Fairway to Heaven

by Lily Malone

  Turning the pram so Seb’s face isn’t in the sun, I snap on the brakes and pull the hood over the front. Then I attach the belt from my wrist securely to the guard rail.

  Brayden clips the squid jig to the end of his line. ‘Watch and learn, Jenn.’

  Fishing line fizzes across the water and there’s a plop and splash as the jig lands. Then he starts reeling it in. ‘You jerk at the line as you wind, like this.’

  I giggle. It looks like he’s developed a systemic twitch.

  ‘You jerk once, then, wait, so it can sink. Then you jerk again,’ he demonstrates. ‘It’s the movement that gets the squid excited but when the jig goes still, that’s when he’ll pounce.’

  ‘I thought the idea of the jerking was to mimic a prawn?’

  ‘I am mimicking a prawn.’

  ‘A dying prawn? A prawn with a busted shell?’ I add, helpfully.

  His narrowed blue eyes spear me. ‘You just be ready with the bucket, Jennifer Gates. If I catch one and you let it cover me in ink, you’re for it.’

  Another giggle flies from my lips, vanishes in the sea breeze.

  Water laps and slaps at the pylons, and there’s the barest sensation of movement as the structure sways.

  ‘Must be beer o’clock, somewhere,’ I say. Opening the lid of the cooler bag, I pull out two icy Coronas.

  ‘Did you remember the bottle opener?’

  Face palm. ‘I remembered the lemon, does that count?’

  Sighing exaggeratedly, he reaches for my bottle. ‘You take this.’

  He thrusts the fishing rod into my hands and I keep winding in, adopting my best maimed-prawn impersonation while he tries to pry off the crown seal against the guardrail.

  It’s a specialised task.

  There’s a hiss as the seal pops. Brayden repeats the treatment with his own bottle. ‘You remembered the lemon? Serious?’

  I nod toward the pram. ‘It’s in a container in the bottom.’

  He hunts for the container, pulls out two wedges of lemon, slots one in each neck, then hands me the bottle. ‘Cheers.’

  We clink.

  ‘I so needed this,’ I say, loving the fruit zing that coats my throat. ‘Here. Have your rod back. If I hook the first squid, you’ll never forgive yourself.’

  Brayden takes a second slug of his beer and places the bottle at his feet. Winding the line in, he casts out again. Half way back to the jetty, the rod trembles, the tip bounces, then bows. Brayden whoops and starts reeling fast and hard.

  An approaching bow-wave of jig and squid bears down on us.

  ‘Got the bucket, Jenn?’

  I put my beer on the concrete and dash for the bucket.

  ‘Whoa! Did you see that?’ Brayden shouts.

  Peering into the water, I see a puff of black jet in the squid’s wake. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You want them to squirt all their ink out while they’re still in the water. The stuff stinks. You don’t want it on you.’

  Brayden pulls the line vertical and the squid breaks from the water, translucent and pulsing. The animal has two tentacles caught on the barbs of the jig. I’d forgotten how big their jelly eyes are, and how very black.

  ‘Where’s the bucket, Jenn?’

  ‘Here.’ I extend it before me and Brayden lowers the squid.

  Splat!

  Black ink squirts the bucket’s yellow walls and I squeal and shuffle my feet. I can’t help it.

  ‘Good catch! Stand back though.’

  Cautiously, we peer in. I’m ready to jump away in a heartbeat. The squid writhes in a mess of inky slush. Brayden jiggles the lure and the tentacles spill from it.

  ‘I reckon he’s out of ammo.’

  ‘Poor little thing.’ I pour Squidly from the yellow bucket into the icecream container and get ready for round two.

  ***

  Brayden hooks two more of Squidly’s mates — that I scoop neatly — before he hands the rod to me and picks up his now not-so-icy beer. ‘Your turn.’

  ‘Okay.’ I grip the rod.

  ‘Do you remember how to cast?’

  ‘I think so.’ Flicking the metal latch on the reel, I hold the line against the shaft with my index finger, lever the rod over my shoulder, and remind myself to let go of the line as I throw.

  Fishing line screams and the jig plops into the water. I’ve probably cast it about twenty metres.

  ‘Nice job,’ he says, taking a slurp of his beer, watching the water with hooded eyes.

  ‘Thanks. Wait till you see me do the dead prawn.’

  He doesn’t dignify that with an answer, just slurps his beer and watches the water.

  It takes three casts before I get a bite and when it comes, it’s an aggressive snatch that makes me haul hard on the rod.

  I reel for all I’m worth — squid, jig and water torpedo toward the jetty — and I lean over the rail with the rod quivering in my hands. Squidly 4 is plucked from the sea.

  ‘He’s only on by one tentacle, Bray.’ I’ll lose it for sure.

  ‘Go easy. Don’t knock it off on the jetty.’

  I bring the squid vertically up and over the rail and it dangles on the end of my line.

  Brayden has the bucket and he’s like a cat trying to catch a swinging ball of wool. ‘You’re moving all over the place, Jenn. Keep the rod still.’

  ‘Here. Quick.’

  Brayden swipes with the bucket. Squid and line hit and there’s a scrabbling sound of tentacles and jig against smooth plastic.

  ‘Gotcha. Way to go, Jenn. Great —

  A black spout jets up, like the bucket just struck oil, and I’m staring into Brayden’s eyes when the geyser implodes in the bristles of his beard.

  ‘Shit.’ He drops the bucket with a plastic clunk, and his blue eyes snap shut.

  Sticky black rivers drip from his chin to the front of his father’s brown-beige shirt. His lips, left cheek and left ear ooze black.

  A middle-aged man who’s been reading the tourist plaque beside us, grins, and says, ‘Well, cop them apples.’

  And I start laughing.

  The bucket jerks and rolls as the squid flops inside.

  ‘Shi-it,’ Brayden groans, bringing the tail of the shirt up to wipe his eyes.

  My back sags against the guard rail. The fishing rod tilts and tips because I’m shaking so much with laughter I can’t keep it straight.

  Staggering to the pram, I pull out the baby wipes. Who am I kidding? This job is too big for baby wipes. I keep a towel in the pram and it has seen more than its fair share of gross fluid explosions. Lucky that.

  Swiping at the worst of the gunk on his face, I thrust the towel into his hands to let him finish the job.

  ‘I’d just like it on the record, Brayden, that I scooped all three of your squid without one speck of ink going anywhere — ’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ he grumbles, but he’s cleared enough of the black goo from his mouth, I can see he’s smiling.

  ‘Repeat after me, Brayden. Jennifer Gates is the best squid catcher…’

  The corner of his mouth twitches where he wipes. ‘Jennifer Gates is the biggest pain in the —

  His mobile phone rings.

  Brayden holds up black-stained hands.

  ‘Shall I get it?’ I say, still helpfully.

  ‘Please.’

  I prompt him, ‘You were saying… Jennifer Gates is the best…’

  ‘Jennifer Gates is the best squid catcher.’ This time I can hear his smile, too.

  The phone is in the rear pocket of his jeans, packed behind his wallet. I try to keep the giggle out of my voice as I answer, ‘Brayden Culhane’s phone.’

  ‘Is Mr Culhane there, please?’ It’s a man’s voice. He sounds like an accountant.

  Brayden wipes his hands on the towel, then his jeans.

  ‘Yes he is. May I tell him who is calling?’

  The answer dries the giggles in my throat.

  ‘Just a moment.’ I hold the phone toward Brayden. ‘It’s Senior Constable Payne
from Major Crimes.’

  Chapter 11

  Brayden turns away from me as he takes the phone, and paces slowly between the stone plaque and some imaginary line near the jetty rail.

  I can’t hear the conversation, and he’s too absorbed in it to meet my gaze. So I gather up wipes, towel, rod and buckets, squid, empty beer bottles. And I wait.

  The last train of the day rattles past us to shore.

  A couple of kids with freckles and fishing rods walk past, eyeing our yellow bucket. ‘Get anything?’

  ‘Four.’

  They look in my bucket anyway, as if they’re not sure I’m telling the truth, before they wander on.

  Brayden has stopped pacing. His hands grip the jetty rail, shoulders pinched tight, head low. He sucks a huge breath of ocean air before he slots the phone in his pocket and comes to me.

  I’m busting to know what’s happened, but Brayden’s face tells me faster than any words it can’t be good news.

  ‘The old man died about an hour ago.’ His voice is grey as wet cement. ‘They’ve notified all the family. They were with him at the hospital, at the end.’

  A brick settles in the pit of my stomach. ‘No. God, Bray, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Yeah. Me too.’ He rubs the whiskers at his jaw and turns away.

  Together, we watch the water wash ever more steel blue, until I can’t stand the silence another second. ‘What happens now?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he pauses. ‘I’ll be charged.’

  ‘It means court?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’d say so.’ He shrugs, picks up our gear. ‘Let’s get going.’

  Just like that, discussion finished.

  I release the brakes on Seb’s pram and re-tie the Velcro to my wrist. I have to push hard to catch Brayden. His legs eat the metres.

  Even now, I’m not quite level with his shoulder as I call into the breeze, ‘So what did the police say?’

  ‘He said the old man suffered a heart attack last night and never recovered. He said I’ll be charged with one count of dangerous driving occasioning death and three counts of dangerous driving occasioning bodily injury. He said I need to get a criminal lawyer.’ He’s talking to the timbers beneath our feet.

  It’s like invisible hands squeeze my lungs, draining me of breath. Then, when he says criminal, it’s all I can do not to flinch. Brayden is no criminal.

  ‘Can they prove the heart attack was because of the accident? Maybe he had a dodgy heart?’

  ‘Jesus, Jenn. I don’t think he was about to up and cark it if I hadn’t smashed into his car.’

  ‘Do you know any,’ — I hesitate on the word — ‘criminal lawyers?’

  ‘Pope had a lady lawyer who won him a heap of money when he broke his collarbone in a road accident a few years back. He said she was good.’

  ‘Is it even the same thing? Isn’t that called personal injury?’

  ‘I don’t know, Jenn.’ This time there’s a snap to the words. His face in profile is taut, like fencing wire stretched too tight.

  And I’m struggling to make it add up.

  The Brayden I know is the guy who would stop to help someone change a tyre on the side of the road. He’s the guy I’ve seen push a woman’s car out of the traffic when she broke down at an intersection. Every other bastard drove past.

  He’s that guy.

  He’s not a criminal.

  Carefully, I steer the pram closer, until I can reach out for him.

  Ignoring the beer cooler that bumps between our knees, I wrap my arm around his waist — my Halloween pumpkin shirt against his brown and beige checks, until he slows.

  It’s all I have to give him — my warmth and my strength. It’s my body, telling his body, I’m here.

  ‘Anything I can do, you just have to ask, okay? I’ll be there.’

  He leans into me. ‘Thanks, Jenn.’

  Then we’re at the turnstile and I need both hands on the pram to guide it through. When my arm drops away, I feel cold all over.

  ***

  We stop once on the way to the beach house — at the drive-through bottleshop attached to one of the pubs — because Brayden says he needs something stronger than Corona, and I agree. So it’s after five-thirty by the time we’re home.

  He unpacks the Pajero and offers to clean the squid. Seb and I head inside to start our night routine.

  Seb sits on the carpet watching cartoons on kids’ TV. I use the time to change out of my orange shirt and work out what we’re having for dinner. Tonight, it’s homemade.

  Brayden comes in while I’m making red lentil and pumpkin soup for Seb. He brings the scent of the ocean with him — the squid on a plate, neatly trimmed into four slippery white tubes.

  ‘Are you happy to eat after Seb’s in bed?’ I ask him. ‘I’ve got a plan for these, but they need to marinate.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Second question: will you barbecue them for me when they’re ready?’

  ‘Can do.’

  He looks better than he did driving home, not so tight around the eyes. Opening the fridge door, he asks if I want another beer.

  ‘Thanks.’

  This time Brayden takes a bottle-opener from the drawer to pop the crown seals. His mother’s kitchen cabinets can count themselves lucky.

  He punches up some songs on his iPod, old songs from the Triple J Top 100. It’s not loud, but it’s enough to drown the sound of Peppa Pig coming from the TV.

  ‘Is there any beer better for a beach shack than Corona?’ I say, sucking the liquid, the hit of lemon, into the back of my throat.

  ‘If there is, I’d like to see it.’ Brayden sits on the low cupboards in the window seat and hooks his right ankle over his knee. ‘So what’s for dinner?’

  ‘Chilli and lime barbecued squid on a bed of coriander rice, with zucchini salad.’

  He shakes his head. ‘When in the last eight years did you learn to cook?’

  ‘I do lots of things these days I never thought I’d do when we were at school. Gardening. Some of my plants even survive. I like cooking, it’s fun. Not cakes though, I can’t bake to save my life. Jack — ’

  I stop. I don’t want to talk about Jack.

  ‘Jack what?’

  Scraping the seeds from a fresh red chilli, I discard them, keeping the flesh.

  Brayden asks again, ‘Jack what?’

  Bloody pushy Culhanes. ‘Jack always says my muffins are like hockey-pucks.’

  About to take another sip, he almost snorts his beer instead.

  After a beat, I’m laughing too. ‘I can’t knock him for that. I am crap at muffins.’

  ‘So you cook, garden, mother and work — but you’re not playing any golf — which is what you always loved.’

  I didn’t want to talk about Jack and I sure don’t want to talk about golf.

  Lining up a big bunch of coriander, I chop — leaves, stems and all — cutting finer and finer as I work across the board. The knife’s not great, certainly not sharp, and I have to concentrate.

  ‘Don’t chop your finger off,’ he says.

  ‘Don’t watch me. You’re making me nervous.’ I wave the knife at Brayden’s squid-ink stained skin and clothes. ‘Did you want to have first shower? Get that squid spit off you?’

  ‘I thought you’d want to give Seb a bath first?’

  I check my watch. ‘His dinner’s nearly ready — and you’re more feral than he is.’

  ‘Okay.’ He pushes off the window seat. ‘I still want to know what’s up with your golf.’

  ‘Nothing’s up with my golf.’

  When he gets to the door between the kitchen and the lounge he stops and says over his shoulder, ‘Ah, Jenn? I think there’s a reason it’s so quiet in here…’

  I drop the knife. ‘What’s he done now?’

  There’s a smile in Brayden’s voice so it can’t be anything too perilous. He steps back so I can peer around the doorframe.

  Seb sits in the middle of the lounge-room fl
oor. He’s got the box of tissues between his legs — I forgot to put them out of reach last time I changed his nappy — and he’s systematically pulling them, one after another, like a magician pulling rabbits from a hat. Left hand. Right hand. He’s gone through half the box.

  White squares make a quilt on the carpet.

  Master of this chaos, Sebby looks up at us and grins.

  ***

  Seb slept so late this afternoon I thought I’d struggle to get him to sleep. As usual, he surprises me. He goes out like a light on the stroke of seven-thirty.

  Maybe it’s the ocean air, or the aftermath of such a restless night last night. Maybe the beach house isn’t so strange to him anymore. Perhaps it’s all these things. Whatever is making him comfortable here, I’m glad of it. We’re in a routine again.

  And that routine will shatter when we go back to Perth.

  With a sigh, I draw the sliding door closed.

  ‘Should I light the barbecue?’ Brayden says from the lounge-room where he’s watching TV.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  He gets a roll of paper towel, tongs, and olive oil from the kitchen. Soon after, I hear the scrape of the barbecue plate being cleaned.

  Taking the bowl of chilli and lime squid, I follow him outside. ‘Don’t overcook them, or they go tough,’ I caution as I hand it over.

  ‘Don’t worry. I promise I won’t turn all your hard work into calamari hockey-pucks.’

  ***

  We eat in the last of a rosy twilight and the squid is delicious. Tender, with bite. I’m glad the meal was good. Brayden seems relaxed.

  Now, night smothers the lawn. The road beyond is a black shadow, as are the peppermint trees that I can just see, swaying against the night sky. As I lay my fork across my empty plate, the scrape of metal on china says it’s time for answers.

  ‘So, Brayden.’

  He twists a whisky tumbler with a triple shot of Wild Turkey in his fingers, making wet rings on the plastic tablecloth. ‘So, Jenn?’

  ‘What happens now?’

  ‘Well… I guess I should do the dishes, seeing as you cooked.’

  ‘Don’t be such a boofhead. This is serious. I’m serious.’ I’m sure his no-big-deal attitude is for my benefit, but I’m worried he’s taking this entire thing too lightly. Lawyers cost a small fortune. I should know. Jack’s mother has an army of them at her beck and call.