by Chris Hammer
‘Can’t I?’ says the man, stepping forward.
Martin doesn’t even get to answer, to consider the wisdom of answering, to raise his hands. There’s a flash of movement, the sound of another sickening blow, and searing pain. And a blood-red fog descending, pulling him down with it. Before he passes out he hears the scream of the bikini girl, the sound of the surf and his head hitting the sand.
Darkness, confusion, light. The taste of fish and chips. His father, laughing, his father, young and fit and laughing. They’re running, running on a beach. No, it’s Martin who’s running, around in circles, a toddler, very young, chasing seagulls, the birds waddling away, not threatened enough to take flight. And his mother. His mother is here, smiling indulgently, laughing at Martin and his father playing. On the beach. In the sun. And the sun, the sun is so warm.
The first thing he hears as consciousness returns is Liam crying. Liam! He opens his eyes, the right eye first, his left slower to respond. There is pain high on his face. He closes his eyes again and seeks out the pain with his fingers. He pushes on his left eyelid, but it feels fine. Tentatively he runs his finger around his eye socket, down the ridge of his nose. All okay, nothing broken. He runs his finger up his left jaw, up his cheek. Here it is, the epicentre. He’s been punched right at the top of his jaw, almost in the temple. He clenches his teeth, pushes harder with the tip of his finger. The pain comes, but nothing extreme; bruising rather than a fracture, he concludes. He opens his eyes again. The sun ignites pain behind them, echoing at the back of his head. Has he hit his head on falling?
‘Easy, mate. Take it easy. Just lie there. No sudden movements, okay?’ Martin can’t see who is talking, but the voice sounds sensible and measured. He tries lifting his head, swoons and decides to heed the voice’s advice. But he again hears Liam’s cry and rolls over so he might see. Kneeling over him is a young man, one of the volleyballers, holding a wet towel. He places it lightly on Martin’s face. It feels good. Above him he can see the bikini girl, holding Liam. The baby is reaching out, trying to get to her tits. ‘No,’ she says, slapping his hands away gently but firmly. Martin laughs despite himself. ‘You have a naughty boy, mister,’ she says, grinning broadly.
Martin tries sitting, managing to push himself up with the help of the young man. ‘How long was I out?’
‘Not long. A minute tops.’
Martin looks around, exciting the pain near the back of his head. A larger group has already gathered nearby, circling the prone body of Royce. ‘Is he all right?’
The young man shrugs. ‘Alive. Breathing, but still unconscious. The ambos are coming. And the police.’
But it’s the surf lifesavers who get there first, three of them sprinting across the sand. Two head straight to Royce, but one kneels beside Martin.
‘You okay, mate?’ he asks. ‘What happened?’
‘Bloke king-hit me.’
‘You remember that? You remember what happened before that?’
‘Yes. All of it.’
‘Good. What’s your name?’
Martin tells him; that and today’s date and the name of the prime minister.
‘That’s good, mate. Excellent. You lose consciousness?’
‘For a minute or so, I’m told.’
‘Right,’ says the lifesaver. ‘You’ve got concussion then.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘Because that’s the definition: you lose consciousness, you have concussion. You need to go to hospital.’
‘You’re joking. I was only out for a minute.’
‘You need to be monitored for at least four hours, in case there’s more permanent damage.’ He can see the scepticism in Martin’s eyes. ‘I’m serious.’ The lifesaver looks like he’s about sixteen, with an acne-sprayed face and a bum-fluff moustache, but his voice carries the authority of his training. Martin’s own hostile environment courses are telling him the same thing: any neurological damage should manifest itself within the next few hours, and hospital is the place to be if it does.
‘Royce! Royce!’
Martin hears the call, turns to see Topaz running across the sand from the direction of the backpacker hostel.
‘Royce!’ She pushes through the circle of onlookers, kneels beside the lifesavers attending to her boyfriend. They’ve rolled him over into the recovery position, placed a damp towel on his brow, but he’s still unconscious.
Martin’s head is starting to feel clearer even as the pain in his jaw increases. He again explores the damage, reassuring himself nothing is broken.
‘Here,’ says the bikini girl. She hands him her phone, the camera activated in selfie mode. He thanks her, uses it mirror-like to examine his face as best he can in the glare of the day. He can see where the punch has caught him flush on the top of his jaw, the bruise already starting to migrate towards his eye. He’s going to have one hell of a shiner. But he’s lucky: if he’d been hit in the eye socket, there could have been permanent damage.
‘Who was that arsehole who hit me?’ he asks.
‘The hostel guy,’ answers the young volleyballer.
‘Hostel guy?’
‘From the backpacker hostel. Over there.’
Martin looks over to where the Sperm Cove Backpackers sits, bright blue in the sun, dominating a section of beach. He can hear a siren: an ambulance. That’s quick. And he can see Sergeant Johnson Pear wading towards them, the puppy-fat constable a few paces behind, the men awkward on the sand in their service-issue boots. Pear moves first to the circle surrounding the still-unconscious Royce. Then someone points across to Martin, and Pear moves over to him. ‘Scarsden. You okay?’
‘I’ve been assaulted.’
‘So I see. Can you remember what happened?’
‘Absolutely. This aggro young shit knocked out that man there and then did the same to me. Punched me in the face.’
‘Why?’
‘No idea. They were already fighting. I was trying to intervene, to stop them, and I got smashed in the face for my troubles.’
‘Right. So that man there and the other one, the one who hit you, they were fighting?’
‘Yes. That’s right.’
‘And you don’t know why?’
‘No. I was here, looking after the baby, talking with this young woman, when I heard them. It must have started somewhere else, maybe at the hostel, I don’t know. But they were shouting and then they were throwing punches.’
‘Did you recognise the man who hit you?’
‘No, but these people did.’
‘Yes,’ says the young man, and the girl nods her agreement. ‘His name is Harry. He works at the hostel over there.’
Pear nods, the grimace on his face revealing he knows exactly who they are talking about. ‘Harry Drake,’ he says aloud, and then under his breath, ‘Harry the Lad.’
‘Drake?’ asks Martin. ‘As in Harrold Drake?’
‘Junior,’ says Pear, sounding unimpressed. ‘It’s a small world.’
‘You’ll arrest him?’
‘Too fucking right I will,’ says Pear, looking none too happy about it. ‘You have witnesses?’
‘Half the beach.’
‘Good.’
Pear has his notebook out now and starts taking the names and contact details of the volleyballers. Martin gets up, moving first to kneeling then tentatively standing, but it’s fine: he no longer feels faint. The woman hands Liam to him. The boy’s eyes are wide, staring past Martin, fascinated by the ambulance as it pulls up in the car park next to the hostel, sirens giving one last wail before falling silent. Two paramedics emerge, gather backpacks from the rear of the ambulance and make their way calmly down onto the beach. Pear has moved on and is now speaking to Topaz, jotting details in his notepad.
Royce is starting to groan and come around as the ambulance officers reach him. They exchange quick words with the lifesavers then take over, talking quietly to Royce, shining a torch into his eyes, requesting he move his arms and legs and squeeze the
ir fingers. They move apart from the crowd and discuss the situation quietly between the two of them. One of them walks over to Martin. ‘You the bloke he was fighting?’
‘No. An innocent bystander.’
‘Good. Don’t want a couple of brawlers in the same ambulance. You lost consciousness though, right?’
‘For less than a minute.’
‘Doesn’t matter.’ The ambulance officer runs him through a quick series of tests, familiar to Martin from his hostile environment training. ‘Okay. No sign of damage. But we need to take the other bloke to hospital; he needs monitoring. You want a lift?’
‘You think it’s really necessary?’
‘It’s up to you.’
Martin thinks of sitting in hospital for hours, waiting on the clock. He’s about to decline when a thought crosses his mind. ‘Do they do scans there?’ Martin touches his finger up next to his eye. ‘At Longton? Soft-tissue?’
‘For your eye? No, mate. Only X-rays and ultrasounds, that’s about it.’
‘No MRIs or PETS?’
‘Are you kidding? Sydney or Brisbane for that. But you don’t need a scan, you need an ophthalmologist. They shine a light in through your pupil, check it out that way. Why? Your vision blurry?’
‘No, it’s fine. I was just wondering.’
The ambulance officer frowns. ‘If you say so. You want a lift or not?’
Martin thinks of Liam, trapped with him in the interminable boredom of an emergency waiting room. ‘Thanks anyway, but no. I’ve done the training, I know what to look for. Blurry vision, nausea, loss of motor skills, confusion.’
‘Okay. Your call, mate. But don’t hesitate, right?’
Martin nods and the ambulance officer returns to Royce, now conscious and talking. The paramedics help him to his feet and over to the ambulance, Topaz hovering by his side. The crowd watches them go, but once Royce is loaded into the back and the van departs, the circle of people melts away, back to their leisure. The volleyballers give Martin a wave and resume their preparations. Martin is about to ease Liam back into the baby carrier, tucking the empty bottle into a mesh pocket on its side, when he smells the necessity of a nappy change. Just what he needs; his headache throbs. Mandy has warned him of this eventuality, has given him a demonstration. Brilliant: changing the nappies of another man’s baby. As soon as the thought comes, he rejects it, repelled by the idea. He loves Mandy and this is part of the package. And he can’t help loving Liam: the boy is so alive and wide-eyed. It’s not his fault he’s not yet toilet trained. Martin looks about, deciding that sand and nappies may not mix. Instead he walks up to a patch of grass by the hostel car park.
He’s just finishing the operation—Liam thinks it’s a familiar game, fortunately—when Johnson Pear emerges from the backpackers. Alone. Pear sees Martin, grimaces, shakes his head and walks away. Martin’s hackles rise. Why hasn’t the policeman arrested Harry Drake? Martin is just about to call out when Harry the Lad himself emerges from the blue brightness of the hostel, sees Martin, walks over.
‘You all right, mate?’ he asks, as if Martin has just stubbed his toe or something.
‘No. I’m not.’
Harry smiles, like they’re enjoying a joke. ‘Mate, I’m sorry. I thought you were with him, pitching in to double up on me.’
‘Is that what you told Pear?’
‘Exactly. Self-defence.’
‘And he bought that?’
‘If he’s smart, he will,’ says Harry, words full of swagger.
‘What about Royce? The bloke you almost killed?’
‘Killed? Bullshit. He’ll be fine.’ More swagger. ‘He wouldn’t be sitting up in the back of that ambulance if I was serious.’
‘What did you tell Pear about him?’
‘The truth. He threw the first punch, in front of three or four witnesses.’ Harry’s smile broadens; he’s impressed by his own advocacy. Martin doesn’t believe him; when the men first burst upon them on the beach they were shouting and pushing, not fighting. But he’s not about to contest the issue; the man is inflated with bare-chested bravado. At his side, attached to a belt looping through his jeans, there’s a sheathed knife, a multipurpose tool and a key chain. A real Chuck Norris.
‘You’re Martin Scarsden, aren’t you?’ says Harry the Lad. ‘I heard about you, read some of your stuff. You’re moving here.’
‘So what?’
‘Well, it’s a small town. We don’t want to be enemies. That guy, he’s no gap-year student or a foreign backpacker. He’s a drifter, a low-life. A sponge. I know ’em by sight. He’ll be gone soon, we’ll still be here. I’m sorry I hit you. Let me make it up to you.’
‘How?’
‘Don’t know. I’ll think of something.’
He holds out his hand. Martin reluctantly shakes it. He doesn’t like doing it, but in his time he’s shaken the hands of far worse than Harry the Lad: ethnic cleansers, mafia spivs, Russian oligarchs and pornographers. And more politicians than he cares to count. A source is a source, he decides. Liam farts, as if in contempt.
chapter thirteen
‘What did you shake that arsehole’s hand for?’
It’s Topaz, emerging from the hostel. She is weighed down by two packs: the one on her back and the one in her arms.
‘Moving out?’ asks Martin.
‘Can’t stay. Not after that.’
She drops one backpack onto the sand, then shimmies her way out of the other. She stretches, arching her back as if to release the tension, thrusting out her breasts. ‘What a mess,’ she says, gyrating. Liam, looking on from his perch in the backpack, lets out an appreciative chortle. ‘Nice kid,’ Topaz says. ‘Yours?’
‘My partner’s.’
‘Lucky partner.’ She offers a coquettish smile. ‘Hope she likes the black eye. It does look kinda sexy.’
‘Right.’ He lifts a tentative finger to his swollen cheek; it’s really starting to hurt. He wonders how far the bruise is spreading.
‘Thanks for trying to help, though,’ Topaz offers.
Martin doesn’t respond; the way he remembers it, he didn’t help so much as distract Royce at precisely the wrong moment, giving Harry the Lad the opportunity to deck him. ‘Where will you stay?’
‘No idea. First stop is the hospital. Is it walking distance?’
‘It’s in Longton.’
‘Longton? Are you serious? Up that goddamn hill?’
‘Yep.’
She looks around, considering her options. ‘You couldn’t look after our packs, could you? While I hitch up and see him? Keep them somewhere safe?’
The last thing Martin wants is to be burdened with the packs. ‘No. I’ve got enough on my hands with the boy. Sorry.’
‘Do you know of anywhere else to stay? Any other hostels here or in Longton?’
Martin doesn’t know, but it seems unlikely. Longton is a highway town, not on the backpacker trail; all the fruit picking and horticulture is down on the Argyle River flats. He thinks of the caravan park, but dismisses the idea immediately. He can just imagine Mandy’s reaction if the flirtatious American moved in. ‘Well, there is one place, but it’s a bit out of the way. Hummingbird Beach.’
Topaz’s eyes light up. ‘The sex party place?’
Martin laughs, which incites a flash of pain in his jaw. ‘You’ve heard of it then?’
‘Shit yeah. Everyone at the hostel was talking about it last night. They run a bus out on Friday nights. We were all planning to go.’
‘Really?’
‘You bet. That arsehole sells tickets. Could you drop me out there?’
Martin wonders if Jay Jay Hayes or the swami know of Harry the Lad’s entrepreneurship. ‘You sure? It’s the opposite direction from the hospital.’
‘I’ll work it out.’
Martin is hesitant, but he wouldn’t mind another look at Hummingbird Beach himself.
‘Okay. Wait here. I need to get the car.’
Martin carries Liam back onto The Bouleva
rde and along to Mandy’s Subaru. He’ll need to borrow it; the Corolla doesn’t have a baby seat. As he walks, he uses his phone. His first call is to Nick.
‘Martin, shit. I forgot you were coming. Where are you?’
‘The Boulevarde. Something’s come up. We might have to postpone.’
‘Suits me. I’m up to my ears in it round here.’
‘A few flatties over the bag limit, then?’
‘Ha. I wish.’ Martin can hear something in his lawyer’s voice, below the superficial lightness. ‘It’s something else, something more serious. Buggered if I know what they’re looking for. Abalone or lobsters or something.’
Martin grins; there aren’t too many abalone this far north. His eye hurts again. Maybe the damage is worse than he realised. ‘I’ll leave you with it then.’
Next he calls Mandy, but the call goes through to voicemail. She must still be with the police. So he texts, saying he’s taking her car. Then, as an afterthought, he sends a message of support, dressed up with a couple of heart emojis. He calls Winifred. Again the call goes through to voicemail. No text for her, no emojis.
Mandy’s Subaru is new. It smells new, it feels new, there are no rattles. The radio works. And compared to his Corolla, it’s grot-free. Martin picks up Topaz from the hostel car park, helps her put the packs in the back next to Liam’s stroller and baby carrier. He shifts the rest of the boy’s supplies onto the back seat to make room. The boy himself is wide-eyed and no longer complaining, taking everything in as Martin and Topaz rearrange the load. The young American takes the passenger seat and starts jostling her breasts about. ‘What’s up with this seatbelt? Can you help me out?’
The act is wearing thin. Martin’s eye throbs, not his groin. ‘You can manage.’ And she does, offering the grin of a naughty child, unrepentant.