90 Packets of Instant Noodles

by Deb Fitzpatrick

He laughs. ‘I like your reasoning. Have you counted them?’

  ‘What? The nails?’

  ‘No—the packets,’ he laughs again.

  ‘Nah,’ I snort. I don’t tell him how I’ve been stopping myself from doing that. I don’t tell him how each one of those packets reminds me of a day I could have been with Bella. ‘Nah,’ I say. ‘Too depressing.’

  Dad has had to have a private reunion with the swimming hole, so I get a bit of time to breathe later on.

  Bella’s letter is waiting for me like something secret. But right now I want to enjoy some time without any new thoughts at all—just for a while.

  Now I’m back here, it’s almost as if nothing has happened and everything has happened. The place is exactly like it was before. There’s a bit of a time-warp effect out here. With no one around, you can exist in a bubble. I can see now why Mr Neville stayed.

  I head out along the ridge path, going quietly in case I come across anyone. Dad might cut back up this way. What I doubt is that he’s familiar with the crops along this path. If I see him, I’ll just say I’m getting some air.

  I’m actually on a mission to re-stock my stash. I’m just gunna pick a couple of handfuls, hide them somewhere dry where Dad won’t find them (as in, not in the shack), and then when I come back after this court bizzo it’ll be ready for consumption. Kind of a good way to end my time in the shack, I reckon, especially after all this. I’m gunna need a bit of relaxation therapy once it’s all over.

  Dad asked me this morning if I feel up to coming back here on my own for my last few weeks. He said that I don’t have to, given what has happened and that I’ve nearly finished the deal. But more than ever before I want to finish this completely. I want to finish it off, for me, so I can know I’ve done it. I want to prove to myself, to Dad and to Bella that I do what I say I’ll do. What feels good is that I know I will do it—and I just hope I’ll feel clear, then, like I’ve done my time and am ready to get back into life.

  Everything’s wet from last night’s rain. My boots soak up the water and change colour. The forest is glistening and clean and there are small puddles in the flat parts of the path.

  As I get nearer, I realise how much fitter I am now. I can do these walks without any pain at all. Dad was struggling when we hiked in, and I gave him heaps about it. I had to carry the food and tell him to stop whining about his knees. I remember that first night I did the hike—I seriously thought I might not make it. It seems like a lifetime ago now. A whole other Joel ago.

  I get to the bend in the track that marks the spot. Through the trees I can see a lighter patch, a sort of paleness in the green where there’s a gap in the forest. I crouch and hide for a few minutes, listening. Nothing.

  Go go go!

  It’s hard to move through bush quietly, especially when your heart’s become a fucking bongo. I make it in, looking around me like an emu on speed.

  No one’s here, Joel, just chill.

  I push through the final section to greet the glorious crop, relieved to have finally made it.

  But the crop is no more. It’s all gone.

  Completely gone. Not trimmed, not harvested, gone. Ripped up. There’s no stems or dying leaves lying about, just a field of dark, healthy soil facing me.

  I think I stand there with my mouth like the Luna Park head for a few minutes, before I snap out of it and realise there’s nothing I can do about it.

  Just get outta here.

  I resist the temptation to crash out onto the trail, and sit and listen for a minute first.

  Everything seems quiet, seems normal.

  I eke forward, testing the water, so to speak.

  All’s cool.

  And then I push my way out to the track and compose myself as if I’ve just been birdwatching or something, chucking a look over my shoulder to make sure there’s no one on a horse behind me.

  I think over everything I know, and some of what I don’t. Who could have done that in the time since I was last there? That’s a major fucking operation, it’s not like pulling out a weed or two in the back garden on a Saturday afternoon. That would have required serious manpower, and a vehicle or something big to haul away the load.

  Maybe that’s what they do, professional dope growers: maybe they don’t pick their produce but yank it all out when it’s fully grown so they never have a crop in one spot for too long. Maybe it’s just a way of covering their tracks. Or maybe—oh, Jesus—maybe the cops spotted it when they paid me a visit the other day. But then why didn’t they say anything? Surely they would have said something about it. Unless they knew whose it was and did a swoop. Or maybe they’ve known about it for ages and they snatched the guy once and for all. And kept a bit for themselves, no doubt. Ahhh ... maybe that’s why Tremain was so out of it when I gave him my statement.

  I shake my head and manage a grin. There’s a hell of a lot of shit going on out there that most of us just do not have any idea about.

  Some might say you’re just small fry, Joel. Small fry.

  There’s one other thing I want to do today. As I walk back towards the shack I scoop up a gum seedling from the side of the trail. Its perfect leaves have red-tinged edges, and I cup the soil in my hands to try to protect the roots as best I can.

  At the half-fallen tree, I cross into Mr Neville’s property. Down in the valley, the view comes as a too-real reminder. Blue and white police tape is staked on the four sides of his house. DO NOT ENTER, POLICE INVESTIGATION, DO NOT ENTER, POLICE INVESTIGATION, around and around, on and on.

  The front door is shut and taped off. I wonder if there’s anything left of what happened inside, any blood or broken things, or if it’s all been cleaned up. I wonder what will happen to the old guy’s things, if anyone will come and collect his stuff, or if it’ll gradually just break down into mouldy piles.

  Looking around, I choose a spot halfway back up towards the ridge. It has a view of his hut. I claw out a wad of earth and nestle the seedling inside, pressing down around the edges. It looks like it will be okay.

  All that’s left of ya is a bit of soil.

  When I turn back around and take my last look down his valley, I feel something settle inside me. Something beds down in me for good.

  I call it Neville’s tree. And I hope it grows huge and old like some of the other widowmakers out here.

  53

  Joel,

  Big news. B-i-g, bizarre, ridiculous news. I think I’m still in denial. It’s probably better that way.

  We’re moving to New Zealand.

  Nope, not kidding. New Zealand.

  Dad says Mum needs a change of scenery because of all the stress with Nanna this year. Mum says Dad needs a change of scenery because of all his work stress this year. And I bet you anything I need a change of scenery because of all the stress with you this year.

  They just decided for all of us—without asking me or Fabian what we want. I mean, talk about completely messing up everything with school, friends, everything. I’ll have to start Year 11 next year at a school where I won’t know any kids or teachers or the system or anything!

  You’ve been awesome about writing to me and holding out for the three months and now look what’s happening—I’m so sorry. I feel absolutely awful about it. I can’t believe there are only a few weeks to go until you get back—you’re a champion, Joel, you’ve done it, you know that?

  We’re leaving on 7 August. A week before you get back. Dad’s screening my calls (as you know). I don’t think I’ve beaten him to the phone once in the last few weeks. My mobile’s still confiscated.

  They’ve enrolled me in some private girls school over there. Private-school girls, how unbearable. They’re either snobby fashionistas or sport psychos. Just another little thing my folks decided on without asking me first.

  Mum keeps saying ‘it’s only for a year—it’s not forever’. But for us—another twelve months? I won’t ask you to hang out for another year. I’d love it if you could keep writing, thoug
h. There’s something really old-fashioned about it. I’ll send my next one to McKinley Street.

  We put on the school play last weekend. Maxy completely zoned out in the middle of his one long speech and had to be prompted by someone backstage. Poor guy, there was this huge silence and a few snickers from the audience.

  Good luck with everything in the next couple of weeks. I bet you’ll be glad to come back to civilisation. Have you grown a beard or done anything feral? Send me some photos when you write, okay?

  I’m so sorry about not being able to keep my end of our bargain, Joel.

  xxxx Bella xxxx

  PS: ‘Nothing that is loved is ever lost.’—Graffiti near Perth train station

  I read her letter over and over before I fall asleep.

  54

  The next day we sleep in and the old man’s like a hyperactive puppy when he boings into my room.

  ‘Joel, get up! It’s such a beautiful day.’ He looks out the window, grinning into the forest. ‘I’d forgotten just how ... perfect it is down here.’

  I roll over and mumble, ‘Go away.’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ he says. ‘I’m gunna do a fry-up—bacon and eggs, mushies, tomato, come on.’

  ‘In a minute,’ I groan into the pillow.

  The remembering always takes a few moments when you wake up. Then gradually the things come at you like waves breaking onshore. Pounding.

  Once I hear him leave, I sit up and stare out at the view from my window. This is the end of it. This is where the Joel–Bella gig dies out altogether. Twelve months. Like she said, it’s hardly even worth trying. I suppose there’s a tiny possibility in there somewhere. There’s always a possibility. But it’s never going to get back to how it was, not after another year, and not after all this.

  The main reason they’re going to New Zealand is because her folks want to keep her away from me. They think I’m the wrong guy for her. (And they don’t even know yet about this latest stuff. Fucking hell—they’d probably take her to Mars if they knew what had just happened.) But you know what? They’re right. It sticks in my throat to say it, but I haven’t been right for her. Right now she should take a raincheck on the Strattan item. And that’s not to say he’s a hopeless cause or anything, because if anyone has convinced me that’s not true it’s her. I will be okay—I am getting there—I’m just taking my own sweet time, that’s all.

  Maybe it’s enough to have been with Bella for a while. Even if we’re not together, she’s still the one who made me not want to do it anymore. That was all because of her. So none of this was a waste.

  The light pierces through a crack in the trees onto my window, making me squint. In the kitchen, I can hear Dad banging pots and cracking eggs into a bowl.

  Home, when I get there, will be barely recognisable. No Craggs just up the road. No Bella. I guess it really will be a new start.

  55

  When we roll up, there are already people hanging around outside the court entrance. It’s like every bogan in Bunbury is here, some with their olds, some with their chick for company. One guy brings along a mate with a prize mullet. I feel like I’ve been in finishing school in Switzerland for the last ten years around these dudes, they’re so seriously tragic. It’s not like I haven’t seen it before, but it’s got a bit of Bunno flayva down here, if you know what I mean.

  At exactly 8a.m. the doors to the foyer are unlocked, and some people start pulling out their paperwork, while others just sit in the school-row plastic chairs and wait.

  We sit. A legal-aid person sets up at her desk in a tiny office off the corridor. People queue for her advice.

  Finally, they open the door to Court 1. Dad says we should go in and wait for Craggs’s case to come up. Anyone’s allowed in here. There’s a chick with a notepad sitting a couple of seats away, all dressed up, and a few other parents-and-friends types sitting around us. It’s a weird scene, sort of a cross between being in someone else’s lounge room and the most formal place you can imagine.

  When the magistrate comes in, a woman stands up and says, ‘All rise,’ and everyone in court stands up while a bloke about Dad’s age gets himself comfortable at the bench. We sit down and the woman calls out the first case. No one appears. Someone goes outside and calls the name loudly down the corridor, but after thirty seconds or so the judge shakes his head, notes it, and announces a fine and a new appearance date.

  Next up is some chick who got busted shoplifting a bikini from the local surf shop. She’s really nervous and doesn’t have a lawyer. Her dad is sitting behind her. She pleads guilty. The magistrate asks her how old she is, and when she says fifteen, he leans forward and says directly to her, ‘Miss Kaplan, I suggest you think very seriously about your plans for the future. You’re young and young people often make mistakes, but learn from those errors, Miss Kaplan. Learn from them. I don’t wish to see you in here again.’ He tells her to return the goods, write a letter of apology to the shop owner and then he slaps her with a $300 fine. It’s all over in about ten minutes.

  It’s actually pretty interesting—in fact, it’s entertaining. Even though I’ve been in court before, I still can’t believe that just any one can come in here and listen to all this personal stuff that people have done in moments of horrendous weakness and stupidity. If it weren’t for the thought of Craggs being one of them, I reckon I’d be enjoying myself.

  A copper stands up for the next one and tells the court that the seventeen-year-old guy sitting in the box was done for his third speeding offence since he got his licence. ‘We caught him doing 107 kilometres per hour in a 50 zone, Your Honour, in a silver BMW 700si.’

  Your Honour flicks through papers and takes as long as he wants to read things before looking up and addressing anyone. For all you know, he might have zoned out. Everyone has to remain completely silent while he shuffles and reads, shuffles and reads.

  ‘Looking at your file, here, Mr Davies, it seems you’re on the student council at Bunbury Grammar, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘And you are in your final year there.’

  ‘Year 12, Your Honour, yes.’

  ‘And this is your third offence in six months.’

  He nods.

  ‘Have you anything to say for yourself?’

  ‘It was stupid and I’m sorry, Your Honour.’

  The magistrate’s head snaps up at that. ‘Apologies will hardly be sufficient when you kill someone in one of your speeding sprees, Mr Davies. In addition, you hold a position of respect in your school community and unfortunately you have proved—three times—that you’re not capable of filling that role. I only have one course of action available to me in a case like this: you are prohibited from driving for twelve months, effective today. Furthermore, this court orders you to attend the driver education program at the Bunbury Outreach Centre. You may reapply for your licence only when you have fulfilled these requirements.’

  The kid sways on the spot like a tree about to fall.

  ‘Next.’

  That’s when Craggs comes in, through a different door, escorted by a cop. Jesus fucking Christ. It really brings it home, seeing him like that. I guess he’s been in remand all this time. He looks tired but cocky—a pretty typical look for Craggs, actually. Tremain comes in and a young lawyer moves over to the other end of the bench and spreads papers out in front. I look around. Craggs’s folks aren’t here.

  In a monotone the woman reads out, ‘Case number 27035, Craig Michael Adams. The charges before the court are one count of manslaughter, two counts of assault with violence and two counts of theft.’

  The whole atmosphere in court changes.

  The magistrate looks at Tremain and nods. ‘Go ahead, Constable.’

  Manslaughter.

  The blood drains away from my head. I have to try hard to concentrate.

  ‘Your Honour, on the morning of 29 July, at approximately 7.30a.m., the home of Mr Robert Neville was unlawfully entered by the defendant, who had in
his possession a .303 rifle. This weapon was the property of Mr Neville, and was registered under the Firearms Act. It is alleged that the weapon was seized by the defendant from outside the residence just before he entered...’

  And on it goes. The thing is unravelled.

  ‘The prosecution alleges ... defendant surprised by the untimely return ... Altercation proceeded ... one shot fired at victim’s abdominal area ... Robert Neville died as a result of injuries...’

  ‘...defendant seen around his house several days before ... same weapon used to violently assault Mrs Pritchard ... chipped cheekbone, bruising and concussion ... Till raided for approximately $150 ... Positive ID made ... Apprehended defendant at farming property with the weapon in his possession ... Prints match defendant’s...

  I am stunned, somehow, even though I already know most of what had happened. I’m trying to fit this with the Craggs I know, the guy I’ve grown up with. It’s scary. He assaulted her with the gun when she tried to call for help?

  There’s a pause and the magistrate says, ‘Is that all?’

  Tremain flicks through his notes and finally says, ‘Yes, Your Honour.’

  ‘Thank you, Constable.’ The magistrate takes a long time writing in his file before swinging his attention to the lawyer, who stands up.

  ‘How does Mr Adams plead to the charge of manslaughter?’

  The lawyer indicates for Craggs to stand up.

  ‘Guilty,’ Craggs says quietly but clearly.

  ‘And to the charges of assault with violence?’

  ‘Guilty.’

  ‘Theft?’

  ‘Guilty.’ His voice drops to just above a whisper.