90 Packets of Instant Noodles

by Deb Fitzpatrick

  The old man gasps.

  Craggs can barely focus. His mind is fuzzy. The old man is a vision before him, an impossible vision.

  Somehow, he gets the fuck out of there.

  44

  Some time early morning, I hear the curling ricochet of a gun going off. It’s an unmistakeable sound; it makes me go cold. It’s hard not to entertain all sorts of freaky ideas about what’s going on out there in the forest. I can only think of the old man, shooting for kangaroos like the ute guy said. Nothing else fits.

  In the afternoon there’s another weird sound. Kind of ... heavy clumping. I go outside to see if I can see anything, and it gets louder and louder, coming up the path.

  Suddenly, a fucking horse appears. And another one. Two blokes are riding them. They see me and nod, and guide their horses up to the house, where one drops a huge splattering turd right outside the front door.

  I take a step away to avoid the splashback. I recognise one of the guys.

  ‘Are you Joel Strattan?’ the older one says, from on top of his horse.

  My heart stops beating. Where do I know you from?

  ‘Son?’ He raises his eyebrows.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes, I thought so. I’m sure you remember me: Senior Sergeant Wardle—we met in Perth—and this is Constable Tremain from Bunbury Police. Mind if we come in?’

  I shake my head. Wardle. The big meeting Dad and I had with them all.

  This is it.

  I can’t think.

  They dismount and tie the horses to the nearest tree.

  This is it.

  What’s he fucking done? What am I gunna say?

  The truth, Joel, you have to tell the truth.

  I’m not gunna dob on my best mate!

  Even Craggs said you’ve gotta take care of Number One.

  But this is different!

  Yeah: this is important.

  ‘This your place?’ Wardle says.

  I nod. ‘My dad’s.’

  ‘We’ve come a long way to find you, kid. Had to drive down from Bunbury, then saddle up in Nallerup to get all the way out here. Kind of secluded, isn’t it?’ He turns to his mate and laughs.

  Don’t say any more than you have to. But don’t make it look like you’re hiding something.

  They come in slowly as if they’re casing the joint.

  None of us says anything for a bit.

  ‘Mind if I sit down?’ Wardle asks, nodding at the kitchen table.

  ‘No, no.’ I try not to look at what the other one’s doing. ‘Do you want a drink of water or something?’

  The younger guy—Constable Tremain—finally speaks. ‘Yeah, a glass of water’d be good. Thanks.’ He wanders around, looking at things. He pokes his head into the bedroom, pushes open the back door.

  After he downs his water, Wardle says, ‘So, what have you been up to the last twenty-four hours or so?’

  ‘Nothing. I’ve been here.’

  Tremain comes and sits down.

  ‘You sure about that?’

  I nod and say, right at him, ‘Yes. I was here yesterday and I haven’t been out at all today.’

  ‘Can you prove that?’

  I look around the shack for I don’t know what. How can I prove it? I shrug my shoulders. ‘I dunno. I was here, though.’

  Wardle slowly spins his glass around on the table. ‘And what about your mate?’

  ‘What mate?’

  ‘The friend you’ve had staying with you the last few days. Mrs Pritchard at the Nallerup Store said you’d had a visitor.’

  Oh, shit. The stupid old bag. Craggs was right.

  I take a breath. ‘Yeah, what about him?’

  Try to think, try to think!

  ‘Put it this way, son. We have reason to believe that one or both of you went on a bit of a rampage round these parts early this morning. Now, if you were here, then it couldn’t have been you, could it? So, what about your mate?’

  I frown. ‘What happened?’

  Wardle looks at Tremain sourly. ‘Grievous bodily harm, possibly manslaughter. We’re not sure yet.’

  I stare at him. Everything in my body dulls.

  ‘And unlawful entry, armed robbery, damage to property, deprivation of liberty, you name it—’

  ‘ Manslaughter?’

  ‘Not yet. But if the assault victim dies, yes.’

  ‘ Dies?’

  ‘Yeah. A Mr...’ he looks through his notes, ‘Mr Neville.’

  ‘He’s in a critical condition,’ Tremain says. ‘Gunshot wound to the abdomen.’ He leans forward and says, ‘This is the worst incident in Nallerup’s history, son. Two people are in hospital.’

  ‘ TWO?’

  ‘Several hours after Neville was shot in his home, the Nallerup general store was robbed and Mrs Pritchard was assaulted.’

  I’m struggling here. ‘ What?’

  Wardle turns to Tremain. ‘He’s pretty good at acting surprised, isn’t he?’

  Tremain keeps his eyes on me.

  ‘I don’t believe this.’

  ‘Yeah, well, it sure as hell happened. The town’s reeling, I can tell you.’

  ‘But did you say gun shot wound? The person was armed?’

  ‘Yes, armed.’

  ‘Well, then, there’s no way it’s Craggs. He doesn’t have any weapons. Craggs doesn’t have anything.’

  The relief floods in. It can’t be him. It’s not him.

  They look at each other.

  Wardle says, ‘So you do have a mate down here with you, then?’

  ‘Yes, but he’s not armed —I know that.’

  ‘He is now, son,’ Tremain says. ‘He shot the old bloke with his own rifle.’

  The old bloke? The rifle on the porch ... No, he couldn’t—

  ‘Mr Neville was living in a run-down old hut not far from here. Bit of a recluse, apparently. Thankfully, he managed to raise the attention of a bloke from Western Power who was working on one of the lines nearby. He put the old boy in his truck and took him to help. Lost a lot of blood on the way, by all accounts. They’re saying he might not make it, given his age.’

  Craggs couldn’t shoot a guy. And not an old guy, not the old guy. I can’t believe it was him. I can’t believe this was Craggs, it’s not possible. There must be some other crazy fucker out there.

  ‘Neville told the Western Power guy that he saw two young blokes staking out his house a few days back.’

  I shake my head weakly. He brought me candles. Oh, fuck, what have I done? I showed Craggs the old guy’s place, didn’t I?

  Oh, Jesus.

  ‘When was he last here, then?’

  I look up.

  ‘Your mate.’ Wardle reaches for Tremain’s notebook. ‘Craig Michael Adams.’

  I say nothing. I haven’t heard anyone use his proper name since ... last time, when I saw it in the paper. It looked so strange. To think anyone ever called him Craig —I can’t even imagine his mother calling him that.

  ‘Look, son, don’t forget why you’re down here. As you know, I know all about that Liquorama raid you did with Adams. Shortly afterwards he assaulted a woman at Southern Shell. He’s not up for any youth of the year award, is he? Already been in Banksia Hill once.’

  I sit in the chair while they throw it at me.

  ‘Now, all of a sudden, we hear you’ve got a mate down here, and the town gets hammered. Surprise, surprise.’

  ‘I really don’t know anything about this.’

  ‘So you keep saying. But it still doesn’t look too good for you, son. Every time I spin the bottle on this one, it comes back to you. Or Craig. Or maybe both of you, like before.’

  Prick.

  Tremain says, ‘You don’t want to get busted for something you haven’t done, do you? You’ve gotta tell us what you know, Joel. This is extremely serious stuff.’

  ‘I don’t know anything,’ I say too loud, standing up.

  They’re silent.

  ‘I’ve been here on my own for the la
st two nights—that’s all I know. Yes, Craggs— Craig —was down here but he left the day before yesterday to go back to the city. There’s no way he’s done any of this, no way. You guys are just hassling me because of my record and I’m telling you, I haven’t got anything to do with this. Okay? I’m not a fucking idiot.’

  ‘Language, son,’ Wardle says.

  I feel like I’ve got a fever, I’m so hot. Sweat slides down the insides of my arms.

  ‘How do you know he went to Perth?’ Tremain says quietly.

  ‘I just reckon that’s where he went.’

  ‘That’s not good enough, son,’ Wardle says. ‘We’re coppers, not fairies.’

  Tremain straightens up and looks at Wardle before saying, ‘I think you’d better come down to the station with us, Joel.’

  I look up. I think I might pass out. ‘Why?’ I say quietly. ‘I haven’t got anything to do with this.’

  ‘Well, I’m not convinced of that. Unless you can give us something a bit more substantial you’re under suspicion for this, along with Craig Adams.’

  ‘But I’ve been here all along,’ I say. ‘I told you that.’ I feel sick. I’m panicking. I want to cry.

  Wardle stands up. ‘And Mr Neville says he saw you outside his house with some other kid a couple of days ago, in a way he did not appreciate. I’d put two and two together, mate. It ain’t calculus.’

  45

  Afterwards he runs and runs, holding the gun long and low to make it easier to travel through the scrub. Hands and arms are scratched up so he looks like he’s been attacked by something wild. His face is white and he runs almost without seeing, without blinking, on empty. There is only one place for him to go. He stays off the main trails, except where the bush is too thick to get through. He runs most of the way, stopping and collapsing for short breaks. He lies on top of the gun and hides in bushes as well as he can while he rests with his eyes open. When he gets up, he is clear in a way that is completely unclear; he is on autopilot.

  As he arrives, he doesn’t even check things out, just pulls the jumper onto his head and barges in and orders her to sit down behind the counter and stay quiet. She does it because of the gun, which he points her way. No one else is there; that is his sheer luck. He shoves boxed juices, bread, cheese, some salami stuff and several blocks of chocolate and hurls it all into a plastic bag. She starts calling out, so he has to go over there, he has to, and make her shut up—she’s crying now, gibbering—because this is the end of the road for him. His only chance is to get far away as quickly as possible once he’s finished. He stands in front of her and she starts to shriek, so he turns the gun around and smacks the side of her head with it. Her head jerks to the side. No more noise.

  He leans over and opens the till with the key she has left in the lock. There’s only about a hundred bucks but he takes it and scoops up the gold coins, too. He grabs packets of fags, lighters and matches. He leaves the back way but doesn’t even check before he walks out into the lane. The forest virtually butts up against the town and he’s glad for it. He slips into it and looks behind him. No one.

  He weaves his way into the thickest part of the bush and bunkers down. Hours pass. Does he sleep, or are those waking horrors? The sun’s movement forces him up and onwards, away. His thoughts turn for a moment to the woman, to how her head swerved away as the gun struck her, and he stops in his tracks, guts surging.

  He goes deeper in. The understorey closes around him.

  46

  It takes us ages to get to Bunno. It’s pretty weird seeing the world again, even if it is out of the windows of a police car and the view is mainly paddocks and petrol stations. When we get there and walk from the car to the office, with the cops a little too close either side of me, it fills me with the old hate from before, from those times with McPhee, makes me want to rage against them, against the unfairness of how everything has turned out. But this time I also hate myself for everything I’ve done—and haven’t done—that has got me here. And if Craggs were here I’d punch his lights out.

  I’m looking hell guilty. Whatever I say sounds pathetic. I’m in this picture, big-time, with or without Craggs.

  There’s some trashy women hanging around in the waiting area. One of them looks like she’s about to go to sleep, she’s so wasted.

  The cops walk me up to the counter.

  ‘Joel Strattan, Sarge,’ Wardle says. ‘We’re bringing him in for questioning.’

  The guy looks at me and nods. ‘Righto. Interview room’s free. The other one’s been brought in, too.’

  Tremain glances at me and then says, ‘I’ll look after him. Anything else, Sarge?’

  ‘Yeah, the store owner’s coming in to do an ID later on. They reckon she’s okay, just bruised, a bit concussed and shaken up. The other guy, though...’ he shakes his head and looks hard at me. ‘They’re not so sure about him.’

  Am I starring in my own worst nightmare? Please don’t die, old man. You can’t die.

  Tremain goes into a room.

  Wardle tells me to follow him and we go down a system of corridors like bad plumbing till we get to a small room.

  ‘Wait here,’ he says, motioning me to go in.

  He’s gone about ten minutes and I spend the time in a cold déjà vu.

  I swore I’d never find myself in one of these places again.

  And yet here I am, again.

  Oh, god, do I wish I’d never shown Craggs that fucking hut, or told him about the gun. What was I thinking? I should have known he wouldn’t be able to resist, I should have known.

  Hang on, what am I thinking? I don’t even know that he did it yet! They’re bloody getting to you, Joel. Innocent until proved guilty, right?

  I shut my eyes against the thought of the old guy calling out for help in the forest.

  I try to imagine Craggs firing a gun— that gun—and it’s, it’s ... disturbing. Was the old guy shouting? What was Craggs doing in his house, anyway? Was he looking to get the old guy—to get him for what he said when he caught us snooping?

  And the day when Craggs arrived, I remember how the woman from the shop pissed him off, that very first day, how he’d called her a fucking moll.

  Tell me it’s all a coincidence.

  They’ll have called Dad by now. And my case manager. And Bella. She’ll know about this soon.

  It’s all over.

  Joel Strattan, he just gets better and better.

  47

  Wardle and Tremain come in after what seems like hours.

  ‘Your mate’s a bit crook,’ Wardle says with a smug grin on his face. ‘Seems he spent a rough night bedding down in the bush. The mercury dipped to minus two out there last night.’

  I don’t say anything.

  ‘Your father is on his way.’

  Something inside me slumps. Dad. After everything, this.

  ‘And Mrs Pritchard from the Nallerup Store’s here. We just interviewed her. She knows you, of course. Said you collected your mail there and signed the police register while you were at it.’

  I look up.

  ‘You’re not too bad a kid, according to her. Quite polite, she reckons.’

  She must have seen Good Joel.

  ‘Mrs Pritchard says you met Craig outside her shop when he arrived in town.’

  ‘Did you?’ Tremain says.

  I breathe in slowly. ‘Yes.’

  Wardle goes on, ‘She got a good long look at her assailant, seeing he was in there with her for several minutes before he knocked her unconscious. And she says she’s 100 per cent sure that there was only one attacker.’

  Yes.

  ‘Is there anything— at all —you want to tell us at this point, Joel? Bearing in mind the exceptionally serious nature of these incidents.’

  I look at him. I feel so tired. ‘I only want to say that it wasn’t me. I had nothing to do with this.’

  Tremain stands up, nods at Wardle. ‘Righto, then. We’ll go next door into the identification room. We’
ve set up a digi-board.’ He looks at my blank face. ‘It’s a series of digital photo images of people based on witness descriptions. So we can make a positive ID.’

  Jesus fucking Christ. A line-up, a digital line-up.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Wardle says to me. ‘If it wasn’t you, no one’s gunna pick you, are they?’

  They leave the room. There’s a small square of glass above the door handle into the next room. I lean up on the table to see if I can see anything. A door opens, and Craggs comes in with another copper. I feel like I’m hallucinating. This is not really happening. Craggs looks like shit, pale and sick.

  I hope that woman’s got 20/20 vision.

  After about a minute, the door opens again and Craggs gets ushered out. I don’t see him again. Tremain comes back into my room, and this time Dad’s with him.

  48

  I stand up as Dad comes through the door.

  He looks right at me and says, ‘You all right?’

  I nod. I can barely meet his face.

  He reaches out an arm to me, drops it down halfway.

  Tremain slides out the door again, saying, ‘I’ll be right back.’

  When he’s gone, Dad and I are silent and the tension is drip torture. How do you start this conversation? Hey, Dad, how’s it going? I know he is going to go fucking ballistic about this. Maybe not now, not here, but he will, after all the hassle he went through to save my butt first time round. I should have rung him and told him about Craggs coming down when I had the chance.

  There are noises in the next room, chairs scraping the floor and people moving up and down the corridors outside.

  Dad puts his elbows on the table and rests his chin in his hands. ‘I thought everything was going well with you out there.’