by E. M. Reapy
‘Catastrophe?’
‘Yeah. Can’t you feel it?’
‘Yeah.’
I turned and shouted Hopper again. I wasn’t right in the head for this. Everything was so black. Crickets blasted through the silence, millions of them clicking like flamenco dancers. I imagined the grass snakes, cobras, the Huntsman and redback spiders ganging up on me and circling around my feet. My runners grew out of shape and stamped down on the crunchy forest floor and I panicked shouting for Hopper to return before they stung or bit us all.
★
‘Get back to the car,’ John Anthony said. He grabbed my sleeve and dragged me. ‘Get inside. You too,’ he said to Shane. ‘Now.’
I sat into the front seat and rubbed my fingers through my hair, rubbed my eyes and neck.
John Anthony slapped the steering wheel after he got in. ‘Look lads, we haven’t a lot of options here. We can’t go for help because we’ll forget where we were. I’m not leaving either of you two here and neither of ye are fit to drive and leave me here. Whatever way you look at it, Hopper is fucked. He’s off his head and he’s in the bush. He could have fallen by now or got eaten by a kangaroo. The temperature’s below zero and in the morning it could go to fifty.’
He phlegmed up some spit, wound down the window and launched it onto the road. ‘Nobody really knows that he’s with us. The hostel people, yeah. But where will they be in a week, in two weeks? We’ll be farming. Who will notice when he’s gone? Who even knows where he went? Or his real name? We can’t spend any more time out here. We can’t. We’re putting ourselves in a cunt of a situation if we do.’
I got a drumming in the pit of my stomach. Shane looked like he was nodding. A nodding dashboard dog. A bobble-head Jesus. I looked out the window, so much darkness I felt dazzled by it. Blinded by it.
‘Ye can stay here and face the same end as him. Or wait for some hick Aussie cunt to get ye. Them or the heat or the wildlife. Take yer chances. But I reckon we go, hey. The three of us. If Hopper gets help, if he’s not on Abo land, well it’s all the better. We’re not going to see him again. His brain and memory is so cheeseholed I doubt he’ll remember us or this. And,’ he paused and squared his shoulders up, ‘it is my car.’
In the bush, the trees were enemies harbouring poisonous plants and predators. How weird it was the way the weather plummeted and soared in Australia. Making us sick. Killing our immune systems. Aboriginal lands were protected. If they caught a white man on them without a permit they could probably shoot him dead. Them poor Aboriginals, darker than Africa. I’d shoot us too. The hillbilly Australians would make us squeal like pigs if they caught us. Slash us open. Barbeque us. This place was hell. It would destroy us one way or another.
I swallowed the saliva that was flooding my mouth. John Anthony was probably right. He was probably right about Hopper not knowing us and nobody knowing him. Why did Hopper even come?
Maybe he wasn’t missing, maybe he was outside the car, watching us. Sure it was his gear. He gave it to us. He was the one who’d done it before. He knew what would happen.
I looked in the rearview mirror. I craned my neck forward to look closer out the windscreen and made binoculars with my fingers to concentrate, scanned around. Hopper was there somewhere but I couldn’t see him. The darkness swayed and swelled and made shapes I didn’t want to figure out.
The hairs on my neck bristled.
I turned round to Shane. We didn’t speak. He was grave and serious like he was about to go to a funeral. He pressed his lips and nodded. I nodded back to him and started scratching my arms.
‘Drive,’ I said to John Anthony.
‘Really?’
My breathing was thin. The antennae were floundering on his head. I tried to blink them away. I couldn’t.
‘Drive.’
★
As dawn slunk in, clouds were a frothy grey and I was coming down a bit. The sky reminded me of being in Achill on a long weekend. Skagging and slurping rum on the beach. Rain drizzling. Bonfire dead. Grey Atlantic. The doom of it. The chill.
Shane was asleep across the back seats but his legs were twitching and feet were tapping. He probably wasn’t asleep at all.
John Anthony had his godawful sunglasses on. He pulled down the window and a while later took his arm in and cursed the sun for burning his skin. ‘I’ll look a right bollocks now on the farm with two different coloured arms.’
I wanted to cry about the night before. I wanted to laugh at it. At the fucking state of it. Doing what we did. Mostly, I wanted to sleep but my brain raced with dark imagery when I shut my eyes. Scratching claws on windows. Me being pinned down centre stage in a circus. The ring master releasing his big cats on me. Mam bolting upright in her cosy bed, intuition stealing her from her sleep in the middle of the night.
Shane finally woke and he looked hollow. He started, ‘Lads, I’ve been thinking, I’ve been thinking we need to turn round.’
John Anthony sighed. He didn’t want to hear it. ‘Look, let’s build a bridge and get the fuck over it. If you don’t want to – I’ll kick you off it. Understand? Hopper was a fucking loser and it’s out of our hands. We’ll meet this farmer, we’ll start the work, we’ll have a new life. So shut it and move on.’
My eyes were burning.
We moved on.
★
We drove up the fields. We drove down them. Tall, dark-green mango trees in exact rows. Fucking zillions of them. People worked there, hurling the mangos off the trees into nets, laying them into the big blue bins. Getting paid badly by the bin. We brought the bins back to the packing sheds for the mangos to be washed, sterilised, sorted, packed, stickered, boxed, palleted. We were getting well paid by the hour.
A handful of the workers in the fields were backpackers, but a lot more were illegal Asian migrants, off the boats and on the farms. I started being able to tell the difference between Indian and Indonesian, Thai and Chinese, Taiwanese and Vietnamese – stunned that I ever thought they looked the same.
We had a supervisor, Henk, who you could talk to for a while before you noticed how plastered he was. He was mid-fifties and a big block of an Aussie. Square face and shoulders. His arms were like orange leathery logs and his chest was as broad as a fridge. On the third day, we realised he was giving us fake jobs when we were finished what we were supposed to be doing.
‘Go out and change the tyres on the forklift, swap them with the one in the corner.’
‘Go bring the old boxes to the recycling compartment and fold them down.’
‘Sweep the yard and wash it with the power-hose.’
‘See that forklift in the corner, swap the tyres to that one in the yard.’
We did them though, we kept doing them. Henk’s eyebrows furrowed every time he thought up something. When we returned enthusiastic, he sighed.
‘Bloody Paddies.’
But he didn’t hate us. Not at all. He told us how he’d a convict great-grandfather. A thief. A Pom hater. Bushranger. Someone who ran with the Kellys. He said the Irish were a noble, industrious race who could tell stories and warm the coldest hearts. He gazed into the distance, his eyes moist, and sunk his Irish coffee, the steam still coming off it. I couldn’t look at any of the others or I’d have laughed.
A week into the job, Henk rounded up me, Shane, John Anthony and a French-Canadian called Philly.
‘Right, boys. I’ve had enough of this. We’re going on a little trip.’
Me, Shane and John Anthony walked to the courtyard and stood around the ute. Philly and Henk were behind us. Shane played with his phone.
John Anthony didn’t look at us until Shane went, ‘Well, John Anthony. How’s things anyways?’
He swallowed and licked his bottom lip. Nodded his head. ‘How ye, lads? How’s it goin’?’
We both said grand and left a silence hanging in the air.
Philly was talking in broken English to Henk who said yes and no and when he got to the driver’s side said, ‘Bloody heck
, what’s wrong with you young people? Pull your head in, son.’
We hopped inside. Immediately sweat pools gathered on my forehead, the back of my neck and my balls. I pulled down the window and squirmed in my seat.
Henk started the engine, the radio blasted a local country and western station and dust rose from the ground as he booted it down the drive.
Philly asked John Anthony the time but he was ignored. He asked again.
John Anthony turned to me, ‘This juck can’t talk.’
I flinched, wanting to separate myself from John Anthony, from his comment. I told Philly the time and whispered at John Anthony, ‘He can talk. Didn’t you just hear him fucking talk?’
‘Nah,’ John Anthony said aloud.
‘Because his English is poor?’
‘I can’t listen to that.’
I flicked a glance at the tattoos written in Irish on John Anthony’s arm and shook my head. Decided against the argument with him. I looked out the window till my blood cooled.
Henk drove around the farm, which was no lie about the size of Co. Leitrim. It would take two-and-a-half hours to navigate. Perfect rows of trees. But Henk was on a mission. He slugged from his hipflask as he steered.
‘Now see over there? See, past that hill, that there would be a good place to hide.’
He showed us seven ‘hiding places’ around the farm and by the end we got the hint. Even the French-Canadian nodded that he understood not to be coming back annoying Henk whenever our work was done. When we were done, we were done and had the rest of the shift to hide.
★
Me and Shane separated rooms and we hardly ever spoke to John Anthony. Mostly, we just worked.
But at the weekends, the Saturday evenings and Sunday full days, we skulled goon together like it was water in the Great Sandy.
After dropping the acid on the way here the flashbacks I got were scaring me. I doubt it was to do with the drugs. I would be about to sleep and I’d see poor Hopper, the ugly Dundalk head on him, his council estate life, his junkie buddies, his trying to make a new start down here. We were all chasing the dream. None of us any better than the other.
I kept hearing the sound of the tyres on the road after I told John Anthony to drive. If Hopper had been watching us, the squeal would have made him think that we were racing to get away from him. To abandon the fucker in the middle of nowhere in a country that was mostly nowhere to us.
I couldn’t say it to Shane. Couldn’t say it to John Anthony. Couldn’t finish a sentence. Because we could never go back now. Not after three weeks of being here. Three weeks of pushing it down, deep down in the swamp of memories, down with the bullying we did in secondary school to fit in, down with the lies we told to girls to get our fingers inside them and their mouths on us – the cheating, robbing, battering, screaming, shameful stuff we’d done in the past. The swampy pit of I fucked up.
Jesus, had he family at home? Someone who loved him? Were they looking for him? Or worse, was nobody looking?
Me and Shane acted like nothing had happened but there was always this loom around me. Like a fucking hangover. It was a Hopper-shaped shadow and a sick feeling in my gut that we messed up too bad this time. In a religious way. It wouldn’t be auld pairs or guards or the media giving out and making villains of us. This time God was raging. No one wants to scrap God, like. No one wants their piss soaking their face as they go into the wind. But I couldn’t say anything. No one else was saying anything. Best thing to do was forget about it. Forget it. Forget it. Forget it.
Drive up the fields. Drive down them. Have a laugh with Henk about AFL. Say Gaelic football is a superior sport. Try and shift the Lucy Liu lookalike. Save. Take pictures of the farm and throw them on Facebook, show it was kind of the same but really different from home. Look forward to the chance of the ride, the alcohol, the relaxing on the Saturday up at the farmhouse.
That’s where we were when it happened. Week three over. Gathered around the big kitchen table. Half-eleven at night. Boxes of goon and mixers. Cigarettes overflowing in ashtrays. iPod blaring out dubstep. Banter. Dancing. Showing off. Stories from home. Stories from travelling Oz. Mostly backpackers but some of the younger Asians were hanging out too. John Anthony was singing ‘Come Out, Ye Black and Tans’ in the corner, his earring catching the light as he bounced his head around. Henk was beside me at the table, showing me pictures of dead rabbits on his phone, going on about hunting, inviting me out with him and I swear to fuck the feeling came before it even happened. I went all dizzy in my stomach and I looked over.
There he was. Standing in the doorway.
Hopper.
Just like that.
★
I said it to Shane but he said he saw nothing. Still, he was slugging quicker from his beer stubby after I mentioned it. When John Anthony saw us panicking, he beckoned us over with a raise of his head.
‘What’s going on here, hey?’ he asked. His accent cranked up with the alcohol.
I could only talk in a small voice. ‘I think I saw Hopper.’
‘Wha-?’ John Anthony made some noises and shook his head. ‘How in the name of Christ could he find us?’
I shrugged.
‘What the fuck do we do or say if it was him?’ Shane asked.
The dizzy was spreading in waves through my body. I wanted to bend over and spew but just looking at the ground made my head go in swirls.
Should we apologise? Should we just give him a bottle and a cigarette and go fair play, man. Dundalk’s Bear Grylls.
‘Look it, if he’s going to get thick let him get thick,’ John Anthony said and patted his right pocket. ‘So where is he?’
I looked back and scanned the table and the room. He was gone. There was only the black doorway into the hall, lights off to keep mozzies away from the gaff as much as possible. I rubbed my eyes and checked again, this time getting a better look-out point.
‘He was just there, wasn’t he? I saw him, I’d swear on it,’ I said.
The backpackers were playing Ring of Fire at the table, cheering and chanting. Someone had to skull the goblet from the middle. I grimaced at the thought of it. Some amount of shit tack alcohol mixed in it, goon, cheap rum, cheap vodka, cheap lager, cheap cider. Jungle juice. I went past them to the doorway, peered out left and right.
Darkness.
★
I woke with cracked lips. Stretching out of the bed, I felt round for the bottle of water I kept beside it. I’d go for the cure soon. The Sunday morning was usually a continuation of Saturday night but with beef sausages and toast instead of Doritos and pizza slices on the table.
I thought back on Hopper’s appearance as I drank the water. It was him, it had to have been. Maybe I was relieved in a way. He survived, the cunt. But like John Anthony said, how did he get here? This place, hundreds of miles from a big town, wasn’t exactly signposted well. All sorts of doubt started growing roots in my head. No one could find us here. Henk met us in an outhouse which had a small shop, forty-five miles away, to direct us. Hopper was on foot? No. Couldn’t be.
None of it was making sense.
I tried to think about Lucy Liu, maybe have a wank over her but I was too distracted. The doubt sprouted other things.
Hopper looked spooky. Or was that the beer goggles? He looked pale and sunburnt all at once. He looked wrecked. But he was shaven. Clean.
Shane knocked on my door and I jumped. He opened it a bit.
‘Are you gooning?’ he asked.
‘You can come in, you know. You don’t have to knock.’
He stepped into the room.
I looked at him. He was the polar opposite of Hopper. Shane was the All-Irish boy, thick dark hair, clear skin that had taken a healthy tan. He was well built and looked strong, though I wasn’t sure if he was decent in a scrap. We somehow never got into them because Shane was handy at talking us out of arguments. He was handy with the women back in the cities too, if he didn’t get too wasted. If you saw him before
he hit the booze or drugs, you’d think he was a right neat prick. He’d the look of a fella that drank litres of milk.
‘What ya do after that last night?’ Shane asked.
‘Fuck all. Skulled a few more. Went to bed. Wasn’t feeling it, ya know. Any craic?’
‘Not much. Same really. Think Henk scored that German one with the birthmark. Steffi.’
I laughed. ‘Really? She’s hot. Old Henky’s got the moves.’
‘Fucking straight he does. I hope I’m that much of a player at his age. He’s the right idea. Supervise a load of backpackers out in an isolated place. Be extra nice to the women. Sooner or later, one of them will get cabin fever and fall for you.’
He was smirking. A silence descended and neither of us were brave enough to break it. I picked up my phone and pretended to check the Premiership results even though I fucking hated soccer and it would take ages to load the internet.
Shane took a deep breath. ‘Hey, look it, I’ll just say it. Are you sure that was him last night?’
‘No, I’m not a million per cent, but it was awful like him.’
‘D’ya think he’s holding a grudge? Because we—’ Shane paused. He wouldn’t say it.
I sighed. ‘I don’t know. Why is he here?’
‘He probably had absolutely nowhere else to go.’
Australia. Nowhere country.
‘I’m kind of glad in a way. Have been feeling like shite about leaving him. Do you think if we just maybe talked to him, he might forget about it?’
‘Maybe he doesn’t remember anyway?’ Shane said and I nodded, pretending to think it was true.
‘I’ve a bottle of Jimmy under my bed. Have been saving it but I was thinking maybe I’ll give it to him instead,’ I said.
‘Really? Maybe we should drink it and give him one from it?’
‘Jesus, that’s a much better idea.’
I went to the shelf and got two cups down. They were chipped and had kittens in Christmas hats on the front. I poured us a large one each.
★
By the time we left the room, I could feel my eyes going. The world getting the edge taken off it. A lovely whiskey gauze on instead. Sure Hopper wouldn’t give two continental fucks as long as we’d be his friends. When we first met him, he’d the look of desperation for people to hang out with. I knew it because I had it before and that’s how I met Shane. He’d it too. We were all mad lonely here. And as long as we were sound to him and guided him around the farm, got him in with Henk who’d show him where to doss work and give him fish he caught for dinner, we’d help him out and it’d be okay.