Slate yells. ‘Hit the deck next to the fence!’
We throw ourselves down as the helicopter roars over, its light not quite centred on Evan’s place, then it’s gone, turning again to head out over the paddocks. Slowly we stand.
‘Holy hell.’ Slate straightens his shirt, coughs. ‘What went on out there, I do not know, except that I didn’t do so good. Still. That’s life.’ He pulls out his phone, taps in numbers, then holds up a hand for silence. I can hear him breathing hard.
‘Police,’ he says. ‘Yeah, police.’
Slate is about to head for home. He gives me the torch.
‘Probably best to stay inside Evan’s house. Because there’ll be cops all over the place. Be careful, guys,’ he adds. ‘And maybe we’ll keep this little episode to ourselves, eh?’
‘You bet.’ Evan shuts the side gate as Slate heads down the driveway. He turns to me, grinning. ‘Big night. Boy-oh-boy, what is happening out there now?’
I’m not so cheery. ‘Who knows?’ And who wants to know? Well, Evan does, but I’m too tired to think about any of it right now. I sit on the back step, exhausted, and look at my mate. He’s full of beans, loving the madness of the whole thing, even if it might have turned out to be murderous.
‘Well, one thing’s for sure,’ he says. ‘Neighbourhood Watch sure works. That helicopter was prompt.’
I can’t help laughing. ‘Prompt, was it? Jesus.’ I sniff, and wipe sweat off my face. ‘Probably a good thing, too. And that they didn’t see us.’
Evan unlocks the back door and we go in. Generally his mum doesn’t get home until midnight when she’s on the make-up selling trail.
‘One more thing, Ryan –’ he turns, reminding me of some dodgy, skinny-looking gambler from a cowboy movie gone wrong, ‘where’d you get that torch? I need one.’
Over the next week I watch the news and get on Google, but the only thing I find that might have anything to do with what went on in the paddock is a single article saying that a man wanted by police was taken into custody suffering from multiple injuries.
‘Let sleeping dogs lie,’ Slate says one afternoon when I mention Big Tex. ‘We don’t need to get involved in absolutely everything goin’ around.’
Sounds fair enough to me.
I did tell Ariel about Tex, though, because since that evening the prowler has disappeared as completely as the rabbits did when the bulldozers arrived. Things change, and so can people, that’s what I take from all of this.
And that goodness can come in all shapes and sizes.
School rolls on, Elmore silent, no sign of Eden, Johnny James keeping everyone alive and well. It’s not hard to come to the conclusion we’re still on shaky ground, and as I sign off one Wednesday, I run into J. J. D. as he’s heading for the car park.
‘You ever hear anythin’ about Eden Larkin?’ I ask. ‘Sir,’ I add. ‘Up there in the luxurious staff room?’
Johnny looks at me, lugging his old briefcase, me thinking his hair’s a bit shaggy for such a sharp-dressed cat. Perhaps he’s growing it long for the Christmas holidays? Or he’s been watching Hugh Jackman’s films and is thinking about a career change.
‘Not much,’ he says. ‘No good news, anyway. Still, things can change. Overnight in some cases. It’s a hard gig when you lose your way.’
I agree that it is, then head for Sky Point to see Ariel. And as I go, I think about Eden, hoping she realises a lot of people are on her side. I’m also pretty pleased to say that I tried to help her.
Actions speak louder than words, but I’ve learnt not to underestimate words, either. They do work. The right ones.
We sit in Brew, Ariel telling me she’s been promoted to Assistant Buyer. To celebrate, she shouts me an Italian doughnut, one round fat sugary jammy thing that hits the spot big-time. I could eat ten.
‘I get to pick some of the stock we buy.’ She wipes sugar off her fingertips and lips. ‘But if Josh doesn’t like it, we don’t get it. So maybe not a lot’s changed.’
‘You get more money,’ I say, eating a sliver of doughnut shaped like a cartoon moon. ‘That’s a good change.’
Ariel pushes her hair back. It’s shorter now, but just as wild. The girls at Scissor Cult did it for free, using her as a model or something for a flyer they put out. Whatever, it looks so nice all I want to do is touch it, kiss it, then kiss the sugar off her lips while I’m at it.
‘The new deadlocks are good,’ Ariel says, neatly changing the subject. ‘Thank you for helping get them.’ She rests her head on her hand. ‘A lot’s changed, Ryan, hasn’t it? A lot’s happened. I’m not sure where I am with anything these days.’
And who is?
‘You’re doin’ fine,’ I say. ‘Stick with the program. It’s workin’.’
She turns and, no-hands, kisses me full and soft on the lips. It goes on, too, not a mad kiss but a sugary kiss that I feel myself falling into, and then, just when everything’s beginning to whirl, she moves away. But she doesn’t go away. She studies me. Or maybe she’s just thinking about things while using my face as a blank screen.
‘It’s back to the future, Ryan,’ she says, with a low-key smile that I can’t read. ‘One kiss at a time.’
Now that would be a movie I’d pay to see.
I take Deed for a walk behind Sky Point and watch her loping along, nose down, black-and-gold legs swinging straight and beautiful. A hundred metres away I spot Kaydie and Jill in the playground. It’s their hair that’s the giveaway. Jill’s is dark and thick, and Kaydie’s is long and blonde, flying free as she goes on the swing. So I head on over, because Kaydie likes Deed, and it’s good for Deed to get to know little kids.
The council have put a wire fence around the playground. The posts are square-cut, dark-stained and the wire’s shiny-black. Everything’s straight and solid, real well-built. A big improvement, like someone’s suddenly made up their mind that the kids round here matter.
Kaydie brings her swing in for a landing, and walks shyly to the fence. Jill follows.
‘Dee Dee the dog,’ Kaydie says, scratching the gold star on Deed’s chest through the wire. ‘Dee Dee the dog.’
Jill watches, a little nervy, fingers gripping fingers. I must say she looks healthier now. Her eyes are clear, and her face is fatter, not that I’d tell her that. She looks like she’s just come back from a good walk, or bought something at a sale for the right price.
‘It’s a nice day.’ She looks at the sky, more grey than blue. ‘Isn’t it?’
It might rain later, I reckon, but I guess it all depends on your point of view.
‘Yep, not too bad at all.’
Slate’s been offered a security job at a nightclub in the city. A lady in the pub gave him her card and told him to come and see her. When he did, she basically said he could work full-time and do other things, too, like help organise the bars. More like a real job, full-time.
‘So –’ I say, as we shoot baskets in the backyard, shirts off, Slate like the Great Wall of China, a new tattoo of a dragon curling around his shoulder, ‘you gunna take it or what? Be better in the city, wouldn’t it? Give the factory away?’
Slate lets me get the rebound. I fake and go past him, and manage to knock down a two-pointer off the backboard. We’re both huffing and puffing, sweating it out in the sun. Deed’s in the shade, nose on her paws, not getting this game at all.
‘I dunno. Maybe.’ Slate steals the ball, hard and cool-looking in new sunnies. They’re Persols. American, he said. Flash. ‘I’m thinkin’ about it.’ He shoots and misses, the ball bouncing into Jude’s vegetable garden. ‘Clubs are strange. Least a concrete pipe won’t stab you in the back. Girls are nice, though. New ones every night.’
I step over the wacky little Jude-built fence, and try to fix some fat vegetable thing that got split right down the middle. No luck there, so I back out, and we head for the tap. Slate leads the way, smelling of melted cologne.
‘How’s life treatin’ ya?’ He dips his face int
o a double handful of water. ‘What’s happenin’ with Ariel?’ Then he slicks back his hair, leading me to wonder if I should get mine cut like his – the German stormtrooper look.
‘I dunno,’ I say. ‘It’s hard to tell. She seems to have a lot on her mind. Decisions to make, I guess.’
Slate nods, looking round, the garden green and bushy, sunlight bouncing off the windscreen of his Commodore. He picks up the ball. ‘We’ve all got a few of those. But she’s got more than most. Still, that’s what you gotta do. Make the right call at the right time.’ He grins, spins the ball. ‘Easy, eh?’
‘Oh yeah,’ I say. ‘Real easy.’
Slate looks at me as if he’s forgotten what he was going to say. Then he looks like he just remembered. He flicks the ball over.
‘Things are lookin’ up, sport.’ He backs off toward the ring. ‘I hope. Next basket wins. Do ya best, superstar!’
Straight away I sink a long shot, nothing but freakin’ net.
Winner!
I go to Evan’s house and we shoot target arrows, not the big broad-headed things meant for killing stuff. It’s a good, chilled way to spend some time after all the drama that’s been going on.
‘You talk to your dad lately?’ I ask, as we wander down to the hay bales. ‘How’s he goin’?’
Evan pulls out an arrow as if he’s drawing blood with a big syringe. He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t look at anyone, really, unless he’s about to fight.
‘Oh, he’s going along okay. Got a job at Reece Plumbing. He sent me a T-shirt.’
I laugh because Evan is the last person who would wear a Reece Plumbing T-shirt and Ray would know that. I think he might’ve been making a bit of a joke there – I think maybe he’s sending a message that he gets Evan, the hat, and the attitude. I hope so.
‘Perhaps you could go visit him,’ I say carefully. ‘You and me. Over to Adelaide. Good excuse.’
Evan removes the last arrow. ‘One day, maybe.’ He gives me a one-second glance. ‘Yeah, you and me.’
That’s a big speech for Evan. I pretend not to notice.
‘Well, bro,’ I say, as we walk back up the yard. ‘Just tell me and we’ll jump on the train. If you want.’ I see his mum looking out at us through the window and it strikes me life isn’t that cruisy for anyone.
Or maybe that’s just the people I know.
After tea I’m swimming in the happy sea that is Foxtel when I’m informed the current series of River Monsters has finished. This is bad news. I enjoyed watching old Jeremy sweating it out as he tries to arrest some filthy-fanged terror fish from the black lagoon.
School is also done and dusted for the year, the gates locked, everyone gone, including the teachers, in a stampede of utter relief.
It’s time to chill, although right now, the heat pushes one way as our old air-con pushes the other. Outside the whole suburb hums, cicadas and evaporative coolers battling it out to see who rules the airwaves. It’s Man versus Nature – Templeton-style!
In an hour I’m meeting Ariel over at Sky Point before I head down the beach with Evan. His mum has borrowed a holiday house on the peninsula. I’ve been there before; it’s cool and old-school – wooden with wonky floors and an ancient bathroom, the colours pale and thin, left over from someone else’s lifetime. It smells like mothballs and old books, but I like that.
I look around for my sneakers, and find them under the couch.
Places to go and a person to see – which is just how I like it.
Ariel and I sit in Janey J’s Juice Bar, the day too hot for hot chocolate, even though Sky Point is filled with cool, heavy air.
‘What are you guys up to over the holidays?’ I ask. ‘You gunna get away for a day or two?’
Ariel rests her fingers on her forehead, reminding me of Jude when she’s got a lot on her mind,
‘No. We’re staying around.’ She tilts her head, considering. ‘Maybe next holidays. Or the ones after that. Or that.’ She smiles, as if a little bit of old-fashioned leftover happiness has just caught up with her. ‘One day. Hopefully. Sooner rather than later.’
‘It ain’t easy.’ I say, meaning I know what it’s like when money’s tight. ‘But good things are comin’ your way. You guys are doin’ fine.’
‘Is it hot outside?’ Ariel doesn’t look around. She knows you can’t see the real world from here. ‘It was lovely when I walked to work this morning.’
I picture her crossing the reserve like some sort of gypsy in her long blue-and-white skirt and short-sleeved blouse, brass bangles shining, wearing flat leather sandals. A dream girl come true.
‘Not so lovely now,’ I say. ‘It’s baking. Not a cloud. But maybe a storm comin’ later on.’
Ariel accepts this, finishes her drink, and puts the big paper cup down on the table. Even though this is a juice bar and supposedly friendly, natural and healthy, it still feels to me like all they want is your money. These drinks are cost a freakin’ fortune.
‘I wish it was foggy and cool like the hay-shed morning,’ Ariel says. ‘That was nice, wasn’t it? I’ll never forget it. The road in the mist. Quiet. Beautiful. You. Me. Things. Stuff.’ She smiles, taps her fingertips, gives me a look.
‘Could happen again,’ I say daringly, because I can feel the depths nof her thoughts and the depths of mine. ‘I mean, there’ll be more foggy days. Summer goes. Winter comes.’ I smile; this is the truth as I know it. ‘Back to the future. Forward to the past. You know the story.’
‘I hope I do,’ Ariel says. ‘It’s possible.’
It is.
I leave Sky Point, kind of enjoying the battle between me and the heat. Clouds rise over the hills, looming like there’s a disaster happening just out of sight – but I don’t buy that. Not today, anyway.
Today is cool, in a hot sort of way.
Today is just fine.
Evan and me sit on top of a big brown rock and look down into a rockpool that is four, maybe five, metres deep. We’re in no hurry to dive; we’re just letting the sun cook our backs, our bare feet in little craters lined with dried salt like powdered ice. The ocean is fifty metres away across a wet seaweedy platform, the waves beyond like muscles flexing, the water so blue it seems to bulge.
There’s noise here but it feels like silence. The back beach makes me think of the power of the sea, the mysteries of it, and the danger. I can see a red ship, way out to sea, and people walking along a track that winds through the dunes as if there’s an unknown country over the top. And maybe there is.
‘So what happens next year?’ I say.
‘With what?’ Evan stands, bunches his black towel, and throws it, fluttering, down onto the rocks.
I get up. ‘With everythin’,’ I say.
‘Well.’ Evan looks around. He’s brown already, his mum’s gold skin giving him a flying headstart. ‘There’s a good chance that something’ll change.’ Then he jumps, landing a mad bomb, any chance of further information lost in an explosion of spray.
I follow, smacking down hard. I hang underwater, looking around at nobbly rocks, seaweed and sand. In my head I can hear weird skull-cracking noises and in a dark hole under a ledge I see a pale little seahorse looking at me, yellow fins quivering, curly tail like a question mark. I do not freakin’ believe it!
I hit the surface. Evan’s treading water near the edge, his wet head bobbing like a ball.
‘Hey, bro,’ I say. ‘You gotta check this out.’
In the evening a storm hits, the wind blowing away the heat of the day with a ferocious cold ocean blast. Around the house the tea-trees rock and roll, filling the air with a sound like rushing water as the rain smacks down on the tin roof like bullets.
Evan and me are out in a room that’s tacked onto the back of the kitchen. It has grass matting on the floor, old cardboardy walls, and square windows lit by lightning and shaken by thunder – and I bet we’ll be running around with buckets in a minute, but the old joint floats high and dry like a boat.
I love it!
‘You think Slate’ll take that bouncing job in the city?’ Evan asks.
I listen to the storm, picturing Slate being lifted into the back of an ambulance under a white sheet, hurt, maybe dead. It feels like a cold stone has replaced my heart. ‘I hope not,’ I say. ‘I bloody hope not.’
On the last day we pack our stuff, and head down to the back beach for the last time. Outside the air is fresh, it’s sunny, the place smells like a garden and it only makes me feel worse about going home.
Evan and me sit on a big dune and watch the waves build and roll in. It’s a long coastline, stretching away into the misty distance, the view and the sounds like the weight of the thoughts, dreams and hopes of everyone who has ever been here.
‘One day we should –’ I say, but I don’t know what we should do.
Evan rests on an elbow, wearing his favourite black hat. ‘We will.’ He laughs. ‘Of course.’
I’m home and the weather’s hot and the sky’s grey, the colour baked out of Templeton, leaving it dull, flat and gritty. The ground’s gone hard, the grass is brown and the streets are quiet with plenty of people still away.
Evan and me hang, and I catch up with Ariel, but she’s pretty busy with work, and since not much happens in between one juice and the next, there’s not a lot to talk about. I get this feeling of things going sideways, a feeling of being nowhere everywhere. To escape, I watch DVDs, today scoring The Hurt Locker, which I’ve seen before. It’s wild. I give it a nine out of ten and I’m about to hit play again when Slate comes in. He checks the DVD cover on the coffee table. ‘Good flick. I liked it.’
‘The best.’ I hit pause. ‘You wanna watch it?’
He grabs an apple from the bowl. ‘Maybe later. I’m gunna head to the gym. You got an hour? Somethin’ to show ya.’
Well, I was kind of happy here but when Slate asks me stuff, I generally do what he wants. ‘Okay. What’s up?’ Slate’s gym is full-on; it’s in an old aeroplane hangar at Essendon airport and specialises in mixed martial arts – the blokes big and tough, tattooed ten times over. I’d never go by myself. ‘Is a fighter comin’ in to spar or somethin?’ Sometimes fighters from overseas train there, or just drop in to say howdy, because the place is kind of scary-famous.
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