Second Sight

by Aoife Clifford

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ her friend butted in, leaning over from her seat.

  ‘No, Bridie,’ said Tess, her mouth a determined line. ‘I can do it.’

  ‘I’ll get out then,’ said Bridie, and she quickly hopped out of the car, moved a safe distance away and stood there, arms folded, as if trying to ensure she could not be held responsible.

  ‘Maybe better to reverse in,’ Jim said. ‘Easier for you to get out later.’ Tess nodded her acceptance.

  There was a rev of the engine and then the car jolted back. It took several goes before Tess made the 180-degree turn but Jim guided her, waving his hands like an air-traffic controller, splatters of blood falling from his finger.

  Tess took off her seatbelt and clambered out of the car. The skirt of her dress had creased. Leaning forward, she pulled at the material and tried to shake it smooth. From where he was standing, Jim could see right down her dress, her breasts sitting there like two eggs in a nest, a warm creamy white. A wave of lust hit him as though he was a teenager again.

  ‘Thanks, Mr Keaveney,’ said Tess. ‘Dad would kill me if anything happened to his car.’

  ‘First time I took my father’s car out I misjudged a corner, ended up in a ditch and had to get towed home.’

  Tess smiled at this, then noticed his hand.

  ‘Have you hurt yourself?’ The greyish white handkerchief was now dark with large splotches of colour. He unwound it. The spurting blood had not yet begun to congeal.

  ‘Splinter,’ he said. ‘Cut myself trying to get it out.’

  ‘What from?’ asked Tess.

  ‘Bringing down some old fence palings to put on top of the bonfire, get it started.’

  Tess looked in the back of his ute. ‘Need help carrying them?’ Jim could tell she was only being polite.

  ‘No point you getting splinters as well,’ he said.

  Tess gave a relieved smile, which disappeared as she saw the line of red splattering down his hand. ‘Maybe you should go to the first-aid tent.’

  ‘Had worse,’ he said, but Tess was already turning back towards her friend. He watched the two girls preen each other like his birds did, fanning and fluffing, checking each other’s hair, brushing off imagined imperfections. They grabbed their towels from the car and Tess looked back at him, ‘Have a nice night, Mr Keaveney.’

  ‘You too, Tess,’ but she was gone already, Bridie’s arm hooked around her, pushing her forward down the track back towards the beach.

  A throb of pain drew his attention back to the splinter. Jim ran his hand down the finger, now blood-slippery. He felt the warm sting of the cut and the hard edge of the wood. Gripping onto it with the nails of his thumb and forefinger, pincer-like, he slowly pulled. There was a tug on the skin as it gave way, sharply painful. It came out bloody and broken. There was more still stuck inside but that would have to wait. He rewrapped the handkerchief and clumsily tied it before carefully grabbing the wood, balancing it over his shoulder and heading down the path. The sun had disappeared behind the town and the bonfire needed his attention.

  He could see the two girls in the distance, walking up towards the beach, and followed in their footsteps. At the bottom of the hill, they joined the crowd. Families were carrying eskies and collapsible chairs, knots of teenagers with reddened skin having spent all day enjoying the fickle sun. None of them were ‘summer people’, which was how Jim referred to the tourists, the ones with their fancy cars who complained when the country town wasn’t quite the little city that they had expected.

  Wes Bayless was there, but didn’t even attempt to help when Jim dropped the planks and started to pull the blue tarps off the enormous stack of wood already there. Hidden pools of water splashed down the sides. Despite the sunny day, the heavy overnight rain had done its work and most of the wood was sodden.

  ‘Watch it,’ said Wes. ‘You nearly got me.’ Wes judged others by the size of their wallet and always liked to let people know that his was the biggest in town. At least, that’s how it used to be. Jim had heard the bank owned most of Wes’s assets these days, and yet Wes still walked round like he owned the place.

  ‘Make yourself useful and give us a hand then,’ said Jim.

  Wes grabbed the other corners of the nearest tarp. Together they tipped it out, then Jim folded it up and dropped it on the pile with the others.

  ‘You’re going to need napalm and a flamethrower to get that started,’ said Wes.

  Jim instinctively felt like contradicting him. He started to strategically place the dry wood on top. ‘Pour on enough petrol, we’ll be right.’

  ‘Whose stupid idea was a bonfire anyway?’

  ‘Least it’s not raining now,’ was all Jim said, even though he had been the one who suggested it and he expected Wes knew that.

  Wes hawked up some phlegm and spat it out.

  ‘Christ, here comes PC Plod,’ he said, as Probationary Constable Gavin Pawley started to work his way through the crowd. Jim glanced at Gavin, all gangly thin, a good half a head above the rest, still looking as if his uniform might be fancy dress. He had only been in the town a month but already Jim wouldn’t piss on him if he were on fire. He’d come into the shop twice, ‘courtesy’ visits Gavin called them, wanting to check the licences for the birds, making sure Jim’s paperwork was in order and talking about wildlife protection. It was harassment and Jim had thought seriously about making a formal complaint but he’d been told that might look suspicious, so instead he’d been all ‘yes, sir’, ‘no, sir’ to Gavin and made a few rearrangements as a precaution against a possible raid.

  ‘It’s the aca-fuckin’-demic,’ said Wes. ‘Thinks he knows everything. Hope the bonfire follows all the appropriate regulations, Jim, or he’ll throw the book at you.’

  ‘He should be more interested in finding out who nicked half the fireworks from the surf club.’

  Wes pursed his lips. ‘Many missing?’

  ‘Enough.’

  ‘Reckon I could hazard a guess.’ Wes gestured over to where Travis Young was cock-strutting in the middle of a group of admirers. Jim saw that the group included Tess and her friend. ‘Saw that lot hanging round the club earlier. I’m sure they’d want their own private display tonight at their shindig.’

  ‘Where are they holding it this year?’ Jim asked. Wes would know. He’d been the President of the Kinsale Footy Club for years.

  ‘Not a word to the missus,’ said Wes, lowering his voice, ‘but I said they could use a back paddock of mine. The old woodshed on the Ophir Road.’

  ‘Up near The Castle?’

  ‘That’s the one. Kinsale tradition, this party. Something Mick Carmody would do well to remember.’

  Jim felt something wet on his leg. Blood had leaked through the hanky again.

  ‘That looks nasty,’ Wes said. ‘Get Janey to check it.’

  Jim looked up and saw Gavin walking along the embankment towards them. His finger was sore and anything was preferable to being caught between Gavin and Wes. There was still time before it got really dark. He grunted his agreement and headed in the opposite direction, past the fire trucks to the first-aid tent.

  Janey sat there looking bored.

  ‘Been a quiet night,’ she told him. ‘You’re my first customer.’ She held his hand steady. Her skin felt cool against the sandpaper roughness of his.

  ‘I’m going to have to dig deep,’ she told him. Her red nail polish was slightly chipped and when she bent her head, he could see the darker regrowth running along her scalp. Still, she looked good, thought Jim, and Janey knew it, keeping everything on display in a series of low-cut tops and tight skirts. He didn’t understand what she ever saw in Wes Bayless.

  ‘By rights you should get it stitched,’ she said, as she dabbed away at the blood.

  Jim ignored this. ‘Thought you’d be too busy at the pub tonight to be doing the first aid.’

  ‘Once a nurse, always a nurse,’ Janey answered, pushing back the edge of the skin with the metal tip of t
he tweezers. ‘And Wes likes to show his face at these things.’

  More like show people who’s boss, thought Jim.

  ‘Besides,’ Janey continued, ‘I love a bonfire, the moment it goes up in flames. I’ll wait till it’s lit and then I’ll head back.’ She glanced up at him, kohl-rimmed blue eyes in a round face, and smiled.

  The metal dug in hard, but Jim didn’t mind pain. You couldn’t deal with birds if you did – the beaks and claws weren’t for show. People assumed it was all colourful feathers and listening to bird calls and forgot all about the work that went into keeping the birds healthy. Janey understood, though, asking questions about the shop and the trade. She had a good head for business. Jim thought about telling her where the paddock party was but decided against it. Wes would probably guess it was him, and he was the type of bully who would make you pay.

  ‘Will we see you up at The Royal later?’ she asked.

  ‘Naw,’ he said. ‘Got stuff to do. Need to check on the birds.’

  ‘They’ll still be there in the morning,’ she said, and Jim was sure she was going to say something else but Wes stuck his head through the flap and told Janey it was time to go.

  ‘Aren’t we staying for the bonfire?’ she asked her husband. ‘I’ve hardly had the chance to take any photos.’

  Wes said something about a barmaid calling in sick. ‘Just didn’t want to work tonight,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to sack her.’

  Janey shrugged, picking up the tweezers. ‘You go. I’ll finish up and meet you back there.’

  Wes grumbled and then left.

  ‘Got it.’ Janey flicked the wooden shard onto the fold-up table. ‘It was a nasty one.’ She splashed on the disinfectant, a momentary sting, and then deftly stuck the steri strips in place before bandaging it up.

  ‘You want me to get rid of that for you?’ She pointed at the bloodstained hanky lying on the table. Jim shook his head and shoved it into his pocket.

  ‘Anyway, drop by for a sing-a-long,’ said Janey. ‘Best tenor in town you are.’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ he replied, because it was impossible to say no to her.

  • • •

  Jim left the roaring bonfire in the charge of the Country Fire Brigade at around 11 pm. Pyromaniacs all, he could see them salivating at the prospect as they sent out the youngest to track down more petrol. Stinking of smoke, he noticed the Mustang had gone. He checked his ute for any scratches before heading out of Kinsale on Old Castle Road, an open bottle of whiskey next to him. He had drunk enough to get the ash taste out of his mouth and warm his blood.

  Janey was right, the shop birds could wait until morning, but if the footy boys had nicked the fireworks and were planning a show near The Castle, he definitely wanted to check on the birds for the shipment. Loud noises set them right off and cockatoos could scream blue murder when they wanted to. Besides, he couldn’t afford for any of them to get injured.

  He almost missed the turn-off and had to reverse before heading through the gates of The Castle. His earliest memory was of his mother telling him stories about the old mansion, how barbed wire had surrounded it during World War II. His older brother had ridden out to it on the back of a neighbour’s horse; there’d been no petrol or rubber for bike tyres with the war on. All the kids in town had wanted to see a real-life Nazi. Jim couldn’t believe he’d missed all the excitement, being born a few years too late. His mother had been sympathetic to the sailors’ plight. ‘Prisoners of war, they were, just like the ones from our side. Needed to keep them locked up where no nutter could shoot them,’ she had told him.

  In a strange way, Jim felt the same way about his birds, wanting to look after them and keep them safe. There wasn’t enough respect for native birds. People saw them as pests and shot to kill or maim for sport. It was different overseas. He’d been shown pictures of the aviaries where his birds would be treated like kings. All illegal, of course, but Jim couldn’t see that he was doing any harm.

  It had started off easily enough. An overseas dealer had got in touch wanting an exchange. He’d sent a rosella and got a pretty little green Amazon parrot in return, an especially good mimic that he’d been able to sell on for good money. Then he started to head into the bush for replacements whenever one of his legal birds died or was sold on the quiet. The police couldn’t tell a wild galah from one brought up in captivity. He became known as a supplier for natives and that had brought risks, and some dodgy customers. So when an exclusive arrangement had been proposed, a more lucrative one too, he had decided to accept. As long as he kept his logbook looking fine, they told him, the shop would be a convincing front. All he had to do was supply the birds and they’d do the rest.

  It was only when Constable Pawley started sniffing around, talking about black markets and wildlife smuggling, that Jim became concerned about raids. That’s why he’d moved the pick-up of the birds to a new location a couple of days ago. He’d been told the police weren’t watching him but he wanted to be careful. The Castle hadn’t been his idea but it was a good one, all that way out of town and not far from the highway. Of course, Wes Bayless had no idea about any of it. Jim doubted Wes had been in half of the outbuildings since he bought the place, eyes only on the mansion and the bragging rights. As far as Jim could tell, Wes barely even visited it anymore, preferring to pretend he wasn’t bankrupting himself. It had all been perfect except for the weather, which had delayed pick-up, forcing Jim to visit the site twice a day to make sure the birds were OK.

  Turning off the engine, he left the headlights on. He couldn’t use a torch without sending the birds crazy. The light from outside would be feeble, but it would be enough. He should have covered up the birds hours ago but had been distracted by the night’s celebrations.

  The music was a distant hum – AC/DC, he guessed from the bass line – but all was quiet outside their shed. He’d had a parrot once that would go nuts whenever ‘Highway to Hell’ came on the radio. Slipping the key into the padlock, he pushed open the door. A couple of birds shifted in their cages at the noise but otherwise they slept on. He counted them all: the weiros; two galahs; a Major Mitchell and then, the most valuable, four black cockatoos. More than a hundred thousand dollars’ worth in ten boxes. He’d clear more from this delivery than he’d make in the shop in six months.

  A male galah had been worrying him. He hadn’t eaten properly for a couple of days and his food was still at the bottom of its container. Jim would have to come again in the morning and check it properly. If it was looking diseased, he’d take it away from the others and the delivery would just have to be one short.

  Covering up the last cage, he noticed something white on the floor. His hanky had fallen out of his pocket. He was just about to pick it up when he heard an engine roar. Stopping still, Jim listened carefully. It was hard to work out which direction it was coming from. The road or the party? Jim immediately thought of the pick-up. The coastal road must have reopened. He’d been told that they’d come straight away once it did. Jim had never met any of them, preferring to leave that sort of thing to the others. Bird-smuggling was only a sideline for this operation. There’d already been wooden crates in the shed when he brought the birds in. He hadn’t looked in any of them. It was better not to know. These were dangerous people. What if they didn’t realise who he was and thought that he was trying to steal what was there?

  Moving fast, he got out of the door, half-closing it behind him, then went to his ute and switched off the headlights. The world turned black and he crouched in the dirt. He couldn’t move the ute now. It was safer to hide and drive out after they’d gone.

  Straining his ears to hear what was going on, he crawled back to the shadows of the shed and then, crouching, he moved along the wall away from the noise.

  Jim heard the metal clunk of vehicle doors being opened. He could hear they were talking but not what was being said until the engine switched off.

  ‘Maybe it was just your headlights reflecting on something,’ said a voice
.

  She was young, female and sounded uncertain – not what he had expected. Pulling himself upright, he accidentally banged his injured finger on the tin of the shed and had to stifle a groan.

  ‘Maybe,’ came a second voice, male this time.

  They sounded like kids. More relaxed now, Jim poked his head around the corner. There were only the two of them that he could see.

  ‘We should go,’ said the girl, but the boy took a step forward, peering into the darkness. Jim recognised Tony Bayless.

  ‘I’m sure I saw something,’ Tony said.

  This posed a different kind of threat. If Tony found the birds he’d most likely tell his father or phone Mick Carmody and that would wreck everything. This whole operation could easily be traced back to him. His fingerprints would be all over it. Not only would this destroy his business, it could ruin everything. The others would blame him.

  The boy hadn’t moved.

  The girl said, annoyed now, ‘I’ll head over by myself then,’ but she wasn’t moving either.

  He hadn’t locked the shed. If they came closer they could walk right in.

  There was a sudden rent in the air. A whoosh, an explosion and then the sky filled with light. Fireworks were exploding. There was a muffled squawk from inside the shed. Jim held his breath but there was nothing more from the birds.

  ‘What’s going on? It’s way past midnight,’ said the girl. Jim could hear the excitement and surprise in her voice as another went screeching upwards, streaks of silver and gold blurring and dissolving.

  The boy’s eyes turned skyward as well.

  ‘We should go,’ she said again, moving towards the vehicle.

  She was a pretty girl. Jim could appreciate her shape, silhouetted by the headlights. Nice long legs, tight arse and high breasts, she should distract any red-blooded male but Tony still stood there, uncertain.

  Jim held his breath.

  ‘We’re missing the fun,’ said the girl.

  She had him. Tony turned at the word ‘fun’. The boy fancied her after all.

  ‘All right,’ Tony said.