by Ben Hobson
‘You sure?’
‘Yes.’
The cop shifted dirt with his feet. ‘Alright. I guess if you need me, just wait for me to come back.’ He looked like he wanted to continue speaking but didn’t know what to say. So he climbed into his car and wound down his window and as he moved away he stuck a hand out and waved. The boy waved back.
As soon as the car was out of sight the boy sat down in the shack and cupped his chin in his hands. He looked at the dog as it tussled with a blanket. The stitches were starting to hurt again.
His father. He was done with the man. That had been the final damning thing. There was no more trust to break.
He grabbed the hammer from outside, still grimy with fish, and from his father’s toolbox he took the rusty saw. He hurled the toolbox out of the shack, and the mattresses and blankets and food, and stuffed it all inside the car. The mattresses needed squishing and struggled to fit and in his rage he shoved them in. Albert was positioned between the back and front seats and licked the boy’s hand happily despite his confinement. The clothes that had been in his suitcase were pressed against the front window. When he was done he regarded the now-empty shack and understood what it had meant to his father, and that he had most certainly lied. He understood, too, that it was now his duty to destroy it. His rotten, absent father. He would prove himself and he would do so now.
Breathing heavily, he strode forward and, without thought for his wounded hand, tore the door from its position and hurled it into the dirt. In the car, Albert whimpered.
The boy kicked at a wall. The way it crumpled beneath his shoe gave him satisfaction. He kicked again and heard the corrugated iron clang, the noise tremulous in the otherwise near-silent day. It almost startled the boy from what he intended. He kicked again and again. The walls caved a bit but were held in place by the roof and the posts. The boy found gaps beneath the walls and slotted in the saw horizontally and moved it back and forth against the upright wooden beams, but at that angle it was slow going. He went inside and kicked at the wood until he realised that if the wood were to give way with him inside the roof would fall on him. So he went back outside and sawed until one corner gave. There was a sound of splintering wood. He was sweating badly but would not cease. He only stopped to drink some water and offer some to Albert. He wound down the window of the car so the dog could get some air and he gave him some of the leftover beans.
With some more work he managed to make one side collapse. The wood groaned as it toppled. The roof fell on the wall and then came off completely and whomped into the dirt. He pulled it upright and leaned it against a tree. The corrugated iron his father never paid for sagged in the top right corner, bent with his efforts. There were birds nearby and the familiar kookaburra laughed so close it felt to the boy as though it were on his shoulder.
He went back to the shack and pushed over the other sides, which gave way easily now they had no support. Soon all that remained was their misshapen concrete slab. The boy thought about how he might destroy it, too, but could think of no easy way, so he left it.
He thought about putting the roof in the wheelbarrow but knew it wouldn’t fit. With some effort, he pulled the roof through the jungle. It wasn’t heavy, but it was certainly awkward. The dog he left in the car with the window down.
When the iron caught on a root he leaned against a tree and wiped his brow free of sweat before continuing. Emerging from the jungle, he heaved the roof and lost his grip and fell back. He jarred his wounded hand as he fell and he groaned and sat up. He held his hand to his chest and then just sat and looked at the roof and the beach and the water, which was a dull blue today.
After a while he stood and flexed his hand. The stitches pulled and it felt as bad as it had two days ago. It was starting to turn white again.
He turned and heaved the roof to the water’s edge so that the tide sloshed over it. He looked over at Tangalooma with the tide against his shins. His father was there, completely ignorant of everything, having decided the boy’s fate. He clenched his injured hand despite the pain. The water would not stop him.
He returned to the camp, let the dog out of the car and gave him a good scratch on the chest. Albert bounded about him and got down on his forelegs and growled, at play. The boy swatted at his face and shoved him to the dirt and for a moment he was lost in this diversion and gave all of himself to the dog. Soon, though, he returned to his task, and with the dog’s encouragement he dragged the three remaining walls of the now-defunct shack to the beach, each one as much of a struggle as the last.
He piled the sheets one on top of the other so that when he was finished he had formed a corrugated-iron sandwich. He lashed them together with rope, threading it between the sheets of iron. It ended up looking like a Christmas present coiled in ribbon. He then retrieved the two empty barrels from the camp and and rolled them through the jungle. He tied these to the sides of the boat, his knots haphazard but serviceable.
This hard work in the sun almost did him in. He was getting sunburned, he knew. He took a break to drink water from the jerry can and eat.
When he was finished he went to the car and found some of the paint his father had stolen with his lies and carried it back to his new boat. On the side, on a piece of wood, he painted his mother’s name, Elizabeth, in messy letters. He stood back and admired his new creation. Then he turned towards Moreton Island. Given the distance, he knew it would take him some time to traverse the channel, but he also knew he was capable. There was no doubt within him. On his way back to camp with the dog at his heels he spared a look at his old boat and realised just what qualities in him had shifted in so short a space of time. His motives were no longer innocent. He was now grown.
His muscles aching, he sat down near the car and ate bread with Vegemite and looked at the rusting cement mixer, which had gone unused for two months. ‘We’re going soon,’ he said to Albert, who lay near his feet.
The dog scratched at his own ear and then panted and looked the boy in the eye. He was getting dusty, so when the boy finished eating he patted Albert’s coat down and dirt billowed from it like smoke.
He found the wheelbarrow and righted it. He threw in all of his canned food, the jerry can, the bait, his fishing rod, and he wheeled this pile to the beach. After stacking everything neatly in a corner of his vessel he knew deep down that these items would not brave the sea for long, and so he returned to his father’s toolbox, found an appropriate spanner and brought it back to the beach. He undid the nuts securing the wheelbarrow bucket and levered it off the base. He secured the bucket to the raft with more rope and then placed the tins of food and the jerry can inside. The rod he secured to the vessel with more rope, thankful for his father’s over-preparation in this one area.
The sun was starting to set and shaded Moreton Island a deeper grey. He dragged his old boat onto the beach and with a few kicks managed to snap it in half. He waded out into the ocean with one half and scooped at the water. It caught nicely and would make a good paddle.
Before he set off he made sure of his direction. The sun was almost down, and the many clouds were tinted a dull pink. The boy feared the cop would emerge from the jungle at any moment. He kept looking around, nervous. Tangalooma’s lights still weren’t on. There were no ships. The boy breathed out.
‘Right,’ he said. He pushed his new raft out into the ocean without any assurance of its buoyancy, but he found it floated and floated well, the barrel on each side bobbing in the water. His leather shoes now soaked, he jumped aboard, and felt the wind. He called the dog to him but Albert just watched anxiously from the beach, so the boy had to leave the boat and fetch the dog.
When he returned, it had floated out a bit and the boy waded to it through heavy water, cursing his carelessness. When they reached the boat the boy threw the dog on first. Once they were both aboard he tied the dog’s leash to the wheelbarrow. Then he turned to face the island once more. The sea sprayed him with each passing wave and cooled him pleasantly.<
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It was not easy getting out to sea but the boy assumed the going would become easier once he had gone beyond the breaking waves. He had to work hard with his makeshift oars. They were too big, he realised, and he regretted making them. They pulled at the back of his arms with each stroke, but they did carry power and he made some headway.
It was truly dark when he made it beyond the break. His boat bobbed at ease and he lay back. He looked at his home, the beach, as he passively drifted from it. The cop hadn’t shown.
Albert seemed ill at ease and kept shifting about the boat, shying away from each small spray of water, barking. The boy did nothing about this beyond allowing the dog the time to adjust to its new surrounds.
FORTY-FIVE
The lights of Tangalooma became a steady beacon in the darkness. As he rowed and rested and rowed, the boy grew tired and realised he had not fashioned something on which he might sleep. He was afraid that if he slept untethered he would roll off the boat and wake thrashing in the ocean with sharks beneath him, wondering what this strange shape above them was. They of course would eat him quickly. He knew the sharks would be as violent towards him as Harry had been to their kin. He imagined they would exact their revenge on him.
The stars above dotted the black sky, the clouds blotting them like spilled ink, and beneath them all, reflected in the water, were Tangalooma’s lights. There was little else. Albert had lain down on his front paws and looked into the ocean with canine enquiry. The boy took his torch from his pocket and switched it on. The light bounced off the gently rippled surface. He couldn’t see beneath. No shark fins, though.
He spent some time on his back, listening to the waves slap the boat beneath him. The ocean thumped like a heartbeat on the corrugated iron. All the teeming life beneath him united in that rhythm. If he shut his eyes he felt at peace with the water and himself. Swallowed by something bigger than he, a life eternal. If he were to be eaten at least he would become a part of this.
When he woke the moon had shifted. The clouds now much more numerous. He sat up. Beneath him the vessel was bouncing up and down violently. He gripped the iron. He went to the side and saw the waves rising and falling in peaks and valleys. Beside him, Albert was yipping in terror, scampering from one corner to the next, doing his best to ward off the water splashing over the side. The boy hadn’t noticed the rain, barely noticed it now.
The boy remembered playing in the bath when he was little, shoving his toys into the water and watching as they submerged, rose, struck the sides of the tub. This was what he now felt: an untethered chaos. There was a chance the boat would upend at any moment and those sharks he so feared would be at him in the dark. As the blood pulsed from him in whale spurts it would attract more feeders and mix with the ink of the water until all that remained of him was salt. He flattened himself against the bottom of the boat, attempting to weight the craft evenly on all sides. He went up and down with the swell, and his good hand turned the colour of the bad from the strength of his grip. The dog barked wildly, adding to the boy’s apprehension.
The next wave saw one end of the boat dip beneath the water – the end he gripped with his throbbing hand. He felt the salt against the stitches and yelled out in pain as the water sloshed up his forearm. The sea itself was near silent. The only sound the dog, his breathing, his heart, the light rain upon the iron.
As he went down again he held on and as the boat came up he swivelled around to see better. In this motion he accidentally struck Albert with his arm, and the dog flew into the water with a yelp.
The boy plunged his hands into the ocean but could not see the splashing of the dog or any form of his body beneath the black. The boat went down into a trough, and as he searched he felt the end begin to tip, so he held on once more. As the end of the boat went under, he felt something beneath him collide with the vessel. The boy knew immediately what had happened, and felt his stomach heave. As the boat went up again he saw in the dark the shape of his dog floating near the surface, motionless in the water.
He paddled towards him, straining, and finally was able to seize the pup by the scruff of his neck. He heaved the dog aboard. The dog’s limbs were still.
‘Albert?’ the boy said. He tugged at a leg. The paw flopped back onto the tin.
Carefully, on his knees, he bent his head to the dog’s chest, so that he might hear Albert’s heart. The boat still careening. Praying for a heartbeat. Praying for a heartbeat.
He sat back. There was blood between Albert’s teeth, a small dent above his eye, and the pupils were unfocused. Though the waves continued to batter the small vessel the boy no longer noticed. Albert was his friend. His only friend, now. And he had done this. He held the dog up to his chest and put his face into Albert’s fur and breathed warmth into the cold, dead skin. He tilted his head to the sky and wailed, angry and alone, breathing in what remained of Albert’s spirit.
It was some time before the waves calmed a little and the boy, grieving, still on his knees, looked at the sad wet body of his dog. He thought of flicking the torch on to better see what his adventure had done to his friend. But, for the shame, he couldn’t. Instead, he turned the torch on and shone it at the barrow bucket. He extracted a can of baked beans and prised open the lid with a knife. He ate the beans with his fingers in the dark and his wounded hand stung. He turned the torch back on and threw the empty can into the barrow.
He sat down and put one hand upon the dog, hoping to feel the rise of his chest, the thump of his heart, and breathed. Hoping for a miracle. Then he leaned back on his hands and looked at the stars.
He realised he should drink something, but filling his mug with water from the jerry can was difficult as the boat continued to rock and he was worried that he lost some water over the side in the poor light. Only when he’d finished the cup of water did he look over to Tangalooma, one hand still resting on his sodden dog. The island was further away then when he’d last looked. He realised his boat was adrift. The shore he’d abandoned was a distance from him but even with the distance he could see in the low light how quickly he’d travelled. He grabbed an oar, kneeled near the dog, and tried desperately to alter his course, but after his torment his whole body ached and would not respond despite his efforts. The lights continued to recede no matter how hard he paddled. An immense strain on his back. He cried. Finally, he knew he could no longer continue. Moreton Island’s lights still glinting on the horizon.
He abandoned the oar and sat back down and watched as the lights forgot him. His father and Phil were at work maybe, unaware of his plight. He was sure now he had no value. His one contribution to this earth was this, his dead friend. The dog’s fur clumped between his fingers. The dog’s ears now without life so soft to touch. The tongue out. He was no better than his father. A man who, despite his good intentions, left only pain in his wake. Now that he’d accepted this it almost silenced his despair.
He finally lay down, Albert in the crook of his arm, and studied the clouds and the stars. They didn’t move. Still the rhythmic thump of water. He stayed this way for a long time.
FORTY-SIX
The sun was drawn forth, pulled up on strings of silver and red. His eyes felt salty and tear-sticky when he opened them. Seagulls circled and squawked above him. He’d grown used to the silly creatures at Tangalooma but had never watched them closely. One landed now on his boat and waddled about, its footing unsure. It stared at him, cocking its head from side to side. It hopped nearer to Albert, almost standing on his belly. Half of its left leg was missing, crippled like the boy. The boy, on his stomach, inched closer to it. It flapped its wings and rose, squawking angrily.
He sat up and looked at his mangled hand, avoiding looking at the dog. Thick yellow pus oozed from the wound. He picked at it with his good hand and winced at the fresh pain. Soon it was bleeding. The blood dripped into the water and diffused quickly, but even so the boy swished it away with his hand to avoid attracting sharks.
The morning was already hot
enough to warrant the removal of his jacket. He placed it carefully over the barrow. He had a drink of water and found the jerry can was still more than half full. He didn’t eat anything despite his hunger, because he knew there was no telling for how long he might be adrift.
He didn’t know what to do with the body of his dog. It felt wrong somehow to put him in the water. In the fresh light, the dent near his eyes was severe and the boy was surprised there wasn’t more blood. It was hard to look at. He supposed the dog’s brains must now be squished, like what they did to mummies in Egypt with the hook up the nose.
He untied the fishing rod and put the loose rope in the barrow. He baited the hook with some tuna from a can and let the line trail behind him in the water. He sat on the edge of the boat, Albert’s body at his back, and dangled his feet in the water. The sun above him made him regret not bringing a hat. As he sat he looked at the barrels lashed to the sides of his makeshift vessel and remembered rolling down the hill in them and the laughter of his parents. His family. One member now dead behind him. Another in the earth.
A while later the line drew out and he let it dance beneath his outstretched wounded hand. He lifted it cautiously and at the next tug he hauled upon it and felt the fish. He grabbed the reel and wound it in.
A large flathead, lethargic after its brief fight. Its gills bellowed as they were soaked in oxygen and it mouthed words unknown. The boy slapped it down upon the iron and plunged the knife into the base of its skull. He removed the head and threw it in the water, then cut strips off its back. There was no way he could start a fire on his small vessel and he did not want to eat the fish raw, so he took the empty baked beans can from the night before and stuffed the flesh in there. He put it in the barrow and covered the barrow with his jacket and hoped it would stay cool enough. He would eat it if he became desperate. He knew that soon he would.