Ironbark

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Barry Jonsberg lives in Darwin, Australia. His first novel for young adults, The Whole Business with Kiffo and the Pitbull, was short-listed for the Children’s Book Council Book of the Year, Older Readers, in 2005. In 2006, its follow-up, It’s Not All About YOU, Calma! was short-listed for the CBCA awards, and won the Adelaide Festival Award for Children’s Literature. His third novel, Dreamrider, was short-listed in the NSW Premier’s Awards for the Ethel Turner prize in 2007. Barry Jonsberg’s books have been published in ten countries and translated into five languages. Ironbark is his fourth novel for young adults.

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praise for : THE WHOLE BUSINESS WITH KIFFO AND THE PITBULL ‘This is the best teen fiction I have read in years.’ The Age ‘An inspiring debut novel: simultaneously funny and wise. A+.’ Tony Wilson

IT’S NOT ALL ABOUT YOU, CALMA! ‘. . . a refreshing, gently layered novel [with] irreverence, pace, unselfconscious character and masterful use of language.’ Reading Time ‘Entertaining and thoroughly rewarding . . . Highly recommended.’ Australian Bookseller & Publisher

DREAMRIDER ‘Barry Jonsberg just keeps getting better and better.’ Sydney Morning Herald ‘Dreamrider is demanding, intense and is recommended for secondary students.’ Magpies

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IRONbARK Barr y Jonsberg

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First published in 2008 Copyright © Barry Jonsberg 2008 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act. Allen & Unwin 83 Alexander Street Crows Nest NSW 2065 Australia Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100 Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218 Email: [email protected] Web: www.allenandunwin.com National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry: Jonsberg, Barry, 1951– . Ironbark. ISBN 978 1 74114 9555 I. Title. A823.4 Design by Ellie Exarchos Set in 10.7/16 Apollo by Midland Typesetters, Australia Printed by McPherson’s Printing Group 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Notes for teachers are available from www.allenandunwin.com

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For Vonni and Arne

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I’m miserable and sixteen. In that order. We are taking the night ferry and Bass Strait is cutting up rough. So is Dad. He can’t get a cabin at short notice. He asks at the ticket office and some dude with bad hair and a goatee gives him the flick. Absolutely guaranteed to rattle Dad’s cage, big time. Rejection doesn’t figure on his radar unless he’s dishing it out. So once we’re on the boat, he corners a guy in a white suit trimmed with fancy braid at regular intervals. Dad gives him the full finger-wagging routine: the I’ve-got-anArmani-suit-and-you’re-a-piece-of-excrement-in-fancy-dress treatment. Maybe he’s hoping the guy’ll evict a couple of random tourists or build an extension. Whatever. He gets the brush-off there, as well. Normally I’d laugh, but I’m too depressed. So we sit in reclining seats that don’t recline and I concentrate on keeping the contents of my stomach safe. At around three in the morning, I get an urge to spew – preferably all over Dad’s suit – but I can’t be bothered. I doze instead. 1

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When we land, the world feels like it’s still rocking. We drive in silence. Not one of those silences like the ones in old movies where they glance at each other periodically with warm, companionable smiles, but the kind tinged around the edges with conflict. So I plug in my iPod, crank it up loud and watch the Tasmanian scenery unroll. In about thirty seconds we’ve left the town behind. They’ve got car parks in Melbourne that are bigger than this fleapit. And then we’re on a country road, deserted except for the odd Kombi van every twenty minutes. It looks to me like it’s the same Kombi van. After a while, I’m glad to see it. A welcome break from trees. There are trees everywhere. I never knew there were so many trees in the world. There probably aren’t that many trees in the world. I reckon it’s a special effect. For nearly two hours Dad swings around hairpin bends like he’s been doing it all his life. We climb one mountain after another, along roads that switch back on themselves so alarmingly I worry we’re going to disappear up our own bum-holes. Eventually, he sweeps onto a dirt track that stretches forever, followed by a clearing, two run-down shacks, a barking dog and a wrinkled dude sitting on a battered chair. Dad pulls up in a cloud of grey dust and waits for it to settle. The dog barks. The wrinkled dude sits. When Dad decides it’s safe to expose his threads to the Tasmanian air he gets out, brushing imaginary specks from his suit. The dog barks. The old guy sits. 2

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Dad stands beside the car, as inconspicuous as poo in a punch bowl. I get my gear from the boot. No one says anything. Finally, the dog loses interest, plops its sorry backside under the old dude’s chair and falls asleep. Most excitement for a decade, I reckon. Then Dad – I swear to God – nods at the ancient geezer and the ancient geezer nods back. I splutter laughing and that wakes the dog up. Briefly. I tell ya. The suit and the antique specimen. I’m struck by a vague memory of someone on TV referring to their in-laws as ‘outlaws’ and the canned laughter is way out of proportion. But for Dad and his father-in-law, right there in the middle of the Tasmanian forest, it’s kinda appropriate. They’re a pair of tired outlaws, nodding at each other like macho losers. I lug my bag over to the main shack and think about joining in with the general nodding. But I don’t. Finally, Dad speaks. It’s a relief to know someone can. ‘I appreciate it,’ he says. Granddad nods. Nodding is his strong suit. ‘Sure,’ he says in a voice long past its use-by date. ‘I’ll be off, then,’ says Dad and we all go in for more nodding. Then he eases into the leather of the BMW and restarts the engine. The window purrs down and he gives me this serious look. ‘You know what you need to do,’ he says. ‘I expect you to follow the program exactly. Do you understand?’ I nod. It seems to be the custom in these parts. Then he’s away, with a hint of wheel spin and another cloud of dust. 3

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I stand for a while, watching the space he’s left, listening to the silence descend. Tasmania. Notorious for nature, wine, cheese and a history of housing the dregs of the criminal classes, the worst of the worst. A prison of sea and forest, crammed with pain and suffering. Not much has changed, I reckon. I turn on my mobile, but there’s no signal. Of course there isn’t. For a moment I get a thrumming in my ears – the sound of blood pulsing round my system. This is great. Just great. I almost get the urge to laugh. Almost. I’ve been here five seconds and it’s a disaster already. Once – and I don’t know why; don’t ask me – I watched this feeble reality TV show where a bunch of yuppies tried to live like nineteenth-century settlers. You know the routine: making shelters out of ironbark, stringy-bark, whateverthe-hell-sort-of-bark, starting fires by rubbing two wombats together, eating invertebrates, that kinda thing. I’m living the nightmare. For starters, there’s no electricity. Well, not proper electricity. Granddad has rigged up solar panels and there’s a tangle of wires ending in switches that look like they’re recycled from car parts. Pushing in an old cigarette lighter gizmo sparks up a tiny fluoro light. But that’s it. Not enough juice to power a proper appliance. No television, no stereo. Just an old radio that runs on batteries and that’s as high-tech as it gets. The water is brown. Apparently, it gets pumped from a 4

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nearby dam. I don’t know how, with no electricity, but it dribbles from the taps and stains the chipped sink. There’s an outside dunny with only two walls. You stand with your old fella in your hand and stare at the trees, hoping no one will stroll past. Unlikely. We are wedged firmly in the butt cheeks of the world. At least there is a cistern and it flushes the same brown water. The drinking stuff comes from a rainwater tank. It’s reasonably clear and I can’t actually see things swimming in it. I try not to think about the water running down rusted roofs, along guttering filled with possum droppings. I wonder what odds I’d get on the presence of filtering systems, but in the end I don’t want to go there. I’ve gone back in time. A hundred years. Minimum. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Like I say, I stand and listen as the forest swallows the sound of Dad’s engine. Then it’s as if he has never been. I turn towards the wrinkled dude on the chair. His eyes are fixed some place in the distance. Maybe some other time in the distance. I sit next to him. There’s nothing else to do. My grandfather. My jailer. He’s just another stranger with his own agenda. ‘So, what do you do for entertainment around here, Gramps?’ I ask. A muscle twitches at the corner of his eye and I know he doesn’t like being called ‘Gramps’. I file the information away. ‘Entertainment?’ he says, rolling the word like it’s in a 5

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foreign language. He turns his eyes towards me, all watery and flecked with red. Old man’s eyes. I can tell he resents my presence and I’ve only been here six nanoseconds. It’s like he’s real reluctant to share his patch of bugger-all with anyone, let alone a sixteen-year-old from another planet. I wait, but he must’ve forgotten the question because he doesn’t say anything else. I wasn’t holding my breath for a sensible answer anyway. I fish a packet of cigarettes from my bag and light up. I don’t offer him one because a) I haven’t got many left and b) it’s just the devil in me. I’ll need more soon. You don’t have to be Einstein to figure that 7-11s are thin on the ground out here. I have no idea what the go is with shopping. For all I know, Gramps is self-sufficient, chomping root vegetables straight from the ground and chasing down the odd wallaby. Then I remember we will have to go into town in the next couple of days for me to report to the cop shop. I reckon I’ve got enough smokes to last a couple of days. ‘I’m going for a walk,’ I say. ‘I’m meant to go for bushwalks regularly. Part of the program.’ ‘Why?’ asks Granddad. It’s a good question. Trouble is, I’m wobbly on the answer. ‘Supposed to be good for me.’ I wave my hand in a vague way. ‘Peace, tranquillity and all that guff. So’s listening to music. Soothing the savage beast, you know? And writing, apparently. We just need a rock concert in the middle of the forest for me to hike to and write about and I reckon I’m cured.’ 6

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Granddad doesn’t reply and I can’t blame him. I wouldn’t reply to that garbage either. So I get to my feet and head off through this random rickety gate. It looks like Granddad might have whittled it. There’s about a hundred k of fencing surrounding the two shacks. God knows why, unless it’s the final touch in the penitentiary motif. I walk along the track that brought me here. It’s as good a direction as any and I can’t get lost. After a couple of minutes, I round a bend and there is nothing but trees, stretching to infinity. My stomach has nearly settled after all the travelling, but I still have the urge to throw up. I keep walking. Scenery scrolls past me on an endless loop. I walk a long way, find a trickle of a waterfall and sit for a few hours, smoking. I’m hoping the change of scene will bring a couple of bars of signal on my phone, but it looks like I’ve got more chance of finding a Maccas in the next clearing. It’s kind of peaceful here. Not that I’m a scenery sort of person, but never let it be said I can’t adapt. I watch insects skim the water, small flashes of brilliant colour. Birds are kicking up all around, their songs mingling. It’s weird. After a while I can detect individual songs, probably individual birds. It’s a worry. If I spend too much time here, I could turn into one of those fossils you see on the Discovery Channel spouting about red-throated, lesserspotted river warblers. Not that I watch Discovery. I’m just using my imagination. 7

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There’s one birdsong that sounds human. I swear. I listen for a while and it’s as if someone is out there, hiding in the trees and moaning. And that’s when I get the feeling I’m being watched. I know. Sad. Too many B-grade horror movies, probably. But there’s this low moaning and a feeling in the small of my back, an itch of eyes on me. I saw this old movie once. Deliverance. It was about these dudes who get caught up in a wilderness area, not too dissimilar to the one I’m in. They’re being tracked by inbred hillbillies. It was fairly scary, actually. So I can’t get this feeling out of my mind. That there’s someone out there with a hatchet or something, watching. I even reckon I can hear a sound, way off in the distance, like an axe thudding into wood. I could be shredded into fish bait and it would be years before anyone’d find me. You get the impression Jesus was a little tacker the last time anyone set foot around here. Anyway, there’s nothing like feeling you’re being watched by a homicidal maniac to ruin the one-with-nature experience, so I start the long haul back. Trouble is, I can’t resist the urge to keep looking over my shoulder. A few times I think I hear twigs snapping, and once, off to my right, I see the dense shrub move like something is pushing through it. An over-active imagination can be a curse, take it from me. I can’t shift the notion I’m being tracked. When I get back to the shacks, face lumpy with mozzie bites, it’s cold and dark and I’m happy to be inside. Some way short of deliriously happy, mind you. Granddad is 8

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setting the table as though I’d made a reservation. A wood stove has made the room toasty. Don’t get me wrong. I’m still miserable, but hunger and cold can make you grateful for small mercies. See, I’ve learned something already. How’s that for personal development? Granddad can cook. Slightly. The steak was clearly good quality before he fried it for two hours and turned it to leather. The broccoli is mush, but the sweet potatoes are almost edible. We eat in silence. I try not to watch Granddad. I know it will be kinda gross, all loose lips and . . . Anyway, the wet smacking sounds he makes are enough for me. I focus on my plate and ignore the onset of lockjaw that comes with chewing the steak. When we finish, Granddad scrapes the remnants into a bucket. ‘Water’ll be hot, now,’ he says. ‘Wear the yellow gloves. No thermostat here. Close to boiling.’ He takes the bucket and shuffles out. I guess I’ve been nominated for the dishwashing. Must have missed that discussion, and the vote. The water is brown and hotter than molten steel. The gloves are definitely not my colour and they don’t complement my outfit, but I pull them on and resist the urge to hunt for an apron. I’m not convinced the water will make the dishes any cleaner, but I scrape and scrub and rinse. At least there’s no drying duty. These puppies are dry after about ten seconds on the draining board. I peel off the gloves with the satisfaction of a job well done. 9

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Granddad is sitting on his chair on the verandah. I find another saggy specimen with one loose leg and drag it close. He’s lit three humungous candles and the air is sweet with citronella. It makes the dark darker somehow. We sit in a pool of yellow light and beyond it the night is solid. ‘Beer?’ he says. ‘Sure.’ Granddad gets up, all slow and deliberate, and disappears into the darkness behind the house, returning five minutes later with two cold stubbies of Boag’s Draught. I pull out a smoke. We sit for a while, chugging on the beer in manly silence. Eventually, Granddad clears his throat and I suspect a conversation is looming. ‘So what exactly did you do?’ ‘Sorry?’ ‘To get sent here.’ ‘Dad didn’t tell you?’ ‘Nothing specific. Said you were in a mess and needed a time out.’ I snort. That’s typical of Dad. He never gives up more than he needs to. A tight sphincter, whichever way you look at him. ‘And you didn’t ask for details?’ I say. ‘Didn’t want to pry.’ ‘You are a prince among men, dude.’ ‘So what did you do?’ ‘You didn’t want to pry with Dad but it’s not a problem with me?’ 10

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‘Keep your hair on. Just asking is all.’ I try to roll my eyes up so there’s plenty of white showing and put on this husky American accent, like the voice-over in horror movie trailers. ‘Don’t get me angry, Gramps. You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.’ I can be fairly sad at times. I’m the first to admit it. Well, I think it’s funny, but Granddad doesn’t respond. There’s a three-minute silence, then he chips in with, ‘Not sure if I like you when you’re not angry.’ That cracks me up. I finish the Boag’s and drop the ciggie butt into it. I wave the empty about in an expressive fashion, but Granddad doesn’t offer me another. I’ll buy my own stash when we go shopping. You can’t rely on freebies, particularly from an old codger. Seems like I’ve killed the conversation, though, which apparently suits Granddad. He doesn’t even clear his throat. We sit there, a couple of candle-lit statues, and I’m wondering how long I can put up with this when there’s a clumping and scuffling from the darkness. Close. I lean forward and hear it again. ‘Wallabies,’ says Granddad. He reaches down and pulls out this hardcore torch, points it into the night. A pool of light shows two wallabies sitting outside the fence, their eyes demon-red. Granddad sweeps the beam and there are others, all along the perimeter. ‘Reason for the fence,’ he says. ‘Not that it keeps ’em out. Bastards’ll be in during the night, having a go at my vegies.’ 11

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‘Language, dude,’ I say. He stares at me, his face a puzzled maze of wrinkles. ‘What?’ he says. ‘The B word, Gramps. Unnecessary. And apt to stir up feelings of aggression.’ I like the word ‘apt’. Got it from some random counsellor in Melbourne and I try to use it whenever I can. He chews on that, washes it down with the last of his Boag’s and the silence gathers again. I feel a twinge of guilt, so I try to kick-start the stalled dialogue. ‘How do they get in?’ I say. ‘The wallabies, I mean. Dig a tunnel?’ Granddad stares at me again like I’m some kind of idiot. ‘They jump,’ he says. ‘They’re wallabies. That’s what wallabies do. Jump.’ I get this wild vision of wallabies queuing up outside the fence, poles in their stubby little forearms, vaulting over the fence. I haven’t got the energy to share it. Granddad whistles and the scruffy dog prises itself from under the verandah. I’d forgotten about it, to be honest. It kinda staggers into the pool of light like a reluctant star. The mutt, it has to be said, is a sad-looking beast. Used to be a border collie, I guess, before old age and hair loss and rheumatism took their toll. It looks up at Granddad like he’s some kind of god. Big, watery eyes filled with devotion. The dog and Granddad. Gramps ruffles him behind the ear and then flicks his fingers towards the fence. The dog lurches off. His back leg – at least one – 12

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looks crook as hell. He gives a half-hearted bark and the wallabies scatter, the glowing red dots of their eyes blinking out. The thud of legs is distant thunder. The dog limps back, looking pretty proud of his performance, and slumps at Granddad’s feet. He pants as if he’s just rounded up all the sheep in Tassie. The dog, I mean. Not Granddad. Though he does a bit of panting too. ‘Does that work?’ I ask. ‘Keep the critters away?’ ‘Nope,’ says Granddad. ‘Doesn’t work a good goddamn.’ Silence settles again. ‘Plenty of wildlife round here, I guess.’ It’s not a profound remark, I know, but I throw it in nonetheless. ‘I guess.’ ‘Must get spooky at night. I mean, them eyes. A whole row of red dots surrounding you. Doesn’t it freak you out?’ ‘Nope. Them’s just wallabies. And the noises in the night. Devils. We get plenty round here, specially if something’s died in the bush. Rowdy buggers. Pests. Then there’s wombats, echidnas. Possums, of course. It’s noisy here, in the middle of nowhere. You’ll get used to it.’ I want to tell him I don’t want to get used to it, that if I want to see wildlife I’ll go to the Melbourne Zoo. Not likely, of course. Not in this lifetime. But I’m thinking about that feeling I got in the forest, of something following me, and I want to track down some information. ‘Anything dangerous out there, dude? I don’t mean spiders and snakes and stuff. I mean, anything large that’s liable to knock you down and eat your entrails.’ 13

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Granddad looks at me like he’s considering promoting me from idiot to fully paid-up retard. ‘What?’ he says. ‘Like a crocodile?’ ‘Hey, dude,’ I say in this hurt tone. ‘Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, man. I mean, I’m from the mainland. I don’t know the local fauna like you do.’ Granddad leans back in his chair. The hairs escaping from his battered old nose are bathed in the yellow candlelight. Shadows play around his face, carving out fissures and cracks, revealing dried, leathery skin. Age has beat him up bad. He gazes into the night with his big old watery eyes and breathes deeply. The hairs in his nose vibrate like crazy. ‘There’s nothing out there to worry about,’ he says finally, but he’s taken so long to dredge up the comment that I can’t help but think there’s more to it. Then again, he’s clearly constipated when it comes to words, so it doesn’t prove anything. ‘There is something out there, then?’ I say. Jeez, talk about pushing a conversation uphill. ‘Even if it’s nothing to worry about.’ ‘Well . . . who really knows what’s out there? Whole areas in Tasmania have never been visited by white men. Maybe by any men. So, if it’s never been explored, we can’t know for sure what’s there.’ I can’t fault his logic. Anyway, some kind of conversational dam has been breached because he’s off again with barely a pause for breath. 14

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‘Coupla years back I saw something on this mountain that everyone reckons is impossible . . .’ What mountain? I think. All I could see today was trees. How could you hide a mountain? Then it hits me: if there is a mountain, it might be the answer to my mobile phone problem. By the time I’ve given this consideration, Granddad has moved on apace and I have to do some catching up on the verbals. ‘. . . plain as the nose on your face. Saw the stripes and everything. Stood in the clearing for . . . oh, must’ve been twenty, thirty seconds. Then it lifts its head, sniffs the air and, whoomf, gone.’ ‘Whoa, man,’ I say. ‘Are you pulling my old fella? You saw a Tassie tiger? Two years ago?’ ‘Yup. And them thylacines extinct for near on seventy years. Apparently no one told them they were extinct. Makes you think, doesn’t it? If there’s one impossible thing out there, why not more?’ I love all this true life mystery stuff. I lap up those pay TV programs. Of course, it’s odds-on that what was tracking me through the forest was a wallaby with insomnia, but what else is there to do around here but speculate? Then Granddad goes and ruins it. ‘I hear voices, you know,’ he says. ‘Right in the middle of the day. They tell me things.’ I light another cigarette. ‘Those wallabies don’t come in for any special kinda plants in your vegie patch, do they, Gramps? You know, 15

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spiky-leaved specimens, pretty good when you dry ’em out and smoke ’em?’ It’s a long shot, but, hey, you never know. Granddad ignores it, though. He turns those swimming eyes on me instead. ‘Do ya believe in angels?’ I nearly choke on my smoke. ‘What? Big dudes in white. Sprouty wings. Sort of dead? Let me think . . . Nah.’ ‘Guardian angels. Spirits that watch over you.’ ‘Oh, them kinda angels. Let me think . . . Nah. Don’t believe in them either.’ I mean, I know I said I was into mystery and the imagination, but I do have standards. Of sorts. Granddad doesn’t react. He just sits there, the hairs up his nose thrashing around in all available directions. I’m almost relieved the silence is back. We sit in it for a couple of minutes and I feel the creeping onset of hypothermia in my extremities. I tell ya. It’s colder than a penguin’s armpit out here. ‘Hey, Gramps,’ I say. ‘It’s nearly eight-thirty. Doesn’t time fly when you’re having fun? Better grab some zees; be fresh for another roller-coaster ride tomorrow, huh?’ Truth is, I’ve got to start this journal and I’m not looking forward to it. Plus, if my English homework is anything to go by it’s gonna take me a couple of hours to get a paragraph down. Actually, if my English homework is anything to go by, I’ll never get a word on paper. But that’s not an option. That has been made very plain to me. 16

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Granddad doesn’t say anything, just hands me the torch. I carry my bag across the clearing to my ‘room’, and stand for a while on the rickety planks that pass for a verandah. The door to the shack is one of those craggy wooden things with an old-fashioned latch of heavy timber, the kind you see in medieval movies with dungeons and random knights in clanking armour. I open up and go in. I have no idea what to expect, but I have to admit I’m pleasantly surprised. For one thing, there’s a fire and the room is warm. Makes me wonder what I was doing freezing my rectum off outside with Granddad when I could have been in here developing hot flushes. And there’s a light switch – another car-parts contraption – that operates a tiny fluoro by the bed. The double bed is made up with heavy-duty blankets. A couple of battered chairs, a table. Look, it’s not Holiday Inn, but it’s better than I was expecting. Just one room. No bathroom. I’m buggered if I’ll use the outside dunny in the night. If I need to point percy at the porcelain, I’ll use the big one outside. Just the thought makes me want to get rid of the Boag’s, so I nip outside and around the corner. It’s pitch-black and I can hear the thump and scuffle of wallabies, almost certainly practising their high-jump manoeuvres. Overhead the Milky Way snakes across the sky. There are stars everywhere. It’s as if some madman has taken a brush, loaded it with white paint and flicked it across a huge black canvas. No moon, though, and I have to be careful not to drench my Etnies, 17

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which is tricky with my hands trembling with cold and other parts of my anatomy shrivelling at the prospect of being exposed to the raw Tasmanian night air. Back inside I pull out an exercise book and a pen from the side pocket of my bag, place them neatly on the old wooden table and rig up the torch to spotlight the book, so I can see what I’m doing. Trust me, I’m incredibly aware of how sad this all is. A journal. How peachy. Maybe I should cover it with special adhesive paper featuring a boy band or a random assortment of cute felines and write my name in bubble writing with sparkly gel pens. The more I think about it, the more depressed I get. But this has to be done. So I open to the first page and just write. I don’t think about what I’m writing. That wasn’t part of the deal. And if it’s writing they want, then it’s writing I’ll give them. No one said anything about quality and I don’t want to waste any more time on this than strictly necessary. Someone – who knows, I can’t remember – said I should write about what happened. But no one understands. I’ve told a million people. A million times. And I don’t understand. Maybe everyone reckons I’m lying. I’m not. I don’t think I am. How weird. How weird when you don’t know the truth of things yourself. But I’ll try. I’ll tell what I think I remember. What other people said happened. Things are mixed. Truth and memory and imagination. Boundaries blurred. 18

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The hell of it is, I didn’t want a burger. That’s one thing I can swear to. The owners of the joint went ballistic, like they’re a serious restaurant with a serious reputation. Hah. Maybe. If greasy fries and wafer-thin patties of dubious meat turn you on. They should pay me to eat there, rather than the other way round. Even then . . . Kris wanted a burger. What Kris wants, Kris gets. We queued. That’s another thing. For a fast food place, it’s as slow as . . . hell, I can’t think what it’s as slow as. Queues of sixty people. Staff moving as if they’re a hundred and fifteen years old. Instead of twelve. Acne blooming in the haze of oily smoke. Can you catch acne from an acne-polluted burger? If I think about this too much I get angry. Kris shuffled forward in line. She was wearing short shorts. Showing a sweet curve of cheek. It’s a big no-no at school. Anything like that is a no-no at school. They want us to behave as if we’re fifty and tired of living. Anyway, Kris. She keeps a change of clothes in her bag. Cute as hell, Kris. And knows it. So when she walks, she swings her hips. Very annoying. Bordering on phoney. But the reaction of guys cracks me up. Eyes on stalks. Jaws hitting the floor. Kris is well stacked too. We inched forward. Then this dude behind me said, ‘She should get a burger to go with that shake.’ 19

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That wasn’t when I got angry. I don’t think it was. Just turned and fixed him with a withering glance. I’m a black belt at withering glances. Fourth dan. I practise it. And I said, ‘What did you say?’ Calm. Quiet. True, different inside. Blood thumping in my veins. A warning sign, all right, but it wasn’t so bad I needed to self-talk. I was way in control. So he looked at me like I was something brown and smelly. Something in a gutter with flies around it. And he said, ‘I wasn’t talking to you, mate.’ The ‘mate’ was liquid sarcasm. It dripped all over the floor. Even then . . . I could have handled it. But he turned to a seriously ugly chick next to him and said, ‘Is there a foul smell around here, or is it just me?’ From that point? Well, nothing much filed in the memory banks. Next thing, there’s a fat copper sitting on me. My face smashed into the floor tiles. My arms wrenched up to my shoulder blades. Getting cuffed. Then the fat cop dragged me to my feet. He didn’t try very hard to be gentle. Didn’t try at all. I looked around as he hauled me away. They said at the court hearing I did thirty thousand dollars worth of damage. Where do they get sums like that? Someone makes it up. Thirty grand? No way. I guess they ramped up the costs as much as possible. 20

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To screw Dad into the ground. Fair enough. I’d do the same if I had the chance. But the joint was a mess. Burgers and cola cups all over the place. Smashed tables. Seems I even managed to uproot some chairs – the ones bolted to the floor so you can’t adjust them, even though they’re uncomfortable. Why do they do that? Who’d want to steal them? There was a clear space of about six metres around me. Then a solid crowd. Faces all turned to me. No one said anything. You’d expect some people to laugh or jeer when someone’s getting handcuffs slapped on. Not a whisper. I saw the guy who’d been behind me in the queue. Blood all over his face. Behind him, the ugly chick. I remember the expression on her face. Scared. Really scared. Of me. That was strange. I didn’t see Kris at all. The worst bit was seeing this family. The cops dragged me past them. A mum and dad and a little girl, about five or six. She was clutching one of those stupid plastic toys they have in meals for rugrats and she was staring at me and crying and tears were running down her cheeks. But she wasn’t making a sound. Not a sound. As the cops hauled me past, the dad grabbed the girl. Hid her behind his legs. Like I was an infectious disease. 21

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I play that scene in my mind and freeze-frame her face. I don’t know whether to be terrified or sad. I don’t want to write any more tonight. It depresses me. I close the exercise book. I should probably read it over, but I can’t be bothered. The heat from the fire is making me drowsy. I haven’t brushed my teeth, but I’d have to use the tap in the outside dunny or the main shack and I don’t have the energy. I’ll clean them in the morning. As I stick the toothbrush back into my toiletry bag, my hands close on a pill bottle. I open it and shake one capsule into my hand. I can see the tears running down the face of the little girl. I shake the rest of the tablets out. The cold air hits me like a fist. You’ve got to give Granddad credit. My shack can’t be too leaky – it certainly keeps the heat in and the cold out. I shuffle down to the fence, scanning the ground with the torch so I don’t stick my foot into a hole and break my leg. With my luck it’s almost a certainty. As I get close to the fence I hear the wallabies scattering. I don’t even break stride. I cast my hand back and fling the tablets in a wide arc as far into the trees as I can. It would be cool to say that I hear them pattering into the foliage like raindrops, but I don’t. I stand for a while and breathe the cold air into my lungs. I’ve crossed a bridge. If I’m gonna defeat this thing, I’m gonna have to do it without the drugs. I should be scared, but I’m not. For once, I feel free. It’s then, right then, that I feel it. The pressure of eyes on me. There, in the pitch dark, in the middle of nowhere. 22

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I raise the torch and direct the beam into the bush. I don’t even have to move it from side to side. Because I know exactly where they will be. The red eyes stare back at me and they don’t move. It’s a wallaby, I tell myself. A wallaby that doesn’t scare easily. But I know it isn’t. I back away, moving slowly towards the shack. I don’t take the beam off the eyes. And they don’t move. They don’t blink. I stumble when my heels hit the verandah, but I manage to get up the three steps. I turn quickly to unlatch the door and when I turn back the eyes have gone. I swing the torch beam from side to side, but there’s nothing there. I close the door and jam the back of the chair up against the knob. It’s too hot for the blanket on the bed, so I take it off and drape it over the window, which has a curtain rod across the top of it, but no actual curtains. There is no way I’m taking the chance of anything looking in at me while I sleep. I’m shaking as I get into bed. There’s a post embedded in the wall at the side of the bedhead. It’s a log that hasn’t been turned. As if it’s just come from the forest. I get my pocketknife from a side compartment of my bag. I carefully carve a one into the wood. Maybe I’ve watched too many movies about guys banged up in jail, but I feel better when I’ve done it. I try not to think about eyes in the forest or little girls with wet cheeks. But it’s weird. There is one thing, completely unimportant, that I can’t stop thinking about. 23

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After the fast food business, I wasn’t identified in the local newspaper. It said the boy could not be named for legal reasons, because I was a minor. I think that’s good. It should apply all over. Not identified for legal reasons. It’s the last thing I’m thinking about as I drop off to sleep.

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I’m woken by a thin sunbeam turning the inside of my eyelids pink. When I open my eyes it takes a moment or two to make sense of what’s around me. The unfamiliar room, a drift of grey ashes in a fireplace, a chair wedged under a doorknob. I blink against the light streaming through the window. The blanket must have fallen off the curtain rod some time in the night. I remember why I put it up there. I remember why I blocked the door with the chair. Dumb, dumb, dumb. It’s weird the way the morning light cuts through scary stuff. My grandmother once said that darkness eggs on the imagination, but light smacks it on the bottom and tells it to grow up. Actually she didn’t say that. But she might have. It’s the kind of thing grandmothers say. Scared of a wallaby, huh? I check my mobile on the off-chance a random gang of workmen rocked up in the middle of the night and built a transmitter tower in the forest. Turns out they didn’t 25

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because the phone is still flatlining. But I have an idea. And that doesn’t happen every day. I go to the outside dunny with my toiletry bag in hand. Turning on the tap over the cracked washbasin – there’s only one tap, and it doesn’t inspire confidence – I listen to it dry retch for a while. Then it splurts a few times and finally a thin trickle of brownish water appears. I turn it off, dry-brush my teeth and examine the strange contraption Granddad has built next to the dunny. It’s got this small solar heating panel, a maze of pipes, a rusty shower head and views of various clearings among the surrounding forest. I give my armpits a quick sniff. Listen, it’s not a bed of roses there, but I’m not completely desperate. We are talking a small solar panel, not much sun and too many trees. I can’t find Granddad anywhere. I check the main shack and find a bowl of rapidly setting porridge. He’s not in his bedroom. Neither is Goldilocks. I go around the shacks to the vegetable gardens, but everywhere I go is where he’s not. Finally, I track him down at the back of the property, outside the fence. Well, not strictly the back of the property, since apparently he owns close to a hundred acres, but it all merges into the State Forest and he doesn’t have a marked boundary as such. Makes you wonder how he knows what is his property and what isn’t. Probably doesn’t care. Dad would. He’d have it all fenced off, down to the last square centimetre. State-of-the-art security measures, guards in treetop turrets with machine guns to waste any 26

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unsuspecting rambler who accidentally breached his boundary. Dad believes in property. There are sheds out here. Actually, rickety old lean-tos. And there’s also a beat-up old ute, a hardcore tractor and a motorbike – a 250 that’s seen better days. I nearly defecate when I see all this technology. It’s confirmation I’m still in the twenty-first century and haven’t got stuck in some time warp. I give the motorbike a good eyeballing, but I don’t say anything to Granddad, who’s tinkering with a pile of machinery. He turns around with this serious chainsaw in his hands. ‘Know how to use one of these?’ he asks. ‘Let me guess, Gramps,’ I reply. ‘There’s a mutant hillbilly family over the rise and a blood feud that goes back generations. We are going to visit and even up a score or two?’ He just looks at me. ‘Well,’ I say. ‘I’ve seen it done on the telly.’ Granddad grunts, as if I’ve broken wind in church. He lashes the chainsaw to the back of the tractor, eases up into the seat and cranks the engine over. It coughs and splutters before firing with a big belch of diesel fumes. ‘Follow me,’ he yells over the noise, and reverses the monster out of the lean-to. ‘And a good morning to you, too,’ I mutter. He takes off along a bush track and I trudge behind. Actually, I wanted directions to the top of the mountain. 27

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I have this notion that the higher I go the more chance I’ve got of getting a signal. I also have no idea if it’s true. But Granddad doesn’t look in the mood for negotiation and I figure I’d better keep him as sweet as possible. I thought earning your keep went out sometime after World War II. The tractor goes surprisingly fast and I have to quicken my steps. It’s still fairly early in the morning, but the sun is cranking up and I’m covered in sweat after about five minutes. Finally, Granddad stops the tractor by this huge fallen tree that has a big nest of roots sticking up to the level of my head. Granddad frees the chainsaw and sizes up the tree. He pulls the cord and the chainsaw buzzes into life. He slices that puppy up, I can tell you. I sit on a log and watch him. He might be older than God’s dog, but there’s power in those stringy muscles. In no more than ten minutes there’s a heap of logs. The air is sweet with the smell of resin. He’s a piece of work, I guarantee it. He wipes sweat from his forehead and nods towards the tractor. ‘Your turn,’ he says. ‘Load ’em up.’ There’s this kind of trailer arrangement on the back of the tractor and it takes me longer to fill it with the logs than it took him to cut them. My arm muscles are aching like crazy and I have to take off my shirt, I’m sweating so much. We head off back to the homestead, him way in the lead with the tractor and me strolling along behind. I’m looking forward to a cold glass of water, but then I remember there’s no town water and no refrigerator. I light up instead 28

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and note I’m down to fourteen smokes. I need to get this organised. Granddad tilts the tractor tray and dumps the logs just outside the fence. He turns off the engine and eases himself down. ‘Ever split logs?’ he asks. ‘Not on the TV. In real life?’ Yeah right. In Melbourne? But I just shake my head. ‘This here’s a blockbuster,’ he says, pulling out a serious metal wedge – like an axe on steroids – from a pile of junk by the lean-to. ‘You put the log on the stump, like so, and whack the hell out of it. Shouldn’t be a problem for a fit fella like you.’ I get the feeling he’s extracting the urine. That’s cool. ‘The fire in your room last night was courtesy of me. The rest of ’em is your responsibility.’ ‘Can’t we just get a delivery?’ I say, but he ignores me and shuffles back to the house. I hate to admit it, but splitting logs is fun. At first, I get the axe-thing stuck in a log and have to lift it all up, axe and log together, and bring it down again. I come close to tearing a few muscles. Then I work out where to hit it, along the grain. I find a rhythm and after a while my body slots into it. There’s something satisfying about a clean hit and seeing the wood split sweetly. Before I know it, I slice through a log in about three hits. Don’t get me wrong. I haven’t found my mission in life or anything. But it’s okay. For an outdoorsy thing. I stack the split logs onto the woodpile inside the fence. 29

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There’s enough there to last . . . well, I don’t know how long, but there’s gotta be at least five days worth of serious pyromania. I’ve developed a raging thirst and my arms feel like they’re filled with lead, so I wander over to the main shack. Granddad is sitting on the verandah, of course, gazing into the distance. The rickety chair is still beside him, so I sit as well. If I’m expecting words of praise for my efforts, then I can forget it. In fact, he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even clear his throat, so I have to make the first move. ‘Well, I’ve nailed those suckers,’ I say. ‘What now?’ ‘I’m going for a nap,’ says Granddad. ‘You do what you like.’ Grumpy old sphincter. ‘I thought I might try to get to the top of this mountain you mentioned,’ I say. ‘Assuming it’s not, like, a serious mountain or anything. The kind where you need an oxygen mask and a random Sherpa. Where do I go?’ Granddad points a gnarly old finger towards the bush. ‘Thataways a spell. Takes about forty minutes. Take Jai with you. It’s easy to get lost.’ It takes me a moment to realise he’s referring to the scrungy old dog of his. I’d forgotten his existence again. I duck my head down and see the tip of a nose under the verandah. ‘Nah, I’ll be right,’ I say. I don’t do dog-walking, but I don’t tell him that. Plus, I’d probably have to carry him back in a homemade litter. 30

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‘Keep to a track and you should be right. Don’t wander into the forest. Ya get lost, it could be days ’fore anyone finds you.’ A cheery thought. ‘No worries, Gramps.’ ‘You can lose all sense of direction out there.’ ‘No worries.’ ‘Take water.’ ‘Listen, I’ll be right. I’ll stock up, okay? Go have a nap.’ He doesn’t say any more, but lifts himself out of the chair. He looks like he’s in pain, that it’s a real effort to shift his sorry shrivelled backside. Probably shot-to-hell joints, or something. I tell you, when I get to his age I hope someone will have the decency to put a gun to my head. I don’t want to end up like that. After he’s gone I get a glass of water from the container in the kitchen. It tastes musty, but I’m parched and try not to think about it too much. Hour and a half round trip. Shouldn’t be a problem. I’m not in the best shape, on account of having skipped every Phys. Ed. class for like ten years. But I’m betting this isn’t a proper mountain, the kind with jagged peaks and a snow-capped summit, all Lord of the Rings vistas without the orcs and random mutant critters. A gentle climb, I reckon. Anyway, I can always turn back if it gets too hard. When the going gets tough, give up. That’s my motto and it’s never failed me yet. * 31

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The path is gentle and if I was a different kind of person I’d get into the way the sun shines through the leaves of the trees and makes dappled patterns on the ground. Luckily, I’m not a different kind of person. After a while, the track gets difficult to follow. It’s not so much a track, more like flattened scrub, as if animals – wallabies, wombats and whatnot – have passed through regularly. The only ‘wilderness’ walking I’ve ever done is in those sad places where everything has wooden boardwalks with railings and plaques at the side that give you all the information you never wanted about flora and fauna. Even then, I’d find a bench and try for a high score on my hand-held before Dad would find me and deliver a lecture on the appreciation of nature. Yeah, right. Like he cares. All he ever sees in nature is the potential for the view to increase property value. I don’t want to appreciate it. As far as I’m concerned, I won’t bother nature if nature doesn’t bother me. There’s something relaxing about putting one foot after another, though. It’s that body rhythm thing again. Sometimes, the track blurs into the forest and there’s a slope with fallen rocks or carcasses of trees and I have to scramble over them before I find the path again. After about twenty minutes I stop for a breather. The air’s heavy with rotting vegetation. I hear rustling twigs and leaves, I sense skittering across the forest floor. I try my mobile again, on the off-chance I’m high enough to get a signal, but there’s nothing doing. Not even the glimmer of a bar. 32

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I push on and the ground gets steeper. After a while, the backs of my legs are cramping with strain and any traces of fun have vanished. Each time the track disappears I branch to the left or right and pick it up again. There’s a little voice in my head that tells me I’m not following the same path, but picking up another and then another, but I’m not bothered. I’ve come pretty much in a straight line and I’m confident I can re-trace my steps. I’ve passed at least four clearings that’d be impossible to miss on the way down. The trees thin and I reckon I’m close to the summit. I consider checking my phone, but I don’t want to jinx it. I’ll wait until I’m as high as I can go. It’s certainly getting steeper. I even have to put my hands on my thighs and kinda push off them to help my aching muscles. Talk about a cripple. I can’t rid myself of the notion that Granddad would probably scoot up this slope like a rat up a drainpipe and I resolve to cut down on the smoking. I’m really in terrible shape. Put me on Survivor and I’d be stretchered off in around thirty seconds. Then I remember I’m cutting down on the smokes anyway. I’m concentrating so hard on putting one foot in front of the other that I don’t even notice I’ve hit a clearing. But the lack of an incline gets my attention eventually and I stop. The summit. It’s not huge. It’s not spectacular. But it’s there and so am I. I sit on a random rock with a view and pull out my smokes. 33

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I like views as well as the next person. Well, probably not quite as much as the next person, but it’s not bad up here. Only trouble is, the lack of variety. All I can see are trees. True, up here it’s the tops of trees, all spread out like a green shag-pile carpet, rather than tree trunks, but they’re still trees. About as interesting as the current state of the Indonesian stock exchange in my book. I look around to see if I can spot a town. Anything that lets me know civilisation is still out there somewhere, that the rest of Australia hasn’t been wiped out by a nuclear strike. But there’s nothing. I can’t even see any powerlines and it’s not often you can say that. So it’s with a sinking feeling that I turn my phone on. With no hope of a signal, I’d taken to turning it off to save the battery. It boots up and, glory-be, Holy-Mary-Motherof-God, there’s a bar of signal. It turns to two bars as I watch. I’m so excited I don’t know whether to poo my pants or wind my wristwatch. I settle for punching in Kris on speed dial. I hear the click as the connection is made. ‘Yo, down-and-dirty hot thing,’ I say. ‘The answer to all your fantasies here.’ There’s a good ten seconds of silence. When he finally speaks the man’s voice is calm, but dripping with menace. ‘I am glad you’ve called. Listen to me carefully. You are, in my opinion, a bad influence on Kris and I forbid you to contact her again. Do I make myself crystal clear?’ It’s her dad. I recognise his voice. It’s distinctive. I know for a fact he was born and bred in St Kilda, but he sounds like he’s taken elocution lessons from Prince Charles. He’s a 34

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self-made man. I think it’s pretty cool of him to take the blame all by himself. I don’t know who gives me the runs more – Kris’s dad or mine. Damn close, that’s for sure. Anyway, I nearly splutter when I think how he must have loved my conversational opening. I have to cover the phone while I give this small scream of laughter. Then I compose myself. ‘Yo, Mr Dawson,’ I say. ‘How’s it hanging, dude? Listen, any chance of speaking to Kris, please?’ ‘Are you deaf, mate?’ he says and his voice is thick with anger. I’m kinda amused to hear the ocker coming out in the stress of the moment. Bonnie Ponce Charlie is a thin veneer, take it from me. ‘She will not speak to you. Not now. Not tomorrow. Not ever. She is out of your league, my friend. She will not consort with common thugs, with . . .’ ‘Hey, man,’ I interrupt. ‘Good word, “consort”! But this is radical stuff. I mean, Kris – not having a brain or anything – must be thrilled you’re speaking on her behalf. Have you told her about the arranged marriage and the dowry of mountain goats yet?’ But I’m talking to myself, ’cos he’s hung up. Which is just as well, because the old tell-tale thrumming in my ears is sending off warning signals and I can do without smashing up yet another mobile phone. At nearly a thousand bucks a pop, you’d think Dad would get tired of replacing them. Then again, he never gets tired of spending money. He loves shop assistants fawning on him when they realise he’s oozing cash from every pore. 35

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I don’t get a chance to flip the phone shut before a text message comes through. It’s a number my phone doesn’t recognise, but it’s from Kris. DON’T ring me on my phone. Ring this number. She’s the only person on the planet who bothers with apostrophes when texting. Kris has standards. I’m just grateful she relaxes them a little when it comes to me. I realise it’s an old text. I didn’t give it a chance to download before I rang her number, that’s all. Might have saved us all some aggravation if I had. I dial the new number and she answers after one ring. I wait for her to say hello this time, just in case. But neither of us gets a chance to say anything, because there’s all this yelling and whooping and jeering going on in the background. Then I hear a thin voice piercing the hubbub. ‘Kris Dawson, how dare you answer your phone in class! Turn it off right now.’ I recognise the voice and the shrill delivery. It’s Miss Millner, a sad old maths teacher at our school who can maim from fifty metres with one blow of her tongue. I’m sorta touched Kris kept the phone on in class. With Miss Millner your main chance of survival is to keep your head beneath the parapet. Then I hear Kris. ‘Miss Millner, it’s my father. He said he might ring in an emergency. Can I take the call outside, please? Please?’ There’s a pause. Teachers have to be careful about this ‘emergency’ stuff. ‘Very well, Kris,’ comes the reply. ‘But I will contact your father after class to confirm this. Be quick.’ I can hear a scuffling of chairs as Kris makes her way to the door. Most times 36

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you wouldn’t have to worry about the ‘I’ll ring your home’ guff. With Miss Millner, though, you never know. If you use a death in the family as an excuse, she’s liable to ask for pictures of an autopsy. ‘I’ve got to be quick,’ says Kris. ‘I figured.’ ‘Listen, I’ve had to borrow this phone. Dad confiscated mine.’ ‘I know. I just spoke to him.’ ‘Oh, my God. To Dad? What did you say?’ ‘Hello, stud muffin. Fancy a bit of hanky panky? Something like that.’ ‘Oh, my . . .’ She’s laughing already. ‘What did he say?’ ‘Your place or mine. I think he might have added “big boy”, but I’m not sure.’ She’s giggling fit to bust now. I worry Miss Millner might smell a rat if she hears gales of laughter from outside the classroom door. Difficult to argue a hilarious emergency. But Kris gets herself under control quickly. ‘Why haven’t you rung? What’s the place like? What are you doing?’ I explain about the reception problems, and how Granddad’s place is great if you’re into tree-spotting, and that my social calendar is crammed full with wallabywatching. I do this in about twenty-five seconds. ‘Look,’ I say. ‘I’ll try and ring you after school, but it’s a helluva trip up the mountain and I suspect the weather 37

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isn’t always going to be crash-hot for hiking. I’ll do my best. Text me, though. Text me whenever you can.’ Even as I speak, there’s a rush of static. I quickly check reception. The bars are flicking on and off. I put the phone back to my ear. ‘Don’t . . . old phone . . . Dad is madder than a . . . after yourself . . . ring when you can . . . I . . . you.’ Miss you? Love you? Hate you? The end is swallowed by static and the connection is broken. I move around the clearing, and although the bar flickers a couple of times it doesn’t linger. Kris would have had to go back to class anyway. I turn the phone off, sit down on the rock and light a cigarette. I feel better having talked to her. I even find myself smiling as I think about Kris going back into Miss Millner’s class and inventing something to explain the emergency. She’ll think of something good. Kris is very, very smart. A lot of people are surprised by that. They don’t see it coming. I guess because she likes wearing trashy clothes. Sometimes she’s nearly wearing them, if you know what I mean. So guys in particular assume she’s got nothing between her ears. I tell you. If they mess with her, they find out quickly. I said Miss Millner’s tongue was sharp. Kris’s is registered as a lethal weapon in four states. I think about having another ciggie, but the weather’s turning cold and, anyway, I still have to ration them. A wind is swirling over the summit and the sun’s gone AWOL. The treetops bend as gusts tug at them. Clouds clump 38

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together on the horizon and some of them look grumpy. Goosebumps stand up on my arms. Time to head back. Getting down is nearly as bad going up. There are some places when I scoot down banks like I’m snowboarding. The Etnies aren’t looking too hot, but they’re nearly five months old, anyway, so I figure I can afford to dish out a bit of rough treatment. I find plenty of clearings. The one thing I can say about this part of the forest is that clearings are not in short supply. Trouble is, I can’t be sure they’re my clearings. If you were to push me on this, I’d have to say that one clearing is pretty much like any other clearing. And most times, in most circumstances, it wouldn’t matter a rat’s ringpiece. But I do some quick calculations. Bear in mind that my geometry is nothing to get excited about, but even with a twig and a patch of dirt I can do a rough estimation. Just a small deviation from my original direction makes a huge difference the longer I go on. I could miss Granddad’s house easy. Real easy. And then what? With all these trees, I wouldn’t even know I’d gone past it. I’d be deep in the brown and smelly stuff, then, wandering further and further into the State Forest. Even I know those things go on forever. I regret not having marked some trees on the way up. It had occurred to me, but I couldn’t bring myself to do any of that cheesy Hansel and Gretel stuff. I have standards. A big splodge of water hits me right on the top of the head. One of those thuds that makes you think a bird has 39

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dumped on you from a great height. A big bird. It’s followed by another and then another. ‘Oh, man,’ I wail. I look up. I don’t know why. It’s not as if it’s gonna do any good. The sky, or at least what I can see of it through the tree canopy, isn’t so much angry as downright furious. I think I hear a rumble of thunder in the distance. Looking up seems to have achieved one thing, though. It must’ve been taken as a signal, because the clouds open as if my glance has slit them across the belly. Rain is not an adequate word here. Rain conjures images of water drops pattering gently against windows. What dumps on me is a continuous sheet of water, and it hurts. In seconds the sound drowns out everything else. The forest blurs. I can’t see more than ten metres. There are plenty of people who dribble on about the wonders of nature. My school’s full of them. Of course, they’re always singing its praises in climate-controlled surroundings. I’d love to have my Soc. Ed. teacher here, drenched and freezing cold. If his teeth stopped chattering long enough he could tell me what a great experience this is. I hate nature. In Melbourne, I’d duck into a Starbucks, wrap my hands around a latte and watch the show in comfort. I’m a million kilometres from a Starbucks. I’m soaked, freezing and lost. Part of me wants to make a run for it and get back to Granddad’s as soon as possible. Nothing to do with trying to keep dry. After ten seconds in this rain, the one thing I’m certain of is that it’s impossible to get any wetter. But it’s 40

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cold. And the constant beating of the rain is just miserable. I can’t see where I’m going. Even in good visibility I didn’t have a clue about the right way to go. Now, I’d be blundering in any random direction. I decide the best thing is to find somewhere more sheltered and wait for the rain to ease. I find a huge tree and the branches provide some protection. It’s not like standing under a waterfall, though when the wind blows the branches around, big splashes of water hit the back of my neck and roll down my back. I get a cigarette lit after a good few attempts. Then half a bucket of water, trapped in the leaves I guess, falls straight onto it after I’ve had a couple of drags. There’s a quick hiss and the soggy tube falls with a splat into the undergrowth. I can’t remember a time when I’ve been happier. There’s another rumble of thunder and I know I should get out from under the tree. Then I reckon that being hit by lightning might actually improve my mood, so I stay where I am. At least the wind eases. After another five minutes, so does the rain. Don’t get me wrong. It’s still fairly heavy, but at least I can see where I’m going. The cold has seeped into my bones and I’m shivering as I start back down the slope again, in what is hopefully the right direction. All I can hear, all around, is raindrops hitting leaves. It’s a comfortless drumming. The rain makes everywhere even more unfamiliar. Before, I could at least try to convince myself I’d seen certain clearings on my way up. Now, the rain has washed 41

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everything clean and it all looks new. I jump over a fallen tree trunk that I have no memories of having hurdled before and hit a patch of mud. My Etnies – buggered, worn and soaked – slip and before I know it I’m skidding down a muddy incline on my backside. I attempt to dig a heel in and succeed only in doing a flip, landing in a patch of scrubby brush face first. I get to my feet, touch my face with my fingers and they come away bloody. Instantly, I feel my blood pumping fast through my heart. It hammers in my ears. It drowns out the drumming of the rain. I concentrate on my breathing. That’s always the first step. Get the breathing deep and regular. Draw the air into the lungs. Concentrate on it. In. Out. In. Out. Only when I feel the breathing is under control do I start the self-talk. ‘It’s cool,’ I say. ‘It’s all cool. You’re all right. Stay calm. It’s cool.’ I’m lost in a forest, soaked, muddy and bloody, talking to myself, trying to keep control. Because if I lose it out here, I don’t know what will happen, or if I’ll ever get back. I breathe and talk to myself. Talk to myself and breathe. Until I feel the demons retreating, slipping back into the shadows. I start walking, but I don’t stop talking. I keep my eyes fixed firmly ahead, watching for safe footholds, taking it slowly. Taking it easy. The rain has eased off almost completely now and the wind has settled. I glance up and the sky is still dark and threatening. It looks like it’s just having a break. 42

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It’s when I look back down that I see it. Down the slope and off to my right. And I don’t quite see it. Not really. It’s more a sense of something dark slipping into the trees, a shifting shape caught in the corner of my eyes. And when I turn my head it’s gone. If it was ever there in the first place. I stand still for a moment, listening to my heart beating and water trickling. Nothing else. Not even a rustle of lizards in the underbrush or the call of birds. I’m conscious of water dripping from my hair and down my neck. A shiver runs up my back and goosebumps gather. My forearm reminds me of chicken skin, plucked white and bumpy. I take another step and then another. The crunch of twigs under my feet sounds unnaturally loud. I want to hush them as if they might give my position away. This is stupid. This is childish. My mind is insistent. Trouble is, the eyes are out there. Somewhere nearby, unblinking eyes are trained on me. Doesn’t matter how firm my mind is, how insistent it is that this is all nonsense. The eyes are back. I feel it is important for me to resist the urge to run. I don’t know why, but I know it. Running would not be good. But I increase my pace. I’m no longer so bothered about finding the right direction. I just want to get lower and I don’t know why I think that either. I have to trust my instincts. Even when I see movement off to my right, a swaying of branches that could be a gust of wind, I keep the pace consistent. If it’s a gust of wind it keeps an uncanny pace with me. The branches move as I move. It’s 43

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as if it’s linked to my movement. I’ve never heard of gusts of wind that move so slowly. Something crashes and I stop. There is no wind at all now. Nothing moves and the only sound is water dripping from leaf to leaf. I turn slowly in a circle, scanning three hundred and sixty degrees. There is a rustle in the undergrowth to my left. Behind me now. Nothing could move that quickly. Off to my right one moment, in front of me the next. I gaze out over a large clearing I’ve just crossed without ever being aware of having done so. A bird call rises. It is the moaning call I heard yesterday. It sounds unutterably sad and mournful. No other birds sing. The rustling gets louder. Large leaves sway at the far end of the clearing. Something is moving towards me. A line from a book comes to me. I don’t know why. By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes. I feel an incredible urge to stand and wait for it. I want to see it part the final branches and reach the clearing. I want to see its eyes, rather than just feel them. But that doesn’t happen. I turn and run, and this time I have no control, make no attempt to pick safe ground. Whatever is in front of me, I jump. I plough through brambles, get smacked in the face by branches. On a couple of steep inclines I fall again, slide down on my side or my rear end, spring to my feet, run without breaking rhythm. I keep looking over my shoulder, but I can’t see anything. 44

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I’m making too much noise myself and the forest is dense here. The swaying branches behind me are the ones I’ve pushed through. I have a stitch and my breathing is ragged. It’s the only time in my life I’ve regretted wagging so many Phys. Ed. classes. I slow. I don’t see the log. If I had I would have at least tried to jump it. My left foot smacks into it, but I don’t feel any pain. Not then. But it takes me down, on my back. I slide for a few metres and thump my head on something incredibly hard. Seeing stars is not just a sad cliché; it’s true. Fireworks go off in my brain. I don’t know how long I lie there waiting for my head to clear, but it can’t be more than twenty seconds or so. I sit up and listen. Nothing, except the sound of my own breathing. When my phone beeps, I scream. I swear. I don’t know what frightens me more, the sound of the incoming text message or my scream. I scrabble around in my pocket, pull out the phone and check the screen. My thumb chooses ‘read message’ automatically. Witetrees. What the hell? I stop. Witetrees? White trees? I check the screen again, but it’s gone dark. And when I look up there is a tree with a white trunk about thirty metres to my right. I cross to it. Why not? Another white tree – the only white tree around – is down a slope far to my right. I run the line between the two of them. My sense of being watched has eased, but I’m not taking any chances. I keep checking behind, but there is no untoward movement in 45

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the foliage. Past the second white tree there is a large clearing, down a dip in a ridge. I wouldn’t swear to it, but this one does look familiar. Maybe it’s wishful thinking. It isn’t. Three minutes later I see the roof of Granddad’s shack through the trees. Two minutes after that the sun is shining like a maniac and I’m in my room peeling off wet, muddy clothes. Listen, push me up against a wall, attach electrodes to my genitals and even then there aren’t many things I’d be prepared to swear to. Things I’m absolutely sure of: a) if I had continued in the direction I was going before the text message, I’d have missed Granddad’s place – missed it by a country mile; b) well, the second thing is really in two parts. One, there’s no way I could possibly get a signal that close to the shacks, and two, I’d turned my phone off on the top of the mountain. So I’m not really surprised when I check and find I haven’t had any messages since I left Melbourne. I love all that X-Files stuff on the television. I’m just not keen on living it. Do you know what I’m saying? I have a shower, but only because I’ve got no real choice. I’m caked in mud and stink like a septic tank. Granddad is sitting in his spot on the verandah and I call out to tell him I’m taking the plunge. He grunts something about dinner. Good. I don’t like the notion of him looming on a random horizon while I’m sudding my bits, particularly if he’s carrying the chainsaw. 46

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The water is surprisingly strong and unsurprisingly cold. Not sure what the go is with the solar panel. Maybe it’s just for show. I manage to work up a good lather and even wash my hair. I’ve got scratches all over my hands and legs and I suspect my face isn’t crash-hot in that regard, but there’s no mirror so I can’t check. My left foot is bruised and it hurts when I put pressure on it. Other than that, I’m in decent shape. Already I’m embarrassed by what went on out there in the forest. I mean, it’s fairly logical. Bad weather, panic about being lost, scuffles in the undergrowth from random Tassie critters, a strong imagination. Plus hyperventilating when I got angry and scared. It’s no wonder me and the plot parted company for a while. Still, rolling around in the mud, wild-eyed and scared of the bogeyman. Not a good look. I’m glad there were no witnesses. Mr Cool’s reputation remains intact. I wrap a towel around me and leg it back to my room quick smart. The temperature is doing another nosedive and I don’t want to play Russian roulette with pneumonia. I put on as many layers of clothes as I can find and give thermal underwear serious consideration. If I buy them down here and leave them when I go back to Melbourne, no one need ever know. Then again, these things have a habit of coming out. I Know What You Wore Last Spring. Now, that would be a horror story. Speaking of horror stories, when I finally front up to the verandah Granddad presents me with a plate of burned 47

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steak. Judging by the way he’s fossicking in his dentures with something sharp, I figure he’s finished his. There are some sorry mashed potatoes with green lumps, and gravy that’s thinner than a supermodel. I’m starving. I’d have to be to even consider eating this. ‘Gramps, my main man,’ I say, sawing for a quarter of an hour on the corner of the steak. ‘How about a different chef tomorrow? Bring a little variety into our diet. Whaddya say?’ ‘You?’ I think about slipping a piece of steak to the dog while Granddad isn’t looking. I don’t, though. The dog’s never done me any harm. ‘Yes, me. Who do you think I mean? The Naked Chef?’ ‘Who?’ ‘Forget it.’ I am going to cook, though. I don’t mention my wilderness experiences to Granddad. He doesn’t ask, anyway. Not even if I’d made it to the top of the mountain. Makes me wonder, if I had missed his place, how long it would have taken him to raise the alarm. Maybe he’d have remembered me after a couple of months. Maybe not. He glances at my face a few times, though, and I think he’s going to ask about the scratches. I probably look like I’ve gone a few rounds with a heavyweight boxing champion. In the end, he doesn’t say anything, just keeps mining away in the fissures of his dental plates. The wallabies are back. They might even have brought 48

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reinforcements. I point towards the fence, off to Granddad’s left. ‘Is that a wombat?’ I say. While he’s looking, I fling the remains of my food off to the right. The potatoes splat on the dirt. The dog staggers over and sniffs at the pale mound. Doesn’t eat it, mind. A canine with standards. ‘It’s a wallaby,’ Granddad says. ‘Oh, right,’ I reply, and Granddad looks at me again like I’m a retard. I wash the dishes and when I get back there’s a cold beer waiting for me. Granddad has stoked up the wood stove and the kitchen’s toasty. The overspill of heat makes it tolerable out on the verandah. Not cosy. Just tolerable. I light a smoke and unscrew the bottle cap. The glass is icy against my palm. I’m aware of something itching at the back of my mind. You know what I mean? Something you can’t put your finger on. The more you try to pin it down, the more elusive it becomes. Then it hits me. ‘Yo, Granddad,’ I say. He grunts. ‘What is it with the beer, man?’ Yeah, I know it’s cold at night, but that doesn’t explain the temperature of the stubby. This thing is chilled in a way that screams technology. ‘Whaddya mean?’ ‘It’s icy, dude. What have you got back there? A fridge with a serious solar panel?’ 49

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Granddad wipes away condensation from his bottle with a gnarled old finger, takes a swig. I can hear the beer gurgling down his throat and wish I couldn’t. He wipes his mouth with the back of a hand. ‘That’s for me to know and you to find out,’ he says. ‘Are you kiddin’ me?’ I say. ‘What is this, a bedtime game? I might be an exceptionally sad person, but I haven’t sunk to those depths yet.’ He doesn’t say anything for a long time. I’m not going to ask him again. It’s something to do with personal standards and him being an annoying fossil. Eventually, he speaks. ‘I’ll tell you this much. There’s no fridge with a solar panel.’ ‘Gosh, Gramps,’ I say. ‘Well, it’s a real mystery then and no mistake. How am I ever going to sleep tonight?’ But my sarcasm is either too low for his radar or he’s got a skin like a pickled rhino. The silence stretches out so much it’s impossible to resist the temptation to snap it. ‘Gramps,’ I say. ‘You know you were talking about guardian angels last night? And voices and stuff in the forest? What’s with that?’ ‘I thought you didn’t believe in it.’ ‘Just curious. I have an open mind. Sometimes my mind is so open I worry my brains are going to drop out.’ 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?’ 50

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‘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. 51

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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. 52

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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. 53

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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. 54

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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 55

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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.

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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. 57

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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, 58

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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-deskwith-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.’ 59

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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.’ 60

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‘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 61

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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. 62

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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 63

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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. I’m so good I scare myself sometimes. He looks up at me when the bell rings over the front door and he doesn’t seem overjoyed at having a customer. In fact, he gives the distinct impression he’s about to call the cops. For a moment I think I might have to buy something expensive, just to prove to him that appearances can be deceptive. But I won’t. It wouldn’t do any good, anyway. He’d only take my money and still think I wasn’t worth spitting on. 64

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‘Morning,’ I say. He peers over the top of half-moon specs and mumbles. I hate that. And I’ll bet he’s one of those geezers who constantly complains that young people don’t have any manners anymore. I browse and it’s as I suspected. More junk shop than antique store. I mean, there are one or two items that look fairly old and might be worth some money, but most of it is chipped and stained jugs and rusty toast racks and bilge like that. I check a couple of the price tags and it’s clear that, despite his grumpy appearance, the dude has a well-developed sense of humour. I’m tempted to keep on looking around, simply to annoy the bow-tied fossil, but I haven’t got the energy, so I split. I stroll up and down the main street a couple of times. I even think about having a cup of coffee in one of the sad cafes, but they’ve got red-checked tablecloths and chintzy curtains that are all frills, so I don’t. It would depress me too much. There’d probably be a rosy-cheeked old dear trying to force homemade apple pie on me and I wouldn’t be responsible for my actions. It’s all so boring that when I get back to the supermarket and see Granddad sitting outside on a bench, I’m almost excited. I swear to God. He’s staring off into the distance, like always, a whole heap of plastic bags at his feet. It looks like he’s in a snowdrift. I plop myself next to him and rummage around in the shopping. ‘Got the basic provisions, Gramps?’ ‘Thought you’d need some meat and veg.’ 65

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Ah, right. Either Granddad doesn’t understand the basic principle that a chef chooses the menu and his own ingredients or he’s worried sick I’m going to feed him sushi or some other ghastly foreign filth. I can’t imagine Granddad would be the kind to suck on raw fish. Sure enough, the bags are full of steak and potatoes, with a few tins of processed meat. I’m guessing if it doesn’t moo, Granddad won’t eat it. Then I spot a little tray of pork chops, so that kicks that theory in the head. I hope he has somewhere chilled to store all this stuff, because I won’t be needing any of it. I’m not going to tell him that, though. ‘Cool,’ I say. ‘Just need a couple more items. You wait here and I’ll get them.’ ‘Are you sure you wanna cook?’ he says. There’s a note of desperation in his voice. ‘I don’t mind, you know.’ ‘Gramps,’ I say. ‘Trust me. It’s what I was put on this earth to do.’ That might be an exaggeration, but I do love cooking. I taught myself because I got tired of expensive takeaways and restaurant food. Dad reckons that because he’s got money spilling out of every orifice, there’s no need to use our top-of-the-range stainless steel stove or any of the expensive gadgets littering our kitchen. You know, appliances that look good on the off-chance someone from Better Homes and Gardens drops by for a photo shoot. He is the worst kind of phoney. So I made a point of cooking a few times a week while he was out with business colleagues, flashing the credit card and being sucked up to by 66

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a dude in a dodgy tux and a dodgier French accent. At first it was mainly to rough up the pots and pans, give them a few ‘lived-in’ scratches, but, to my amazement, I enjoyed it. I liked discovering how some ingredients merge together to form new tastes. I realised I had a flair for it. And imagination. I’m learning all the time and getting better. So I love messing with food. I pat Granddad on the back and duck into the supermarket. Life can surprise you sometimes. I’m not expecting the supermarket to be any great shakes. I’m willing to bet that packet soups are the red-hot specials, the newfangled idea from the mainland. But they have a deli and everything. What’s more, there are fresh herbs, spices and even a good number of Asian vegetables. I’m staggered, but stock up. The only blip is when I come to pay with my MasterCard. I say it’s my MasterCard, but it’s actually an additional card from Dad’s account. A thousand bucks limit. He doesn’t trust me with anything more, in case I blow it all on wine, women and donations to Greenpeace. He’d be happy enough with the first two, let me tell you. It’s a Gold Card, the kind that tells the world you don’t have to bother with anything so working-class as price tags. The woman at the checkout turns it over a few times as if she’s expecting to see a Monopoly logo on it somewhere. Even when it’s scanned and the bank gives the thumbs up, she wears this expression that she’s been robbed, but can’t quite work out how. It’s a long shot, but I try to get a carton of smokes 67

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stuck on the tab. She looks absolutely thrilled when she turns me down, like it’s the one bright spot in an otherwise bleak day. ‘Done deal,’ I say to Granddad when I get out. He hasn’t moved as far as I can tell. ‘Just a case of reporting in to the cop shop, stopping off at the bottlo and we’re ready to split the scene.’ Granddad steers me to this little rinky-dink building just off the main street and behind the supermarket. A thirtysecond walk. There’s a police car parked outside, otherwise you’d never know this was a cop shop. It’s almost quaint. The building is really small. Unless there’s some serious warping of the space–time continuum behind those walls, there’ll be no rows of cells waiting for public wind-breakers, serial disabled-parking villains and sexual abusers of domestic appliances. I’ve seen bigger public toilets. The front door is locked. I am not kiddin’. And – get this – there’s a hand-printed notice on the door’s top panel. ‘Please ring for assisstence’, with a little arrow pointing to a buzzer on the doorframe in case you’re a complete moron and can’t find it by yourself. I wouldn’t be surprised to see another notice saying the cop shop’s only open on Mondays, Tuesdays and half-days Wednesdays when there’s an ‘r’ in the month. I love that. Please ring for assisstence. It’s an emergency, officer. Get me someone who can spell. Quickly. 68

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Granddad rings. We wait. Good job I’m not slitting his throat because by the time ‘assisstence’ arrives, rigor mortis would’ve set in. Eventually we hear the thump of approaching footsteps. Somewhere a needle is registering 5 on the Richter scale. The door opens and a mountain steps out. I instinctively take a step back. The police officer is huge. I don’t mean well-built. I don’t mean stocky. I mean huge. He’s so tall he should have a red, spinning light on his head as a warning to lowflying aircraft. He’s so broad he’s a one-man solar eclipse. He’s got snow drifts on his shoulders. He’s . . . Trust me, if he toppled onto you, they’d have to peel you off the bitumen. I risk neck strain and scan the mountain’s summit. There’s a lumpy head up there, and teeth arranged in what seems to be a smile. You probably don’t want to know this, but my bowels loosen slightly. ‘G’day, Richie,’ says Granddad. ‘How are you?’ ‘G’day, old-timer,’ says the colossus. ‘Never better. Never better.’ I worry slightly about someone who apparently still uses the term ‘old-timer’. I thought no one said that outside of fifty-year-old American films. ‘This here’s my grandson. I reckon you’ve been expecting him.’ ‘Sure have. Sure have.’ I’m beginning to think this guy says everything twice. ‘Welcome, young fella. Put it there.’ This huge ham of a fist hovers around my abdomen. I transfer the shopping bags into one hand, put out the 69

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other and shake his. His grip is firm, but not too strong. That’s a relief because if he had a mind to, this guy could leave me with a soggy stump full of splintered bone. As it is, my hand disappears entirely in his. I check him out as we shake. I know I’ve already mentioned it, but he really is big. It’s not the kind of bigness you see wandering around shopping centres either; you know, the huge gut hanging over the belt, all wobble butt and multiple chins. This guy is solid muscle. His uniform, which probably had to be made specially, since I doubt he fits regulation sizes, is tight with the strain of keeping it all in. Listen, if I was recruiting a team member for tug o’ war, I wouldn’t pass him over, that’s all I’m saying. ‘Come in, come in,’ he says, releasing my hand and stepping to one side. Granddad goes in to the cop shop and I follow. There is a small foyer and a counter, but it doesn’t have a grill or anything. In Melbourne they’ve got all these security measures, like ceiling-to-counter mesh screens and push-button keypads on all the doors. Worried, I suppose, that someone will jump over the counter and do serious damage. But this is Snoozeville, Tasmania, and I doubt anyone in the area is young enough to actually be able to jump the counter. Even if they could, they wouldn’t want to come up against Richie on the other side. Take it from me, you’d be jumping back quick smart if you knew what was good for you. There are a couple of chairs along one wall and a few 70

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posters featuring random missing persons. But it’s the wall opposite the counter that’s the real eye-catcher. I put down my bags to get a better look. There are dozens of framed photographs, and they are all of Richie. I nearly burst out laughing, but manage to keep it in. I can’t imagine old Rich would be too amused to see me take a quick scan of his gallery and then wet myself amid gales of laughter. Just a wild guess, you understand, even though he seems like an amiable giant on first acquaintance. But it’s hard not to react. He’s chopping wood. In every single photo, he’s chopping wood. Well, okay, in a couple he seems to be sawing wood, but wood features prominently, that’s for sure. Wood and Richie. Richie and Wood. It’s a marriage made in heaven, it seems. And the other recurring photographic motif is shorts, a singlet and muscles the size of basketballs. It is incredibly impressive and unbelievably crap. A hand lands on my shoulder and multiple bones consider going the stress fracture route. ‘Ah, you’ve noticed my collection,’ says Richie. Noticed? It would be hard to miss since it covers the entire wall. What I like, though, is that they’re on the wall opposite the counter, presumably so man-mountain can check himself out when business is slow. Like all the time. ‘That’s my little hobby. Woodchopping.’ ‘More than a hobby, Richie,’ chips in Granddad in this brownnosey voice. ‘You’re out on the mountain practising 71

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every spare moment you’ve got. And you’ve won how many titles?’ Richie grins and points to a photograph showing him and another colossus with their arms around each other. ‘Not as many as I would have if this guy hadn’t been around. Do you know who this is? Do you?’ I realise the question is directed at me. I can’t understand why, since there’s no reason on God’s sweet earth why I would recognise any dude with an axe and muscles the size of punching bags, unless he was a homicidal maniac in a well-known horror flick. ‘Give me a clue,’ I say. ‘How about the greatest woodchopper of all time? One of the greatest athletes the world has ever seen? Over one hundred and eighty world titles and more than a thousand championship wins? An Australian icon. A legend. A legend.’ ‘Ricky Ponting?’ I say, but I suspect you couldn’t find this guy’s sense of humour with a compass and a road map. ‘David Foster,’ says Richie, confirming my suspicions and clapping me on the back with one hand. Actually that does hurt. ‘The great David Foster.’ He sighs, and for a moment I think he’s going to wipe away a tear. ‘Doesn’t live far from here, you know,’ he continues. ‘You should see his place. It’s a shrine to woodchopping. Has all his cups and trophies and ribbons from thousands of events all over the world. It’s amazing. It’s amazing.’ ‘Wow,’ I say. ‘I’ll definitely go see that. Later in my stay. I wouldn’t want to get the highlight over with first, ’cos 72

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everything that follows would just be an anticlimax. And my doctor has told me not to get over-excited. Not to get over-excited.’ As soon as I say it, I feel ashamed. I’m being too smart for my own good. Just because the guy’s a cop and a bit slow doesn’t give me the right to mock him. It nearly gives me the right to mock him . . . Richie gives a little laugh, but I catch his eyes and they aren’t smiling, let alone laughing. There’s a glint that some might call steely. It occurs to me that old Rich is a strong candidate for the position of worst-kind-of-enemy-tomake-in-a-small-town. Even without that consideration, I feel bad. I want to apologise for being an excellent facsimile of a horse’s rear end. But I don’t know how to frame the words, so I keep quiet. ‘Well, you come on through here with me, young fella,’ he says and opens up a door next to the counter. I step through to a short corridor. ‘We just need to do some paperwork. Shouldn’t take long.’ Granddad looks like he’s going to follow us, but Richie points to a chair in the foyer. I catch a glimpse of Gramps sitting as the door clicks shut and the cop and I are alone in the corridor. Richie leans back against the closed door and folds his arms across the slab of his chest. He stares down at me and he isn’t smiling. There’s no expression at all on his face. He stands there for what seems like minutes, but is probably only twenty seconds. ‘What?’ I say and open my arms to emphasise the point. Eventually, he takes his weight off the door, unfolds his 73

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arms and points down the corridor behind me. ‘End door on the right,’ he says. ‘Look . . .’ I say. ‘Move!’ he snaps. Now, I know I said I was in the wrong, being smart and all that, but here I am trying to apologise and he’s not interested. He rumbles down the corridor, and I have to scuttle to avoid being run over. It’d have the same effect as falling under a steamroller, I reckon. I scramble into the room just in the lead. There’s a desk, one chair, a filing cabinet and a window with a view of an empty car park. I consider snagging the one chair, but even I know this wouldn’t be a wise move, so I stand and wait while Richie eases himself into the leather wing-back. There’s a lot of creaking and the sounds of dispirited springs doing their best to cope. Richie leans back in the chair, to more groans and creaks, and puts a foot on the desk. His boots are the size of lifeboats. He looks at me. I look back. The silence stretches. Look, I know what he’s trying to do – I’ve seen enough American cop shows – but it’s really unnerving and I find myself shifting weight from foot to foot. My mouth is dry and I get this compulsion to break the heavy silence. I know I shouldn’t. I know I should wait it out. But the pressure is too much. ‘I’m sorry I was a bit smart out there,’ I say. ‘I didn’t mean to give offence. I apologise.’ I’m pleased there’s no tremor in my voice. 74

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Richie doesn’t say anything. Absolutely nothing. He’s looking right through me, even though he doesn’t take his eyes from mine. He pulls a pencil from the top pocket of his uniform and taps it against his front teeth. There’s no other sound except for the tapping of wood on enamel and the distant surf of my heart. I clear my throat and he obviously thinks I’m going to say something else because he puts his right hand up in the stop position. Actually, I wasn’t going to say anything. I was just checking to see if my brain was still in charge of my body. ‘Do you know what I think?’ he says and his voice is so quiet I have to strain to hear. ‘Do you?’ I have no idea if this is a question he seriously expects me to answer. I’m tempted to say, ‘Yes,’ but I swallow it before it has the chance to come out. Again, I know I should let the silence work for me. But I’m gutless. I can’t ignore a question, so I shake my head. I’m such a loser. ‘I think you reckon you’re a real tough guy. A real tough guy.’ I can feel my head starting to shake a ‘no’ again, but luckily I stop it in time. I want to keep some self-esteem. He continues in the same low voice. ‘Yeah. You come here from Melbourne. Think you’re the city hotshot and we’re just a bunch of ignorant inbreeds. Is that it, mate? Is that what you’re thinking?’ I’m doing better now, because my head doesn’t budge. I keep my eyes on his. ‘So much better than us. Well, I’ve got your details here, 75

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mate.’ Richie takes his foot off the table and turns his eyes away from me for the first time since he sat. He sorts through a pile of papers on the crowded desk, picks up a thin manila folder, and flips it open. ‘Quite a record you’ve got, mate. A few cautions for assault. Like to use those fists of yours, do you?’ ‘Hey, dude . . .’ He uses his fists, then. Well, one. It slams onto the desk and cuts me off. Richie’s voice, though, doesn’t go up even a notch in volume. ‘And then you moved up into another weight division, didn’t you? Busting up that fast food restaurant, terrorising customers.’ He whistles. ‘Quite the little temper. Yes, indeed. So. Let’s see what the Melbourne justice system thought about that, shall we?’ He makes a big deal of turning over a few pages. ‘Oh, yes. Here we are. Probation.’ He makes his tone of voice sound surprised. ‘You must be a criminal with friends in high places. All that . . . mayhem. And you scored probation. Of course, maybe your dad coughing up thirty thousand dollars in damages, maybe bucks into back pockets, might have helped. Not to mention the “expert witnesses” he paid for.’ You can hear the quotation marks in his voice. ‘What was that, young fella?’ The words are as regular as a metronome in my head. It’s cool. It’s cool. It’s okay. You’re okay. It’s cool. I realise my lips are moving. That I’m mumbling the words out loud. I shake my head, but I can’t stop my lips moving. ‘Yes, the expert witnesses,’ he continues. ‘Shrinks who 76

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testified that you suffer from “Intermittent Explosive Disorder”.’ He laughs. ‘I love that. “You suffer”. You suffer. Poor thing. Well, we couldn’t lock up a victim, could we? No. Send ’em on holiday. Send ’em to Tasmania, to a place full of decent law-abiding families. Send ’em to stay with their old granddad.’ ‘I want to go,’ I say. My voice is shaking. You’d better believe it’s shaking. ‘You’ll go when I say you can go. Not before. You’re not in Melbourne now. With the bleeding hearts and their fancy names for temper tantrums. You’re in my patch, mate. And it works differently here. You put a foot out of place here, young fella, and you are in the worst kinda trouble. You don’t know what trouble is. You don’t wanna know the trouble I can bring you.’ The blood in my head is getting louder. It’s a whooshing noise, like static on a radio, but regular. Pulsing. Beating. The danger signs are all there and getting worse. The cop’s voice is starting to echo. I can’t work out if it’s just him repeating words or whether it’s echoes. Echoes are bad. Echoes mean I could blow at any moment. ‘You have no right to keep me here.’ I don’t know how the words sound when they come out. There’s the rushing of blood, the echoing of the cop’s words, mingling with words I’m putting into my own head. It’s cool. You’re okay. It’s cool. It’s cool. My lips keep moving even when I’m done talking. I don’t know if the words come out at all. Maybe everything is in my head. 77

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‘. . . think they can flush their filth right across Bass Strait, strait. But I manage the sewage here, mate, mate, and I’m gonna keep my eyes on you, you. And don’t even think about screaming police brutality, ality. ’Cos no one’ll believe you, you. You’re scum, scum.’ I turn and leave and he doesn’t try to stop me. I go straight out of the office, down the corridor, through the door into the foyer and then out into the sunshine. I don’t see Granddad. I don’t think about Granddad. All I’m concerned with is getting distance between me and the cop. I walk. Anywhere. It’s cool. I’m okay. It’s cool. I cling to the words. Their repetition is a comfort. I march them across the dark spaces in my head, a procession of bright word shapes and word sounds. They keep the demons back among the shadow. Sometimes. The air in my lungs, the words in my head, the regular movement of my legs. Eventually, I get enough control to sit on a bench and check the situation. I think I’ve managed to pull back from the brink. It feels like that sometimes. That I’m about to go over a steep drop, that I’m going to fall, down, down, down. That once I’m over the edge, nothing can stop me falling, that gravity has me in its complete control and all I can do is surrender. This time, my scuffed Etnies cling to the edge. Safe. I clear my mind as much as I can, let my breathing settle into its usual rhythm, concentrate on the passage of air into my lungs. In. Out. In. Out. Slowly, I come back to myself. 78

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By the time Granddad talks, I’m almost normal. Well, as normal as a guy like me can ever be. ‘Are you okay? You’re very pale.’ Granddad is sitting next to me and he seems pale himself. His breath is coming fast and there’s a touch of sweat on his top lip. ‘I called out to you, but you took off like a scalded cat. What’s the matter?’ ‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘Got a touch of claustrophobia. Had to get out of there.’ ‘I had to carry your shopping as well as my own, you know. I’m not as young as I was.’ ‘Sorry.’ Granddad doesn’t know whether to be irritated or concerned. In the end he comes down on the side of concerned. ‘Got some colour back in your cheeks. Come on. I’ll buy you a hot drink.’ ‘Hey, if it’s your shout, I’m your man.’ Caffeine sounds like an answer to a prayer I didn’t even know I’d made. I’m even prepared to put up with chintzy curtains and red tablecloths. We walk – very slowly – back to the cafe. I’ve got all the shopping bags now. ‘So what do you think of Richie?’ asks Granddad, between wheezes. ‘Our local celebrity.’ ‘A prince, dude,’ I say. ‘An absolute prince. If I was of that persuasion, I’d marry him and have his babies.’ * 79

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While Granddad is being urged to have a slab of apple pie by a rosy-cheeked old dear, I nip out the front and phone Kris. It’s lunchtime at school. My relief at not blowing like some random volcano has worn off. Now, I’m feeling anger at Richie and disappointment with myself. I’ve let myself down. I should have stood up to him. Trouble is, I can’t have it all ways. I can’t just tap into a manageable portion of righteous anger. It doesn’t work that way. This is something I’ve been through plenty of times with counsellors. I should be happy I’ve beaten the demon this time. The challenge now is not to let it back out. ‘Hello?’ The voice is not Kris’s. ‘Who is this?’ ‘Who are you? This is my phone.’ ‘I’m trying to get in touch with Kris. She gave me this number. Said she’d borrowed the phone.’ I think I know who it is. The voice is kinda familiar. If my memory serves me right, she’s this angular chick with bad skin and a snotty personality. I didn’t know Kris knew her. ‘Oh, I know who you are. How’s it goin’? Where are you again? Tassie, isn’t it?’ ‘Is Kris around, please?’ ‘Hang on.’ Her voice goes suddenly frosty. ‘This is my phone, you know.’ ‘Yeah. I know.’ If this continues, the thumping in my blood’s gonna make another appearance. ‘But I’m in kind of a rush,’ I lie. ‘So I’d be grateful if you could put her on.’ 80

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‘I’m on the school oval. She might be at the canteen. I’m looking for her. You can talk to me while I look.’ But I don’t. Turns out it doesn’t matter to her, since she’s the one who wants to talk. And it’s all drivel, so I tune most of it out. All about how some kid has the hots for her, but she’s kinda hedging her bets since there’s a number of dudes who want to jump her bones. I’ve never heard such horse manure. I’m not sexist, but if she barked, I wouldn’t be surprised. Finally, she spots Kris. I was gonna give it another minute and then hang up. I couldn’t take much more, I swear. ‘Hi,’ says Kris. ‘You have gotta get a phone of your own,’ I say, and I can’t keep the irritation out of my voice. I try, but I can’t do it. ‘I mean, this is dumb. I’ve just spent the last ten minutes listening to Lassie’s love life . . .’ ‘You are so sexist,’ says Kris and there’s irritation in her voice. ‘Yeah, I know. I’m sorry. I really am. I’m working on it. But I’ve been listening to her drivel when I wanted to talk to you.’ ‘I told you Dad took my phone. It was good of Justine to let me use hers.’ Justine. That was it. Strictly kennel club. ‘Yeah, but . . . Look, just get another one. Text me your new number.’ ‘It’s not as easy as that. You might have money to throw around, but I don’t.’ 81

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We’ve had this conversation before and it drives me nuts. Her old man with the false Pom accent is worth heaps. It’s just that he’s a miserable bag of pus and doesn’t hand any out to Kris. Says it’s to teach her financial responsibility. Insists she has to earn her own. I tell you. He gets out his wallet and you can’t see for moths flying around. ‘We’re talking fifty bucks for a bottom-end pre-paid. How difficult can that be?’ ‘That’s exactly what I mean. I have to earn my money. And I pay rent . . .’ I can’t believe this. We’ve hardly spoken to each other and the first chance we’ve got we’re arguing about money. It’s crazy. Then it just turns into the outright bizarre. Kris stops talking to me and talks to someone else. I can hear a mumbled conversation. Then she gets back on. ‘I’ve gotta go.’ ‘You’re kiddin’! What do you mean, you’ve gotta go? We’ve only just started to talk.’ ‘Justine needs to use the phone.’ I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I can tell by Kris’s voice that she thinks this sucks big time, as well. Somehow, it dilutes the argument. The absurdity overrides everything else. I laugh. She giggles. It feels like we’ve salvaged something. ‘Ring me tomorrow. Same time. I’ll make sure I’m at Justine’s shoulder.’ ‘Keep her on a short leash.’ 82

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‘Stop it!’ ‘We’ve gotta sort this, Kris.’ ‘I know. Love you.’ ‘Me, too.’ It’s a joke we have. I love me too. Sometimes Kris laughs. She doesn’t now. I flip the phone shut. I can see Granddad through the cafe window, troughing into the apple pie. He seems content. It’s a good job one of us is. And then, in the reflection of the window, I see Richie. He’s parked the police car on the other side of the main road. He’s leaning up against the bonnet, arms folded. His eyes bore into my back. We load our shopping in the back of the ute and get in. The engine protests but fires, and we head for the drivethrough. It only gives me a few moments. I take a couple of fifties from my wallet and wave them under Granddad’s nose. ‘While you’re getting yours, would you get me a coupla packets of smokes – make that three – and a slab of heavy?’ I figure I’m pushing my luck if I ask for a bottle of Jim Beam. Granddad gives me a quick look, takes one of the fifties and gets out. I slouch down in the front seat and put my hand up before my face. I don’t want the guy I told to swivel to see me. They’re not likely to forget a face in a town this size. So I don’t check out Granddad loading up the back of the ute. I don’t even look up until we’re out of the bottle shop driveway. 83

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We get a couple of ks outside the town when Granddad hands over thirty-five dollars. ‘What’s this?’ I say. ‘Change. Half a slab, since I figure you’ll be drinking half.’ ‘What about my smokes?’ ‘Didn’t get any. You’re too young.’ Just for a moment I think he’s kidding. Then it becomes clear he’s not. ‘Well, thanks, Gramps,’ I yell. ‘This is terrific. Just terrific. I’ve got four smokes left and a billion days to go, stuck in woop woop. What am I gonna do, huh? Come on. Tell me.’ ‘Sorry. It’s against the law.’ That just makes things worse. I’m thumping my hand against the dash, raising clouds of dust. The sound echoes in my head. ‘Against the law?’ I say. ‘Against the law? Well, I hate to say this, Gramps, but take a look around this ute. It hasn’t even got working seatbelts, for Chrissake. The brakes are probably shot to hell, the bodywork is held together with rust. It’s a deathtrap, dude. You’ve got about a million traffic violations right here and you talk to me about smokes and the law? This is insane.’ And that’s about all I remember. Next thing, I’m surrounded by a grey cloud, my right leg is hurting like hell, there’s a thumping of blood in my temples and I’m limping down the track. The taste of dust 84

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is in my mouth. I hold onto my right thigh with both hands, but even so I’m going a fair clip. I don’t hear the ute behind me. I don’t pay it any attention when it draws up alongside. I only stop when Granddad parks it across the track, like a roadblock. And only then because I don’t have much choice. I stand still. The only sounds are the ticking of the engine block and a mournful birdsong in the distance. Granddad gets out of the ute and walks towards me. He’s got a strange look on his face. There’s a buzzing sound in my ears and I feel dizzy. ‘Yo, Gramps. Dude.’ I say. ‘What’s going down?’ ‘Shit, lad. You’re a mess,’ says Granddad. ‘Here.’ He tosses a packet of smokes in my direction. I catch them. It’s just reflex. ‘I bought ’em for you, all right? Just one pack. I was goin’ to give ’em to you later. Jesus.’ I look at the pack. It’s not a brand I like. I scratch off the cellophane and knock a cigarette into my palm. My hands are trembling. I pat my pockets, but I don’t have a light. It’s all too confusing. ‘Language, dude,’ I say. ‘Unnecessary.’ He holds a flame under my cigarette. There’s a gold lighter in his hand and I’ve never seen it before. The smoke is good in my lungs. Mild, but good. I suck hard. ‘Get back in the car, son,’ he says, all quiet. ‘Too easy,’ I say. I get in the passenger side and reach for the seatbelt. I let the belt with no buckle flop across my lap. Granddad 85

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starts the ute and turns it around with a grinding of gears and a spinning of dust. We lurch up the track. I hitch my legs onto the ratty seat and hug them to my chest. I puff on my smoke and watch the blue swirls make patterns on the windscreen. There’s silence for a couple of ks. ‘What happened back there?’ asks Granddad. I press my fingers into the soft bit of my skull, next to my left eye. Apply pressure there. Sometimes it helps. My mind is clearing. ‘Gramps,’ I say. ‘I think you might have a better idea than me. Judging from the pain in my leg and the dirt all up my jeans, I’d say I threw myself out of the ute. But hey, I’m not the most reliable witness.’ Granddad glances over at me. He seems tense. If I make a movement for the doorhandle he’s gonna have a coronary. ‘You really don’t remember?’ Like most people, Granddad is having difficulty believing it. ‘It’s a blank, man. One minute we’re in the ute and I’m angry you haven’t got me any smokes, the next I’m hoofing it down the track. The bit in between? Gone.’ Granddad rubs at his chin. It’s like hearing sandpaper scraping over a wooden block. ‘Did I do anything?’ I continue. ‘You know. Anything violent?’ I hate even asking the question. I can’t tell you how much I hate it. Tears prick behind my eyes and I don’t dare to close them. If I do, I know a tear will roll. This sucks big time. 86

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‘You mean other than to yourself?’ I nod, but keep my head turned to the window. ‘No. You were just there one minute, thumping the dash. The next, the door was open and you’re a puff of dust in the rear-view mirror. I tellya, if you’re trying to give me a heart attack, you’re goin’ the right way about it.’ I have to close my eyes then. Sure enough, I feel big drops squeeze through my lashes, run down my cheeks. I keep my head away from Granddad, press my forehead against the glass. There’s no way I can talk for a while, not without giving myself away. I don’t want to talk anyway. What’s there to say? I throw myself from moving cars when I don’t get my own way and then I sit and sob like a fouryear-old. Just self-pity? Maybe. In the end, though, I don’t think it’s about pity at all. It’s about hatred. There are plenty of people out there who have good cause to hate me. But even the worst of them couldn’t hate me as much as I hate myself. It’s on this cheerful note that the side window on Granddad’s ute, the one I have my forehead pressed up against, slips further down into the doorframe with a clatter. My head slides abruptly into the slipstream and Granddad’s nerves are clearly on a hair-trigger, because he sees me lurch and must think I’m about to do another halfpike with twist from the ute. He slams his foot on the brake and I crack my skull on the window frame before crashing into the glove box. It’s so funny I have to laugh. One moment I’m crying, 87

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the next I can’t stop laughing. And it’s the look on Granddad’s face that’s the best as we screech to a stop and I lever myself back into the seat. The tears are still rolling down my face and no one, not even me, could tell if they’re tears of laughter or pain. Granddad’s not laughing. ‘Shit, lad. Are you trying to finish me off?’ That just makes me laugh harder. ‘Language, dude,’ I say. ‘Whaddya mean, language?’ says Granddad. He’s made no attempt to re-start the ute. He’s just sitting, staring at me, and I can tell by his expression that he is seriously annoyed. I try to swallow my laughter, but it’s difficult. I settle for gurgling. ‘The S-word,’ I gurgle. ‘Unnecessary.’ ‘Can you explain that to me?’ says Granddad. ‘Seriously. I come out with a couple of swear words and you act like a priest. It don’t sit easy with the way you behave neither. I don’t understand.’ ‘Man,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry. I know I’m being annoying. Seriously. But that was funny. My head goes out the window and yours nearly goes through the roof. Come on. Start the car, and I’ll tell you about the swearing thing on the way home. Honest to God.’ I make the sign of the cross over where my heart would be if I had one, dredge up what supplies of charm I can find and put them all into a smile. Doesn’t work. Granddad’s expression doesn’t change, but he finally cranks the engine 88

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over again. I light up another smoke and watch the trees for a while. ‘The swearing thing is to do with my anger management, Gramps,’ I say. ‘One counsellor said that many things can trigger feelings of antagonism – some TV shows, for example. Even certain types of colours. I mean, I don’t know. It’s just what he said. And swearing, according to him, was a way of not retaining control over your feelings. Swearing is like opening a path to the aggressive streak in me. And worse things than swear words might come out along that path as well. So I need to keep that path closed. Keep the demons locked up. That’s why I don’t swear. You see what I mean?’ Granddad glances over at me. ‘You have to keep anger bottled up? I thought that wasn’t healthy.’ ‘It isn’t, dude. But neither is letting it rip without any control. I’ve got to let the demons out in controlled situations. Where they can do the least damage.’ ‘Is it working?’ ‘Well, you saw me back there, rolling around in the dirt,’ I say. Suddenly a huge wave of sadness washes over me. ‘I think on the balance of the evidence, I’ve got a way to go yet.’ Back at the shacks, after we’ve unloaded the shopping and put it away, I don’t have much trouble persuading Granddad to give me a go in the ute. Maybe he thinks that 89

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at least I might learn another useful skill, to go with the log hewing and toting. Maybe he’s scared that if he says no I’ll spit the dummy in spectacular fashion. Who knows? We go out to where the ute’s parked by the shed and he turns the old girl around, so she’s pointing down the track. He tells me all the stuff about the clutch, brake and accelerator. I know this, but figure I’ll let him have his say, otherwise he might change his mind. He goes on forever about safe driving, as well, and checking the mirrors, and looking over your shoulder into the blind spot. Pretty useful out here to be checking the mirrors. What’s that? It’s a tree. Oh, look, another tree. Better see if there’s a tree in the blind spot . . . Finally, he lets me get behind the wheel while he oozes into the passenger seat. It’s a column shift and adjusting the gear lever is like stirring a thick bowl of porridge. I force the clutch down to the floor and put the ute in first. Well, I try to put it in first. There’s all this grating and clunking going on and the stick keeps popping out into neutral. ‘Your gearbox is pretty much shot, Gramps,’ I say. ‘You’re an expert all of a sudden?’ ‘Hey, keep your teeth in, Gramps. I’m just saying, that’s all.’ ‘You’ve gotta get used to it, find the right point, slide it in gently.’ ‘Just like your women, hey?’ He doesn’t say anything and I try the porridge stirrer 90

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again. This time, it engages and I’m ready to rock and roll. I give it some serious revs and let the clutch out, too quickly. The ute shoots down the track like horse manure off a stainless steel shovel and suddenly Granddad is yelling. ‘Get her into second, not so much accelerator, keep your eyes on the road.’ The road? This is mad fun. I try to get her into second, but hit fourth instead, so we slow down quick and start chugging. Picks up after a while, though. I get her round the corner, and past the shacks, but it’s like trying to turn the Sydney Opera House. The only power steering is my arm muscles. There’s a long, straight stretch and I give it a bit more boot. Granddad is yelling, but I can’t hear him over the engine. As we get to the bottom, just before a sharp left, I try the brakes. Talk about spongy. My foot goes three-quarters of the way to the floor before anything grips. Even then, we don’t slow much, so I pump it like a maniac. The back end slides to my right and then corrects and we’re through it. Honest to God, I couldn’t have done it better if I’d been trying. It’s perfect. A beautiful slide round the corner and the track is laid out before us, the ute straightening just so. I whoop as all this gravel sprays off from the back wheels. I glance over to Granddad, but his mouth is puckered up like a poodle’s bum and he’s got both hands on the dashboard. They might be white, but it’s difficult to tell beneath the wrinkles and liver spots. He risks a quick 91

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glance away from the road. I don’t know why he’s staring so intently. I mean, as a passenger, keeping his eyes on the road isn’t going to give him much control. He yells. ‘Stop!’ So I do. I pump the brakes again. My calf muscles nearly go into spasm. Just before we stop I even give the handbrake a tweak, so we fishtail a little. I forget to depress the clutch, so the engine dies, but I’m pleased with myself. I reckon I’ve done good, and done good with style. It becomes clear, though, that Granddad doesn’t see it that way. ‘Get out,’ he says, the words all growly in the back of his throat. ‘What?’ ‘Get out.’ ‘Oh, c’mon, Gramps,’ I say. ‘That was good. Coupla skids, sure, but I was in control all the way.’ But he’s already out of the ute and storming round to the driver’s side. I slip over the gear stick and into the passenger seat. I figure now’s not the time to get lippy. Granddad gets in, all stern-faced, and cranks the engine over. He does a three-point turn – a fairly lousy one – and we chug back to the shacks. In silence. I try a dash of reason. ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Maybe I went a touch too fast. I admit it. But you’re not exactly a tortoise, Granddad. You were gunning it this morning.’ ‘I’ve been driving for over fifty years, not five minutes.’ ‘All right. Fair point. But that was my first time. Everyone 92

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mucks up their first time, right?’ I reckon he can’t argue with that. He doesn’t either. He doesn’t say anything. ‘So I just need some more practice, that’s all. Hey? Whaddya say? Give me another go?’ He parks and takes the key from the ignition, puts it in his pocket as though there’s no way he’s going to let it out of his sight. Then he gazes at me, all serious, for about six months. It’s difficult to read his eyes, what with the wrinkles and the moisture and all. ‘Maybe,’ he says finally. ‘Maybe you’re right. But you’ll have to prove you’re gonna take this thing serious, that you’re not gonna jerk around. If you can do that, I might give you another go tomorrow.’ There’s no point arguing. There’s a lot at stake, here. Not least, persuading him to get me more smokes, so it seems sensible to pull my head in. Anyway, I’ve got a hint of a plan. You see, I spot about three jerry cans in the corner of the lean-to and I figure there must be petrol in at least one of them. For emergencies. They do that, don’t they? These guys who live in the middle of nowhere. For chainsaws and generators and all the other gizmos no self-respecting Aussie bloke would go without. I’ll give it a go tomorrow, when he’s having his nap. The kitchen is primitive, but I like it. I’ve never cooked on a wood stove before, so this’ll be a first. I always use gas at home; gas gives you control. But like so many life experiences – driving springs to mind – sometimes you have most 93

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fun when you aren’t quite in control, when you’re flying on instinct. Not that I want to give the impression that cooking is like hang-gliding or anything, but you know what I mean. I find the knives in a rough-wood drawer. They’re decent enough, but blunt as hell. I couldn’t cut my own wrists if I sawed on them for half an hour. It’s funny how that’s the image that springs to mind. I find an old-fashioned whetstone, which is cool, and spend about half an hour getting razor edges. There’s no wok, but there’s a heavy-duty frying pan. It nearly gives me a hernia lifting it. Granddad is sitting on the verandah – hey, that’s a surprise – waiting for the wallabies and hoping to hear the sound of steak sizzling. I love the preparation, swear to God. It’s my favourite part. The sound the knife makes as it slices through fresh vegetables, the smell of spices freshly ground. Well, without a mortar and pestle I have to grind the spices by putting them on a chopping board and smacking my fist down on the side of a knife. Can get a bit messy, but it does the job. I thinly slice the chicken and pour a film of extra-virgin olive oil over the pan. The pot of water on the stove top is coming to the boil. Time to weave some culinary magic. ‘What’s this?’ says Granddad when I hand him the plate. He examines it as though it’s something that might bite him, rather than the other way round. ‘Well,’ I say as I sit down in the chair next to him. ‘It’s a green chicken curry. Couldn’t quite get all the ingredients, but it’s close enough.’ 94

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‘A curry?’ he says, as if it’s a foreign word. Which I guess it is. ‘Man cannot live by steak alone, Gramps. Tuck in.’ He fossicks around on the plate with his fork, separating out chunks of food. Possibly he’s hoping that underneath the basmati rice, the chicken and the vegies, he’ll find a slab of cow. Finally, as if he can’t put off the moment any longer, he lifts a piece of chicken to his wrinkly old mouth and takes a bite. I’m getting stuck into mine, but keeping an eye on him. I didn’t make it hot. Green curries aren’t particularly hot, anyway, but I’d spiced it a coupla of notches below mild. Granddad seems like the kind of guy who thinks that tastebuds shouldn’t be expected to handle anything spicier than barbecue sauce and I didn’t want him to spit his false teeth out into wallaby territory on the first mouthful. He doesn’t say anything, but I notice he takes another forkful. And then another, the gaps between forkfuls getting shorter. I suspect this is going to be the limit of the appreciation this chef is going to get, but I’ll settle for it. He finishes his food before I do. Honest. And he has seconds. Afterwards, I gather up the dishes and wash them. Normally, I’d avoid that. I mean, that’s not the chef’s job, right? But I figure I need all the brownie points I can muster and, anyway, it’s no big deal. When I’m done I go back to my seat. It’s real dark now and there’s the familiar scuffle of wallabies doing whatever wallabies do. Granddad has dug out a coupla stubbies 95

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and I open mine and take a long swig. We sit, staring at nothing. ‘Good meal,’ he says. ‘Guess I’m not totally useless, Gramps,’ I say. ‘No,’ he says. ‘Not totally.’ I’m starting to warm to the old buzzard. We finish the cold ones in silence. ‘I’ve solved it, Gramps,’ I say. ‘What?’ ‘The Strange Case of the Unnaturally Chilled Stubbies,’ I reply. ‘Oh yeah?’ ‘Yeah. I reckon that just beyond the fence line, deep in the bush, you’ve got this alternative homestead, with mains electricity, town water, aircon, double fridge with the ice-making gizmo in the door, broadband internet facilities and a 42-inch plasma TV. This roughing it is just to build my character. Am I right, or what?’ He ignores me, and who can blame him? I’m just about to ask for another stubby – I did pay for half the slab, after all – when I get a better idea. Well, it seems like a better idea. I decide to go for a walk. It was part of the deal that I would walk every day and so far today I haven’t done any. Unless you count an amble around the shops and a short hoof down a dusty track. It occurs to me that Granddad might care to join me. He doesn’t. ‘Are you nuts?’ he says. ‘It’s cold and pitch-black out there.’ 96

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‘We could take a torch.’ ‘You take a torch. I’m staying put.’ So I do. I take the dog as well. I haven’t forgotten that feeling of something out there in the bush tracking me. I’m ninety-nine per cent certain it’s my imagination. The one per cent suggests the dog would be a good idea. It becomes clear very soon, though, that the dog doesn’t agree. It ignores my coaxing cries of ‘C’mon, boy’, though its tail twitches slightly under the verandah. ‘Walkies’ makes it put its head on its paws and close its eyes. Finally, Granddad orders it to get moving and it lurches to its feet like a maimed soldier. I borrow the hardcore torch and head out the rickety gate, the dog limping at my heels. ‘Don’t go far. And stick to the track,’ Granddad yells after us. I shine the torch up under my chin and twist my face around. Makes me look like a monster. Or is it a loser? The dog casts Granddad a look that is real easy to read. You have ordered me to go and I am going, for that is in the nature of things. But I don’t like it and I hope you feel very bad. But Granddad doesn’t seem to be feeling bad. In fact, by the dim light of the citronella candles, I see him crack open a second stubby of Boag’s. He is a sly dog. It doesn’t take long for me to realise the dog would be useless in any kind of emergency. Maybe I’ve been 97

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conditioned into thinking of dogs as noble, fearless creatures, happy and willing to lay down their lives for their masters. This one is a founding member of the Dog Liberation Army. Canines first is its motto. Every little noise from the bush and the dog cowers against my calf muscles. If anything scary was to appear it would doubtless force its way up the leg of my jeans. Nothing scary appears. There are plenty of critter noises, though, but mostly they skitter into the undergrowth as I approach. And I have no sense of anything watching me, which is good. No – it’s great. Now would be the perfect time for paranoia to make a guest appearance. There is only a thin sliver of moon overhead and the track is almost completely dark. The torch beam seems to make the surroundings darker. The tunnel of light punches into the night, but the boundaries of darkness press harder around the edges, as though I’m travelling along an illuminated path and there’s nothing else in the entire universe. I could walk forever, a sole traveller in the night. It’s hypnotic. Finally, I stop. I turn the torch off. It’s never really dark in Melbourne. Even in the darkest places there are traces of light, a ghost of a streetlight, a glow from brightly lit buildings in the distance. Out here, the only light-source comes from above. I look up and see more stars than seems possible. The sliver of moon is off to my right, caught in the branches of trees. I float in darkness. The air is cold and fresh as I draw it into my lungs. 98

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The sheen of sweat on my exposed skin chills rapidly. I must have walked faster than I thought. The skitter and scuttle of unseen life among fallen leaves sounds like the bush is speaking to me. I get an urge to move off into the forest. Just take off. Keep walking and see where it leads me. Leave the torch and dog behind. I don’t, though. I’m not a complete idiot. Some parts are missing. The old buzzard owes me beer and it’s time to collect. I flick on the torch and head back up the track. The dog sticks close to my heels, panting in a way that suggests that if it collapses and dies of exhaustion it will all be my fault. But it actually seems cheerful now. It must sense its duty is nearly done. And the cobwebbed corners under the verandah are calling to it like a song. Granddad has gone to bed by the time I return from my ramble, so I never get the second stubby of Boag’s. I’m keeping score, though. That’s an extra one he owes me. Richie – muscle-bound woodchopper from hell – was right. Well, about one thing. Dad did grease the wheels of justice. He’s lavish with grease. Don’t think he actually bribed anyone. Doubt it. Not because that would be unethical – Dad believes in winning at all costs. But because it’s risky. He wouldn’t want the chance of it coming back to bite him. So he threw money around. That’s what he does. Most times, he gets results. Throw enough cash at a problem, it 99

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generally goes away. Sneaks off to South America and lives under an assumed name. That depresses me. Doesn’t seem to have the same effect on others. He hates that my real problem – the IED – is dollar-resistant. First thing Dad did after he bailed me from the cop shop was talk to the general manager at the fast food place. The cops told him I might be charged with resisting arrest, disorderly conduct, and violent and threatening behaviour. Everything except riding a bicycle on a public road without a helmet. And property damage, which was up to the management of the fast food joint. Turns out they wanted to press charges. Dad flung money like confetti. Offered a generous sum to repair the damage. Offered to make a substantial donation to the youth fitness charity associated with the fast food chain. They could fill young arteries with fat, then balance it with a widely publicised fitness promotion. Conscience clear. The store manager was an easy mark. He’d have taken the cash and run. But Head Office said, ‘No deal.’ They didn’t need the money. Small change. Anyway, the damages claim was cut and dried. Might take years to get to court, but Dad would have to cough up eventually. No hurry. Two ways of looking at this. 1: Dad as concerned parent, doing the best for his son. 2: Dad as protector of 100

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his own best interests, avoiding bad publicity. I don’t know. Maybe the tooth fairy exists. As for the court case, money didn’t talk. It yelled. Expert witnesses – psychologists, psychiatrists – took the stand and argued the IED defence. I was the victim, the way they presented it. I found it embarrassing. Dad didn’t. The court decided against detention. Not tricky to work out why. Too expensive. The taxpayer pays through the nose. Anyway, youth detention centres are bursting at the seams. Plus, those places are for the working class. My dad is loaded. No way I’d get banged up behind bars. Society doesn’t function that way. Three cheers for society. The wealthy have other options. And Dad knew them all. My high-profile barrister – the real crime was how much he was getting paid – gave the magistrate a neatly packaged get-out: I get shipped off to stay with my grandfather in Tasmania. I complete a reflective journal. I take long walks where my IED is unlikely to flare up (and if I do get angry here, it’s mainly trees that are in danger). I undergo a full psychiatric evaluation – paid for by Dad – on my return to Melbourne. 101

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Tick the boxes. Done deal. Everyone happy. Case closed. Time for an expensive lunch. And the human element? Magistrate, police officers, psychologists, learned counsel. They’ve forgotten about it by now. Just another case. But I’ve still got to deal with it. That’s fair enough. What about Granddad, though? What about a little girl in a restaurant, clutching a tacky plastic toy? Who cares about them? I almost sympathise with the demon woodchopper. He didn’t invite me. No one asked if it was okay. Then again . . . perhaps he deserves me. Perhaps I deserve him. Whenever I see him, I’m going to have to be careful. He could trigger an explosion. If that happens, it won’t be pretty. Guaranteed. It’s weird. I’m a city boy, through and through. Never known anything else. I can’t shop here. No shops. I hate nature. Trees most of all. I can’t stand old people. Nothing personal. It’s just that . . . they’re old. I’m addicted to all things electronic. Figure this. Put me in a place where there’s no electricity, no shopping and only an old dude and trees for company. What are the odds on me having a full-scale nervous breakdown? A miracle it hasn’t happened. Why? I don’t know. Yet.

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I close the exercise book and place the pen straight along its edge. The fire has died down and the embers are glowing. I think about putting another log on. It’s toasty in here, but once the fire goes out, it’ll take no time at all for the chill to invade. It’s probably a good idea to get another log. And there’s something comforting about going to sleep with light and shadow from the flames dancing on the ceiling. It’s another cold night. I follow the not-wallaby-proof fence to the woodpile and pick up a good-sized log. But I don’t want to go to bed just yet. I stand the log on its end, sit on it, take out a last smoke and light up. There are no red eyes tonight. If I sense anything at all from the bush, it’s a feeling of calm. Perhaps Gran is out there, a ghostly mobile phone in one hand, watching over me. It’s a soothing thought. Dumb, but soothing. I’d get a warm glow if it wasn’t for the fact that something – probably a huntsman the size of a dinner plate – has emerged from the log and is starting the long ascent up the north face of my sweatshirt. I jump up pretty quick, brushing real and imaginary critters from my clothes. I thump the log against the ground to discourage anything else that might have taken up residence. When I’m satisfied there’s nothing left but wood, I pick it up and take it inside. It snuggles down into the embers of the fire and makes satisfying crackling noises. I sit for a while and watch the shifting shapes within the embers. Then I get out my pocketknife. I like the sense of routine as I carve a third line into the post. 103

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I’m getting up earlier than usual. Mind you, that’s not a real surprise. Back home I’d crawl out of my pit around midday. Except on school days, of course. Then I’d get up at about eleven. In my defence, I wouldn’t get to sleep until at least three in the morning. Too much to do at night – watch DVDs, surf the net. Here, those options are not even on the menu, and it’s lights out at nine-thirty while wallaby guards patrol the perimeter fence. Maybe I should start a one-man riot or dig a tunnel. I’m not having any trouble sleeping, though. No problem with that. Maybe there’s something in that old saying about fresh air being good for you. I just wouldn’t want to risk it if I had a choice. So, I’m up and at ’em by eight at the latest. Granddad’s up before me, of course. I get the impression the old fossil is tooling around at four in the morning, milking wallabies or something. God knows why. It’s not like he has to sink fence posts, castrate cattle or plough the odd paddock. Anyway, I’m feeling kinda good. Body and mind. I even give his porridge a go, though it looks like quick-drying 104

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cement. Turns out it tastes like it, too. A hurried wash of the dishes and then we’re outside on the verandah, in our regular places, doing our regular thing. Staring at trees. You can bet your life Granddad will die in that chair. The TAB have stopped taking bets. He’ll be found, one day, stiff, vacant eyes staring out over the fence. I reckon it’ll be tough to tell he’s actually carked it, though. You could talk to him for a day or two and still not know for sure. ‘So what’s on the agenda today, Gramps?’ I say, full of quick-dried cement and enthusiasm. ‘White-water rafting, free-fall parachuting?’ He takes his time to answer, as always. ‘Nothin’,’ he says. ‘Nothin’ to do.’ ‘No chores?’ I say. ‘Another shack to build, a few hectares of land to clear?’ I’m serious. I’m tingly with energy and need to do something with my hands. If Granddad hears me, he doesn’t let on. The silence stretches. ‘Whaddya say we chop some more firewood?’ I continue. ‘You could teach me how to use a chainsaw.’ ‘Don’t need firewood. Got plenty.’ ‘Aw, c’mon. You can’t get enough firewood. I’ll do all the work. You can just act in a supervisory capacity.’ I thought he might be impressed with that last sentence. ‘Beats sitting here waiting for death.’ He mulls this over a bit and then nods. ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘But any dicking around with the chainsaw and that’s it. Understand?’ ‘Gramps!’ I say. ‘Language, dude.’ 105

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* The chainsaw is serious fun. All that power buzzing in my hands. I feel like donning a hockey mask and stalking Granddad through the bush. I don’t share this idea with him, though, on the grounds he’d be unlikely to wet himself laughing. He gives me the safety demonstration and tells me a million stories of people who have sawn off their own noses, arms and willies through not obeying the basic rules. It’s instructive, particularly when he says the chainsaw can rear up if you hit a snag in the wood, and do serious damage to your fleshy bits. I’m pretty attached to my fleshy bits. I take to it, though, like a fly to poo. It’s great, the way the blade slices through the wood, all this fine dust spurting. I do it the way he tells me, cutting a log about two-thirds of the way through and then shifting it over to finish the cut. The smell is terrific, too. This resiny sweetness hangs in the air. I slice and dice about twenty decent-sized logs in just a coupla minutes and then Granddad taps me on the shoulder and signals for me to switch off the saw. ‘That’s enough,’ he says. ‘C’mon. Just a few more.’ He shakes his head. ‘Nah. No room to store it. It’d be a fire hazard.’ I snap the safety guard on the saw while Granddad backs up the tractor so we can load the logs. I pull out a smoke and sit on this tree stump. I can’t imagine the loading and the splitting when we get back is going to be 106

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as much fun, and I deserve a break. This is only my third ciggie of the day, so I’m feeling seriously virtuous. ‘Take a load off, Gramps,’ I say, patting the space next to me on the log. ‘Smoko.’ And then he surprises me again. He creaks himself down next to me and reaches into his pocket, pulls out a packet of tobacco and rolls a ciggie. I’m, like, whaat? ‘Hang on,’ I say. ‘Time out, dude. Since when did you smoke?’ ‘Oh, since about sixty years ago, give or take. Don’t do it much now, though. Lungs aren’t what they used to be.’ ‘Not surprised if you’ve been doin’ it for sixty years. Give or take. You old dog. You like bowlin’ the odd wrong ’un, don’t you, Gramps?’ He doesn’t say anything, so we sit, toking happily. I wonder if the moment’s gone, but give it a go anyway. ‘So, tell me about yourself, Gramps. Tell me about Gran.’ To be honest, I know next to nothing about this guy, even though he’s my granddad and all. I can barely remember Gran, just this vague memory of a woman with white hair who smelled of bread. I have this picture in my head of her rolling out dough on a board and turning to look down at me. You know, like a close point-of-view shot in a movie. I’m looking through my own eyes, except I’m really young. I have no idea if the memory is real or whether it’s just some random film-still stuck in my head. All I know is she died, years ago. I went to the funeral, but don’t remember anything about it. 107

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It’s funny. She’s someone who’s really close to me, in blood, I mean, yet I know less than squat about her as a person. All of her life, wiped out forever. What’s left of her is inside Granddad’s head. And when he dies, even that’ll be gone. Like she never existed. It’s not often I think about this sort of stuff. And when I do I try to stop. If we were meant to dwell on philosophy, God wouldn’t have invented computer games, that’s my motto. Sometimes I can’t help myself, that’s all. And as I start to think about that, other questions spring into my head. I mean, why didn’t I know Gran? Why did we never come to visit? And the same applies to Granddad after she popped her clogs. I remember a few years back we actually had a holiday in Tasmania. It was hell. Lots of walks and wandering round ancient buildings listening to some dude go on about our convict heritage. Undiluted boredom. But the point I’m making is we never even dropped in to see him. Is that strange, or is it just me? Granddad’s quiet while this is spinning through my noodle and I’m starting to think we’re back to verbal dribble. I should have taken advantage when he was a gusher. But he’s just thinking. ‘Your gran?’ he says and his voice has gone quiet, inside himself, if you get my drift. ‘I don’t know where to start. You’re too young to understand, but she was the kind of person that is your only love. I knew it the first time I saw her. The very first time our eyes met. I thought, “This is the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with.” Even 108

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more than that, I knew that if I didn’t, I would never be truly happy. There would always be a gap that couldn’t be filled.’ It’s a little embarrassing, this stuff. Actually, it’s monumentally embarrassing. I kinda wanted the facts: how tall, star sign, how old she was when she gave the bucket a good toe-end, that kind of thing. So I try to change the subject. I’m not comfortable with the idea of true love, particularly involving people with excessive wrinkles. ‘Didn’t you guys live in Launceston at some stage?’ I say. From wrinkly love to real estate seems like a good conversational gambit. And I have a vague memory of that, I think. ‘Yeah. We lived in Lonnie for years.’ ‘So how come you’re in this place, then?’ ‘We bought this near on thirty-five years ago. Cost us two hundred dollars, including legal fees.’ He chuckles. ‘Just a plot of land, forty hectares. Nothin’ on it then, of course. We’d come up here whenever we could. Cleared the land, built the houses, laid the water pipes from the river. Your gran loved it here. Said it was a place of magic.’ ‘Yeah, but I mean, why are you here now? Did you have to sell your place in Launceston?’ ‘No. That’s still there.’ ‘So what gives, Gramps? I hate to be tactless, but this is serious boondock territory and you’re getting on a bit. Wouldn’t it be better to be somewhere with a little more . . . comfort?’ Closer to hospital, is what I’m thinking. 109

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‘I moved here right after your gran died.’ I remember what he said the day before yesterday about Gran the Guardian Angel, looking out for him. ‘’Cos this is, like, the place the two of you built together and loved? Right? You feel comfortable here.’ I’m pretty pleased with my insight, but not too thrilled the subject is getting round to love again, even if I’ve only got myself to blame. ‘No,’ says Granddad. ‘I’m here to be with her. This is where she is. There isn’t a day goes by I don’t talk to her.’ Seriously freaky. That’s what I’m thinking as I split the logs and stack them under the eaves. Granddad has gone into the main shack and I’m out in the yard by myself. Suits me. There’s nothing like someone telling you they speak to a corpse every day to stop a conversation dead in its tracks. Forgive the pun. I mean, I know I should understand, and on one level I do. Here’s Granddad, devoted to Gran, and she carks it and he can’t cope. So he keeps her around, talks to her, like imaginary friends some people have when they’re kids. I mean, it’s understandable. But still freaky as. I wait until I’m sure Granddad has gone to sleep and then I wheel the motorbike a good way up the track. I’d scoped it out yesterday and noticed the key sticking out of the ignition. That left the question of fuel and whether or not the machine had been used in the last twenty years and would 110

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still start. The jerry cans were the answer to the first question. And yes, two of the cans had fuel in them and I’d topped up the tank. As far as whether it will fire, well, there is only one way to find out. I take a small bag of tools from the lean-to. It’s a heavy mother, though, and I build up a good sweat by the time I push it a decent way up the track. So I stop and have a breather. The forest is quiet. Even the kookaburras seem to be having a break. Maybe, like me, they’re anxious to see if this puppy will start. I wipe the sweat off my forehead and get ready to crank it over. The bike, not my forehead. It’s an old machine and doesn’t have electronic ignition. Electronics hadn’t been invented when this sucker was built. It’s a kick-start job. I find a flat spot and straddle it. I tell you, that’s not as easy as it might sound. They must have built the old machines out of solid cast iron and concrete, because we are talking a heavy load. For a moment, I’m in serious danger of the whole thing falling over and squashing me flat. A touch embarrassing if I have to call for Granddad and he finds me pinned like a bug under a mass of metal I shouldn’t be messing with. It’s okay, though. I get my balance and give a good kick. Nothing. I do this a few times before I remember to turn the fuel line on. I can almost hear the kookaburras laughing. Even then, there’s nothing. It doesn’t so much as cough. There’s no spark at all and I reckon it might be a problem with the plugs. So I find this old plug spanner in the 111

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tool kit and take ’em out and give ’em a clean. There’s about half a kilo of filth lodged in there, but to be honest I’m not optimistic even as I stick them back. I give it a go. Still nothing. Apart from nearly pulling a muscle and scraping my shin on the frame. I fiddle around with a few leads. Don’t know why, but it seems a good idea. I’m on the point of jacking the whole thing in and wheeling the bike back when it fires. Doesn’t start, but fires briefly and dies. I reckon I’m on the right track, or it’s just playing with my emotions, so I do some more leadfiddling and kick it over again. This time the engine catches and holds. Then I realise I’ve got a problem. This engine is one noisy sonofa. People in Melbourne are probably snorting morning tea out of their nostrils, going, ‘What the hell is that?’ And I don’t want Granddad to know, for obvious reasons. On the other hand, I’m worried about letting the revs drop in case it cuts out and I’m back to the lead-fiddling. There’s only one solution. I pull the clutch in, smack my left foot down, lob it into gear and away I go. It might sound like a Boeing 707 on a runway, but it doesn’t have much poke, so I’m not exactly a streak disappearing up the mountain. I’ve got all these clouds of foul smoke coming from the exhaust. I could probably hear the trees dying from pollution if it wasn’t for the sound of birds coughing. After a minute or so, I reckon I’ve put enough space between me and the shack, so I pull over and idle the throttle. The engine’s sweet enough. Well, not sweet. It hiccups a 112

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lot, but it’s not cutting out and that’s the main thing. I sit for a while, feeling like a Hell’s Angel, and consider my plan of action. It’s a case of once bitten, twice shy. I’m not keen to repeat the getting lost scenario. I check the track and the tyre marks are pretty clear. If I keep to the dirt tracks, I reckon I should be okay. Nonetheless, I stop every couple of hundred metres and make a gash in a tree trunk with my pocket knife. I feel better about doing the Hansel and Gretel impersonation. I can ride a bike, see. A couple of years ago, Dad enrolled me in extracurricular sports activities at the school. They’d informed him I’d wagged every Phys. Ed. class for the past decade and he got paranoid about the state of my health. So he signed me up for this course, which cost megabucks. I had to laugh. There were all these upper-class options on offer, like yachting and even polo. Dad would have creamed his suit trousers if I’d gone the polo option. He probably had images of me in a cashmere sweater, a debutante with teeth like tombstones on my arm, chatting to Prince Harry. He’d have settled for rugby, I guess. Maybe even cricket at a pinch. So I did motocross. It was dirty and noisy, and I didn’t have to use my muscles to move. I could even have a smoke if I took my trail bike on a cross-country ride. But the biggest plus was that it really annoyed him and kicked him hard in the wallet. Anyway, I can ride a motorbike, even a dinosaur like this one. 113

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The engine must have blasted itself clear, because I’m not trailing black smoke anymore. Not exactly a clean exhaust, but not likely to choke all living creatures within a hundred metre radius. The back wheel is down on pressure, as well. I can feel it slide, particularly in the mushy ground, but that’s not a huge problem off-road. Sometimes the slope is too steep to go straight up without pulling the bike down on top of me, so I have to go off to the side and find a better route. The recent heavy rain has turned the mountainside into mud, but that just makes it more fun. About halfway up I stop and plug in my iPod and that’s so cool. The feel of the bike under me, the way it slips and slews, all to the crashing sound of heavy metal. It’s like I’m blasting my own exhaust clean. The last twenty or thirty metres before the summit are kinda steep, so I gun the engine. I don’t exactly soar onto the top of a mountain like some stunt guy, but the wheels do leave the mud for a fraction of a second. They even do it at the same time. Airtime! I feel good – and yes, I am aware of how sad a person that makes me. I sit on the same random rock as before and check my watch. Five minutes to lunch at school, so I pull out a smoke and eyeball the vista to a couple of my favourite tracks. But after a minute or two that becomes really strange, so I turn the iPod off. Why is that? Why is it that, surrounded by constant noise, like I am all the time in Melbourne, I can listen to music continuously. But when it’s quiet – at the very time when you’d think 114

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noise would be vital – I become reluctant to disturb it? I don’t know. It beats me. So I gaze at absolutely nothing, listen to absolutely nothing and it doesn’t feel bad. I give Kris another few minutes to get out of the classroom and hit the open spaces. It’s possible she’ll have to track down the chick with the phone as well, so I allow a couple more minutes for that. In the meantime I turn on the phone to see if I’ve got any messages, but nothing comes through. That worries me. I did ask Kris to text me and she must have had time. But then I guess texting is not always possible if you’re relying on other people’s phones and the credit they may or may not have. I punch in the number she gave me and she answers on the first ring. ‘Yo,’ I say. ‘Stud reporting for duty.’ She laughs. ‘How are you?’ ‘Oh, not too shabby, considering. What about you?’ ‘Okay. Missing you.’ ‘It’s natural,’ I say. ‘You’re only human, after all.’ She doesn’t say anything to that – no laugh, or anything – and I figure that was maybe not the right time for a touch of humour. ‘Miss you, too,’ I add, and hope it doesn’t sound like an afterthought. ‘You don’t have to say that if you don’t mean it,’ she says. ‘I’d rather you didn’t say anything you didn’t mean.’ It’s not the start to the conversation I’d been hoping for. Trouble is, I’m no good on the sloppy stuff. I love you. I’m missing you. All of that. It’s hard to say. And I know 115

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women really get off on hearing that kinda thing. It’s not that I don’t feel exactly the same things that Kris says she’s feeling. It’s just that I’m not as good as her at saying them. I’ve tried to explain this in the past, but it doesn’t get me far. She believes you should talk about feelings. I reckon it’s good enough just to feel them, without constantly going on about it. ‘I do mean it,’ I say. ‘I miss you, heaps.’ There’s still silence, so I add, ‘I love you.’ Then she does laugh. ‘That sounds like it was dragged kicking and screaming from you,’ she says. And that is so typical of what I mean. Sometimes you just feel you’re wrong whatever you do. I get heaps when I don’t tell her I love her, then when I do it’s the wrong tone of voice or some such garbage. Who was it who said, ‘Women! Can’t live with them, can’t live with them’? I get all twisted up whenever me and Kris have these kinds of conversations, so I do what I normally do. I try to change the conversation. Sometimes it works. ‘No problem getting the phone from Janine, then?’ ‘Justine.’ ‘Right.’ ‘No. She’s been cool about it.’ ‘That’s good. But hey, Kris, I do think we should get you a new phone.’ ‘Look, we’ve talked about . . .’ ‘Yeah, I know. And I’m sorry about the last time. Seriously. I was stressed out, is all. It’s weird being here. Like I’m cut off from everything. And so maybe I was 116

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taking it out on you. I shouldn’t have made assumptions about what you could afford. I’m sorry, okay?’ ‘Okay.’ ‘So I thought that maybe I’d buy you a phone and send it to you. If they’ve invented post offices over here, that is.’ ‘That’s not really the point . . .’ ‘I know. I know it isn’t. And hey, I’m not coming over the hotshot spending guy. If you want, you can pay me back a little at a time. But really, this is dumb. I’ve got cash and it’s not like it’s a present just for you. It’s more a present for me. So I can talk to you without worrying I’m going to have to go through Janine.’ ‘Justine.’ ‘Whatever. But you see what I mean, Kris? It makes sense.’ ‘I don’t know. I’ll think about it.’ ‘What’s to think about? I’ll just do it . . .’ ‘I said I’ll think about it.’ And that’s the time to throw in the towel, if you know what’s good for you. Believe me, I’ve been there and bought the T-shirt. So we chat about other stuff. Turns out Miss Millner did ring home to check the state of the emergency and Kris has copped an after-school as a result. I tell her about Granddad, and about driving the ute. I’m tempted to tell her about Richie, but I don’t. It’s sort of embarrassing and anyway, I don’t want her to worry. Needless to say, I don’t mention getting impossible text messages in the middle of the bush while being stalked by 117

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the bogeyman, either. I make it sound like I’m having a great time. I mean, I’m not having the worst time of my life. That would be the last time Dad and I went on holiday together. And the truth is, it isn’t bad here. Maybe I’m getting used to it. There’s a minor miracle somewhere in that last sentence. If you’d told me that I’d describe a place with no electricity, no shops and a ridiculous surfeit of trees as ‘not bad’ I’d have said you were on mind-altering substances. We have a pretty good conversation, really – me and Kris. Then, right at the end, she spoils it. She says, ‘Hi’ to someone and I can’t resist. I know I should, but I just can’t. Okay. Maybe I spoil it. ‘Who’s that?’ I say, and I try to keep my tone light. An innocent question. ‘Just Steve,’ she says, and although there are probably fifty guys called Steve in our school, I know immediately who she means. He’s this guy in Year 11. A hotshot footy star with chiselled features shooting everywhere. Intellectually, it would be a close call if you put him up against a house brick, but in terms of looks I have to admit he was towards the front of the queue when they were being dished out. And boy, does he know it? With an IQ of thirty-seven, he could be excused for thinking that his face would, by itself, make him attractive to all members of the opposite sex. Unfortunately, the opposite sex don’t appear to want to disabuse him of this notion. The guy hooks up constantly. 118

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But maybe it’s all that footy, all that competitiveness. He’s one of those guys who can’t stand it if a girl isn’t interested in him. Ninety-nine out of a hundred isn’t good enough. He’d have to go all out for the hundredth. Kris is the hundredth. ‘What did he want?’ I ask, and there’s a touch of snarl in my voice. ‘Nothing. He was just passing.’ ‘Yeah, I could hear his knuckles scraping along the ground.’ Kris laughs and the reception starts to break up. I check the signal strength, for all the good it’s going to do me, and one bar is flicking on and off. ‘Look, Kris . . .’ I say, but the connection’s gone. There’s a hissing from the phone, an empty hiss. She’s gone. I stare at what has become a useless piece of plastic and get a strong urge to see whether it’s more solid than the rock I’ve been sitting on. I’m serious. But I light another cigarette instead and tell myself over and over again that it’s cool, that it’s all cool. It isn’t though. I wait until the end of Kris’s lunchtime, but the bar doesn’t make another appearance. The bike ride down would be mad fun under other circumstances. It’s trickier riding downhill – you’ve got gravity helping you, so control of the bike is much more important. It’s all 119

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about the right gear and getting the clutch to bite at just the right second. For part of the way, I let her rip, the branches of the trees whipping my shirt and face. And a coupla times I ride over fallen branches, real slow, standing on the pedals and doing the whole dirt-biker bit. Course, it’s not a trail bike, so I can’t pull too many stunts and it’s got the manoeuvrability of a steamroller, but I don’t drop it. Given that it’s a few years since I’ve done this stuff, I’m pleased with myself. I haven’t forgotten how to do it. It must be like riding a bike or something. I stop about halfway down ’cos my legs are tired from standing all the time. It’s not just that, though. I can’t stop thinking about Kris and our conversations since I’ve been away. I think she’s cooling. Why else would she not text me? There had to have been opportunities, plenty of people who’d be willing to let her use their phone. Yet she didn’t. And the more I think about that, the more I reckon it must be because she doesn’t want to. I even start to think about Steve and how he must be sniffing around now I’m out of the picture. He will. That’s what he does. Maybe Kris isn’t texting me because she’s too busy with him. That would explain why she didn’t jump at the chance of a new mobile. I mean, what objections could she possibly have to that? And could it just be coincidence that he happened to be passing when I was on the phone to her? All this thinking makes me feel helpless. I’m starting to get depressed when I hear a noise off to my left. It’s not 120

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loud, not even remotely scary, but . . . I don’t know. It doesn’t feel right, somehow. Not a part of the forest, but something intruding on it. I scan the foliage all around, and think I see something moving in the distance. There are lots of things moving in the forest, I remind myself. But I get on the bike – I’ve got it propped against a tree with the engine still running – and point it down the hill again. I cut the engine when I get close to the shacks and roll it the rest of the way. There’s no sign of Granddad, so I’m hoping he’s still grabbing zees. I park the bike exactly where it was and give it the once-over. It doesn’t look like it’s been out, though the hot engine is making all these clicking sounds. No problem when it’s cooled. It’s dirty, sure, but it was dirty before. I scuff over the tyre tracks, so I reckon I’ll be okay there, unless Granddad goes off into the forest, sniffing for spoor or something. I take the key out of the ignition and hide it under a log. Given that the bike hasn’t been started in a hundred years, it seems unlikely he’ll notice. It’s a chance I’m prepared to take, anyway. I brush leaves and dirt off my clothes and saunter back to the shacks, the most casual dude in the world. Actually, I’m starting to feel better about Kris. It’s driving me nuts that I can’t check the situation out for myself, but there’s one thing about her I know for sure. She speaks her mind. If there was something going on with Steve, she’d tell me. She’s honest. I fix that thought in my head. 121

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Granddad is sitting on the verandah as though he’s welded to the seat. He barely glances up as I approach. ‘Whoa, Gramps,’ I say, plopping myself down into the chair next to him. ‘Sleep well, or did you make a few mistakes?’ I try to keep the conversation light, ’cos I’m a bit worried he’ll start on the ‘I see dead people’ thing again. He doesn’t say anything, just chews his cud for about ten minutes. I reckon the lie down has cured his talking jag, because he looks like he’s set in that position for the foreseeable future. ‘Didn’t sleep,’ he says eventually. ‘If you’re hungry, there’s bread and stuff in the kitchen. I’ve eaten.’ You’re still eating, I think as I watch him munch away on whatever’s stuck in his dentures. ‘I’ll grab something in a minute,’ I say. ‘Where’d you get off to?’ ‘Oh, just a walk in the bush. You know, drinking in nature, hugging the odd tree.’ He stares at me and I get this strong feeling he knows I’ve been on the bike. Maybe Gran dobbed me in. So I change the subject. ‘Any chance of goin’ into town tomorrow, Gramps?’ I’ve made a decision, see. I’ll get Kris a phone anyway. I mean, what the hell. If she doesn’t want it, she can throw it away. And I want to get it sent as quickly as possible. ‘We only went yesterday.’ ‘Yeah, I know. But I forgot things. Toothbrush and stuff. Plus, I need to do some laundry.’ It seems a good idea to 122

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play the personal hygiene card. Old people can’t resist it, in my experience. And, frankly, it’s not a complete lie. My clothes are starting to smell. ‘I don’t know what you do, slap the bejesus out of your washing on river rocks or something, but I need to get my jocks done before I start to foul the atmosphere. That place we went to yesterday has a laundromat, I take it?’ Granddad nods and continues chewing. ‘I’ll pay for petrol,’ I add as a clincher. ‘Okay,’ he says eventually. Mission accomplished, so I push my luck further. ‘What about another go in the ute this arvo? Kill some time, hone the old skills.’ ‘Nah. I reckon not,’ he says, but he doesn’t give an explanation and I don’t ask for one, just in case he mentions the sound of a distant motorbike. Instead, I fix myself a cheese sandwich. While I’m there I go through the cupboards and check out the pantry and the state of the cooking utensils. I need to get the basics. A kitchen shop would be good, but I don’t hold out much hope. I even daydream about a food processor, until I remember there’s nothing here to power it. I’ll settle for a good mortar and pestle. After I eat, I leave Granddad examining the trees and lie down in my shack. I even sleep a little, which just goes to show how bored I am. Then I play a game on my phone, but it’s budget and I only play a couple of rounds. I check my watch and it seems like the second hand’s 123

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ploughing through treacle, or something. So I get up. No alternative. We sit on the verandah in our two chairs, which makes a welcome change. ‘I’ll cook again tonight, if you like, Gramps,’ I say. He gets this panicky look on his face, as if the prospect of two consecutive nights without steak is giving him palpitations, so I put his mind at ease. ‘I’ll do steak. No worries.’ That settles it. I don’t tell him that I’ve got a sauce planned and we’re going to forgo the boiled spuds for something slightly more exciting. That stuff is on a needto-know basis. Granddad eases himself further down into his chair and fixes his gaze onto the bush. It looks like he might never speak again, but I’m in the mood, so I gee him up a little. ‘You like the trees, hey, Gramps?’ I say. ‘Sure.’ ‘What type are they, then? Around here?’ I’m almost interested, I swear to God. ‘Ironbarks, mainly, in this part of the forest. Plus stringy-bark and casuarina on drier slopes. Silver wattle and blackwood in gullies. Up high you can find stands of ancient myrtle.’ I’m back in Discovery Channel territory, but I’ve only got myself to blame. I try to dredge up an intelligent comment. ‘Ironbark, huh?’ is the best I can manage. 124

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‘You’d like ironbark,’ says Granddad. ‘It’s tough, like you. After you’ve cut it, when it’s dried out, you’ll bend a nail if you try to hammer one in.’ Was that another crack? ‘Hey,’ I say, as if I’ve just had a brilliant idea. ‘Will you teach me how to roll a ciggie?’ It’s a sudden conversational detour, but worth the attempt. Anyway, I’ve always thought rolling your own was pretty cool. Plus, it would be doubly cool when I get back to school. There’s all these kids smoking the expensive brands – even Russian Sobranies, those perfumy things that come in the pastel colours. I’m not kidding. I’ve seen them and damn near cacked my pants laughing, particularly when one guy got out this gold-plated cigarette holder. I reckon it would be awesome to whip out a dog-eared pack of baccy and roll up in front of them. Knowing the sheep in most of my classes, they’d all be doing it in a week or so. That’s the thing with expensive schools. Being trendy is a religion. Of course, Granddad will probably tell me to get stuffed. On the one hand, he tends to mind his own business. Then again, he can suddenly turn moral on me, like with buying me smokes and grog. Difficult to know which way he’s going to turn. As it happens, it’s no worries. He doesn’t say a word, but gets his pouch and goes through the routine. It looks easy. Lay the paper out, get a decent bunch of tobacco, tease it along the fold, roll it between fingers and thumb, tuck one side of the paper over and roll it up. Quick lick along the gummy strip and there ya have 125

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it. A pretty cool rollie. It certainly doesn’t look like rocket science, so I give it a whirl. I go through the steps he tells me, but I can’t get it to work right. There’s loose tobacco falling out all over the place and then I can’t tuck the paper in nice and tight. It takes ten minutes and at the end I’ve got this sad, drooping apology for a smoke. It’s as wrinkled as Granddad and twice as bent. Unsmokeable. Absolutely unsmokeable. Even Granddad smiles at it. Well, I say smile, but it’s nothing quite as dramatic as that. There’s this general rearrangement of wrinkles around his mouth and he quickly smothers it, but I reckon I know a smile when I nearly see one. It occurs to me it’s the first time I’ve seen him smile since I got here. Are we talking serious bonding, or what? I give it another few tries before I get one that even looks like a candidate for sticking in your mouth. It’s still bent over like crazy, but I’m kinda proud of it. Granddad gives this little nod as we look at the sad, twisted thing and I take this as approval, so I light up. He then takes the pouch off me and rolls this perfect cylinder in about two seconds. He does it with one hand, the posing dropkick. I nearly cough my lungs up and send them flying over the fence, the tobacco is that strong. ‘Jeez, Gramps,’ I say when I can get enough air into me. ‘What is it with this stuff? I mean, I know smoking kills, but why are you in such a rush?’ ‘Those things you smoke are full of chemicals. This is pure tobacco.’ 126

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‘Yeah,’ I reply. ‘I feel positively healthy smoking this. Maybe I can get them on prescription.’ We smoke another. I wouldn’t like to bet too much on it, but I think the second is slightly better than the first. It should be. It takes me fifteen minutes to roll it. And this time my lungs don’t feel like they’re being kneaded in concentrated sulphuric acid. I get three fires going afterwards. One in the front room, the stove in the kitchen and the one in my bedroom. It’s kinda fun. I roll up newspaper and then put kindling on top, a decent-sized log on top of that and set fire to the paper. They all take. Three out of three. I’m getting the hang of this frontier business. Give me a couple of weeks and I’ll be putting out bushfires, skinning wallabies with my teeth and getting curiously interested in line-dancing. The meal goes pretty well. I find fresh herbs growing in Granddad’s vegie plot and mix them up with grated potatoes. There are green beans as well and I wash and top and tail them. I’ll sauté them in garlic butter right at the end. Granddad is of the let’s-boil-’em-to-buggery school when it comes to vegetables, and he needs educating. I fold an egg and some milk into the potato mix, shape them into small patties and fry them on the stove top. I’m getting to like this stove top. The only problem is there’s no way to regulate the heat. It’s all the one temperature – like the core of Venus. So I’ve got to be careful, otherwise everything burns. While the potato’s cooking, I beat the living daylights out of a couple of steaks and stick a pan on with 127

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butter, milk, onions, herbs and a few other things that are a sauce-maker’s trade secret. I turn the potato patties like a maniac and then, just when they’re nicely browned, flip them onto a metal cooling tray on the stove. I reckon that’ll help them cook through. The steaks are good quality, better than anything I’d get in Melbourne, I have to admit. Granddad likes them coated in five centimetres of carbon, but I want them medium rare, so a knife slides through them and there’s blood on the plate. In the coupla minutes they’re sizzling, I drop the beans in a pan on the stove and toss them around, stirring the sauce and turning the steaks. It’s a bit mad at that stage, and I could do with an extra pair of hands, but it all comes together. I slide the food onto plates, hide the barbecue sauce where Granddad will never find it, and serve him his tucker. It’s funny. Granddad looks pleased with the steaks, like he’s being reacquainted with an old friend, but he’s not sure about the rest of the meal. He does some prodding with his fork before he starts to eat. I reckon it’s good, though. The beans are just right – there’s nothing to beat vegetables that were picked thirty minutes before you eat them. They’re beautifully crunchy. The potatoes aren’t bad either, but they could have done with more seasoning. I make a mental note. The steaks are perfect and the sauce to die for. ‘So whattya reckon, Gramps?’ I say. ‘About what?’ 128

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‘The food, man. Good or what?’ ‘The beans were raw, but the rest wasn’t bad.’ ‘Listen, the way you cook your vegies, you’d be better off throwing away the semi-solid stuff and drinking the water you cooked ’em in. It’d be more nutritious, I tell ya.’ I’m pleased, though. ‘The rest wasn’t bad’ is about as high as praise is going to go. I wash up, then slip over to my room to write my journal. I’m tired of squinting by the light of a torch and there’s still a little daylight left, so sooner is better than later. Anyway, I fancy a couple of beers tonight and I won’t be able to face this whole self-analysis thing afterwards, that’s for sure. It’s a good idea to get it over with. One part of the court case was a crack-up. A psychologist argued my ‘dysfunction’ was largely because of my relationship with Dad. She spread out all our dirty linen in court. That since Mum died I’d been brought up by someone who didn’t give a rat’s. How Dad, a high-flying businessman, had no time for me. A long list of expensive childminders since I was two. Conclusion? Dad, long on cashflow, short on parenting skills. And Dad sat there, looking like he was sucking on a lemon. People stared at him. Like he had a big arrow over his head and they were playing spot-the-analsphincter. Best thing, though, he was paying through the nose. I laughed – right there in open court. Probably didn’t give a great impression. 129

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But how good is that? To spend a thousand bucks, whatever it was, and have someone testify you’re a bag of crap? It was weird listening to someone talking about me as if I wasn’t there. Hear my life analysed, taken apart. Spin, all of it. Here’s the maths. Subtract a mother, add an incompetent father, take away the number you first thought of. Answer equals a kid with anger management problems. I know squat about psychology. If it was cookery it’d be a dodgy recipe. I had no choices in life? My IED was hard-wired? I don’t think so. But then again, no one asked me what I thought. Dad got the court judgement he wanted. One expert witness said the lack of a female role model was having an effect on my other relationships. What was that all about? Apparently, I see myself as the centre of the universe. Everything revolves around me. Dad encourages this by giving me material things. Probably some truth in that last bit. I am selfish. I have had the best teacher. I just don’t see the connection with other relationships. Not really. I asked Kris afterwards. She said the comments were spot on. Then again, I think she was angry with me. She sometimes gets angry with me. It’s often difficult to tell, though. She does it with looks. Or disappointed silences. 130

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At least I’ve got that in my favour. Trust me. There’s never any doubt when I’m angry. By the time I’ve finished, it’s dark and Granddad has a cold stubby waiting for me. He’s lit the citronella candles and I draw my chair close to the open door. The temperature dips along with the sun, but the warmth from the fire and the wood stove takes the edge off the chill. We drink, and sit in silence, listening to the scuffling of wallabies. I don’t know. Maybe it’s all that writing and thinking about relationships and women and stuff, but I decide to give the thorny topic of Gran another go. ‘Granddad?’ I say. He grunts. ‘You know that bizzo with Gran and how she roams the forest and all while you talk to her?’ He grunts. ‘Is it like – how can I put it – regular ghost behaviour? You know, her drifting around in white with pointy wings. I mean, do you actually see her? Does she drop in for steak and a cold one, that kinda thing?’ I know I’m being too light-hearted, but how do you talk about stuff like this? I can’t even begin to take it seriously. That’s probably hard on Granddad, I know, and it’s a fair bet he’ll get grumpy with me. He slowly rolls a couple of smokes, passes one to me and takes a long swig on his Boag’s. He stares into the nearest candle flame. There’s enough light to see the glistening 131

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wetness of his eyes, and the shadows playing over his wrinkles make him appear someone else entirely. It’s like the map of his face has been re-drawn. When he talks it’s as if there has been no pause at all. ‘I don’t see her,’ he says. ‘That’s not what I mean. But she is out there, watching over me, and I do talk to her.’ I’m a little relieved. I’d hate to run over her out there on the motorbike. Plus it’s good to know Granddad is in possession of at least some of his marbles. I think the conversation is on a firmer footing. ‘So how does it work, then?’ I ask. ‘I mean, you just sense her, is that it? A feeling you get?’ Granddad turns his wet eyes on me. ‘You seriously interested?’ he asks. ‘You’re not going to turn all of this into a joke?’ ‘Dude!’ I say. ‘I am interested, I swear. I love the paranormal. I’m serious, man.’ ‘Don’t believe in ghosts,’ he says, wiping beer drool from the corner of his mouth. ‘Not in the way some people believe in ’em. But I do believe we make a mark on things around us, that the more intense the feelings the deeper that mark is. Take Port Arthur down south, the old convict place. People swear it’s haunted. And maybe it is, but not by ghosts as such. I reckon the buildings are soaked with pain and suffering and we pick up on that.’ My jaw must be close to the floorboards. This is the longest speech I’ve heard from Granddad and it turns out he’s just warming up. 132

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‘When your gran died, well . . . I kept her here.’ He touches his chest. ‘But she was a strong woman and she hated being cooped up.’ He laughs. ‘I guess there’s not enough space for her inside me. So, yeah. I reckon if there’s something powerful enough inside you, it can get out and you can sense it around you. And that’s what I mean about Gran being an angel. Not with wings, not a physical thing. But her love. That’s what I mean. Her love is still here. And it looks after me.’ I don’t know what to say. It’s kinda beautiful, all that. Veering dangerously towards the mushy – probably off the edge and up to its axles in it, frankly – but still beautiful. I open my mouth to tell him so, but before I get a chance he lifts his wrinkly old backside off the chair and lets go a real cracker. Like ripping a sheet. If it wasn’t so unexpected I’d be impressed. Stinks like hell, too. I’m wafting my hands around, trying to clear a space. Potent stuff. I swear I can hear wallabies toppling over outside the fence. ‘Get out and walk,’ says Granddad. ‘Jeez, Gramps,’ I say. ‘You weren’t kidding about powerful things getting out. And I sure as hell can sense it around me.’ He doesn’t comment, but he does get us a couple more coldies. ‘You’ve discovered a rogue glacier back there in the bush, haven’t you?’ I say. ‘And drilled beer-sized holes in the icefloe.’ He doesn’t comment on that either. 133

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We sit in silence, occupying our own heads. And it’s cool. It’s all cool. Still, I can’t help thinking it’s a good thing I won’t be responsible for washing Granddad’s underdaks in the morning. I mean, he was talking about intense things making their mark. I carve a fourth line on the bedpost and I like the glow from the fire and the sense of routine. The jailhouse symbolism has kinda lost its meaning, but it’s a fun thing to do. I still want to get back to Melbourne. Don’t get me wrong. It’s where Kris is. It’s where my life is. But stuck in the bush with a deranged old dude has lost some of its terrors. Granddad is a mad old geezer. But there’s all this stuff under the surface with him and it’s kinda fascinating to dig into it. I like him. And I don’t think I’m reading too much into it when I say I think he likes me too. It makes a big difference when you know another person has the good sense to see beneath the surface and find something in you to like. I think I’m turning into a philosopher. Maybe it’s got something to do with all the trees.

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It’s raining and colder than a witch’s nipple when I get up in the morning. First thing I do is gather together my dirty clothes and stick my phone charger in my pocket. I’m low on power. Maybe there’ll be somewhere in town where I can plug it in. Granddad isn’t in the best of moods. He grunts over his porridge, though it might be dry retching for all I know. It’s a possibility because I struggle with it myself – it’s cold enough outside for drastic measures – and the porridge still tastes like tiling grout minus the flavour. For a while there I think he’s forgotten about our deal to go into town. He plops himself down into his chair as if settling in for a long vigil, so I’m forced to remind him. Even then, he takes his time getting ready. God knows why, ’cos when he does emerge from the dark interior of his bedroom I can’t see any difference in his appearance. Finally, though, we set off, bumping along the old dirt track with my clothes in plastic bags in the back of the ute. The dog is tied up there as well. I can see him in the side 135

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mirror, his ears flopping around like wet windsocks. If he’s unhappy about going for a drive in the pouring rain he keeps it to himself. Granddad shows no sign of coming out of his verbal hibernation, the radio is either busted or they haven’t invented radio broadcasts in Tassie yet, and I have to keep my hand against the window to stop it dropping into the frame. It’s non-stop fun and that’s a fact. We eventually arrive in town and park on the main strip. The rain has eased to a steady drizzle. Granddad unties Jai and goes off to do whatever geriatrics and their dogs do in small towns. I immediately check my phone for messages, but there’s nothing. Kris will be in class, so I don’t ring, but text her to say I’ll be in range for a while if she wants to give me a call. Then I head for the laundromat. Don’t tell me I don’t know how to have a good time when I hit the bright lights. I’ve never used a laundromat before, of course. In fact I’ve never cleaned my own clothes. Dad employs flunkies to do stuff like that. We’ve got this bent-over old biddy who looks about two hundred who comes in and cleans the whole place four times a week. She doesn’t speak good English and he probably pays her about twenty cents a day. It’s called a free-market economy. I can’t stand thinking about my dad, so I stop and look at the directions on the washing machine. You don’t need a degree in applied science, that’s for sure. I buy some powder from a dispenser. Then I stick in the money and there’s this great whoosh as the water fills the machine. I watch for 136

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a while, but even for this place, the entertainment value is limited, so I decide to see if there’s anywhere in this technological wasteland that sells mobile phones. The chances, frankly, appear remote. It’s a reasonable bet they’ve never heard of a phone you don’t crank up by hand. The rain’s stopped, but there’s a fair amount of dark cloud around. I wander up the main road, checking out the shops. They’re mostly desperate gift shops, selling stuffed Tasmanian devils and T-shirts no one should be allowed to wear. And there’s the antique shops, of course. Nothing looks even vaguely promising, so I go back to the laundromat to check on progress. My load is coming to an end. Well, I guess it’s coming to an end. The drum is spinning like a mad thing. The clothes are a multi-coloured blur. It’s actually kinda cool. Tells you something, that. I’m being entertained by a washing machine. There’s this woman sitting on the bench beside me. She’s staring at her load, which is tumbling in a fitful way, swishing back and forth. I decide to tap into local knowledge. ‘You’ve got better reception on your machine than I can get on mine,’ I say as an opening gambit. Okay, it’s not the wittiest comment in the world, but she gives this little chuckle, like I’m a star of the Melbourne Comedy Festival. Maybe they haven’t invented humour down here. ‘Beats most of the programs I watch,’ she says, and I laugh even though it’s not very funny. 137

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‘I don’t suppose you know where I could buy a mobile phone around here, do you?’ I ask. She wrinkles her brow and I worry she’s going to ask what a mobile phone is. But it turns out she’s just concentrating. ‘I don’t know if I do,’ she says slowly. ‘There’s not many shops here, it has to be said. Milton is the place for shopping.’ ‘Milton?’ ‘Down the coast about forty kilometres. They’ve got a big shopping centre there.’ She says this like the existence of a shopping centre is a source of infinite pride for the locals, even if it is forty kilometres away. ‘You’ll be telling me they’ve got a cinema next.’ ‘They do,’ she says earnestly. I get the distinct feeling that a trip to Milton is something the people in this town save up for special occasions, that when they do go it’s an experience that will keep them fulfilled for the next fifty years. Like a trip to Disneyland. My machine clanks to a standstill and I empty it. Huge, industrial-size dryers are perched above the washing machines. So I load one up and dig in my pocket for change. The woman watches me, sizing me up and finding me wanting in the dryer-operator stakes. ‘You should use that machine,’ she says, pointing to one a few away from my machine. ‘It’s hotter and lasts longer. Better value for money.’ I don’t want to appear rude, even though it seems an 138

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excessive effort to save a few cents, so I empty the dryer and stack the clothes in the one she indicated. She’s all smiling and nodding, as though I’m a prize pupil who’s doing real good. ‘The post office,’ she says. ‘Sorry?’ ‘Australia Post sells mobile phones. I’ve seen them in there.’ I should have thought of that myself. ‘It’s probably closed for lunch, though.’ Of course it would be. But I feel better now. Once my washing is done I can get the phone sent off to Kris and it’ll be a one-shop deal. Then I get an even better idea. See, another thing that Kris occasionally gets up me about is a lack of surprise presents, though it seems mobile phones don’t count. I have no idea why not. Apparently, buying flowers occasionally – without being asked – or small items of jewellery, is being considerate and caring. I’ve pointed out to her that a bloke carrying around a bunch of flowers is almost as embarrassing as forgetting to zip up your old fella, but she’s not sympathetic to that argument. So much for her being caring and considerate of my feelings. Plus, I’ve got a problem with buying flowers, anyway. They cost a fortune and you throw them out about a day later. A decent CD lasts forever. She tells me I’m missing the point. Anyway, it comes to me with all the force of an internal nuclear explosion. I’ll buy her something from one of the 139

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antique shops – a brooch or some crap like that – and post it off with the phone. Kris likes old stuff. And I can only imagine the number of brownie points I’ll have in storage. Mind you, given that she can’t be bothered to even text me once in a while, I reckon it’s her that should be sucking up to me. Still, never let it be said that I don’t know the mature way of proceeding. So I duck out of the laundromat and head for the antique shop I visited before. The bow-tied dude had a display of lumps of misshapen metal dotted with bright stones and I reckon there’d have to be one item there worth buying. Even if there isn’t, it won’t matter. Something ugly suddenly has value if it’s also old. By those standards, my English teacher must be the most precious commodity on the planet. I’m in a good mood, I tellya. Just how caring and considerate can one guy be? The bow tie is still there. Actually, it seems to be in exactly the same place as a couple of days back, bent over a dusty ledger on an equally dusty counter. ‘Morning,’ I say, and I couldn’t be brighter or cheerier. ‘I wonder if you could point me in the direction of some decent antique jewellery?’ The guy frowns. He actually frowns. He couldn’t look more disagreeable if I’d come in with a sawn-off shotgun and a pair of tights over my head. Making money obviously ticks him off big time. Grudgingly, he indicates his 140

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collection of misshapen metal. He doesn’t remove the display, so I have to crouch and peer through the dirty glass. All the time I’m looking he hovers close by. Not to be of help apparently, but in case I grab a handful of his wares and leg it. I tell you. In this shop you’d be more likely to leave your own junk and sneak out hoping no one would notice. I’m staring at a brooch that might be a dolphin – that’s foolproof, by the way; girls can’t resist dolphins, in my experience – when the bell over the door tinkles. I don’t pay any attention, naturally. I’m a little hypnotised, and entirely gobsmacked, by the $220 price tag on the dolphin. Actually, it might be some other kind of sea critter. At that price, you’d expect to know straightaway. ‘Hi, Richie. How are you?’ ‘G’day, George. Good, mate. Good.’ I don’t even properly take in the bow tie’s greeting at first. Then the floor vibrates with the clatter of a penny dropping. I straighten and turn round. Richie makes the place look darker and I wouldn’t have thought that was possible. He stands in the middle of the shop and pulls back his shoulders, like he’s stretching or ironing out a few kinks before a fight. His eyes are fixed firmly on me. ‘Well, well. What do we have here, then?’ I don’t say anything. ‘If it isn’t the criminal element from Melbourne,’ says Richie. ‘He bothering you, George?’ 141

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I’m even more stunned than I was with the price of the dolphin. Can he say things like that? Right in front of a complete stranger? Then again, who am I gonna complain to? The local police? I suddenly lose interest in old bits of metal, with or without sea creatures. I make for the door, but Richie takes a step to the side and blocks me. For someone his size, it doesn’t take a lot of effort. ‘No,’ says George, but he says it reluctantly, as if there’s nothing he would have liked more in the world than me bothering him. ‘I’d like to leave now,’ I say, but Richie just gives another little stretch and hitches up his pants. ‘You keep an eye on him while he was in here, George?’ I can feel my face flushing and there’s that telltale whooshing in my ears. I breathe deeply and try to keep my eyes on his face. I don’t want to look away. ‘Like to empty out your pockets, son?’ ‘No,’ I say. ‘I didn’t do anything.’ ‘Then it shouldn’t be a problem emptying out your pockets, should it?’ Yes, I think. It is a problem. It’s a huge problem. But I don’t know where to go from here. If I refuse, will he take me to the station? I certainly don’t want to be alone with this guy again. And as far as my rights are concerned, it’s pretty obvious that I can talk about them as much as I want for all the good it’s going to do. Richie is right. I’m not in Melbourne now. Suddenly I feel sick and a little dizzy. At least I have a witness here, even if it is a guy with a 142

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bow tie and an attitude. That’s what I’m thinking as my hand moves towards my jeans pocket. I’ve heard of coppers ‘finding’ stuff during body searches. Normally stuff in little plastic bags. I wouldn’t put it past Richie. But probably my caving-in’s got more to do with cowardice than practicality. ‘That’s right,’ says Richie. ‘Over here, on the counter. That way, George can see if anything familiar pops up.’ I’m mumbling and I’m not even aware of it. I take out my phone, my wallet and a bunch of keys. Set them down on the counter. ‘The other pocket,’ says Richie. I don’t have much. Even so, he makes me turn the back pockets of my jeans inside out. I get this urge to cry. I can feel my eyes filling up. In a peculiar way, it helps me. I have to concentrate so hard on not blinking it keeps me focused. ‘You’re mumbling, son,’ says Richie. ‘You should speak more clearly. What are you saying?’ ‘It’s cool,’ I say. ‘It’s all cool.’ ‘Is it now? Is it now? Well, that’s good. Seems like it’s cool, George.’ But George doesn’t say anything. We stand there for a few moments. Richie takes my wallet and flicks through it without any interest, drops it back on the counter. ‘You can put this away now,’ he says. ‘You’re free to go.’ I stuff things back so quickly I drop my keys at Richie’s feet and have to bend down to get them. For a moment I’ve got this close-up of his shoes. I see my face distorted 143

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in the shine. Then I’m past him and getting the hell out the door. ‘Have a nice day,’ he says. The street is blurred. I wipe my eyes with the sleeve on my right arm and cross the road. Turns out the only car for sixty square kilometres is coming along at the same time and it screeches to a halt, skidding slightly on the rainslick road, horn blaring. The guy leans out the window and gives his honest and forthright opinion of my character. It’s comforting. It’s almost like being back in Melbourne. ‘Language, dude!’ I yell and break into a run. Richie would love the excuse to haul me into the station for jaywalking. He’d probably break my arms getting me there. I pull my clothes from the dryer. They aren’t dry yet, but I don’t care. I just stuff them into the plastic bags and leave. The woman has disappeared, but that’s something I only pick up on the edge of awareness. I have to split this town. That’s all I know. Big splats of rain smack the pavement as I rush back down the main strip. I see the dog tied up in the tray of Granddad’s ute. He has his head back and is looking at the sky as the rain comes down harder. Probably wondering what he’s done to deserve it. I see the blurred outline of Granddad through the rain-splattered back window and it’s relief I feel. Relief I won’t have to sit and wait, there on the main strip, in plain view, a target with the cross hairs on my forehead, on alert for a cruising police car. 144

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I open the passenger door and leap into the seat in one movement. Scares the poop out of Granddad. He jumps. Maybe he’s going to let me know it’s not a good idea to scare someone whose use-by date is looming. But he doesn’t. ‘Are you all right?’ he says and there’s concern in his tone. I nod. I don’t trust my voice. I worry it’ll come out shaky. ‘You sure?’ he says. ‘You look like hell.’ ‘Just drive,’ I say and that comes out okay. It’s only two words, mind. Granddad hesitates. He stares at me for about thirty seconds, then shakes his head slightly and cranks the engine over. I’m peering in the cracked side mirror as we take off down the street. No sign of Richie. But I know I won’t feel safe until we’ve put distance between us and him. Even though it’s raining, I keep the window down, my face half out. The rain feels good against my skin. It washes against the muddle in my head, damps it down. Plus, Granddad can’t ask why my face is wet now. He doesn’t say anything and I’m grateful. We drive for a klick or two and then he indicates to turn off onto our dirt track home. ‘Keep on this road,’ I say. ‘What?’ ‘I don’t want to go home yet. Can we just keep driving?’ I really don’t want to go home. I don’t know why, but I can’t face the trees, the shacks and the endless sitting in 145

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chairs waiting for something to happen. I need to get away from it all. And the rain still feels good against my face. I don’t want it to stop. Even the sound of the tyres thrumming on the bitumen is relaxing. For a split second I think Granddad is going to ignore me. I can see him out the corner of my eyes and he seems to be searching my face for some kind of answer. I have no idea if he can read anything there, but I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to explain. I just want him to drive. And he does. The turn-off is behind us and we keep on down the road, the sea stretching off on our left-hand side. Even in the rain, the effect is nauseatingly pretty. There are brightly coloured fishing boats bobbing about, seagulls wheeling and screeching above them like they’re all waiting for a photographer to come along and record the moment. It doesn’t get much more cheesy than this, but I like it. It’s slow and calm and I feel the demon in my head slipping back into its dark cave. I close my eyes and let the rain wash over me. We’ve driven in silence for about ten minutes before Granddad says anything. And that’s cool, because now I feel I can handle conversation. Up to a point. Provided it stays within limits. ‘Could you wind your window up?’ he says. ‘You’re floodin’ the cab.’ ‘No problemo, dude,’ I say. Of course, keeping the damn thing up is another matter. So I wedge a piece of cardboard ripped from my ciggie packet into the perished rubber of the window track and that seems to work. For the time 146

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being at least. While I’m at it, I light up a cigarette, offer one to Granddad, but he turns me down. I tilt my head back where the headrest would be if there was one and blow smoke towards the stained vinyl on the cab roof. ‘What happened?’ says Granddad. ‘Nothing,’ I reply. He’s not buying that, of course. ‘Something happened,’ he continues. ‘You’re upset. Maybe you should tell me about it.’ And maybe I should. I seriously consider it. But what can I say? Judging by my first meeting with Richie, he’s some kind of local hero. Granddad was brownnosing him big time. And how do I counter that? I’m the outsider here and bagging the local cop would only give the impression I’ve got serious problems with authority. That might not be too far from the truth, it has to be said, but still . . . And what if Granddad doesn’t believe me? If he’d rather take Richie’s word over mine? That would suck. Anyway, I’m not in the mood. Seriously. To be honest, I’m just starting to get control over my feelings. Talking about that would only stir up the whole sorry mess again. For the first time I regret throwing out my pills. I hate them. They make me feel . . . I don’t know. Dead, almost. But maybe feeling dead is better than feeling like this all the time. Not much point in regret, though. They’re rotting into the forest back at Granddad’s, scattered to hell and beyond. Gone. ‘Granddad,’ I say. ‘I really don’t feel like talking about it. Sorry.’ 147

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He glances over at me, like he’s weighing up whether to push it or not. He scrapes at his chin again with one leathery hand. ‘Well, at least you could tell me where the hell we are going.’ It comes to me in a flash. ‘Milton.’ ‘Milton?’ ‘Yeah. It is down this road, isn’t it?’ ‘Sure. But why’re we going to Milton?’ ‘’Cos, like the mountaineers always say, it’s there, dude. Because it’s there.’ That’s not the only reason, of course. I like this idea of travelling, of putting kilometres of bitumen between me and Richie. And the sea is better than endless trees. But I also want to get that phone for Kris. In fact, I think I need to get that phone for Kris. Maybe it’s to do with being in control. And, hey, the idea of retail therapy doesn’t seem too bad, either. If Milton’s got a cinema, it must have other things. A restaurant, maybe. Shops that sell more than T-shirts, fridge magnets of Tassie tigers and tired antiques. I need to touch base with civilisation. ‘We could take in a movie, Gramps,’ I say. ‘I’ll buy you lunch. Whatever.’ He still looks like, in his head at least, it qualifies for worst idea of the millennium, but he doesn’t say anything and shows no sign of slowing. If I haven’t sold him the package, at least he’s willing to indulge me. It cheers me up no end. Seriously. Even the clouds thin and a pale sun 148

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struggles to make itself seen. I warm to my theme. ‘We could hit the clubs. A couple of spunks like us, we’d hook up, no worries. Then we could bring the chicks back to the shacks, have a wallaby-watching fest and who knows what from there on in. Lock up your women, Milton. The boys are coming to town.’ Granddad still doesn’t say anything. But that’s cool. I just like the feel of the words in my mouth, anyway. I’m not too worried about making sense. Probably just as well. We stop for petrol just outside Milton and I pay. Granddad makes no objections. I reckon he thinks it’s the least I can do, given the trip was my idea. I’m running my credit card through the machine when this convertible slides up to the bowser next to ours. The young guy in it has the sound system so loud I can feel it in my fillings. He doesn’t even stop the music when he fills up, which is pretty damn antisocial. I try ringing Kris, but her friend’s phone is turned off. Back in the ute, we head for civilisation. The clouds are breaking up now and the sun keeps making fleeting appearances. Given this must be the main road down the coast, heading towards Hobart, I guess, there’s not much traffic about. I reckon I spot the same Kombi van we passed when Dad and I first hit the island, but it’s probably my imagination. The sports-car driver overtakes us on a bend, almost as if he was waiting for just that chance. He speeds past us at 149

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Mach 3 and swerves in front. We miss clipping him by no more than half a metre. It all happens so fast, I barely get time to react. Every muscle in my body bunches up and my heart tries to exit through the ribcage. Granddad slams on the brakes, which were never much good in the first place, and the ute starts to slide. I hadn’t checked the tyres, but I’m willing to bet the treads could be measured in microns. Granddad tries to correct and for a moment it feels like it’s going to be an overcorrection. The back of the ute slips to our right. Then we brush the gravel at the side of the road and it fishtails. I can’t see out my window for the clouds of dust. A small, calm part of my mind thinks that the rain must not have been too heavy around here. I brace myself for the shock of collision. I hadn’t noticed whether there were trees or shrubs or concrete pillars at the side of the road. If we hit anything solid, it’s going to be a mess. We don’t. The ute slides and then comes to a stop, rocking gently on its axles. I’m out of the cab before I’m even aware what I’m doing. The dog is all right. Looks kinda puzzled and more awake than I’ve ever seen it. But okay. It’s funny. I’d forgotten he was even travelling with us. Least, I thought I’d forgotten, but some part of me must have being paying attention. ‘Hey, Jai,’ I say. ‘How are you, dude?’ I ruffle the hound under the chin, but he doesn’t look thrilled. 150

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Granddad gets out as well. He leans against the side of the tray and despite the fact he’s all weather-beaten I can see he’s pale. It’s difficult to believe how quiet it is out here. No birds, no other traffic, just the ticking of the engine block. The sports-car driver must have seen what happened to us. Must have. Because we’ve gone round the bend now and there’s a long straight ahead. But he didn’t stop to check. Short odds he’s a Melbourne driver. I look at Granddad’s face and reckon the driver made the right choice. Granddad’s fit to be tied. He’s got his hands on the tray’s edge and his head is down. Only then do I realise he’s talking to himself. I can’t make out the words. I don’t need to make out the words. I know self-talk when I hear it. So I leave him to it. That’s what I want when it’s me. I light up a smoke and untie the dog from the tray. He jumps down from the ute reluctantly, like he doesn’t trust his legs. And I take him off to the side of the road, so he can find a shrub or a tree to relieve himself against. He’s a fussy fella, though. We pass plenty of good candidates before he finally finds the outcrop of choice and cocks his leg. By the time I’ve finished my ciggie and the dog’s had enough of sniffing around, Granddad seems to have recovered. He’s behind the wheel again as I lift Jai up into the tray and fasten him safely in. Gramps doesn’t say anything when I take my seat. Just turns the engine over and pulls out onto the road. I offer him a cigarette, but he shakes his head, reefs his rolling baccy from a jacket pocket and hands it to me. 151

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I’m no good at rolling under normal circumstances, but I give it my best shot. Only takes ten minutes before I’ve got something I don’t feel too embarrassed about offering. He lights it without even glancing at it. ‘Self-talk, eh, Gramps?’ I say after a minute or two. ‘What?’ he says. ‘Talking to yourself, using words to calm down. You’ve got anger-management problems of your own, haven’t you, Granddad?’ He flicks ash out of the window. ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he says. ‘Yes, you do. You know exactly what I’m talking about. Not many things I’m an expert on, but this is one.’ ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ he says. We drive into the outskirts of Milton in silence. How macho is that? Kris, for one, wouldn’t be at all surprised. Then again, judging by the blank screen on my mobile, maybe she wouldn’t be interested. I worry about the dog, but Granddad doesn’t seem concerned. ‘He’ll be fine here in the back of the tray. Falls asleep. Done it plenty of times.’ ‘Yeah, but we could be gone a couple of hours, dude. Won’t he bake to death back there?’ Granddad looks up at the sky. ‘Not much chance of that,’ he says. ‘Someone could steal him,’ I say. 152

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We both look at Jai. He’s already curling up, his ratty tail curved into the bald patch on his side. ‘Not much chance of that,’ we say together. At first glance, Milton looks exactly like Granddad’s home town. I wouldn’t swear to it, but I reckon they’re the same seagulls. Rent-a-flock. But it soon becomes clear it’s a bigger place. There’s probably two horses here. Certainly there are people on the streets and they look like they have purpose. One or two even carry briefcases. We find a shopping centre. Actually, we find the shopping centre. Expectations are not high when we go in. Maybe a hay-feed store and five cruddy antique shops. But I have to confess I’m surprised – not a lot, just mildly. There’s a music store and a couple of shops that look like the clothes were at least designed this century. You could fit the whole business into a quarter of one decent shop back home. But this is Tassie, after all. They probably get people with two heads who drive from all over the state just to stand outside and marvel. There’s a food hall downstairs and I steer Granddad in that direction. It occurs to me we haven’t eaten since ingesting the pale goo that passed for porridge at breakfast and I could eat a random horse. The food hall is lame. It only has four stalls and three of them are selling dried up scraps of cow gristle disguised as Asian dishes. They’ve probably had them on display for two weeks. You’d need a jigsaw to get through the crust on the edges of the serving 153

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trays. But we find a deli that makes sandwiches and order four between us. The meat has seen better days and the cheese is more like plastic, but I’m not too fussy. I grab a couple of coffees, as well. Me and Granddad get ourselves outside the food in double-quick time and I glance at my watch. It’s coming up to two-thirty. ‘C’mon,’ I say as Granddad stuffs the last of a sandwich into his dentures. ‘Let’s find out what downtown Milton has to offer.’ The short answer is, not a lot. But I find a store selling mobile phones and park Granddad on a bench nearby. I check out the bottom-feeder pre-paids, but in the end I can’t bring myself to buy one. I try. I really do. But I can’t. Finally, I go for a mid-range, costing $300. It’s got a camera and Bluetooth, but not a whole lot else. Looks good, though, with a big screen. I feel pleased. On the one hand I haven’t spent a fortune, on the other it’s not a sad piece of plastic crap. The assistant tries to sign me up for an expensive plan, but I’m firm. I explain it’s not for me, pick up a pre-paid SIM, ask him to install it, activate it and charge it up. I store the new number in my own phone. There’s one thing I discover about Tassie shops, though. The service is really good. I’m talking to the phone dude about where the post office is and if there are any decent movies on and he tells me that by the time I watch a movie and the phone is charged, the post office will probably be closed. So if I want to get an envelope stamped and addressed – a 154

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pre-paid overnight delivery satchel – he’ll drop it in the postbox for me. It’s enough to restore my faith in human nature. Nearly. Granddad is still on the bench and looking reasonably content. I check to see if he’s happy to stay there while I rush to the post office. I also want to check out the movie times and see if there’s a shop that sells decent kitchenware. I can’t imagine Granddad would be thrilled to drag along behind me and, anyway, time might be at a premium. Turns out he’s nearly asleep and happy to stay that way. So I leg it to the post office, get an express delivery envelope and address it to Kris care of the school. I wouldn’t want her dad to intercept it. Then I whip to the cinema, but there’s only a couple of movies on around this time. One is this seriously sad-looking number involving period costumes and moody protagonists, the other a sci-fi flick I’ve already seen. I decide I’ll give Granddad the option. Just to prove that miracles still happen, I also find a place that sells pots and pans and other kitchen equipment. It’s not cheap, but the quality is good. I’d like to spend more time browsing, but I need to get a move on so I buy a decent heavy saucepan, a mid-size wok and a mortar and pestle. Then I lug the bags back to the phone shop and hand over the envelope. After all that I’m tempted to join Granddad on the bench for a few zees, but onward and upwards is my motto. I plop myself down beside him and he opens his sticky eyes. 155

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‘Hey, Granddad,’ I say. ‘How about we catch a movie? My treat.’ On the surface, he doesn’t look thrilled at the prospect, but I detect a small gleam in the corner of his eyes. Course, it could be a cataract. ‘What’s on?’ he says and I know I’ve got him hooked. ‘Squires and wenches in the seventeenth century,’ I say, ‘or aliens and wenches in the twenty-second.’ ‘Let’s go see,’ he says. I’d put good money on Granddad going for the period costume drivel, particularly when I find it’s won a minor award at some random European festival. But he goes for the Hollywood sci-fi. Like I say, I’ve seen it before and it was lame then. Good on blasting aliens to hell and back, but seriously sad on storyline. I don’t mind, though. I can watch it again. Granddad insists on buying the tickets and I don’t want to insult him, so I get the popcorn and the drinks. Costs more than the tickets. But I also manage to sweet-talk the chick behind the counter into putting my phone on charge. In the rush of getting Kris’s organised, I’d forgotten mine. I note I still don’t have any text messages. We’ve got about fifteen minutes before the film starts, so Granddad watches while I play this arcade game in the foyer. It’s one where you have to shoot bad guys who pop up from behind crates. Sometimes good guys leap out and you’re not supposed to shoot, but I blast them as a matter of 156

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principle. My final score is chronic on account of doing the wrong thing by the goodies, but the gore level is impressive. I ask if Granddad wants a go, but he just shakes his head, like the modern world is something he doesn’t understand. That’s okay. I don’t understand it either. The film drags for me. When you know an alien is about to leap out of futuristic woodwork, the shock effect is kinda diminished. When the whole film rests on these scenes, there’s not much else to keep your interest. Granddad’s rapt, though. I sneak a glance at him occasionally. He’s all bug-eyed, stuffing popcorn into his mouth, hypnotised by flying alien bits. He’s a surprise, I’ll give him that. The story is not so much lame as out-and-out paralysed. But it doesn’t seem to make any difference to his enjoyment. To be honest, I get a buzz out of his involvement. I consider watching him instead of the film, but I worry he’ll think I’m weird. Finally, the last alien gets atomised and the credits roll. I’m out of my chair as though it’s got five thousand volts coursing through it, but Granddad grabs my arm and sits me down. ‘Watch the credits,’ he says. ‘What for?’ ‘These people made the film,’ he replies. ‘The least you can do is show them some respect.’ So I sit and watch. Do you have any idea how many people are listed in the average set of credits? The list goes on forever. There are gaffers, whoever the hell they are, 157

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and assistant gaffers and assistants to the assistants. Then there are dolly operators and stunt doubles and grips and assistants to the producer and catering firms and transport managers and make-up artists and God knows what else. It’d be quicker listing the people who weren’t involved. We sit through the whole lot. Everyone else has left, but the two of us are staring at the crew of toilet paper suppliers. It’s nearly as boring as the film. Only when the screen goes dark does Granddad lift his creaky bones from the seat and we can leave. ‘That was good,’ he says as we stand blinking in the lights of the foyer. ‘Granddad,’ I say. ‘It was cinematic offal, dude. Come on. You’re the older generation. With standards. You know that was garbage.’ ‘Oh, yeah,’ he says. ‘It was garbage. But it was good garbage and I was in the mood for it.’ ‘You know?’ I say. ‘I think you’re as weird as me.’ He looks suitably insulted. I collect my phone from behind the counter and check again for missed calls or messages. Nothing. Sometimes it’s a real burden being so goddamned popular. It’s gone fourforty and it’s about time to make a move towards home. I just need to pick up a few ingredients for dinner tonight to go with the new cooking pots and such. So I’m scoping the area for a supermarket when I see it. A games arcade. Actually, it’s not so much the games arcade in itself. 158

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What really grabs my attention is the machine just inside the door. Dance Dance Revolution. Now, I need to explain myself. A few years back in Melbourne, when everyone was hooked on this game, you’d have to queue for hours to play it. Naturally, at the height of its popularity, I avoided it like the plague. But then everyone lost interest, got addicted to Drum Mania and then deserted the arcades for World of Warcraft at home. So, of course, I got into Dance Dance Revolution in a big way. I’d always have the machine to myself. Now, it’s rare to find the game at all. I get all nostalgic just seeing it. Without wishing to sound like I’m really up myself, I am seriously crash-hot at Dance Dance. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised that Tassie would still have the game. It’s that kind of place. Anyway, I’m grateful. I can’t pass up the opportunity. I just can’t. There’s only five other people in the arcade – a couple of guys about my age and some girls. They’re all on a carracing machine, the girls giggling and spinning their cars around like crazy and the guys deadly serious about beating each other. Granddad stands patiently, while I hover in the doorway. I put on my most reasonable voice. ‘Granddad, do ya mind if I have a quick go on this machine? Well, a coupla goes, but it won’t take long, I swear.’ He glances at his watch and frowns slightly, but then waves his hand. ‘Go ahead.’ ‘You’re a prince, Gramps. Won’t be long, seriously.’ 159

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I shove in the money and scroll through the music lists while Granddad stands next to me and examines the pads on the floor. ‘What is this game?’ he says. ‘Dance Dance Revolution, Granddad. You see this screen? When the game starts, arrows fly up in time to the beat. I have to stamp on these pads on the floor at the same time the arrows pass through the outlines at the top of the screen. The better I do it, the bigger the score I get. Simple.’ ‘So, you’re just dancing, then?’ ‘Yeah, basically. But it gets kinda frantic after a while. You watch. I’ll start on Light mode, just to get warmed up.’ I choose a simple song and get into the rhythm pretty much straightaway. It’s sad how rusty I am, though. I mean, a year or so ago I’d be scoring perfect on every move, but I miss plenty this time. At least it loosens me up. When the game is over, I turn to Granddad. ‘See? Just a question of keeping time. I screwed up big time in a coupla places, but you get the idea.’ Granddad scratches his chin. ‘It’s pretty slow.’ ‘Yeah, but that’s because I was on Light mode and the song was slow. Watch. I’ll crank it up this time.’ I do too. I go for one I’ve nailed plenty of times before. It’s actually not that difficult, but it’s got plenty of flashy moves and sections where it borders on crazy. I reckon Granddad will be impressed. I’m so busy concentrating, 160

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I don’t notice we’ve got an audience. I’m sweaty now, but the score is pretty sharp. I wipe my forehead and note that the five who were playing the racing game have finished. They’re watching me, standing off to my left and slightly behind. No big deal. You draw audiences when you play Dance Dance. It comes with the territory. ‘So what ya reckon, Granddad? Awesome, or what?’ ‘You’re good.’ ‘Not me. I’ve got two left feet at the moment. I mean the game.’ ‘Beats the shooting thing you were playing earlier.’ ‘That’s for sure. Are you all right if I have another go?’ ‘Go for your life.’ So I try a real tricky one. I screw up badly in one part. I always do. With Dance Dance it’s mainly practice and not thinking. Just letting your feet do their own thing to the music. After a while, you don’t have to follow the arrows on the screen at all. You just know where you’re supposed to be putting your feet. When I’m done I’ve got a respectable score and I’m feeling good. All loose and hyped on adrenaline. I step off and the audience is still there. I turn to them. ‘Are you waiting for a game?’ One guy, he’s wearing a leather jacket and clearly thinks he’s some kind of hot deal, gives this snotty smile. ‘Nah, you’re right, mate. We’re just watchin’.’ One of the girls giggles like he’s made the funniest joke ever and I give her a stare. I can’t stand those dudes who 161

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just watch, waiting for you to crash. They probably can’t do it themselves, but it doesn’t stop them taking the urine out of those who can. I reckon they might be in that category. The guy in the jacket is good-looking in a rough, unshaven way, but you can bet your life he knows it. The others are followers, I can tell. I shrug and turn back to the machine. I might have one more go. ‘Can I try?’ I nearly fall over. ‘Granddad, dude,’ I say. ‘You serious?’ ‘Sure,’ he says. ‘I used to dance, way back when. I can’t have forgotten everything. And it looks like fun.’ ‘Fun, it sure is,’ I say. ‘Come on. I’ll sort you out a slow song on Light mode.’ I scroll through the music, but there’s nothing here he would recognise. I find this slow Irish sounding track and that’ll have to do. It’s got plenty of tap-tap stuff, but nothing too tricky. I run through the instructions again and step back as he starts. I tell ya. He might be a grumpy old geezer most of the time, but he’s got cojones of pure brass. He stuffs up a few times – jeez, who wouldn’t on their first go? – but he’s got natural rhythm. He gets a few perfects as well. It sounds really dumb, but I’m proud as hell watching him. I’ve never seen an adult give it a go, let alone someone of his age. I try to imagine Dad getting up on it, but it doesn’t work. He wouldn’t put down his laptop to have a bowel movement, and the image of his Armani suit flapping around while he dances is just too much. 162

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Granddad is busting some serious moves, all traces of his dodgy joints a dim memory, when I notice our audience has a fit of the giggles. I turn to face them. ‘Got a problem here, or what?’ I say. The dude in the jacket makes like he’s trying hard to keep a straight face. ‘Nah, mate,’ he says. ‘Just enjoying the show.’ The girl gives another high-pitched giggle and I feel a twitch at the corner of my eye. There might even be the whooshing noise, but I can’t be sure. It could be coming from another arcade game. I should leave right here and now. I know I should. But I don’t. Instead, I give an additional hard stare and they seem to settle down. Granddad finishes and mops at his face with a handkerchief. I didn’t know people still carried handkerchiefs. This one’s got polka dots all over it. The real old-fashioned sort. Granddad is smiling, though. ‘How did I do?’ he says. I check his score. For an absolute beginner, it’s spectacular. In fact, if memory serves me, he’s done way better than I did on my first attempt. ‘Awesome,’ I say. ‘You kicked serious butt, Granddad.’ ‘Set me on a more difficult level.’ ‘Well . . .’ ‘C’mon. I’m having a good time here.’ ‘You are bad,’ I say, sorting through my change. ‘Okay. I know just the thing.’ It’s a good one, too. Even on Light mode, it’s doable, but it does have some tricky stuff. It 163

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might not look tricky, but it can catch you out. It’s energetic as well, but not crazy. I don’t want Granddad needing a hip replacement or keeling over with a heart attack halfway through. Any way through, come to think of it. He’s all geed up this time, his feet twitching and his eyes glued to the screen. I recognise the signs. I’ve seen it plenty of times with beginners. This guy will get seriously hooked, I think, as the music kicks in. I step back and watch him go. I’m grinning like a lunatic. I can’t help it. I’m even going through the steps with him. What an idiot. And I tell ya, I’m impressed, big time. He’s giving it his all. When he screws up, he gets right back into it – just a couple of beats and he’s back with the program. He’s three-quarters of the way through when I notice them. The audience. The guy in the leather jacket is hopping around, impersonating Granddad. He’s doing all this stiff-legged action and holding his back, like he’s got rheumatism. The others are cracking up. He’s the funniest guy in the universe. A twitch in the corner of my eye jumps and suddenly I have a sense of something prowling inside me. It’s pacing back and forth. I should be checking the locks, forcing it back into the corner. Instead, I’m opening a door. I stand in front of the group. I’m aware of rolling up my sleeves. ‘What’s so funny?’ I say. Leather jacket stops jumping around and holds his hands up in front of him. He doesn’t stop grinning, though. 164

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‘Whoa, mate,’ he says. ‘He’s awesome. I mean, what is he? A hundred and ten?’ One of the girls – I’m not sure if it’s the one who was laughing before – spits out this insane giggle and I turn to her. ‘I suggest you shut the hell up,’ I say. ‘I’m talking to the organ-grinder here, not his monkey.’ That shuts them up. Leather jacket stops grinning and takes a step closer. ‘Hey, f—head. Did you call her a monkey, or what, mate?’ I smile. His words echo, but that’s cool. ‘You need to watch your language, mate,’ I say. ‘Ladies present. And at least one monkey, as far as I can tell.’ The guy’s face drains of blood and he rocks backwards. I’m screaming. My throat is sore and I’m screaming. The stupid, wrinkled face is right up there in front of mine. I want to punch it. I need to punch it. I need to put my fist right into that purple, pitted nose, feel the bones crunching. Those goddamn watery eyes bore into mine, pools of moisture in a bed of wrinkles. I’m still screaming. I spray foam into his face. My hand is cocked back behind my right shoulder. The fist is so tight I can feel nails digging into flesh. His breath, sour with the faint memory of popcorn, puffs into my face. I don’t know who he is. I don’t care. ‘Go on,’ he says, and though his voice is real quiet, it pierces through my screaming. I can see his yellow teeth. 165

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‘Go on. Hit me. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Hell, you’ve just put those two down. Shouldn’t be a problem with a guy my age, should it? Come on. What you waiting for?’ Suddenly, I’m panting like crazy. I’m aware of other sounds, girls sobbing, mostly, groaning from behind me, music coming from one of the machines. My left hand is bunched up and twisted in Granddad’s shirt. I’ve pulled him to me. His face is pressed up close. The screaming chokes and dies. I force my fist to uncurl and he drops a centimetre or two. But he doesn’t back off. In fact, he puts both hands up and pushes me in the chest. I stumble back a few paces. ‘Go on,’ he says again. Only then does my right hand uncurl. I stare down at my palm, dumbly. Four small crescents, bright purple against my skin, scored like fresh brands. There are all these noises in my head, like a radio that isn’t tuned properly, caught between stations. I shake my head, but it doesn’t do any good. Suddenly I feel weak. I want to lie down. I just want to lie down and go to sleep and never wake up again. I look around. A part of me knows exactly what I’m going to see. The guy in the leather jacket is sprawled against the wall, tangled up in a mess of machinery. His face is covered in blood, his nose mashed. One eye looks up at me. The other is closed and puffing up. The one eye is filled with fear. His legs twitch frantically as he tries to push himself back into the corner. The other guy is on the floor off to my 166

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right with his head in his hands. Blood is dripping from his skull, pooling between his feet. He groans. My hands ache. My knuckles are scraped. One or two beads of blood glisten. The girls scream when I turn to them. I put up a hand, palm forward. I don’t know why. Tell them it’s cool. I guess. Even though it isn’t. It’s anything but cool. But it doesn’t work. One of the girls just screams louder and buries her head in the other girl’s shoulder. There is broken glass on the floor. It’s like someone pulls a plug somewhere inside me. The strength floods out, and my knees buckle. Granddad grabs me by the shirt, wheels me around and we stumble out the door. I can hardly put one foot in front of the other. As we go, I see a guy behind a counter and he’s on the phone. His eyes are big and filled with white and terror. He speaks urgently, but I can’t make out the words. Then the doorframe sweeps across my vision and he’s gone. I have a strange taste in my mouth and my head is throbbing. I want to sit down, but Granddad keeps me staggering along somehow. Outside, the sunlight is a blade. I stand for a moment, swaying, eyes screwed up. But Granddad wraps his arm around my shoulder and we halfrun, half-stumble down the street. A police siren wails, closing in. I can’t open the door of the ute. Granddad has to do it for me, and he helps me into the seat. I automatically reach for the seatbelt. I even try to get it to fasten before I remember. Then the engine is running and we are travelling. I start to wind the window down. When it suddenly drops 167

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into the frame I jump in my seat and the pounding in my head increases. I put my hand outside, redirect the air onto my face. It doesn’t do any good. But it doesn’t do any harm either. The journey home is lost. I think I sleep through most of it. I remember only one thing. Granddad suddenly pulls over. It might be before we leave Milton, because I have a dim memory of cars and buildings all around. He scoots across the road to a parked car. The car looks familiar, for some reason. I watch him as if from a great distance. I have no idea why he’s wrestling with the car and I don’t care. Finally, he comes back and drops something down into the well at my feet. I pick it up. It’s a side mirror, sleek and aerodynamic. The kind you get on sports cars. A sudden image of a car overtaking us on a bend comes to me. I drop the mirror back into the well. I become aware that we’ve stopped moving. I lift my head up and my neck is speared with pain, a sharp jabbing from being in one position for too long. I rotate my head in a gentle circle. It’s dark. We’ve parked by the waterfront. There are lights strung up and a few picnic tables scattered around. A couple of boats bob on dark water. Flashes of light ride the swells. It takes me some time to get my bearings. Then I recognise the main strip of Granddad’s town. The lights of the supermarket sparkle in the distance. My head is still thumping. Granddad’s little more than a dark shadow behind the wheel. 168

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‘I guess neither of us is gonna be in the mood for cooking tonight,’ he says. He jerks his head to the left. ‘Best fish and chips in Tassie. Maybe in Australia.’ I stare at the collection of tables. There’s a small, brightly lit cabin, off to one side. It’s got one of those folding noticeboards outside it, all chalked up. I can’t read it. One thing I know. I don’t want to eat. I can’t imagine keeping anything down, but I open the ute door anyway. I feel weak, but I can walk. Granddad ushers me to a table near the water. The air is chill, but my face feels hot and flushed. ‘I’ll order for you, okay?’ he says and I nod. While he’s gone I watch the water and the way the shapes of the lights change in the swell. I pull out my packet of smokes, but it’s empty. I can’t remember smoking the last one. I crumple the pack and drop it onto the table. Then I notice the dog curled up at my feet. I can’t remember Granddad untying him from the tray. When tears come, it’s with the energy of suddenly released pressure. I sit in the dark and tears course down my cheeks, gather at the point of my chin and drip down, become lost in darkness. I don’t sob. I don’t move. But the tears keep flowing. Granddad has his hand on my shoulder. He keeps it there the longest time. I hadn’t even heard him approaching. ‘There’s a well,’ he says. ‘More of a bore hole, really. Back of the house. Drops way down into very cold water. Put the beers in a bucket. Even in midsummer they stay chilled.’ 169

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I want to laugh, but I don’t trust myself. Granddad lets go of my shoulder and ambles round the other side of the bench. He puts a sixpack of beer on the table, splits open the plastic covering and unscrews the caps of two. Pushes one towards me. He sits, taking his time to ease his body onto the bench seat. I hear his joints crack. ‘Food’s coming,’ he says. ‘They cook it fresh. And it’s worth the wait. Oh, another thing. Here.’ He pulls a pouch of rolling tobacco from his pocket and a couple of packets of papers, a bag of filters. ‘Figured you’d need these.’ It takes me a long time to roll one. By the time I’m finished, my hands have stopped trembling. Granddad slides his lighter to me and I twist it around in my fingers for a while. Then I crumple the cigarette up and drop it onto the ground. ‘I’ve quit,’ I say. ‘Good for you,’ says Granddad. He takes a swig from his bottle. ‘You shouldn’t have got me out of there,’ I say. ‘I can’t take this anymore, Granddad. You should have let the police take me, lock me up. I’m a danger. To everyone. You included.’ This sudden sharp image of Granddad’s face in close-up comes to me. I can see the individual pores. I feel again that urge to break and destroy. I try to bury the image. ‘And sooner or later, I’m going to hurt someone I care about. Physically, I mean. I know I’ve already hurt people. But one time, it’s gonna be Kris, or you or a teacher at school who looks at me the wrong way, says the wrong thing. 170

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Sooner or later I’m gonna kill someone. I shouldn’t be allowed to wander around freely. I need to be behind bars.’ I know it’s true. I can feel it. All that mumbo-jumbo in the courtroom, all that talk and money to prove a lie. That I’m a fit and responsible person. That I can be trusted, that I can keep the demon under control. The simple truth is, I can’t. It controls me. And I’m stupid to think it can be any other way. That court hearing. A farce. Lock me up and everyone can sleep easier. Better still if I was dead. Sometimes the only way to get rid of a parasite is to kill the host. Better all round. Better for everyone. The food arrives and suddenly I discover I’m hungry. It’s the smell. And the fish looks great, two huge pieces, thinly battered. I tear off a piece and take a bite. It crumbles on my tongue, hurts as it goes down my throat. But I tear off another piece anyway. Granddad opens a second stubby, but he doesn’t touch his food. We sit for five minutes in silence. ‘No one needs to be behind bars,’ says Granddad, finally. ‘You’ll be right.’ ‘I won’t be right,’ I say, and I’m angry he doesn’t understand. ‘I’ll never be right carrying this thing round with me.’ ‘You’re a good lad,’ he says. ‘You’ll beat it.’ ‘And what the hell do you know, Gramps?’ I yell. ‘You’ve got no idea what I’m capable of.’ Emotions are churning up inside me so much I don’t even feel ashamed of shouting at him. 171

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‘The first time I went to jail, it was for six months,’ he says. He isn’t looking at me, but over my shoulder, into the past. His voice is quiet. ‘Two years the second time. Nearly beat a guy to death over a game of pool. Took six coppers to arrest me. I broke the jaw of one.’ He rolls a cigarette and lights it. His eyes screw up as the smoke rises. ‘I know one thing. Prison’s no place for a hothead. I ended up in the infirmary three times. Got serious internal injuries once. Never stopped fighting, as I remember. And all the time I was fighting against me. When I understood that, I beat it. So will you.’ I’m suddenly aware I’ve been holding on to a piece of fish. It’s all bent over, drooping towards the table. I drop it. Granddad smokes, gazes over the bay. The silence cloaks us again. ‘I didn’t know, Granddad.’ I say. ‘No one does,’ he replies. ‘Apart from your gran, you’re the only person I’ve ever told.’ The word slips out without me being aware of it. Granddad scrunches the cigarette butt into the table, scoops up the pouch of tobacco, the papers and filters, and then smiles. ‘Language, dude,’ he says. ‘Unnecessary.’ Even though I’m in the passenger seat, the headlights dazzle me. The darkness on the dirt track is solid until the ute’s cabin is suddenly awash with light. Granddad squints, 172

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curses, and pushes the rear-view mirror to one side – and now I’m squinting, and the light pulses red and blue. Granddad indicates left, but drives another half kilometre before he finds a place to pull off the track. The police car parks behind us. Its lights stay on. ‘Say nothin’,’ says Granddad. ‘Understand?’ I nod. We wait. We wait for what seems forever. The engine block ticks, and the cracks in the windscreen make starbursts of reflected light. Finally, we hear a door slam and the crunch of approaching footsteps. ‘G’day, old timer,’ says Richie. He crouches by Granddad’s open window and smiles in at us. Maybe I should smile back, but my mouth has forgotten how. I notice he has one gold tooth, on the top right. It gleams yellow and reminds me of a dog’s snarl. ‘G’day, Richie,’ says Gramps, but he doesn’t smile either. ‘Problem?’ Richie rubs his chin. The scraping sound is loud in the ute’s cabin. ‘Not really,’ he says. ‘Not really. A chat, is all. Been for a drive, have we?’ I want to tell him that with his standard of deductive reasoning, it’s no surprise he’s the head honcho of the regional constabulary. I keep the thought to myself. ‘Yup,’ says Granddad. I’m pleased to note it’s not just with me that he’s economical with words. Richie’s smile widens. I don’t know whether to look straight ahead or 173

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meet his eyes. I compromise by staring past him at the shadowy bulk of ironbarks pressing against the track. ‘Great day for it,’ he says. ‘Great day. Down the coast, was it?’ ‘Aways.’ ‘Didn’t get as far as Milton, by any chance?’ ‘Nope.’ I want to tell Granddad that he needs to be a touch more forthcoming. It’s a good idea for me to say nothing, but not so great if it’s the two of us. There is nothing more guaranteed to tick a cop off than the monosyllabic defence. I have experience in these matters. And it’s as if Richie reads my thoughts, because he turns his attention to me. ‘Hey, young ’un. Had a good time today?’ ‘Mad fun,’ I reply. ‘So where did you go?’ ‘Some random beach,’ I say. ‘Sand, seagulls, sailing boats. You know the scene.’ Richie goes in for some more chin-rubbing. ‘Doesn’t sound like your scene, though. I thought you were a bright-lights, big-city kinda guy.’ ‘Hey, man,’ I say. ‘I’m one with nature.’ I’m beginning to understand why Gramps has difficulty passing more than one word at a time. It might not be wise, but winding up a cop is really satisfying. ‘There was some trouble in Milton today,’ says Richie, and his smile is starting to annoy me. ‘Thought you might have been witnesses, but I guess if you weren’t there . . .’ 174

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Granddad and I keep our lips zipped. Richie shifts his weight. ‘Hey, old-timer,’ he throws in. ‘I couldn’t help noticing your tail-light’s shot. You need to get that fixed. And, while you’re about it, your muffler. In fact, looking around the cab here, it seems there’s heaps of work needed to make this ute roadworthy. I’d hate to see you get hurt, mate. You can’t be too careful.’ ‘So, what, Richie?’ says Granddad. ‘You giving me a ticket?’ Richie’s smile gets even wider. ‘Course not. Course not. You’re a local, old-timer. And we look after our own round here. You know that. Just a friendly warning.’ He pushes himself upright and I’m treated to a close-up of his groin through the driver’s window. A hand thumps on the roof. ‘Have a good day, fellas,’ comes from a considerable height. ‘Drive safe.’ There is a crunch of receding footsteps. Granddad swings the ute back onto the track. We drive in silence for a couple of minutes. ‘Local celebrity, huh?’ I say. ‘Yup,’ says Granddad. He is fishing around in his nose again. I go to bed as soon as we get home. It’s only seven-thirty, but I’m exhausted and my head is thumping. As soon as I hit the pillow, I’m gone. Doesn’t matter that there’s no fire and it’s like a fridge in the shack. 175

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I dream, and it’s vivid. Kris and I are arguing. It’s about something really stupid. I’ve gone ballistic because she’s thrown out this bunch of flowers I bought her. They’re all dead and withered. The stalks are slimy. But I’m yelling at her that she doesn’t care about me. I’m trying to get her to take the soggy mess out of the wheelie bin and she’s refusing. So I hit her. She slumps back against the bin and it’s the expression on her face that freezes me. Horror – as if she’s looking at a monster. And that just makes me worse. I want to hit her again and again. In the dream I pull my hand back and she runs. I chase her and suddenly we’re in a forest. Kris is stumbling, but she’s quicker than me. It’s as if I’m wallowing through thick, treacly air. The trees swallow her. And I can’t move. I’m in the middle of a clearing and my feet are rooted to the spot. The forest is motionless around me. A bead of sweat trickles down my brow. The first sound comes from behind me. A crashing through undergrowth. I turn, but I still can’t take a single pace. Branches bend. I’m terrified, but my legs won’t work, so I watch, watch, watch, and time has become as thick and treacly as the air. I open my mouth to scream, but everything is in slow motion. Everything except the crashing approach. The bush parts at the edge of the clearing and the figure is upon me, blurred, violent motion. An arm is raised. A glint of light on a sharp, metallic surface, and my scream finds voice. I scream into the face, the strange distorted 176

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face that blooms before my eyes. And I scream. Not because of the flash of light on metal. Because the face is mine. I sit up in bed. My throat is raw, my breath ragged, my face basted in sweat. It takes time for the images to fade and my breathing to regulate. I put my head in my hands. The room is warm and there’s a flicker of light on the ceiling above the fireplace. Granddad must have come in and lit the fire while I was sleeping. I get to my feet. There’s no way I’m going to sleep again for a while. I’m fully dressed and I empty out my pockets. The familiar action helps to soothe the fever in my blood. I arrange the items on the bed. Line them up. Neatly. Only when the thudding in my chest has faded entirely do I pick up my phone. It’s turned on and there’s a message. It must have come a while ago. Without reception, nothing gets through here. But I can’t understand why I didn’t hear it. I check. The ring tone is turned to silent. The chick at the cinema must have done it while she was charging it for me, then forgot to let me know. Either that, or the fight at the arcade messed up the settings. The message is from Kris and it came through sometime when we were driving back from Milton. I’m almost scared to read it. Couldn’t ring today. Home sick. Ring me tomorrow at lunch. Need to talk. Kris. I smile. I admire her dedication to the apostrophe. And she’ll never use ‘2’ instead of ‘to’. My instinctive feeling is 177

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relief – not that she’s sick, just that there’s a good reason for her not ringing or texting today. I wonder how she’s managed it now. Maybe a friend came to visit her. The number is certainly one I don’t recognise. Then other thoughts intrude. Why do we need to talk? What is happening that makes it a necessity? Once I start on this train of thought it’s difficult to stop. What would happen if I rang the number from her text? Would I get some guy? I am so tempted. My finger even hovers over the connect button, but I decide not to. It’s not so much that it’s two in the morning. It’s more to do with being scared of what I’ll hear. And then I remember there’s no reception anyway. Duh! Wisps of the nightmare float in my head and I don’t know what to do with myself. My face feels hot and there’s still sweat on my forehead. My journal lies closed on the table, a pencil ranged neatly along the binding. I have nothing else to do. And, after today, there’s never been a better time to write. I’m certainly not short of material. Kris is smart. And gorgeous. She could have anyone. Yet she chose me. I wonder why. I mean, there are easier people. Everyone, for example. And she’s not shy about telling me my failings. Checklist: I’m not considerate. I don’t buy her enough presents. 178

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I’m not romantic. That’s just for starters. And then there’s my anger. You’d have to be some kind of saint to put up with that. Kris says she believes in me. What does that mean? But I worry she’ll stop believing. Today has been good. I went to the cinema with Granddad. Crap film, but lots of bonding. I think Granddad believes in me, too. That makes two of them. I am short of material. What am I gonna do? Say I’m being victimised by a local copper, that I’ve stopped taking my medication? Oh, and by the way, I also beat the crap out of a couple of random guys for the very good reason they were laughing at Granddad, and, in the process, I wrecked a games arcade. Then Granddad broke the law by helping me get the hell out of there. Followed it up by lying to the police. All in all, an uneventful day. Someone, sometime, might read this. Beats me how they expect me to be honest in my writing. And it hits me like an axe how worthless this is. Writing stuff down is supposed to be helping me, but I can’t write down the important things. Not unless I want to cut my own throat. What if they do read it? Maybe I should be honest. Maybe I should describe everything that happened today, just as it happened. So what if they stick me 179

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in a psychiatric ward as a result? Or a juvenile detention centre? Didn’t I say to Granddad that would be for the best, that the world would be a better place if I wasn’t in it? But I can’t. When it comes down to it, I’ve got a yellow streak a couple of klicks wide. The more I think, the more depressed I am. All that guff about being in a quiet place where there would be less stimulus for my IED. All those trees and quiet walks. The simple life. Since I’ve been here, I’ve had more outbursts than I would in a month in Melbourne. Maybe it’s the medication – or lack of it. But I don’t regret that. When it comes down to it, I’d sooner be an alive menace than one of the living dead. Possibly I should be ashamed of that. But I’m not. I close the exercise book and line the pencil up neatly along the binding. The shack feels hotter than hell, even though the fire has basically died. There is only a dim glow from the embers. I wipe my hand across my forehead and it comes away slick with sweat. Sleep isn’t an option, so I step outside. The cool air calms me. It’s so dark I can’t see a metre ahead. I glance up at the sky, but there must be clouds rolling around ’cos I can’t see a single star, or even a hint of the moon. It’s difficult to tell where the treetops stop and the sky begins. I stand on the verandah and wait for my eyes to adjust. It’s cold. A slight wind cools my face and I turn towards it. The beads of sweat chill. I think of Granddad’s bottles of Boag’s and condensation running down the sides. I even think of 180

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trying to find the well, because the thought of a cold beer is really tempting. But knowing my luck, in this darkness, I’d fall down it. So I sit on the verandah and listen. I hear the wind whispering through the trees. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear it was saying, ‘It’s cool, cool, cool.’ I think about Gran, out there somewhere, watching over Granddad. Or – what was it Granddad said? – her love looking after him. It’s a pleasant thought. Complete horse manure, of course, but heart-warming. If you’re that way inclined. I sit and think about Gran, but I haven’t got many memories to feed the thoughts. Just random pictures in my head. For some reason, I get to thinking about that text message as well. The message from another dimension. Witetrees. Maybe I’m coming down with a nasty bug, but I wonder about it. What if it wasn’t the production of an overwrought imagination or the scrambled settings of my phone? What if it was from Gran? You know, if she’s looking out for Granddad, maybe she’s also looking out for me. Trust me, I know how sad this is. But I’m tired, emotionally exhausted and running a fever. And the idea of a corpse in the forest with a ghostly mobile phone is kinda satisfying. I wonder what kind of deal you get in the afterlife. You know, unlimited credit, or free texts. Or do you get tied to a plan for eternity? Trouble is, all these thoughts are tumbling one over the other. I get to thinking about what Granddad said about 181

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things locked inside you getting out, making some impact on the world. And it’s mixed up with an image of Kris at school. At first it’s just an image, but then it takes on the aspect of a story. She isn’t sick. She’s never looked healthier, sitting on the oval with Steve and his fine features – features I could happily reorganise. They are laughing. Actually, they are laughing at me. And he hands her a mobile phone and she’s just thrilled at how considerate he is. She kisses him, long and lingering. Then I see a boy in a leather jacket, his legs twitching as he tries to make himself a part of a corner. And a girl who screams when I lift my hand. I see Granddad ripping a side mirror off a sports car. The wind is building. The trees aren’t whispering now. The rustle of leaves and branches has taken on an angry sound. My eyes have adjusted sufficiently to be able to make out the treetops bending and shaking against an angry sky. The cold bites and I wrap my arms around myself, hug myself close. Suddenly, I want to be inside. The flush of heat has been sucked from me and I’m shivering. I want to warm my hands over the fire’s embers. When I stand, the muscles in my legs ache. I am coming down with something. The wind slams the door shut behind me. The fire is on its last legs. There’s only the dimmest of glows in the fireplace, but I kneel in front of it, shove my hands virtually into the ashes. A sudden gust of wind gets caught in the chimney. I feel the cold on the back of my hands. It’s like a 182

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storm has blown in. I hear rattling outside, and worry for a moment if the dog’s going to be all right. The fire is giving off no heat, so I climb back into my bed and gather the blankets around me. I’m too cold to think about undressing. Even with the blankets around my shoulders, so I’m wrapped up like a baby, the cold seeps in. My teeth chatter. The wind picks up another notch. Now the trees sound like they’re screaming. Something bangs a couple of times – metal striking metal – and then there’s a terrible rattle on the window, as though a tree branch is thumping against it. At the same time, the latch on the door jumps, falls back into its slot. I can almost see the wood bend inwards with the pressure. I can’t remember a tree being close to my shack. I think and think, but I can’t remember. There’s so much rattling and thumping going on I can’t straighten my thoughts. So I jump off the bed and push a chair under the latch. I don’t think anything’s coming in, but I can’t stand the door rattling around for the rest of the night. Just for good measure, I unwrap one blanket and tuck it into the curtain rod over the window, blotting the outside. Something heavy smacks against the glass just as I’m finishing and I nearly fall off the bed. The door rattles again, bulges, but doesn’t give. I don’t want to sleep. So I sit in the corner furthest from the door, watching. I watch the door and the window, and listen to the storm’s anger. I huddle into the blankets and wait it out. 183

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There’s something wrong with the room, but it takes me a while to spot it. Across the four lines carved into my bedpost, there is another, horizontal gash. The cut is white and fresh. I don’t remember doing it.

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I must have fallen asleep at some stage, because when I wake my neck is aching where it’s been twisted. It’s just gone six and there are pale splashes of light leaking through the blanket over the window. My muscles protest as I lurch to my feet. The chair has come loose and is resting on all four legs. I slide it back under the table, pull the blanket off the rod and step outside. The light is milky. There is no sign of the storm, no fallen branches, nothing out of place. There are no trees close to my shack. The whole place is quiet. No sign of Granddad and I’m kinda pleased I’ve beaten him to the verandah for once. I risk sniffing my armpits. Big mistake. I smell like I’ve been ridden hard and put away wet. Then again, I haven’t had a shower in how long? I’ve slept in my clothes and I got all sweaty playing Dance Dance. Pretty soon, Granddad will have to take me outside, with a clothes peg on his nose, and hose me down. I grab some fresh clothes and head for the shower. I’m not looking forward to it and as soon as the water hits me I want to scream. It’s impossible to stop the sharp intake of 185

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breath. I grit my teeth and soap myself all over. I even wash my hair. There are critters living in there. Finally, I scrape the fungus off my teeth and tongue. It’s cold as, and I keep shivering, just wrapped in a soggy towel, but there’s no alternative. When I finally get into warm, clean clothes I feel like a new person. Any traces of my mystery fever have well and truly disappeared. For a while there, I must have been delirious. The previous night has the quality of a bad dream. I stride over to the main shack and am disappointed to find Granddad sitting there. I want to tell him I’ve been up for ages, but reckon that’d be too sad, even for me. ‘Morning, Granddad,’ I say. ‘How are you, dude?’ He grunts. He’s not a morning person, that’s for sure. Then again, I haven’t seen much evidence of him being an afternoon or evening person either, so it’s not a profound observation. So much for the major bonding we did yesterday. Now he’s back to Mr Grumpy. Inside, I grab a cup of coffee from a jug sitting on the stove. I leave it black. I need all the warmth I can muster. I slump into the chair next to him and sip the coffee. It smells like coffee. It even looks like coffee. But God knows what sad kind of bean was responsible for this. I drink it anyway. It’s marginally better than boiled water. ‘Want some porridge?’ asks Granddad. ‘Like an enema,’ I reply. ‘I’ll make breakfast.’ ‘I like porridge,’ he says. 186

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‘Well, so do I, Gramps. But let’s be honest here. That stuff you make would be better rendering walls. Seriously. I was going to cook last night, but never got the chance. I’ll make breakfast.’ Granddad shrugs, takes a noisy slurp from his coffee mug. ‘Any bacon?’ I ask. ‘Nope.’ ‘Eggs?’ ‘Some, I think. In the corner cupboard. Oh, by the way. That shopping you did yesterday. The bag’s still in the ute.’ I’d forgotten about that, but I’m thrilled. Granddad must have picked up the bag from the games arcade before we split. I’m impressed. It must have been a pain in the rectum, dragging me out of there, with a heavy shopping bag full of cast iron cooking utensils in one hand. I fish all the stuff out of the ute. Time to baptise the saucepan. I find a carton of eggs in the cupboard, but there’s no use-by date on them. So I crack one and sniff it. I can’t swear to it, but I reckon it’s okay. I crack another three into a bowl. It’s almost too much to hope for, but my luck must be riding high today because I also find a tin of chopped tomatoes in the cupboard and a small bottle of white vinegar. I know we’ve got salt and pepper and olive oil, ’cos I bought them myself. Ready to rock and roll. I discovered this recipe by accident, but it’s a good one. I splash a good slug of olive oil into the pan, move the coffee pot and heat the pan on the stove top. Because of 187

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the lack of temperature regulation, I’ve got to take extra care I don’t overdo it. When the oil is fairly hot I drop in the tomatoes, a dash of vinegar, a teaspoon of sugar and some salt and pepper. Not too much. You can always add, but you can’t take away. Then I stir it all around with a wooden spoon. This is the really important part. Even on a regular stove you’ve gotta keep stirring. On Granddad’s wood stove, I have to stir and lift the pan away from the heat at regular intervals. Otherwise it’ll overcook. The idea is to reduce slowly. Takes about half an hour, by which time your arms are aching like hell, even though you keep swapping over. Trouble is, it’s not over then. All you’ve got is this mushy pulp of tomatoes. Now the eggs go in. And yes. You stir and keep on stirring until the eggs have scrambled into the tomato mixture. It’s touch and go whether the eggs set before your limbs drop off. But it’s worth it. A couple of minutes before the end I drizzle olive oil onto the stove plate and slam down four rounds of bread to fry. Normally, you’d eat this on toast, but I reckon fried bread’ll work. I turn the bread while I firm up the eggs. Then it’s onto a plate and out to the verandah where Granddad has doubtless starved to death. He stares at his plate as if I just took a dump on it. ‘What’s this?’ he says. ‘Scrambled eggs and wallaby placenta,’ I say. ‘You’re kiddin’.’ ‘I’m kiddin’. Just eat.’ 188

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But he doesn’t seem excited at the prospect. The way he prods at it with a fork you’d think it was about to explode. Finally he takes a bite, but he keeps it at the front of his mouth for a while. Easier to spit out, I guess. But he doesn’t spit it out. He takes another mouthful. ‘This isn’t half bad,’ he says, voice muffled through the scrambled egg. ‘I’m overcome with your enthusiasm, Gramps,’ I reply. Funny thing is, I almost am. By his standards, this is as excited as it gets. He scrapes the plate clean, leans back in his chair and lets go a huge belch. We sit in a thin cloud smelling of tomato and egg. Then he washes the dishes. If I had a camera I’d take a picture. While he’s away I give Kris some more thought, but I don’t get anywhere. All I know is I’ve got this uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. On the one hand I can’t wait to speak to her. On the other, I’m beginning to dread it. So when Granddad plops himself down next to me, I talk without ever really meaning to. ‘Can you explain to me about women?’ I ask. He just stares at me. I wouldn’t swear to it, but I reckon there’s a pitying look on his face. ‘Got women trouble?’ he says. ‘Well, not women,’ I say. ‘Woman. I mean, come on, Granddad. You’ve been around the block a few times. No offence. So what is it they want, hey? I mean, they say they want one thing, but when you do it, it turns out it’s all wrong and you should have done something else. And 189

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when you tell them that you were only doing what they wanted, then they say you should have known without being told. I mean, what’s with that?’ Granddad sighs and scrapes at his face. Doesn’t he ever shave? Come to think about it, his stubble never seems to get any longer either. Maybe he has one of those shavers sad old rock stars have? The kind that keeps your stubble to a good designer length? ‘There was this bloke in Sydney and he was walking along a beach . . .’ ‘Whoa, dude,’ I say. I even put my hand up. ‘This isn’t a joke, is it?’ ’Cos I’ve heard jokes from people over thirty and they are never funny.’ Granddad ignores me. ‘There’s this bloke in Sydney and he’s walking along a beach when he sees a bottle in the sand. So he picks it up and wipes it and a genie pops out. And the genie says: “I will grant you one wish and one wish only, so you’d better make it a good ’un.”’ This is getting better and better. A joke about a genie. Radical. ‘And the guy says, “Well, I have to travel to New Zealand constantly on business. Trouble is, I hate flying and a boat takes too long. I wish for a bridge to be built between Sydney and Christchurch, so I can drive.” And the genie says, “Hang on. Do you know how impossible that is? It would require the biggest engineering feat in history. It would take hundreds of years, use up most of the available natural resources left in the world and thousands 190

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of people would die in the construction. It’s completely out of the question. Can’t be done. Wish for something else.” And the bloke thinks for a moment and then says, “Okay. Tell me what it is that women really want.” And the genie pauses and says, “So what colour do you want the bridge?”’ Granddad’s pleased with himself. I can tell. So I dredge up a laugh. ‘Is that it then?’ I ask. ‘I need to build a bridge instead?’ ‘Women are not like us,’ he says, all serious. ‘Thanks, Gramps. Your middle name’s not Sherlock is it?’ ‘Their minds work in different ways. You can’t ever really understand them. Just do what you’re told and make the best of it.’ This is the culmination of years of experience? I wish I hadn’t asked. But turns out he’s got another pearl of wisdom to share. ‘They’re emotionally tough, though. Tougher than us. So you need to develop a thick skin. Are you tough enough?’ I give that some thought. More than it warrants. ‘Me? I’m Ironbark, dude,’ I say. I don’t feel tough, though. Not really. I hate waiting, so I decide to head off up the mountain early. It’s only ten o’clock, but Granddad has disappeared and I have absolutely nothing to do. There’s no point in 191

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writing in my journal and we have enough logs to last till the Second Coming, and I can’t sit on the verandah staring at trees any longer. It crosses my mind to walk up the mountain. That would certainly kill time. But the scent of the motorbike is just too heady to resist. Plus, I still feel tired on account of getting virtually no sleep last night. Anyway, the motorbike is a much better way to kill time. Provided I maim trees as I go this time I can do some exploring, without fear of getting lost. Like I say, I have no idea where Granddad is, so I’m concerned about firing up the bike. Odds are, he’ll hear. But I do it anyway. What the hell. I’m Ironbark. It catches on the second kick. I’ll give the old bike that. It’s probably got the indent of Captain Cook’s bum on its seat, but it’s gutsy despite its years. I can’t imagine many bikes built today would still be around in forty years’ time. These thought processes are a little worrying. It’s a short step to, ‘When I was young . . .’ I slam the bike into gear and take off. That way, I don’t have to think. I ride a different way, but I’m careful to stop every now and then and carve a mark on a tree. I just hope these trails I’ve made don’t cross. The rate I’m going, every tree in the forest will have a mark. I get this image of myself, sitting on the bike in the middle of the bush looking round at all these trees, each with a white gash, and wondering how I’m going to get home. In the end it doesn’t make a huge amount of difference. I mean, it’s not as if I’m likely to stumble across Aztec ruins. 192

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Trees and clearings, clearings and trees. Every route is scenic. In fact, I might as well have come up the old way. Would have saved a few trees a few scratches. But I don’t have any problems and before I know it I’m soaring – well, creeping might be a better word – onto the summit. The rock is waiting for me. I sit on it and reach automatically for a smoke. It’s funny. I don’t even feel disappointed when I find they’re not there. Already my chest is feeling better. I know about your sense of smell and taste improving after you’ve given up and I know that takes time to kick in. But I’d swear the scrambled egg and tomato this morning tasted sharper, cleaner somehow. Probably my imagination. But I don’t miss them. Don’t even miss that I’m missing them. How cool is that? It’s just gone ten o’clock and I’m two hours early. I suppose I could kill more time riding the bike along the ridge, but for some reason I don’t feel like it. A watery sun has emerged from a light scattering of clouds and it’s peaceful up here. I even begin to think the view has improved. Can quitting smoking do that as well? I stretch out across the rock and soak up a few rays. While I’m here I might as well close my eyes. It probably takes me all of thirty seconds to fall asleep. It isn’t like a proper dream. I don’t remember the beginning and there’s no story as such. Just broken images. Richie is there, but it’s all hazy. Then suddenly, everything is sharper. I see him in the distance. He’s facing up to a 193

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length of wood, a tree trunk of some kind. One of my gashes is visible. I recognise it. I catch a gleam of light along the face of an axe. There’s a regular sound – a thunk, thunk – as metal bites into wood. I’m getting closer to him, but slowly. It’s as though I’m being carried on one of those travelators you get in airports, because it’s a smooth movement. His body bulks before my eyes, but he doesn’t see me approaching. His eyes are on the wood and the axe is coming down quicker now. The thudding is louder, closer. The blows become impossibly close together, sounds merging. They resolve into a ringtone. I sit up as though I’ve been scalded and scrabble for my phone. It’s on the rock next to me and I knock it off the edge and have to scrabble further. There is a sharp pain in my back from where I’ve been lying, but I ignore it. I push the accept button. ‘Hello?’ ‘Hi. It’s me.’ I glance at my watch and have difficulty processing the information. It’s almost twelve-thirty and I’ve slept for over two hours. I try to sweep the dust from my thoughts. It must have been the combination of last night’s lack of sleep and the effect of the sun, I guess, but I feel really bad. Kris must have been waiting half an hour for my call. She must have thought I wasn’t going to. I switch the phone to my other ear. The pain in my back stings. I notice that the sun has disappeared and the day’s turned cold. ‘God, Kris,’ I say. ‘I’m really sorry. I fell asleep.’ 194

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I should explain. Tell her about the previous night, that I was up here two hours early. But I don’t. It would sound like I was trying too hard to convince. ‘It’s okay.’ ‘No, it isn’t. I’m sorry, I really am. Look, hang up and I’ll ring you back. I don’t want to run down Janine’s credit.’ ‘Justine.’ ‘Yeah. Her. Give me a moment.’ ‘No.’ Her tone is sharp. I’ve almost disconnected, but the urgency in her voice stops me. ‘I can’t talk long, anyway,’ she continues. ‘Hey. I know it’s my fault. I should have rung at twelve. But you’ve still got another half hour of lunch left yet.’ ‘I’m seeing Miss Millner in five minutes for maths tutoring. I can’t talk long.’ The repetition seems to rule out all argument. I’m in the wrong. I know that. But I’m getting seriously ticked off, anyway. If Kris knew she had an appointment she could have rung earlier. And, besides, what is more important to her? Give Miss Millner the flick. See her some other time. I tell her that. ‘I can’t.’ ‘Okay.’ I hold the phone against my chest for a moment, try to calm my breathing. Getting angry won’t cut it, that’s for sure. I need to keep control. And it is my fault. If only I hadn’t fallen asleep. I go for the bright and cheery disposition. 195

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‘Look, Kris. I bought you a phone yesterday. Sent it off Express Post care of the school ’cos I didn’t want your dad to intercept it. It’s charged up, chock-a-block with credit and everything.’ ‘You did what?’ The bright and cheery disposition is all one way. If I could hold her tone in my hands it would slice through me. ‘It wasn’t expensive,’ I say, but I know I’ve made another mistake. I have no idea what it is, but I’ve been here before and I can read the signs. If anything, the silence from the other end is sharper than her voice. ‘I said I would think about it,’ she says finally. ‘I would think about it. What is wrong with you?’ ‘What do you mean, “What’s wrong with me?” Nothing’s wrong with me. Nothing. You don’t want it, fine. Throw it away. Not a problem. I thought it would be better to get it to you sooner rather than later. That’s all. What’s so wrong with that?’ ‘You really don’t understand, do you?’ Boy, she is mad. ‘You know, Kris? I don’t. I don’t know why sending you a present is such a crime. Why don’t you explain it to me?’ ‘Now you’re getting nasty.’ ‘Hell . . .’ I have to take the phone away from my mouth again. It’s cool. I’m cool. This is too crazy for words. I’m getting nasty? Boy, this girl needs to listen to herself sometimes. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. I have to force my voice to sound calm and controlled. ‘I’m not being nasty. Seriously. But I don’t understand.’ 196

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‘We had a conversation. You suggested sending me a phone. I said I would think about it and let you know. But you had to take control. Don’t you see? It was my decision to make, not yours. It’s like my opinions, my needs, don’t count at all. The phone was never about me, it was all about you.’ ‘That’s nuts,’ I say. ‘What do you mean, it’s about me? It’s your phone. I bought it for you. A gift.’ I have got to be on solid ground here. There’s no one else, no one at all, who wouldn’t think this conversation – or one side of it, at least – was just bizarre. Maybe she’s got PMS. I wouldn’t be surprised. But I reckon now is not the best time to explore that possibility. ‘I don’t want you making decisions for me. I don’t want anyone making decisions for me. Can’t you get that through your head?’ ‘Apart from your dad, of course,’ I say. I regret it as soon as I say it, but the words escape before I can stop them. ‘He doesn’t want you to have your phone, so you just give up. “Yes, Daddy. If you say so, Daddy.” I tell you, Kris, this independent, free-thinking woman line you’re peddling seems a little flimsy. Particularly when your dad is controlling who you see, who you talk to.’ There’s silence at the other end. It’s the first advantage I’ve detected in the argument, so I push it. ‘Well?’ I say. Her voice is much softer. ‘Perhaps that’s why I don’t need anyone else pushing me around.’ 197

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‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Fine. No problem. You don’t want the phone, get rid of it. Throw it in the bin. Don’t even open the package. Just so long as you’re happy.’ ‘I’m not happy,’ she says, but her voice isn’t hard anymore. ‘You mean you’re not happy with me, don’t you?’ I say. ‘You’re not happy with me because I’m like your father. Except, of course, he denies you things while I try to provide them. But hey, Kris, it’s all the same to you, isn’t it? Isn’t it?’ Her silence tells me all I need to know. ‘So is it Steve, Kris? Is he the reason I’m suddenly such a crap person? Is he the reason you won’t text me or call?’ ‘What are you talking about?’ she says. ‘Has he been sniffing around? Course he has. While the cat’s away. Is that it? Come on, Kris. Tell me. I can handle it.’ ‘You seriously think that when I’m mad at you, it has to be because some other guy is involved? Do you really believe that?’ ‘Do you always answer a question with another question? Pretty poor, that, Kris. Tell you what. You answer my question first.’ ‘I’m going now,’ she says and I can tell she’s on the verge of tears. Most times, I’d feel bad. Right now, I feel victorious. ‘That’s one way of avoiding the question,’ I say. But she’s gone. I listen to the hiss of the broken connection for a few moments. Dark clouds are building and the 198

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wind has picked up. Far off in the distance I see a flash of lightning. Even though I wait for ages, there’s no accompanying thunder. Only echoes in my head. Kris’s words and the thunk, thunk, thunk of an axe biting into wood. It’s only when I look down that I see my phone. I’m beating it regularly – thunk, thunk, thunk – into the rock. Splinters of plastic litter the ground. Branches sweep across my face, but I pay them no attention. The bike is beneath me, but I don’t pay attention to it either. As far as I can tell, I don’t have a thought in my head. I’ve reached that stage where I’ve become part of the bike, and movement is simply an expression of my will. No thought required. It’s just as well. I’m not looking for gashes in trees. I’m not looking for anything. Movement is all I need. I surrender to speed. It’s dark all around me. I see clouds, black and broiling, scud across the sky. From time to time a flash of lightning etches the branches and the leaves in silver. I’m riding a strobe. I have no idea where I am and I don’t care. The route I’m taking is downhill, but only because that makes me go faster. Occasionally, I hit a log and the back wheel of the bike slews to one side. But I lean by instinct, correct the slide, keep going without losing speed. It’s all cool. I don’t fall. I’m one with the bike. Maybe it’s madness I feel. I want to laugh, riding with the throttle on full, down a steep slope in treacherous terrain. I see myself frozen in the lightning’s frame. I blink in and out of existence. 199

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I might die here. I miss trees by millimetres, but it’s not like I’m making conscious choices to miss them. Once, the bark of a tree takes skin off my arm. It feels good. After a while, it’s as if I’m still and the forest is sweeping past me. I’m suspended in space and the world blurs. It can’t last. I know that. Sooner or later I will hit something. Smash into a tree, be thrown through the air. I see myself hit a tree. I hear the crunch as my neck breaks. I even see my body lying crumpled and motionless next to the bike. One wheel is spinning gently while the forest returns to silence. Gran is standing over me. It’s cool. I don’t hit a tree. I hit a depression in the ground, covered with fallen leaves. The bike dips and my stomach lurches. I don’t know what lies beneath those leaves, other than the dip of land, but I hit it. I hit it hard. Maybe a rock. Maybe a fallen tree trunk. It doesn’t matter. For a few brief, glorious seconds, I fly. I’m not even aware of leaving the bike. It feels like death, this flight. It lasts forever. The impact punches the breath out of me. I lie where I land and it’s hard to breathe. There is a pain somewhere, but I’m not sure it’s mine. Right next to my face is a pile of leaves. I can see an ant climbing slowly up one brown leaf. I close my eyes, and when I open them again, it’s gone. It takes minutes for me to lever myself to my feet, brush leaves from my shirt. There is a gash down my left arm and it weeps drops of blood. The bike lies fifteen metres to my left. I can’t be sure, but it looks like one wheel is slightly 200

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bent. Then my legs go from under me and I collapse in the undergrowth. I come back to myself slowly. The lightning has stopped and clouds float, fat and dirty white, across the sky. The silence presses against my ears. A rustle of branches catches my attention. Down the slope. Maybe fifty metres, maybe less. The sound, the movement, drifts towards me. The eyes are back. Something out there is watching me and its gaze is hot. It bores into my flesh. I don’t think I’m going to avoid it this time. I don’t know how I know that. My legs don’t want to obey me, but I force them. I find my feet and hobble towards the bike. I try to keep the noise to a minimum. For what that’s worth. As I lift the bike, I sense the movement towards me quickens. I have little time to worry about the pain in my leg, or the slight buckle in the back wheel. It’s hard to get leverage under the bike’s frame. My muscles scream as I lift. When I kick the engine over, it splutters once or twice, but doesn’t catch. Flooded. I turn the throttle right down and try again. Nothing. Whatever it is, its pace is increasing. I’m muttering to myself, keeping my head bent over the handlebars, but I know it’s coming towards me. Right on the edge of vision, I see branches parting. I hear the crashing as it comes through the undergrowth. It knows. It knows there’s no need for quiet now. Its path is direct. I kick the engine over again. It splutters, a faint spark of life, so I twist the throttle and it roars. No time now. I slam into first gear, release the clutch. Trees streak past me. Something brushes against my neck, 201

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something clutching. It leaves a scratch down the side of my neck. A branch. Maybe. I duck my head, click down into second, keep the throttle to full. It’s like the engine is in pain. It screams. But I don’t change to third. I need traction. The ride is heavy, not just because of the dips and depressions, and the heavy matter littering the forest floor. I glance back and the rear wheel looks like it’s twisting as it turns. There’s a screeching noise. Metal is grinding on metal. I go into third, head straight down the slope. My head is thumping. Everything hurts. I twist my neck to look behind and it’s as if I have a knife embedded in my shoulder muscles. I ignore it. No movement from behind, but I can’t be sure. Then I am. It’s tracking me off to my left. Branches bend, keeping to my pace, moving slightly in as if to make a slow convergence. It’s fast. Too fast to avoid, but I try anyway. I drop the bike back into second, swerve to my right. The rear wheel wobbles, the engine protests. I’m not going downhill, but I’m not really going uphill either. I’m skating across the face of the slope and the wheels have trouble gripping. I slide almost imperceptibly down. Only when I see the branches sway off to my right, do I stop. There is no avoiding this. I know that. Perhaps I always knew it. I let the throttle idle. For a moment, the forest is silent around me. Then the thrashing begins again. Directly in front this time. Getting closer. I stay put. And now there’s another noise, mingled with the sound 202

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of something heavy moving through the undergrowth. A thudding sound, regular and dull. It’s like the beating of a cold and heavy heart. I’m in the middle of a small clearing. There’s a skitter off to my left, a flash of movement. I whip my head around, but it’s only a lizard pattering for cover. When I turn my eyes forward again, it’s almost upon me. The crashing sound is louder, the branches at the edge of the clearing bending, snapping. I slam down into first and let out the clutch. The bike responds. A hint of a wheel spin. I feel a cold joy. Then I’m accelerating across the clearing. Whatever’s there is almost at the edge. We speed towards each other. Collision course. And I’m calm. Something has lifted from me. I’m not scared anymore. I burst through the branches that whip at my face, but I don’t lower my head. A dark shape rushes up to meet me. In a moment, the blackness swells to fill my vision. We hit. As the world turns and keeps on turning, I feel like I’ve waited my whole life for this meeting. I hit the ground hard, roll and get to my feet in one movement. My body doesn’t need to think. It doesn’t register pain. But part of it acknowledges the sound of the bike, crashing somewhere far below me. The light is too bright and there is blood in my eyes, but I see the shape. I see it squirming and the sight is full of bleak delight. I reach around desperately for something I can use to protect myself. My hands close on smooth wood. It feels like a weapon, well-weighted. Sounds mingle. There are 203

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the dying crashes of the bike, a moaning, the pulse of blood in my ears, and screams. I think they are mine. I lift my arms high above my head. I gather all my strength, all my being, and channel it into a downward blow. As the shape cringes before me, I am in an ecstasy of power. The ringing snaps me back into myself. I am still screaming, head bent back. The sky is framed by my outstretched arms and the blade of an axe. I lower my head slowly. I let the screams fade and die in my throat. It’s a phone. I recognise the ring tone. It pulses in my head, mingles with a memory. The sound of plastic splitting, a phone smashed into a thousand pieces against a rock. The ringing stops. The memory remains. I stand on the edge of a sheer drop. The treetops sway gently far below. There is a scar in the mat of foliage, a slash across the face of the forest. The bike is down there. I know it. I think I see a flash of metal. But it is Richie’s face that keeps my attention. He is hanging onto the cliff face, clutching at a tangle of tree roots. A shrivelled gum tree is growing from the rock. Richie’s fingers twist into the fibres, try to find a crevice in the hard stone. There is blood on his face and his eyes are wide with terror. He is slipping. And his eyes are fixed on the axe above my head. I look around, see the carcasses of trees. Nearby one tree has survived. And beneath it, a mobile phone. The same model as mine, but a different colour. The tree is wide and bulky. But there are two broad gashes, one on each side of 204

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its trunk. They make the scratchings I’ve put in trees seem pathetic. Only a few more blows of the axe and it would fall, tumble over the cliff to join the bike. I know what Richie was doing here. It’s strange. I stand paralysed for only a second or two. But in those couple of seconds, there is a world of time. I see all the alternatives, all the possibilities. There is a cocktail of chemicals coursing through my blood and it makes me see clearly. I see a boy balanced between two worlds. A seesaw, with him standing in the middle. The slightest movement will tip it one side or the other. A downward thrust, a sweep of a blade and a problem will have gone. No evidence. A tragic accident. If they ever find the body. That’s one world. Or a hand extended in help. But rescuing Richie will bring with it a whole universe of pain. He can’t even begin to imagine that pain. And that’s the other world. The boy has to choose and he has to choose now. Only seconds remain, but it’s an eternity of thought. In the end, though, there’s really only one choice that can be made. I bring the axe down. ‘Richie, dude,’ I say. I place the axe head close to his fingers and brace my feet against the rock. ‘Hold onto this.’

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Acknowledgements

I would like to thank my good friends, John and Sal Holley, whose amazing property in Tasmania was the inspiration for the setting of this book. John also set me straight about the flora and fauna of Tassie. Thanks to Cam Rogers who not only cooked the breakfast of scrambled eggs and tomatoes for me, but also generously gave up the recipe.

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Also by Barry Jonsberg

the whole business with kiffo and the pitbull Short-listed: cbca 2005 Book of the Year, Older Readers This is the best teen fiction I have read in years. –The Age it’s not all about you, calma! Winner: 2006 Adelaide Festival Award, Children’s Literature A fresh and funny approach to writing for teens. –Herald Sun dreamrider Short-listed: 2007 nsw Premier’s Award, The Ethel Turner Prize Barry Jonsberg just keeps getting better and better. –Sydney Morning Herald

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