Too Much Lip

by Melissa Lucashenko

  ‘Look,’ she said, excited, waving a spotted feather. ‘That’s from Dotty! Old mate sent it to me, and I’ll tell ya why dort, it’s a sign.’ Yep, thought Kerry, a sign that a pheasant coucal had passed by in the past few hours. But held her tongue, after Uncle Richard caught her eye and tipped her the wink with a grin. Ah. Pretty Mary tucked the speckled feather carefully into her bra, spirits lifted by the discovery.

  The others said their goodbyes silently, patting the mound, or touching the shells that formed a large circle on it. Donny made minute tearful rearrangements of them in demonstration of his devotion. ‘Wonder if he gets his full tail back, now, in the afterlife?’ Pretty Mary mused as the crows’ barrage grew louder, almost drowning her out.

  Kerry shot the birds another death glare. Aw, truesgod. Some people called em messengers, waark. She called em bignoting arseholes that didn’t know when to be ning.

  ‘Ah, shut ya big black ’oles,’ Kerry snapped. ‘Us funeral mob, ere! Show some respect!’

  ‘That’s my minya,’ protested Pretty Mary.

  ‘Funeral mob,’ chanted the crows in instant delight. ‘Funeral, your funeral! Cark. Your funeral!’

  ‘Maybe, Mum, but they make me weak,’ Kerry argued, running at the birds, swearing and threatening them with a giant mock-heave of her schoolbag. To her horror, the bag flew out of her hand. The patch of red canvas sailed higher and higher, towards the pine branch, flustering the waark into the air, before the shoulder strap caught on a jagged branch twenty metres above the ground. The crows couldn’t contain their joy at this development. They flew in circles above the tree, wracked with paroxysms of helpless laughter when Kerry asked them through gritted teeth to help retrieve the bag.

  As Kerry let out a groan, the family began throwing lumps of wood at the branch. A shower of heavy timber pockmarked the river’s surface before they finally gave up. Uncle Richard rubbed at his throwing shoulder and grimaced. Everyone agreed: the tree trunk was too hard to climb without ropes, maybe even with them, and the snapped-off branch that the bag hung from wouldn’t support the weight of an adult anyway.

  ‘Hafta wait for a decent storm,’ Uncle Richard advised in the end. ‘That might knock it off …’

  ‘Fuck,’ Kerry spat. ‘Just my fucking luck. I’m that bloody broke, too.’ There was clearly some kind of backpack curse upon her, the rate she was going.

  ‘Back to the Tarot Teepee for you, my girl,’ said Pretty Mary censoriously, like Kerry had deliberately thrown away her only worldly wealth.

  ‘At least you still got yer phone,’ Steve said, handing it to her out of his pocket, for he had used it earlier to film the dancing. Kerry grimaced, remembering that her key card was halfway up Granny’s bloody pine tree too, much fucking good it did her, when her account had been empty since December. It was cash all the way for this little black duck. Still, it would have been nice to have the damn thing.

  ‘Sit and have a cuppa tea, sis,’ said Ken, picking up the boiling billy of tea and swinging it in giant circles. ‘And then we best head home.’

  ~

  ‘We should yanbillilla, I spose,’ sighed Kerry. She squinted at the canoe, pivoting with the tide. ‘You want to go first trip, Mum?’

  ‘Hold on,’ said Black Superman with a glance at Donna. ‘Before that, we’ve got something to—’

  ‘Sister?’ interrupted Uncle Richard. Pretty Mary was focused on a plume of orange dust billowing up from a long way down Settlement Road. The buzzing of an engine came closer as the vehicle sped towards the clearing. With a sinking feeling, Kerry remembered the sudden disastrous arrival of Jim Buckley in that exact spot a few months ago. The buzzing was getting louder and louder. Nobody drove that fast for no reason.

  ‘Hey, look out,’ said Ken uneasily.

  ‘Whoever it is, they’s going like a bat outta hell,’ agreed Uncle Richard.

  Pretty Mary reached into her bag and gripped her tarot cards, berating herself for not doing a reading while she was in her full power at the women’s place. Oh, the cards didn’t lie, but it was hard to keep the faith, sometimes, with the odds stacked so long against you in this life of sorrows. She wondered about the prospects of doing a reading now, with everyone so het up and distracted, the energy of the group gone haywire. But there was no time. Once you got old, that was it. There was never enough time to do the important things that you wanted to do. Other people’s plans were always getting in the way of your own.

  ‘Kombi van,’ said Ken, listening acutely, one palm raised behind his ear like a miniature satellite dish. ‘Firing on three cylinders.’

  ‘Zippo!’ said Steve.

  ‘He’s found fourth gear, maybe the Yankees are coming,’ said Kerry drily.

  Zippo was renowned for his glacial pace; nobody had ever seen the man hurrying, or without a joint in his hand. The family clustered together, horribly afraid of what news their friend might be bringing.

  Sure enough, when the car rounded the last bend and screeched to a halt it was Zippo who emerged. He ran to the water’s edge and began yelling incoherently at the family through cupped hands. It took a moment for everyone to register that behind the hands and the enormous beard, there was a giant grin splitting his face. And it took Zippo three goes before the family could begin to make out what he was on about.

  ‘ICAC’s arrested Buckley,’ he yelled. ‘Found thirty grand of cash bribes in his house, hidden in an old backpack. Come down on him like a ton of bricks, it couldn’t have happened to a nicer arsehole.’

  There was a second of incomprehension, and then the Salters began yelling too. They hugged and whooped, looking about them wildly at the island, the graves, the river, the clearing. All safe now. All safe. The ugly yellow mass of the bulldozer on the bank opposite suddenly rendered impotent. ‘Praise God,’ said Pretty Mary, sinking to her knees and allowing the tarot cards to fall loosely from her hand. ‘Praise His Name, the cards never lie.’

  ‘That old karma bus, eh?’ Uncle Richard laughed, his belly quaking. ‘It musta gone and made an unscheduled stop at old Jiminy Cricket’s place …’

  Donny let out a scream of joy and ripped his shirt off. Ran and bombed off the bank into the cold river. Immediately climbed out and stood shivering next to the fire with the biggest smile on his dial anyone had ever seen. ‘Ah, ya moogle and no mistake,’ said Pretty Mary, but she was grinning fit to beat the band herself.

  While the others whooped and hugged, Kerry walked alone in a disbelieving circle. Thirty grand. On its way to an ICAC safe somewhere in Sydney. Sydney.

  Her.

  Thirty.

  Fucking.

  Grand.

  ‘Ol’ Jiminy Cricket be locked up tonight,’ exclaimed Pretty Mary in ecstasy. ‘The brothers be throwing him a party, too, I bet.’

  ‘Aw, flash mouthpiece’ll have him home by dinnertime,’ said Ken, shaking his head, sceptical. ‘He’ll probably send more goons round home, too. Try and shake us up.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that,’ Donna said.

  Ken glanced over. Donna had her back to him, squatting down and smoking as she stared blankly into the water, trying to comprehend the giant U-turn her life had taken in the past week.

  ‘Hey?’

  ‘Who do you think rang ICAC?’ She stood up and turned around. ‘I sent them enough dirt on Buckley a month ago to keep him locked up till the Second Coming. That prick’s gonna need a Zimmer frame by the time he gets out.’

  Ken hooted with laughter.

  ‘Buckley thought I was just some dumb piece of skirt he could rip off,’ Donna continued. ‘I was onto him, though. At first I was just gonna make him suffer a bit, make him give me thirty per cent of the development deal—’

  Oh, God no, thought Kerry, horrified. Seeing her expression, Donna put up a hand to stay her.

  ‘But, nah, hang on. I couldn’t bring meself to do it.
Plus it didn’t take too long to come up with a better idea.’ She nodded at Black Superman.

  ‘What better idea?’ asked Kerry, warily.

  ‘Jim’s not dumb, he’s got a dozen shelf companies. But it’s pretty hard to hold a real estate licence when you’re sitting in Long Bay.’ Donna blew out smoke, looking extremely pleased with herself.

  ‘Come again?’ Pretty Mary was lost. Jim Buckley getting arrested at long last – that had to be a good thing. But she was buggered if she knew why Donna looked like the cat that got all the cream, and the cow thrown in for good measure.

  ‘Will you tell them,’ said Black Superman, pulling the documents from his pocket, ‘or will I?’ Donna took them from him, savouring the moment.

  ‘I went to Jim three days ago,’ she said, grinning.

  ‘Only after I talked some sense into you,’ Black Superman added.

  ‘And made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. You are looking …’ Donna said, carefully unfolding the deeds, ‘at the new owners of Patterson Real Estate. It’ll be us deciding who comes to live in Durrongo from now on.’

  ‘And I can tell you right now, there ain’t gonna be no medium-security prison involved,’ grinned Black Superman beside her.

  ‘Partners in crime,’ Steve shook his head admiringly.

  ‘Well,’ said Pretty Mary, as realisation dawned. ‘Ain’t that deadly! If the two of youse don’t take the blooming cake!’

  On the other side of the river the Kombi engine roared to life, backfired twice, roared again. ‘See yez at the pub,’ Zippo yelled, heading for the celebration that was already cranking up. ‘The Greens are shouting the bar!’

  ‘Order pizzas!’ shouted Ken.

  ‘Shit, five-fifteen,’ said Steve, pulling out his phone. ‘Pump Class is at six.’

  ‘No flies on you, sis,’ said Kerry to Donna with newfound respect. Maybe you could dismantle the master’s house with the master’s tools, after all. She could see it now. Donna in the corner office, leaning back in her leather armchair, running the whole shebang. Black Superman smooth as you like in his Italian suit, flogging off houses to the middle class. Both of em raking in bungoo hand over fist as the gentrification tided upriver from Bruns and Mullum. And all the dugai punters having to take a cultural awareness course before they got the green light to buy. You Are on Bundjalung Land 101, and the rednecks shown the fucking door!

  ‘Hang on, hang on, before yez all get too happy,’ objected Ken. ‘Buckley might get locked up, but he still owns the land, and it’s still for sale. So what’s changed?’

  ‘Here, bruz,’ said Black Superman, pointing and reading. ‘The PURCHASER aforementioned will additionally have the exclusive rights of access to and enjoyment of the PROPERTY known as Riverside Downs for a period of not less than two years from 18 MARCH … we made him chuck in a free two-year lease. And anything can happen in two years, eh?’

  ‘Two hundred years be a lot better,’ said Ken, causing Donna to roll her eyes. ‘But I suppose it gives us some breathing room.’

  ‘I gotta hand it to ya, truesgod,’ said Kerry wryly. ‘Ya get the business dirt cheap, ya got a free lease on this place, and yer gonna make a killing selling houses, into the bargain. Maybe I should do a real estate course.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Black Superman, his eyes crinkling with laughter.

  ‘Speaking of killing,’ said The Doctor, the black triangle of her fin slicing the surface not ten metres away, ‘there is the small matter of a debt.’

  ~

  The family staggered forward to the edge of the island. They gaped down at the bull shark swaying in the water, graceful with the promise of death.

  ‘Jingeri, wardham nanang,’ said Uncle Richard formally. ‘We remember your clan’s kindness.’

  ‘Punyarra,’ said The Doctor, with a sharp flick of her tail. ‘I’m pleased to hear it. As the debt is long past due.’

  The shark swam in a wide circle, patrolling the channel that stretched between the canoe at the base of Granny’s tree and the clearing opposite. Sturdy enough an hour ago, the canoe suddenly looked to Kerry like a child’s toy. A joke. When The Doctor swam past, Kerry saw that the shark was longer than the boat, and she shivered.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Donny, making his way over from the fire, pulling his shirt on over his head.

  ‘You know Granny Ava swum across here,’ Pretty Mary explained grimly. ‘Well, by rights she should have died. She was shot, and losing blood, but she made it. Bargained her way over to the island when the shark come smelling the blood, see, but there was a catch. She had to promise old wardham something in return for her life: whiteman’s meat instead of her own. She tried her best to get the dugais to follow her into the river that day, but they turned back.’

  ‘My grandfather died waiting for this debt to be honoured,’ said The Doctor with a snap of her tremendous jaws. She lunged past the watching family at speed, deliberately hitting the bank with a sideways glancing blow so that a trickle of earth poured into the water. The brownish stain of the soil quickly spread and then sank beneath the swirling surface, vanishing from sight. ‘My mother died waiting. Our patience wears thin.’

  ‘Ngali kangani gulgan wahhni,’ said Uncle Richard stiffly. ‘We hear your word.’

  The Doctor swam faster, forcing the wash of the river higher up the bank each time she passed. The clear river water began to muddy with the earth falling away from beneath the Salters. The shark swam so close to the lip of the island that Kerry could have reached down and touched her jutting dorsal fin. Uncle Richard hadn’t moved. His face had turned oddly grey, and he was tipping his hat back and forth in agitation. Nobody spoke. Then Ken slowly eased back several steps. He turned and bent to pick up the long-handled shovel they had used to bury Elvis. His eyes gleamed, for here was his chance. A chance to prove himself righteous in battle. Holding the shovel high with both hands, he looked to Uncle Richard, and silently pointed his lips at the shark. He braced his legs in readiness, ignoring the pain from his wounded thigh. One jump. One thrust behind that streamlined head. But Uncle Richard frowned.

  ‘Can’t break Granny’s word, son. Not here.’

  Ken’s face fell. He lowered the shovel.

  ‘Blood will have blood. It is the oldest Law,’ said The Doctor, rolling onto her side to eye Uncle Richard.

  ‘Yes,’ Uncle Richard said heavily after a long pause. His voice made Kerry tremble. She had seen her Uncle stern many times, but now his face was filled with something more like dread. As though he was deciding to kill something truly beloved.

  ‘If it’s blood you’re owed, then it’s blood you’ll have,’ the old man said.

  He took his pocket knife out and tested the edge of the blade against his thumb. It flashed bright in the rays of the lowering sun.

  ‘Ken.’

  Ken looked up, seared with fierce joy. Held his head high as he went to his Uncle. At last, at last. The old man shivered to see the look in his nephew’s eye. Uncle Richard thrust his knife into the campfire coals, and then took Ken to stand on the very lip of the island.

  Ken looked to the sky, steeling himself for the bite of the steel.

  ‘Jala goomera,’ Uncle Richard said to The Doctor. ‘Eat blood, and be satisfied.’

  He slashed the blade across the thick muscle of Ken’s upper arm, the cut man grunting with pain as he spurted red into the current.

  The Doctor thrashed wildly at the scent of the blood. She bit at the red cloud billowing around her, and then leaped high to snap at the riverbank in a rage. Clumps of dislodged grass and dirt flew through the air. The family jumped back in sudden panic, as the water boiled beneath them

  ‘Trickster!’ the shark roared in frustration. ‘We were promised the meat of murderers, not scant drops from your Shark Clan!’

  ‘Step away, now,’ Uncle Richard said, dragging at Ken. The youn
ger man was staring down as though hypnotised at the fading pink bloom he had just shed. Blood streamed through his fingers where he clutched at the fresh wound. Uncle Richard led Ken over to the fire and slapped a handful of ash on the cut. Then he turned back to where the shark glowered at him in cold fury.

  ‘You have tasted the blood of a Shark Man, Old One, that’s true,’ Uncle Richard addressed The Doctor. ‘But his mother’s grandfather was a stranger of the promised meat. The debt is paid.’

  ‘Arrrrggghhh!’ The Doctor screamed, leaping high and twisting furiously in mid-air, snapping her jaws at the unavoidable truth. When she landed, the huge wash slopped against the island, stray drops spattering the family so that the wetness of the river ran down their faces, dampening their clothes and hair. Then the wash surged back down, dragging against the weakened bank and taking away yet more earth from beneath the lip of the island. The eroding force of the wave was finally enough. The jutting tongue of land in front of Granny’s pine cracked and slowly sank, the rim of earth collapsing into the river.

  The current didn’t hesitate. It flowed easily into the new indentation in the shoreline, carving its way yet further beneath the pine, relentless on its journey back to the sea. The river tore at the bank, carrying away rocks and soil and pebbles, drowning trapped insects and myriad other tiny creatures. It ripped at the tangled grasses and reeds, exposing the thick arteries of root that still anchored the pine in place. Mixed with the earth and stones and grasses that fell away into the water were the drops of Ken’s blood, still warm, which had fallen on the ground less than a minute ago; drops of his blood, along with the gravelly white ash that Ken had scattered out of Pop’s funeral basket on that exact spot weeks earlier.

  Everything – grass, stones, blood, ashes – washed into the current, and was gone.

  ‘Kingilawanna!’ cried Pretty Mary to the sky.

  ‘Kingilawanna,’ said Uncle Richard wearily, raising his right hand to the setting sun. ‘It is finished.’