‘He’s a freakin’ monster,’ I add.
‘But unlike most monsters,’ says Evan, ‘he’s allowed out.’
I head to Evan’s place as the afternoon is turning grey. We go out into his backyard with his hunting bow, then into the shed. From under a bench Evan takes a jar of petrol and three wooden arrows that have cloth tied around the tips. He puts this and a few other bits and pieces into an old shoebox, which he hands to me.
‘Careful, dude.’ He raises his eyebrows.
‘Interesting, Doctor Batlow,’ I say. ‘Very interesting.’
Evan leads the way out to the paddock. There’s no one around and a cold wind is rising, shuffling the weeds that cling to the old clay piles that remind me of ancient pyramids. In the distance there’s the burnt-out shell of a concrete shed. Inside it once, years ago, we found all these plastic tubes and stuff like you’d see in a hospital – some were in packets, some looked like they’d been used. We took off.
‘Further,’ Evan says. ‘Another hundred metres.’ He smiles. ‘Where the prowler prowls. Where the stalker stalks. Where we might tangle with him one day.’
There have been plenty of sightings of this odd dude out here. Although what he’s up to, nobody knows. But you can bet it’s not for the benefit of mankind. Or womankind, either, if you get my drift.
We walk away from the path where people take their dogs. Here, there are no tracks but plenty of rocks. Thistles rattle dryly in the breeze, there are lumps of dumped concrete, and cars pass a kilometre away. This isn’t a wilderness, it’s a wasteland. Evan stops behind some stunted trees, sick-looking and weedy. I can imagine that stealthy, sneaking guy out here, resting in between visits to houses, because lately, supposedly, he’s been seen at windows, looking in like some sick ghost.
‘Petrol, thank you,’ Evan says. I hand it over, and he dips the tip of the arrow, soaking the bound cloth in liquid that is a weird pink colour. ‘Excellent.’
I get a whiff of greasy fumes. From a front pocket Evan tosses me a yellow plastic lighter.
‘Not yet.’ He laughs.
‘Why not?’ I pretend to flick it.
He fits the arrow onto the bowstring and moves, sensibly, away from the fuel jar.
‘Ignition.’
I flick the lighter, and with a nice little whoof the cloth lights. Flames curl, the cotton turning black, and a puff of smoke drifts. Evan waits until fire really takes hold before drawing back and aiming skyward. Then he releases and the arrow is gone, trailing flames as it climbs almost out of sight. Now it drops, faster and faster, a tiny fireball that burns even as it spears into the ground.
‘Good, eh?’ He lowers the hunting bow. ‘Wanna shot?’
‘Of course.’ I take the bow, toss him the lighter, then soak the arrow in mower fuel. ‘Right. Light.’
The lighter sparks and flames lick, throwing hot breath into my face.
‘Keep the tip pointing up.’ Evan stands close. ‘Don’t burn the bow. Fine. Good to go.’
I draw back, then release. There’s a ripping sound as the arrow flies, trailing flame, hanging for a moment before streaking back to earth like a falling star.
‘Lucky the grass is wet,’ says Evan.
‘Yeah.’ I hand him the bow. ‘You know, I never thought the Indians had lawn mowers.’
Evan picks up the last arrow, poking it into the petrol jar as casually as a kid fishing.
‘Need them out on the prairie. Stacks of grass.’ He holds it out for me to light. ‘Go the Indians.’ He draws back and fires. ‘Screw the cowboys.’
We watch the arrow climb, a spot of flame high in the sky that shifts sideways with the wind.
‘The possibilities are endless,’ Evan says. ‘We’d better split.’
We pack up and head back, the vibe of the paddock staying with us. There are things hidden out here that were never meant to be found. There were bad things done out here that have gone unpunished. And any one of these paths could bring evil to your back door like a river can bring a monster. It pays to keep watch.
‘Stalk the stalker,’ Evan says, and laughs. ‘Puncture the prowler. Bag yourself a trophy.’
He’s mad enough to do that.
‘Not me.’ I shake my head. ‘The cops said don’t go near him. He chased some girl home and she reckoned he had a knife and rope.’ The paddocks around us disappear into the dark. It would have felt a lot safer out here when they were filled with sheep. ‘He could be carrying anything.’
Evan opens his back gate and we go in.
‘I’ll go get the arrows tomorrow.’ He opens the shed. ‘I know where to look.’
We stash the gear, then wash our hands under the garden tap. It’s dark now, the moon out, reminding me of when our family used to go camping on the Murray River. Up there, the stars seemed to hang in the trees like Chistmas lights, and we loved it – or we did, until Slate nearly got drowned.
He dived in off a bank, and got caught in the branches of a dead redgum, a hidden old river monster of a thing washed down in a flood. He fought clear and made it ashore, but he’s never been back – and I’d say that river is about the only thing he’s scared of, except maybe the future, but that’s a whole different type of fear altogether.
On my way home I detour past Ariel’s house. There are lights on out the back but the rest of the place is dark. Junk mail is still scattered all over the grass and their overloaded wheelie bin sits down the driveway with its lid half-up like a dislocated jaw. It’s bin night, but I won’t touch theirs. That’d be crossing the line.
As I turn away I catch sight of Elmore Larkin behind me, delivering flyers – well, delivering isn’t quite the right word, as he’s simply stuffing them into letterboxes. This is my cue to put my hood up and walk away, but I stop when he reaches Ariel’s house, and I turn.
There Elmore props himself, flicking a couple of brochures onto the ground as if he’s dealing cards, and gives the place the good old once-over. Then he’s on the move again, me keeping a good fifty metres ahead, which might sound weak but I have my reasons.
I fought Elmore once when he turned up here a year and a half ago. It was kind of my fault. I ripped off his accent, yer know wot I mean? And it was on, before it was broken up, me calling it a draw. Now I steer clear of him, because I’ve seen how actually freakin’ mad he is. Still, no one forgets anything in Templeton.
Whatever. I keep on truckin’, remembering that if it’s Monday, it must also be parma night at our place. Yeah, baby. MasterChef in hoodies!
Slate eats with us, drinking Coke, keeping quiet. He’s got a part-time bouncing job at a big pub in Clearpark, the Bonnyview, and he’s about to head off. Already he’s done a few nights as well as working at Arcon. I try not to look at him but I can’t help it. His hair’s cut real short and his arms are pumped. He’s been smashing the weights lately. I’ve heard him out in the garage racking and stacking the plates, metal clinking and clanking like he’s some sort of machine gone mad.
As a family we don’t talk much at tea. Slate and me leave it to Bobby-boy and Jude to fill in the gaps with a bit of stuff about the weather and the latest visit of the police helicopter over the paddocks. Tonight, though, it’s like the start of a new ice age, courtesy of Slate.
Already he’s come home from the pub with a ripped shirt, scratches and bruises, and a cut above his eye that should’ve been stitched. Only Jude can tell him stuff now and even then he only answers with a yeah or nah. Bobby-boy and me stay out of it – not that the old man’s scared to talk, but he probably guesses, correctly, that Slate won’t answer.
‘I’m off.’ Slate takes his plate to the sink. ‘Don’t wake me in the mornin’. I’m on late. See yers later.’
Standing there, holding his black jacket with Security printed on the back, Slate doesn’t look like a guy who once did VCE maths – he looks like a dude heading for a showdown at the wrong end of town. He leaves, and it’s only when his car starts that we let go a sigh of relief.
&n
bsp; ‘Needless to say,’ says Bobby-boy, meaning he’s definitely going to say it now, ‘I don’t like it. That joint’s a bloody dive. If he needs the money so bad, I can’t see why he didn’t just become a barman.’
Jude holds out her hand for the plates. I hand mine over, clean as, apart from a few survivor peas.
‘It’s not about the money.’ Jude doesn’t say what she does think it’s about.
I don’t think it’s about the money, either, although extra dollars always come in handy. I think Slate’s sick of the world telling him what to do, so he’s decided to do a bit of the telling himself. That’s why he’d never want to be a barman. He’s sick of taking orders and so he’s put himself in a position where he’s giving them out. Whether this plan will work or not – I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.
Another good thing about our house is that Deed is allowed in the lounge, and to sleep in the laundry. Some mums would freak out having a big Doberman inside, but as long as Dee Dee’s clean, Jude’s all right with it. I look at the mutt on her mat, her black head on her gold paws. Best dog in the world, I think.
There are bad Dobermans, as I’ve said. But they’re the ones not treated right. Dobes are smart. They pick up on bad shit fast and they don’t forget, like elephants. But they’re funny, too. And plenty are sissies, especially the girls. They also like leaning on you and being close, which not many people realise, because everyone thinks they’re bred only to be guard dogs.
Me, I can see Deed’s dog soul, and I know it’s good. People are more complicated. Half the time they disguise their reasons for doing things, and in the end, really, who knows what they’re thinking? I grab the remote and switch on a saved episode of River Monsters. There’s Jeremy Wade holding – you better believe it – a massive tigerfish with a gob full of teeth so random it’s like a handful of nails have been hammered into its jaws by a blind dude. Then he slides it back into the water, leaving me to wonder as it gently swims away, if that fish is the hunter or the hunted.
I guess it could be both.
Somehow, most mornings, Evan and me walk to school with Ariel and Kaydie. Ahead, I can see the girls waiting by their letterbox, something good we just kind of fell into.
When we meet, everyone except Kaydie says hi, and we cross the road, the playground equipment ahead of us in shiny McDonald’s colours. Overhead I see a little flock of white birds flying high. They’re cockatoos, I reckon, calling quietly as if they’re having a chat. Kaydie watches them, too.
‘Cockies,’ I say.
‘Corellas,’ she says.
Well, that was unexpected. Ariel looks at me, Kaydie between us, the sunshine silver on her head, her mouth shut in a line like she will never open it again.
‘Yeah, they’re Corellas.’ Ariel catches my eye. ‘We used to have them up at home.’
We go on in silence because no one wants to make a big deal about Kaydie talking, although we all know that it was a moment – a beginning, perhaps. I watch the birds, distant white dots, probably over real paddocks by now. I look at Kaydie.
‘It’d be cool to fly like that, wouldn’t it, Kaydie?’
She looks at Ariel, doesn’t answer me. I guess I didn’t expect her to. In a way, she’s in a jail like Slate’s old mate Big Tex Vlahoff is in jail; the major difference being that Big Tex did something real bad and Kaydie’s never done anything bad in her life.
I just hope she gets free before Big Tex does.
Thinking about Ariel is quite a bit different to thinking about other girls. There’s the Kaydie–family-farm situation to be considered before I can even allow myself to think about the Ryan–Ariel situation. Ariel’s so determined to fix things, she’s so focused on her situation, it’s as though she’s training for the goddamn Olympics and has no time for anything or anybody else – but I once saw this famous Aussie athlete chick over at Sky Point, Melinda Somebody-Something Else, and she was as nice as pie to everyone. So never say never!
I have a shot with Ariel. There’s something – something that hits me right in the heart whenever I see her, although I doubt it hits her in the same way. But every single time I do see her, every time she walks out of that terrible house with Kaydie, or to go to work, it only tells me that she’s even more special. Yeah, it was the worst luck in the world that brought her to Tempy, but it was kind of a miracle for me.
It also occurs to me that if I’m as smart and strong as Boydy, Bulldog midfielder and powerhouse, I can help Ariel out. Around here, it’s good to have people on your side, because you never know where trouble might come from. Be like the tigerfish, I say – swim quietly, stay down deep, protect yourself at all times and have your weapons at the ready – whatever weapons they may be.
It makes sense.
Evan and me watch Elmore in action at lunchtime, the mad moose tangling with some new kid who doesn’t have a clue who Larkin is, or what he’s like. It’s ugly, but at least it’s over fast, the new kid buckled over after a smack in the guts, probably wondering how everything got so bad so quick when he hadn’t done anything except probably look in the wrong direction.
Elmore walks off, white hair like a battle flag, as two girls go over to the new guy. He’s got mud on his hands and pants, and is trying not to cry, sixteen fuckin’ years old and all. Better if they just leave him alone. Let him go to the tap and pretend it wasn’t much. Move on, mate. Come back tomorrow. Life’s a breeze. Happy days.
Evan watches Elmore crossing the basketball courts, unhurried, like a white pointer on patrol. Games kind of falter, everyone aware that there’s been a fight, and they don’t want to be part of another one.
‘Someone’ll stop him one day,’ Evan says. ‘It’s coming.’
‘I hope so.’ I watch Elmore walking straight up the middle of the courts. ‘But I don’t know who.’
What drives that kind of crazinesss? There must be some reason. I mean, yeah, this place is full of bloody idiots, but they’re not bad bloody idiots. They’re just crazy kids and try-hard teachers.
Evan and me hang. The new kid doesn’t even know where the taps are – he’s standing there looking lost, as if this is the worst day of his life. And hopefully it might be, although Elmore isn’t usually satisfied that easily. I walk a few metres towards the dude and point.
‘Mate. Taps.’ He nods, then walks off, hands on hips, looking at the ground, new jumper ripped, shirt fucked. ‘He’s a psycho,’ I add, not something that really should be said out loud. ‘He hates everyone. It’s not personal.’
The kid lifts a hand, just a normal kid, I can tell. Not a fighter. Not the type to deal with a freak like Elmore. That would be best left to the experts.
‘When are we hitting the beach?’ Evan asks.
‘Soon,’ I say, glad to change the subject. ‘It’s on my list.’
When I get home, Slate’s on his way out to Arcon, sporting a kind of happy-mad look. He stops on his side of the sliding door, standing six foot six in his Timberlands, staring down at me with steely-blue eyes. He looks older. Harder. More dangerous.
‘Sorry, champ.’ He sniffs as if I smell. ‘We’re full. Give it a try another night.’
I get it and laugh. ‘Go fuck yaself,’ I say, and see his hands close into fists. I wonder, for a split-second, if he’s actually lost his mind. Then he laughs and steps aside.
‘On second thoughts.’ He gives me his cowboy grin. ‘In you go, sir. Have a nice night. Enjoy a Crown Lager on the house.’
I move around him, unsure what’ll happen next, but nothing does. He just says ‘See ya’ then goes, leaving a harsh swirling feeling like a Kenworth truck’s just driven past too close and too fast, probably deliberately.
My brother the bouncer.
School captain no more.
I decide to do something about this beach trip and head over to Sky Point after school on Tuesday. But Ariel isn’t there. Josh the boss tells me she left early to meet Kaydie after school. So I take off, aiming myself at Templeton Pri
mary until I realise the two of them will probably be at home by now.
I veer left over the reserve, cross the road and walk straight down Ariel’s driveway. Next, I take a big breath and bravely knock on the blue front door with the silver sign of the devil. It would not be a lie to say my heart’s beating fast. I hear footsteps.
Ariel opens the door, not in a scaredy-cat way like most people do around here, as if they’re expecting the mafia or the cops; she opens it wide enough for someone to actually go through it. And she smiles, and I know immediately that she is a girl out of the box. I draw a square in the air.
‘Foxtel IQ,’ I say. ‘We’re in the area. A thousand dollars a week. Free connection. All new movies.’
A blank look settles on her face. ‘And what exactly is this Foxtel I hear so much about?’
She’s not joking. ‘Pay TV,’ I say. ‘It’s not important.’ Well, it is if you like sport, and River Monsters, of course. And the big boxing matches, if I can ever squeeze the extra fifty bucks out of Bobby-boy or Slate to watch them. ‘You don’t need it.’
‘Oh.’ Ariel’s quirky lips come together. ‘Are you really sure?’
‘I’m sure I’m sure.’
She’s wearing another funky old faded dress that she makes look gorgeous. In fact, she reminds me of one of those girls they use to help sell photo frames – to show you how your picture could look, if you were lucky enough to know a girl like that to take a photo of. Or a girl like this, actually.
‘On second thoughts,’ I say. ‘This is a survey to see if anyone here wants to go to the beach on the weekend. If you’re interested.’
‘That sounds more in my line.’ Ariel stands back. ‘You’d better come in and meet Jill. Kaydie’s mum.’
I had not factored this in, but I follow Ariel through a small lounge room where a worn-out armchair sits on ratty gold carpet, and boxes wait to be unpacked. We go out into the kitchen and family area, a gas heater glowing furiously, as if it’d prefer just to blow up and get it over and done with. I see Kaydie on the floor with a colouring book, a lunchbox full of pencils at her elbow.
Tigerfish Page 5