Rainfish

by Andrew Paterson

  By the time I had to stop, my hands on my knees, nearly about to vomit, I was at the T-intersection in front of Damon’s house. It was a little house on stilts with a corrugated-iron roof and walls. A deflated basketball was stuck in its roof gutter and had been for years, since long before Damon had moved there.

  I ran up the stairs and knocked on the door.

  No answer. Maybe he was still off somewhere with Connor.

  Come on, Damon, answer the door.

  I tried one last knock, then ran down the stairs, and kept running, past the vacant lot that led to the swamp, past the yard that was full of chooks, past the big yellow house that doubled as a daycare centre, past Anne Mitchell’s house. Anne Mitchell was in Connor’s class. Her Chihuahua—whose name was Coco, don’t ask me how I knew that—barked at me.

  After a while I came to where the houses ended. Across the road was sugar cane, and beyond it I could see the blue-green of rainforest-covered hills: the foothills of the Misty Range. Polly’s Creek was at the base of those hills. If I ran across maybe three or four cane fields, I’d be on Polly’s Creek Road.

  Okay. Wow. I’m really going to do this. Going to leave the world behind, live in a hole under a bit of tin, eat fish and never talk to anyone ever again.

  An old lady was digging in her front garden, and a man was hammering something on his roof. I scanned the road one last time for police, then scampered across and ducked between the rows of tall sugar cane.

  In among the cane it was close and hot. I had to brush the sharp-edged leaves away from my face as I went along. Though the path was straight I couldn’t see more than a metre ahead. I bent down and sort of crouch-jogged.

  I was near the middle of the first field when I realised I was being followed.

  I stopped.

  All I could hear was the flitter of the tops of the cane in the breeze. But I knew something was there. Watching me.

  I said, ‘Who’s there?’

  The cane sighed in answer.

  On a hunch, I said, ‘Is that…the panther?’

  The feeling of being watched intensified, even though I’d made the black panther up. Letting my imagination go too far, as usual. There was, of course, no panther. And therefore nothing following me. I took a few steps. It, whatever it was, took a few steps. I turned around. I heard a rustle, the sound of whatever it was turning its large body in the thin path between the cane next to mine, and I began to run back the way I had come, with the cane scratching my arms and face.

  Then I was out of the field again, with the road in front of me, the houses, the old lady gardening, the man hammering, dogs barking, like there was nothing out of the ordinary anywhere in the world.

  I crossed the road again, my heart still scurrying, and made for home.

  I’d have made a terrible fugitive anyway: I’d never started a fire by myself, never gutted a fish. I was addicted to TV. I would’ve been lucky to last an hour in the bush.

  The business about the panther was just me freaking out; after all, black panthers were from Africa or somewhere. North Queensland was totally the wrong habitat. An actual black panther in Fingleton would’ve sweated to death in a day. And the police probably weren’t even looking for me. It was time to get serious; time to be like Connor and think logically.

  I took a deep breath, and then let it out. Deep breathing was good too. After a few more deep breaths, and all that logic, I was already beginning to feel a lot better.

  That afternoon Mum came home after all and we were in the kitchen discussing dinner. Peter was still intending to cook.

  ‘You ever turned a stove on before?’ Mum asked.

  Connor had his face in The Lord of the Rings. He hadn’t said a word all afternoon.

  ‘How hard can it be?’ said Peter who was leaning back on his chair, as if he was a part of the place already. It must be nicer for him living here than on a prawn trawler, I thought. much better than getting wet the whole time, and any minute you might hit a whale and sink.

  We were having potatoes, carrots and steak—medium rare. The decision was made.

  ‘By the way, what happened to the back stairs?’ said Mum.

  Peter cleared his throat. ‘They were rotten. There’s a few more that need to go. I’ll finish it off tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Why didn’t you get new stairs first? Someone’s gunna go straight through one of those things and break their neck,’ said Mum.

  ‘I’m getting new ones tomorrow morning,’ said Peter.

  ‘Ya nong,’ said Mum, teasing.

  ‘Nong, am I?’ Peter jumped up and flicked her bum with the wooden spoon. Mum turned on him and a play fight erupted: him all elbows, fending her off, grabbing at her hips; her squealing, one hand guarding her hair; both of them putting on a show for Connor and me.

  Connor kept his face in his book.

  Then Mum told me to get her handbag out of the car and the play fight was over. Peter sniffed, rubbed his nose, and wandered out to the back stairs for a smoke.

  After his cigarette he started cooking. Peter cooked with a series of jerky movements and whispered swear words. The vegetable water hissed as it boiled over. He snatched it off the stove and it splashed on the floor, and he snapped ‘Yes!’ when Mum said, ‘You right, Peter?’

  Finally he put the plates proudly onto the table, and Connor put his book down. I studied him for signs he’d missed his Rubik’s cube, but he was stony-faced, off in some other world as usual.

  Peter chewed loudly, talked with his mouth full, licked his knife. When the conversation turned to cars he frowned and said, ‘A ute is the way to go. ’Cause we’re going to want to take stuff to the tip every now and then. Hilux maybe.’ And he started throwing around terms like cylinders, and diesel, leaving me and Connor and Mum far behind.

  ‘Me old man taught me about cars. I could change a tyre before I could walk,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to get these two up to speed. Whatdya reckon?’

  Mum said, ‘What do you think, boys?’

  I said, ‘I reckon.’

  Connor, reading again, said nothing.

  After dinner Connor and I were on the floor in front of the TV and Peter was on the couch and Magnum P.I. was about to start. And then Mum, in her nightie, came in saying, ‘I can’t take it anymore,’ and snapped the TV off. ‘It’s a beautiful night. We’re going outside.’

  ‘I’m not,’ said Connor.

  ‘I know,’ said Mum. ‘Let’s take the fruit salad.’

  ‘In the dark?’ said Peter.

  ‘There aren’t any monsters, Peter. Connor get the big blanket out of the spare room. Should we get a torch for Peter? Here, make yourself useful,’ she said, and she passed Peter the bowl of fruit salad.

  Peter rolled his eyes.

  Connor said, ‘She’s always like this.’

  And then we trooped down the back stairs into the backyard and onto a blanket spread on the damp grass. There was a yellow glow from the kitchen window, and the sounds of Mrs Melchiori’s TV, and night insects as tiny as grains of sand hovering around us and landing in the fruit salad.

  We watched for shooting stars but they had seen us coming and were lying low.

  ‘Isn’t this better than being cooped up inside? We used to do this all the time when I was a kid,’ said Mum.

  Connor said, ‘Anybody else getting bitten?’

  ‘Okay, everyone has to tell a story,’ said Mum. ‘Have you got one, Aaron?’

  ‘No,’ I said, which was true. I couldn’t think of one, but also, I wasn’t speaking to Connor because he’d gone off with Damon and left me out, and telling a story seemed a lot like speaking to him.

  ‘Don’t look at me,’ said Peter. He’d brought some cushions from the couch and had propped himself up on them, with his fingers intertwined on his belly and his beer settled in the grass beside him.

  ‘Come on, Peter, you’ve got tons of stories. Why don’t you tell a fishing one?’

  But then Connor said, ‘I’ve got one,’
and he launched into a story about a boy who lived in a kingdom with elves and magic swords and a wizard and lots of creatures jumping out from behind things.

  Mum wriggled closer to Peter.

  And then abruptly Connor said, ‘And that’s the end of the story.’

  Mum sat up. ‘Great story, Connor. Now, how about a fishing story?’

  Peter said, ‘It’s getting late, ay?’

  ‘All right, go in if you want,’ Mum said.

  No sooner had she said it than Peter was juggling his cushions and beer up the back stairs with Connor behind him, Mum not far behind Connor, and me not far behind Mum. I didn’t want to be left alone in the dark yard, but actually I didn’t want to go inside because a story had finally popped into my head.

  At first I’d thought of telling the story of the night Mum had crashed our Datsun, but I thought Mum probably wouldn’t want to hear that story. Then I remembered one Gran had told about Dad one time when we were over her place.

  I’d been sitting on the carpet in front of Gran’s TV. On her side table she had a framed photo of a thin, hairy-legged man with a moustache leaning against a brick wall with his arms folded and looking into the lens with an I’m not saying cheese for no one expression on his face. My dad.

  In an ad break Gran had put her knitting down and said, ‘Did I ever tell you boys about your dad’s little adventure at the Greek festival down at Mission Beach?’

  It was the Festival of the Ascension—we used to go. I remembered lining up for a sausage in a slice of white bread, and a plastic cup of green cordial. I remembered kids playing tiggy and me pretending I didn’t want to. I remembered Connor with his book and Mum with her wine and her big straw hat.

  ‘Every year the priest throws a gold cross into the water,’ Gran began. ‘And the young men swim out to try to get it, and whoever finds the cross gets good luck for a year. For some reason only Greek boys are allowed to do it.

  ‘Well, one year when your father was about twenty, just like in the photo, he and Stewey Lum and Greg Bracewell were there, all havin’ a good laugh, and they went down on the beach with everyone to watch the ceremony. They stood quietly.’ Here she smiled through her glasses as she remembered. ‘But when the priest threw the cross and all those Greek boys jumped in, well your father couldn’t resist—he just loved a race. He let out a yell and chased after them, and he overtook them all and got the cross. He was the first non-Greek ever to do it.

  ‘They didn’t like it,’ she said, ‘the Greeks, but what could they do? They tried to ban him from going again, but if you could have been there, if you could have seen how strong he was then, the way he swam…’ She shook her head and she sighed.

  ‘Did he get luck out of it?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, that was the year that Connor was born,’ she said and she patted Connor on the head.

  Mum had been quiet on the way home after the story. Probably she was doing what I was doing, which was thinking about Dad.

  9

  A PLAN

  IT WAS WEDNESDAY. A Fingleton Gazette day.

  Peter said, ‘Might have a trucker’s breakfast.’

  After a bit Mum said, ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Dry two-minute noodles and tomato sauce,’ Peter replied.

  I said, ‘Gross.’

  ‘You can’t be fussy if your truck’s out in the middle of nowhere,’ said Peter, pleased. ‘Anyway, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.’

  ‘You don’t get it, Mum. I don’t want the paper, I’m saying I actually need it,’ said Connor. ‘It could change my entire investigation.’

  ‘Connor, I am working this morning and I’d like some peace. So you’ll just have to wait.’ Mum sipped her coffee. Then she said, ‘Or if you ask nicely, maybe Peter might take you.’

  ‘Really?’ Connor turned to Peter, who shrugged.

  ‘I was going into town anyway. If we take the Mini you guys can tag along,’ he said and then turned to Mum. ‘That okay, Trace?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Great. Let’s go then,’ said Connor.

  ‘Wait on,’ said Peter. He rinsed his bowl at the sink, disappeared, and then reappeared with a new-looking football, which he threw from hand to hand. ‘First things first. Come on, you boys, let’s go pass the footy round.’

  Connor said, ‘Do we have to?’

  ‘If you want to go into town you do,’ said Mum. ‘Now go on. It’ll be good for you.’

  ‘Just gunna impart some of me wisdom on ’em, Trace,’ said Peter, sounding like he’d rehearsed it in his head.

  Mum said, ‘So you won’t be long, then?’

  No one answered her.

  On the walk over the road Peter said, ‘Who do you blokes support?’

  Connor shrugged. Connor and I didn’t know anything about football—not even the rules. I couldn’t think of a single team.

  ‘I’m a Sharks supporter. They’re playing tonight,’ said Peter. ‘We’ll have to watch the game. If youse want you can be Sharks supporters too. Or it might be more fun if we’ve got different teams. So Aaron, you could be the Roosters, and Connor, you could be Parramatta. If you want. Or maybe we’ll watch a few games first and then you can decide.’

  ‘What colour is Parramatta?’ I asked.

  ‘Blue and yellow.’

  ‘They’re my favourite colours.’

  Connor rolled his eyes. ‘Yeah, that’s the most crucial thing, Aaron,’ he said.

  When we got to the oval we formed a triangle and passed the footy to each other for a while. Then Peter said, ‘Okay, now go right out and I’ll kick it to you and you kick it back.’

  He took the ball in both hands, looked up at us, looked down at the ball, back up again, then threw it up and sort of stabbed his foot at it, and the ball wobbled through the air, and I had to run twenty metres to get it.

  After Peter ran to get one of my kicks he put his hands on his knees and started coughing, and then every time he ran he coughed, and once he spat something out and I found it: a grey goo ball that glooped disgustingly to the grass like a stranded jellyfish.

  We’d only been at it ten minutes when Peter said between gasps, ‘Youse had enough? Call it a day?’

  We went home and all had showers.

  Later, as we drove Gran’s Mini to town, out of nowhere Peter said, ‘You know you don’t have to call me Peter. Makes me sound like a pommy. Pete’s what me mates call me.’

  ‘Okay, Pete,’ I said.

  ‘Can we stop and get the paper first?’ said Connor.

  ‘Nah, mate, I wanna get those steps sorted out first. Won’t be long.’

  We stopped at the hardware shop, and while Pete was talking to the hardware bloke, who was a mate of his, I wandered through the sawdusty aisles of paint tins wondering why there were a hundred shades of white and brown but no purple or orange, but also thinking about the rosary beads.

  Logically, as far as I could see, I had three options. Option one—turn myself in to the police. Consequences? Mum would kill me. People would throw rotten tomatoes at me as I walked down the street and old ladies would spit on me. And Damon would be busted too, because once I’d started confessing I knew I’d blab everything.

  Option two was a bit weak—confess to the priest in the little room at the back of the church with the opening like a letterbox: Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I broke into your room and took your rosary beads. Priests weren’t allowed to tell secrets, but did that include when a crime had been committed?

  Option three…let’s see. Hmm…

  If Damon did sell the rosary beads on the black market like he’d said he would, I could give my half of the money to Mum and tell her I’d found it and then she could buy a car with it.

  Pete and the bloke were still talking low, serious man talk. Now they were examining a plank of wood from a shelf in the back warehouse. I walked out the front.

  Connor was in the front seat of the Mini reading The Lord of the Rings.

  ‘They haven’
t got any purple paint,’ I said through the window.

  ‘Who’d want to paint their house purple?’ Connor replied without looking up, and I saw at once that he was right.

  I’ve got your Rubik’s cube, smart-arse, I thought to myself. But I’d taken the Rubik’s cube a day ago and he still hadn’t noticed. Taking it had been a mistake; I should have taken something he’d miss, like one of his books. Like The Lord of the Rings, his favourite.

  Pete came out. ‘They’re gunna cut us some steps tomorrow. Looks like we’ll have to put up with the old bed planks for a bit longer.’

  ‘Can we get the paper now?’ said Connor.

  ‘Bottle shop first. It’s just round the corner,’ Pete replied.

  Connor sighed.

  At the bottle shop Pete picked up six cartons of beer. The bottle shop guy helped load them into our boot and onto the back passenger seat.

  After the bottle shop we went to the newsagent and finally bought the paper. Then we went to Woolies and bought some beans, steak and potatoes for tea, and some fishing line from a bargain bin.

  At home we unloaded the beer.

  ‘You blokes take the groceries upstairs, ay?’ said Pete as he began to walk out the gate.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I’m just gunna duck back into town to sort some stuff out. Tell your Mum I won’t be two ticks, ay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  Connor grabbed the paper and kept it tight in his armpit as we took the groceries inside and as he made himself a cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen table. He disarmpitted the paper then and shook it like they do in the movies. Then he opened it, turned a few pages and read for a bit. His eyes widened, and under his breath he said, ‘Cool.’

  I said, ‘Show us.’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I want to do the crossword.’

  He looked at me with his eyebrows raised.

  I pressed on. ‘My teacher said we should do it on the holidays for our vocabulary.’

  He shook his head. ‘You’re weird,’ he said, but he threw me the paper.

  After that I felt like I had to actually do the crossword while I ate a slice of bread.