by E. M. Reapy
RED DIRT
E.M. Reapy
Start Reading
About this Book
About the Author
Table of Contents
www.headofzeus.com
About Red Dirt
‘We were an eternity in the car. The city, normal people, decent radio stations and streetlights seemed distant memories. We were far, far gone from civilization.’
A group of young Irish migrants leave a man called Hopper for dead on an outback road in Australia. They barely know him; no-one will miss him in their world of hostels, bad drugs, wild nights on cheap wine and grinding work on isolated farms.
In this powerful novel about the discovery of responsibility, three young people – Fiona, Murph and Hopper – flee the collapse of the Celtic Tiger. In the heat and endless spaces of Australia they try to escape their past, but impulsive cruelty, shame and guilt drag them down, and it is easy to make terrible choices.
Contents
Cover
Welcome Page
About Red Dirt
Dedication
Me
You
Them
Acknowledgements
About E.M. Reapy
An Invitation from the Publisher
Copyright
For Helen and Joe
ME
Me and Shane moved to Perth about two months back. In Melbourne before that. Pretty much taking caps and drinking goon all the time, until we blacked out or puked or scored women more wasted than us. Waking up in random hostels in St Kilda or in Aussie houses cramped with Irish immigrants to keep the rent down. Young ones like ourselves. Younger even. Was turning out to be worse than the way we were back in Ireland. Off our faces all the time and running too low on dollars. I didn’t want to go robbing. It was supposed to be a fresh start here.
Shane’s mam bailed him out once with a grand but we blew it in a weekend with Thai girls and a two-day session in a plastic Irish pub run by the biggest scumbags you could ever expect to find in Northside Dublin. They were legal and stuff in Australia but I got the sniff of fugitives off them, that they could never go back home or they’d be arrested on landing. Should have tattooed Crimewatch on their shoulders instead of the big tricolour flags and Fighting Irish leprechauns.
We drank it all away there with them.
I couldn’t ask my parents because we hadn’t a bean with the recession. Auld lad went bankrupt. Builder who got greedy and thought he could develop a site that was way beyond him. What a cliché. One of the main reasons I left Ireland was to get away from the small town cunts who kept on about us, sneering at my folks. Me auld lady crying every day, verging on a breakdown.
Couldn’t be dealing with that.
Anyway, we were down to our last bobs and heard Western Australia was how to go, get into the mines as machine operators or truck drivers and be laughing all the way to the bank with our two-grand-a-week wages. And it really was. The mining boys would be back from three-week swings telling us about how soft the job was for the amount of cash they were earning.
This skinny Corkman engineer who had a stammer got me and Shane interviews for an iron ore mine in the Pilbara. Even for us having no college we could still get in up there. But we’d to do an alcohol and drug test after the interview, and I have to say, we failed it magnificently. The Aussie interviewer asked me if I was ‘fucking serious?’ when he looked at the results.
‘You’ve wasted my time, mate. Out,’ he said and opened the door of his office. I reckon we’d have failed the medical and fitness tests the same way if we had gotten to do them.
We gooned ourselves silly that night. Eleven dollars for four litres of wine in a silver piss bag. Pure depressed. Sitting out in the smoking area of the hostel. Loads of Frenchies and Germans at the next table. Goddesses with brown eyes and long, tanned legs, talking gibberish and laughing. At us probably. Then we met Hopper, real name Derek Finnegan, from Dundalk, with a thick broad accent who pronounced TH like D. Dem and dere and dose and dat. He joined us drinking and told us the craic. He’d ‘taken a long way over here’ from Adelaide. But back in Ireland he was a major fuck up. Borderline junkie. Skipped court.
‘What ya do?’ Shane asked him, his eyes wide and a smile creeping in the corners of his mouth.
‘Set fire to a playground.’
‘What? Why would ya fucking do that?’
‘Ah, it’s all in the past, lads. D’ya know when you’d be out of your box and you’d kind of lose the run of yourself.’
‘But a playground?’ Shane asked.
Hopper looked at his hands and took a deep breath. ‘It was an awful abused playground where we’d hang around, tinning, shagging, shooting up – a total shitehole. I was on lighter fluid and I had visions of all these kids syringing themselves and being worse off than us. I remember being a kid myself and I’d a bad auld time of it. Parents. School. Social workers. Everyone hated the Hopper. Always out to get me. Bastards. I was only a child.’
He paused so me and Shane nodded fair enough at him.
Hopper went on. ‘So there I was, getting upset, kneeling in front of a slide. A dirty, yellow, plastic thing. I punched it hard and cut my knuckles. A bit was sticking out of it. How could a kid slide down that? He’d tear open his arse. I got so mad. I threw a bit of juice on it and sparked her. But ya see, it somehow kind of spread. The fire. I suppose with the rubbish thrown on the ground and that. I’m not sure. Sirens and smoke. Me only half with it. I didn’t run. I let them arrest me. I ran later when my head cleared.’
‘To here?’ I asked.
Hopper shrugged. ‘Look. It’s all in the past now. Ye want to try some acid? I can get it off this Kiwi chick I know. Crazy wan with piercings everywhere. Will I put in for ye?’
I didn’t even have to look at Shane.
‘Yes, sir.’
★
‘You get homesick?’ I asked Shane.
He was flicking through the Quokka classifieds. Someone had told him that’s where we’d find work. Every so often his eyes would go bigger and he’d circle an advert with his pencil. I was lying on my top bunk, thinking about the new Irish that had moved into the dorm the night before. She was above Shane’s bed. Milk-bottle skinned, Qantas-smelling, sad-eyed cailín. She could have been a million Irish girls with her splash of freckles and highlighted hair. Her new Penneys summer clothes unpacked and put away neat into a locker. Cheap and hopeful.
I heard her crying when the lights were out. I wanted to get out of bed and comfort her, rub her back, tell her that we’re all better off being here but her snuffles in the bunk across from mine set me off.
I missed it too.
Small things. How the young and auld fellas would be out the back of the church on a Sunday morning with cheery bloodshot eyes talking about football and pints. The smell of turf burning. The taste of McCambridges dosed in real butter, Purple Snacks, Supermac’s chicken burgers, Club Orange.
The rain.
The awful bollocking rain that soaked us and quenched us.
Shane put the newspaper down and bowed his head. ‘Homesick. Yeah, I do be bad. Miss me sister’s kids the most. They won’t know me. I’d be like our long lost uncle in America from years ago. Only now it’s Australia. I’m the one none of them will know. I’ll send them packages though once I get work. With nice bits and pieces. Like the Americans used to. With clothes and Tim Tams and Ugg boots and that kind of shite. After I get set up. They’ll like me even if they don’t remember me.’ He smiled and paused. ‘I miss it all the time really. When I think about it. But what can I do? Have to just say fuck it to homesickness. This is it. This is where I am. This is what was forced onto me.’ He picked up the paper again.
‘Yeah,’ I whispered. ‘Fuck it.’
; ★
John Anthony came to the hostel on the Thursday and immediately threw his bulk around. He’d a strong Donegal accent, a buzz cut and two sleeves of tattoos. Mostly Republican or Catholic shit: on his left bicep – a man in a balaclava holding a rifle; on his shoulder – a huge green shamrock; and on his wrist – red rosary beads with a cross that fell onto the front of his hand. He’d names, skeletons and Celtic designs inked everywhere else.
I noticed a big dented scar on his shoulder blade, like something had taken a bite out of him.
He caught me looking.
‘You want a piece of this?’ he asked, his eyebrow raised.
‘What?’ My face started burning.
‘You like the fellas, do you? A lads’ lad?’
‘No, Jesus. Fuck off. Not at all. It was just – just – the mark you have, I was wondering where you got it?’
He looked down at himself, pointed at the dent. ‘This one?’
I nodded.
‘Let’s just say, we gate-crashed a wee march. And let’s just say, if you think this is bad, you should have seen the Huns.’ He looked away and laughed. ‘No more quick-stepping or drum-banging for them.’
Two Japanese girls came to the doorway of the kitchen and posed for an iPhone photo. They were doing peace sign fingers to the camera.
‘So what’s the story with the bitches here? Are they all chinks, hey?’
I tried not to roll my eyes in front of him but I’d no time for racists. My auld fella had loads of Polskis and Brazilians working for him back in 2007. Before he went bust. They were as sound as the local fellas. Sounder even. They put up with the shite off us and kept at their job. Rose above it. All the shite we’ve to put up with here. Green-niggers. Lowest of the Whites. No Irish Wanted.
‘Here, I heard a rumour that you and your boy couldn’t get in the mines. I’ve got another job. Can ye drive?’ John Anthony asked. He opened the fridge and poked through the different reusable bags with name tags on them until he pulled out a steak.
I knew it didn’t belong to me or Shane. We shared a bag and the only thing in it was a half-tub of butter and some gone-off ham. Rooting through the other guests’ stuff was an automatic expulsion from the hostel so we didn’t bother and anyway we found that if you hung around looking starved when the Irish girls were cooking, they’d give you a bowl. Irish girls will never see one of their own go hungry.
‘I don’t think you’re allowed—’
‘I don’t think you’re allowed,’ he copied me with a high voice and did this mincing dance with his arms. ‘I’m not allowed what?’
The blood dripped off the steak onto his palm and the floor as he held it high in front of me. I thought he was getting ready to smash me with it.
‘The food. It’s not yours,’ I said and took a step back. ‘Or ours. If it was ours, you could have it.’
John Anthony looked around the kitchen and then wiped his nose with the inside of his arm. ‘Who’s gonna stop me?’
I shrugged. Checked around too. Didn’t recognise anyone. ‘No one, I suppose.’
‘Exactly.’
He picked a pan from the shelf above the sink and greased it with someone else’s sunflower oil. ‘So can ye? Drive tractors and that?’
‘Yeah, course we can. What’s the job?’
‘Be working for the harvest. Mangos. Driving around the farms. That kind of bull. Fourteen-hour shifts. Twenty-five bucks an hour. It’ll be cuntish enough but it’s only for a month or so, it counts as regional work and when we’ve finished we’ll all have enough saved for a good Christmas dinner in Bali or Sydney or New Zealand.’
John Anthony was a bollocks but we really had no money left. The hostel rent ran out on the Saturday. I looked at the oil sizzling and coughing splats around the pan as he pounded the steak into the middle of it.
We’d go.
What was a month of tractor driving? Nothing in the grand scheme of things.
★
Hopper wanted in as soon as he heard about it and it was agreed he’d take the fourth seat in the car. We were all drunk at the time but I thought I saw his eyes well up a bit when we told him he could have it.
We’d a going away party in the hostel on the Friday night, a big sesh and I slept with a girl from London who was beyond sexy. She’d a navy polka-dot dress on her and a way of saying my name. I could feel the letters on her tongue before she sprung it out in her Cockney accent. So I was with her and I didn’t know if anything went down between Hopper and John Anthony. Maybe nothing had.
As we gathered our crap from the room at 5 a.m., I whispered to Shane, ‘What was the craic after I left?’
‘Did you not get enough crack off yer wan?’
‘Piss off,’ I said and launched my shoe at him. ‘Did I miss anything?’
‘I can’t remember nothing after the vodka and the spliffs.’
He was happy. He was whistling and shuffling as he packed his rucksack, leaving clothes that were torn or stinking in a pile between the bunks.
‘You’ll need them for the farm,’ I said.
‘Nah. Got my hi-vis for that.’
Shane had splashed out fifteen bucks on the fluorescent orange and navy construction top back in Melbourne and hadn’t got to wear it. I smiled. I was feeling happy as well. Maybe the farming would be another fresh start for us. Out in the countryside. Clean air. Healthy food. Could be some nice girls too. The London one said she’d be texting me but I knew that I wasn’t the only one who’d have her attention. A girl like that was spread between many fools.
We checked out and met John Anthony in the car park to fill up the boot. He was wearing mirror sunglasses and a white t-shirt that had ‘I’m drunk but you’re still ugly,’ written across the front in black letters. His car was a twelve-year-old maroon Holden Berlina Wagon. Decent motor for travelling.
Hopper was ten minutes late and Shane convinced John Anthony to wait for him.
‘Here, ye listen, it’s my fucking car so it’s my way or the highway. Understand?’
‘Yeah.’
Hopper came out with a ragged bag about half the size of ours. He wore an old Celtic away shirt, the NTL black and green one from seasons ago. It was too stretched at the collar and fell loose and wrong on his neck.
John Anthony muttered, ‘State of this fella.’
‘Travel light?’ Shane asked.
‘Don’t need much more than my jocks and a couple of t-shirts,’ Hopper said and scratched his head.
I took a look at him and realised how filthy he was. He’d stamps from nightclubs fading on his wrists and his nails were blackened. On his chin was a smatter of yellow spots, raw and angry. His moustache was wiry, like dark pubes. I imagined his bin juice breath and stood in front of the passenger side so Shane would be in the back beside him.
John Anthony rubbed his hands together. ‘Alright, let’s do this bitch.’
★
We were almost out of the city, the handful of Perth skyscrapers shrinking in the wing mirrors when Shane piped up.
‘Eh, John Anthony, you’re taking the wrong road.’
John Anthony looked at me, frowned and looked in the mirror to Shane. ‘Eh, Shane, no I’m not.’
‘You’re supposed to be on the North West Coastal Highway,’ Shane said.
I checked the signs. I hadn’t a fucking clue which road we were taking.
‘No, I’m going on the Great Northern Highway, can you not read?’ John Anthony’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.
Shane jumped forward. ‘Are you messing?’
John Anthony didn’t react.
‘But there’s nothing that way. That’s into the outback. If we go the coast, we’ll see the coast. We’ll see the Indian Ocean. The beaches. Whales and dolphins. Hot women in bikinis.’
‘Who gives a fuck?’ John Anthony said.
‘But we could see the Pinnacles and later on, Monkey Mia. They’re famous.’
John Anthony didn’t reply. He pouted and sni
ffed and turned the radio louder.
I looked back at Shane. He nudged his head forward and nodded at John Anthony. I shrugged. Hopper was staring out the window with his hands in his pockets. The sun was rising, white light blazing the sky around it.
Shane took a breath, leant forward and was about to protest again when John Anthony snapped the radio off and pulled sharply across the lane to the hard shoulder. A big van behind us swerved right and honked.
‘Here, is there something wrong with you? We’re going the shortest cunting way and that’s it. Do you want to add another five hours to a day and night’s driving to see some fucking sand?’
Shane’s face went a bit pink.
‘Well, do you?’
Shane folded his arms. He started and stopped himself twice before saying, ‘It’s just ’cause we’re going north anyway. Be cool to see some sights on the road trip, like.’
‘It’s not a road trip. It’s a fucking commute. Now wise up.’
Shane liked doing tourist shite. He made me go with him to loads of things before. Old Melbourne Gaol where they hung Ned Kelly, the dodge. The place was smelly and expensive but the death masks were cool. In Perth, Shane dragged me with him to the Fremantle Markets and to St. Mary’s Cathedral. A fucking cathedral. If we’d had enough cash, he’d have made me go out to Penguin Island. He liked telling his auld lady the things he’d seen down here so she could tell the neighbours and sisters and in-laws about it. I heard him on the phone to her. He was babyish, pure mammy’s boy. If she only knew.
John Anthony pulled back onto the road, the indicators briskly ticking. ‘We’re going through the inside. It’s the shortest way.’
He turned the radio on again.
★
Sometimes I could see Hopper in my wing mirror without him seeing me. Something about him gripped me. He was pathetic with his weaselly arms and dirty skin but he had some security in himself that I couldn’t understand. I wanted to know where it came from. I wanted to know how to get it. If he could have it, I definitely should, the fucking cut of him.