The Never Boys

by Scott Monk

  Another monster crushed him, rolling him in its whiteness. Emerging with his throat, nose and ears burning, he choked out a laugh. He was a terrible surfer, but loved the sea rushing through his fingers and toes. It had been six months since he’d ridden a board. Too many bad memories were mixed with the good. But the undercurrent was too strong. He belonged out there. It was a family thing.

  That night, he slept on the shore. He drifted off to the sea’s soft crash and long foamy fizz. Dawn brought with it first dibs on the fresh set of waves and, just as the fishermen planted their rods in the sand, he clocked up his second hour knifing the waters.

  Come ten, he padded to shore, changed then thumbed a ride back to Victor Harbor. Salt crystallised on his dark eyebrows and leg hairs as he stood barefoot on a pavement outside a small church, watching parishioners welcome each other with genuine hellos or morosely walk inside dressed in their best Sunday guilt. Drumsticks clicked together and a loud band jolted the congregation awake. Two attendants waited at the doors, holding orders of service and hopes of squeezing a few more souls into the pews.

  It was the seventh weekend he’d done this. And it was the seventh weekend he turned away.

  Chapter 7

  Running across the paddocks, Dean finally gave in to his stitch and doubled-up near the Sturt Highway. He stood there for a few moments, watching station wagons packed with suitcases and grumpy children follow a bus east towards Sydney. Good. The strike was over. No more running.

  He turned back to his quarters. The morning air smelt of warm gumnuts, chaff and the cracks of the earth. He had set his alarm so as not to be late for work again only to jolt awake an hour early panicking that he hadn’t set it at all. Stupidly, he had thought jogging would help kill time. Tell that to his feet.

  Two hundred metres inland he heard tyres rolling behind him. Strange. One of the workers couldn’t sleep either. He stepped aside to let the car pass but it slowed and pulled up beside him. He almost started running again — fast! — when he saw the red and blue lights.

  ‘Out of puff?’ the constable asked.

  Cramping inside, Dean nodded. He kept walking. Not too quickly, though.

  The police officer was a local. He was solidly built, in his early twenties, blond, prematurely balding and dressed in an immaculately ironed uniform. His car circulated with airconditioning and sandalwood aftershave.

  ‘Do you know this is private property?’ he asked.

  ‘I live here. Well — board here.’

  ‘With who?’

  ‘The Kaeslers.’ His voice was strained. It needed to be deeper, more relaxed.

  ‘Are you a relative?’

  ‘No, a worker — a rousie.’

  ‘I’ve never seen you round here.’

  ‘The General only hired me last Thursday.’

  ‘Where were you before last Thursday?’

  ‘Backpacking.’

  ‘From —?’

  ‘Brisbane.’

  ‘Is that home?’

  ‘Yep.’

  The cop puffed out his bottom lip. Checked the road ahead. ‘Fifteen hundred kilometres. That’s some trip.’

  He agreed, but added nothing.

  The conversation was going nowhere, so the officer asked, ‘Is the General awake yet?’

  ‘I haven’t seen her.’

  The cop braked. ‘Hop in. How about if we find out?’

  Dean felt stones bink under his feet as the patrol car rolled between the rows of red bottlebrush at the main gate. The kitchen radio kept its own company, leaving the front door unanswered and the constable circling round back. Dean tried hiding behind the officer as the General came into view. She was planting flowers into an old concrete mixer, and, up until that moment, enjoying the solitude.

  ‘No — no — no!’ she started, getting to her feet. ‘Whatever he’s done, Tom, either charge him or lock him up. I’m sick of hauling these blokes out of trouble.’

  ‘It’s not the boy I’m here about,’ he said, following her to the hothouse but eyeballing Dean all the same.

  Caught reaching for a pair of secateurs, she slowly squeezed them tight and growled, ‘What’s she done now?’

  Dean breathed out.

  ‘Do you know where Zara was last night?’

  ‘She better have been in bed.’ Then, side-stepping the constable, she yelled, ‘Zara!’

  ‘How about Hayden Ryan? Did he come back after work?’

  ‘No. He only phoned.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘You can ask him yourself. That’s him now.’

  The Falcon’s engine gave the shearer away as the car crawled towards the shed like a heavy-backed dog. He methodically cranked the handbrake, wound up the windows then pocketed his keys. A sharp whistle stopped him going inside.

  ‘What’s happening?’ he asked with a giant cavalier grin.

  ‘Did you sneak off with my daughter last night?’

  ‘What?’ he laughed.

  ‘Tom here says you did.’

  ‘This isn’t about playing footy next season?’

  ‘No,’ Constable Tom said. ‘I’m here to ask some questions.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Zara!’ The General stormed off.

  ‘Where were you at eleven o’clock last night?’

  ‘Gavin Vincze’s party. Why?’

  ‘Did you have anything to drink?’

  ‘C’mon, Tom, you already know the answer to that.’

  ‘Did you have anything to drink?’

  ‘Yes, three bourbons and a couple of beers.’

  ‘What time did you leave?’

  ‘I don’t know. Twelve. Twelve-thirty maybe.’

  ‘By yourself?’

  Hayden grinned. ‘You aren’t checking up on my sex life, are you?’

  ‘Zara! Where is that girl?’

  ‘Were you alone?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who were you with?’

  ‘Tommy, you know a gentleman never tells.’

  ‘Was it Zara?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Where did you go afterwards?’

  ‘C’mon. Stop playing detective and talk to me like a mate. What’s going on here?’

  ‘I want to know too,’ the General demanded. ‘Enough pussyfooting around. What’s my daughter done?’

  The cop paused for a moment, more accustomed to asking the questions. ‘Nobody’s done anything yet,’ he said. ‘This is just a routine call-out. Patrick Castleman rang the station two hours ago to report his ambulance missing.’

  ‘So what’s that got to do with us?’

  ‘I found it parked in your west paddock.’

  She caught herself. Then, marching away, she cursed, ‘Why that little —’

  ‘Anybody could have parked it there,’ Hayden offered.

  ‘But how many people in the Barossa own a raw orange XY Falcon?’

  He recoiled. Kept playing naïve. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Zara!’

  ‘We have a witness who spotted an XY Falcon at two o’clock this morning outside the depot.’

  ‘What witness? What depot?’

  ‘That’s confidential information —’

  ‘You’re not accusing me of stealing the ambulance are you, mate?’

  ‘I’m not accusing anyone —’

  ‘Who saw my car?’

  ‘We still don’t know if it is your car —’

  ‘Was it Lisa Hadley?’

  ‘Zara!’

  ‘It doesn’t matter who —’

  ‘It was, wasn’t it? She’s had it in for Zara and me since we were kids —’

  ‘Calm down —’

  ‘Is she home now? She is, isn’t she?’

  ‘Hayden —’

  ‘Let’s go over there right now and see if she remembers —’

  ‘I said calm down!’

  Constable Tom grabbed the shearer, spun him round and flattened him against the hothouse. It rattled the fight out of him but
not the anger. As the conversation grew more heated, the dressing down became less private. ‘— doing my job whether you like it or not. The station got a phone call. I’m following it up. At the moment, I think it’s nothing more than a silly, drunken prank. But keep pushing me and all that’ll change.’

  The two eyeballed each other before the sound of the General’s return.

  ‘Okay, Tommy,’ Hayden said disarmingly, rolling back into his shirt. He was almost laughing. ‘I getcha.’

  ‘I can’t find her,’ the General said. ‘She must have caught the early bus. And it probably won’t shock you: that’s a first.’

  ‘That’s fine for now,’ Constable Tom said. ‘I’ll speak to her later if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Go ahead. Lock her up if you like. That might keep her under control.’

  The cop smiled hollowly then glared at Hayden. The matter was finished. On the way to his patrol car, he spotted Dean lurking. He’d seen the whole thing. The constable dropped his keys back into his pants. ‘Who’s your latest stray, General?’

  ‘Another drop-in from the east. Had his wallet pinched.’

  ‘By who?’

  Dean straightened up. Swallowed. ‘I don’t know. I left it in my bag while I was showering at a swimming pool. I remembered to take my Walkman, but not my money. When I came back for my bag, everything was gone.’

  ‘Did you report it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  He shrugged. ‘Waste of time. I wouldn’t have got my wallet back.’

  ‘So you let the thief get away with it?’

  ‘What choice did I have?’

  ‘Letting the police warn others for a start.’

  ‘I guess.’

  Constable Tom folded his arms. ‘And then —?’

  ‘Then — what?’

  ‘Then you arrived in Truro? With no money?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘The usual.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Hitchhiking.’

  ‘With who?’

  ‘People.’

  ‘What people?’

  ‘Travellers. I don’t know their names.’

  ‘They must have told you —’

  ‘Yeah, but I can’t remember everyone — only what they drove.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Y’know. A couple of cars, a caravan —’

  ‘Any truck drivers?’

  ‘No. Most of them are speed freaks, aren’t they?’

  ‘I don’t know. You tell me.’

  The constable kept his gaze steady. Dean stared back. But just as the cop appeared to seize on another set of questions, his mobile phone rang. ‘How many? — Any other patrols? — I’m on my way.’

  ‘What about the ambulance?’ the General asked as he opened his patrol car’s door.

  ‘I’ll get Patrick to come and pick it up within the hour.’

  The trio stepped back as Constable Tom swung a u-turn then lined up the main exit. His brake lights glowed red. ‘Good luck with your running — what did you say your name was?’

  ‘Dean.’

  ‘Dean —?’

  ‘Mason.’

  ‘From Brisbane, right?’

  Surrounded by poker machines and televised greyhound races, the hotel bar was an island of drinkers. ‘Tidy,’ Hayden said, watching an attractive girl fold her sunglasses at the main door.

  ‘Pity about the boyfriend,’ Dean said.

  ‘Always the way, eh?’

  The two young men sat at the bar, near the other rousies and shearers. The publican approached and pointed, ‘The usual, Balesy?’ already pulling a schooner of pale ale.

  ‘One for my mate too.’

  ‘Your mate got some ID?’

  ‘C’mon. Don’t insult the poor bloke. He’s thirty-four!’

  ‘Well? Do you?’

  He shook his head.

  The publican reached behind him and knuckled a legal notice. ‘You know the rules.’ He poured a Coke instead then moved to the attractive couple.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Hayden said. ‘You look young for your age. This bloke finishes in an hour. If my friend’s on tonight, she’ll pour us a couple of schooners for free.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  The publican’s wife stood on tiptoe to change TV channels. A news story about thirteen people being killed in a bomb blast in Egypt was switched over for a soapie and toothpaste ads promising “whiter than white” teeth.

  Hayden sighed through wet lips. ‘So, enjoying being a rousie?’

  Dean swallowed his first taste too. Felt like a kid. ‘I’m getting used to it.’

  ‘Found that long weight yet?’

  No answer. Just a hurt grin.

  The shearer tried knocking the gloom out of him with a slap on the back. ‘Aw, c’mon, Deano. Laugh. All the new guys fall for it — including me.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Yeah, but mine was worse. I had to go buy woollen blankets for all the sheep. The head shearer swore they’d die of hypothermia if I didn’t. I drove halfway to the city before I realised he was having me on.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Oh yeah.’

  He let himself laugh.

  ‘About time,’ Hayden grinned. ‘Me and the boys were worried you didn’t have a sense of humour.’

  Dean sculled his Coke, feeling all the shame, anger and red-hot foolishness melt. Soon the drinks were flowing as easily as the conversation.

  ‘That reminds me. Why do they call you Balesy?’

  ‘Hayden — Bales of hay — Geddit? It followed me from school to the sheds.’

  ‘Have you always wanted to be a shearer?’

  ‘Nah. It’s just paying my way through uni.’

  ‘What are you studying?’

  ‘Viticulture. Start next year.’

  ‘Sounds hard.’

  ‘You’ve got no idea what that is, do you?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘That proves you’re not a local. Basically, it’s everything to do with grapes.’

  ‘You want to work on a winery?’

  ‘Even better. I want to build one.’

  ‘Build one?’

  ‘Yeah, a big one with acres and acres of vines, a lake, and a restaurant in the middle. I’ve already got my eye on this block that no one knows about. My dad’s offered to pitch in; my brother too. Hopefully, in a couple of years, I’ll finish my degree and have enough for a deposit.’

  ‘Sounds great.’

  ‘Beats breaking my back shearing.’

  Owning a winery wasn’t the only insight into Balesy’s life that evening. He was the elder of two brothers, both born with Barossa soil in their veins. He’d been a ruckman with the Nuriootpa Tigers, but had retired eighteen months ago after an overzealous defender had kneecapped him while contesting the footy. The injury had landed him in hospital for weeks — and the diary of every nurse in the district. After that, he’d started swimming, first as rehabilitation then as relaxation, then finally as daily exercise. His only regret was not taking it up when he was younger. ‘Who knows?’ he asked with an Olympic-sized sigh. He owned a bulldog called Jelly, which he took skydiving once a month. His favourite food was Vietnamese. And he couldn’t remember actually getting his eyebrow pierced because he’d been too drunk.

  Several empty glasses later, Dean excused himself and his bladder. On his way to the toilet, he passed the publican’s wife, who was again switching channels, this time to an American sitcom complete with a knit-jumper family, a big clean mansion in the ’burbs and canned laughter. On the way back, he glanced absently at a noticeboard patched with car ads, licensing notices, tipping competitions and gap-toothed fliers shouting EARN MONEY from home. He would have ignored them if not for that one face staring back. His own! WANTED. He ripped the page down and jammed it into his jeans. An old lady by the bar spied his theft but Hayden and the others missed it. Good.

  ‘Fairly quiet morning, eh?’
Hayden said, as canned laughter pealed at the sitcom’s wacky father. Somehow, he’d caught fire bending over to check the Sunday roast.

  ‘Give me the General any day,’ he said, rolling his eyes.

  ‘Ah, don’t worry about Tommy. He’s more uniform than cop.’

  ‘He’s a friend of yours?’

  ‘When he takes off the badge.’

  ‘Who is he? The chief head-kicker round here?’

  ‘He wishes,’ Hayden snorted. ‘Nah, just another rookie gung-ho on making detective one day.’

  ‘Maybe he should start “detecting” where his personality went.’

  ‘And his mates,’ Hayden added. He threw back a last swig then tossed a twenty dollar note on the counter. ‘I wouldn’t worry about him. He had his fun. That should be the end of it.’

  Chapter 8

  ‘What if the General catches us?’

  ‘You can forget about life insurance. It doesn’t cover Acts of Mother.’

  Zara and Dean pushed a dirt bike on the highway and gunned the accelerator. They raced through the dark streets of Truro, past the sale yards, around a signpost, then sped along a derelict road shuffling with the midnight moon. ‘Hold on!’ she yelled, rocketing up to a rise. They launched and he howled! They were the first astronauts of the bulldust — flying straight to heaven or — ARRRRRR! — plunging into the depths of hell. Gravity snared the bike again and yanked it back to earth. His spine stabbed through his bum and his jaw cracked near his ankles. Maddeningly, the front tyre swung left, right then left again as she arm-wrestled it for control. There. Master once more. Just in time too. Another rise loomed — steeper, meaner than the first. ‘Ready to go again?’ she grinned.

  Somewhat surprisingly, after the rollercoaster ended, their next stop wasn’t the hospital. She eased the throttle as they approached a gate marked NO TRESPASSERS and, after some coaxing, he hobbled over to unlatch it. They rode the bike down towards a dam, abandoning it on the banks but leaving the headlight on. Then they walked along a fallen pine and dangled their feet in the water, which plopped with frogs.

  ‘Next time you kidnap me, you’ll have to leave a ransom note,’ he said, glad to feel the ground underfoot.