Snake Island

by Ben Hobson

  He wheeled the barrow on the grass and thought about what he could do. What choices he had. He had to bloody fix things. Fill the lack he’d left in his family. There were no good ways through, far as he could tell. All that was left was this.

  With a great struggle he manoeuvred the barrels into the wheelbarrow. Fortunately both fit at once. Before making the trek back he got into the car and sat for a moment. He opened the glove compartment and took the lighter he had brought and put it in the pocket of his pants. He got out of the car and started his return journey.

  By the time he had reached the shed his back was aching. His knees felt as though they would seize up. He rested the barrow and sat down and rubbed at his knees, his shins. He had never felt so old. Light was beginning to peek up over the horizon.

  He opened the shed door wide and wheeled in his load. Carefully, with a straining back, he lifted both barrels out and put them on the floor. The car he’d returned earlier that day parked near a couch. Useless bloody gesture. In the cupboard he found a Phillips head screwdriver, which he stabbed into the base of a barrel. The plastic gave quickly and the liquid spilled out, covering his hands. The chemical smell instantly made him dizzy. He struggled to stand.

  Then he stabbed the second barrel. It too started to leak over his hands, his shoes. Tried his damnedest to not make a sound. He fumbled with the lighter, found a flame, and held it to the liquid.

  His arm immediately caught fire. He swore loudly and jumped, and, strangely, tried to hug the arm to his chest. As soon as the flame touched the fabric covering his torso he changed his mind and ripped at the shirt, his fingertips searing. He managed to undo the shirt and somehow run without conscious thought out of the shed, into the early morning. The flames inside licked up the spill he’d created. He ripped the shirt off and scrunched the shirt up into a ball, muffling the flames, and pounded at his hands. His eyes went up when he heard the muffled sound of an explosion.

  It shook him and threw him down. He landed with a thud on his arse and then fell onto his now naked back in the cold grass. He scrambled up. The door of the house was opening, somebody was rushing out. He tried to run. The flames behind him searing. He jogged as far as his old wounded knees would take him. A magpie, possibly the same he had seen yesterday, squawked at him from its fence post.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  SIDNEY CAHILL

  They had both woken when his daughter started to cry. It was a pitiful sound, mournful, full of doubt and fear. He went to her quickly and scooped her up, holding her to his ear. He shushed her as he brought her to her mother: there was only one thing that would soothe her and it wasn’t his voice. Sarah, still bleary, sat upright and held Amy to her breast. Soon his daughter was contentedly feasting. He watched. He knew Sarah did not regard this act with the same reverence he held for it. She did not begrudge her daughter but to her she was a cow, a service beast for the suckling. For Sidney this was far more than machinery and mechanism. This was magic. Although there were problems between them, there was also happiness and through this act he knew all three of them would forever be lashed to one another.

  He heard a man swear loudly outside.

  ‘What was that?’ Sarah asked, her eyes half lidded.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He got up from the bed and lifted the curtain and there on the grass was the old man, Moore, running, smoking, shirtless. Running from their shed. Orange flame licking the inside, smoke like blood oozing out of an artery escaping at the corners of the door. Heavy, black. Sidney moaned. He didn’t bother with a shirt, he ran out into the hallway half naked, banged on his brother’s door then ran to his parents’. He barged through it and his dad was up in a flash, eyes bright and ready.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  The explosion rocked the house. Sidney gripped the door. His dad was already moving.

  ‘The shed,’ Sidney said, running again.

  Outside he beheld the building in the midst of its destruction. There were flames on the roof now. No telling how long it had been on fire; when Moore had started it. A red glow coated the sky. He stepped forwards, felt the presence of his brother and his father at his back.

  His father swore. ‘How much was in there?’ he asked, and turned to Brendan, who was already running to the garden hose.

  ‘All that new crop.’ Brendan fumbled with the tap until their father shouldered him out of the way.

  ‘Give me that,’ he said, and tore the hose from Brendan’s hand.

  Ernie cranked it on and ran towards the blaze, the meagre stream a cruel joke next to the colour.

  ‘Did you see what happened?’ Brendan asked Sidney.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You think it just went up? Light sparked or something?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Their father now turned to his boys and shouted, ‘Don’t just stand there bloody daydreaming! Get a wheelbarrow and fill it with dirt!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To smother the thing!’

  Brendan hurried off but Sidney continued to watch as another small explosion sent a burst of orange out of the shed. It engulfed his father, who was inside this monstrous gout of flame for a moment, and then Sidney saw him with fire coating his arms and his face and he was rolling on the ground, screaming in agony, a scream such as Sidney had never heard before, that ripped at something in his chest. He rushed to his father’s side.

  The hose lay in the grass, still flowing, so Sidney scooped it up and directed the stream at his father, the shed beside him searing his face, his arms. The flames on his father were dying out but the scream, the screaming. It hurt Sidney’s ears and was heart-rending, like a pig being gutted. Then Brendan was beside him and Sidney was afraid to look at what damage had been done to his father, this man who had always seemed immune to injury, now so unceremoniously torn down. There was the smell of cooking carcass, of pig on a spit. The smell of burned hair.

  The women were all crowded outside the house, standing on the verandah watching the flames, their faces licking gold. Sidney turned to them, the hose still trained, and yelled, ‘Call Wilkie!’

  ‘Is he alright?’ Sarah yelled. Cassie went inside, presumably to the phone.

  ‘He’s been burned!’

  Ernie started coughing and leaned to the side and spewed something brown—it dangled from his mouth, all teeth. Sidney knew to keep a steady stream of water over a burn and so he held the spray. His father had stopped screaming now and was groaning.

  ‘What should we do?’ Brendan asked, his voice quiet. ‘Should we try to move him?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Cassie came running from the verandah, shouting,

  ‘Wilkie said to keep the hose trained on him and that he’s on his way.’

  His mother, who had been standing motionless with her arms folded around her middle, seemed to take this as a cue to also approach. Sarah went back inside, no doubt to their daughter. The fire was still roaring beside them, a constant heat against his side. The sound of things popping within. Was the car still in there?

  His mother and sister were crying, looking down at this once powerful man, who in his agony had become a mewling infant.

  ‘How did this happen?’ Cassie asked, sniffing.

  Brendan kneeled beside their father. He looked as though he wanted to reach out and comfort the old man but feared ripping his oozing skin. ‘I don’t know.’

  Their mother’s silent tears coated her cheeks and the firelight danced upon them and made her seem a clown. She didn’t say a word, only stood and watched her husband helplessly, like all of them. Sidney kept the hose trained and thought of his daughter.

  Wilkie arrived after what felt an age and knelt beside the now-shivering Ernie. He had chucked a few more times and the ground around his head was sodden with bile. The fire had not spread further. Sidney could hear the wailing of sirens in the distance.

  ‘You can lay off the hose now,’ Wilkie said.

  Sidney threw it down an
d it snaked in the grass. ‘Will he be alright?’

  ‘We need to get him to the hospital,’ Wilkie said, standing up. ‘I need to call an ambulance.’

  His father was loaded into the back of the ambulance, a green plastic sheet draped over him. The sun by now had well and truly risen, giving light to all the horrors of his form. Before he’d been covered, Sidney had seen his burnt flesh. Exposed bone, blackened pieces of skin like overcooked roast. Dangling, dripping. Seeping blood congealed against the plastic sheet, great blotches of red, a butcher’s apron. They’d shot him full of painkillers but he was still moaning, his eyes closed. Even the oxygen mask seemed to pain him. Brendan walked beside him as they wheeled him away, reaching out his hand in an effort to hold his father’s. But he didn’t touch him.

  When the two paramedics hoisted him into the ambulance, Cassie and his mother climbed in after him. Their father did not look at them as the door was shut.

  The firemen had nearly stopped the fire completely. They’d had to run a pump down to the waterhole and gush the muddy water over the shed, which had slowly diminished the blaze. The smoke from it still billowed into the sky and the firemen continued their stream, a few of them surrounding the pyre. Sidney only watched, his arms folded.

  It was hard to tell what all this would mean for them. Sidney didn’t know whether he should mention seeing the old man Moore or not. It would probably only lead to more grief. Maybe now it was done.

  Brendan called out, shattering his thoughts. ‘It was that old bastard!’

  So he’d figured it. ‘Bloody hell,’ Sidney said. He ran back to the verandah, where his brother was storming out with a shotgun in his hands.

  ‘Wait, just wait, Brendan! You don’t know that.’ He grappled with him but was immediately thrown to the wooden floorboards, his sewn-together chest aching.

  ‘Of course it was bloody him! Look!’

  Brendan in his fists held the old man’s shirt. Blackened, wrecked.

  ‘Who else would it be?’

  His daughter crying inside. Brendan kept right on walking, bunching the shirt, and rounded the corner of the house. Sidney heard Brendan’s car starting up. The tyres kicked up gravel as Brendan tore down the driveway but before he reached the end another car was there, blocking his exit. The Melbourne car, Sidney saw.

  Brendan did nothing for a moment, both cars staring each other down. Then he reversed, too quickly. He turned the car around before he collided with the house. He opened his door and slammed it shut and stood there, arms folded, waiting for Melbourne to come up the driveway.

  Sidney strained to see through the Melbourne car’s tinted windows. When the car parked behind Brendan’s both doors opened at the same time but no one got out for a moment. Brendan seemed slighted by this and stamped his foot down. Then Martin and Judah appeared, the latter’s moustache like smeared-on paint. Martin cast a hand over his eyes like a visor and stared up at the verandah, ignoring Brendan completely. His attention then turned to the charred remains of the shed, still surrounded by firemen. Finally, smiling, he nodded at Brendan.

  ‘Your face looks a bit rough there, mate.’

  Brendan glared at him.

  ‘So,’ Martin said to Sidney, who was on the verandah, ‘how’s the arm?’

  Sidney had forgotten it hurt. At this mention he noticed the dull throb in the shoulder.

  ‘It’s alright.’

  Brendan said sharply, ‘You need something?’

  Martin spread his arms. ‘What sort of welcome is that?’

  Judah snorted, scuffed his feet in the gravel. ‘You got something to drink in there? What’s your name again?’

  ‘Sidney.’

  ‘Make us some tea?’

  Brendan, his voice quieter, sterner, said, ‘I asked you if you wanted something.’

  Martin walked towards him and Brendan stepped back, but Martin only sat on the bonnet of Brendan’s car and stared at the smouldering remains of the shed, studying the firemen.

  ‘Can I get that tea now?’ Judah asked Sidney.

  ‘Any of you know how to do anything right?’ Martin said. He pointed at the shed. ‘That where you stored the plants?’

  ‘You don’t know that,’ Sidney said quickly.

  Martin, without turning, held up a hand. ‘I can take a good guess, though. One of you smoking in there near some bloody petrol fumes or something? Country hicks, eh.’

  Neither brother said anything.

  ‘How much of our product––the stuff we’ve paid you for––was in that shed?’ Martin looked at Judah and gave him a slight nod. The big man grinned, advanced on Sidney.

  ‘What’re you doing?’ Sidney said, back-pedalling.

  ‘Getting what we’re owed.’

  ‘Stop. Stop!’ Brendan said. ‘It wasn’t us started the fire.’

  Judah stopped but kept grinning. Sidney looked at Brendan and in his heart knew what his brother would do. There was nothing Sidney could do to push him off his course and he knew, also, that this road led to their ruin. He saw it all before them. Bloodshed, either theirs or Moore’s. That old man with the shotgun across his lap, looking out for his son. His daughter’s crying, though it had stopped now, drifted through his mind like some ghostly premonition of tragedy to come.

  Brendan said, ‘It was Moore. You look in that car you’ll see his shirt. He stole the car, probably intends on selling the product. The old bastard lit it up, trying to intimidate us.’

  Martin sighed. ‘Ah. So Wornkin had it right. Still your fault though, isn’t it? You think anybody would try something like this in Melbourne?’ Martin looked at the sky and sighed dramatically, lurching his shoulders forward, lowering his head. Sidney stole a quick glance at the remains of the shed, hoping the car the old man had returned—or what was left of it—wasn’t easily noticeable. Martin got off the bonnet of Brendan’s car and turned from them. He unzipped. Soon a steady stream of piss splashed over Brendan’s car. The number plate seemed to be his main target. Martin wiggling his hips like he was at a urinal. Surprising he wasn’t whistling. Urine pooled near a tyre, bubbling. Brendan clenched his fists, but didn’t move otherwise.

  He rezipped, turned back to them. Took a moment to compose himself. ‘Clearly, we need to teach you how to run this place. Moore needs to be the example you set for the rest of this town. Let him be a testimony about what happens when you cross the Cahills.’

  ‘I’ve been telling Dad …’ Brendan said, but instead of finishing this thought he looked at his brother.

  ‘Telling him what?’

  Brendan shook his head. ‘Never mind.’

  Martin sighed again, looked at Judah. ‘Are we coming in and helping you fix all this? Or are we having a different conversation?’

  Sidney didn’t move for a moment, kept his arms crossed. He did not want to invite these two men into the home wherein his wife and daughter rested. The two of them stared at him, Martin tapping one foot, smiling, like he owned the world. The urine still dripping from Brendan’s number plate. Sidney knew he had no other option and so said, ‘Yeah. Brendan?’

  ‘Yeah. Alright,’ he said. He trod up the stairs, the two men following. As he passed by Sidney, Judah reached out a hand and tousled his hair. Sidney stepped back, which made Judah laugh. ‘Easy there, mate. Just being friendly.’

  He shook his head and beneath his breath, muttered, ‘Brendan.’ He looked up at the blueness of the day. He took a breath and walked inside.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  VERNON MOORE

  William Kelly’s study light was on. It was early morning still, the sun just risen. Vernon sat in the car and debated getting out. His naked torso was shivering and hot at the same time. He worried that some of the flesh on his back had melted into the fabric of the seat and would stick there if he moved. And he’d leave the car and see his skin, a red cloud embedded in the fabric.

  He leaned forwards and his skin pulled a bit but did not stick. He got out and the cool breeze struck his torso and he h
urried over to the window, holding his arms around himself. Trying not to wake Kelly’s wife, Francine. The swing Kelly had built his kids an age ago still hung from the tree out front and swayed as if in sympathy as Vernon passed it.

  He came to the window and, dancing from foot to foot to ward off the cold, knocked on the glass. A shuffling sound from inside. Soon the curtains were drawn back and Bill Kelly’s confused face appeared. He opened the window.

  ‘Vernon, what are you doing here at this hour? Where’s your shirt?’

  ‘I just needed to stop by and tell you, mate,’ Vernon said, still dancing, ‘that that Cahill lot’ll be coming for me now.’

  ‘Get inside, come on. Go round the front.’

  ‘You keep your head down, alright? They know we’re friends.’

  William Kelly had his hands in front of him gripped as though he were praying. He nodded and looked down at his half-naked friend. ‘You alright?’

  ‘I’m alright.’

  ‘Where’re you off to?’

  ‘We’ll head out to Snake Island for a bit, wait for things to cool down. So if they come for you, just tell ’em we went to visit relatives someplace, you’re not sure where. That’ll sound plausible enough, I reckon.’

  Kelly scratched the top of his head. ‘Sure, alright,’ he said. ‘You know, you could come inside and we could talk it all through and I’ll help you out?’

  ‘Yeah, I do know.’

  ‘So you want to do that? Just come in and let it cool over a bit?’

  ‘No, mate. These mongrels won’t stop just ’cause you’re a preacher. They won’t stop ever. You know Brendan went back after Caleb? Nearly bowled Pen over doing it.’

  Kelly looked shocked, could only shake his head. ‘How long you planning to be gone?’

  ‘Might stay out there a week.’

  ‘You got food?’

  ‘I got food. I got the fishing rod too.’

  ‘You going to tell your boy?’

  Vernon nodded. ‘I have to.’