Another Night in Mullet Town

by Steven Herrick

  He stands at the stove

  keeping a close eye on the eggs.

  The toast pops

  and I place two slices on each plate.

  Dad heaps eggs beside the toast

  and pours us both tall glasses of juice.

  ‘I didn’t hear you come in last night,’ he says.

  I scoop the runny mixture onto a fork

  and take a huge bite, chewing slowly.

  ‘I stayed out,’ I answer.

  Dad raises an eyebrow.

  ‘You and Manx causing trouble again?’

  I think of Manx, taking a swig of beer

  and offering the bottle to Rachel.

  I don’t want to lie to Dad,

  but what can I say?

  He adds extra salt and pepper to his eggs.

  ‘I stayed at a friend’s place,’ I say.

  Please don’t ask me.

  Please don’t ask me.

  Dad looks at me for a long time.

  I pretend to be very interested in the eggs,

  and my hand reaches for the pepper grinder

  before I remember that I don’t like pepper.

  ‘Well, I’ll be buggered,’ he says.

  He leans across and refills my glass

  before taking another mouthful of eggs.

  We eat slowly

  occasionally looking at each other and smiling.

  I’m grateful for the silence.

  Too many of them

  In the early afternoon,

  I walk down to the lake

  to find Manx

  casting a line in our usual place.

  ‘Hey, lover boy!’ says Manx.

  I blush.

  ‘Have you caught any?’ I ask,

  to change the subject.

  ‘Only weed –

  the type you can’t smoke,’ Manx answers.

  We sit together watching the line

  go slack in the breeze.

  ‘Rachel told me

  you talked her out of leaving school,’ Manx says.

  ‘It didn’t seem fair,’ I reply.

  ‘There’s too many of them

  and not enough of us.’

  ‘Did you hear the news?’ Manx asks.

  He points across the water

  to Patrick’s house at Tipping Point.

  Two men stand on a scaffold

  and blast a window

  smeared in graffiti

  with high-pressure hoses.

  I look sideways at Manx.

  ‘Someone really doesn’t like Mr Lloyd-Davis.’

  I try not to laugh.

  ‘How much do you reckon they charge?’ Manx asks,

  looking at me before adding,

  ‘Double time on the weekend?’

  ‘You thinking of asking for a cut?’ I ask.

  Manx whistles and slowly winds in the line

  before standing and casting once again

  far into the lake.

  The one that got away

  An hour later,

  we watch a police car pull up

  outside Manx’s house.

  Two cops walk to the front door

  and knock.

  Manx’s dad is at work all weekend.

  Suddenly, the fishing line bends

  under pressure of a large catch.

  ‘Perfect timing,’ Manx says,

  and stands to reel it in.

  The cops hop back in the car

  and drive slowly down Lake Road.

  Manx gives the fish a little more line

  as the car reappears above us.

  Manx’s hands tense on the rod.

  He reels a little more.

  and the line stretches to its limit.

  Snap!

  The fish is gone.

  The cops walk down to the lake.

  The eldest one takes off his cap

  and asks, ‘Which one of you is Manx?’

  Manx smiles and says,

  ‘The handsome one, officer.’

  He hands me the rod.

  ‘Catch a mullet for me, Jonah.’

  I watch as Manx leads the officers

  away from the lake

  back to the car

  where the two men stand

  on either side of my friend.

  Manx shrugs in answer to their questions

  before they open the rear door

  and he climbs inside.

  The cop car drives away.

  I quickly ring Manx’s dad

  to tell him the news.

  He listens,

  his breath heavy on the end of the line.

  I offer to mind the service station for him,

  but he answers,

  ‘Let the bastards walk to the servo in Balarang Bay

  if they run out of petrol.’

  A reward

  Manx doesn’t turn up to school

  on Monday

  and Angelo tells everyone

  that Manx was seen

  ‘doing the deed’.

  Angelo says the police

  have a witness,

  and looks across to Patrick

  sitting quietly against the wall.

  ‘Manx is toast,’ Angelo says.

  ‘Bullshit,’ I reply,

  and everyone looks at me.

  ‘Well, you’d know pussy-boy,

  you’re always so far up Manx’s—’

  He doesn’t finish the sentence

  because Mr Drake steps between us

  and marches everyone off to class.

  All the way there

  Angelo grins

  as if he’s solved the crime by himself

  and is waiting for his reward.

  Not even close

  After school,

  I walk into the real estate office where the assistant

  sits behind a desk scattered with papers.

  I ask to see Mr Lloyd-Davis.

  She tells me he’s in a meeting

  and she isn’t happy when I sit on the plush lounge.

  ‘I’ll wait for as long as it takes,’ I say.

  She rings him and, within a minute,

  he comes storming out.

  Although my legs are shaking,

  I walk into his office

  and wait for him to follow.

  I close the door as he sits behind his desk.

  My throat is dry

  and I realise I’m clenching my fists –

  as if that’ll be any help.

  ‘Your friend is gone this time,’ he says.

  I pull the money out of my pocket

  and place it in a neat stack on his desk.

  I went to the bank and withdrew ten dollar bills

  to make it look like more than it is.

  I don’t tell him it’s only

  two hundred and forty dollars:

  all of my savings.

  He looks at it and laughs.

  ‘Not even close,’ he says.

  ‘I … I can get more,’ I stutter.

  ‘That kid should be locked away,’ he says.

  In the corner of the room

  is a table lined with bottles of scotch and gin.

  A few bottles have black labels

  and some are in their own fancy carton;

  enough alcohol to pay for months

  of window cleaning.

  I’m wasting my time.

  I pick up my money.

  Mr Lloyd-Davis smirks.

  ‘You’re a lot like your son,’ I say.

  I leave the door open

  on my way out.

  Restitution

  The next morning,

  I hop on my bike

  and ride past Manx’s house

  on the way to school.

  He sees me and runs around the back

  to get his own bike.

  We set off at a slow pace

  to Tipping Point.

  ‘You know the way through the swamp,

 
even in the dark,’ I say.

  It’s my idea of a joke,

  but Manx doesn’t respond.

  We pedal past the newly scrubbed windows

  of Patrick’s house

  and take the dirt track through

  the national park.

  On the crest of a hill,

  Manx pulls up and stares out to sea.

  ‘The cops have given me a week,’ he says.

  ‘Either I own up to the damage,

  they charge me,

  recommend a fine

  and something called restitution,

  or it goes to court and I take my chances.’

  A fishing boat fights the swell,

  so small and insignificant in the vast blue.

  ‘I’ve got some money, Manx,’ I say.

  He fiddles with the grip on his handlebars.

  ‘Dad and me could pay for the damage,’ he says.

  ‘But we’ve decided to take our chances

  rather than give them anything.’

  I wonder if they’d put Manx in jail.

  Surely not for graffiti.

  ‘It’s only money, Manx,’ I say.

  He spits between his teeth.

  ‘No, Jonah.

  That’s how they think.’

  He hops back on his bike

  and plunges downhill.

  No matter how hard I pedal

  I can’t catch him

  until we enter the school gates.

  We park our bikes in the racks

  and don’t bother locking them.

  Secrets

  In the afternoon,

  I ride my bike

  to visit Mum at her sister’s.

  She’s sitting on the front verandah

  still in her SeaPak uniform.

  Parked in the driveway is the Magna.

  I drop my bike on the footpath,

  leap the fence

  and hug her for a long time.

  She leads me to sit on the step.

  ‘The car’s fixed.

  I’ve packed it and I’m waiting for Trish

  to thank her and say goodbye.’

  She smiles.

  ‘I bought a lamb roast for tonight,’ she says.

  She holds my hand;

  on her fingernails,

  a few faint red scratches of polish remain.

  ‘I heard about Manx,’ she says.

  She clears her throat.

  ‘When your father and I were young,

  he got into trouble

  with a bloke from the city

  who loaned him money for his first truck.’

  Mum sighs.

  ‘It wasn’t very pleasant,

  but I remember something

  your grandpa said.’

  She looks at me and attempts a smile.

  ‘Everyone has a secret

  they don’t want the world to know.’

  I think about Patrick and his dad.

  Mum interrupts my thoughts.

  ‘Rich people have more secrets than most.’

  Blush

  The following day,

  Ella and I sit together at recess

  under the paperbark tree

  overlooking the oval.

  We’re shielded by heavy branches

  from a fine mist of rain.

  The oval is bare

  save for two boys from year seven

  picking up rubbish:

  Ms Wilson’s idea of creative detention.

  ‘Patrick saw him,’ Ella says.

  ‘He was walking home late.’

  I look at the boys on the oval,

  each of them taking turns

  to pick up scraps of paper.

  I can almost hear them sigh.

  ‘Patrick was too gutless

  to step into the light,’ she adds.

  Ella holds my hand.

  ‘No matter what,’ I say,

  ‘the rich always win.’

  I feel her hand tense in mine.

  ‘It’s Patrick’s word against his,’ I add.

  Ella shakes her head.

  ‘Wasn’t Rachel with Manx?’ she asks.

  I remember them sharing a beer on Friday night.

  ‘Did they leave the party together?’ I ask.

  Ella smiles.

  ‘I don’t know, Jonah.

  I was a little busy …’

  I blush with the memory.

  Crime of the century

  I walk to the library

  where Rachel is sitting outside.

  ‘I’ve solved the crime of the century,’ I say.

  Rachel pats me on the back.

  ‘Well done.

  Let’s hope the cops aren’t as smart as you,’ she says.

  I lean forward and whisper,

  ‘The thing I don’t understand

  is why Patrick told the cops

  it was Manx,’ I say,

  ‘and only Manx.’

  Rachel bites her lip.

  ‘Because Patrick’s smart enough to know

  Manx would never involve,’

  she sighs, ‘the other person.’

  I can’t help but smile.

  ‘The other person could tell the cops

  she was with Manx,

  miles away from the scene of the crime,’ I say.

  Rachel shakes her head.

  ‘I suggested that

  but Manx wouldn’t agree.’

  She looks across the schoolyard and says,

  ‘It’s not just about Patrick.

  It’s his dad, too.’

  The bell rings.

  Rachel stands.

  ‘Manx told me to trust him.’

  She tries to smile.

  ‘And I do.’

  The sun comes out

  All day at school

  the boys crowd around Patrick,

  like seagulls arguing over an oily chip.

  At one point,

  Angelo puts his arm around Patrick’s shoulder

  as though they’re back in kindergarten.

  He leads Patrick away from the canteen,

  down to the back fence,

  near the janitor’s shed.

  I watch from a distance.

  Angelo keeps looking around

  as if checking for teachers.

  They disappear behind the shed

  and, a few minutes later,

  a faint wisp of smoke

  marks the spot.

  I can’t see them

  but I bet they’re talking

  about Friday night

  and what Patrick saw

  while he hid in the dark.

  A few minutes later they return.

  On the stairs,

  Angelo bustles past me

  his eyes bloodshot,

  his voice slurred.

  He calls me ‘Loser’

  before following Patrick to English.

  I look down at Patrick’s shoes –

  black and shiny

  expensive leather –

  while the rest of us wear canvas.

  I turn away from the classrooms

  and walk deliberately

  down to the janitor’s shed.

  The bell sounds

  for the start of class

  as the sun finally comes out.

  Sweet and simple

  Behind the shed

  are scuff marks in the dirt,

  except for one small section

  near the fence,

  which is smoothed over.

  Too easy.

  I dig down and

  find a metal case with a green lid

  and inside a stash of pot and papers.

  Suddenly, a crow calls from the gum tree.

  I look up quickly,

  but there’s no-one around.

  I jump over the fence

  and make my way down to the bay

  past the old man

  wheeling a shopping trolley,

&n
bsp; the shop assistants

  drinking coffee under the cafe umbrellas

  and a young mother holding the hand of her child

  who sees a dog and points,

  squealing with laughter.

  All the while,

  I keep my hand in my pocket

  touching the case,

  its smooth metal surface cool.

  I cross at the lights

  and walk along the foreshore,

  until there’s only sand, pelicans and me.

  A lone sailing boat rocks on the tide,

  the halyard banging against the mast

  as a seagull lands on the boom.

  I take off my shoes and socks,

  roll up my pants

  and walk into the shallows.

  The water laps against my knees

  as I take the case out of my pocket

  and hold it flat in my palm.

  I so much want to throw it

  as far as my anger travels

  to make Patrick pay.

  But then a thought arrives

  so sweet and simple,

  I can’t help but smile.

  The gull wheels in flight

  and hovers overhead

  expecting food.

  My plan

  In the afternoon,

  I take my bike from the shed

  and pedal faster than usual

  through the swamp track

  and around to Tipping Point.

  The sun reddens the cliffs

  as a southerly arrives on cue.

  At Tipping Point,

  I cruise down Patrick’s street

  and pray that the BMW

  isn’t parked in the carport.

  I’m in luck.

  I rest the bike

  against the newly painted picket fence

  and tentatively walk up the front stairs

  whispering to myself,

  ‘Please don’t be home,

  please don’t be home,

  please don’t be home.’

  My knock is loud and assertive,

  the opposite of how I feel.

  The sound echoes down the street.

  Next door a dog barks.

  I knock again

  and the dog threatens to wake the dead.

  I walk downstairs,

  open the double gate to their driveway

  and wheel my bike down the concrete path

  just enough so I can still see the length of the street.

  I wait, my fingers drumming on the bike seat.

  The dog next door

  gets bored with my presence.

  I wait ten minutes.

  I wait twenty minutes.

  I wait thirty minutes.

  I look at my watch

  as often as I look down the street,

  until I hear the BMW turn the corner.

  I take a deep breath

  and ride

  nonchalantly out of the driveway.

  Patrick and his mum

  look surprised