Eyrie

by Tim Winton

  But nothing was happening. No postman. No movement at all.

  He drove back to Doris’s. Keyed up. Frustrated. Crept about in the cool refuge of the kitchen. Made himself a sandwich. Felt all his mother’s oil paintings watching, unblinking, expectant. It welled up in him. This urgent desire to see something happen, make it happen.

  Stalked carefully down the hall. The door to the spare room was ajar. Gemma lay asleep in a singlet and undies, a hip and thigh exposed, one arm dangling from the bed. The soles of her feet were yellowish, heels cracked. The top sheet was rucked into a wedge where she’d kicked it down. On the floor beside Kai’s mattress were a few books, his laptop. Keely snuck in, grabbed the Acer.

  Out on the kitchen table he booted the thing up, hooked into Doris’s wireless network. And keyed in the name.

  It was too good to be true. He had to stifle a bark of delight. The little turd was on Facebook. There were several Stewart Russells and even more Russell Stewarts, but here he was, plain as dog’s balls, Stewie himself. Mista Gangsta. A wall of crim poses and tattoo displays. Arms across the shoulders of vamping molls in titty tops. Likes to PARTAAAAY. Approves of Black Eyed Peas, Wu-Tang Clan, Funkmaster Flex and a solid block of names that meant nothing at all to Keely. Has twenty-seven friends, lucky lad. What a cohort. What a boon to the culture.

  And there she was. Carly. The girl from the happy snap in Gemma’s kitchen. A sexier, stringier version of that young woman. With kohl-ringed eyes and a fuck-you snarl. Still friends. Still in contact.

  Keely sat back. Head spritzing.

  Should have thought of it sooner. Because it really was tempting. All it would take was a new email address. A girl’s name. And a slutty photo to go with it. Some lame story he’d spin to Stewie about having bumped into him at a pub. Then, pretty soon, after a bit of Liking and Friending he’d be rattling around in Stewie’s hood. Talking shit. Sharing pics. Mixing in. Like a shadow-self. Just biding his time. Until he started lobbing a few grenades into his world. All he’d need was a bit of footage from a phone. Say, Stewie at his front gate. Doing something apparently harmless. But with an inflammatory caption. Along with his street address. Something impossible to ignore. Didn’t need to be true. Better if it wasn’t. KIDDY FIDDLER IN OUR MIDST. Some mad vigilante thing. And – click – upload it to YouTube. Flick it to all Stewie’s friends. Blam. Out there. Wildfire. It’d be a frigging riot. In five minutes it’d be viral. Pestilential. Exactly the sort of no-holds-barred guerrilla campaign he’d never let the kids in the movement unleash, regardless of how often they pleaded for it. Couldn’t happen to a nicer fella. Surround him with phantoms. Grind him to a gibbering pulp.

  He shut the machine down. Crept back to Gemma’s room, set it beside the boy’s mattress.

  Food for thought. But he’d need money. And a little help. Postcards were only going to get him so far.

  After school Kai ran to the car. Buckled himself in, cranked up the window and locked the door.

  Not such a good day, then?

  The boy slid down in his seat and said nothing.

  Fancy a swim?

  Kai shook his head.

  Right, he said. Back to dear-dear Doris’s. I’ll give you a game.

  The boy gave him nothing.

  How about a kick? There’s gotta be a ball somewhere.

  Silence.

  What about the boat, Kai? We’ll squirt out on the river, eh?

  Kai looked sceptical. They settled in for the grinding crawl up the four-lane. Keely got nothing more out of him.

  When they walked into the kitchen, Gemma was up and Doris was home, still in her silk blouse and skirt. There was a cheerful air in the room that seemed to falter the moment he arrived. The women fussed over the boy, who was still out of sorts but suffered their attentions with patience.

  Any requests for dinner? he asked.

  Doris’s bought steak, said Gemma. And there’s spuds and salad.

  Okay, he said. Excellent.

  Doris deftly avoided his gaze. He cancelled all plans to quiz her about the day. When there was frost on the lawn all you could do was wait for things to thaw. He went outside. Raked leaves half-heartedly until dinner.

  At the table the women got to reminiscing.

  We used to say you looked like some movie star, said Gemma.

  Bollocks, said Doris, dragging her hair free from its workday bun.

  Nah, it’s true.

  What about yourself? said Doris. Who were you – Bo Derek?

  Women, he thought. What a marvel they are.

  He washed and dried the dishes as they kicked on, laughing and sledging till nightfall.

  * * *

  At eight, when Kai was in bed, Keely announced he was heading out for a stroll.

  Gemma ironed her work smock. Doris was thumbing messages on her phone. He caught his mother’s glance at the bowl on the bench: the car keys.

  Just a walk, he said with a bland smile.

  I need some air meself, said Gemma, her rare animation undiminished.

  Haven’t you got work? he asked.

  Not till nine. It’s a stroll, not a hike, right?

  Keely shrugged. He would have preferred to go alone but now he was snookered.

  Doris paused a moment, stared at the tiny screen of the phone, as if it really were the focus of her attention.

  You mind, Doris? asked Gemma.

  Go ahead, said his mother. I’m not going anywhere.

  * * *

  By the river the air was still and thick. Gemma prattled excitedly. There was no relief from the heat, his sense of entrapment. Under the trees the foreshore smelt of fallen figs, cut grass and dog shit, and from the narrow beach came the sweaty low-tide odours of brine, algae and stranded jellyfish. The moon hung above the towers of the city. It shimmered on every bend and reach of the river.

  She does look like an old movie queen, don’t you think? You probably can’t see it cause she’s your mum.

  Whatever you reckon, he said.

  And what about me? Who did I look like?

  I don’t remember.

  Bullshit, she said.

  The mown grass was soft underfoot. Tiny waves lapped and sighed onshore.

  Mate, I’m not really in the mood.

  Come on, she said, who did I remind you of? Would it kill you to say a name?

  Fine, he said ungraciously. I thought you looked like Farrah Fawcett.

  Gemma gave a little moan of satisfaction.

  I guess I wanted every girl to look like her, he said. It was a long time ago.

  But Doris still looks like Julie Christie.

  Keely sensed he was expected to say something here, pay Gemma some courtly comment, but the idea irritated him. He didn’t understand why her happy mood should irk him so.

  The grassy riverbank ended at the limestone bluffs. In the moonlight, the pale fingers of stone shone through the shadow-patches of trees. The track was narrow but white enough to be distinct. They wound on through the undergrowth.

  Nico says I look like Brigitte Bardot.

  And who’s Nico?

  New bloke at work, the French one. He’s a real card. They’re gunna sack him for sure. He opens stuff, food packets. Like chocolates and things. Last night he’s trying to get me to eat em, says I deserve it, says he wants to build me up, says it makes him feel good watchin me eat. There’s cameras everywhere and he’s got me duckin down behind the shelves and the trolleys, and he’s stuffin things in me mouth, the dirty perv. He’s like twenty-eight or somethin.

  I guess you’d better be careful, then.

  Tired of bein careful, she said. Where are we goin, anyway?

  Keely said nothing until they were beneath the great silver trunk of the dead marri. Under moonlight it was stark, smooth, impossibly beautiful, like a stylized theatre prop. It looked dreamy there amidst the dark presences of living trees. The way it glowed. Cantilevered over the water, owning the night. Hard to imagine an ordinary bird alighting on it.

>   He sensed her beside him, craning to stare. He felt her hand in his.

  It’s not there, he said, almost relieved.

  She yanked on his arm. He remembered then, she was on at nine. But she dragged him further into the bush, away from home. Was suddenly facing him, stepping in to pull him close. Her tongue was hot in his mouth.

  Hey, he said. You’ve got work.

  There’s time.

  For what?

  I need to draw you a picture?

  No, he said.

  Carn. I’m goin fuckin mental.

  She kissed him fiercely and took handfuls of his hair. Their teeth clashed and she laughed.

  But there’s nowhere, he said.

  She lifted her skirt and guided him down urgently. The stones bit into his knees and a dog barked somewhere as he nuzzled deep between her thighs. She twisted her fingers in his hair and pulled him away and he knelt there, looking up uncertainly into the pale cascade of her hair.

  Say somethin nice, she panted. Nothin dirty, just somethin nice.

  But Keely could barely speak at all. He was breathless, mindless with lust.

  Christ, she said too loud. They used to beg me. Couldn’t you say I’m pretty? Is it so bloody hard to say?

  You want me to stop?

  You think I’ll let you stop now? she said, stepping out of her pants.

  I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting anything.

  Just shut up, she said, grabbing his hair again.

  He didn’t dare pull away. He stayed where he was until his knees felt lacerated, until she cursed him and whimpered and smacked the back of his head and began to sob.

  Gemma wasn’t long gone when Doris emerged from her room to fill the kettle and set it on the hob. Keely was still at the table. Stuck. Just following his hands. Watching the jangly pattern of his own fingers. Pressed them down in the end, those hands. To manage the tremor.

  Hot, said Doris.

  Keely felt his mouth move. But nothing came. He didn’t want this. To be here. In this bloody tangle.

  You okay?

  He nodded.

  Such a shame, she said. She was in such good spirits at dinner. Felt like we’d – I don’t know – broken through, a little.

  He clamped his hands together. And then Doris dropped something onto the table. At his elbow. Kai’s sketchpad.

  We need to talk about this.

  She opened it about halfway though. The kid had been busy. There were a lot of new drawings organized in crude panels like storyboards. Each sequence featured a rudimentary superhero, a bearded, bear-like colossus. Fists swinging against all comers, legs planted wide, his boots black as his whiskers.

  No prizes for guessing who our hero is, then, he said.

  And this later one, the fellow with the sword?

  Doris leant close. Turned a few more pages. She smelt of coconut shampoo. Tapped the page with a gnarled finger. And there he was himself. A man with a black eye. Like a half-masked Zorro. Dishing out the same rough justice as Nev. With a weapon, no less. The boning knife had become a scimitar and pools of blood lay about, black as Keely’s cartoon shiner.

  He showed you these?

  Let’s just say they came to my attention.

  You don’t miss a trick.

  Don’t even start me.

  Mum, I don’t know what to do.

  Perhaps you should think about why you’re doing anything at all. Whether you’re a fit person. In any sense.

  What’re you talking about?

  I think you know exactly what I’m talking about.

  No, he lied.

  Oh, Tom.

  I told you the situation.

  Which situation?

  Well. Gemma’s situation.

  Even with that you can’t be straight. You think I enjoy saying this, seeing you do this? Wake up, Tom. Look here. Right in front of you. This anxious little boy. Just look at his pictures.

  What the hell do you want me to do? What’m I supposed to do to fix this?

  You could start by paying attention.

  Jesus. I’m fighting for this kid, Doris.

  I think your mind is elsewhere.

  That’s a disgusting thing to say.

  Maybe after you’ve been to the bathroom and washed your face you’ll come back and still feel the same way.

  Keely lurched back from the table and as he stood the chair capsized behind him.

  Don’t, said Doris as he headed for the door. Please. We need to discuss this.

  He was past listening. He wanted darkness. To be unseen. But there was moon out in the yard, light in the street, the sky bulging at him like a milky eye, and he just kept walking.

  Still scratching his bites, Keely rode the six-thirty to Fremantle.

  He’d woken radioactive on the back deck with Gemma squatting beside him. He knew how it must look. Him lying there on the boards in last night’s clothes. As if he’d gone out and got trashed. Then been locked out by Doris. But it wasn’t like that. He didn’t think so. Because although there were gaps he knew there’d been no booze. No pills. He had no money, for one thing. He’d just been walking. Barefoot. Along the river, the leafy streets, under drooling lights. Moth trails. Electric flashes of sky. Until his legs gave out. And then he was in warm sand by the river. Ferry lights, red and green. Then some bastard kicking him awake. Shitheads sporting with him in the cold glare of high beams. Running through gardens. Dogs. Patches of wild bush. He fell, lay a long time. Awake. In the wailing air. And when he finally tottered up the steps to the back door he found Doris had locked it. Prudent, that; he wasn’t taking it personally. He didn’t dare bang on the door. Just lay on the warm deck, waiting for morning. To die. To sleep. Dreaming of dogs streaking from the dark. And waking there, sore, stiff, mozzie-flogged, flayed like a Filipino penitent. With dawn in the wings. Gemma there. Confusing, the way she stroked the thin shell of his head. Like a girl with a horse about to be taken out and shot. She produced a tissue. Blotted his eyes.

  What? she whispered. What?

  Panadol, he croaked.

  It was Thursday. His first day of work beginning in less than two hours.

  * * *

  He reached the café on time. Actually he was early. And Bub seemed surprised, as if he’d forgotten the offer or expected a no-show.

  Second adolescence, comrade? Bub said, pointing at the lumps on his face and neck.

  Bites, he murmured.

  That’s all we need, he said. A malarial dishpig. Come on.

  Bub led him through to the greasy fug of the kitchen. Gave him a cursory briefing of the racks, the machine, the flow of the benches and sinks. He pointed out the hipster over by the stoves, a bloke in a chef’s jacket and pirate bandanna, scowling at his knife-roll as tongues of flame rose from the hobs behind him.

  Steer clear, whispered Bub. Psycho in clogs. Thinks he’s a genius.

  What is he really?

  A third-rate cook trying to stay off the gear. Why else could I afford him? Why else would he be doing breakfast?

  Keely took down an apron. There were pans waiting already and trays of glasses, coffee cups, saucers queued up in front of the old Hobart. His feet hurt. The drum-and-bass on the stereo was torturous. Bub slipped back with a double-shot and a slice of apple cake. Then he left him to the fifteen-bucks-an-hour reality of scraping scum and scouring glassware.

  At two he limped in ruins to the Mirador.

  Day one, he told himself. Fresh start. And feeling so damn fresh, too.

  Rode the lift up alone. So far past tired he felt tipsy. Began to giggle.

  After a tepid shower he sat on the balcony to let the sea breeze cool his feet. And the sudden respite brought the whole weight back down on him. The look on his mother’s face. The gnawing fear in those missing chunks of evening. And these savage impulses twitching in him.

  Things weren’t going to work at Doris’s. Not now. Best he moved back here. Maybe Gemma would stay. Doris could brood over Kai like Yahweh over the formle
ss deeps. She could make herself a neat little intervention, call in the kiddy squad. She knew what she was doing. And any fuckups that followed would be her fault.

  He took a couple of mother’s little helpers and lay on the bed, breeze rifling through him.

  The building clanked and gurgled. He felt a moment of kinship. Here we are, he thought, beige and past our prime, haggard but hanging on. He sniffed at the chicken fat and lemon detergent in his puffy fingers. Caught himself drifting. But he had Kai to collect at three. Having promised Gemma. Promised himself. He sat up quickly, so fast there were bubbles and specks behind his eyeballs and the room spun and for a second he thought it was the vertigo returning. Went hand over hand to the armchair. Fell in. Let the air settle. He was okay. All safe. All good.

  A dove alighted on the rail of a balcony along the way. It lifted its shoulders, twitched and fell.

  He thought of Kai’s little storyboard. His cartoon self. Brandishing the scimitar. Wished he’d never seen it.

  * * *

  At the school gate the boy stopped in his tracks, obstructing the path. You could see him register the absence of a vehicle. Not dismay; he was too blank-faced for that. But the hesitation was eloquent enough. He was shunted aside by kids at the rear. Stood there until Keely went in and extracted him.

  Your nan’s got the car today.

  There’s a Volvo, but.

  Doris needs it for work. We’ll take the train.

  I can’t.

  It’s easy.

  The kid crowded him, pressing so close Keely almost stumbled.

  Can you see? said Kai.

  I’m fine, mate. I just need room to walk.

  Is he looking?

  Here, said Keely. Give us your bag.

  He was there, said the boy, taking a handful of shirt.

  Who? One of your mates?

  I come out and he’s there.

  What? he said, stopping at the corner, looking down onto the crown of the boy’s head. Who?

  The kid’s hair fell forward, he pressed his brow to Keely’s side and pulled on his shirt. Wouldn’t lift his head; it was maddening, but a chill flashed through Keely.