Deadly Unna?

by Phillip Gwynne

  ‘Never.’

  Maybe living in the city wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

  ‘You can pull it in if you like,’ I said. ‘But remember, slow and steady, no jerking.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said.

  Neither of us said anything for a while.

  Then Cathy said, ‘You don’t talk much, do you? I mean, when you’re not talking about sheeps and squids?’

  ‘I suppose not. Not compared to those Maccas, anyway.’

  She smiled when I said this.

  ‘They never shut up, those two. I tell you, I’m pretty sick of hearing about radical re-entries and gnarly lefthanders.’

  ‘What are youse doing?’

  Pickles. He was whirling the jig around in a circle, like a cowboy with a lasso.

  ‘Got a squid on,’ said Cathy. ‘A touchy one.’

  ‘Blacky better take care of that,’ said Pickles.

  ‘Cathy’s going okay,’ I said.

  Pickles gave me a dirty look. Girls and squid, according to him, didn’t go together. When my sisters came down the jetty squidding, he gave them a really hard time.

  She was going okay, too. Little coils of wet line were dropping neatly at her feet.

  ‘I reckon this squid is really starting to trust me,’ she said.

  Pickles snorted.

  ‘Must be almost here,’ I said, looking over the side into the murky green water. Then I saw it, down deep, the dark shape of a squid.

  ‘There it is,’ I said.

  ‘What do I do now? Pull it in?’ said Cathy.

  ‘You can’t,’ said Pickles.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because that’s a slock, it doesn’t have any hooks,’ I said.

  ‘Then how do we catch it?’

  ‘With the jig, that thing Pickles is holding. Just keep pulling it in.’

  When the squid got near to the surface, it let go of the fish. Pickles threw the jig in. He jerked the line, making the jig dart around like a fish.

  Suddenly the squid appeared from behind a pylon. It snatched at the jig with its tentacles. Pickles heaved at the line, and the squid was on, the hooks buried deep in its flesh.

  ‘Got him!’ he said, and he started pulling it in.

  ‘Wow! Look at my squid,’ said Cathy as it rose out of the water.

  He’d almost got it level with the jetty when I noticed the nasty look on his face. I’d seen that look before – Pickles was up to no good. Then I realised what it was – Cathy was standing next to him, her woolly white jumper was right in the firing line.

  ‘Cathy! Stand back,’ I said.

  But she was looking at the squid, she didn’t hear.

  I stepped in front of her, just as Pickles flicked the squid over his shoulder. A jet of oily black ink flew through the air. And I copped it. Right in the face. The world turned inky black.

  ‘Are you okay?’ said Cathy. ‘Here, take this.’

  I wiped the ink out of my eyes.

  ‘Yeah, I’m okay.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Pickles, smirking. ‘Accident.’

  The squid was lying on the jetty, its tentacles squirming, its skin changing colour. It was making weird sucking noises.

  ‘What’s it doing?’ said Cathy.

  ‘Dying, I suppose,’ I said.

  ‘Not any more,’ said Pickles and he threw his knife. It spun three times and the blade sliced into the squid’s head. Right between the eyes. I have to admit, it was pretty impressive. The squid’s tentacles stopped moving. It turned white.

  ‘Oh, my poor squid,’ said Cathy. ‘And it trusted me.’

  I could see a figure, all in white, walking up the jetty. It was Cathy’s old man, the tennis player. I could see, when he got to us, that he wasn’t happy, like he’d just lost three sets in a row.

  ‘We’ve all been waiting for you,’ he said. ‘What’ve you been doing?’

  ‘Catching a squid, Daddy.’

  He looked down at the squid. He didn’t seem too impressed.

  ‘Well, come along then. Everybody’s in the car waiting.’

  ‘See you, Blacky,’ said Cathy. ‘Maybe up the jetty tomorrow.’

  ‘See you,’ I said.

  After she was gone Pickles said, ‘You’ve got the hots for her, haven’t you?’

  ‘Pig’s bum I have,’ I said, as I slipped the inky hanky into my pocket.

  27

  When I got home the three little ones were outside, playing hopscotch.

  ‘You look sick again,’ said Greggy.

  He was standing on one leg, a stone in his hand.

  ‘Do I?’ I said.

  ‘Same like before. Did you get bitten again?’

  ‘Smitten, not bitten.’

  ‘That’s right, smitten. Did you get smitten again?’

  ‘Yeah. S’pose I did.’

  ‘By that same girl?’

  ‘By that same girl.’

  ‘Worser this time?’

  ‘Worser.’

  Much worser.

  28

  Yesterday’s clouds had slinked off, ashamed of themselves. The sky looked even bluer than before, like it had been scoured clean. And the gang was in the usual place.

  As I got nearer I could hear Cathy telling one of the Maccas, ‘And this squid, you should have seen it squelching all over the place, it was amazing.’

  Then she saw me.

  ‘Here he is, the squid hunter.’

  ‘Hi,’ I said, a little embarrassed.

  I went to put my towel next to Mark Arks.

  ‘Why don’t you put your towel down here next to me?’ said Cathy.

  ‘Excuse me?’ I said.

  For a second I thought she’d said, why don’t you put your towel down here next to me?

  ‘Put your towel down here,’ she said, patting the space beside her.

  Oh my God! She had.

  So I put my towel down, but not too close, about an arm’s length from her.

  ‘I don’t bite, you know,’ she said.

  I dragged the towel across a bit, then I took off my t-shirt and lay down.

  ‘Cathy,’ said the closest Macca, ‘what does transmogrify mean?’

  He had a surf magazine open in front of him.

  ‘How do you spell it?’ she said.

  Macca spelled it out.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘They probably made it up. You know what those surf mags are like.’

  ‘It means when something changes into something else that’s really bizarre,’ I said.

  ‘You sure about that?’ said the Macca.

  ‘Pretty sure,’ I said.

  I was dead sure. Increase Your Word Power. Reader’s Digest.

  ‘You know,’ said Cathy, ‘for somebody from the country you’re pretty brainy.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  ‘You should go to college. You could go to Kings with the skeg-head here.’

  She elbowed Macca.

  ‘Do you reckon they’d let me in?’ I said.

  ‘Sure,’ she said.

  ‘Would I have to sit an exam or something?’

  ‘An exam?’

  ‘Yeah, you know – a test. To see how brainy you are.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Then how do you get in?’

  ‘Pay the fees.’

  ‘You gotta pay to go to college?’

  ‘Of course you’ve got to pay. I take back what I said about you being brainy.’

  ‘It costs a packet to go to Kings,’ said the Macca. ‘Heaps more than any other school.’

  ‘So if my olds paid the fees, I could go to Kings, too?’ I said.

  ‘Sure,’ said Cathy.

  I waited for the Macca to come up with a reason why I couldn’t go to Kings. But he didn’t.

  ‘And if Pickles’s old man paid the fees, he could go, too?’

  Cathy looked across at Pickles. He was wearing the same clothes as yesterday. They were covered in squid ink. He was scratching away at his munga.<
br />
  ‘I reckon they might draw the line there,’ she said.

  So going to Kings had nothing to do with brains, and everything to do with money, the folding stuff, as the old man called it. My day was getting better and better. It was about to get better still.

  Cathy turned towards me.

  ‘Can you do me a favour?’ she said.

  Could I do her a favour? Cathy, I wanted to say, all you have to do is ask. A belly flop from the lighthouse? Of course. Crawl naked on my belly to Kapoona and back? Straightaway. Eat a jar of Pickles’s gents? With pleasure. For you, Cathy, I’d do anything.

  Instead I said, ‘Yeah, sure.’

  ‘Put some oil on my back for me,’ she said.

  For a second I thought she’d said, put some oil on my back for me.

  ‘Pardon?’ I said.

  ‘Put some oil on my back for me. The sun’s getting hotter.’

  ‘Um, yeah, sure, of course,’ I said.

  She rummaged in her bag, and then handed me the bottle. Tropical Island Deep Tanning Oil. Then she lay down, her elbows out, her chin resting on her hands.

  I knelt down next to her and unscrewed the lid. My hands were shaking.

  ‘Where do you want it?’ I asked.

  ‘All over,’ she said. ‘Slop it on.’

  I squeezed the bottle. Oil squirted out. The smell was intense, exotic. A little pool of it lay in the small of her back.

  ‘You have to rub it in,’ she said.

  I touched it with my fingertips. It was warm. Little jolts of electricity shot up my fingers. I started smoothing it across her back. I could feel the little corrugations of her vertebrae.

  Her back was glistening.

  ‘Is that okay?’ I said, softly.

  ‘That’s great,’ she said. ‘Can you do my shoulders now?’

  Her hair, in a plait, lay along her back. It reminded me somehow of a rope, one of those big ones they use to tie up ocean liners. I gently lifted it – I was surprised at how heavy it was, you don’t think of hair as being heavy – and moved it out of the way.

  Then I squeezed the bottle again. More oil squirted out.

  If I die now, I said to myself, if a huge tidal wave, like in those Japanese horror movies, appears on the horizon, and carries me to watery oblivion, then I wouldn’t care. I’d die happy, contented.

  The sound of thongs flip-flopping. Somebody had arrived. I looked up. It was Deano.

  ‘There’s some Nungas heading this way,’ he said. ‘A big mob of ’em.’

  Everybody looked up.

  Usually the Nungas came into town, got their supplies and left again. But sometimes a mob would walk all the way from the Point. I’d heard them talking in the front bar about the good old days, about huge brawls down the jetty, Nungas against Goonyas. But I’d never been in one. I wouldn’t want to, either. Those Nungas were tough, much tougher than us.

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘They’re coming down the main street.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Dunno. Fifteen, twenty, a lot.’

  ‘What is it?’ said Cathy, sitting up.

  ‘Boongs,’ said Pickles.

  ‘What?’ said Cathy.

  ‘Abos,’ said one of the Maccas. ‘Coming up here. A tribe of ’em.’

  ‘Are they allowed up here?’ said Cathy

  ‘Yeah, of course they are,’ I said.

  ‘They shouldn’t be,’ said Pickles. ‘It’s our jetty, not theirs.’

  ‘Bloody oath,’ said Deano.

  I could see them now, at the start of the jetty. They were mucking around with the ropes that went out to the dinghies.

  ‘If they touch our dinghy,’ said Pickles, ‘I’m gunna go get the old man.’

  But they didn’t. They kept going until they reached the steps. The camper kids, who were swimming there, moved out of the way. Then one of the Nungas, a girl, jumped in. She was wearing baggy shorts and a t-shirt. From the distance it looked like Clarence.

  I could hear one of the others yelling, ‘Hey Clar, what that water like? Cold, unna?’

  It was Clarence. The others jumped in too.

  ‘Don’t they wear bathers?’ said Cathy.

  ‘Nuh, too shamed,’ said Pickles.

  Then they all got out again.

  ‘Are they coming up here?’ said Cathy.

  She sounded scared.

  ‘Maybe,’ I said. But I was hoping they wouldn’t.

  They did though. Laughing and yelling, their clothes dripping water. As they walked past, I pressed my face against the towel, hoping Clarence wouldn’t recognise me. When they got to the end of the jetty they started climbing on the lighthouse.

  ‘We should call the cops. They’re not allowed up there,’ said Mark Arks (who was always dropping bombs off the lighthouse).

  Again, Clarence was the first to jump off. The others followed. Then they all clambered back up onto the jetty, and started walking back.

  I put my head down again.

  ‘Hey, Blacky, that’s your girlfriend, isn’t it?’ said Pickles, loudly. ‘What’s-her-name?’

  I don’t know if Clarence heard. She didn’t stop or say anything. She kept walking.

  ‘That Abo wasn’t really your girlfriend?’ asked Cathy, when they’d gone.

  ‘No way. It’s Pickles’ idea of a joke. Pathetic as usual.’

  ‘But you know her?’

  I hesitated.

  ‘No, of course not. How would I know her?’

  I screwed the lid back on the Tropical Island Deep Tanning Oil.

  ‘Here you go,’ I said, handing it back to Cathy.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘You’ve got nice hands, you know. Gentle.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, but somehow the most perfect morning of my life wasn’t so perfect any more.

  29

  ‘Wake up!’

  I opened my eyes. It was early morning. Team-man standing at the side of my bunk.

  ‘Piss off, will ya,’ I said, pulling the sheet over my head.

  ‘No, wake up. There’s been a shooting!’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘Fair dinkum. Down at the pub.’

  ‘Pull the other one.’

  ‘Would I make something like that up?’

  I pulled the sheet down. Team-man had a point. He was incapable of making anything like that up. It had to be true.

  The sun was just coming up as we got to the pub. It was cordoned off. There were police cars everywhere, and one, two, three ambulances. Cops all over the place. There were other men, in plain clothes, coming in and out of the pub.

  ‘Detectives,’ said Team-man.

  There was a huge crowd, pressing up against the tape. Locals and campers. Grown-ups wearing dressing-gowns, kids in pyjamas. I could see Shirl and Mick, Arks, Dazza and Pickles, Rocker, Slogs, the Maccas – everybody was there.

  I could feel the excitement inside me swelling, getting bigger and bigger. At last something had happened in our hopeless little town. Not just a premiership. Something really important.

  It’d be in the papers. Front page. Probably even on the telly.

  All around me people were talking.

  ‘Robbing the joint, they were.’

  ‘Three got shot.’

  ‘Killed two of ’em.’

  ‘Who got shot?’ I said.

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Nobody knows.’

  ‘Boongs, that’s all I know.’

  ‘Serves ’em right, I reckon.’

  ‘That’s a bit tough, mate.’

  ‘No, Big Mac done the right thing.’

  ‘Look, they’re bringing one out now.’

  Two ambulance officers were carrying a stretcher through the front door of the pub. On it was a body, a lumpy shape covered in a white sheet.

  I pushed through the crowd, right to the front. The tape was against my chest.

  ‘Stand back, son,’ said one of the cops. ‘Stop pushing there.’

  ‘Who’s that on th
e stretcher?’ I said. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘I don’t know, son,’ said the cop in that typical cop’s voice. ‘And even if I did I wouldn’t be at liberty to tell you. The names will be released in due course.’

  The front of the stretcher was resting on the back of the ambulance. The two officers were about to push it in when a gust of wind caught the corner of the sheet, lifting it up.

  I could see a basketball boot. With a red star on the side. And red laces.

  My guts froze. It was Dumby’s shoe.

  I stumbled back through the crowd.

  ‘Steady there, Blacky,’ somebody said.

  ‘Why luv, you’re as white as a sheet,’ said Shirl.

  I ran over to the anchor and sat down.

  Dumby dead?

  It couldn’t be.

  But that was his boot, nobody else had boots like that.

  Maybe somebody borrowed them, or stole them. But I knew they hadn’t.

  Dumby Red was dead. Not bang bang you’re dead, count to ten. Bang bang you’re dead. That’s it.

  He was dead, and he’d been killed by Big Mac.

  I could feel the bile rising in my throat. I leant over the anchor and let it all come streaming out.

  30

  In a town where nothing had happened in the last couple of hundred years, except a second in the Tidy Town Comp. (Section B) and a footy premiership, the pub shootings became the topic of every conversation. No matter where you were in the Port – up the jetty, down the beach, at the shops, in church – that’s all people talked about. Nobody bothered with the weather any more. And everybody was an expert, everybody had their own version of what happened that night.

  This is just one of them.

  It’s the Monday night of a hot, thirsty long weekend. Three days’ takings are on the premises.

  The only person in the pub is Big Mac. He’s asleep, exhausted.

  There’s a noise outside, the crunch of gravel. Big Mac wakes up. He looks at the illuminated dial of his bedside clock – 2:35. Somebody’s been down the jetty fishing, he thinks. They’re walking home past the pub. He turns over, closes his eyes again.

  The dog barks. Dumb mutt! Barks at its own shadow. Worst bloody guard dog I ever had.

  The dog barks again. Louder this time. More insistently. Then there are footsteps on the gravel, people running. Followed by the sound of glass breaking, wood splintering. Somebody’s breaking in.