Scumbuster

by Tim Winton

  ‘We need him in the car.’

  ‘Try John East. He’ll help. He’s hairy, but he’s nice.’

  ‘Mum, you’re a genius!’

  She nodded. ‘In my dreams.’

  Lockie leaped into the saddle of his ancient bike and went flat out for John East’s.

  But there was no one home. He couldn’t believe it. The yard was mowed flat and boring as any other joint in the street and no one was home.

  He peeled out of the yard and headed for the beach. Maybe John was having a surf. But there was no swell and hardly anyone on the beach with the onshore blowing hard.

  He couldn’t chase all over town for him; he needed to think of someone else.

  His brain hurt. Mate, it glowed hot and smelt of burning rubber. He couldn’t think of anyone. Phillip was too small and didn’t swim so great. The Sarge was on his shift till midnight. Maybe someone from school? But he didn’t really trust anyone. No one understood him at school, not even when he was Mister Popular with . . . with . . .

  There was someone.

  The one other person who understood him. The one kid who knew what was going on in the harbour.

  Lockie headed for a phone box and hoped he had thirty cents tucked away somewhere in his shorts.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Um, arh . . . ’

  ‘Yes, who is it?’

  ‘Listen, I know you said I should never call and everything but – ’

  ‘Lockie?’

  ‘And I don’t mean to invade your personal space and everything – ’

  ‘Lockie, is that you?’

  ‘But I really need some help.’

  ‘Lockie?’

  ‘Vicki?’

  ‘What help?’

  Lockie’s heart skittered around like a cat on a glass coffee table. The last time he made a call like this he was getting the big shove, the chop, the axe, the elbow, the big A. It wasn’t a nice memory. He shouldn’t be doing this. His heart was only just glued back together and then there was Dot giving him the flick only hours ago. How much rejection can you take in one life?

  ‘Um, can you use a kayak?’

  ‘Is your name Lachlan Robert Louis Stevenson Leonard?’

  Lockie laughed. Operation Constipation was on the trot.

  t turned out Mr Eggleston was a worse backer-upper than anyone believed possible. Down in the swampy bushland below the industrial end of the harbour, he pointed the trailer at the stinking water and ended up with it in the bush every time. Mrs Eggleston started to hiss like one of her cylinders and Egg put his face in his hands.

  ‘What about we just drag the pontoon off and haul it to the water?’ said Vicki.

  ‘Good idea,’ said Mr Eggleston wiping the sweat from his glasses.

  Lockie could smell that old vanilla scent. Vicki Streeton. Her elbow against his, her knee against his shaking leg.

  This whole thing better work,’ he said nervously.

  ‘Oh well,’ said Egg. ‘Win or lose, it’s better than watching “Neighbours” on the telly.’

  Dragging an eight tank pontoon across gravel and reeds and broken bottles had seemed like a good idea at the time. Lockie felt he knew what those poor Egyptian slaves went through to build the pyramids. He’d seen those Charlton Heston movies – he knew his history. And this was taking a century.

  ‘Even “Neighbours” is more fun than this,’ giggled Mr Eggleston.

  ‘Going to the dentist is more fun than this,’ said Egg. ‘Going to school, even. Getting needles in the bum . . . anything.’

  But they got it to the water in the end and it floated merrily on the puky low tide.

  ‘Okay, let’s get the kayaks,’ said Egg.

  ‘I’ll get the oxy,’ said Mrs Eggleston.

  ‘I’ll hide the car,’ said Mr Eggleston.

  ‘Just don’t try to back it, Dad,’ said Egg.

  ‘Nine-thirty, Mr E,’ said Lockie.

  ‘Righto.’

  Lockie was so relieved to share his kayak with Vicki instead of Mrs Eggleston that he hardly noticed the vile smell of the water beneath him. The full moon lit their way and cormorants croaked out in the channel. In the strange light he saw Vicki’s hair blowing in front of him. She leant against the pontoon and steered it on. It was a weird looking craft out there, bouncing between the two kayaks. It thunked against them, blunt and graceless. It handled like a Woolworths trolley on a sloping footpath.

  ‘Careful,’ whispered Egg, ‘You’ll tip us over!’

  ‘Keep it off with your paddle,’ said Lockie.

  ‘Whew!’ said Vicki. ‘I hope you can swim in this stuff. It’s getting worse.’

  On they went zig-zagging across the shallows with the raft bobbing and writhing toward the high reeds.

  ‘Where are we?’ called Mrs Eggleston.

  ‘Straight ahead,’ said Lockie. ‘Get behind it now and just push.’

  With a horrible scraping noise the drums crashed into the sharp reeds and they plunged into the shadowy rustling mess ahead until they heard the sound of pouring water and their eyes began to burn.

  ‘This is it,’ said Lockie.

  Egg switched on the torch. The outflow pipe stood high and dry, pouring gunk out onto the creeping algae that covered the sandy bottom.

  ‘It’s concrete!’ hissed Mrs Eggleston. ‘I can’t weld concrete!’

  ‘The last bit’s metal, Mum,’ said Egg. ‘Look, thirty centimetres.’

  ‘Oh. I thought it was a stain.’

  Lockie’s heart started up again.

  ‘Go for it, Mrs Eggleston.’

  From up the hill near the phosphate plant you could see a strange flickering light down near the water, as though some kids were cooking crabs on a fire. Though why anyone would go crabbing down in that nobody knew. The Supervisor high in his glass box looked curiously, watching the sputtering light. It looked like fireworks. Actually, he decided, it was quite pretty. Was that someone bending down there near the perimeter fence? The Supervisor didn’t get to figure that one out just yet because two blokes were belting up the stairs screaming blue murder.

  Lockie tried not to look directly at the blue burning light of the sparks, but he could see the cap firmly in place now, with only the tiniest dribble seeping out the seams. The whole pipe was welded shut.

  ‘Brilliant!’ said Egg. ‘Let’em work that out with a pencil!’

  Mrs Eggleston went around plugging it up, touching the weld up here and there and Lockie looked up at the yellow lights of the plant.

  ‘What’ll happen?’ asked Vicki, wiping her eyes on her windcheater.

  ‘Maybe nothing,’ said Lockie. ‘But all this stuff comes from up there, and if it can’t get out down here, it’s gotta go somewhere. Like a blocked toilet.’

  The oxy torch went out.

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘How long will it take?’ said Mrs Eggleston, flipping her lid back.

  ‘Dunno,’ said Lockie. ‘Maybe hours.’

  Suddenly a siren went off up the hill.

  ‘Cops!’

  ‘No,’ said Lockie. ‘Look!’

  Orange lights flashed in the windows of the phosphate plant. A horn went off and the yellow lights dimmed and flickered.

  ‘Lockie,’ said Vicki, ‘you’re a genius!’

  ‘No, I’m just good at stuffing things up, I guess.’

  They hit the water and paddled till their blisters had blisters.

  Up on the hill it was goop city already. It was deeply unpleasant. It was like changing a nappy the size of the Starship Enterprise.

  Whew, you could smell it from here.

  he next day, with the town going totally ballistic, Lockie rode up to Egg’s place feeling unreal. He hung a wheelstand most of the way up the hill and the wind ripped through his hair, On the corners he leant out like Wayne Gardner; he defied death and gravel rash – he felt invincible. Down in the harbour there were five strikes and fifty TV cameras. People said ‘Sixty Minutes’ and ‘Hinch’ were there and
guys from Greenpeace, and the sleepy old government. Man, it was like a food fight in a phone box!

  Lockie cornered madly into Egg’s street and saw the removal van and the bum fell out of his day. Blokes were humping boxes and chairs and stuff into the truck and Egg was out there on the verandah with his CD amping severe noise into the neighbourhood.

  Slowly, miserably, Lockie walked into that zone of grunge and unhappiness. Egg looked up, smiled weakly, and turned the Motorhead down.

  ‘You got another house in town, right?’ said Lockie.

  Egg shook his head. ‘Perth. Back to the city.’

  ‘Oh, mate.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Oh, man.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Lockie kicked his bike in the guts and rust sprayed everywhere. ‘It’s . . . it’s just not fair!’

  ‘Dad said there just wasn’t any alternative in this town. He’s right, I guess. At least they’re not splitting up as well. I mean, it could be worse.’

  Lockie sat down, totally trashed inside. ‘Yeah, I’m sorry. That’s good.’

  ‘I think last night really helped them.’

  ‘Last night? How?’

  Egg shrugged. ‘I dunno. Marriage is like that. Weird, eh?’

  ‘Weird, yeah.’

  Lockie put his chin on his knees. He felt like someone had died. He would rather have the harbour stink and still have his best mate, but somehow he couldn’t say it. His eyes burned and he didn’t know where to look.

  ‘What are you like at writing letters?’ asked Egg.

  ‘Rotten.’

  ‘I guess there’s the holidays.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  There were so many things he wanted to tell Egg, so many things to thank him for and apologize for and remind him of. This was worse than getting the flick from a girl. This was like drowning.

  ‘We really gave ’em heaps last night,’ said Egg.

  Lockie nodded.

  Egg cranked up the CD and the street choked with the pumping, thrashing blast of Motorhead and they didn’t need to say anything at all. Birds scattered everywhere and dogs howled. It was wicked and most uplifting.

  or a week, Lockie didn’t get out of bed. Mrs Leonard and the Sarge didn’t mind so much – at least they had the use of the toilet this time – but they tried to hook him out every day with news about the dredging and the stuff in the news about the mayor’s rotten deals. He just stayed there, though, stinking up the room with his unwashed blokey smell that even Phillip noticed after a while. The frogs did their wild thing out in the swamp. Blob came in and ate his bedspread to cheer him up. Phillip made Lego cars for him and tried to get him interested in the undie ads in the Women’s Weekly, but nothing worked.

  Lockie felt dead inside.

  He was left behind.

  There was no one anymore.

  He was deceased, zero, nothing.

  Lockie got close to the point of drasticality. His surfboard got cobwebs. His mum ironed his wetsuit by accident and hung it in his wardrobe, and he didn’t care.

  On Friday a letter came.

  Dear Lockie,

  I’m sorry about all the trouble with John and everything. I was being dumb. I was jealous! I didn’t mean to give you a hard time.

  Sincerely,

  Dot.

  P.S. I still think you are a spunk.

  P.P.S. Can I have my shirt back?

  Lockie stuck it back in the envelope and wrote RETURN TO SENDER on the front. But he didn’t mail it yet; not yet.

  On Saturday, the Sarge got restless. His patience ran out. He came into Lockie’s room cap in hand.

  ‘Lockie, the swell’s up. I mean it’s quite . . . quite large.’

  Lockie nodded.

  ‘I think you should go surfing. I know there’s not many times when a parent needs to suggest this, but I definitely feel you should hit the beach. You’re getting boring, son.’

  Lockie blinked.

  That did it. The Sarge was out of there. Lockie heard him start the Falcon. He heard the clunk of the trailer on the towball.

  ‘Mrs Leonard! Phillip?’

  A rumble of footsteps through the house. They burst into his room and lifted the bed, hoisted the whole thing up with him in it and clunked it through the house and out into the yard and dumped in on the trailer.

  ‘Get the board, Phillip.’

  ‘I’ll get the wetty,’ said Mrs Leonard.

  Lockie lay there stunned as his father lashed him securely to the trailer with the tow rope. Phillip slid the board in beside him and his Mum tucked the wetsuit under the half gnawed bedspread.

  ‘This won’t take long,’ said the Sarge.

  Lockie actually tried to tough it out. He didn’t know why because the smell of the sea was so inviting and people were really seriously staring at him parked in his bed on a trailer in the middle of a crowded carpark. It wasn’t just polite staring, it was denture-dropping stuff, shrieking, pointing, awful public display stuff, but he thought he could hold out. The Sarge cacked himself, sitting in the Falcon, reading Jane Eyre or something. Lockie believed he was up to it. He’d been through worse, he’d cut the mustard.

  But he caught sight of someone familiar out of the corner of his eye and his hair went mental. It wasn’t possible! He couldn’t be that unlucky! He saw a smile, a glint of braces, and he reached for the wetsuit. He was sort of half in and half out of it when she rocked up. Geez, it was like history repeating itself!

  ‘What’s this, then?’ said Vicki. ‘Street theatre?’

  ‘Kind of,’ said Lockie, with his pyjama sleeve sticking out of his wetty sleeve and his head caught between buttons and zip.

  ‘You gave ’em heaps, Lockie. You did good.’

  He tried to shrug, but the logistics were against him.

  ‘I heard about Egg leaving. It’s a bummer. I liked him.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘And that twelve-year-old surfie chick, I heard about that, too.’

  ‘You did?’

  Vicki smiled. Her hair blew back off her face. ‘Well, I won’t hold it against you. In the future, I mean.’

  ‘The future?’

  ‘Yeah. You know, tomorrow and the day after?’

  Lockie swallowed.

  ‘Anyway, you better get out of here; you’re causing a scene. Seeya later.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Lockie. ‘In the future.’

  The swell was long and clean, and it wound into the bay with a tired roar on the sand bar. Lockie paddled stiffly and felt the cool water zing against his face. He sat and swivelled quickly and dug hard into the water as the great lumbering peak rose behind him. Down the long glassy hallway of the wave he fell, turning and cranking and crouching low. His knees knocked with the force of it. He streaked for the tiny almond eye of daylight at the end of the tube with the growl of the ocean all around him, and from the beach you could hear the sound of the human torpedo crashing through into daylight:

  YEEEEEEEEEEEEE – HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

  Lockie Leonard, hot surf-rat, is in love. The human torpedo is barely settled into his new school, and already he’s got a girl on his mind. And not just any girl: it has to be Vickie Streeton, the smartest, prettiest, richest girl in class.

  What chance have you got when your dad’s a cop, your mum’s a frighteningly understanding parent, your brother wets the bed and the teachers take an instant dislike to you, and then you fall in love at twelve-and-three-quarter years old? It can only mean trouble, worry, mega-embarrassment and some wild, wild times.

  Lockie’s survived his first year of high school, settling into a new town and his first mad love affair – it’s all behind him; he made it!

  But the world of weirdness hasn’t finished with him yet. His little brother’s hormones have kicked in, his baby sister refuses to walk or talk – but eats anything in sight – his Dad arrests a sheep and his Mum seems to have checked out of the here and now.

  As Lockie’s world turns upside down, he learns that
life is never as simple as it seems and along the way finds out a lot more about himself than he ever realised was there.

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  First published in Pan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd., 1997

  This edition published by Penguin Group (Australia), 2013

  Text copyright © Tim Winton, 1993.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

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