by Carmody, Sam
A hundred metres inside of Arthur’s boat the white water ran fast over the coral, fanning out and backwashing against water drawn from the deep channel on the lee side of the reef. From a distance the action appeared to happen in a vortex, energy turning over itself, swarming and combusting across the shelf like a nebula. The surrounding ocean was depthless and dark and quiet. Miles of clear ocean and Arthur had steered them into the centre of hell.
Jake moved Arcadia in as close as he could and Paul couldn’t believe the noise. Slow collapsing of water, like acres of earth giving way, grey hillsides unravelling in a perverse slowness. Deadman reared once more. The deckhands scanned the boat for Arthur, Roo Dog. But no one stood at the bridge, nor at the deck.
We’ve got to do this, Paul yelled. Don’t we?
Michael didn’t respond.
Paul pulled his t-shirt over his head. He could see terror in Michael’s eyes and for a second it transformed his face.
After a pause the German nodded. He slung his thumbs under the band of his tracksuit pants and jerked them down to his ankles. His tired blue underpants feathered in the easterly.
Take them off, Michael shouted, looking down at Paul’s jeans.
I’m not wearing jocks, Paul screamed back at him.
Get rid of those pants or you will drown. I swear it.
Paul screamed a loud curse and yanked down his jeans. His skin was luminous in the low light. The engines shuddered through him, wind in his ears, the percussion of surf through his chest. He shivered with the heightened sense of everything, so aware of his limbs, the lightness of himself. Felt already like a ghost, giddy, as if he had full knowledge and bearing of his silhouette within the sound and vibrations of the world, knew the fragility of a human body and how easily it could be erased. Wondered if this was how everyone felt before they died.
Michael placed a bare foot on the wall of the boat, swore, and pin-dropped over the gunwale. Paul followed him with a messy jump and cried out as the heavy sea took his limbs. Michael swam in front of him, wearing a crown of foaming water, his limbs coated in bubbles. Around them the sea hissed, giving up the air that had been pressed into it. And above, or below, it all was a sonorous rumbling that dizzied his thoughts and ravaged his pulse. The water suddenly drew taut and he was being pulled away from Arthur’s boat, out to sea. There was the brief scream of air and water. And then he was deep underwater, gazing at the Deadman’s ribbed hull, the shadow of reef below. He kicked to the surface.
Michael was halfway up the transom ladder when the boat bucked him off. Paul swam over and found the submerged bottom rung. The steel was slick with grime. The sea clawed at his shoulders, reluctant to give him up. He managed to get a foot onto the bottom rung and pushed himself up. Another swell kicked the stern upwards and Paul tumbled over the gunwale on to the deck. He reached overboard for Michael’s wrist and pulled him up the transom ladder, both of them groaning with the effort, and the German dived on board.
Michael climbed to the bridge. Paul headed for the cabin in search of the crew.
Inside it was dark and he could hardly see through the smoke. He coughed hard. A small fire burnt on the wall of the cabin. When Paul stepped inside he felt the broken glass under his bare feet, and then the delayed burn and he knew he was bleeding. He peered at the floor and saw the glass pipes and blister packs on the carpet. Paul found the fire extinguisher and lifted it from the wall. He held it towards the fire but the lever wouldn’t budge. He grappled with it like a blind man, squinting with the smoke in his eyes. Paul felt the locking pin with his fingers and ripped it free from the lever. The boat rolled with a swell and he stood with his legs apart to counter it, oddly aware of his nakedness, the slight swing of his genitals underneath him. The nudist superhero. If only Elliot could see him now. He held the extinguisher towards the wall. The foam spluttered inaccurately but it was enough.
It was then he noticed the crew around him, sprawled about the dark cabin, as still as mannequins. Anvil sat slumped against the wall, belly spilling over the waist of his pants, his swollen frame awkward when inanimate, gravity rendering his bulk almost comical, like a rotting shark sinking into a beach. Paul put his fingers to the man’s neck, wedging them underneath Anvil’s jowls and felt the cold of the man run through him. Tea Cup frowned, haunted by whatever he had last seen. He clutched the satellite phone in both hands. And there was Arthur, the ringmaster. Paul knelt next to him. The skipper looked old and infantile at once, lying there on the floor, body curled like a freakish foetus. Roo Dog’s emaciated body was shrunken further in the smoky gloom, sat against the cupboard. His neck was greasy with blood. There was a ragged cavity under his jaw. Paul picked up Roo Dog’s bony wrist and felt the beat of a pulse against his fingers. He grabbed the man’s face, saw his lips rippling with each exhalation. He was alive.
The boat reared again, and Paul went low to the floor, holding Roo Dog by his right shoulder to keep him upright. The deck levelled out. Roo Dog choked briefly with his neck hung forward. Paul propped the deckhand’s head up with his right hand, gripping the top of the cupboard for balance with his left as the boat climbed another swell and pitched downwards once more. He looked at the face leaning on his grip, bony cheek resting almost tenderly against the upper ridge of his palm. It was like holding a skeleton. He felt the pushing out of Roo Dog’s windpipe with each breath. Paul could end him so easily. Just lean on him till he stopped. But he turned the deckhand on his side, like he remembered from the swimming classes at school, straightened Roo Dog’s right arm out at ninety degrees, head arched back so his airway was open. And Paul stared at the deckhand a moment, dumbfounded by the fact that he was relieved he might live.
Pots swirled on the deck, their lines snapping about in shin-deep water, snake-like. A rifle was laid out on the marine carpet, the foaming surf passing over it.
Paul yelled out, involuntarily, when he heard the engines come to life. The boat leapt over a giant swell and Paul gripped the doorframe. The engines roared as though joyful, sensing salvation.
It was the last thing Paul heard. He felt the grip of the rope over his foot, and was aware that no one screamed his name after him as the pot line wrenched him over the gunwale, oddly conscious in that instant that there was no witness. At first it all could have been happening to someone else; that was how disconnected he felt to everything. It happened so quickly. A glimpse of sky and then the scream of bubbles. Paul watched as the squared rear of the hull shrank, growing further away as he glided feet first down into the sea. He was something like twenty metres deep before his body seemed to understand the trouble it was in, before fear rushed his veins and he roared all the air out of his lungs. It was only then that he realised he was about to die. In those peculiar seconds he had the recognition that this was an experience that others had known, sailing into depths, led into oblivion by a wooden trap, the cray pot on its kamikaze dive, captained by putrid fish. A fisherman’s burial. How damn fucking stupid.
He pictured his parents and felt guilt. He saw Jake, the judgement on his face, like disappointment. He saw Father Mobu and the ramshackle church and could hear the echo of a homily. He thought of Kasia, heard once more the miraculous sound of her laughter. He imagined Circus watching, curious in the darkness. And he sensed Elliot in the water, somewhere. But each thought left Paul as quickly as it came, or perhaps he left each thought, plummeting through information as though passing through rooms, window through window, doors and passageways, like falling through a building turned on its side. Water cried in his ears. The weight on him so immense, so unreal.
And he was let go, flung to a stop. A half-cartwheel, a sudden deceleration. And then just water all around him. Heavy, almost gentle. Silent. An astronaut through a wormhole, snapped into a different universe and left to drift. He looked down at the grubbiness of his feet, naked and pale. Beyond was a misting darkness, huge shadows of rock shrouded in sediment.
Paul reclined in the water, arms out. Pale light in huge rings
. Far above a whaler shark swam, backlit, swirling at the brilliant surface like a great bird.
And then a figure on fire. Strong arms reaching, kicks long and even. A grip on his wrist. Elliot. How good it was to be with him again.
He opened his eyes to see Jake watching him. The skipper had a wrenched look, beyond anger. The storm clouds all sunlit and fiery above his cousin. Paul felt the engines in the deck against his back, shuddering through his spine, screaming like they could explode. He had never felt more cold and he closed his eyes. Darkness took him mercifully. On the drive back to the inlet he fell in and out of sleep. Saw an osprey turning above the deck in a darkening sky. Wondered if it thought he was dead, or nearly. When he woke again on the jetty it was night. Lights in his eyes. Jungle’s arms around him. He was wrapped in silver foil. Someone talked to him in a grim voice, demanded answers to questions that were dumb-headed and he would’ve laughed if he could stay awake but he couldn’t and it was so fucking cold.
Big Shit
WELL, I DO NOT KNOW IF I WOULD BE doing that again. I mean, if I were you. It cannot be good for your health.
Paul squinted at the doorway.
Lucky, Michael laughed. So lucky. I thought you were gone. Straight to the bottom, man. Just like that. All over.
There was a drip in the crook of Paul’s left arm and patches on his chest. He felt the medicated lightness of his body and the sheets tight over his waist, heavy on his legs. The air was clean and cold.
Michael, Paul tried to say, the word tangling on his lips.
The German smiled at him. We are in Geraldton, he said.
How long have I been out? Paul managed to ask.
You were awake on the boat, Michael said. Do you remember that? You were in and out.
Outside his window he saw only blue sky, pale. The morning sun shone red against the frame.
You were down there for so long, Michael said. I have never heard of anyone surviving that kind of thing.
A girl swept into the room, stepping past the deckhand and stopping alongside the bed. Michael moved to the corner of the room and watched her in silence. Paul took in the nurse’s perfume as she wrapped the cuff around his bicep. He felt the constriction and then the cold of the stethoscope on the inside of his arm.
Okay, she said and unpeeled the velcro of the cuff. Paul, how are you feeling?
He shrugged.
She looked at him seriously and then gave the same look to the pad resting on her forearm, recording notes, the silver pen gripped in her small hand. She was pretty, her dark hair drawn back in a tight bun. Her young face held a careful expression that seemed to belong to someone much older.
You are in Geraldton Regional Hospital. You were brought in last night.
Yeah.
I’ve spoken to your mother, she said. She’s on her way. We’ll need to keep you in here for a few days at least. You took in a lot of water. You likely aspirated a fair bit of it. We need to keep an eye on your lungs.
Paul nodded.
We’ll bring you some breakfast in half an hour or so. Alright?
Yes, he said.
Do you need to go to the toilet?
Paul shook his head.
Okay, she said. I’ll be back to check on you.
The nurse strode out and Michael raised his eyebrows at Paul. You lucky arsehole! he whispered, indignant.
The German stood and approached the side of the bed where the nurse had just been, eyeing the monitors, rubbing his chin like he understood what they meant, frowning as though it was bad news. He looked at Paul and winked. Paul wheezed a laugh.
All of the boys are calling you Big Shit, Michael said. Jungle’s idea. He says that you refused to be flushed down the toilet, just like a big shit. The German laughed.
Paul smiled.
Do you know how far down you went? Michael asked. Do you remember it?
No, Paul said. Not really. I knew it was happening. I thought I was dead.
They wanted to put you in decompression. It was a long way down. I don’t know how your brain still works.
Is Jake pissed? Paul asked.
No. I do not think so. Shaken a bit, I think.
Really?
You nearly died, Paul. The man is not very humorous but he does have a heart. Ruth too. She was here most of the night.
Aunty Ruth?
Michael tapped a hand on the foot of the bed. It was very scary, he said. We thought you were lost.
The German looked away to the window and exhaled, like he was trying to blow something through the glass and into the sky. Paul didn’t know what to say.
I should be driving back, Michael said. Shivani wants me home. Your disappearing act has made her crazy. She thinks I am going to end up at the bottom of the sea. He pulled his car keys from his pocket. I’ll call you later, Big Shit.
Michael, Paul said. Thanks.
The deckhand shrugged. Don’t thank me. It was the skipper who saved you. He just jumped right off the bow. Craziest thing I have seen. Flying through the air like that with his sunglasses on his head. Michael ran both hands through his hair and shook his head. Craziest thing, he repeated.
Just as Paul put the lid back on his tray of food Fred walked in.
Big Shit, Fred said.
At your service, Paul replied, tiredly.
You doing okay?
He nodded.
Be a good idea to eat some of that.
Reckon they’d do chips?
Not if that nurse out there has anything to say about it.
Fred took a seat next to his bed.
I can’t stay long, she said. I thought you should know that the divers found a bullet. On the wreck.
Paul sat up.
She nodded. Positive match with casings found on Deadman’s deck. Ballistics also have a good match to Roo Dog’s gun. So I guess we know who killed Troy Little.
And Roo Dog?
He’s alive. He’ll be in hospital for some time.
Then jail?
I can’t see him seeing the outside of one for a while.
Do you think it was Cetus that got them?
We might never know. I doubt Arthur knew what he was getting himself into. I’m sure he thought he was making friends.
Paul lay back in the bed. Always something you cannot see, he said.
Fred nodded. That is true. Y’know I never could have pictured you doing what you did out there, saving Reece Hopkins.
Told you I could swim.
Fred laughed. She stood, pushing herself up on her knees.
You going to leave Stark? he asked. Head back to the city?
I don’t know, Fred shrugged. Maybe I do need the tonic of wildness.
On the way to the door she turned back. I didn’t tell you. Yesterday some Stark farmer was doing his fences, found one of the most wanted blokes in the country. Bikie chief, lying cactus next to the highway, not thirty kays south of town. Would you believe it?
Paul laughed, coughed. Well, it is the centre of the universe.
Apparently.
Barcelona
WHEN HE WOKE AGAIN IT WAS DARK.
He saw the shadow in the chair beside the bed. A suit jacket folded over the arm.
Dad?
Paul. His father stood.
You’re here.
Of course. Shit, Paul. The Professor kissed his forehead. Catherine, he said loudly.
Against the wall on the other side of the room Paul’s mother stirred in her chair.
Cath, his father repeated. Wake up.
Mum.
He’s awake, his mother said. She came to the bed. Hugged him.
You’ve been out to it since we got here this morning, his father explained.
When we got that fucking call, his mother said, I honestly could have drowned you myself.
His father laughed, wearily. Lucky for you it takes five hours to get here. She’d cooled off.
His parents stood on either side of his bed. They both looked ragged, like they�
��d been spin-dried. He could see how they’d aged in just six months, and felt guilt.
You are coming home, Paul, his mother said. With us. As soon as the doctor will let you go.
He nodded. Okay.
Good, she said.
But I’m going to Europe.
Europe?
Travelling. I was thinking about Barcelona.
Barcelona?
It’s in Spain.
I know that, his mother said. Sounds expensive.
I made some money. I want to see some things.
You sound like your brother, she said.
I want to look east for a change.
His mother looked to his father concerned.
You and Dad should come too, Paul said. Go take yourselves away from here for a bit.
Barcelona? his father replied.
Why not? Paul said. We can’t just look backwards, Paul said. Rear-vision syndrome.
I know, his father said.
Through the heart of everything
TWO DAYS LATER PAUL WAS DISCHARGED from the hospital. Paul and his parents drove north to Stark.
Ruth hugged him hard when she saw him at her door. Jake walked out into the sunlight to see him go. Nodded stiffly when Paul thanked him. Offered something like a smile.
They drove to Michael and Shivani’s place and packed Paul’s things into the boot. Paul suggested they meet in Spain in June, when Jake had docked the boat for maintenance. Michael and Shivani stood out on the sandy lawn to watch them go. Michael’s hands in his pockets, grinning, Shivani’s arms around his middle.
His mother agreed to one more stop.
An hour south of Stark, in Notting, she pulled them into the quiet street.
From the porch Paul could see his parents watching the cottage, like they both could sense Elliot there. He knocked on the door. Heard the creak of boards, footsteps up the hallway.