt.
‘Daily,’ said Lockie. ‘You could say I’m in police custody every day of my life.’
The shopkeeper wrinkled his nose till it looked like a dried fig, then he slammed the door shut with a pretty tinkle of the bell.
‘Adults,’ said Lockie. ‘Pathetic, isn’t it?’
Lockie and Egg were halfway up the hill to the big empty school before the idea descended.
‘John East,’ said Lockie.
‘What?’
‘The Guidance Officer from school.’
‘That hippy.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Exactly what?’
ockie Leonard had a kind of love-hate relationship with the school Guidance Officer. Not that he loved him – no fear, that was the wrong choice of words, and he didn’t really hate him either. It was a sort of hot and cold business. Sometimes Lockie thought John East was cool; other times he saw him for what he was – an adult. The bloke hung around school but wasn’t a teacher. He gave advice but didn’t dish out work or punishment. He was a mongrel breed, you could say, but not a mongrel of a bloke. He talked to you as if you were on his level. Trouble was, you couldn’t tell if his level was all that high.
John East lived up behind the pine forest in a sagging weatherboard joint where the grass grew as high as the windows. There was a tunnel from the letterbox to the front door, a sort of jungle track in the grass. Egg and Lockie clambered up onto the big wide verandah that looked out across the whole town and saw the junk lying around on it: a busted lawnmower, a garden gnome without a head, a stack of old newspapers, a surfboard. They looked at each other with raised eyebrows. A high-class lifestyle, no sweat. Lockie knocked on the flaky door.
After a minute or two, the door opened.
‘Yeah?’
There he was in a pair of stripey pyjama bottoms in all his glory – the hairiest man on earth, half asleep.
‘It’s me,’ said Lockie.
‘Good,’ said John East trying to pry his eyes open properly. ‘Glad only one of us is confused.’
‘Can we come in?’
John East looked at them and then past them to the day. ‘What time is it?’
‘Eleven,’ said Egg. ‘In the morning.’
‘Damn – I was planning on sleeping in.’
‘Sorry to wake you so early,’ said Lockie with a smirk.
‘You can watch me eat breakfast,’ John East said, turning and heading back into the house. Lockie and Egg just stared. The man had a back like a shag pile carpet. Every homeless hair in the universe had found its way to that back and taken root – black, grey, brown, white, long, short, straight, squiggly – it was a mohair masterpiece.
Lockie and Egg followed it down the hallway to the dingy kitchen that stank of damp socks and cigarette smoke. They sat down at the table and watched John East cook himself a spattering breakfast of bacon, eggs, tomato and baked beans. It was no hippy’s breakfast. There were truck-drivers and mafia bosses who couldn’t start a day with a meal like that. It was horrible to watch.
‘You two are an unlikely pair,’ he said gnashing away at his cholesterol feast. ‘The headbanger and the surfrat. The original odd couple.’
‘It’s the future,’ said Lockie shakily, half-believing it. ‘I’m tomorrow and he’s the day after.’
‘Don’t look at the uniform, that’s, our motto,’ said Egg.
‘Smart thinking, guys. What brought all this on?’
‘Fate,’ said Egg.
A simple whack in the goolies, thought Lockie grimly.
‘What’s the problem?’
‘The harbour,’ said Lockie. ‘Last term you said something about the pollution in the harbour. Yesterday Egg and me went canoeing on it and got really crook. We wanna do something about it. We thought you might help us, give us some ideas. Join us, maybe.’
‘What are you calling yourselves – the Scumbusters?’
‘Nice name for a band,’ said Egg. ‘Tomorrow and the Day After sounds cool, though.’
‘Well,’ said John East. ‘I’m pretty busy . . . ’
‘Yeah, mowing the lawn and everything,’ said Lockie with a grin.
John East scratched his chin. He had whiskers growing on his whiskers. The guy was a living hair machine. He got up and left the kitchen and when he came back he was dressed. He thumped a fat folder down on the table.
‘It’s all here.’
‘What?’ said Lockie.
‘Two years ago the government did a study and gave the town and the industries around the harbour two years to clean up their act. Go home and read it.’
‘All this?’
‘Think of it as homework.’
‘But this is the summer holidays!’ cried Lockie.
‘Good. Then you’ll let me get back to bed?’
‘We’ll read it,’ said Egg kicking Lockie under the table.
‘You’re a bit of a dark horse, Eggleston. A mystery man.’
‘Everyone’s a dark horse, sir.’
Lockie looked at Egg, dead impressed. Behind that boofhead uniform was a smart person, someone worth knowing. He should quit being so damn embarrassed by him.
Egg gathered up the file and they headed for the door.
‘It’s your lucky week, boys.’
‘How do you mean, sir?’ asked Lockie.
‘A friend of mine is coming down from the city to stay over Christmas.’
‘Yeah. Great.’
‘You ever heard of Queenie Coupar?’
They shook their heads, feeling dumb.
‘This town used to be a whaling town, you know. Queenie helped that to change. You might find some expertise on hand, come the weekend. She’s a real eco-guerilla.’
‘A what?’ said Lockie. ‘A what gorilla?’
John East sighed. ‘Do your homework, Lockie.’
Egg hauled him out the door and into the light of day.
‘We’re on our way,’ said Egg.
‘Where?’
Egg just shook his head and clutched the file to his chest. They fought their way through the jungle to the street.
y five o’clock Lockie’s eyes were like two raw meatballs and his butt was the shape of a pizza box. The kitchen table was piled with paper: graphs, cuttings, charts, reports, reports on reports, findings of reports on reports, letters about findings of reports on reports of reports. Aaargh! Egg lay his head on the table.
‘How’s it going there?’ said Mrs Leonard.
‘You ever heard of the death of a thousand cuts?’ said Egg with a grin. All the blood had gone out of his face; even his zits were pale.
‘Well, what does it mean?’ Lockie’s mum asked, slapping some lamb chops down onto the sink. Under the table, Blob gnawed at the lino, making disgusting dental noises.
‘Yeah,’ said Lockie. ‘What does it all mean, Egg?’
‘Don’t you get it?’
‘Mate, it’s like Japanese algebra to me,’ said Lockie, defeated.
Egg sighed. ‘Well, the harbour’s dying.’
‘When things stink that bad they’re usually dead, Egg.’
‘It’s dying because the seagrass is dying. Ninety per cent of the seagrass meadows that fish and stuff live and breed in are gone.’
‘What killed them, Egg?’ asked Mrs Leonard.
‘Nitrogen and phosphates, mostly. From fertilizer. It makes algae grow. Algae stops the light getting through, the seagrass dies. The water goes bad.’
‘Fertilizer? Is that all?’
‘No, it’s not the only problem. The harbour silt is full of heavy metals. Poison. The shellfish are poisonous, the fish are poisonous, those that are left.’
‘That’s terrible!’
‘Now she listens,’ said Lockie.
‘Where’s all this stuff coming from?’
‘Lots of places. But mostly from the two factories that pump gunk straight into the harbour. The fertilizer factory and the wool-mill’
No one said anything for a few moments. Blob chomped away at the lino. Lockie rubbed his eyes. Egg scratched a zit. Mrs Leonard folded her arms, unfolded and then folded them again.
‘And nothing’s happening about it?’
‘Not since this report came out. Two years ago. The factories had two years to clean up their act. Plus, the town itself was supposed to remove the algae and dredge the silt to get rid of the heavy metals.’
Mrs Leonard looked deeply thoughtful. ‘Puts a new meaning on heavy metal doesn’t it, Egg?’
Egg smiled. ‘There’s a difference, I guess.’
‘Wanna stay for dinn
er?’
‘Thanks, but I better go.’
Lockie climbed into his bed that night feeling depressed. His single pimple had moved to the end of his nose, as though it was bummed out, and ready to jump. He was healthy, he had a bed to sleep in and a room (that he had to share with a little brother, worst luck), and a family who loved him, but he still felt flat. No, worse, he felt a real dark sliding sadness in him. It wasn’t like the miserable feeling he had after being dumped by Vicki Streeton. It was different, a weird creeping feeling. Lockie wondered if maybe this was what Egg felt like when he thought about drasticality. Such a smart kid. He wondered if depression was contagious. He couldn’t even work up an Aaargh! All he felt was a kind of long, blue
ockie paddled out into the glassy break and watched as some kid came howling across a long hollow wall of water at him, completely ripping up the wave. Right in front of him the other rider cranked a re-entry and floated in the lip above while he watched open-mouthed and too stunned to move. It was a she. A girl. One-piece speedos and pigtails. She came crashing down the face on the other side of Lockie who caught the full force of the wave and was ground mercilessly into the sandbar below.
He came up sputtering, cursing himself.
‘You orright?’ the girl said paddling by, her hair streaming water.
‘Absolutely,’ he honked, his nose full of water. ‘No sweat.’
She just paddled by, her perky bum in the air and headed out again to the break. Lockie hauled himself sluggishly onto his board and followed, muttering.
It got worse. That girl spiked him for every wave that rolled in. She paddled like a demon and always got inside him. She took off right under the falling lip if need be. Late take-offs, freefalls, close outs, nothing bothered her. She was hot-as. It was pretty demoralizing. Not because she was a girl, but because he needed to blast away this miserable feeling that had been hanging on him for days now, and a surf was the only thing that could do it. And here he was, picking up scraps on his own break. And, yeah, maybe the fact that it was a girl just didn’t help. Stupid, but true. What a caveman he was.