Resurrection Bay

by Emma Viskic

  Down after him, sand pulling at his legs. Boxer was struggling to his feet. Don’t think, just hit. Boxer flung up an arm. A sickening jolt and the gun flew from the man’s hand. Both of them lunged for it, slipping further down the dune. Boxer whipped towards him, the gun held awkwardly in his left hand. Caleb threw himself to one side. A bang. Sand pluming to his left. Onto his back, a hard kick at Boxer’s knee. The man fell, crashing down on top of him. Gun, where was the gun?

  A sharp blow under his ribs. Then Boxer was standing; kicking him, stomping. Felt his own raw scream as a foot ploughed into his scarred side. He curled into a ball, arms instinctively protecting his head. Hands going through his pockets. The sharp grunt of a question then a foot slammed into his ribs. Another kick, and another. His knees jerked to his chest; pain everywhere, no breath for screaming now. He tried to roll away and caught a blow to his spine. The brief touch of something hard against his chest. The gun. A sudden weight on his back pinned his arms beneath him. The ashen smell of cigarettes, more angry questions. A pause, then a sharp smack on his temple. Brain spinning. Wouldn’t get up if he caught another knock like that. The weight lifted – Boxer standing, getting ready for another kick. Gun. Get the gun. He hunted blindly for it. There. He gripped it. Rolled onto his back. Fired.

  Noise. Punching recoil.

  He opened eyes he hadn’t realised he’d shut. A bright sky. Sand clinging to his lashes. Boxer was sprawled on the sand, his hands scrabbling desperately at his throat. Blood spurted between his fingers in bright spouts. Caleb somehow made it to his knees, air wheezing in his lungs. He pressed his hands to the pulpy mess of Boxer’s neck. The man’s hooded eyes held his, wild and panicked. The pulse ebbed beneath his fingers, fluttered, and stopped. A long, slow shudder shook Boxer’s body and everything was still.

  Caleb’s hands still gripped, unable to loosen. Blood on them. Bright red, still flushed with oxygen. The warmth of it was on his face and neck. In his mouth. He turned and vomited violently. The taste of blood and bile. Of fear. He got to his feet and stumbled towards the sea. The lapping waves were like the sucking of Boxer’s throat. He waded in, ripping at his T-shirt. Rivulets of red ran down his skin. His blood, Boxer’s. Heaving sobs shook his body. He collapsed to his knees and wept.

  19.

  It was the cold that finally made him move. His body was shuddering, teeth chattering so hard they cut his lip. He went to stand, legs buckling. Tried again and made it to his feet and out of the water. The waves had deposited his T-shirt onto the sand. It would be clean; the salt water would have washed the blood away. He made himself pull it on and it stuck to his skin in dank folds. Pain in every movement as he started up the dune, each breath tearing at his lungs. Up to the top. One step, then another. Get to Boxer’s car, drive. Go somewhere a long way from here. There it was, nose hard up against the ti-trees that had blocked its passage. He opened the driver’s door and climbed in.

  No key in the ignition.

  He sat.

  Cold. So cold. Tired.

  Go back down and get the key from Boxer’s body. Do it.

  He retraced his footsteps and slid back down the dune, his foot kicking something as he went – the gun. He didn’t want a gun. Never wanted to see another gun again in his life, but couldn’t leave it around here for kids or the police to find. The police. Christ, he’d killed a man. No. Later. Deal with it all later. He picked up the gun, the heft of it surprising. He knew nothing about guns. Was there a safety? Nothing obvious. He fumbled and managed to release the clip, shoved the separate parts into the back pockets of his jeans.

  Boxer’s body was sprawled at the bottom of the dune, the nightmare spray of his blood staining the sand black. Don’t look at his face, the ruin of his throat. Stomach roiling, he dug his hand into the man’s pockets. A wallet. He hesitated, then pulled out the driver’s licence and shoved it, unexamined, into his jeans. No key in Boxer’s other pockets. He checked again, then sifted through the sand. Nothing but shells and grit.

  Hard, bone-shaking shivers now. Joke of a way to die – dodge a bullet but get killed by the weather. Boxer’s jeans and jacket were dry. No, nothing could get him to wear the bloodied clothes of a man he’d just killed. He made his way back to the car. When he was fourteen, he’d made a brief and unconvincing attempt at being a bad boy. He’d failed miserably, but he’d learned the basics of car stealing: jam a screwdriver in the ignition, or strip the wires under the dash. How much harder could a modern BMW be than an old Ford? He opened the door. Much harder. No exposed wires, no idea where they might be. He poked around until his brain finally kicked in; modern cars had immobilisers. No point in starting the thing if you couldn’t steer it. Fuck.

  He slammed the door as he got out. Stopped. Shouldn’t he have heard something then? Yes, a soft thud. He swung the door shut again. Silence. Like he didn’t have his aids in. Had the sea water got into them? A cold trickle of fear: or was it hearing damage from the gun blast? Life would be hard if he’d lost the remnants of his hearing. Harder. No hints of words, no snatches of tone. God – speaking without any feedback. If Kat thought people were pissed off with him now, imagine how they’d feel when he started yelling at them in a monotone.

  Stupid thing to be worrying about now. Blood on his clothes, a dead man on the beach. Anton’s place was closest, only a kilometre or two. Shouldn’t be too hard.

  He began to walk.

  He stumbled up the front steps and banged on the door. Many parts of him hurting now. Not the sharp pain of the assault, but deep, with gripping fingers. It came with the fear that it might not end, but just keep building. If Anton was out, or, more likely, off his face, he was going to have to break in.

  The door swung open.

  ‘Well, you look like shit,’ Anton said. ‘Why are you wet?’

  ‘I need you to make a call for me.’

  ‘Hang on.’ Anton patted his pockets. ‘I want to write this down. A seminal moment: July the second, my big brother asks me for help. A young Cary Grant will play me in the film.’

  Caleb pushed past him into the house. ‘Now.’

  ‘You going to explain why you’ve been swimming in the middle of winter?’ Anton asked as he dialled Kat’s mobile.

  ‘In a minute.’

  ‘And you and Kat, huh? You think you’re in with a chance again?’

  He wrapped his arms around himself. ‘Later. Is it ringing?’

  ‘Yep.’ Anton pulled off his jumper and shoved it at him. ‘Put this on, you’re making me feel cold.’

  He pulled it over his wet T-shirt. His teeth were still chattering. ‘Are you sure it’s ringing?’

  Anton frowned. ‘Well, not totally. Do you think a ringing sound means that it’s ringing? Kat, hey, it’s Anton. I know, ages. How’s it going?’

  ‘Anton, for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘Hang on, I’ve got Cal here, freaking out about something.’

  ‘Tell her Boxer knew, that Boxer knows I’m in the Bay.’

  Anton repeated his words. ‘OK, she’s pretty worried about that. She wants to know what happened. That makes two of us. Hey Cal, what’s going on?’

  ‘Tell her I’m fine, but I’m worried he might have known I was staying at Maria’s. They need to leave until I can get the word out that I’m not there any more.’

  Anton relayed the message. No joking now. ‘She says OK. What else do you want me to tell her?’

  ‘That’s all she said? OK?’

  ‘She said, “Oh, shit. OK.” Then added, “Does he want to tell me anything else?”’

  ‘Tell her, tell her that I’m sorry and that I’ll … Tell her that when this is over I’ll try to …’ He looked away from the pity in Anton’s eyes. ‘Tell her that I love her and I’m sorry.’ God.

  A tap on his shoulder. ‘She wants to know where you’re going.’

  Was that a polite question, or an invitation to go to her? Would it be safe? How long before someone realised Boxer wasn’t coming back? A three-hour drive
to Melbourne, so they’d have a few hours before any of his mates raised the alarm.

  Unless one of them was already in the Bay.

  He grabbed Anton’s arm. ‘Tell her to get out now.’

  ‘I’ve told her, Cal. Calm down.’

  ‘No. I mean right now, straight away. Tell her Grey-face might be here. Tell her to get in Maria’s car and go.’

  ‘Are you meeting her?’

  ‘God, no, I’m fucking toxic. Just tell her to get out.’ He watched to make sure Anton didn’t soften the message.

  Anton lowered the phone. ‘Mate, I think she’s crying. Maybe I should run you over there so you can talk in person.’

  ‘Hang up. She has to get out of the house.’

  ‘I’m not going to hang up on her. That’d be a totally arsehole move. If you guys are trying to work things out together …’

  Caleb took the phone from him. The red button winked its message at him: end, end, end. He pressed it.

  He stood under the hot water until the shaking stopped, then dressed in some of Anton’s clothes: a long-sleeved T-shirt, thick jumper and black jeans. A bit of a worry that they fitted him. He’d dropped more weight than he’d realised.

  Anton was in the kitchen, hunting through a cupboard. He turned around as Caleb sat down.

  ‘… the … on?’

  ‘Sorry, what?’

  ‘…?’

  No. He couldn’t do it any more. He closed his eyes. Something hit him in the chest and landed in his lap: a packet of tomato soup mix.

  Anton was standing by the cupboard, gripping another packet. ‘What’s your …?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What’s. Your. Fucking. Problem?’

  ‘My aids are on the blink.’

  ‘So? It’s not like you get much from them anyway.’

  ‘And it’s hard, Ant. It’s always hard, but this is … I just can’t do it right now.’

  Anton looked from his face to his battered hands. ‘You want something to drink?’ he signed.

  ‘Have you got tea?’

  ‘Tea? Jesus. Well I can look.’

  Anton drifted around the kitchen in his usual, aimless style, but there was something different about him. What was it? The usual jeans and battered Volleys, plain navy T-shirt. Then it struck him – short sleeves. It was years since he’d seen Anton’s bare arms. They were pale and wiry. And smooth. No fresh needle tracks. Nothing on the backs of his hands or in between his fingers, nothing on his neck. Still, there were veins in other parts of the body. Feet, maybe. Anton was standing in the middle of the room, an I’ve-asked-you-a-question look on his face.

  ‘You want to see?’ he signed.

  ‘See what?’

  ‘My feet. You can check my legs while you’re at it.’

  ‘No need.’

  But Anton was already pulling off his socks. He wriggled his toes like thin, white worms.

  ‘Fourteen and a half months,’ he said. His smile was tight, with no teeth showing – the same expression he used to wear when presenting schoolwork to their father.

  ‘That’s great, Ant.’ No, it needed something more than that: fourteen and a half months broke the record by exactly six. ‘I’m proud of you.’

  ‘Awesome. Now I can die happy.’ But his smile had loosened into a grin. He poured near-boiling water onto two tea bags and brought them to the table. ‘Tea, good sir.’

  Caleb cupped his hands around the mug. It took a couple of tries before he managed to raise it to his lips. Being upright hurt. Being awake hurt.

  Anton watched his efforts and lit up a cigarette. He inhaled deeply. ‘OK, spill.’

  ‘You going to give up the fags, too?’

  He exhaled a plume of smoke in Caleb’s face. ‘You going to stop avoiding questions?’

  Impressive that he could sign and smoke at the same time. Not too many people could achieve that level of dickishness.

  ‘I’m in some shit with some scary guys. Something to do with Gary’s death. You can’t tell anyone I was here, OK?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I mean it, Ant. No-one. Not the cops, not friends, not some guy down the pub.’

  ‘Got it – keep my mouth shut. Are you OK? You don’t look too good.’

  ‘Yeah, just a bit bruised.’

  ‘How’s the other guy? Boxer, right?’ Slack-faced and empty-eyed. Already beginning to rot.

  ‘He’s … a bit bruised, too.’

  He’d been so careful. Who knew he was here? Sharon, her sister, Mrs Naylor, Mick … Who was he kidding? Everyone in town had known he was here the minute he’d walked down Bay Road with Kat. But for someone to have rung Scott, they’d have to know Scott. Maybe it had been some form of electronic trace he hadn’t considered. His new phone? He’d had it less than a week, and been careful not to call Tedesco on it, but he’d had to use ID to buy it. He pulled it from his pocket and turned it off, took the battery out for good measure. Water seeped from its inner workings. Another phone gone – it was beginning to feel like a habit.

  He looked up to see Anton watching him.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Being paranoid. Listen, have you still got Dad’s old Toyota?’

  ‘What’s wrong with your porn wagon?’

  ‘It’s Kat’s. And it’s dead.’

  Anton laughed. ‘You must be rapt with her driving around in that. But yeah, the Toyota’s still out the back. It’s yours if you want it. It might not be roadworthy, though. Actually, it might not be registered, now I think about it.’

  ‘As long as it goes.’ He levered himself to his feet.

  ‘What, you’re going now? You don’t look up to much driving. Why don’t you stay here and leave in the morning?’

  Choose one of the empty rooms and curl into a sobbing ball. But if he stopped now, he might never get up again.

  ‘No. I’ve got to get going.’

  Anton stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Text me so I know you haven’t wrapped yourself around a pole, OK?’

  ‘Phone’s dead.’

  ‘Then buy another one.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Seriously. Buy one tonight and let me know.’

  Anton grasped him in his sinewy arms. A strange moment, years since they’d hugged. Ant thumped him on the back, then released him, leaving behind a pall of cigarette breath.

  He waved his hand. ‘You stink like a fucking ashtray, Ant.’

  Anton’s eyebrows waggled. ‘I don’t get any complaints from the ladies.’

  Boxer had stunk of fresh smoke, too. He’d probably stopped for a fag in town before coming to kill him. Town. That needed examining: why had Boxer been coming from Resurrection Bay, not Melbourne? What had he been doing in town? Looking for him? Talking to someone?

  ‘Did you tell anyone I was down here?’

  Anton shrugged. ‘Don’t think so, why?’

  ‘Or mentioned Kat’s car?’

  ‘Why would I mention her …? Oh, yeah, that’s a car worth mentioning, but no, I haven’t had a chance. I only saw it this morning.’

  ‘I’m not mad, just be good to know.’

  ‘Why would you be mad? Ah.’ Anton’s face shuttered. ‘You still think I had something to do with Gary’s death.’

  ‘No, I’m just trying to work out what happened. If you mentioned to someone that I was here, they might have talked to Scott.’

  ‘Scott? The guy whose number you asked me for?’ Anton’s frown was replaced by a dull-eyed smile. ‘Oh, I get it – asking me for his number was a little test. Nicely done, I’d forgotten how smooth you are. So Scott’s the guy who killed Gaz? And you think I was dealing with him? That I told him how to find you? Nice.’

  ‘I’m just trying to …’

  ‘… work out if I’m helping someone who wants to kill you. Yeah, got it.’ He sat down and pulled a cigarette from the packet. It took him a few tries to light it. ‘Car key’s by the front door. Pretty sure you know your way out.’

  ‘Ant, come o
n. I’m not accusing you of anything.’

  ‘Sure.’ He blew smoke at the ceiling. ‘See you in another three years.’

  20.

  He lay with his eyes screwed shut until the need for a piss forced him from bed. A short pause for his body to adapt to an upright position. The motel room looked worse than it had last night: a sagging ceiling and mildewed walls, something that had once been carpet on the floor. He shuffled to the bathroom. Not looking too pretty himself. Unshaven, red-eyed, bruised. Great dark patches marked his limbs and stomach, his back too, by the feel of it. Even his internal organs felt bruised. Was that possible? Trying to piss, he decided it was. No blood in the urine, though. That had to be a good sign.

  He splashed water on his face, then stood for a moment. Before stumbling to bed last night, he’d cleaned his hearing aids and left the batteries out to dry. Time to try them. He gave them another clean, adjusted them, re-adjusted them, turned up the volume, and, when he couldn’t think of any other way to procrastinate, clapped his hands. Nothing. OK, a handclap probably wasn’t very loud. What would it be, seventy, eighty decibels? Maybe less. What he needed was something with a bit of heft. He hunted through the cupboard under the sink and found a spanner. He weighed it in his hand. Good and solid, but no cause for alarm if he couldn’t hear its thump. Any number of things could have stopped his aids from working: salt water, low batteries, something else he couldn’t think of at the moment. So just fucking do it. He slammed the spanner against the basin and chips flew into his face. Silence. He blinked hard: just the debris making his eyes water.

  Frankie screwed up her eyes as she opened her motel door. ‘Christ, what time is it?’

  She was wearing thick woollen socks, a black cardigan, and pink pyjamas with kittens on them.

  He tore his eyes away from them. ‘Can I come in?’