Rainfish

by Andrew Paterson

‘Nine down—a phrase containing words of opposite or different meanings.’

  ‘Oxymoron,’ said Connor, who couldn’t help himself.

  ‘How do you spell it?’

  ‘O. X. Y. You should be able to spell moron, seeing as though you are one.’

  I turned to the Police Round-up: A bicycle was stolen from the bicycle rack in front of the Ernest Street bus station. The bicycle was a red BMX-style with coloured beads on its spokes. Anyone with any information please call Crime Stoppers.

  Andrea Clegg had a bike like that. She probably hadn’t even chained it up.

  Mum came up the back stairs with a shirtfront full of oranges. She emptied them on the sideboard and said, ‘Where’s Peter?’

  ‘Went back into town.’

  She got the electric juicer out of the cupboard. ‘Into town? Did he say how long he’d be?’

  ‘Two ticks,’ said Connor.

  ‘A person who rules China.’

  ‘Emperor.’

  I pretended to write ‘Emperor’ but kept reading the Police Round-up: A thirty-six-year-old man was charged with assault following an altercation outside the Grand Hotel with a hotel security individual, who sustained injuries to his hands. The charged man was remanded in custody.

  Gggrrrrrrrrriindd went the first half-orange. ‘But he said he’s coming back for dinner, right?’ Mum went on.

  And then I came to the last entry: ‘Church Broken Into’.

  A wave of nausea hit me. There was no way I was going to be able to read it in front of Mum and Connor. ‘Might go finish the crossword in my room,’ I said.

  Gggrrrrrrrrriindd. ‘You had lunch?’ Mum asked.

  ‘Yep,’ I replied and I ran to my room, to my bed, and read the last entry. And read it again. Two brief sentences:

  Church Broken Into

  Following the recent theft at the St Rita’s Catholic Church police will be door-knocking nearby households. Anyone with information please call Crime Stoppers.

  So that was that. I was screwed.

  Oxymoron. I found I’d been doodling the word on the edge of the newspaper. Then I wrote, Thief. I tried it with the i and e switched. It looked wrong. I wrote it backwards. Then I wrote I am a thief backwards. Then I stole the rosary beads backwards. Then forwards. Over and over. Then I tore off that bit of paper and put it in my mouth and chewed it, gluey and inky, then swallowed it. I needed someone to talk to, but there was no one. Obviously I couldn’t ask Connor. Mum? You did what? We’re going to the police station. Now! she’d say.

  The boy behind the back fence? But I didn’t even know his name, or how long he’d lived there, or if his dad was a cop. And there was the way he said fuck—he was a ‘cool kid’. I said fuck quietly to myself a few times. That would have to do.

  I went out into the backyard and kicked the soccer ball around, keeping one eye on the back fence. After a few minutes I called out, ‘Oi!’

  No answer.

  There were some green baby oranges under the orange trees, I picked one up and threw it at the fence. It gave a satisfying tock. I threw another one. I called out ‘Oi’ again. When there was still no answer I went back to my room and read the Police Round-up one more time.

  The TV guide said the Sharks were playing the Panthers at 7:30. Me, Mum and Connor never watched footy, though most boys in my class did. But when 7:30 came and Connor and I were plonked in front of the TV, Pete was still nowhere to be seen. The whistle blew and someone kicked the ball and the person who caught it got tackled and then someone else got tackled. I tried to follow along, but it wasn’t clear to me why anyone was doing anything. After a while Connor wandered back to the kitchen and I followed him.

  Still no Pete. We sat by the clock radio that sat on the sideboard between the phone and our fat-tummied statue of Buddha.

  ‘8:35,’ said Connor.

  ‘8:36,’ I said.

  ‘8:37,’ said both of us simultaneously.

  ‘That’ll do,’ said Mum with enough irritation in her voice to make us stop. She ended up making toasted cheese-and-tomato sandwiches, which Connor and I ate in front of The Love Boat while she and her cup of tea sat in the kitchen.

  I was in bed when I heard two clumsy sets of footsteps on the back stairs, followed by the creak of the back door being guiltily opened. The TV snapped off, and then I heard Mum’s quick footsteps. Then silence.

  Then Mum’s voice, high-pitched, and Pete’s, kind of muffled. And a third voice, a man. Footsteps heavy down the stairs, Mum’s voice getting louder, Pete’s voice raised.

  I thought, Don’t get too angry, Mum. Don’t make him go yet, he only just got here.

  Then there was a crash. A plate?

  ‘How dare you bring that drunk into my house,’ I heard her shout.

  Silence.

  ‘You want to go too? Because if you want you can piss off.’

  Silence.

  ‘You knew I had kids. Don’t you laugh at me.’

  I wished Connor was still in the top bunk. I wondered if he could hear anything from his room downstairs. There was more yelling, more crashing. I pulled my pillow over my ears.

  I woke up to the sound of morning birds and radio blather, and when I crept out I was surprised to find the kitchen cleaner than usual and smelling of detergent. The dishes that had been drying next to the sink had been put away, but the biggest change was in the fridge—it was nearly empty. Missing were: the jar of mango chutney, the leftover spaghetti, the wine bottle we kept our water in. The tomato sauce. And there was no beer—there’d been at least two six-packs when I’d gone to bed.

  Connor came up the back stairs and sat at the table without saying anything.

  ‘Good morning,’ sang Mum, breezing in like she’d been up since six. ‘Sleep well, you two?’ She kissed me on the forehead.

  Pete came in. ‘Morning everyone,’ he said, smiling ruefully at me.

  ‘Morning, Pete,’ I said.

  ‘Morning, Peter,’ said Mum.

  He bent down and they kissed, briefly, on the lips. It was the first time I’d seen them kiss.

  We ate breakfast accompanied by the radio, the clink of cutlery on the plates, cleared throats, cereal crunched, loud swallows and the smile frozen on Mum’s face.

  The phone rang, and when I answered a gruff voice said, ‘Pete there, mate?’

  Pete took the phone with a frown. ‘Pete here,’ he said in a voice quicker and deeper than usual. ‘Yep.’ Pause. ‘Yep.’ Pause. ‘Yep, nup, no worries. Be there in ten.’

  He hung up, jumped up from his chair, ignoring Mum’s ‘What’s up, Pete?’ and disappeared down the hall. Then he was back, with his bilum slung over his shoulder.

  ‘Got a job,’ he said as he swigged his coffee. He folded his bacon and eggs into a toast sandwich, which leaked yolk onto his beard as he stuffed it in his mouth.

  ‘How long’s it gunna take?’ asked Mum, but Pete’s answer was too egg-muffled for me to understand. He poured himself another coffee and tried to kiss Mum with his cheeks bulging, but she arched away in his grasp and gave a little squeal of horror, which he answered with a monster’s growl.

  We followed Pete down to the truck.

  He took a final swig of his coffee, then left the cup on the gatepost and jumped up into the cab. ‘You boys be good for your Mum,’ he said.

  Mum stretched up to him and they whispered. Then he started the engine, and in a spit of gravel he was gone and we were left standing in front of the house.

  ‘There he goes,’ said Mum to no one. ‘He’ll be back soon,’ she added.

  I said, ‘How soon?’

  ‘Six days.’

  ‘Wish it was longer,’ said Connor, ‘I think I hate him more than I’ve ever hated anyone in my whole life.’ He said it in a matter-of-fact way, and he was surprised when Mum wrenched him by his arm.

  ‘How dare you!’ she yelled, without looking to see who was in the street to hear her.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Apologise, now.’


  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. His tone was, There, are you happy?

  ‘You think it’s funny? There’s nothing wrong with Peter.’ She pulled on Connor’s arm again, but she’d regained control, and after telling him in a low voice to, ‘Get inside, now!’ she led him back to the house. Probably she was going to make him a Milo and sit with him as he drank it—I could just picture them—and patiently explain to him that what he’d said was wrong. And he’d nod, and not actually say sorry, but she’d hug him anyway and that would be it. And neither of them would mention it again.

  With nothing better to do I wandered into the backyard and threw some more green oranges at the back fence.

  ‘Hey.’ The boy’s head appeared behind the chook pen.

  I said, ‘Hey, yourself.’

  He had brownish skin, curly hair, and his eyes were squinting because the sun was in them. When he scratched his nose he had to let go of the top of the fence and he nearly fell out of sight.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

  ‘Byron.’

  ‘I’m Aaron. Do you live behind there?’

  ‘Yep. Since I was born.’

  ‘Me too. It’s weird I never knew you lived there. What school do you go to?’

  ‘Central. How about you?’

  ‘St Rita’s. Do you know Stevie Harmison? Coldy?’

  At each name he shook his head.

  ‘And you didn’t know I lived here?’ I said.

  He shrugged. ‘Why would I?’

  ‘Is your dad a cop?’

  ‘Nah. He works for the council. What’s your dad do?’

  ‘He’s a stuntman,’ I said.

  ‘You got brothers and sisters?’

  ‘I got a big brother. He’s a wanker.’

  ‘I got two brothers. They’re all right,’ said Byron.

  That made me ashamed—you defend your own flesh and blood. Blood’s thicker than water, Mum had said once. You two look out for each other.

  But I’d found out what I needed to—his dad wasn’t a cop.

  ‘Hey, I was wondering something.’ I moved closer. ‘A friend of mine’—Good thinking, Aaron, I thought—‘took something. A toy. From a toy shop. Now he doesn’t know what to do. He thinks maybe he should tell the police.’

  Byron said, ‘He should just take it back to the shop.’

  Take it back to the shop. There it was—option three.

  ‘That’s not a bad idea,’ I said.

  Go to the swamp, get the rosary beads and the wine, take them back to the church. So simple. What was I waiting for?

  I said, ‘I’m gunna go tell him,’ and then I was running, through the yard, out the front gate, filled with sudden purpose. I had a plan, an actual, sensible plan!

  I ran along Shoe Street till I was too puffed and had to stop. I jogged for a while, then ran again.

  Soon I was passing Damon’s house, through the vacant lot, through the high grass of the swamp to the clearing.

  I had the beads in my hand before it occurred to me that I’d have to go back through the church all by myself. In the middle of the day. And more importantly, Damon would know what I’d done. Obviously. He’d know what a chicken I was. But there wasn’t any other way. I’d just have to deal with it—

  ‘Oi!’ yelled Damon.

  I ducked.

  He was in his backyard. I could see his head through the grass. He was looking my way, and I ducked again, and as I did he yelled, ‘Oi,’ again and I heard him running. I chucked the beads back up the drain and scrambled up the bank and threw myself into the long grass with my hands over my head. And I stayed scrunched up in a ball, waiting, trying not to breathe, and thinking, I must be so obvious. But it was too late to hide anywhere else.

  I heard the grass along the track rustling. I heard him slide down the bank.

  ‘Is anyone there?’ he said.

  One minute passed, two minutes. Was he still in the clearing? It was so quiet my heart pumping was the loudest sound.

  More rustling in the grass on the track.

  I waited. My joints were aching from being in one position for so long. Surely he’s gone by now. Surely he’s not there waiting for me.

  I crawled carefully forward, and put my face out into the track. There was no one there.

  Head down, I scampered through the vacant lot.

  Out on Shoe Street I ran as fast as I could, expecting a yell from behind but none came.

  I ran upstairs and turned on the TV. Had he seen me? He would have called my name if he’d seen me, right? If he hadn’t, I’d been incredibly lucky. He’d be watching the drain now for sure, I couldn’t go back right away; I’d have to try again tomorrow. And I’d have to be more careful. I’ll get up as early as I can. I’ll crawl along the track on my belly, or maybe I’ll crawl the whole way through the vacant lot on my belly. Tomorrow morning, first thing.

  I just had one more day to get through until it was all over. I could survive one more day.

  10

  BAIT FOR THE BARRA

  I WENT TO bed early, but Mum had the TV too loud—some cop movie with tyres screeching and lots of gunfire—and I got thinking, and then I couldn’t stop thinking. I couldn’t sleep for ages.

  A nightmare that I was drowning brought me suddenly awake. My sheet was a crumpled knot at the end of my bed. The fan whirred as it swept from my head to my feet, paused as a cog fell into place with a click, then swept back. Insects chirruped from the mandarin trees. A car approached. The headlights glowed for a moment on my window, then they were gone, and everything was darker than before.

  When I woke up the sun was already high in the sky. No excuses, I thought, This is it. Get the rosary beads, take them to church, get back before anyone knows you’re gone, then toast and honey and orange juice for breakfast.

  But a surprise was waiting for me in the kitchen. Pete was sitting at the table, his neck and right arm sunburnt and smelling of Mum’s pawpaw ointment.

  ‘How goes it, mate? Second half of the job got cancelled. Got in about four,’ he said and he leaned back in his chair, balancing a mug on his chest. ‘Next job’s not for a few days, they reckon. So, Aaron, what do you reckon about doin’ some fishing?’

  I felt my heart sink. ‘Sure, but…when?’ I said.

  ‘Just have to wait for Connor to get up.’

  Right on cue Connor appeared, his hair just-woke-up crazy. He stopped and blinked when he saw Pete.

  ‘Want to come fishing, Connor? We’re goin’ soon,’ said Pete.

  ‘What about Mum?’

  ‘She said it’s all right. She’s sleeping in.’

  He shrugged. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Could I quickly go and do something first?’ I asked.

  ‘What do you want to do?’ said Pete.

  I didn’t know what to say, so I said, ‘Nah, it’s all right,’ like it was no big deal. ‘It can wait.’

  So Connor and I had breakfast while Pete rummaged around downstairs. When we finished he was waiting for us with two buckets and a shovel at the banana trees along the back fence.

  ‘Now this here’s the best bait in the world,’ he said. He plunged the shovel into the trunk of a fallen banana tree, then kneeled down and pulled a long thin worm from the slime between the fleshy onion-like layers.

  ‘There you go. Put some dirt in that bucket for ’em, Aaron,’ he said. ‘Then get down here and help me. We’ll need a few.’

  The worms liked the rottenest layers where the blackest slime was. Soon we had thirty banana worms, five earthworms and one witchetty grub, and black slime was caked in dark moons under my fingernails.

  We got thongs and hats, and then we piled into Gran’s car, Connor in the front.

  ‘Are we going to the secret spot?’ I said.

  ‘Nup, that’s a whole-day job. Gotta prepare your mum for that. Today we’re just gettin’ the bait. Can’t catch barra with worms. The worms are to get the mudcod.’

  ‘So they’re bait for the bait,’ said Conn
or.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Bait for the bait for the barra,’ I added.

  ‘Bait for the bait for the barra for the barby. For your belly,’ said Pete with a snort.

  ‘For the bog.’

  ‘For your bum,’ I said. That was the last B anyone thought of.

  Pete revved along our street in second till the gears screamed, then rammed it up to third, got to sixty only to hit the brakes at the corner and then speed up again. Connor caught my eye in the rear-view mirror. Pete noticed, and he didn’t slow down round the next corner. The tyres squealed, we slid on our seats. I yelled out, ‘Hold on.’

  Connor said, ‘You drive like a race-car driver.’

  Pete smiled at that.

  We were on the highway, with cane fields and farmhouses flashing by. A grey-haired farmer in his ute in front of us slowed us up.

  ‘Pass him, Pete,’ I yelled, and Connor started commentating, ‘…and number five is second now, only one car in front. The finish line is just around the corner.’

  Pete put his foot down and we zoomed past the ute, cheering.

  ‘But,’ said Connor pointing to a distant car, ‘there’s one more car in front of number five after all.’

  ‘Have to settle for second,’ said Pete as we turned down a side road, which, after a kilometre or so, changed from bitumen to gravel.

  We stopped before a wooden bridge over a green river shaded by clumps of bamboo that grew on both banks. Connor and I leaned against the car while Pete got a machete from the boot and cut three stalks of bamboo and trimmed the leaves and tips.

  ‘Bamboo makes good rods. See how they bend?’ He bent one rod down on itself.

  ‘Bamboo to get the bait to get the barra,’ I said.

  We tied pieces of fishing line onto each rod and onto these Pete tied miniature hooks he got out of a rusted tin box. Then we loaded the rods into the Mini, with the ends poking out of the front passenger window, and continued heading away from the highway.

  We pulled over a little way further along. It was quiet; just the engine tapping as it cooled, and the rustling of the sugar cane that stretched away from us on both sides of the road.

  Connor and I took a rod each while Pete, with his rod underarm, took the worm and fish buckets and led us along a tractor-way between two cane fields. A breeze swept the tops of the cane above us but didn’t even ruffle our hair let alone cool us down. My thongs were slippery. Prickles scratched my ankles. The sky was blue and clear.