‘And?’
‘Wouldn’t be till spring time. Told him I’d think about it.’ Gary sighed, adjusted his beanie. ‘But I’m wasting my god-given talents with a labouring job. I need to get back into sales.’
‘You’re supposed to be lying low, remember? Sales is as public as you can get, unless you’re planning on becoming a TV presenter. So forget it. For now at least.’
‘Could be something in the pipeline down the track. I’ve been watching the local real estate market. It’s going gangbusters. Shame to see all that potential commission go begging.’
‘Whatever. Anyway, watch Nugget. Word around the place is he’s to be treated with extreme caution.’
‘Yeah. I’ve heard the same. But he seems all right. At least on the surface.’
Tracey snapped her purse shut and shrugged on her puffy coat. ‘Right. And you’ve been so accurate with your character assessments so far, haven’t you?’
‘Point taken. Let’s get home to our cosy three-bar heater.’
‘Bastard.’
‘Bitch.’
Gary took her hand and they walked out of the empty bar onto a footpath slick with snow and ice. Their laughter resonated down the street, blended with the shrieking of a brave sulphur-crested cockatoo perched on lamp post.
Chapter 13
After a week of crisp clear skies, the clouds returned en masse. They bore no promise of snow but created a dull grey blanket stretching across the horizon. Not the tiniest patch of blue, and a predicted top of 1°C. That wouldn’t be till late afternoon; at 10:00am it was a brace below zero.
‘Hey, Trace.’ Gary looked up from his iPad on the kitchen table. He flicked cigarette ash into an empty JD and cola bottle and sent smoke circles floating towards the ceiling. ‘Did you pack your swim suit when we left Sydney? Looks like it’s time to hit the beach. The weather bureau says we’re in for a scorcher.’
Tracey twisted a blind cord, glanced out onto the front yard. ‘Wow, it’s practically a summer’s day out there.’ With each word, steam puffed from her mouth. Her scrawny arm stirred slow circles in a pot of porridge bubbling on a ring burner. The electric kettle gave a piercing whistle.
‘Did I tell you Jordie’s coming around with his brother Steve to have a look at the wood heater today?’ said Gary.
‘I thought the real estate company was going to sort it out.’
‘Yeah, well. They’ve been promising to do something for a couple of weeks and they’ve done bugger all. Jordie says his brother can clear the flue and replace the baffle plate, whatever that means. We never had much use for serious heating in south-east Queensland. I told him you’d cook him a lamb roast with all the trimmings if he could get the thing working.’
‘You what?’
‘I said…’
The throaty rumble of a V8 engine shattered the morning’s tranquillity. ‘Awesome, they’re here.’
A bang on the door set the windows shaking. Either the visitors were busting for the toilet or they feared frostbite. Or maybe they liked to bang loudly on doors.
‘Bloody hell, how do you guys live like this?’ Steve had a barrel-chested frame like Jordie’s, stood a foot taller and looked like Matt Damon in the Jason Bourne movie series. ‘We sit around in shorts and T-shirts at our place. You two’re rugged up like Antarctic explorers. I’m gonna have to work inside in me outdoor gear. Awkward, but I’ll manage.’
Tracey placed cracked mugs of instant coffee on the table, dropped generic brand shortbread biscuits on a plastic plate. Gary noticed her eyeing off Steve as she served the morning tea. The hunky guest smiled at her, a hint of sexual interest flashed across his eyes. Gary couldn’t help feeling a twinge of jealousy, knew it was sheer hypocrisy but wanted to tell big Steve to back the fuck off. Tracey’s vibe told Gary she’d be only too glad to jump the guy’s bones at the first opportunity. Had she been faithful to him? Instinct told him yes, but how many times had his instinct proved wrong? Too many. He took an instant dislike to Steve, like he did to most good-looking males in his territory. Subcutaneous and primal.
‘Things are a bit tough at the moment,’ said Gary. ‘We’ve only got that piss-weak bar heater we cart around from room to room.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll soon have the wood heater cranking and youse’ll be warm as baby bandicoots in their mum’s pouch.’
‘Jesus,’ Tracey lit a cigarette, hands in fingerless gloves. ‘We haven’t got any wood to put in the bloody thing.’
‘Got that covered, too.’ Steve jerked his thumb towards the window. ‘I’ve brought a trailer load of split logs and two bags of kindling. Had a feeling youse’d be needing it. Me and a mate spent half last summer cutting wood on the neighbour’s property. Got enough for ten winters. You can have that lot for a mere $50.’
‘Didn’t Jordie tell you?’ said Gary, an edge to his voice. ‘We’re flat broke till next Thursday.’
‘No worries, pay me then.’
‘Fine.’ Prick.
Steve opened a battered toolbox and set to work knocking inside the burner compartment with a hammer. Clouds of black dust and soot billowed out. Steve turned his head and coughed, looking like a coal miner at the end of a long shift. ‘Shit. This’ll take time to clean. Don’t reckon this bad boy’s been serviced in years.’
‘Mind if we leave the room?’ said Gary, coughing into his fist. ‘We’re gonna choke to death in here.’
‘You’d be better off leaving the house altogether. There’s gonna be a big mess.’ Steven donned a white paper face mask. ‘I’ll call Jordie when the job’s done. A couple of hours at least.’
‘I’m happy to stay and watch you work,’ said Tracey. ‘If you’ve got another of those masks. I can even hand your tools to you.’ Gary threw her a sideways glance but she quickly looked the other way. Did she make a sexy pout?
Already lacing up his waterproof Blundstone boots, Gary turned to Jordie. ‘Come on, mate. Let’s get out of here. Fancy a stroll through the enchanted forest? Dam’s frozen solid. We can walk on it.’
Twinkling eyes and a nodding head. ‘Don’t mind a bush walk. Should have brought me ice skates.’
The ground crunched and squeaked underfoot as the two men tramped through hard-packed snow to the back fence abutting a brooding forest. Sweet-scented winter wattles, laden with thousands of lemon-yellow flowers and spiky hoarfrost brightened the gloomy morning. Scrubby bush led from the property boundary into the unknown. The closest neighbours lived in the next postcode.
Gary grimaced. Was leaving Tracey alone with Steve a smart move? Pangs of jealousy stabbed at his guts, but Jordie’s brother was solving their urgent heating problem. So he’d cut Steve some slack. For now.
He took a deep breath and patted his gloves together. The cold air pinched his lungs, but the sensation wasn’t unpleasant. Almost refreshing. The isolation, the pure air and the stillness of the Tasmanian bushland gladdened his heart. Especially after the rat race and unbearable heat of the Gold Coast and his brief spell in Sydney. That city was mental, the people venal. If only it were 20 degrees warmer here and he had his money back, a better job, life would be perfect. He headed down a narrow gap in the fence between a couple of old stringybarks. Jordie touched Gary’s elbow.
‘Hang on a ‘sec. Lemme grab something out of the ute.’ Jordie’s head, encased in a Saint Kilda footy beanie, disappeared into the front passenger side. His arms shifted through a pile of litter on the floor. One hand emerged gripping a red and green tartan thermos, the other a brick-sized packet of budget smokes. ‘Got something to keep us warm on the inside.’
‘What’s in the can?’
‘Poppy tea.’
‘Grandad’s recipe?’
‘Nah.’ Jordie shook his head and flashed a toothy grin. ‘It’s a special Tassie brew. A real pick-me-up. Pretty sure you’re gonna like it.’
The pair picked their way through low-hanging branches; rime stuck to their jacket sleeves and trousers. A windowless hut, the door barely clingin
g to its frame, perched on the rim of the dam. Some walls had timber planks missing. About the size of a one-car garage, the lean-to might have been used by rangers or farmers to store equipment, or as shelter in bad weather. Whatever, its presence was welcome as the breeze whipped into a biting wind. Gary scrambled over fallen logs, Jordie right behind, and they ducked into the hut. No chairs, but a bench seat was set against the back wall with a view over the frozen dam. Even better, some sticks, a handful of logs and a 44 gallon drum cut in half sat smack in the middle of the hut.
‘Okay, Dylan, old cock. Let’s get this party started.’
Jordie was a working class loser – no prospects, luckless with the ladies and possessing the intelligence of a school kid with a learning disability. But when Jordie spoke, Gary felt warmth flow through his heart. In many ways the simpleton was the antithesis of Foss, his borderline genius best friend. Jordie had a carefree character and simple tastes: company, a pub meal, aimless chit chat. Sometimes lack of ambition and contentment with one’s lot is enough. Maybe some of that attitude would rub off on Gary. He could only hope.
Jordie quickly got a sputtering fire going in the drum. Gusts of wind burst through the holes in the walls and the doorway. The men tried to prop the door shut with a log, but the timbers were warped and a small gap remained. Soon a fire crackled nicely and warmed the hut enough for them to remove gloves and hats. Gary’s self-consciousness about his mangled ears was gone. If asked, he said it was from years of playing rugby league back in Queensland. Most were happy with that version. Jordie never gave Gary’s ears a second look.
‘Now, wanna try me tea? Should still be warm. Taste’s unusual, but you get used to it quick.’ Jordie handed over the thermos lid which doubled as a cup.
Gary sniffed the speckled brown contents. ‘Ugh! Smells like pig shit. Why would anyone drink it?’
‘To get a buzz on. You gotta be careful, but. People have died from it. Didn’t know what they was doin’. Made it too strong and drank too much.’
‘I’ll pass if that’s okay. Light me a durry instead.’
‘Suit yourself, but you’re missing out. It’s better than alcohol. Natural product. Poppies come straight from a farm up the road.’
Most of the cigarette and wood smoke escaped through the cracks and gaps in the little shed, but enough remained to create a noxious cloud. Still, it was better to sit in the smoggy atmosphere than watching Steve and Tracey getting all flirty. The two men sat in silence, Jordie taking delicate sips of tea, Gary puffing hard on a cigarette while the fire hissed and popped.
‘Fine, give me some then.’
‘Ha ha! Knew you’d cave in.’
‘Promise me I’m not going to die.’
‘You’re not gonna die.’
Gary took a tentative sip, lips pouting like a duck-faced Instagram model. As he suspected, the drink was repulsive. It was bitter, smelled pissy, like dandelion stalks mixed with crushed bull ants. It was all he could do to keep it down.
‘See, Dylan. Not so bad.’
‘What? It’s fucken disgusting.’
‘Try again. Go on.’
Three cupfuls later, the third skolled, and Gary was floating out of his skin, peering down into the scorching red innards of the drum. The poppy juice high repelled the cold better than the fire. Jordie must be an expert in making the concoction. Gary hadn’t felt this good since his first taste of cocaine on the Gold Coast last summer. Only this stuff was better – no tingly sensation in the mouth, no accelerated heart rate; instead, a brand new lucidity and clarity of thought.
He turned to speak profound words to Jordie, something about telling Nugget to stick his errand up his arse, they’d keep on at the oyster farm working for shit money, thank you very much. Before he could utter a syllable, a pair of quivering wire-brush whiskers and a button nose appeared in the gap between the door and the log propping it shut. A stumpy black creature forced the door open and scampered inside. It leapt up onto the bench between the two men. Gary, eyes like discs, gawked at the intruder. The animal opened its maw, revealing a pair of gleaming vampire teeth.
But it was no vampire.
It was the devil himself.
‘Care to share some of that tea with me?’ The scruffy daemon pointed a talon at the thermos next to Jordie’s thigh.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ said Gary.
‘Harrison Devlin. Ruler of the bush.’
Did Jordie see the beast, too? No. His mate sat slumped in the corner, softly snoring, his lumber jacket rolled up for a pillow under his neck. Gary leaned over to prod him in the shoulder lest he miss the spectacle of the talking creature. But the thing grabbed Gary’s wrist in its powerful paw.
‘Don’t you dare wake him up. You and I have important matters to discuss. Now, be a good lad and pour me some of that delicious brew.’
Shitfuck!
As if exploding ibises and seagulls back on the Gold Coast weren’t bad enough, now a talking Tasmanian devil.
The beast’s teeth glinted against the firelight as it spoke. Teeth that could do significant damage to human flesh. Best to acquiesce to Devlin’s request. Gary tipped some of the steaming liquid into the cup and placed it before the creature. The devil lapped up the tea, slurping and spraying droplets that hissed on the hot metal drum. The creature gave a thunderous belch that shook the hut.
‘So, ah, Mr Devlin. What is it you want to talk to me about?’ The bench teetered as Gary shifted his bodyweight forward. The devil crossed its front paws across the white stripe on its chest. He’s not so scary. What the hell does he want, though?
‘Call me Harrison. And have another drink first. You need to be in the right frame of mind to hear what I’m about to tell you.’
The thermos felt much lighter. Gary tipped it up and could only fill half the cup. Surely Devlin hadn’t drunk that much of the stuff?
He gulped down the rest of the liquid, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.
‘Okay, fire away.’
‘Don’t have anything to do with Nugget. He’s a dangerous man, sending you on a fool’s errand.’
‘I guess I’ll have to take that risk. I need the money.’
‘You’ll regret it. More than you already regret the other dumb shit you’ve done in your life. And there’s been plenty of that.’ The devil laughed and shook its head.
‘Why should I listen to you?’
‘Firstly, you are talking to a Tasmanian devil. Do you realise how insane that is?’
‘Of course it’s insane. You’re a figment of my imagination. A spectre conjured by the opiates in poppy tea.’
‘Let me disabuse you of that misguided notion. Touch me.’
Gary stuck out his hand, hesitated, pulled it back.
‘Go on, don’t be afraid,’ Devlin urged. ‘I won’t bite.’
To steady himself, Gary grasped the seat with one hand and with the other reached out and touched the animal’s fur. He gasped. Unlike ghost movies, his hand didn’t pass through the creature’s back. Coarse hair and the warmth of the devil’s body. Christ! Devlin is real.
Was he losing his marbles? He grabbed his sleeping friend by the shoulder. A painful nip to the other hand.
What the fuck? He whipped the hand away. ‘Hey! You said you didn’t bite, you lying little bastard.’
‘That’s not a bite. If I wanted to I could take your hand clean off.’
Gary closed his eyes, counted to 20. When he opened them again, Devlin was glaring up at him. Dammit, why doesn’t he piss off?
‘I’m not going until you admit the truth about a few things.’
‘About what?’
‘About half a million dollars in stolen cash.’
‘That’s bullshit. Don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Really? Then what about your poor wife, Maddie. About what you did, and why she’s—’
Gary screamed. The sound sent snow crashing down from a stand of blue gums. Jordie woke with a start, arms and legs
flailing. The ice on the dam cracked in a zigzag like a broken glass
‘What is it, mate? Calm down, for God’s sake. You’ll give me a heart attack.’
‘Look!’ Gary pointed to where Devlin had been sitting.
‘There’s nothing there.’
Gary stared at the space, now empty. ‘Never, ever offer me that bloody poppy tea again. You got me?’ His hands gripped Jordie by the collar and twisted hard. His mate’s face was turning blue.
‘Okay, okay. Lemme go, will ya. Fuck’s sake.’
Gary stood on shaky legs.
‘C’mon. Let’s get back to the house. Your brother must have fixed the wood heater by now.’
‘But he hasn’t called yet. He…’
Jordie’s words were lost in the cold night air. Gary shouldered open the door and stepped from the hut. He trudged through the forest towards home, eyes darting left to right in search of devil tracks.
Chapter 14
Music never much interested Josh Turrell. Maybe as background to a dinner, some noise at a party. Tone deaf, he could barely tell one song from the next. Especially anything written after 1990 or thereabouts. But something about this tune, a slowed-down cover of the Rolling Stones’ Paint it Black, got him right in the guts. It was sexy, sultry, and, best of all, having a profound effect on Selina.
Ed sat on a cream sofa, sipping a cocktail from a tall glass decorated with little umbrellas. He wore black slacks with a knife-edge crease and a body hugging black T-shirt. Turrell, feeling as daggy as Uncle Arthur in navy blue jeans and brown cardigan, squirmed in an armchair on the opposite side of the room. Between them, Selina swayed to the hypnotic, syrupy vocals streaming from an iPhone plugged into a set of powerful speakers. The throbbing bass made his spine tingle.
Selina shed items of clothing until she stood gyrating in her bra, G-string and high heels. She turned in circles, hands twirling above her head. Turrell sat open-mouthed and barely breathing. He couldn’t imagine Erin cavorting like this. Even in the early days of their relationship she wore flannelette pyjamas to bed. He wanted to say something dirty to Ed and Selina, appear worldly, confident, experienced, but he was unable to utter a sound. He glanced at Ed to gauge his host’s reaction to the striptease, but to his horror Ed’s eyes were fixated on Turrell.
Sold to the Devil Page 9
