The Turning

by Tim Winton

  Who is it? he hissed, bug-eyed with fury.

  Who’s what? she asked breathlessly.

  Darts night. For fuckin weeks.

  It’s not what you think, Max, she said, conscious of the girls cowering nearby even if she couldn’t see them with her head jammed back as it was.

  Darts night. No, it’s not what we thought at all, is it? he growled. Max’s breath was rank with beer and smoke and his eyeballs were mulled up red as blood. So who is he, then?

  Rae’s arms throbbed where he gripped her. She thought of telling him the truth but it sounded so weak, so bloody awkward, and the bastard didn’t deserve the truth, wasn’t worth one honest piece of her.

  Who the fuck is he? said Max, slamming her head against the metal so hard she saw sparks rise between them, sparks and winged spots that floated and fell. She smiled at that. Thank Christ it’s aluminium, she thought; be grateful there’s a bit of give in it.

  He roared then. He grabbed her hair and jabbed her back harder, once, twice, and the pain brought a sudden rage upon her.

  He’s bigger than you, Max, so be careful. You don’t even know him but he owns you. He’ll cut you to pieces, you fuckin coward. He’ll come lookin, he’ll suck the life out of you, he’s every fuckin thing you aren’t.

  Max had both hands in her hair now. The girls were howling. She looked about for something to grab, to kill him with.

  Tell me his name, you fuckin slut!

  Raelene hit the van so hard it felt as though her eyeballs would spurt from their sockets. Her arms flailed above her as he slammed her back again and again. She felt the door edge, the hinge or something gouge her, couldn’t get her hands to his stubbly face. She was powerless but for the smile that stung her mouth, sharp as a split lip. She had a name for him, her secret man. He was just the shape of a man but he was all man to her and any moment, when she got her breath back and her tongue steady, she’d spit that name in his face to see him explode. He’d go ballistic, do a complete fucking Rumpelstiltskin into the slab floor and she didn’t care.

  But the moment never came. Everything just stopped, like the power going off.

  When she got back from the nursing post it was dark and the only sounds in the park were the spray of showers from the ablution block and the murmur of television from the sparse scattering of caravans. Raelene was glad she’d resisted old man Harrison’s efforts to drive her home or anywhere else she wanted to go. She supposed she was grateful that he turned up when he did, put the girls in his car, carried her himself, got her seen to, but she grew weary of him threatening to go to the cops. All she could think of was the times she’d seen him fondling her undies as they hung on the line.

  If Harrison kicked Max out now, evicted him from the park, she was homeless, the girls too. It was bad enough that the nurse was the sister of Max’s boss. Raelene lied long and hard about the jagged gash and the great clumps of hair missing from the sides of her head. The older woman wasn’t buying it, told her she was a fool, that she should be in hospital, should get away, get out while she still could. When she talked like that Rae felt lower than shit; you could feel the contempt in the woman’s voice.

  She sent Harrison back with the girls and let herself be stitched up in silence. When it was done she asked that the rest of her head be shaved while they were at it. The clippers were right there and her hair was such a mess already that she might as well start again from scratch. The older woman grumbled about being a nurse, not a hairdresser, but when Rae glanced at her she saw that the nurse was teary.

  With her head so bruised, so tender, the buzzcut hurt more than the sutures, more than the bashing itself. Her hair fell in her lap, on the white lino floor, and she wept.

  The short walk home did her good. The cold air stung but it cleared her thoughts. The sky was jammed with stars. By the time she got to the van she had her nerve back. She could face him. She could do absolutely anything.

  She stepped into the annexe where the girls lay watching TV. Their beanbags were speckled with potato chips. The air was warm from the fan heater Harrison must have set up for them. She went on into the van and, as she expected, Max was gone. She sat on the bed, took up her little snowdome from the sidetable and shook it. A blizzard of doves. The girls appeared. They hung back in the doorway, afraid of her.

  Mummy’s had a haircut, she said. Everything’s fine now.

  She boiled them each an egg and cut fingers of toast to dip in the yolks, but neither would eat, so she filled the sink and bathed the girls and laid them in her bed and told them the story of Jonah and the Whale. As she curled between them, calming them, reciting the details of Jonah’s deliverance even when she knew they were asleep, she could smell the horsey stink of Max in the pillow and was not afraid.

  When the story was finished Rae pulled the concertina door to and cleaned up quietly. She couldn’t face the shower block tonight. So she boiled the kettle and stripped to wash herself with a sink of hot water. The bruises were up on her arms already. She dragged on a tracksuit and looked at herself in what was left of the mirror. She looked like Joan of Arc, like a bloody nun. She refused to cry. She bared her chipped teeth. She looked fierce as hell.

  She made herself a rum-and-Coke and sat out in the annexe to wait for Max. She watched TV with the sound off, was amazed at how fuckin pointless people were without their voices. Max’s ute was outside. He wouldn’t be far away.

  By ten o’clock she’d had enough drinks and more than enough waiting. She pulled on a coat and boots and went across to the Cesspit. There were several rusty Land Cruisers and one-tonners parked around that nest of caravans. The vans themselves were set in a defensive formation like a bunch of circled wagons from a cowboy flick, and God alone knew what these scumbags were protecting themselves from. Their mothers, maybe, thought Rae, winding through junked bikes and pots and roobars and guyropes to the flap of the biggest annexe where the light of a TV flickered.

  She lifted the flap and stepped into the vegetable fug of dope smoke. On mattresses and beanbags lay half a dozen deckies, none of them much older than twenty. Except Max. His head was back, his mouth open. Like the others, he was totally out to it. On the video screen two men had a woman on a shiny table, all three of them writhing pink under hard lights. Come on, bitch, said the one with a fistful of her red hair. The other slapped her arse muttering, yeah, yeah, yeah.

  Somebody stirred on a beanbag, a boy holding a bong in his lap like it was a part of his own body, and he gazed at her openmouthed, squinting and blinking until Raelene stepped back through the flap into the pure night air.

  Walking back she felt bruised and weary but fierce now and invulnerable. Like she’d climbed from some flaming wreckage an unlikely survivor. Spared.

  As she undressed for bed she thought of calling Sherry. She wanted to tell her about this feeling, but it was late and she didn’t want to return to the details of the rest of the day; it could wait. She was tired.

  Just then the phone rang. She snatched it up.

  Sherry?

  Bob James, Rae.

  Oh. Hullo, Bob.

  You orright?

  Fine, she said.

  You sure?

  Yeah, Bob. I’m sure.

  Max there?

  No, she murmured. You boys fishing tomorrow?

  Yeah, said Bob. But, um, you better tell Max we don’t need him.

  A nurse isn’t sposed to blab, said Rae.

  Just tell him he’s finished.

  What about confidentiality?

  Christ, girl, you got bigger things to worry about.

  Why don’t you mind your own fuckin business?

  The boat is my business, Rae.

  You’re a bastard.

  And you’re a bigger bloody idiot than I thought you were, he said and hung up.

  She put the girls into their own beds and thought about piling them into the ute and pissing off. But she was so tired. She lay on the bed to wait for Max. One look at her in the hard fluoro ligh
t, one clear glance at her now would strike him dead, she just knew it.

  She tried to stay awake but the pillow drank her up.

  She woke with him on top of her. He had her sore arms pinned and his pants were off. She struggled but the bruises made it hard. He grabbed her in the dark and slapped her. He shoved himself in her face, half smothered her until she got loose a moment and was halfway off the bed, her elbow snagged in the curtain, before he caught her and shoved her face down and hit the back of her head so hard she felt the gash open up. She didn’t scream or cry out for fear of waking the girls; they’d seen enough already. She felt suddenly hot with love for them and said their names beneath her breath.

  In the spill of light at the bedside she saw the little dome and her man upon the waves. She said his name, too, said it aloud with love enough to send a shudder through Max as he pushed her down. She knew she was safe from him now, not safe from tonight but gone from him altogether. He smelt of death already, of burning, of bile and acid. He was crying and she did not pity him. He was gone and it didn’t matter when. Everything was new. In her dome it snowed birds as the van rocked, birds like stars. The moment Max speared into her and tore open her insides she was full of hot and certain feeling. She was free. She had already outlived him.

  Sand

  FRANK AND HIS OLDER BROTHER MAX walked behind the men along the white beach at sunset. They walked for ages. The sun boiled in the sea and the bare dunes turned pink. Tackle jingled and pattered on the rods over the men’s shoulders. Frank listened to the rhythmic clink of the lantern glass and fell into step with it, singing under his breath: hot cross buns, hot cross buns. Veins stood out in his father’s legs. The men’s footprints were deep. They were like mouths with tongues of shadow hanging out of them. One-a-penny, two-a-penny, hot cross buns. It wasn’t Easter but Frank couldn’t get the song out of his head.

  Now and then Max darted ahead to walk amongst their father’s mates. He said things that made them laugh. He was ten already and could make men laugh. He didn’t miss their mother. Frank knew he should shut up about her; it was only two weeks.

  When they finally came to the rocks the men shoved pipes into the sand to stand their rods in and their father lit the gas lamp. The sun was gone but the sky was still light; it swirled yellow and green and blue like a bruise. When the tackle boxes opened he smelt whale oil and mulies. Frank watched his father tie on a gang of hooks whose curves flashed in the lamplight. Around them the others muttered and smoked. They were just like ladies knitting, like his mother’s friends. Max was down at the water’s edge skimming shells out across the tops of waves that spilled across the shelf of reef.

  Now that he was used to him, Frank loved his father. It took a few days every summer to like the sweet and sour smell of him again, to understand the dark cracks in his palms and the way he squinted behind the smoke of his fag. Frank watched him pick up a half-frozen mulie and stitch it up the hooks. Max came up and threw himself down on the sand between them.

  Now you boys behave yourselves, he said getting up off his haunches. When the tide drops you can come out onto the reef with us, orright?

  Can we play in the sandhills? Max asked.

  Yeah, but don’t go far. We might need someone to run the gaff out for us.

  The other two men were wading out across the reef, the baits swinging in the last of the light, and before their father could join them they were casting into the gloom.

  For a while Frank knelt in the warm sand to watch. You could see their heads and the curves of their rods against the sky. They were laughing. Moths came out of the dark to butt against the hot white glass of the lantern.

  Max picked up the pack of matches that lay on the tackle box.

  Let’s go up the hills, he said, slipping the matches into the pocket of his shorts.

  Orright.

  They walked over to the steep foredune and clawed up it and on the other side the sandhills rolled on and on forever. Frank jogged behind his brother down into long gullies and for long stretches the sand was firm under foot. All the way Frank heard the matches rattle in Max’s shorts. He breathed in time. He began to sing.

  One-a-penny, two-a-penny—

  Shut that up.

  Sorry.

  They ran until a wall of sand loomed and they kept at it until the slope made Frank feel they were running on the spot. In the end they clambered to the crest and straddled the knife edge of the dune so sand ran down the insides of their legs and spilled from the tips of their toes. If you listened hard enough you could hear the sand hiss as it slipped away. Max pulled out the matches and shook the box until it sounded like a rattler on a cowboy show.

  What’re you gunna do? said Frank warily. You had to be careful with Max. He had side teeth like a dog and a way of looking at you that you could feel in the dark.

  You don’t know what a blue flame is, do ya.

  A what?

  Watch this.

  A match flared between them and Max lifted his legs and farted. Nothing happened until the flame scorched Max’s fingers and he dropped it and left them in darkness.

  That was it?

  No, stupid.

  Frank looked seaward. He couldn’t see the beach or the grownups but the glow of the lamp was visible.

  Max lit up again but nothing happened.

  Here, he said, chucking the matches. Help me. Light one and hold it close.

  Close?

  To me bum, stupid.

  When after several tries Frank got the match lit he saw that Max had slid his shorts off and was arched back with his bum off the sand.

  Carn, hurry up!

  Frank leant in and found himself peering at the dark squint of Max’s bumhole. He began to tremble with pent up laughter.

  Closer, stupid.

  Frank took the flame right in but he wasn’t very steady. He had the giggles now and something fizzed and Max recoiled with a howl.

  You bastard!

  Frank lurched to his feet. Max lunged at him and Frank spun away down the incline while his brother grabbed at his shorts. Frank could hear himself laughing as he went. Max was stronger and he could punch fast but Frank knew he could always outrun him. He spilled down into the hollow and found hard, flat sand as Max came roaring. The more he weaved and feinted the madder Max got. It was always like this, with him giggling nervously and Max bellowing behind. Frank knew how much Max hated him being faster. He could really duck and dart. At school lunchtimes the big boys always picked him for their footy team and they didn’t care what Max said. Their mother called him Rabbit and she didn’t care what Max said.

  But the more he thought of Max behind him, boiling and spitting as he was now, the heavier Frank felt. He knew he could outrun him but the idea of Max got to his legs; the fear seeped into him and bogged him down until he just gave up and fell to his knees and waited for the flogging he knew would come. But when Max caught up he just sprawled out, panting.

  I didn’t mean it, said Frank. It was an accident.

  His brother rolled over. A fat red moon emerged from behind the highest, farthest dune. Frank felt sand in his shorts. His undies sagged, full and bulky with it, the way they were the day he pooped his pants at school. He remembered the way he had to wide-leg it to the toilets. With all the kids laughing. And how he locked himself inside to wait for his mother. How Max came in and said he’d kill him if he didn’t stop bawling and clean himself up. You’re adopted, he said, they found you on the tip, in a kennel. The day went on forever and their mother never came.

  Max, I didn’t know how to do it.

  Aw, shut up, said his brother.

  It was an accident.

  Orright, it was an accident. Let’s dig.

  Dig what? said Frank carefully. He was surprised at how fast Max was forgiving him and a little uneasy at how suddenly the moon had appeared.

  A hole, dickhead. A tunnel. Like in the movies. An escape tunnel. We can come back to it, hide stuff.

  Okay, said
Frank, picturing it.

  Over here, said Max. This bit’s kind of wet and hard.

  In the strange light of the moon they dug into the side of the bare white hill, just bored right in like dogs. They didn’t speak. Frank was spurred on by the intensity of Max’s work. He dragged away what Max scooped back between his legs and after a while all you could see was Max’s feet sticking out of the side of the dune.

  Funny, said Max, wriggling his way back out. It’s quiet in there. You can’t hear anythin.

  Can I try?

  Nah, you’re too small.

  Aw, Max! Please?

  I dunno. Orright. Just a quick go. We gotta go deeper.

  Frank wasted no time in case Max changed his mind. He wormed his way into the dark hole and was interested at how warm it was inside. There was an odd mineral smell but no sound, only his breathing. He lay there with his hand outstretched to touch the curved wall. Then he heard a hiss behind him. A bit of dry sand spilled against his feet from outside. There was a squeak and then more squeaks. It was Max walking around out there. He was climbing up the dune. No, he was stomping on it. Frank felt a thud overhead.

  Max?

  Frank got up on his elbows. There was another thud. A warm clod hit him in the back of the neck. Something fell in the dark ahead and a gust of air rose against his face. He scrambled backwards and was halfway out when it all came down on his head with a whoof and pinned him flat like the weight of a whole team piling in, going stacks-on-the-mill. All his breath rushed out and sand pressed warm into his eyes and ears and rammed against his tight-shut lips. Then his legs began to twitch; they flailed as though they didn’t even belong to him. They writhed and churned in loose sand. His feet were free. His knees dug in so that his whole body could twist. Then he got an arm free and pushed up hard. The great heavy crust parted around his neck and he was out, on his feet, running blind and gulping in sobs of air and choking grit until he fell coughing, crying, alone on the sand.

  Frank bawled until his eyes washed clear enough to see the blurry moon. He saw the dunes all around him holding up the edges of the sky. Everything was white and woolly. Even his feet and arms were ghostly. He got up and ran. His feet chuffed in powdery sand. He was the only sound in the world.