To Become a Whale

by Ben Hobson

  He found his little boat where he had left it, mostly buried beneath the leaf litter. Still in one piece. In the small sections not covered by leaves, bird crap mottled it white. He frowned at this.

  Back at the camp he loaded the dog into the car and climbed in himself. He reversed the car back onto the road and headed into town, past the familiar farms and buildings. As he entered town he grew anxious when he saw a cop car on his right. He tried to sink into his seat. He drove a distance away from the shops then parked and walked back. In the grocery store he bought supplies with the notes his father had given him. He stocked up on bread, beans, spaghetti, some apples, some bait for fishing. He filled the jerry can from the tap behind the pub he and his father had used. The jerry can was almost too heavy for him to carry in the heat and with his injured hand. He had to stop several times to drink and breathe and flex his hand a little. It still hurt and the stitches bristled. There was no hospital nearby that he knew about and so he walked back to the nearest shop, leaving Albert in the car, and asked the man behind the counter, ‘Where’s the hospital?’

  The bloke said, ‘Nearest hospital is ten minutes in that direction.’ He pointed.

  ‘Thanks,’ the boy said, and turned from the counter.

  ‘How old are you?’ the man said.

  The boy stopped walking. ‘Thirteen.’

  ‘And where’s your dad?’

  ‘Home.’

  ‘Where’s home?’

  The boy paused for a moment before he said, ‘None of your business.’

  ‘It kindly is my business, thank you. Don’t you know how to speak to your elders?’

  ‘It’s none of your business, sir.’

  The man grunted. ‘Reason I ask is that he still owes me for the corrugated-iron sheets he bought here a few weeks back. Was that three months ago, now?’ He grinned, displaying white dentures. ‘Thought I didn’t recognise you, didn’t you?’

  The boy looked around and realised he was in the hardware store. ‘I’ll tell him.’

  ‘He owes me a bunch. Had a whole story, too. Figures.’

  ‘You calling him a liar?’ the boy demanded. He didn’t know why he felt he needed to defend him; his father was a liar and had been one to the boy especially.

  The man said, ‘It’s not that. But he isn’t here, is he?’

  The boy breathed and did his best to release what anger he held. ‘How much?’

  ‘Does he owe?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  The man ducked behind the counter and produced a stack of white paper. He spread the pages out in front of him and sorted through them until he found the one he was looking for. He held it from him and squinted at it like the old man he was. ‘He owes twenty-two pound.’

  The boy had nowhere near that remaining. ‘I don’t have that on me. I got ten left.’

  ‘Didn’t expect you’d have it. Put that away, son.’ The boy had produced his now-small wad of notes. ‘Your old man’s name is Walter, right?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Walter Keogh?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You tell him,’ the man said, ‘that he needs to pay soon or I’ll be calling the cops into it.’

  The boy nodded and opened the front door. Above him a bell dinged. ‘Can I go now?’

  ‘Go on.’

  The boy walked back to his father’s car and climbed in. Albert, on the seat beside him, licked his gunky hand and the boy yanked it away and scolded him.

  He drove for ten minutes in the direction the man had pointed and passed a solitary gaunt cow, which eyed him glassily.

  He found the hospital, a huge cream-coloured edifice topped with a big white cross on a green background. He contemplated going in.

  He squeezed his hand and found it moderately better. Maybe if his hand rotted off his father would repent.

  He sat a while, then drove on.

  FORTY-THREE

  Outside, Albert – tied to a tree – barked at some uncatchable prey as inside the boy tried to sleep. The corrugated-iron shack baked in the afternoon sun. The boy placed his injured hand on the cold concrete floor to draw the heat from it. Then he put his cheek against the floor. The dog kept barking.

  After a while he stood and shoved the door open and stormed over to the dog, who cowered before him. He swung a hand and struck the dog on its snout. ‘Knock it off!’ he said.

  The dog, his tail between his legs, cowered.

  The boy stomped back inside. The throbbing heat in his hand was almost unbearable.

  Once his breathing had slowed he stood and went back out to the dog, who greeted him with a wagging tail. He already seemed to have forgotten the boy’s violence. The boy got down on his knees and the dog jumped on him and licked his face and the boy bowed his sorrowful head. ‘Sorry, mate.’

  Later, he let the dog off his leash. He found one of the fishing rods and a spool of line stored under a cloth behind some food tins and collected the bait he’d bought. He and the dog set off through the jungle towards the beach.

  The sun set and he found himself enshrouded in thick black and the sounds of insects grew loud, almost overwhelming. The dog seemed unaffected. The boy turned on his torch and found the beach and sat upon it. He took off his shoes and felt the sand between his toes. Moreton Island lumpy and black on the horizon. The lights of Tangalooma reflected in the ocean, blurry stars shifting with the tide. There were no chasers inbound. As the boy wound the line onto the reel by torchlight he thought of his father and the other men, including Phil, working on the deck.

  When he’d finished winding the line he threaded a sinker and tied a hook. He baited an entire whiting and stood and and hurled the fish into the waves then sat back on the sand. Albert trotted over and curled up on his lap. He jabbed the rod into the sand so he wouldn’t have to hold it, but soon he saw the top of the rod snap quickly down so he pulled it from the sand and jerked back. Whatever had been going at his bait was gone. He reeled it in and found his bait missing, so he rebaited and stood, then cast out again. This time he held the rod steady as he felt the first few tugs. He then pulled back sharply and felt something alive answer on the other end. He reeled it in. The silver fish was bright in the dark and surfaced slowly. It flapped about on the wet sand as the ocean licked at it. He shone the torch at it and its scales gleamed with water. A small bream. Holding it aloft, as triumphant as if he’d caught something much larger, he smiled at Albert, who failed to return his enthusiasm.

  They walked back to camp with the fish and the boy was careful as it swung from the line not to allow the irritating spine or fins to touch the dog or himself. It kept flicking its tail.

  When he reached their camp he looked at the fish and realised he had no idea how to fillet it and he didn’t want to try, so he wrapped it in aluminium foil. It kicked at its confines and ripped the silver sheet. The boy wrapped it tighter. He contemplated cutting its head off, like Harry had cut the head off the shark, but he loathed the sound of its wet sucking still, so did not want to hear it. He would let the thing drown in oxygen. Albert sniffed it curiously and the boy hung the still-hooked fish from a tree, draping the uncoiled line from a branch. It swung silver and looked ornamental.

  In the dark, with the help of the torch, the boy built a fire. Each action took him much longer than it should on account of his hand and he had to wedge the torch beneath his armpit to steady it. He toasted bread on a wire coat hanger then slathered it in butter and Vegemite and ate it, tearing off bits for the dog. The silver fish had stopped kicking and the boy knew he had not given it a good death. He watched it sway in the breeze.

  After dinner, the boy and dog retired to the shack. The boy was exhausted and he stared at the roof as he drifted off to sleep and thought about whales and the life he had so recently forfeited.

  In the morning, the boy emerged early from the shack and saw the remains of the fish dangling from the tree. Its guts had dripped onto the dirt and had then been dragged away, judging by the tracks leading into
the jungle. Some of the slime still dangled from the spine of it, which was yellow and translucent with the sun behind. The dog came out of the shack and snuffled at the dirt. There was no trace of the aluminium foil. The boy untied the eviscerated carcass of the fish and chucked the remains in the still-smouldering fire. He stirred it into life and watched the fish head sizzle and the eyes boil, the liquid dripping from them, sizzling as it struck hot coals. The boy didn’t cook his beans, but ate them cold on bread.

  With Albert in tow he headed back to the beach and repeated his efforts with the fishing rod. He stood at first but when no fish took the bait he sat down in a mood. Moreton Island was without solid shape behind the low-lying clouds but when he squinted the boy could see the white of the dune he’d declined to roll down.

  Albert played near his feet, and he patted the dog and fondled his ears. Albert soon rolled over and presented his white belly and the boy accommodated him with a lengthy scratch. One of Tangalooma’s chasers headed towards the open ocean beyond the island. Next time he would ask to go aboard. He would ask to handle a harpoon and he would prove himself. He shook his head and sighed, struggling to understand his own motivations. He hated the place but wanted to brave it. He hated the men but wanted their respect. His father’s especially.

  No bites or nibbles. He reeled the bait in. Untouched. He hurled it out again, further this time, secured the rod between his legs and waited. If he had more cash he would buy a piece of plastic pipe and wedge it in the sand and leave the fishing rod standing, which would allow him to roam freely on the beach, maybe have a swim. If he had more cash he might work on his boat.

  A fish finally struck and the rod jerked. The boy reeled it in and the fish at the end was mightier than the bream. It was an ugly flathead, brown and misshapen.

  He carried it back to camp and he stood the rod up against the shack with the fish dangling. He felt bad leaving the fish to die in the sun with its lip stretched out on the hook but when the boy looked closer he saw the hook had been swallowed by the fish whole and had lodged inside it. If he tried to pull it out he might drag up the guts, killing the fish that way, watching its own innards splash onto dirt. The boy empathised. He quickly cut the empty tin of baked beans with tin snips from his father’s toolbox and unfolded it and washed it with soapy water and dried it with one of his shirts. As he worked he had forgotten his poor hand. It was looking better and felt better.

  He slapped the fish, still gulping air, onto the tin and set to severing its head with a knife and a hammer. He bashed in the knife, which squinched against bone. The fish barely struggled but its tail continued to wag forlornly. The boy found Albert mimicking the fish, probably hoping to be fed. He kept crunching in with the hammer until the head was off and the fish was out of its misery. The tail kept wriggling for a bit. The neck bone and muscles were pink, white, warped. The boy studied it carefully. Such a mess. His hands were covered in blood, some fleshy bits clinging to the stitches. He wiped them on his pants and rinsed them with soap and water and did his best to fillet the fish with no clear idea how. He cut down either side of the spine. The guts were brown and red and oozed like snot between his fingers. He found what he thought was some meat but it was bristled with bone. Hard work with his gimpy hand. Eventually he procured two strips of grey flesh. He rinsed the flesh again and then fried the meat in a pan with the skin still on and watched the grey turn to white. It looked as it should. The dog seemed hungry so the boy fed him some beans.

  By the time he ate his fish it was lunchtime; the job had taken most of the morning. The fish was salty and feathery in texture but he enjoyed it immensely, satisfied with his work. He had to pick out the bones from each mouthful. When he put his fingers in his mouth his stitches caught on his teeth and yanked at the wound and the pain in his fingers sprang to fire. He abandoned the fish to the dirt in his haste to stand. He held his hand to his mouth and blew warmth in until the pain dwindled. His hand was not mending on its own. The dog sat beside him wagging his tail, watching him yelp.

  FORTY-FOUR

  The next morning he awoke to a knock on the makeshift door. He sat up with a start. The dog had his eyes open but didn’t move. The boy blinked away sleep and stood up and called, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Police. Can we have a word?’

  The boy rubbed at his eyes. ‘Sure. Give me a minute.’

  He dressed, Albert watching blearily from his father’s smelly mattress. His leather shoes as they squeaked on reminded him of his mother’s funeral. The room reeked of sweat. He shifted the door aside and blinked at the daylight. A police officer was standing with his hands at the small of his back, gazing towards the jungle as though he had never before seen a tree. He turned at the sound of the door scraping on dirt and smiled.

  ‘You Sam?’

  The boy nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You living here?’

  Another nod.

  ‘Your dad in there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where’s he?’

  ‘He’s working.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Moreton Island.’

  ‘And he’s just left you here, then? On your own?’

  The boy shook his head. ‘No. He told me to go to my grandparents.’

  ‘Mmm,’ the police officer said, and leaned forward on his toes. ‘Why’re you here then?’ He walked closer, and when he was nearer to the boy he crossed his arms. He had on a hat with a brim. He looked at ease.

  ‘I didn’t want to go to my grandparents.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Look,’ the boy said, and breathed. Albert scurried out between his feet and dashed to his water bowl and the boy used the the time it took to chase him and scoop him up to carry him back into the shack to gather his thoughts. There was no telling what the police officer wanted, and nothing to be gained from trying to run, not with him standing right there.

  When he was standing before the police officer again, he asked, ‘Why’re you here?’

  The officer grinned. ‘I’m here to talk to your dad.’

  ‘He’s not here.’

  ‘You said that. I know. I’m here to tell him that he needs to tear this building here down, and that he’s going to be arrested if he doesn’t.’

  ‘Arrested?’

  ‘You can’t put up a building like this – or any sort, really – just wherever you like. This is government property.’

  ‘He owns this property.’

  The cop laughed and tipped his hat. ‘You can’t own this property, bud. This is a campground.’

  The boy looked at their shack in all its decrepit solitude. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘This is a campground. Not a popular one, and not a popular time of year besides. Otherwise there’d be caravans and tents dotted all over here.’ He waved his hand at the muddy expanse.

  ‘He owns this land.’

  ‘No, he doesn’t.’

  ‘Well,’ the boy said, ‘he paid for it.’

  ‘If he did he was scammed. Either way he’ll have to tear this thing down –’ the officer nodded at the shack ‘– and he’ll have a to pay a fine, at the least.’

  ‘He paid for this land. He said so.’

  The cop said, ‘He a liar, your old man? I don’t mean offence by that, but some men are given to lying.’

  The boy glared. ‘He’s not a liar.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘I’m not a liar either.’

  ‘These questions pissing you off?’

  ‘A bit, yeah.’

  The cop laughed. ‘Alright. What I want you to do is come with me.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘To the station. And we’ll call your grandparents.’

  The boy looked about himself and at the remains of his fire. ‘Dad’ll be home soon.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Today,’ the boy said.

  ‘You lying to me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He’ll be home today?’

  ‘Yes.’


  ‘When?’

  ‘Later. I don’t know. He said he’d come back today.’

  ‘You said before he thinks you’re with your grandparents.’

  ‘He’ll come here after he sees them.’

  ‘And he’ll be home later today?’

  ‘He said that, yeah.’

  ‘So if I just sat here and waited I’d see him?’

  ‘You could come back later. I’ll tell him you want to see him.’

  The police officer grunted, finally annoyed. ‘If I come back later and he’s not here, then you’re coming with me.’

  ‘That’s fine.’

  ‘And I’ll take you to your grandparents. And I’ll ask them to call me if your father shows up. They his parents?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do they like him much?’

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose not.’

  ‘Where’s your mum?’

  ‘She’s dead.’

  The cop looked at a loss for words. He frowned and tipped his hat forward.

  A pause. ‘How’d she die?’

  ‘You’re a bit bloody personal,’ the boy said.

  He breathed hard after this, worried the cop would be angry, but the cop just laughed. ‘I suppose. I don’t mean nothing by it.’ He sighed. ‘My mother, rest her, died a few years ago.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘She was just old.’

  The boy said nothing to this, though he wanted to offer sympathy. Hard to know what was stopping him.

  ‘Anyway,’ the officer said, ‘I’ll be back later. You can bring your dog too. You sure you don’t want to come now?

  ‘No, I’ll wait,’ the boy said. After a moment he added, ‘Thanks.’

  ‘How’d you get out here by yourself?’

  The boy didn’t answer.

  The cop looked around and saw the car. ‘You didn’t drive that here, did you?’

  ‘I did, actually.’

  ‘You’re too young for that.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You drove it anyway?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You going to do it again?’

  The boy shook his head. ‘No.’