Eyrie

  He sat up till midnight. He felt the urge to call Doris, to speak to Faith, but he didn’t know what he could say that wouldn’t sound as if he were coming to pieces. But he was okay tonight. He was straight, sober, making himself useful. He had a job to go to in the morning. He was not mad.

  The Mirador gulped and whistled. He paced the unblemished carpet of Gemma’s living room, he watched the channel lights, the low constellations of tankers riding out in Gage Roads.

  It was only night, just an ordinary darkness, and he was still and merely himself.

  There was a weird vibe in the kitchen at Bub’s. A sort of repelling field, a fraught space that nobody would enter. After yesterday’s little fiasco it stood to reason. But it gave Keely the creeps the way the hackeysackers surveyed him in sideways glances, exchanging round-eyed looks and shrugs. Gypsy offered nothing but scowls and glares. The volume of the kitchen music was hellish, as if the chef had dialled it up for purposes of punishment or mastery.

  Bub seemed fine, if somewhat distracted. Saturday mornings the joint always got smashed and Keely knew he needed all hands, even him at a pinch. The work was hectic and unceasing, a wave they all rode for fear of being overtaken.

  The first lull didn’t come until ten. Keely made himself a heart bomb – a four-shot espresso that filled a tumbler – and he was perched on the back step when Gypsy’s spattered clogs appeared beside him. Keely made space for him to pass but the chef squatted close by, gazing out across the blighted little yard, all rings and fingernails and greasy curls, rubbing the burns and scars along his hands and forearms.

  What the fuck, Suds?

  Sorry?

  Are you insane?

  I hope not. Have I done something?

  Well, that’s cute.

  Just give me time to get this down and I’ll come in and fix it up, he said chugging his coffee.

  Hardy-fuckin-ha. What’ve you got, a death wish?

  I’m not with you, said Keely, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, properly rattled now.

  The events of last night. Ring a bell, Suds?

  Keely shook his head, set the glass down on the step beside him.

  You’re a smartarse, mate. I don’t like it.

  Maybe you could explain the problem.

  Chrissake, mate, don’t insult me.

  I actually don’t know what you’re talking about.

  A bloke gets dragged from the water last night at the sardine wharf.

  Okay. I’m listening.

  And just after midnight someone I know sees someone you know rolling by on a gurney in the A & E. All wet and untidy. Both his legs broken.

  You’re shitting me.

  I don’t need to be shitting you, mate. You need to be shitting yourself. You fucked it up.

  Keely swam to his feet. He gazed over Gypsy’s head to the flashes of movement in the kitchen, a rectangle of fluttering shadows, momentary visitations, blurs more abstract by the second.

  You think so?

  Well, Jesus, even this little scumbag’s got friends. The cops’ll be heartbroken he didn’t drown, but now they’ll have to show some kind of interest in who mowed him down.

  In a car?

  Ran him down. Into the water.

  Nothing to do with me.

  So why do you look like you’re about to pass a fucking kidney stone?

  Keely had nothing to say; he was too busy chasing his own thoughts.

  This is a bloody small town, said Gyspy. A village of village idiots. People talk.

  So let them.

  Those kids in there. They know you were asking about a certain couple of dipshits. And they sent you to me. But I need to stay sweet with old Bub. I can’t afford any trouble. So I’m not happy, Suds.

  Fair enough.

  You asked me, I didn’t know who you were talking about. Right?

  Alright.

  You’re just some derro off the street, I don’t know you, we only spoke the once.

  Keely shrugged.

  And if I were you I’d piss off. Or take steps.

  What kind of steps?

  Mate, I’m not even here, said Gypsy, getting to his feet and dusting himself off like some sort of potentate regaining the dignity of his station.

  Keely stood out in the yard. He stared at the coffee glass on the step, the jam-tin of butts, the row of fat drums, the wheelie bins, the big plastic skips.

  He wondered if Bub would let him go early, whether this in itself might attract attention. He had four hours to get through. Gemma and Kai would be locked in the flat, that was something. But he had no idea who was in traction and who was still out on the street. Whoever had gone into the drink last night had likely consented to a meeting, with someone known to them. Neither Stewie nor his noxious mate was likely to give the cops anything. They’d want to fix this themselves. But money would hardly be sufficient now. From here on this would be about revenge.

  He dug in behind the apron and pulled out his phone. His fingers were slippery and unsteady but he found the number.

  What is it? she said.

  You have to ask?

  No idea what you mean, she said.

  Kai alright?

  Bored, she said. I bloody hate Mario.

  Have you thought about … travelling? The key is still at my place.

  Thinkin about it.

  Don’t go anywhere till I get back, alright?

  Keely thumbed through a few sites. He had his own ideas about pissing off, but the other alternative – the taking steps business – that was another matter.

  He was halfway across the town hall square, heading for the Mirador at something just short of a trot, when he saw the figure in the shadow of the Moreton Bay fig. The man stood with his hands in the pockets of his trackpants looking busy doing nothing, the way some blokes could, and there was nothing out of the ordinary in the blue singlet, the Adidas pants, the lizard eyes or the tatts. There were always charmers here lurking to sell or floating to buy between the figs and the date palms. But this character gave off a malevolent interest that didn’t seem accidental. The twinge of fear quickened Keely’s pace a moment before he reined himself in, and then he was as angry as he was afraid.

  At the far edge of the square he stopped and turned. It seemed to him the man’s face was still angled his way, at this distance little more than a pale disc.

  Keely raised a hand in the unmistakeable shape of a pistol. Saw the man’s hands leave his pockets in alarm. Took aim. Mimed the discharge and recoil of a weapon. Blew imaginary smoke from the end of his index finger. Saw the stranger’s arms fall to his sides in shocked relief. Turned for home. Did not run.

  The lobby was empty. He went straight through to the rear door and into the car park, scanning the rows until he found the Hyundai wedged in the farthest corner. There was no point searching for any obvious signs of collision because every window was smashed and from front to back no panel had escaped a stomping. Three tyres flat and on the front hood, coiled like an adder, a human turd.

  He hurried to the relative shelter of the bike shed and called her. It was hard to keep the panic from his voice.

  Have you seen the car?

  What part of the car?

  Shit, Gemma.

  What?

  Well, travel just got harder. There is no car. It’s trashed.

  Fuckin Clappy. How does he even know?

  How do you think?

  Oh, Jesus Christ.

  Call the cops, he said. I’m begging you.

  You know that’s not gunna happen. Tom. Jesus. Help me.

  Stay there, he said. Don’t open the door to anyone. I’ll be back in an hour.

  He climbed down from the bus and oriented himself at the truck-snarled junction.

  It was brutally hot. Houses fronted by concrete lions gave way to factory units, discount furniture stores and machinery dealerships. He trudged east a hundred metres, still in his greasy shirt and half-dried pants, until he saw the window with all the steel bars. He
wiped his palms against his sleeves and pushed on the door.

  When he stepped inside a buzzer announced him and he saw the surveillance cameras. The tinny smell of light oil greeted him. For some absurd reason it reminded him of his mother’s ancient Singer sewing machine. And then of the old man’s Triumph, up on blocks in the shed.

  Ah, g’day, said the red-bearded bloke rising behind the glass counter.

  Yeah, said Keely. G’day there.

  Not since he’d stumbled into a sex shop in Amsterdam had he felt so self-conscious in a retail space. There were many more pictures of guns on display in this place than actual weapons, but as he approached the modest array in the case before him he felt a bilious mixture of shame and menace.

  Help you with something?

  Well, I dunno, he blurted. I was thinking about a pistol.

  Revolver or semi?

  Ah, semi, say.

  Just joined a club, then? the man asked indulgently.

  Club?

  Well, you don’t strike me as the farming type. Or enforcement, given we’re talking sidearm.

  Sorry, I’m not with you.

  Mate, you can’t bowl up cold and buy a pistol. Not in this country. Need to be a registered member of a club with six months’ standing, for one thing. After that, you need to apply for a licence from the cops and have your record vetted. But at least you’re over twenty-one, so that’s a start, eh.

  Keely blushed and offered a colicky grin.

  Yeah, he said at last. Point taken. I guess I was just after an idea.

  Of what they look like, or what they cost?

  Well, both, I guess.

  Research, then.

  Yeah, said Keely.

  Don’t spose you’ve heard of Google?

  Well, it’s just different, isn’t it? When you see them.

  It must be.

  Anyway, I think I’ve satisfied my curiosity.

  Well, said the gunsmith by way of dismissal. Glad to be of help.

  He caught the bus back to town, got out at the lurkers’ park beside the big pharmacy and went op-shopping. At the St Vincent de Paul store, in a box of used toys that reeked of disinfectant, he found a plastic Luger. Two brick-faced matrons at the till smiled kindly and sent him on his way with a recycled shopping bag and a few God-blesses. He made straight for the hobby shop. Bought a tin of Airfix paint the size of a cotton reel. Paid for it with his last shrapnel and made for home.

  * * *

  The lift yawned open. He rode to the top, stood outside her window until he saw the boy’s head pass behind the nylon curtain. He tapped the glass softly and Kai peered out. Keely gave him a thumbs up and the kid waved hesitantly, as if anxious about being discovered. When Keely made a silly face the boy produced a wan grin and let the curtain fall to.

  The faded red Luger – burred at the butt where some infant had gnawed it – was just a water pistol with a missing bung. He spread newspaper on the kitchen table and painted the thing blue-black and when he finished the job, set it aside and stood back, he saw it would never work. What the hell had he been thinking? Another hour wasted. He had to get them out of town. Tonight. As far as he could make out, Gemma or someone she knew had deliberately run a man down and pushed him into the harbour; that was no small thing. She’d do time for it, so there wasn’t a chance she’d go to the cops now; it’d mean relinquishing Kai to foster care.

  He dialled Doris but rang off before she answered. Then he called Gemma who picked up but said nothing.

  In the background the noise of the TV or the computer game, the squeal of tyres. Then the faintest sound of her weeping.

  I’m here, he said, for something to say. It’s only me.

  Christ, Tommy, she whispered.

  Whatever occurred last night, he said, there were reasons. You could explain it. If you went in and told them what’s been going on, it’d go in your favour. Doris could get you a kick-arse lawyer. And if anything … well, if it was necessary, even if it’s only a few days, we’d look after Kai, you know that. They’ll have you out on bail. Whatever happens we’d look after him, both of you.

  I can’t, she said. I fuckin can’t.

  We’d look after him, Gem.

  She’s an old lady, she hissed. And you think they’ll let you have him? You haven’t even had the job for a week. You’re a mess, Tom. I’ve seen you lookin at me. I know what you think. But you know what? Compared to you I’m doin orright.

  Yeah, he said. Apart from the fact that you can’t leave your flat and you’re wanted by the police.

  If you fuckin dob I’ll tell Clappy where your mum lives. I’m not kiddin.

  Keely sat down. He gazed at the sunset. It was unbearably beautiful.

  You hear me?

  You don’t mean that, he said as if saying it might convince him.

  Blood’s thicker than water.

  No.

  I’m serious. What else can I do?

  Well, you can think of your friends, he said. Because if blood’s thicker than water, you’re fucked. And so’s Kai.

  He hung up and stared at the stupid little toy on the table.

  The phone buzzed.

  Tommy, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I know you won’t tell.

  But now you can’t be sure, he said.

  No, she said. I trust you.

  He didn’t speak. It shamed him, hearing her say it. Scoured him no less than being told the truth, that he was not a fit person to be entrusted with the care of a child. What had she put her trust in but a falling man?

  Do you think Doris will have us back?

  Yes, he said, knowing it was true.

  Keely thought of the Volvo. Doris would give her the car, get her away, and bugger the consequences.

  Christ, Tommy.

  The sun flattened itself against the limpid sea. The sky was magnificent.

  I feel sick, she whispered.

  Pack some stuff. I need to talk to Doris. I’ll come by when I have something organized. Don’t call anyone.

  He hung up. And when he headed to the sink for a glass of water, one leg was heavy. His hands shook so much he had to set the tumbler down and rifle through what remained of his supplies. Needed something to iron him out. Rattled and faffed through sheets and packets. Everything shining evilly. Shook out what he could, gobbed a party-coloured handful, whatever it took.

  And then he packed a bag. Tried to be methodical.

  Time to call Doris. And also Bub. Wished his hands would settle down.

  Drank some more water. And nearly dropped the glass. He was rushing, too frantic. Needed to sit a moment. Get clear.

  And then he looked seaward and the sky was dark.

  Yes, he’d ask Bub for whatever he was owed, take him up on his offer of a loan. Go to Doris’s – no, call Doris. Maybe hitch the boat to the Volvo, sell it for cash at a yard along the highway. Use the money to buy a van. There was a line of them outside the station where backpackers offloaded them to get home. He had the keys to the place down south. Or Doris did. She’d collect them any minute. Be surprised to see the flat after all this time. She’d come through, and they’d slip away, stay south a while, keep going. He’d go with them or not go with them, he didn’t know yet. Better he got them away first. Couldn’t think past that, couldn’t think past the lowering dark. Really. Just couldn’t really. Think.

  The phone. It rang. And rang. From so far away.

  And after some time he got himself upright. But it had stopped.

  Then, on the floor beside the chair, the mobile began to flash, buzzing and shivering. He reached for it as if through moving water. Chased and seized it. Felt it buck like a fish. But let it breathe and wheeze against his ear. Like the sound of his little sister. He smelt Airfix paint, thought of the Spitfires and Typhoons he’d glued together in his room at Blackboy Crescent. The lanolin reek of a damp footy jumper, the Syd Jackson poster on the wardrobe door. If he closed his eyes he’d be there again. And he wanted to. Yes. Faith in the next ro
om. Doris and Nev talking quietly out on the porch. Everything good, all safe.

  Tom? Is it you?

  Yes, said Keely with a croak. And only then did he understand that it wasn’t Faith but Kai.

  Are you awake, Tom?

  Yeah, he said, though everything felt and sounded dreamy. Yes, I think so.

  But where are you?

  I’m here, he murmured, trying to straighten in the chair. At home.

  We didn’t know. We waited.

  Where’s Gemma? he asked, still confused. Because it was dark, so late.

  Sleeping, said the boy. She was cryin. But now she’s asleep.

  Good, he said. That’s good.

  She said you wouldn’t run away.

  And Keely remembered the packed bag. The trip south.

  Tom? Are you really there? Can I see?

  What’s wrong? Is something happening?

  Just, I had the dream. And I’m scared of falling back to sleep.

  But you must be tired. Hell, I’m tired. It’s only a dream, mate.

  The boy wheezed quietly. And there was a rushing noise behind him, as if he had the TV on; it sounded like static.

  It’s only a dream, Kai. It can’t hurt you, mate. It’s just a thing running through your head. It’s not real.

  Are you real?

  Of course, he said. But Keely no longer felt real.

  You’re really there? Can I see? Can you come out?

  Out where?

  Outside.

  Keely felt a jolt of fear and suddenly he was alert. Kai, where are you?

  On the balcony.

  Keely flailed at the air, found his feet. His head was water-logged, precarious on his neck. He hauled the slider open and tottered out. Three doors up, there he was, in the milky spill of city light, pale and bare-chested.

  Kai!

  I can see you, said the boy, waving.

  Go inside now. Please.

  Kai moved, but only to the rail. The bars divided his figure into vertical strips. One hand rested on the horizontal. And Keely’s gut fluttered. He was back in his own nightmare.

  Can I come over? Tom?

  Really, mate. I just need you to go inside before we do anything else.

  But Nan.

  We’ll whisper, alright? Let’s just get you inside and you lock the door and lie down on the couch and we’ll talk.