Ironbark

  He sits for a while and I think he’s fallen asleep. Turns out he’s just mulling things over.

  ‘You won’t remember your gran. She died when you were . . . How old are you?’

  ‘Sixteen.’

  ‘When you were five years old.’

  ‘And what? She’s out there somewhere in the forest? Guest-starring as a guardian angel?’

  ‘If you’re not gonna speak with respect . . .’

  ‘Hey, Gramps, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. I’m serious. It’s just the way I talk, man. No offence.’

  There’s another long silence and I’m beginning to think my big mouth has blown it yet again. When he does speak, it’s not really to me at all. It’s more like he’s talking to himself, reciting words that are echoing in his head.

  ‘She loved it here. Loved the forest, the waterfalls, the wild orchids. Now, when I’m walking, I can feel her all around. Taking care of the place. Taking care of me.’

  ‘You don’t suppose she’s got a mobile phone, do you?’ I throw in.

  How cool would that be? A ghost with a Nokia.

  I’d given that weird text message some thought and come up with a logical answer. Maybe all that rolling around during the descent had turned my phone back on, scrambled some random message, set off a ring tone. Then I read what was probably gibberish and, in my panic, thought it said something about trees.

  Another possibility is that I’m going mad. Only a day off my medication and it’s already playing with my head.

  That works as well. I tellya. I am a miracle of modern scientific reasoning.

  Having said that, I prefer the idea of Gran using Bluetooth to either of those explanations.

  Luckily, Granddad doesn’t hear my crack about the phone, ’cos I don’t reckon he’d be amused. So we sit there, the two of us. Lost in our own worlds. I finish the beer, but he doesn’t offer me another. That reminds me.

  ‘Hey, Gramps,’ I say. ‘When are we going shopping? I need to buy stuff. Beer, for example. Plus I’ve got to report in to the local constabulary as soon as possible. Did Dad mention that?’

  Granddad thinks this over for a few years, weighing the question from all angles, before coming to a considered verdict. I watch the wallabies and the wallabies watch me. It’s like someone has hit the pause button.

  ‘He mentioned it. I reckon we could go tomorrow,’ he says just when I’d given the conversation up for dead.

  ‘Cool.’

  The silence stretches out yet again. I get the feeling it could stretch forever. So, when it finally becomes absolutely clear that Granddad is not going to leap up and press another cold one on me, I say goodnight and grope through darkness to my room. The journal awaits.

  I pace my room for about two minutes before I realise I’ve trodden in the pile of discarded mashed potatoes on my way over here and spread it across the floor.

  The court-appointed psychologist said I could write what I want in this journal.

  Not what anyone else wants.

  I suppose I should write about my IED. I don’t have to. Not if I don’t feel like it. I can write anything. But I might as well write about IED.

  I don’t know where I end and the IED begins. I read somewhere – no idea where – that cancer-sufferers can feel that way. They take on the identity of the disease.

  That sounds right. That sounds like me.

  IED stands for Intermittent Explosive Disorder. It sounds kind of cool, but it’s more like a nightmare.

  It means I can’t control my anger. Some people – hey, the prosecutor for one – think it’s a fancy name for a hooligan.

  A hothead. An excuse for just blowing up. Being violent.

  Thing is . . . I’m a coward. A serious coward. I never actually want to fight. But when the IED kicks in . . . might as well wave goodbye to control. I don’t even remember what happens.

  Possession. I read about that somewhere. Or maybe it was a TV program. Whatever. But it’s like being possessed. No control. Taken over. Like in a cheesy sci-fi flick. If I’d been born a few hundred years earlier they’d have burned me at the stake.

  When I lose it, I’ll fight anyone and anything.

  Doesn’t matter if it’s an old lady or a hundred off-duty soldiers. Until it passes I’m uncontrollable. When it does pass, I generally hate myself. And that’s okay – everyone else hates me as well.

  I can’t blame them.

  But what no one seems to get – how could they? – is that it really is like living with another person inside you – someone nasty, disgusting, evil – who takes over, pulls your strings, makes you dance to a different tune.

  A mad tune.

  I hate that person.

  No one else sees it like that. Everyone sees one person. I see two.

  Sometimes I feel I’m being judged, sentenced for someone else’s crimes.

  I was put on suicide watch for a while.

  I try to control it with drugs. But a better option, at least I reckon it’s a better option, is to try controlling it using behavioural techniques. For example, when I try to concentrate on something interesting, it takes my mind off it.

  I’ve learnt self-talk as well – a relaxation technique where I repeat a phrase. That helps. Establishes some control. Music is good. Writing is supposed to be good too, but I hate writing. Perhaps it shows how much I despise my disease that I’m prepared to sit here – a sad loser, writing junk. Walking helps, I’m told.

  But I had a bout today while I was walking and that scared me.

  I have explosives attached to me. Inside me. I feel like a suicide bomber. Difference is, I never know when they’re going to detonate. It could be a minute. Could be a month or a year. But they will go off. Some time.

  All I can do is listen to the ticking of the bomb. And wait.

  Tick, tick, tick . . . Tock.

  I like that last bit, so I decide to finish there. I reckon my English teacher would be proud. And stunned, since she never ever saw me write anything at all.

  I slip outside for a last smoke. I don’t like the idea of smoking inside the shack where I sleep. I probably could, since Granddad never seems to come in here, but it would be Murphy’s law for me to fall asleep with a lit ciggie and incinerate the shack, with me in it.

  It’s darker than a bear’s rectum out here and a lot colder. I’m using my imagination, by the way. The wind is gusting again, rustling the branches of the trees. I can just make out the dark shapes of the wallabies on the other side of the fence, but there’s nothing else out there tonight. At least nothing I can feel. I finish the cigarette as quickly as possible, stamping my feet on the ground to keep my circulation going.

  Back inside I carve a second line on the post by the light of the mini fluoro. I didn’t bring anything to read, which might have been a mistake. I tell you. The TAB would have given phenomenal odds on me ever saying not having a book was a mistake. Not that I could have brought anything to read, unless I’d joined a library. Round about the same time hell freezes over, I reckon. And there’s no books in our house. Dad likes minimalist furniture. You know, a small white leather chair in a corner, a glass-top coffee table and a plexiglass abstract sculpture. Books would spoil the ambience. He really is a tosser.

  Thinking about Dad is always depressing, so I put in my iPod and select random shuffle. After a while, I hang the blanket over the window and turn the iPod off. I don’t know why. I can’t relax if I can’t hear what’s going on at night. I watch the flames from the fire paint light on the ceiling.

  The wind is picking up outside. It sounds like someone moaning.

  I’ve seen some beat-up utes in my time, I can tell you, but Granddad’s is a piece of work.

  I walk around the outside, trying to find a panel that isn’t dented or streaked with rust. Nah. It looks like it’s got some kind of terminal disease, its skin flaking and peeling and rotting. A couple of good thumps and it might crumble into a heap of red dust. I guess it suits him, like
a pet getting to resemble its owner.

  It’s almost nine-thirty. We get in and I reckon there’s Buckley’s chance of the engine cranking over. It does, though. It coughs and splutters into reluctant life as I go to strap myself in. But the seatbelt is cactus. It’s just a length of frayed canvas without a buckle. I notice Granddad doesn’t even try his. He slams into gear and the gearbox screams and grinds on metal. Trust me, in this kind of vehicle you don’t even look for an aircon button, so I crank down the window. It gets about a quarter of the way and then something disengages, dropping the glass suddenly into what’s left of the door panel. I don’t even wanna think about the state of the brakes.

  We set off down the dirt track, a huge cloud of grey dust billowing behind. I’ll give Granddad credit. He’s got a real lead boot on him. We swing round bends and he doesn’t let up on the accelerator. I reckon there’s bugger-all chance of meeting another vehicle out here, but I can’t help cringing whenever we steam round a blind corner, just in case there’s one of these serious logging trucks about to swat us into the nearest tree. I feel like telling Granddad that he might not have much of a life to cut short, but I don’t fancy joining him as road pizza. I don’t though. I just watch the trees roll past. I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned this before, but there’s a lot of them.

  It’s Granddad who starts talking. I’m surprised. He’s usually like his ute – real reluctant to crank over.

  ‘So you finish school? Then what?’ he asks, and spits this humungous oyster out the window. Gross, but kinda impressive.

  ‘Who knows, Gramps?’ I reply, wondering if I can muster a gob to match his. I don’t even try. ‘I’m sort of undecided on the career aspiration front.’

  ‘Follow your dad?’

  I snort. Dad is some mega cheese in the business world. I don’t know exactly what he does, so don’t quote me, but it’s something to do with acquiring companies that are on the point of folding and rationalising their assets. Don’t you just love that? Rationalising their assets. What I think it means is buying the company for about fifty cents, sacking everyone, selling everything that isn’t bolted down, unbolting what is and selling that, and stashing obscene amounts of money into your corporate bank account.

  I say Dad acquires companies, but that doesn’t mean he ever actually sees them. He’s strictly a sit-behind-his-desk-with-a-mobile-phone-and-a-sharp-suit kinda guy.

  I tell ya. I bust up a business and they sentence me to hard labour in Van Diemen’s Land. Dad does it and he’s in the running for Australian businessman of the year. This probably makes sense to most people. I just wish someone would explain it to me.

  God knows how much he pulls down a year, but it’s gotta be excessive. You should see our house. And the cars. I’d bet he spends enough at the car detailer’s in one month to buy Granddad’s ute ten times over. Money’s the only thing at my place that’s not in short supply.

  ‘Yeah, right, Gramps,’ I say. ‘I can just see myself in some office with plastic pot plants, an acre of desktop and a carpet to practise my putting on. Not my scene, dude. Plus, you need the moral conscience of a saltwater crocodile.’

  Granddad glances at me.

  ‘You don’t get on with yer dad, then?’

  ‘The man is a prince. An absolute prince. But let’s say we have a different world-view. We dance to the beat of different drummers.’ I love that last bit. I’ve waited years to say it.

  ‘Whaddya mean?’

  ‘I mean that on the basic personality front we are not exactly synchronised. Plus, he’s a sphincter.’

  Granddad chews that over. I watch his jaws moving. Why do old guys do that? They always seem to be chewing something, probably the stringy bits from last night’s dinner.

  ‘Well,’ he says, finally. ‘Perhaps that runs in the family.’ I laugh. He’s a dry old buzzard.

  ‘Dude,’ I say. ‘Don’t you think you’re being a bit hard on yourself?’

  ‘I wasn’t talking about me.’

  ‘I know, Gramps. I know. And I guess you’re right. But me and Dad . . . we’re different types of sphincters. And, in my book, that makes a significant difference.’

  I let this idea hang for a moment so Granddad can get his dentures around something else. He clears his throat like he’s summoning up another oyster, but the moment passes. Then he takes one hand off the wheel to fish around in his nose. He’s got some great personal habits, I tell you. But he doesn’t say anything. I look out the window to see if there’s any thinning on the tree front, but they’re out in force and tight.

  ‘I might become a chef,’ I say.

  ‘A chef?’ says Granddad. If you were to judge purely by his tone of voice, you’d think I’d expressed ambitions in the area of gay porn.

  ‘Yeah. Not a lame kitchenhand scraping grease around in some dodgy cafe. A proper chef. With the big white hat.

  The sort that shouts, “Give me a rack of lamb with a fennel salad,” at scurrying minions. Has his own TV show. Gets to swear a lot. You know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘No,’ he says, looking carefully at what he’s mined from his nostril. It’s clearly nothing nine-carat because he rolls it up and flicks it out the window. ‘No. I don’t.’

  ‘Well then, I guess I’ll have to show you,’ I say. ‘Strap your tastebuds in tonight, Gramps. They’re headed for a roller-coaster ride.’

  We lapse into silence. Granddad has probably used up a week’s worth of words and needs to rest. I turn back to the trees and try to get them to disappear by sheer force of will. Works, too, because they thin and the dirt track becomes scattered with loose stones. Signs we are approaching what passes for civilisation out here. I pay more attention. I’ve got this horrible feeling we are going to end up at some bush shack that sells canned meat, the local newspaper and tractor parts.

  But we don’t. Granddad sprays up loose gravel as he drifts onto a main road. Well, it’s sealed and it’s got lines in the middle. About twenty minutes later we hit the town and the coast. I can’t remember the name of the town. Something Pom-sounding. There’s just one street, overlooking the ocean, but it has a supermarket and a bottle shop, so I’m not complaining. Tassie’s equivalent of a city shopping centre. There’s also a couple of cafes, a newsagent, a craft store and a few antique shops that you can tell are going to have junk at stupid prices that some relic in a bow tie will flog to tourists. The place is so picturesque I wanna throw up. I don’t, though. I’ve checked the mobile and, wonder of wonders, I’ve got another signal. Only two bars, but hey . . .

  Granddad parks up in the supermarket car park. The ute’s engine runs for about thirty seconds after he’s turned it off. It’s a crack-up. We get out and Granddad doesn’t bother to lock the doors, though he does wind up the window. It’s not just that no one would be likely to steal the pile of junk. I reckon this is the sort of community where one crime is committed every two hundred years and that’s probably parking in a disabled spot.

  We arrange to meet up in an hour. I need to make my call and do some shopping. I find a bench next to a row of memorials to the fallen in various wars and get on the phone. I’m hoping for a text message or two, but there’s nothing. Knowing I’m being so sorely missed gives me a warm glow. I try Kris’s new mobile, but it’s turned off. Probably in maths class and she wouldn’t wanna mess with Miss Millner twice on consecutive days. Trust me, it’s not an acceptable risk. I’ll try her again during the school lunch break.

  Of course, this leaves me with about fifty-nine minutes to kill, and a quick eyeballing of the main strip doesn’t fill me with inspiration. The shopping for tonight’s dinner is probably going to take fifteen minutes, tops, and for the rest of the time I can either check out the antique shops or sit on a bench somewhere and watch random seagulls wheeling over equally random fishing boats. I don’t know which option fills me with more horror.

  I pull out a smoke. There are only four left in the packet, so I saunter over to the newsagent’s to stock up. There’
s an old biddy behind the counter, with this ghastly perm and a mouth that looks like it last smiled in 1952. I ask for a carton and she fixes me with the same runny eyes that Granddad has patented.

  ‘Do you have any ID?’

  I try a winning smile.

  ‘I’m afraid I left it at home. I’m flattered, though. It’s been a couple of years since anyone mistook me for being under eighteen. Oh, and a newspaper, please.’ I reckon if I buy a copy of this sad-looking local paper she’ll think I’m a responsible and sober citizen. It doesn’t work, though. She points to the sign behind her. No ID? No Purchase! As if that’s the final word, which, of course, it is.

  ‘Ah, come on . . .’ I say, going for the heavy duty, hardcore persuasive tactic.

  ‘I’m sorry, young man, but I cannot sell you cigarettes without proof of age.’

  ‘Look, who is going to know? Come on, it’s not like a whole bunch of police are about to storm the joint.’

  But I’m talking to myself. She’s gone over to tidy up some magazines. Not too far, though, in case I make a grab and do a runner. I’m seriously considering it.

  I wander outside and scope out other possibilities. There’s only the supermarket or the bottle shop, so I go for the bottle shop first. But I know what’s going to happen. In Melbourne, there are dozens of places where I can get grog and smokes and no one ever asks for ID. But this place is a joke. A little community still clinging to moral standards. No one here would break wind in public. In the privacy of their own homes, they’re probably all downloading porn and converting domestic appliances into sex toys, but they won’t break the law, no sir.

  The guy behind the counter can only be about twenty, tops. I’m hoping I can tap into a kindred spirit. That we will discover a common bond of disenfranchised youth. Turns out he makes the old biddy in the newsagent’s seem radical. He’s not even prepared to discuss it like a reasonable human being, so I give him the finger and get out of there.

  So it’s the supermarket or bust.

  Trouble is, I don’t want to do the grocery shopping and then be saddled for half an hour with a bunch of heavy bags. So I check out this antique store opposite the bottle shop. Man, I’m desperate. The shop is dark and smells of dust. So does the owner. He’s something of an antique himself and he’s wearing a red bow tie.