Tigerfish

by David Metzenthen

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  About the Author

  DAVID METZENTHEN is an acclaimed Australian writer for young people. His book, Wildlight, was awarded the 2003 Victorian Premier’s Literary Award, and in 2004, Boys of Blood and Bone won Best Young Adult Book in the Queensland Premier’s Literary Awards and the Ethel Turner Prize for Young Adult Books in the New South Wales Premier’s Literary Awards. David’s novel Black Water was an Honour Book in the 2008 CBCA Book of the Year Awards: Older Readers, and his most recent novel, Jarvis 24, won the 2010 CBCA Book of the Year Awards: Older Readers, and was shortlisted for the 2010 Prime Minister’s Literary Awards. David Metzenthen lives with his wife and two children in Melbourne, and supports the AFL Western Bulldogs (and the Essendon Bombers, to an extent).

  ALSO BY DAVID METZENTHEN

  Johnny Hart’s Heroes

  Finn and the Big Guy

  Stony Heart Country

  Wildlight

  Boys of Blood and Bone

  Falling Forward

  Black Water

  Jarvis 24

  FOR YOUNGER READERS

  Fort Island

  The Hand-Knitted Hero

  The Colour of Sunshine

  The Really, Really High Diving Tower

  Tiff and the Trout

  Anton Rocks On

  Spider!

  Roller-coaster

  The Really, Really Epic Mini-Bike Ride

  Winning the World Cup

  The Only Pony

  The Really Nearly Deadly Canoe Ride

  Hide that Horse!

  Squidnapped!

  Save our Sharks!

  Freda, the Free-Range Chook

  Don’t Talk to Me

  In memory of J. G. and R. A. Metzenthen

  I’ve got to say I get right into this TV show, the weird mix of good and evil, and the unexpected.

  It’s about this Jeremy guy, who goes fishing in murky jungle rivers in these primitive countries where the locals are spooky silent dudes with human skulls on the shelves, and masks on the wall. And there’s always some mad fish beast, like a bull shark, stingray, or tigerfish, hiding just out of sight in the dirty river, waiting to tear into people as they wash their clothes or bathe their babies. Then this Jeremy guy tries to catch the thing and explain to the locals what they’re really dealing with.

  And because these fish attack people, there’s always a feeling of evil hanging over every episode – as if the ghosts of those who have been killed are watching from the trees, or along the misty shore. It’s something like the feeling I get when I look across the waste ground down Killarney Road, under the long, grey powerlines where they found that dead girl, and once, three greyhounds with their throats cut.

  People have been seen, day and night, circling the old gravesite where a windblown memorial still stands, although the spirit of the girl has long since flown. And the question is, are they good people? Or are they bad?

  And the answer to that is, I think, they are some of both.

  Knifepoint Mall is our local shopping centre. Okay, it’s called Sky Point Mall, but we call it Knifepoint as a joke, because it used to be heaps rougher than it is now. Now it’s okay, security-wise, with guards who seem to get the job done in a white shirt, shiny shoes, cardboard cut-out sort of a way.

  I’m in Sky Point to catch up with my mate, Evan, who is one steady and cool cat. He also has this permanent limp, although you might not want to mention that. He wears hats, too, like a bookie at the races, which gives him an arrogant, odd look, which is pretty much just his personal style. And so here we are, the two of us, hanging in Brew Italia, the best coffee shop in the place.

  Brew is like a little red vinyl fort in a world of glass, shiny floors and escalators that crisscross the air space. The sky, way up, looks like a distant photograph, where sometimes you’ll see sparrows flying, looking for a way out – which I hope they’ll find, because Sky Point is no place for birds.

  The Point has a feeling to it like a cheap holiday, I reckon. Yeah, it’s better than being at home, but it’s not that exciting. So you spend money to make yourself happy. Not that Evan and I do, because we don’t have any money, but that’s how things go down in shopping town.

  People want to be here on a Sunday afternoon, because they don’t want to be home. That’s the truth of it. In summer Sky Point is cool and in winter it’s warm. There’s an automatic peacefulness you feel when you walk in, as though the air is a gas that’s filled with forgetting. You don’t even have to remember to open the doors, or to look where you’re walking. Everything just slow-flows around you like a river that never gets anywhere. Here it’s Mall Time, 24/7, three hundred and sixty-five days a year.

  Once there was a V8 Supercar brought in for a promotion. It was shiny, black and massive, like a tamed panther so far away from home it didn’t even know what it was anymore. The mall changes things, takes off the edges. Like the music it plays is always some shit, soft version. And things change because they are in the mall. They kind of get robbed of themselves: so they fit in. Nothing’s ever shown or sold here that would scare the shoppers.

  It seems to me, Ryan Lanyon, of number ten Tight Street, Templeton, that Sky Point is just one long advertisement for what people want life to be – but isn’t. Real life goes on outside and you’d better believe it. Things can get real scary, real fast once you step out those doors. For instance, there’s this guy who’s been seen out on the wasteland, a dude dressed in black with who-knows-what on his mind, and who-knows-what-weapons in his pockets. His nickname is the Night Stalker, because that’s exactly what he is and does – which freaks people out, because everyone knows the history of that place.

  Better in here, they think. Safe and sound. No shocks and no surprises. Twenty-one degrees Celsius all year round.

  ‘Manny versus Marquez,’ Evan says. ‘Who wins?’

  Another thing you should know about Evan is he hardly talks.

  ‘Manny,’ I say.

  There’s a world title fight on Main Event today live from Las Vegas, and we’d watch it, except it costs fifty bucks – which is the way of the world, as Bobby-boy, my old man says. You gotta pay and pay.

  Evan nods, his grey eyes processing the place. His tanned-looking fingertips gently tap as if he’s texting to himself.

  ‘He’ll demolish him.’

  Manny Pacquiao is a boxing tornado. Incredible. Scary. Strong. Quick. Dangerous. Great. Too many world titles to count. He is Evan’s favourite boxer. The guy I
like best is Sugar Ray Leonard, way-retired now, five-time world champion, Olympic gold medallist with twenty million dollars in the bank. I have every one of his fights on DVD and I even read a book about him.

  We love those guys. It’s like they control the world with their fists. Evan stands up.

  ‘Gotta go, bro.’ He nods. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  We head in different directions, me cutting through Kealoah Surf Store. This is a shop that sells stuff I know nothing about. There are posters of dudes on waves at faraway beaches, some with cactuses, even. There’s also the poster of a chick who is world champion, a girl who looks way too good to be true. She smiles, blonde and perfect. Funnily enough, I haven’t seen her around Templeton.

  The boards are stacked in racks, the stars of the show. Only once did I ever actually pick one up. It felt like silk, like alien skin, the thing so light and airy I thought it might just fly away. I ran my hands down its edges, the curves falling away, and I simply could not ever imagine me walking into the waves with it – and not only because I couldn’t afford it. It felt wrong for me, a Tempy-boy, from way out west.

  A chick I don’t know stands at the front counter. Already I’ve sussed her as new, because I know just about every kid who works at Sky Point. And how do I know? Because most went to Tempy Secondary and some still do. It’s pretty much standard that all the girls work in the clothes shops and cafes, and the guys in the supermarket, or down the road at the Home Warehouse.

  Anyway, this girl comes over, kind of shy, not like the other Kealoah chicks who waltz right out like they own the place. She has on a dress that’s not short and tight but loose and long, mostly white and green, in some kind of leaf pattern, with loose pockets. Her hair is kind of thick and messy, somehow straight yet crinkly and curly, blondey-brown. She’s nice-looking, I guess, except there’s something funny with her mouth, as if she once got a fat lip that never went down. Quirky, as Evan would call it. I agree, and decide here and now I quite like it.

  ‘If you want to know about the boards,’ she says, ‘Josh’ll be back in a minute. He’s just out getting a coffee. I can text him, if you like.’

  ‘No, don’t do that.’ I look at this girl in a way I wouldn’t look at the other Kealoah chicks. I look at her without any attitude, because she doesn’t seem to have any. ‘I’m just checking something out.’ You, to be exact, would be the truth of it.

  ‘Right.’ She hovers like she doesn’t know what to do next. ‘Okay.’

  So I make it easy for her, because I do know what she should do; she should say there are some great board shorts on special, and if I need any help, she’ll be where the shirts are, which are also twenty per cent off today. She should ask if I need help with sizes; say, you look like about a thirty-six, if you like to wear them fitted.

  ‘I don’t know anything about surfboards.’ She puts her hands in those big goofy pockets and looks me straight in the eyes. ‘I’ve never even been to the beach.’ She shrugs, standing under the poster of a guy on a crystal wave. ‘I’ve never even seen the ocean,’ she adds. ‘Not once. Not in my whole life.’ She appears to want to know what I might have to say about that.

  I laugh, zeroing in on her face, knowing that this is a freakin’ special moment. Already I’m thinking about telling Evan about the new chick at Kealoah who tells me straight-up she’s never seen the sea. And he’ll like it the way I like it; because a fact like that is a rare thing in a place like this. I feel like kissing the toes of her no-name sneakers that are the colour of plain flour.

  ‘That’s cool,’ I say, straight off the bat. ‘No wonder they gave you the freakin’ job.’ With that, she’s looking a little spooked, but since I have a bit of that messy rockstar look that girls seem to like, she’s okay with it. Now I look for her name tag, but she doesn’t have one. Bad girl. So I hit that button. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Ariel.’ She says this like she’s stamping a letter that isn’t important.

  I have never heard that name before. I try to picture how it might look on paper. Ah-ree-elle. Ay-ree-elle. Arri-elle? I have no idea.

  ‘It’s nice.’ It is a nice name, airy and light and kind of smart. Plus it’s a little bit out there. A good name for a girl who might be a little bit out there herself.

  ‘So what’s your name, then?’ She stands there in that kindergarten-kid dress like a doll on a birthday cake.

  ‘Ryan.’ I see the surf-shop boss come in, carrying two coffees, meaning that if Josh is in, Ryan is out. ‘Thanks for your help. A-ree-elle.’ Already I’m leaving, backing away, one finger pointing. ‘I’ll be back. Thanks. Again. See ya.’

  I don’t stop, but I do take a sneak peek over my shoulder. And I see her not so much with my eyes but with my heart, like I see only the best things – things that have value that can’t be expressed in dollars or words. Then I’m out the electric doors among cars, concrete, and silver trolleys, the cold air like a slap – out the electric doors where wet plastic bags lie in an overgrown garden like poisoned birds.

  I zip up against the rain and head home across Sky Point Reserve. This isn’t a park. The reserve is just vacant land that has the feeling of unfinished business that never will be finished. Only on sunny days does it ever feel truly safe and it’s then that you might see kids flying a kite, or kicking a footy. At night it’s lit-up, but it’s better to rely on local knowledge to stay out of trouble around here, because a few lights won’t do much to help if the shit really does hit the fan. It also doesn’t hurt to be able to throw a punch or three.

  The wind blows the sound of the Western Highway right in my face. There are lines of trucks on the bypass, snarling at each other, nose to tail and side by side, impatient to hit the open road as they get set to head interstate. And maybe, I think, just maybe, I wouldn’t mind doing a job like that one day, cutting the land in two in a massive Mack or a Kenworth. At least you’re moving, unlike my brother, Slate, who’s stuck in the Arcon pipe factory forty hours a week.

  I look up, the sky hanging low and desperate, and I think of Ariel in Kealoah. It’s like she’s stepped on stage, a star for never having seen the sea and not caring. It makes me laugh. It makes her shine. I will go back.

  Sky Point, old buddy, you have surprised me.

  I see my dog with all my heart. I watch her from the kitchen window, playing with her toys. She is so cool, Dee Dee – jet-black and shiny, sleek with beautiful big knuckly paws like four gold fists. Around here there are pit bulls, Akitas, malamutes and Staffies, but no other Dobermans. She’s purebred with German and American bloodlines, and a short tail that is illegal, but that’s how she came as a pup, so it’s not going back on now.

  I go out the sliding door, and she comes over like a rocking horse, carrying a cloth octopus. She is a wussy-girl who will lean on you just to stay close. Her coat is sheeny and warm, and her stomach’s bare and hot, with twin rows of little black nipples like dots. I hold her face and look into her eyes. They are deep and black, shine like oil, and I would do anything to keep her safe.

  ‘You’re a good girl,’ I say. ‘The best.’

  I keep her away from roads and from most other dogs. I would never leave her tied up outside a shop or make her fight. Some guys want their dogs to fight. You can see they don’t care if their idiot dog kills your dog, and in fact would think it’s cool. Those people are brain dead and there are plenty of them around here.

  Deed has only been in two fights. I got her out of one and my older brother, Slate, got her out of the other. He’s a big dude, Slate. The guy’s two metres tall, he weighs one hundred kilos and trains in mixed martial arts. So when he told the idiot to grab his dog, he fucking grabbed it, no argument.

  Slate wants me to train MMA, but Evan and I box. We’ve got a heavy bag, a speed ball and a floor-to-ceiling ball set up in his garage. Evan’s dad, Ray, put it all together before he took off to live in Adelaide with a lady from All Action Auto Electrics. Anyway, Evan can look after himself and this you would know if
you look in his eyes. Or if you know him like I do.

  ‘Come on, dog.’ I grab Deed’s lead. ‘Let’s go while the goin’s good.’

  The sun has given up on Sunday, a damp greyness filtering down, seeping into your mood. The factories in the estate are fading, as day tips into dark, but I can’t say I’m unhappy as I watch Deed running on Sky Point Reserve – although we both know that without the other this place would feel like the end of the earth. In the distance, I can see someone walking along the path at the back of the mall, where bongs and bottles and cigarette packets litter the place like space junk.

  It’s a girl in a white-and-green dress that straightaway tells me it’s that Ariel: not only has she never seen the sea, it appears she’s also not too clued-up about Templeton, or she wouldn’t be walking along there. Sometimes guys hang there drinking in the shelter of the trees and maybe they aren’t that cool. In fact, some of them are old and deadset scary.

  The security lights aren’t on yet and although I don’t figure Ariel’s in any real danger, I follow her at a distance until she gets to the road. Then I veer for home.

  ‘Over and out,’ I tell Deed, as she looks into the dusk with her dark dog eyes, smelling the air as if there are things out there only she can sense.

  After school, I go round to Evan’s and we shoot his bow in the backyard. It’s pretty safe, because his house, like my house, backs onto a paddock that’s going to be developed. There are pipes out there, and wooden stakes tied with green ribbons, but no work has been done for years. The whole thing is now just open ground that goes for kilometres.

  Sometimes we take the bow out there for long-range shooting, or to fire straight up in the air – not exactly Russian Roulette, but not far from it. We watch the arrows hang a hundred metres up, tiny and black, only to come flashing back to earth like falling death – of course, you’ve got to get ready to run if the wind changes! But today we stay in his backyard. Evan hands me the bow. Twenty metres away, a paper target is pinned to four hay bales set against the fence.

  ‘I know where that Ariel lives,’ he says. ‘Opposite the playground. They just moved in. It’s a shit place.’