by Susan Duncan
She cannot think of any new strategies to deter the rats given the garbage is only collected twice a week and if a few cunning little rodents have learned to lift the lid on the wheelie bins, there’s nothing she can do about it. Well, one rat, if the single, neat little poo that appears daily is anything to go by.
‘Hiya, Ettie!’ Jimmy bounces in, skittering in all directions at once. ‘Me and Sam, we’re here for lunch. A treat, says Sam. But I shouldn’t get used to them ’cause then it’s not a treat any more.’
‘Lamb burger? The works?’
The kid nods emphatically, happily. Ettie could just as well have offered him a winning lottery ticket.
‘You got enough saved for a car yet, love?’ she asks, feeling the beginning of a plan that is so clever, ‘brainwave’ is a closer description.
‘Rome wasn’t built in a day, was it?’
‘Well, Jimmy, I think I’ve come up with an idea that just may earn you some extra dollars.’
The kid puts down the jar of biscuits he’s been playing with and spins. A whirling dervish, his face alight. ‘How much money? Enough to buy a car next week?’
‘Not quite, but my mother always said that if you watch the pennies the pounds take care of themselves.’
‘How much is a pound?’
‘It’s a saying, that’s all. It means if you’re careful, you’ll always reach your goal. Or something like that. Anyway. Here’s the idea. I’m going to find a couple of very big compost bins and fork out some of my hard-earned cash to buy you a worm farm. Every night I want you to collect the scraps from the bins and take them home. Within a few weeks, you’ll be able to sell compost and worm castings all over the Island. What do you think?’ She smiles encouragingly.
Jimmy looks doubtful. ‘Me mum’s not too keen on worms. Says they make your bum itch . . .’
‘Um, these are different worms, love. Good worms. They make the soil healthy so we can grow healthy vegetables,’ Ettie explains, her face going puce, sweat breaking out all over again.
‘I better ask her, but. Me mum’s pretty firm about worms.’
‘Righto, fair enough. Here, have a piece of lemon tart while you’re waiting for the burger. It’s got to be eaten today.’
‘I’m supposed to have spinach, Sam says.’
‘How about neither of us tells him.’
On the back deck, Sam scoffs down one of Ettie’s magic harissa-marinated grilled calamari concoctions with shaved fresh fennel (to cut through but enhance the spices) spread artistically on top. She’s even peeled the cherry tomatoes, he thinks, slowing down to give the food the close attention it deserves. But the episode with the taillights has left him edgy. In his experience, thugs rarely downgrade assaults. They ramp them up.
He drags out The Concise History of the World to take his mind off his worries and flips forward to the chapter on Australia.
Once upon a time – around forty thousand years ago – kangaroos were ten feet tall and native lions roamed the land along with giant ox-like beasts. All of them were quickly killed off and people settled near the coast to live on fish and shellfish.
Nothing changes, he thinks. We come, we see and we conquer until there’s nothing left.
His phone goes off with the buzz and momentum of an angry fly. He picks up. His face goes black. He pushes back from the table, leaving his lunch unfinished. ‘Jimmy!’ he shouts en route to the barge. He barely checks to see the kid is on board before setting off.
Sam pushes the throttle forward and urges the normally dowager-sedate Mary Kay to her maximum speed of six knots. Under the broad hull, the water is smooth and glassy.
The short waterway from the café to his jetty is alive with traffic. The light southerly has lured out every passionate yachtie from one end of Cook’s Basin to the other on a day when there’s just enough breeze to fill a sail but not enough for a skipper to spill his drink. Paradise at its best. Except, Sam thinks, for a new underbelly that reckons money calls the shots. Well, he tells himself, the cockroaches behind the development might find they’re jet propelled towards a new and gargantuan learning curve. He makes a conscious effort to loosen his jaw to stop his teeth from grinding.
By the time he ties up at his jetty, he feels calmer, steadier. Nobody died, he tells himself. Anything that can be fixed with nails and a hammer isn’t worth sweating over. From the water and in the sunlight, the windows of his house look like broken toffee. Despite his good intentions, his (almost) calm rationalisation of what he considers important and what actually matters, a shaft of hatred slips inside his head. For a second all he sees is red. Red house. Red trees. Red sea. He feels his jaw lock tight again. ‘Stay on board, Jimmy. Don’t move till I call you.’ He sprints along the jetty.
Eric Lowdon steps out from behind the boatshed. ‘You don’t want to mess with us, boy,’ he hisses, his chubby little body jiggling with spite. ‘Next time, you’ll find yourself floating face down in the sparkling waters of Cook’s Basin.’ He’s dressed unbelievably eccentrically in clashing checks and tartans, and a ridiculous tasselled green cap, a relic from the past, shades his eyes. His fingers caress the fat end of a driving iron. He looks like he’s off to play a round of golf a hundred years ago instead of what Sam would assume is a regular weekend game on a local course.
‘Did you do this?’
‘Wouldn’t dirty my hands . . .’
‘Of course not. You’ve got the balls of a gnat. You’re pathetic, mate. I could almost feel sorry for you if you weren’t such a dead-set, over-dressed toad,’ Sam says, wagging his head, amazed that this small, fat, unfit parody of a human thinks sending in a few freaky goons under cover of darkness to break his windows will scare him off.
Suddenly, Lowdon rears, thumps Sam hard on the chest with the fat end of the golf club. ‘Think you’re tough, do you? You’re no match . . .’
Sam, driven by a flash of red anger, snatches the driving iron easily and turns it back on the little man, landing a blow mid-stomach. Lowdon doubles over, fights for breath. His face purples. Rheumy eyes water, look ready to pop. Sam pushes Lowdon to the ground, where he lies beached. Emitting strange gurgling noises from blowfish lips. Sam towers over him, golf club gripped fiercely. One strike, maximum damage. The temptation is irresistible. He takes a huge back swing.
Lowdon rolls into a foetal position, knees pulled into his chest, hands covering his face. Whimpering.
Sam throws down the club in disgust. ‘It would be too easy. You’re not worth the effort. But if you or the goons come anywhere near my house again, I’ll know. Trust me, I’ll know. You might want to ramp up your insurance too, mate. Hate to think what a hammer might do to that poncy glass dining table of yours.’
Sam reaches down to grab Lowdon’s shirtfront and hoists him to a point about a foot above the ground. The fabric starts to rip. Sam holds on. ‘From now on, I’ll be watching you so closely that you won’t even be able to take a piss in private. You get my drift?’ The fabric gives way. Lowdon drops to the ground.
Winded, apoplectic, but back in a vertical position, Lowdon finds his voice, points a finger in Sam’s face. ‘Don’t make me sic my boys on you again, Scully, because you don’t want to see what else they can do,’ he wheezes, in short, pained gasps. Frothing, spitting, his bloated face twisted with rage.
‘Love to see ’em. Bring them on. Anytime. Don’t forget your golf club, mate,’ Sam says. ‘And here’s your cap, let me adjust the angle. Your tassel is all over the place.’
Anticipating a strike, Lowdon jerks backwards, losing his balance. Almost falls. ‘Get your affairs in order, boy,’ he snarls. ‘You’re history.’
Sam dusts his hands, shrugs and, without glancing back, takes the steps three at a time. What a low-class greedy little mongrel bully. ‘Jimmy!’ he calls, remembering the kid confined on the barge. Two long skinny legs lift off the deck, grasshopper fast. He�
�s airborne, arms windmilling. Lands on feet the size of small boats and gallops along the jetty. The shaggy black-and-white mutt is glued to his heels.
Chapter Ten
Inside, the house is trashed. Clothing shredded, mattresses slashed, tomato sauce sprayed in long red lines on walls. Crockery is smashed against his fireplace like the aftermath of a Greek wedding. On the floor, broken glass sparkles obscenely in shafts of sunlight. Helluva party, he thinks, and with his spleen already vented, he feels oddly voyeuristic instead of enraged.
Jimmy begins sweeping the floor. ‘Sorry for ya loss, Sam,’ he says, eyes filling with tears, using his wrist to wipe his nose.
‘Nobody died, mate. There’s nothing broken that can’t be fixed. He made a bloody mess, though, didn’t he?’
‘Ya got that right,’ Jimmy says, leaning on his broom. ‘It’s a mess all right.’
Sam scoops the small collection of his father’s precious books from the floor, replaces them on a shelf. How come no one noticed? Not even a brush turkey got away with bin ransacking without the whole neighbourhood getting involved. The spine is broken but fixable on Bert Facey’s A Fortunate Life, given to him by the Misses Skettle all those years ago when they were determined to set him straight on how to deal with disaster. ‘Bastard,’ he says, under his breath. He lies it flat to fix later. ‘You ever heard of the US marines, Jimmy?’
‘Sure,’ the kid says, uncertainly.
‘They believe that if you stop and dig in at the height of a battle, you’re rooted. By my way of thinking, if we play by the rules of thugs, we’ll lose by the rules of thugs. We have to take the initiative. Be one step ahead. Keep them angry and pissed off so they make mistakes. Step forward when they think they’ve hammered us. That’s what the marines do, mate. They step forward no matter what the odds.’
Jimmy, who’s been listening intently, his freckly face tilted sideways like one ear hears better than the other, suddenly straightens, clicks his heels and salutes: ‘What’s next, Sam? We gunna step forward now?’
‘Well, not exactly right now but it’s nice to know I can count on you, mate.’
Jimmy, getting the hang of it, straightens and stands at attention, his broom out to one side like a rifle. ‘We’re a team. Isn’t that what you said?’
‘The best team a bloke could ask for. When the time comes, we’re going to step forward together. But only when the time comes. Got that?’
‘Sure, Sam. Long as you know I’m here. I’m not a piker. No way.’
‘Never thought you were for a minute.’ Sam pats the kid on the back. To hide the fact his eyes are blurry, he steps out of the way, into the bedroom. His old plastic clock, worth as much to him as his father’s books, is intact. They missed the real valuables, he thinks. Or maybe nothing quite compares to losing both your parents in a single, devastating, unrecoverable hit. He must have learned young how to recover quickly.
Looking on the bright side – as a man has to if he’s to hold onto his sanity – at least one of the enemies has been clearly and irrevocably identified. What was that old saying of his dad’s? Keep your enemies where you can see them. Yeah, that was it. No, not quite. The best way to destroy your enemy is to make him your friend. Well, he didn’t think he’d be able to pull that trick off for any one of a number of very obvious reasons but he could sure as hell keep him in his sights.
Out on the deck, he breathes in the salt and sun, watches a pulsing sea. Three kookaburras, chests fluffed, scruffy from the rain and heat of the past few days, swoop on to the deck railing, looking for a handout. One by one, they start to laugh. Sam catches the larrikin spirit, the age-old instinct of tough people to laugh in the face of adversity. He slaps his thigh with the sheer beauty of inspiration. He turns towards the house, his backside propped against the railing, and shouts out: ‘No matter what hideous, low-life tactics they come up with, Jimmy, we’re going to laugh in their dead ugly smug faces.’
Jimmy sticks his head outside: ‘We stepping forward, Sam?’ he asks, clicking his heels to attention again.
‘You bet we are.’
News of the vandalising of Sam’s house flies around the Island in no time. All afternoon and well into the night, people drop by with spare cushions for the sofa, bed linen, cakes and casseroles, even a bottle of tomato sauce. ‘For your sauso rolls, mate. Wouldn’t want you to go without the trimmings.’
Kate rings to offer her help.
‘Nah, all good,’ he tells her.
‘I’m here if you need me,’ she replies. ‘Ettie, too. She sends her love.’
The magnitude of the wanton destruction fires up the community to unprecedented levels. This isn’t a case of throwing a dead bird in a water supply to make a point. This isn’t about dropping a spoonful of sugar in a boat’s fuel tank to ram home a few basic Island rules. This isn’t even calling in at dawn, uninvited and unannounced, to deliver some well chosen words to a lawless newcomer ignorant of the value of a fully functioning community. This is major property damage that goes way beyond cleaning out a water tank or replacing a (usually) clapped-out outboard, and it strikes at the heart of everything Cook’s Basin holds sacred. A roar goes up for payback.
Chapter Eleven
The following day, just as the sun dips towards the hills to cast long pink silken streaks across the water, Siobhan O’Shaughnessy knocks on Sam’s back door. Without waiting for an answer, she marches in. Red hair fizzing. Wearing outrage like a fashion statement. ‘Bastards,’ she says, spitting out the word. She stops dead, looks around. ‘Well!’ She grins. ‘No harm done then. The place has had a free and much-needed clean and update. There’s always an upside, eh? I’ll have a glass of wine, if you’re offering. White. We have work to do.’
Sam scrabbles in the fridge. ‘Donations didn’t run to wine,’ he explains, handing Siobhan a beer and settling on a moss-green pillow embroidered with winking sequins that instantly bite him on the bum. But he can’t bring himself to toss it aside. ‘What’s on your mind?’
‘Well, boyo, you’ve just been elected spokesperson in the campaign to Save Garrawi. What an honour, eh?’
Smelling a rat, Sam ditches the carnivorous cushion and faces Siobhan full on. ‘Elected? You’re kidding, right?’
‘Unanimous.’ She crosses her fingers and hums a little tune, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. ‘All those do-gooders,’ she adds, ‘they missed the cobwebs.’
During the next two hours, Siobhan O’Shaughnessy grills, grooms, thrills and threatens Sam Scully until his head begins to throb.
‘Never lie, never overstate your case. Make sure all your facts are absolutely correct. If you don’t know the answer to a question, admit it. Never, ever make up a story. One wrong move and you’ll be dismissed as a dangerous crackpot working with a personal agenda and you can kiss goodbye to any media support.’
Seeing him begin to wilt, she drags a kitchen stool into the sitting room and orders him to take up residence on it. ‘Concentrate, you eejit. Pinch yourself hard if you’re flagging. Don’t let the bastards see you flounder. They’ll hone in on your weak spots like sharks smelling blood.’
‘I’m the wrong man . . .’
‘Oh fiddlesticks. Try to remember where god inserted your backbone and let’s get on with it.’
She fires a barrage of questions at him, coming from a negative angle. Surely, more people deserve access to this little paradise you’ve had to yourselves for so long? What about the pressure of population – land has to open up, doesn’t it? What’s one less park when there are so many? What about the Square, isn’t that enough public space for a relatively small community? Aren’t you being greedy?
He stalls and stutters, mumbles his way around the issue, looking embarrassed and ill at ease. The bombardment begins again and goes on relentlessly until she tells him he is ready.
‘Your main asset is your passion and belief in the caus
e,’ she says. ‘But never get so caught up in emotion you lose your train of thought. You can’t afford to relax for a second. If you feel uncertain, fall back on the stock answers we’ve prepared and rehearsed. They’re factual, understandable and quotable even if they lack a colourful turn of phrase.’
‘Not sure I can make this work, Siobhan,’ he says, still hopeful he might get a reprieve.
‘Well, to be honest, you’re my last chance. Everyone else turned down the gig. Now listen up while I tell you about a man called Delaney.’
‘Who’s Delaney? Not a leg breaker, I hope.’ He gets them both another beer, sensing the night has a long way to go.
After Siobhan goes home, to clear his head, settle his nerves, Sam walks around the Island. The darkness is almost disorienting but he uses the lights from windows to get his bearings. Phoebe’s house. John’s studio (probably working late on Garrawi business). Glenn’s back porch light left on because he’s a man who prefers to pee on his lemon tree when he gets up in the dead of night and he’d rather not step on a snake in the process. The night smells sharp, like iodine. Another bucket load of rain is on the way and the Island’s not even close to dried out from the last week’s deluges. As if to prove the point, Sam’s foot comes down hard in a puddle. His boots, socks, feet are soaking but he feels full of purpose, a man on a mission who knows his value within a close community. Doing good.
‘You got a job for me, Sam?’
Sam jumps. ‘Jeez, Jimmy, you just about gave me a heart attack. How many times do I have to tell you not to creep up on a bloke? Gawd, I nearly decked you, mate. Reflex action. Nothing personal.’
‘Nah, ya wouldna, would ya?’ The kid slips in step alongside Sam, swaggering a little, Longfellow at his heels. His banana-yellow shirt is a beacon, his young eyes spy out the puddles. Sam follows his lead religiously.
‘What are you doing out and about? Storm’s coming. You should be tucked up at home with your mum.’ He points at Longfellow hovering at Jimmy’s heels. ‘The mutt should be in bed too. He’s still a pup and needs his beauty sleep.’