‘It wasn’t that desirable a house,’ said Macfarlane. ‘I mean Dalston’s no Stoke Newington. I bought it three years ago because — I don’t know, that’s what you did, between getting a job and getting …’
‘Getting what?’ demanded Collins. ‘Mugged? Rabies?’
‘Married,’ said Mac Reid.
‘You’re married?’ said Collins. ‘Whoa, dark horse.’
‘No, I’m not,’ said Macfarlane. ‘I, er, got cold feet. On the day …’
Collins laughed out loud, quite unashamed to be displaying an impolite, possibly prurient, level of amusement.
‘Why?’ he said. ‘Was she a hairy-toed troll?’
‘Indeed not, she was very pretty …’
Macfarlane was embarrassed, but clearly determined not to equivocate. Bernard had to give him credit for that.
‘But she was someone I hadn’t properly bothered to get to know,’ he said. ‘And because I’d been merrily skating along the surface of my whole life, I didn’t realise that until the week before the big day. All I’d cared about up till then was that she was gorgeous, my friends thought her a catch, and she seemed very keen on me. And that it was high time I was married because most of my friends had already beaten me to it. I hadn’t thought about the future at all, other than to form a fuzzy picture of the two of us smiling at each other across the breakfast table. I’d never talked to Julia about how we’d raise children, or even whether we would have children. I didn’t know if she wanted to travel, if she considered herself a career woman or would prefer to stay at home. I didn’t know if she had any spiritual inclinations or what her politics were. Until, as I say, a week before the wedding.’
‘What happened?’ said Mac Reid. ‘Did you discover her collection of Nazi memorabilia?’
‘Not a million miles from the truth,’ said Macfarlane, with a slight grimace. ‘We’d spent the night at my house in Dalston. We’d agreed it was our last one before we got hitched; Julia’s parents were quite traditional. Plus they were paying for the whole wedding. Which is why I’d agreed to a grey morning suit that made me look as though I was going to a costume party as Sir Godfrey Tibbet from A View to a Kill—’
‘Crank it along,’ said Mac Reid. ‘We haven’t got all day.’
‘All right,’ said Macfarlane, not unfairly aggrieved. ‘This is difficult for me, have a heart.’
‘Wrong person to ask,’ said Collins.
Bernard was quietly thrilled to see Gene quail a little under Mac Reid’s stare.
‘All right,’ Macfarlane continued. ‘So we were at my place, and it being a beautiful day, we decided to stroll around the neighbourhood. First time — usually Julia hopped straight in a taxi and went home to Highgate, or we taxied to Islington for brunch. Perhaps that should have been a clue right there. Anyway, we were passing a council estate that had been recently done up, and Julia said, “I’m surprised by how nice those gardens are. Not what I’d expect in public housing”.’
‘Uh oh,’ said Collins.
‘Indeed,’ said Macfarlane. ‘A little warning bell did sound, but, of course, I ignored it. I was walking with beautiful Julia, my fiancée. I was the squire, the big man about town. Then we came to the edge of the estate, and playing on a patch of grass were three small children making believe that an old plastic washing basket was a car. And Julia said …’
He screwed up his face as if uttering the words would pain him.
‘Julia said: “Look how much they’re loving that basket. Who says poor children need money for toys?”’
Not unexpectedly, Gene Collins and Mac Reid chuckled.
‘Did she offer to give them tea in her gingerbread house?’ Mac Reid enquired.
‘Not that day,’ said Macfarlane. ‘The warning bell was now on full klaxon, so I couldn’t ignore it. But I decided, as is my wont, to make light of it. “Did you not have a washing-basket car in your back garden?” I asked her. “That was all we had room for in mine because of my father’s shed. I always craved a full-size football goal or, failing that, a trampoline.”’
‘And Julia said—?’ asked Collins. ‘I think I’m getting the hang of this now.’
‘She said: “No”. And then she added, “Mummy believed that a trampoline in the garden gave out entirely the wrong message.” ’
‘Did you turn and run for the hills?’ said Collins. ‘I would have.’
‘Of course not,’ said Macfarlane. ‘I completed our walk. During which she came out with other gems, such as “I do so loathe those oversize televisions. They simply cheapen a room” and “Have you ever noticed that neighbourhoods like this have a much higher proportion of fat children?” When we reached home, I put her in a taxi, and then I crawled into my bed and had a nervous breakdown.’
‘Wait,’ said Mac Reid. ‘You said this was a week before the wedding? I thought you ditched her on the day?’
‘Yes, well remembered,’ said Macfarlane, with a sigh. He fiddled with the sugar dispenser, which had a most unhygienic crust around its aperture.
‘I argued with myself right up until the wedding-day morning,’ Macfarlane continued. ‘I’d made a promise; I could work on her way of thinking; my father-in-law-to-be would murder me, etc. But I spent that last night in a cold sweat, not a wink of sleep, and when dawn broke, along with someone’s car window, I knew I couldn’t go through with it. I went around to Julia’s parents’, where she was staying, told her first and then them, and then I went home and told my own parents. I spent the next week tidying up my affairs — renting the house out, quitting my job. And then I legged it.’
‘Hoo, boy.’
Collins shook his head, as if it were the funniest story he’d heard in years. Bernard would not have blamed young Macfarlane if he’d punched the man right in the smirk.
‘OK, terrific,’ said Mac Reid. ‘Let’s get back to the barn. What’s the deal there?’
Was there anything that fazed the woman?
‘Er, well, there’s a cottage, too, and some land,’ said Macfarlane. ‘My plan is to do up the cottage and fit out the barn to accommodate Littleville. It has good access, room for parking. And it’s on — ta da — my private property.’
‘And you paid cash?’
‘Mostly. As I say, it wasn’t that great a house.’
‘You’re unemployed,’ said Mac, as if she’d read Bernard’s mind. ‘Did you borrow from the local gang?’
‘On the Monday after New Year, I start with an IT firm in Hampton. Database administration.’
‘But you hated that work!’
Sidney went bright red, obviously regretting that she’d spoken.
‘My hatred is undiminished. But it pays better than stacking shelves at the supermarket, which was the only other job I was qualified for.’
Macfarlane smiled at her, though she refused to meet his eye. Bernard felt a brief empathetic connection with the young man. He knew what it was to have his affections unrequited. Though with his new, if sadly hindsight-focused powers of observation, he could see that Patricia might have felt exactly the same way about her affections and him.
‘So let’s be clear — you’re staying?’
It was hard to tell if Mac Reid supported or condemned the choice.
‘Is it too much of a cliché to say I have unfinished business?’ Macfarlane replied.
‘You can say whatever you like,’ said Mac. ‘And as you’re now a man of means, you can also go up and pay for our coffees.’
‘I don’t get paid till the end of January!’
‘I’ll get them,’ said Collins, pushing back his chair. ‘You can lead the charge tackling problem number two: how we stop these grasping arseholes blighting our foreshore with a shitty industrial park.’
Chapter 36
Sam
Sam needed to focus on his driving — this was a bad road and he hadn’t had much experience handling the big, black truck. But every few minutes, he would sneak glances at the other three: Tubs in the back, trying to
be all casual and cool with his elbow out the rolled-down window, even though the truck was bouncing in the ruts like nobody’s business. Deano next to him, staring out the opposite window, not said two words since they picked him up from the vineyard. Brownie, in the passenger seat, seemed the most content, smiled when he met Sam’s eye, let out the occasional, quiet ‘Yeeha’ when they hit a particularly deep hole.
Why he felt a need to keep checking on all of them, Sam wasn’t sure. There was no sign that Tubs or Brownie were any less than their usual selves. Deano wasn’t looking great, but then he never did, and his quietness could be down to pulling some serious hours at work, for which, Sam hoped, he was finally getting paid a decent whack.
True to his word, Brownie had talked to the German boss guy, Rainer, and got Deano half of today plus the weekend off. Sam wished he had those same powers of persuasion. He couldn’t even say no to his mum when she asked him to help out with the community Christmas dinner. Sam couldn’t think of anything worse than spending Christmas Day dishing out food to a bunch of people he didn’t know and who were probably a bit, well, manky. He wanted to spend it with his family, same as always. He’d long since been too old to get excited about Christmas stockings and all that kids’ stuff, but he liked the rituals of the day — the rellies coming round mid-morning, someone being voted Father Christmas — usually his dad ’cos of the beard — and handing out the presents, and then the big lunch that everyone helped prepare, and after that the teasing about who needed an old person’s nap and who drew the short straw for the presents that came unassembled and batteries not included, and the calls to play the same stupid board game that only got dragged out of the cupboard once a year.
Didn’t his mum realise that this might be the last Christmas he could spend with them? But, no, his mum had decided needy people were more important, and that it would be ‘a good experience’ for him to help out. And he hadn’t been quick-thinking enough to come up with a plausible excuse.
‘How much further are we bloody driving?’ said Tubs.
‘He means: “Are we there yet, Dad?”’ Brownie put on a kid’s voice.
‘To the end of the road.’ Sam glanced in the rear-vision mirror. ‘Right, Deano?’
Any answer Deano might have given was cut short by Tubs.
‘So how much further is the end of the bloody road, moron?’
‘Shouldn’t have super-sized your lunch, my friend,’ said Brownie. ‘You wouldn’t be carsick.’
‘I’m not carsick,’ said Tubs. ‘I’m sick of being shaken around like a fucken Lotto ball!’
Brownie shook his head in mock despair. ‘Youth of today,’ he said. ‘No stamina.’
‘Well, don’t sweat it,’ said Sam. ‘We’re here.’
The road, such as it was, ended in a patch of grass and a low fence, beyond which was a scrubby, rough track that disappeared into denser bush. Sam pulled the truck as far onto the grass as he could, set the brake and killed the engine. The stillness was both a relief and slightly unsettling, as if they’d intruded on something private and caused offence.
‘Thank fuck for that.’
Tubs banged open his door and jumped out.
‘Woo hoo!’ he yelled. ‘Free at last!’
‘I’m assuming he has no idea how ironic it is he’s used that phrase,’ said Brownie to Sam, as they unclipped their seatbelts.
Sam wasn’t sure what he meant, but decided to laugh anyway.
Tubs went around the other side of the truck and banged on Deano’s window.
‘Rise and shine, cocksucker,’ he said. ‘We gotta get moving.’
It was true. They had a three-hour tramp to the spot where they’d planned to pitch their tent, and they needed to get there before dark. It was three o’clock now, so they should be OK, but this was country none of them knew. The route had been suggested by one of Tubs’s dad’s hunting mates, who said if they couldn’t shoot at least one deer here, then they were all muppets. Sam had studied the map well, but as his dad always said: the map is not the territory. You don’t know what you’re dealing with until you’re right amongst it.
Sam stood looking around at the back end of nowhere. They weren’t skilled bushman, not even Deano, really, though he had more skills than any of them. Sam thought about Jacko Reid, who’d been living up on Carlton Peak for nearly two weeks now. Uncle Gene said that if he didn’t find King by this Sunday, he’d give up. How did you live in the bush for two weeks? How did you go searching through all that dense, dark foliage, over hills and into gullies, and find your way back safe every time? Sam had already made his mates agree that they’d hunt together and not split up. He’d had nightmares of Tubs mistaking Deano for a deer. That kind of thing happened to experienced hunters, and it wasn’t a mistake Sam ever wanted to witness.
Sam could see the tip of Carlton Peak over to his left, behind where they were heading. He found it strangely comforting to think that Jacko was, sort of, in sight. If they got into trouble, maybe it would be Jacko who rescued them, striding over the mountains like a legendary giant …
‘Oy, Sammo!’
Sam turned only just in time to catch the pack Tubs chucked at him. Brownie and Deano had theirs on already, rifles too, slung over their shoulders. Tubs and Brownie had on the new clothing that Tubs’s dad had given them all. Deano wore the old green Swanndri top of his father’s, which came down almost to his knees. With his skinny face and unwashed, matted hair, he reminded Sam of photos he’d seen of Confederate soldiers in the American Civil War, near-dead from starvation and fatigue, their side the losers in more than just battle.
‘You OK, Deano?’ he said, shrugging on the pack.
Deano’s eyes flashed wide, like he couldn’t believe Sam had asked.
‘Yeah,’ he said, and made an effort to smile. ‘Sure.’
‘Well, let’s not fuck about,’ said Tubs. ‘We got everything?’
‘Everything but the moose-caller,’ said Brownie. ‘But if we see one, Tubs can do his usual imitation of a female.’
‘I’m not the pretty one, Pretty Boy.’
‘Come on,’ said Sam. ‘You can fight after we’ve made camp. Which is—’ he pointed down the track ‘—thataway.’
It wasn’t as tough as he’d expected, which made Sam feel more optimistic. The track wasn’t well maintained or anything, but it was visible and the ground wasn’t too rocky or overgrown. They had to cross one stream, but it was barely a trickle. Sam had worried their intended campground would be hard to spot, but at just before the three-hour mark, the trees and bush gave way to a grassy terrace with one side that dropped down to a river running shallow over stones. Ahead lay the hills where they’d go hunting. A much steeper, harder trek than the way in, that was for certain. Sam half hoped that might put them off — well, put Tubs off — going too far in. But Mr Hanrahan expected them to come back with a trophy, and Tubs wouldn’t risk his dad’s ridicule a second time.
‘Should have brought a football,’ Sam said to Brownie, who was surveying the grassy expanse. ‘We could have had a game of touch.’
‘Nah.’ Tubs had overheard. ‘But drinking games? That’d be a big yeah.’
‘Bit hard with no alcohol,’ Sam said, with a grin.
Given that their packs would be heavy enough, they’d decided to ditch anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary. Which included, to Sam’s relief, cans of beer. Tubs sober was a big enough risk as it was.
But out of his pack, with a flourish like a bad magician, Tubs pulled a bottle of bourbon.
‘For fuck’s sake, Tubs! We agreed!’
Sam was more panicked than angry, but it sounded the same.
Tubs frowned, confused. ‘What are you on about?’ he said. ‘We agreed not to take anything we couldn’t carry. I can carry this easy!’
Brownie spoke into Sam’s ear. ‘If it becomes a problem, we’ll deal with it, OK?’
Sam felt better. It wasn’t just him who had to figure out how to keep them all alive.
> ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Come on, let’s help Deano with the tent.’
After a patchy night’s sleep, thanks to a shit-faced Tubs who wouldn’t go to bed and who then snored the tent down, followed by a tasteless breakfast (no one had brought sugar), and two hours’ solid uphill bush-whacking, Sam decided he was genuinely suffering from paranoia. He was convinced (a) that they would never, ever get out of the damn bush, (b) that any deer around were laughing at them, and (c) that Deano was trying to put as much distance between himself and Brownie as physically possible.
That last delusion, weirdly, was the most disturbing. Last night, he could almost have sworn that Deano flinched when Brownie reached over to take his plate. But maybe Deano was finally suffering the effects of too much weed? That made you jumpy, didn’t it? Although the few times Sam had tried it, it made him stupid and sleepy. He hadn’t touched it since he found himself making a balls-up of a simple nail-fastening job at work — just couldn’t focus. If the boss had suspected, he’d have been fired, and then he’d have had to explain that to his parents. Wasn’t worth it. He passed next time a joint came around at a party, and no one gave him too much grief.
Deano, he knew, smoked pretty much daily. And there was always the depressing possibility he’d moved on to harder stuff. Sam had hoped that these new work hours meant Deano had less time for petty dealing, that whoever he was doing it for would cut him loose as being of no further use to them. But maybe Deano was in deeper than ever?
‘Oh, thank fuck.’
Tubs, uncharacteristically in the lead, could see what was up ahead, and they followed him out onto a tussocky, rocky plateau mercifully free of bush. On their left, it dropped steeply away, probably down into a river gully, and in front it carried on upwards in a series of slopes that drew the eye all the way to Carlton Peak, huge now, shadowed blue-black at the top where it hit the clouds.
‘Right.’ Brownie dumped his pack, and propped the rifle up against it. ‘What now?’
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