90 Packets of Instant Noodles

by Deb Fitzpatrick

  ‘It was.’

  ‘Well, then, why...’

  ‘I didn’t do anything, Dad.’ I look at him. ‘I didn’t do this, okay?’

  He stares at me long and hard, like there’s something in him that he wants to let out but can’t. His mouth turns down at the corners in the silence.

  ‘You’re pretty close to the main suspect,’ he says quietly. ‘Too bloody close to that little—’ He closes his eyes a moment. ‘It’s harbouring, Joel. It’s aiding and abetting. Do you know what that is?’ He doesn’t wait for me to answer. ‘It’s when you provide the props but don’t actually do the thing yourself.’

  I look at him. ‘You make it sound like we had this planned or something.’

  ‘No, I don’t mean that. I mean ... you let yourself become involved again!’ He pokes out a finger. ‘One: you knew he wasn’t meant to be at the cabin with you. And two, you knew that he is—that Craggs is—a ... risk to you. I could sense that you’d figured that out when you left, that you were going to start thinking for yourself for a change.’

  Yeah, let’s just get it out there: Joel’s weak. Weak Joel. Pathetic Joel, can’t say no Joel, yes-man Joel, fucking pushover mouse Joel—

  I fume. I did everything I could to stop Craggs except tying him up to the water tank. This time I know: I wasn’t a pushover.

  ‘Look.’ Dad measures a breath. ‘I know you didn’t do this. I knew when they called me that it wasn’t something you would have done. The shop owner’s already said she’s sure it wasn’t you, she saw who smacked her senseless.’ He pauses and gestures to the door. ‘Even the sergeant—Wardle—is pretty confident it wasn’t you.’

  I’m blown away. ‘Then what am I doing here?’

  He turns to me, then, with a full-on muted roar. ‘Why was Craggs down in the cabin with you, Joel? You tell me that and we’ll all begin to understand why you’re here.’

  ‘He just fuc—He just came down. I didn’t invite him. He wrote and told me he was coming and I couldn’t do anything about it.’

  ‘So you agree that you were meant to be on your own for those three months; you knew that.’

  ‘Yes, Dad, I know. I’m telling you, he just rocked up at the last minute—I didn’t even really want him there.’

  ‘Well, you should have done something about that.’

  I laugh at that. ‘Like what? Barricade myself in?’

  He leans forward. ‘Joel, it hurts like hell to admit this, but you need to accept that while you may not have done this yourself, you are most certainly implicated in helping Craggs to do it.’

  I stand up. ‘It’s not like I showed him the old guy’s place, thinking he was gunna go and do something—I would never have taken him there if I thought that. I can’t help that Craggs was born, Dad!’

  He leans back in his chair and runs his hands over his knees, over and over again.

  This is too much. I haven’t done anything. Doesn’t anyone hear that?

  When Dad looks at me again, he shakes his head and I can see he’s welling up.

  ‘Dad, please—’

  ‘I just don’t want you to be here, Joel. You’re much better than this place.’ He takes a slow breath.

  He looks old, sitting there, waiting for the news.

  There’s a heavy scuffling bodyjam outside.

  Dad looks over in that direction.

  I’m sorry, Dad. I’m really sorry.

  When Tremain comes back in, he’s got Wardle with him and a pile of files and papers under his arm. They sit down and Wardle says, ‘Well, there’s good news and bad news. What do you want first?’

  His eyes are magnets. They don’t let me go. After a moment I say, ‘The bad news. I guess.’

  He looks down and takes in a long breath. ‘Robert Neville, your neighbour in the forest, died half an hour ago.’

  Dad covers his eyes with one hand.

  ‘He’d lost a lot of blood by the time he got to Emergency. The Western Power guy said he passed out on the drive to the hospital—he never regained consciousness.’

  There’s a sort of silence around the table that is heartbreaking. The words hang.

  Dad lets out a sob.

  The pain comes in like a rush.

  I liked him, funny old guy.

  He didn’t deserve this. No one deserves any of this.

  I look back up at Wardle. My lips can’t move.

  He leans forward and says quietly to us, ‘But we’ve had a positive ID on the kid, and got his prints off the gun, hair from the house, so ... you’re in the clear, son.’

  Nothing much goes in.

  ‘It was as we thought: Adams, Craig Michael. Admitted it to Constable Tremain over here after a bit of encouragement, shall we say.’

  Dad eventually clears his throat. ‘So ... is Joel going to be charged with anything?’

  ‘Well...’ Wardle drums his pen on the table. ‘Given that Adams corroborated Mrs Pritchard’s story that Joel wasn’t involved, I think he’ll manage to scrape out of this relatively unscathed. You can thank your lucky stars, though, son,’ he says to me. ‘Adams reckons you had a blue last night and he left shortly after.’

  Dad looks at me.

  ‘What will happen to him?’ I ask.

  ‘He’ll appear in Bunbury Children’s Court on Monday, and then we’ll see. It depends on how he pleads.’

  I must look confused, because Tremain explains, ‘If he admits to all the charges, then it’s likely to be a relatively quick process. But if his lawyer decides to contest the charges, it will probably end up in Perth. And there might need to be some psychological assessment done, given his age and some of the things he said in his statement...’

  I look up. ‘Psychological assessment?’

  Tremain treads carefully. ‘He’s saying that he thought it was his father, that he sort of lost grip of reality and didn’t know where he was. I believe there is a history of domestic violence in the home ... That might afford him some leeway when it comes time for sentencing.’

  ‘Joel will need to make a formal statement,’ Tremain says, ‘but we can do that tomorrow. Come back at 9a.m. and we’ll get it down. It shouldn’t take more than an hour.’

  Dad has to sign some forms and Wardle gives him a business card. ‘Nine a.m. Don’t forget.’ He heads towards the door but turns back just as he gets there, nods at Dad. ‘And maybe you should try to get an early night. You both look like you need it.’

  49

  We drive into the centre of Bunbury, down the main strip, looking for a place to park up for the night. They’ve tried to make it look like Freo down here, with cafés and bars and tables on the sidewalks, but it looks pretty try-hard to me.

  It’s about 6p.m. We must have been with the police for hours. The sun’s going down and you can smell the salt from the ocean. Around us, people are going home from work. I get a whiff of how completely abnormal my life is. I should be coming home from school now. I should be choosing DVDs to watch with Bella this weekend. I shake my head. What was that saying she gave me? Einstein? In the middle of difficulty is opportunity, or something? Yeah, well, that’s bloody top stuff, Albert, top stuff. Feel free to show me the opportunity in this situation any time you like.

  We’re stopped at lights. The people cross in front of us as though they know exactly where they’re going. Dad looks like he’s just done a round with Mike Tyson. I look at myself in the side mirror.

  ‘I wanna go to court, Dad.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When Craggs goes, on Monday. I wanna be there.’

  He leans back in his seat. ‘Oh, why, for Christ’s sake?’

  ‘Dad, I have to go.’

  ‘Being there won’t help him.’

  ‘I know. But I have to be there.’

  ‘Joel, he knows you support him without you having to show your face in court, for Christ’s sake. You want to stay out of those places.’

  I keep my voice even and say it again: ‘I’m going to be there on Monday.’ />
  He looks over at me. ‘Well ... then, so am I.’

  We book into this scungy motel out the back of town. It’s the kind of place you imagine people having affairs must go to. I check the sheets for pubic hairs. Clear. There’s no smell of mushrooms and no mice scampering around, so once I’m used to the tackiness of it, I actually feel like I’m staying at the Ritz.

  Now today is over, Dad’s going for the Guinness Book of Records longest silence. He spends about an hour in the shower, and by the time he comes out and sits for an age on the edge of his bed, I’m pretending to be asleep. He stays there, looking out at the black and white lighthouse, for as long as my eyes will stay open.

  50

  Tremain’s late when we go back to give the statement, and hustles us in, a bit embarrassed. He looks like he had a big night out last night. I bet Bunno’s got some fairly scary nightlife on offer.

  Because I’m under-age, Dad comes too and sits through me giving the whole spiel again. A tape recorder is on and Tremain asks me questions when I’m not being clear enough. He tells me it will be typed up and submitted with all the other evidence in court on Monday. I know I’ve just told my side of the story, but I can’t help but feel like I’ve just given evidence directly against Craggs.

  Back in the car, Dad says, ‘Why don’t we go out to the cabin for the weekend?’

  Oh, you’re kidding me.

  ‘I haven’t stayed there for years,’ he says.

  ‘I have.’

  ‘It might help ... you know, get you straight back on the horse, sort of thing.’

  I can tell I don’t have much say in this. Besides, the old man seems cheered up by the idea, and after what I’ve just put him through, I can hardly refuse, can I?

  I look at him. ‘You really want to? That hike’s a killer, remember.’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ he nods. ‘But there’s a shortcut.’

  ‘What?’ No way.

  ‘Yeah, it cuts off a few kilometres.’

  ‘Up along the ridge?’

  He turns his head to me and grins. ‘Yep, the ridge way. Can’t believe you found that already. It took me the best part of a year to discover that.’

  ‘No—someone showed it to me, a guy who gave me a ride into town one day.’

  ‘Hitching, huh?’

  ‘Well, the guy stopped—’

  ‘So did Ivan Milat.’

  I look at him. ‘Yes, Dad. I know.’

  51

  Dad parks the car behind Nallerup Real Estate and we go into the office to check that it’s okay to leave it there for a couple of days.

  ‘Well, there’s been a bit of trouble round here lately,’ the manager says, eyeing me over.

  ‘Yes,’ Dad says, ‘we heard. But apparently that’s been sorted out now.’

  ‘I most certainly hope so. Poor Mrs Pritchard, she’s no spring chicken.’

  The chit-chat rolls on and Dad does his bit, nodding and smiling, and only after a lifetime does he thank her and we get to split.

  ‘Everyone thinks it’s me,’ I mumble, not looking back because I know the old bag’s staring at me through the front window.

  ‘Well, they’re wrong, aren’t they?’ he says, striding down towards the shitty little shop. ‘People think wrong things all the time. And people perceive things differently. That’s why there’s always some war or other happening somewhere in the world. Misunderstandings,’ he says. ‘Misunderstandings and misperceptions.’

  My heart cranks up a notch or three when Dad pulls open the door to what used to be just the shitty little shop. I stall. I don’t know if I can go in there yet, go in and face her.

  Dad turns and looks at me. ‘What’s the matter?’ ‘I ... I ... Maybe I shouldn’t c-c-come in,’ I whisper.

  ‘You most certainly should come in, Joel,’ he says, too loudly, guiding me through the flywire door.

  I brace myself for the woman to hurl her worst at me.

  Instead, some guy’s behind the counter.

  Dad goes off choosing food for the next couple of days, and while he’s down the back I take the opportunity of the woman not being there to check for mail.

  ‘Joel Strattan,’ I say, pointing to the box of mail behind the counter.

  He looks at me. ‘Want your mail, do ya?’

  ‘Yeah, thanks.’

  ‘Yeah, well, my mum wouldn’t mind gettin back what you little punks took from her the other night.’

  Dad pulls his head out of the freezer where the year-old barbie packs are kept.

  ‘They’ve arrested the guy who did it,’ he says, coming over calmly. ‘Your mother identified him herself.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he sneers at me, ‘but you sure they got all the players?’

  Just then Mrs Pritchard comes in from out the back. She has a bulging black eye and the side of her face is all the wrong shape. ‘What’s going on here, Michael?’ she says.

  ‘Just this kid here wants his mail.’

  ‘Oh, hello, son,’ she says, looking at me. She turns back to the guy and gestures outside. ‘Bring in those crates for me, would you?’

  Michael doesn’t go far away.

  ‘Now, you’d like your mail, would you, son?’

  ‘Uh ... Mrs ... uh ... Pritchard, I’m really s-s-sorry for what happened here.’

  ‘Yeah, I bet you are,’ he says from outside.

  Mrs Pritchard looks at me.

  ‘I didn’t have anything to do with it. I had no idea...’

  The guy comes in and leans against the door and stares at me and Dad. There’s this horrible long moment where I feel like I’m in the middle of a Mexican standoff, and any minute now someone’s gunna pull a pistol.

  ‘I know, son. I know. You were just mixed up in something without realising it.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ he mutters.

  Fucking shut up, you loser.

  ‘Thank you,’ Dad says to her. ‘We appreciate that.’

  She nods and shuffles things on the counter. ‘They’ve got the little bugger now, thank God. I just hope he pays for it—properly. Not one of these silly wrist-slaps they dish out nowadays.’

  Michael loads boxes like he’s pumping iron.

  ‘Anyway, things are almost back to normal here. Just need this to settle down,’ she says, gingerly touching her face, ‘and it’ll be like nothing ever happened.’

  I look at the swelling and discolouration and try to imagine Craggs belting her.

  ‘It’s a beauty, eh?’ she says to me.

  I nod weakly.

  She leans towards Dad. ‘My family didn’t want me to come back to work, you know, but I said to them: you can’t waste this life walking around on eggshells.’

  Dad nods.

  ‘No one’s going to get rid of me that easily, I say.’

  ‘Yeah, well you’re not Superwoman, Mum,’ the guy says. ‘Just remember that, too, eh?’

  ‘I just feel so sad about Bob Neville,’ she says. ‘He never got over his father’s death. He must have been about fifteen. It ruined his life, really.’

  I frown, a bunch of bananas in my hand, wondering why the hell Dad bought these. Where am I gunna put them?

  ‘His dad was a tree-feller, back in the days when that was still a job.’

  ‘And what happened?’ Dad asks.

  She shrugs her shoulders. ‘A big blow came through while they were out there felling. I’ll never forget the day. I came here after school, like I always did, to help Mum. She was jittery when I arrived. Said the roof had nearly blown off the store. When we saw the men walking into town, we knew...’ She takes a breath. ‘And Bob was just ... changed after that. He never really came out of the forest.’

  We all stand there in the shop, me holding the bananas.

  After a while, Dad shuffles and pulls out his wallet to settle up. ‘Thank you for keeping an eye on Joel, Mrs Pritchard.’

  Just as we’re heading out the door, she calls, ‘Oh, hang on, your mail.’ She turns and rummages in the drawer that contai
ns this whole town’s mail before coming back with two envelopes.

  One’s from Dad. The other is my favourite olive-green.

  Once we’re off the road, I say to Dad, ‘Apart from the whole of Nallerup, who else knows about this ... about what Craggs has done?’

  ‘This time, do you mean?’

  ‘Yes,’ I croak weakly. This time.

  ‘Well, the juvenile justice team will know, of course. I’m sure they’ll want you to go in there for a debrief. Apart from that, just you and me. And Craggs’s parents, I guess.’

  ‘No one from school?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. I can’t see how anyone else would know about it.’

  ‘Except once it gets in the paper.’

  ‘Well, they can’t reveal names of minors, don’t forget.’

  ‘Yeah, but the word “Nallerup” might raise a few eyebrows in my direction.’

  He breathes out. ‘I suppose it might, yes.’

  ‘I don’t want anyone to know unless they absolutely have to, Dad. At home, I mean.’

  ‘I understand that.’

  ‘I mean, I didn’t actually do anything, so no one needs to know about any of this, right?’

  ‘No. I agree with you.’

  ‘That’s a first.’

  He laughs. ‘And Bella?’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘You going to tell her?’

  ‘I’ll have to. But not for a while, not yet. She’d...’

  ‘Ditch you?’

  I sigh. ‘Yep.’

  ‘Good for her.’

  I turn around. ‘Thanks a lot.’

  ‘Well, I just like a person who knows what they want.’

  ‘Yeah, well, she wants me.’

  Dad coughs.

  I hope.

  52

  ‘That’s ... creative,’ Dad says when he sees the Wall of Noodles. ‘Brightens things up a bit.’

  ‘The cockies like it,’ I say. ‘They hide behind it. You can hear them scurrying sometimes.’

  ‘Any nails left round here for anything else, by any chance?’

  ‘Jeez, Dad. No. But no recycling to carry out, either.’