The Gulp

by Alan Baxter

  The bacon roll was amazing, greasy and salty enough to start counteracting his hangover. As he chewed, he went and fetched himself and Ciara a coffee. Torsten and Simone had woken when he came back, so he turned right around and got them one each too.

  When he came back, Howard offered him another bacon roll. “Plenty to go around.”

  Shirley put some music on, but turned down low. Patrick recognised it but couldn’t place it. Nineties grunge of some kind. The few remaining revellers drifted off over the next half hour or so, thanking the band for the hospitality. The last one to leave spoke quietly to Edgar for a moment and kept glancing back at Patrick as he did so. Edgar squeezed the guy’s shoulder, said something with a reassuring face. The guy nodded and left and Edgar came to sit next to Patrick. The rest of the band joined them, all eight sat in a loose circle on two couches and three armchairs.

  “Had enough to eat?” Edgar asked.

  They nodded, smiled.

  “You’re very kind,” Patrick said. “It’s good of you to do this, something for your real fans after a gig, yeah?”

  Edgar smiled. “Something like that. Some of these people have followed us for a while.”

  Patrick realised all four band members still had the dark makeup, the crimson contacts. It hadn’t registered at first, and that surprised him. He nodded at Edgar’s face. “You’re really committed to your bit, huh?”

  “It’s just who we are, man.”

  “Must be tiring. Don’t you feel like some days you just can’t be bothered?”

  “How do you know we don’t?”

  Patrick nodded. “I guess you keep it up while people are around or when you go out, but that’s all?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I feel strange,” Simone said quietly.

  They all turned to look at her. Torsten said something in German and the two had a quiet conversation for a moment.

  “Everything okay?” Patrick asked.

  “Probably the drink, that’s all,” Torsten said.

  Edgar laughed, but good-naturedly. “Our moonshine can have a lasting effect, especially if you’re not used to it.”

  “What is that stuff exactly?”

  “Exactly, Patrick? I can’t tell you. Secrets! It’s just a homebrew spirit, that’s all.”

  “If I’m honest, I feel a little weird too,” Ciara said. “I’m wiped out.”

  “Everyone drank a lot,” Clarke said. “And we were up all night. It’s barely noon now. You don’t have to be anywhere, do you?”

  Ciara shook her head. “We were going to stay in Monkton last night and tonight. Find a motel bed instead of cramped together in the campervan. Then head on towards Sydney.”

  “Ended up cramped on couches and armchairs instead,” Torsten said with a rueful laugh.

  “Well, you’re here now,” Edgar said. “You want to stay with us tonight as well? We’ve plenty of rooms, you can have a proper bed tonight, showers, all that stuff. Better than a Monkton fucking motel, that’s for sure. Have a look around The Gulp today. There’s really nowhere else like it.”

  “Thankfully,” Shirley said quietly.

  The other band members chuckled softly.

  Edgar stood up. “You want to? Come on, I’ll show you your rooms. All your stuff is in your camper outside, right?”

  They looked at each other and Ciara and Torsten nodded. Simone looked uncertain, but she also looked a little more sick and pale.

  “Sure, why not,” Patrick said.

  Edgar gave them rooms side by side. There was even a door inside, joining the two. Each room had a large bed of dark wood, a small sink in the corner, a set of drawers and a dressing table. They were like nicely appointed rooms in an old-fashioned hotel. Across the hall was a huge bathroom with a shower cubicle and a claw-foot bath, which was theirs alone to use. The band apparently had other rooms and bathrooms, at the opposite end of the sprawling upper storey.

  “People usually crash on the couches like last night,” Edgar said. “But we often have people stay for a while, so we keep the guest rooms nice. Pretty good, eh? Anyway, we have to practice, so make yourselves at home. Head off into town whenever you like, and if you’re back by about seven you can eat with us. Howard is whipping up one of his famous curries tonight. You’ll like it, I promise.” Without waiting for a response, he turned and strolled away.

  “Great local hospitality,” Torsten said. “This is the beauty of travelling with no agenda. Cool things happen.”

  “Shall we take a look around The Gulp?” Patrick said.

  Simone groaned. “Shower and change first.” She went through the adjoining door to the room she was sharing with her brother. Edgar had offered them each a room, but Simone had said she wanted to stay with Torsten.

  “See you downstairs in half an hour?” Torsten said.

  “Perfect.” Patrick fancied a shower and change himself.

  They walked down the hill and came to the main street leading into town, turned right towards the harbour. A park with a decent sized playground on one side, shops and a few cafes on the other. They found the museum, an old sandstone building, but it was closed up, with no opening hours displayed anywhere. A tattered poster had been pinned to the door, faded with time and rain. It asked, Have you seen Daniel? and featured a grainy photo of a lank-haired youth.

  On the far side of the park, a road led back up to the north side of town, more houses of varying age spreading out. Then a path ran around the harbour. The water glittered in a large half circle and on the far side was the harbour proper, with breakwater walls and a variety of boats moored up. Most were fishing boats, but a few leisure vessels bobbed among them. On the far side of the harbour was a row of buildings that ended with a large fish and chip shop.

  “Back here for lunch?” Ciara said.

  They walked out along the headland beyond the harbour, all the way to the lighthouse that marked the end point. It was tall, stark white against the sky. Patrick imagined it half-built, Governor Gulpepper standing on the cliff edge with his arms raised. He vaguely remembered blood red clouds and things falling but had no idea why that image was in his mind. A cold wind blew across and he shivered.

  “I can’t get used to it being winter in the middle of the year,” Patrick said. “Nearly July and it’s cold.”

  “Hardly cold compared to our winters,” Torsten said.

  “Well, no, but you know what I mean. I’m glad I have a sweater on.”

  “I like it,” Simone said. “Clear and sun but not hot. Remember you the last trip?” she asked Torsten.

  He laughed. “Yeah, that was hot! We came to Australia once before, and we started in Darwin, but it was January. So hot and humid, it was awful.”

  “There’s a beach down there,” Ciara said, pointing over the south side of the head.

  They walked down that way, taking their time to enjoy the views, and found the beach was quite small, but it had a nice aspect and was low between the head and the next rise of land, so it was sheltered. Behind the gravelly black sand was another park, another set of bright plastic play equipment. Four people sat at one of the picnic tables, the only others there. They were a strange bunch, Patrick thought. A young woman, a middle aged woman and man, and an elderly man. Maybe a family group? But they didn’t look alike other than they were all incredibly pale. They just sat there, staring at nothing, not talking. They gave Patrick the creeps.

  A noticeboard stood at the corner of the park, weathered wood with scratched Perspex in front. It had a variety of community notices, flyers for yoga classes, local produce, Man And A Van For Hire. But one entire side was dedicated to posters about missing people. The Have you seen Daniel? poster was there again, along with about a dozen others. Mostly young people, but not all, with bold headings like MISSING and HELP US FIND STACEY. Ciara stood staring at them and Patrick looked over her shoulder. He opened his mouth to say something, but Torsten interrupted his thoughts.

  “It’s volcanic.”

&nb
sp; Patrick turned. “What is?”

  “The sand. Well, the whole area, I suppose. Lots of white sand beaches and wide-open bays along the coast of Australia, but this rough black stuff has to be volcanic.”

  “Danke, nerd,” Simone said.

  “Let’s go back for lunch,” Ciara said. “I’m getting hungry again.”

  “Two bacon rolls weren’t enough?” Patrick asked.

  “I only had one!”

  They went back to the fish and chip shop and stared at the menu board. Eventually they picked a combination of blue grenadier, chips, a seafood basket and four cans of soda. The woman behind the counter seemed entirely uninterested as she took the order, almost as though she were annoyed they were there at all. Patrick took out his credit card and she said, “Cash only,” in a tired, put-upon voice.

  “In this day and age?”

  She pointed to a small A4 sheet of paper with CASH ONLY typed on it that had been taped to the bottom of the menu. “It’s right there.”

  Patrick turned to the others. “We have any cash?”

  Between them they came up with enough for about half the order and adjusted it accordingly.

  “You must lose a lot of business this way,” Patrick said as he paid.

  The woman ignored him, put the cash in the till, and turned away to start preparing the food.

  “Jesus, between the rudeness and the cash only thing, I’m amazed this place is still in business.”

  “Maybe it’s a front for organised crime,” Torsten said with a grin.

  “Let’s draw some cash out on the way back,” Ciara said. “In case other places are like this.”

  There were tables and chairs out the front that overlooked the water, the harbour to their left, open ocean to the right. After about ten minutes, Patrick went back inside to check on the order and there were several wrapped parcels on the counter.

  “Is that ours?” he asked.

  The woman looked around theatrically. “You see anyone else here?”

  “Were you going to call us or just leave it there to go cold?”

  The woman rolled her eyes and went back into the kitchen area behind the counter. She scowled at him through the long hatch until he turned away.

  He gathered up the food and, unable to help himself, turned back. “You’re fucking rude, you know that? Maybe you’d be better suited to a different job.”

  The woman stared at him, face blank, until he shook his head and took the food back outside.

  For all the terrible service, the meal wasn’t too bad, but far from the best they’d had. Regardless, the extra grease seemed to chase away the last of the previous night’s over-indulgence. Even Simone looked more or less back to normal as they walked back around the town, idly browsing shops.

  Patrick chose not to say anything, he didn’t want to seem judgemental, but there were a number of odd-looking people in The Gulp. One fellow he saw walking a dog had no nose, which he found strangely disturbing. Maybe cancer had eaten it off? Others seemed overly pale, or strangely long of limb. Still others, the majority he supposed, were entirely normal-looking folks. But there was an edge of oddness to the town he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Maybe it was simply isolation.

  As he stood outside a bookshop while his friends browsed the shelves, he looked out towards the north. The houses climbed the hill, lots of them in undulating geological waves, leading up to thick bush in the distance. The cliff of the northernmost head was just visible, crowded with vegetation right up to the edge. Given what they’d driven through, he assumed the south side of town was largely the same. A weird little pocket of civilisation in what Torsten had called unusually old forest. He was fascinated by the place but would be happy to drive on the next day.

  It was a little after five and beginning to get dark as they trudged up the steep hill on the western edge of town, back to The Manor. The band were there, all in their makeup like before. Patrick was getting used to it but thought their commitment to it was a little bit try-hard. He’d like to see them without it, see the real people beneath the façade. He mentioned as much to Torsten as they sat with a beer in the large lounge room, night darkening the windows.

  “Maybe it’s like Batman,” Torsten said.

  “What?”

  “Is Bruce Wayne the real person, and Batman his alter ego. Or is Batman real and Bruce Wayne the fake mask he wears?”

  “Well, it’s obviously...” Patrick didn’t finish as the thought took root in his mind. “Actually, now you mention it.” He laughed.

  “You see. So maybe the band is real, yes?”

  Edgar stuck his head in the door. “Grub up!”

  They followed him to the back of the house into a big kitchen. It had a massive iron range cooker, copper pots and pans hanging from a cradle over a wide marble work surface. At the far end was an old oak table, scored and stained, but solid as the day it was made. Which must have been a long time ago, Patrick thought. It easily seated twelve given the dozen chairs around it, so the eight of them had plenty of room.

  Howard put plates down and then a metal pot of steaming rice. They served themselves as Howard went back to the stove, then came back with two more oversized saucepans, one in each hand. Patrick marvelled at the man’s grip strength, carrying them easily. He put them on the table and pointed.

  “That one is chicken masala. That one is beef vindaloo. I hope you like it spicy.”

  “How spicy?” Ciara asked with a wince.

  “You’re not into hot food?” Howard said. “Hmm. Better stick to the chicken then.”

  The food was incredible. The vindaloo blisteringly hot, but so full of flavour, the masala smooth and creamy. They all had second helpings, Patrick and his friends repeatedly telling Howard how good it all was. He smiled and nodded but said nothing. Once they were full, they retired back to the lounge room. Shirley put a DVD into the player under the huge TV and John Carpenter’s The Thing, started up.

  “Oh, this is one of the best horror films ever made!” Torsten said happily.

  “Oh no. Not for me,” Simone said.

  “You don’t like horror films?” Shirley asked.

  “Not really. But is okay, I am tired. I go to bed. Maybe read. I don’t want more...” She glanced at Torsten. “Der Albtraum.”

  He nodded. “Nightmares. We both had bad dreams last night.”

  “Nightmares, yes. Thank you for lovely dinner.” Simone smiled and left the room, headed upstairs.

  “I had terrible dreams last night too,” Patrick said. “I’d forgotten, but she just reminded me.”

  “Did you dream of the fall?” Edgar asked.

  “The fall?”

  “When the creatures fell to the sea, off what’s now Carlton Beach.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Edgar laughed. “Everyone who sleeps in The Gulp dreams of the fall.”

  Patrick looked at Torsten, then Ciara. They both nodded, eyes concerned.

  “How can we have all dreamed the same thing?” Patrick asked.

  “Just one of the many strange things about this cursed town, my friend.” Edgar turned back to the movie, slumping down in the couch. The other band members all kept their eyes on the screen.

  Patrick wondered about the other part of his dream, that was only flitting around his mind in disconnected gossamer images. Something tall and thin. Some sensation of loss. He wanted to ask Torsten and Ciara about that but couldn’t find the words.

  He watched the film, uncomfortable. And he had even more reason to look forward to the morning and their onward journey.

  Halfway through the movie, Edgar got up and offered drinks. Patrick had a bourbon, but decided it would only be the one. He didn’t want to feel again what he’d felt that morning. Ciara and Torsten both accepted a second round a little later as MacReady dipped red hot wire in a petri dish on screen. Ciara threw Patrick a surprised look when he declined, but she said nothing.

  When the film ended, Edgar said, “Shots!
”

  “Oh, not again,” Torsten said.

  Edgar went to the drinks dresser anyway and turned back with several shot glasses of the pale green Blind Eye Moonshine. He walked over, offered them around.

  “I don’t think so,” Torsten said.

  “Come on, man! Just one. Especially if you’re leaving tomorrow. You can’t get this anywhere else in the world.”

  Torsten laughed and took a glass. “Just one!”

  “Same for me,” Ciara said, taking one.

  Edgar turned to Patrick, but he shook his head.

  “You sure?” Edgar asked.

  “Yeah, really. Thanks though.”

  “Okay, it’s your loss.”

  The band took one each and Edgar said, “Imagination!”

  They all downed the shots. The band made no reaction at all, but Torsten and Ciara both shuddered and grimaced.

  “It’s so weird,” Ciara said. “The sensation is kinda horrible, but it’s also delicious.” She drew in a long breath. “And there’s that lovely spread of warmth. Really, what is this stuff.”

  Edgar smiled, and shook his head. “Another?”

  “No, thanks,” Patrick said. “Come on, let’s go to bed.”

  Ciara shook his hand off her forearm. “It’s barely after ten o’clock.”

  “You know, I will have another,” Torsten said.

  “Me too!” Ciara said, casting a defiant glance at Patrick.

  “Shirley, you want to get the drinks?” Edgar said. “I feel like playing a song.”

  Several guitars were on their stands along one wall behind a sofa and Edgar picked one up. Patrick had a sudden and urgent desire to not hear the man sing. He didn’t want to hear that strange not-quite-Gaelic language again. His gut shivered with a kind of trepidation.

  “You sure you won’t come to bed?” he asked Ciara. He tried to put a little intent into his voice, tried to make something tempting of his expression like he wanted to spend some private time with his girlfriend. But his discomfort must have simply made him look weird.

  Ciara frowned, then laughed, a little embarrassed. “You can crash if you like. Are you feeling okay?”