by E. M. Reapy
Abandoned.
He knew that rejection. The fizz came back stronger than earlier. It itched in Hopper’s fingers.
It reminded him of how they fucked off on him.
Murph was grinding the car into gear, accelerating.
Fuck him.
Hopper dropped his cup. His cigarette. He ran, hurdling over the hostel’s wall, hopping the path to the road. He shouted at Murph and ran without thinking in front of the moving car.
The impact of it lifted him with a thud onto the bonnet. The braking dropped him. He was sprawled on the road. The headlights dazzled. The fizz was spreading through him. He’d forgotten how alive it made him feel.
Murph jumped out of the car. ‘What the hell, Hopper, you ran straight in front of me?’
Hopper pushed himself up off the ground. ‘So it is you?’ he said and wiped his hands. He wriggled his fingers. ‘You know me? Who I am?’
‘What are you playing at? I could have killed you. Christ.’ Murph was looking up at the sky.
‘Why’d ye go?’
‘What?’
‘Why’d ye go? Ye went. Did ye go without me?’
‘Hopper,’ Murph said and sighed. ‘I don’t want to get into this.’
‘Did ye even look for me?’
‘Yeah – we did, it was too dark.’
‘So ye just left?’
Murph gulped.
‘Ye did. For sure. I didn’t know. Did ye tell anyone I was out there?’
‘Hopper, Jesus, it was a bad thing.’
‘Ye didn’t tell anyone. Is that ’cause ye didn’t reckon my life equal to yers?’
‘What? No, it was all fucked. We didn’t know what to do.’
Hopper said, ‘When I got back I asked people. I asked them what it meant, when I finally got back and I was half-fucking demented, with second-degree sunburn and kidney failure, I wanted to know why.’
Hopper could see the girl in the shadows, watching like the dread.
‘Where the others?’ Hopper asked.
‘Shane’s in Sydney, or on his way. John Anthony’s…’ Murph shook his head. Crossed his arm over his chest to the other shoulder. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Well, I got here in the end. I thought we were mates,’ Hopper said and the fizz tried to come again. ‘You made me think we were.’
The girl stood closer. Coughed.
‘Where you going?’ Hopper asked.
‘Away. I got to go away,’ Murph replied.
‘Do ya?’ the girl spoke. She stood next to Hopper.
‘Look, what do ye want from me? All three of us to go off together, a big happy family in Margaret River?’ he said, switching his glance between them. ‘A slut and a junkie helping my fucking case. What sort of set up are ye after? Are ye both so thick?’
‘I’m not a slut,’ she said.
‘I’m not a junkie,’ Hopper said.
‘Why’d you have to be like this, Murph?’ She shook her head.
‘You left me to die,’ Hopper said.
‘He leaves everyone,’ she said.
‘Hopper, you didn’t see what it was like, and up in the farm, I thought you were there. I knew you’d be fine. You’re a scavenger. The rat head on you. And now it’s fucked, Jesus, and my money. All my fucking money is up there.’
‘That’s what you’re worried about?’ The girl spoke slow.
‘Yeah, of course, there’s thousands,’ he said. He stopped, ‘No, it’s not all I’m worried about, come on.’
‘Swear on your mother’s life,’ Hopper said.
Murph sighed. ‘Just let me go, will ye. Everything’s ruined. And it was you who started it, Hopper.’
‘I done nothing.’
‘You gave us that shit acid then you lost the plot.’
‘Ye asked me, persuaded me to go,’ Hopper said, ‘and then ye fucked off.’
Murph sighed. ‘You don’t know what fucking happened. Who wanted you around anyway? It was Shane who asked you and you ruined everything.’
‘Murph, stop,’ the girl said, putting her palm out.
‘Get off your high horse, Fiona, he’s a degenerate.’
Hopper clenched his fingers. The fizz swelled.
‘You don’t know him,’ Murph said.
‘You don’t either,’ she said. ‘Who are you to be throwing stones?’
‘He’s dirt,’ Murph said to her.
But Hopper’d never been cleaner. He didn’t want to choose the fizz tonight. He’d go down for it. He wasn’t afraid of prison or deportation or nothing like that, he was afraid of going back. To the way he was.
‘Dirt,’ Murph repeated looking Hopper dead in the eye.
Hopper was electrified with anger but he walked away. He looked back, Murph and the girl kept arguing with each other.
Hopper knew what he was going to do. And it was his own self deciding. Not the fizz.
He walked up on the curb but turned suddenly. He sprinted towards the car, hopped into it, locking himself into the driver’s side. On the ground, there was loads of shit everywhere so he grabbed a newspaper and scrunched its front pages. He took his lighter out, lit the paper, held it up to the roof. It quickly took the flame.
Hopper laughed.
Murph and the girl turned around outside the windscreen and looked in. Their arms dropped.
The heat.
Hopper got out of the car and shut the door. The roof alight.
Murph shouted. He went towards the driver’s side.
‘I wouldn’t open it. The air will feed the fire and she’ll blow,’ Hopper said.
Fiona stood unmoving, wide-eyed wide-mouthed.
Murph ran to the boot, it squeaked open. He threw his bag onto the road. Hopper was smiling.
‘You lunatic. D’ya think this is funny?’
‘I do, yeah,’ Hopper said moving towards Fiona. He’d bring her off the road. The fumes weren’t good for her lungs.
Murph swung a punch at Hopper. He caught his ear.
Hopper roared instinctively. He wouldn’t give in to the fizz but he wouldn’t give in to a spoiled buffer bastard either. He shoved Murph.
Murph stumbled backwards but regained his balance after landing on the bonnet. He pushed himself up and charged.
Hopper ducked out of his way like one of them fancy-clothed Spanish buckos to a wild bull. But he turned to see Murph’s shoulder connecting with Fiona, sending her small body back, going backwards more than down, falling.
Her head hit the ground first. Hit the edge of the footpath with a crack.
Blood trailed from her mouth. It looked black.
Jesus.
Murph’s hands went loose by his side. ‘Oh fuck,’ he said real high-pitched.
Hopper bent over her. She looked gone. Her eyes were all eyeball under the lids. White.
Murph looked around, his top teeth were covering his bottom lip. ‘Fiona, are you okay?’ He shouted at Hopper, ‘Is she breathing, did you check her?’
Hopper put his ear to her mouth. Couldn’t hear anything. ‘Dunno.’
Murph held his face in his hands. ‘Not my fault – not again. I can’t—’ He stopped, still for a second. He looked at Fiona, at Hopper and wiped his eyes. ‘I just can’t…’
He shook his head and turned away, silent. Scooped his bag up. He limped first but broke into an awkward run and ran.
Ran like fuck.
The car headlights were still on and the fire was steady, hissing, sizzling. Had other cars passed? Hopper couldn’t recall. It was a quiet enough street but more people were coming over for the look. Asking about the car. Asking about the girl.
‘It’s sound. It’ll burn out. We’ll ring for help if things don’t improve, okay? Give us a chance, she needs space,’ Hopper said. He sat down and cradled Fiona. He put his hand in front of her lips. The air was slightly humid, cold again, humid, cold, humid.
Breath.
Her voice was crackly when she came round. ‘You’re Hopper?’
He nodded.
‘My head,’ she said and put her hand to it and when she took it away it was streaked.
‘I think you were concussed,’ Hopper said.
‘Jesus, look at my car.’
The upholstery was all aflame. Choking black smoke pillared from it.
Hopper ignored the people who came over so they moved on. Found each other. He was focusing on Fiona.
‘It’s your car?’ Hopper asked.
‘Yeah. I bought it earlier.’
He scratched his head. ‘Sorry. I’ll get ya back for it.’
Her voice had a shake. ‘Is it going to explode?’
‘No, no. That’s only Hollywood stuff. I done this a million times when I was younger. Doesn’t look like she’ll spread to the engine. Should smoulder out soon. As long as she got no air.’
‘It’s dangerous,’ Fiona said. ‘We’re in Australia, like.’
‘I know. I know.’ Hopper cringed. ‘But it’ll melt everything inside the car and die out. Probably. Promise. I’ll pay for the fire brigade if they have to come.’
‘Where’s Murph?’ she asked, one eye squinting like she was looking at the sun. She touched her head again, sucked up air as she moved her hand.
Hopper shrugged.
‘He didn’t?’ She lifted an eyebrow. ‘Did he go?’
Her chest was rising and falling. Made him think she might be crying on the inside, like he did sometimes.
She turned away. ‘Just when I’d started to get myself together.’
‘What ya mean?’ Hopper asked.
‘My life, I thought I’d begun to sort it out. Then all this,’ she said and pointed weakly at the car.
Hopper nodded. Reminded him. All his stumbling around. How he didn’t know if he could go on. If he should.
‘Fiona, don’t be worried,’ he said and took a deep breath. The words formed all clear in his brain, like they came from somewhere else. ‘Because it’s not the event but how you interpret the event that’s important.’
Her face was lit by the streetlight. ‘What?’
Hopper paused. ‘Some things that happen to you, events, you can’t choose. D’ya get me?’
She stared him in the eye.
‘It’s all chances. Look at us. How we’re here right now, what were the chances? We’d never have got talking back home. No way. I’m not looking for you to say we would. I’m being real.’
Hopper finally understood.
‘Events are chances,’ he said, ‘but thoughts aren’t. All what happened happened. The past is gone. If it went good or bad or how ever way, doesn’t matter. It’s only going on in there anymore,’ he said and pointed at his forehead. ‘You pick what to make of it now.’
The skin round her eyes crinkled.
He put his hands up. ‘I mightn’t be making that much sense on the outside. A kangaroo was the one who told me. I was fairly out of my box at the time too.’
She nodded. ‘It makes sense. But…’
Hopper waited.
‘I think I tried to make the same mistake again.’
‘You see it was a mistake?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You know why it was?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Then you pick what to make of it.’ He raised and dropped his shoulders. ‘Hey, before this goes all wrong – tomorrow, come find me, I’ll show you around, I been in Perth a few weeks now and know the run of it.’
‘Are we in trouble?’ she asked.
The commotion was getting too loud. Too many people were descending, hungry for the story, asking what the fuck was going on. Demanding. Why was the car burning? What did they see? What happened?
Sirens sounded in the distance. The flames kept chomping.
Some backpackers chatted and made jokes and took pictures. Neighbours from down the street were out for the look.
Fiona got up from the curb still holding the back of her head. People gathered around her. She pointed at the car, shrugged.
‘I done what I done,’ Hopper said but it was lost in the noise.
He watched as she moved through the crowd, answering questions. The fire glowed. Hot orange silk dancing. The cloudy night sky was clearing for stars. Hopper felt the warm. He unzipped his top and slid it down to check his right elbow and the side of his arm. Skinned, road-burnt. The dragon on the flipside was wild and ready.
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Acknowledgements
About E.M. Reapy
An invitation from the Publisher
Acknowledgements
Thank you to:
All my family and friends from Claremorris and beyond who have supported me as a writer, you know who you are.
My agent Sallyanne Sweeney, and editor Neil Belton, for believing in this book.
Michael Naghten Shanks, Shane Mac an Bhaird, Noel O’Regan, Rosaleen McDonagh, Cathal Sherlock, John Wallace, Dave Rudden, Gerard McKeown, Ian Sansom, Glenn Patterson, Iris Curteis, Mayo Arts Council, Tyrone Guthrie House, Varuna Writers’ House, Arts Council of Ireland – for earlier draft and professional development advice.
All the good people I met while travelling Oz.
Alice Walsh – the first reader of the whole book, for editorial suggestions and unwavering encouragement.
Sarah Hession – for the title and the invite to Australia which changed my life.
Jennifer Reapy – for having faith in me and how life goes on; a sister, friend, inspiration.
About E.M. Reapy
E. M. REAPY is an Irish writer and tutor. She has an MA in Creative Writing from Queen’s University, Belfast and was listed for the PEN International: New Voices Award in 2013. Her work was featured in The Long Gaze Back: An Anthology of Irish Women Writers. Red Dirt is her debut novel.
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First published in the UK in 2016 by Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © E. M. Reapy, 2016
The moral right of E. M. Reapy to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (HB) 9781784974626
ISBN (XTPB) 9781784974633
ISBN (E) 9781784974664
Red Dirt receives financial assistance from the Arts Council
Cover image: Robert Della-Piana / Getty Images; Flap image: Shutterstock.com
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