Tigerfish

by David Metzenthen

  I don’t hesitate, I don’t wait – even if the guy’s voice sounds like a voice I’ve heard before.

  ‘Thanks,’ I manage to spit out, then we’re moving, dodging through the bushes, heading for Tight Street, taking the long way round, my brain in overload, red lights flashing behind my eyes.

  What just went on, I do not know, but I’m nearly home and that’s all that counts.

  I take Deed into the kitchen where there’s no carpet for blood to drip on. There, I tell the folks what happened, hoping I won’t cry, because it freakin’ well feels like I will.

  ‘I kicked the dog and punched the prick,’ I tell my dad when Jude’s off in the laundry. ‘The idiot came out of nowhere and his dog just launched. It wasn’t on a lead. The guy said he was gunna kill me. Self defence. Then we took off. And in the bushes I ran into some guy the size of a tree. And he said he’d make sure the other guy didn’t follow me. So, I don’t know.’ And truly, I don’t.

  ‘Well, you got home,’ Bobby-boy mutters, while Jude’s filling a bucket with warm water. ‘That’s the most important thing. If I was there, that bastard with the dog’d be in hospital.’

  Jude comes back into the kitchen and starts dabbing at Deed’s cuts with a clean rag. Dee Dee seems not to know what all the fuss is about, standing calm and patient. I look at her beautiful black-and-gold face, and into her black eyes, and feel pain deep in my heart. It’s what might have happened, as much as what did happen, that’s getting to me.

  ‘Some of these need stitches.’ Jude blots blood from Deed’s shoulder, where there are longs cuts, deep and jagged. ‘Vet might still be open, Bob. It’s only seven. Give him a ring. It’s in the book.’

  Bobby-boy goes off, and I hold Deed’s collar, watching the water in the bucket going pink.

  ‘She’ll be all right, Ry.’ Jude winces as she looks at the cuts. ‘I just don’t know why people won’t take more care with their animals. Save a lot of trouble. And expense. Least you’re all right.’

  ‘You gotta drive me to school tomorrow,’ I blurt out. ‘I can’t let that idiot find out where we live.’

  She nods, taking me seriously, and I am serious. There are people who’ll do anything for payback, even if they’re in the wrong. It’s like they just don’t get it, or care. That’s why they have those dogs.

  ‘It’s a pity Slate wasn’t there,’ Jude says. ‘Then again, maybe it wasn’t.’ She pats Deed, who stares straight ahead. ‘Look at you, standing there nice and still. What a good dog.’

  Deed is a good dog. Best dog in the world.

  I look up. Bobby-boy is holding his car keys and wallet.

  ‘Vet’s open.’ He nods at Mum, his hair silver in the light. ‘Grab a sheet or something, Jude. Ryan, put her on the lead and take her outside. Gotta get there in ten.’

  We go out and I get into the car, sitting in the back with Deed, keeping her still. When we pass the reserve, looking like two hectares of deepest, darkest Africa, it just reinforces the reality that there are more strange people in this world on strange missions than I could even guess at.

  Deed stands on a table that looks like something you’d see in a morgue on TV. She doesn’t flinch at the needles or stitches, not even as her skin is being pulled closed. She looks around at the walls, putting up with it like most dogs put up with whatever people do to them.

  ‘Keep her quiet for a week.’ The vet, wearing bloody white gloves, drops his needle and stuff into a silver dish full of blue water. ‘Should be fine. Just keep an eye on her to make sure she leaves the wounds alone.’ Then he looks at my old man. ‘Bring her back if you have any concerns, Mr Lanyon. The stitches should just dissolve. She’s a healthy dog.’

  Bobby takes it all in. Then we lift Deed down, pay the bill, pick up some pills in a plastic bag and head outside.

  ‘Well.’ Bobby-boy puts his wallet in his back pocket and unlocks the car. ‘We’re in the wrong business, mate. I could’ve got a bloody heart transplant for what that cost.’

  I hate it that my dad has had to pay for what wasn’t our fault. It made me feel sick watching him hand over fifties, one after the other. Fifties!

  ‘Yeah, that other prick should pay.’ I open the back door. ‘But thanks.’ It’s all I can think of.

  Bobby helps me lift Deed in. Then I go around to the other side and glance across the roof. Bobby’s standing there, leaning on his elbows, resting for a moment.

  ‘Coulda been worse, mate.’ He opens his door, gives me this ah-what-the-hell look. ‘The sun’ll come up tomorrow. Come on, bud. Let’s go.’

  We drive out, and I am exhausted, although I know it’ll be hard to sleep. Fights do that to you. Over and over you think about what you did, what you should have done and what might have happened. And that big guy in the bushes? He has to be the same dude Evan and me came across in the paddock. But that doesn’t explain anything except that he’s out there and he’s got something on his mind.

  ‘Keep your head down for a week,’ Bobby says, driving home slowly, as if we need a few minutes to catch our breath. ‘Let the dust settle.’

  ‘Yeah, I will.’ I look at Deed. ‘I don’t need any more of that.’

  Ariel and me have a hot chocolate the next afternoon at Brew. It’s more like a meeting than a date, because I am still bombed-out from last night’s fight, but I manage to tell her about the deadlock dude Anthony, coming around to fix the doors.

  Ariel listens, puts a fingertip on the back of my hand. ‘Now we’ll talk about good things.’

  ‘Absolutely.’ I find a grin. ‘You start.’

  We sit, arms touching, my sleeves pushed up, hers folded, the warmth of her moving through me.

  ‘Going home was good.’ Ariel looks down the mall, shop windows side by side for as far as you can see, and people, always people, drifting along on an endless current. ‘Although it’s not home anymore.’

  I don’t think you can wipe out so much history so quickly or totally. ‘Well, it can be a bit, can’t it?’ I say. ‘In your mind.’ I wave a finger like a sparkler. ‘You don’t want to forget the farm, because it was good. For a long time, anyway. And this place is turning out okay, isn’t it?’ I look up the mall. ‘It’s reasonable, isn’t it? You’re doin’ real well.’

  I get the feeling Ariel isn’t buying what I’m selling.

  ‘I’m stuck, Ryan.’ She shrugs, taps her fingers tiredly. ‘I’m going nowhere and I am nowhere. This place, for example.’ She looks up at the sky that has no colour through the glass; outside it could be hot, cold, windy, or rainy, which is the whole idea.

  ‘It’s not quite nowhere, is it?’ I give her a smile and add a twist. ‘It’s sort of somewhere.’ I lay a hand flat on the table. ‘It’s kinda quiet and safe and people like it. That’s not so bad. And you’ve got a job. You’re hangin’ in there.’

  She touches my hand again, as if giving me a point for trying, and I will accept that point – because it might not have been the world’s best argument for Templeton. But you know what? I happen to believe it’s true – now – and I never thought I’d say that. Ever.

  Things do change and they can change fast. I’m sitting at home on Thursday night, Bobby and Jude out grocery shopping, Slate in his room, when Evan rings on his mobile.

  ‘Dude,’ he says, ‘get round here fast. I just saw some sneaky-lookin’ little guy out the back dressed in black. He was close to Ariel’s place and he’s suss as hell. Bring a weapon. I’ll be in my backyard. See ya.’ He hangs up and I’m left sitting there like a stunned mullet.

  Bring a weapon? What sort of weapon? I walk around in a circle like an idiot. Then I bolt to Slate’s room and knock.

  ‘Who is it?’ Slate laughs, I hear the rustle of paper. ‘In ya come.’

  I go in, see him on his big bed reading a magazine on mixed martial arts, some mad monster on the cover with tatts as big as Frisbees.

  ‘I need to borrow your . . .’ I’m about to say baseball bat when I see the monster torch sitting on his o
ld school desk. ‘Torch. That one. The blaster.’

  Slate drops the magazine, crosses his arms, and checks me out. ‘Sure. Goin’ spotlightin’, mate? Out in the paddock?’

  I consider telling him what’s happening, but if this is something that turns out to be nothing then I’ll look like a goose. After all, there are times when you simply cannot handball stuff away. It’s the oldest AFL rule in the book: when it’s your turn to go, you go.

  ‘Evan’s got some plan.’ I say. ‘I’m goin’ round there now.’

  Slate picks up the magazine, giving me a steady look. ‘All right. In the paddock? Need any help?’

  I look at him, seeing that he’s twice my size and ten times as strong. His hands are like blocks of concrete but more importantly, he’s kind of battle-hardened. ‘Nah,’ I say, grabbing the torch, and going for the door. ‘Just muckin’ around out there. All good.’

  Then I’m gone, bolting out our driveway, looking back once to see Slate at the window, watching, reminding me of a lighthouse, built from stone to stand in a storm.

  I jog down the side of Evan’s house, and find him waiting in the backyard. He’s holding his hunting bow, four arrows in a clamp on the handle, ready for action.

  ‘What’s happenin’?’ I suck air, nerves zinging like wasps in a bottle.

  ‘I was in the paddock.’ He talks quietly. ‘Minding my own business. As you do.’ He gives me an Evan-style smile. ‘When this guy passes me like a ghost. So I followed him and he disappeared into the trees near Ariel’s place. And he didn’t come out.’

  All I can do is haul in a deep breath. And try and push enough fear far enough away so I can operate.

  ‘Let’s hit it.’

  Evan’s still grinning. ‘So what’s that thing you’ve got?’

  I hold up the torch and press the fat rubbery button. A blinding white beam blasts for the stars.

  ‘Let there be light,’ I say, which is a line from an AC/DC song. ‘And there was light.’ I turn it off. ‘Then there wasn’t.’ Things are twice as dark.

  ‘Nice.’ Evan leads the way out the back gate, then we’re moving through blackness, in a place where bad things have happened.

  We move silently down the track towards Ariel’s house, Evan in front, the smell of the ground damp and fresh, the moon nothing but a dull glow behind silvery clouds. I see he has an arrow already strung.

  ‘Fifty metres.’ Evan points. ‘Those trees. We’ll go another thirty. Then sit. See if he’s still there.’

  We keep low, the grass moist, and in a minute we get ourselves behind a log that Evan went to as if following a string line. I breathe through my mouth, trying to kill all sound, my heart pumping hard. The clump of bushes, three trees poking out of it, becomes clearer as my eyes adjust to the night.

  I touch Evan’s shoulder. ‘We’re not here to kill anybody,’ I whisper. ‘Remember that.’

  His teeth glow white in the dark. ‘Yeah, but we’re not here to forgive anyone, either.’

  Evan’s sense of justice extends a long way back. He holds up a finger.

  ‘Shh. He’s moving.’

  We watch a figure slide from the bushes and make its way towards the houses that are lit up like ships at anchor. Slowly Evan rises, and I follow, the two of us tracking the little guy as he heads to the rubbishy old fence that makes a feeble attempt to protect Ariel’s place.

  Through a gap, the dude scans the house, no outside lights to be seen. A thought, not random, hits me. Kealoah’s open late on Thursday nights, so Ariel is working and only Jill and Kaydie are home.

  ‘Closer,’ Evan whispers, and we move. I’m fingering the rubber button of the big torch, but also aware of Evan’s bow, the red flights of his hunting arrows floating along in the dark. ‘Here. Down.’

  We crouch in the open, watching as the figure pulls two palings off the fence and lays them on the ground. Must’ve loosened them earlier, I think, watching as he takes off another, the hole large enough for a person to slip through. He stays where he is.

  ‘Closer,’ Evan says. ‘Quick. Another ten steps.’

  We duck-walk forward, my heart beating so hard it hurts. Fear crawls all over me. Cold sweat clings to my back. My lungs ache. A minute passes.

  ‘On the count of three.’ Evan holds up three fingers. ‘Blast him with the light. And stay behind me.’

  This is madness, I know, but I nod.

  ‘One,’ Evan whispers. ‘Two. Three.’ He stands up straight and draws back the hunting bow. ‘Hold it,’ he calls out. ‘Or I’ll put this arrow right through your guts.’

  The guy darts away, Evan tracking him with the triangular broadhead, poised to fire when I kill the light. Blackness falls like a wave and the arrow, invisible, flies. I hear it smack the fence.

  ‘Ya bloody idiot, Ryan!’ Evan strings another arrow. ‘I was only gunna wing him! Put that torch on and let’s get after him!’

  I do, swinging the beam across the paddock, and pick out a person – but it’s not the person I was expecting; it’s the monster dude in the black coat I ran into behind Sky Point after that dogfight. And the monster guy is dragging the prowler guy away like a bear might drag a wounded goat.

  ‘No light!’ The big feller’s voice is like a thunderclap. ‘No light!’

  I hear fast footsteps, and when I swing around, I catch Slate in the beam, baseball bat at the ready. He stumbles, arm up, as the light hits him in the eyes.

  ‘Fuck’s sake, Ryan! Gimme a break. What’s going on?’ He stands with us.

  I lower the beam. ‘Plenty.’ I try to explain in five seconds flat.

  ‘Turn that light off !’ The big guy’s voice booms in the darkness. ‘Now!’

  ‘Give me the torch, Ryan.’ Slate takes it off me. ‘And stay here.’ He moves forward at a slow, low run, bat in his right hand.

  ‘Slate!’ I call out. ‘Don’t!’

  ‘Give him a head start,’ Evan says quietly. ‘Then we’ll follow. That torch is unreal.’ He laughs.

  Behind us, lights come on in the houses and doors bang. Templeton, it seems, has hit Code Red.

  We follow the torch beam out into the paddock, closing in on Slate.

  ‘Not too close,’ I say, and we stop, ten metres behind him.

  A voice rumbles over the paddock. ‘Stay there, big brother. I have the power of the cross. Stay away.’

  That guy we saw wasn’t carrying a sword! It’s a cross. He must be some kind of freakin’ madman on a mission from God! Then Slate says something that clears up a question that’s been hounding me for weeks.

  ‘Is that you, Tex?’

  That’s who this guy is! It’s Big Tex Vlahoff, one of Slate’s old mates – the guy who was in prison for four years for assault with a deadly weapon. I remember him as the scariest dude of the lot. He would fight anyone. Over anything.

  ‘Yes, it’s me, Slate.’ Tex’s voice is even deeper than I remember. ‘But I am a new man. In the darkness, I saw the light.’

  Slate moves forward, bat in one hand, torch in the other.

  ‘That’s great, Tex. That’s fantastic, mate. But what are you gunna do with this bloke? What’s he done? Who is he? Let the coppers handle it. I’ve got a phone, Tex. I can call them now. Best way, man. Keep it legal.’

  ‘Call ’em!’ the little guy yells out. ‘He’s gunna kill me! He’s bloody mental!’

  Big Tex shakes the little bloke so hard his head does circles.

  ‘I met this spider in prison.’ Tex holds a tight fistful of the little guy’s tracksuit top. ‘He’s hurt people, but he hasn’t learnt the lessons I have. He is about to learn them now. An eye for an eye. Old Testament, Slate. A tooth for a tooth.’

  Slate advances. ‘Look, Tex, perhaps you’d better hold him for the cops, because if you do something bad they’ll lock you away for –’

  ‘Stay there, brother.’ Big Tex Vlahoff’s voice rumbles like a rockfall. ‘This is not your business. I am armed.’ He lifts a cross that looks to be made of solid steel. �
��I will not let you interfere.’

  Slate moves forward, holding the bat up, more as protection than anything else. Suddenly things blur. Big Tex leaps forward, dragging the little guy with him as he swings the cross, or sword, or whatever it is. The thing flashes once as it collides with Slate’s bat with a loud crack, pale pieces of wood spinning off into the dark. Slate reels away, holding his wrist.

  ‘Step back!’ Big Tex yells. ‘Mind your own business, Slate. Or I’ll put you in the ground!’

  Slate stays where he is, unarmed and uncertain. Evan brings up his bow.

  ‘Don’t!’ I push it to the side. ‘You might hit Slate.’ Man, I don’t want him to hit anyone.

  ‘Back off, brother!’ Tex’s voice is so loud. ‘You are finished for this evening, friend. This is my business. I will handle it my way.’

  And Slate does back off, his shoulders less square. He can’t match the force of this guy – and rightly or wrongly, it looks like he’s not going to try.

  ‘All right,’ Slate says. ‘All right. But Tex, please, mate, you’d –’

  In the distance I hear the heavy whop-whop-whop of a helicopter. It’s the police chopper, lit up, white and bright – and it comes roaring in over the houses, searchlight on. Slate kills the torch and calls out.

  ‘Ryan. Evan. Where are you?’

  ‘Here.’ I move forward. ‘We’re here.’

  ‘Right.’ He runs across. ‘Let’s get outta here. Home time. This is not our gig. We tried.’

  ‘Call the cops!’ yells the little guy, off in the distance now. ‘Call ’em!’

  We run across the paddocks towards Evan’s place.

  ‘Go go go!’ hisses Slate. ‘Go!’

  The helicopter sweeps towards us low and fast, getting louder and louder, the white beam of its searchlight illuminating the ground as if it was made of silver. Then the chopper veers, banking to commence another run, closer this time, the beam like a massive white laser that skims past us.

  ‘Move!’ Slate urges us on. ‘Get to the gate. Go! And don’t drop anything.’

  We run, as the helicopter swings again, this time coming straight at us. Then we are at Evan’s back gate, which I kick open. The three of us bolt through, and Evan slams it shut.