Review of Australian Fiction, 16:6
Volume Sixteen: Issue Six
Craig Cormick & James Klousia
Zutiste, Inc.
Published by Review of Australian Fiction
“Ned Kelly Visits Captain Scott’s Hut” Copyright © 2015 by Craig Cormick
“Tuesday Fucking” Copyright © 2015 by James Klousia
www.reviewofaustralianfiction.com
Contents
Ned Kelly Visits Captain Scott’s Hut Craig Cormick
Tuesday Fucking James Klousia
Ned Kelly Visits Captain Scott’s Hut
Craig Cormick
There is a sudden pounding on the door that startles everyone in the small hut.
The blizzard is blowing strongly outside and every one of the dozen men there stops what they are doing at once to listen. To make sure it wasn’t a trick of the wind. Or a fancy of the imagination. They’ve had one ear turned for any such sound for days now, while they cooked and mended and took weather records. And each time they ventured outside into that white frosty wasteland, they scanned the southern horizon, searching for any tiny black specks that could be the five men returning.
Then the knock comes again. Definitely a knock.
Commander Atkinson is the first to jump to his feet and shout. ‘Open the door. They’re back!’ But his eyes are wide with apprehension. He’s been haunted by dreams of this moment for weeks. They open the door and some ice monster stumbles in, the remains of their comrades in its bloodied mouth, flailing icy claws at them.
Petty Officer Thomas Crean is the first to spring to the door. The tall Irishman had stationed himself near the door for just this task for the last few weeks. He was bitterly disappointed when the Owner had not chosen him for the final assault on the Pole, but he is as loyal as a wolfhound and has not a bone of resentment in his large body. He would have pulled the Owner’s sled until after he had died if needs be.
But before Crean can even unlatch the door it is shouldered roughly open and four figures stumble into the hut, a jumble of arms and legs and whirling snow. Atkinson takes a deep breath in, looking for blood and furry limbs. But no, they are men. The crew rush to help them to their feet, to assist their comrades, but the leading figure waves them back. He is holding a pistol. And then the men in the hut see that his woollen helmet is a metal one. All four men wear metal helmets. What does it mean?
‘Get back and give us some room,’ the lead figure demands in a strong Irish accent.
The crew men all look to Atkinson, the expedition leader. But Atkinson’s face mirrors the confusion on all their faces. ‘What… what… is the meaning of this?’ is all he can manage.
The lead figure struggles for a moment with his heavy iron helmet, before shrugging it off and dropping it to the floor beside him. It lands on the wooden floor with a loud iron clang. ‘Bejeezus, it’s cold out there,’ he says. His thick beard is covered in frost, and his eyes have a wild victorious look to them. Not unlike the ice monster of Atkinson’s dreams.
Unable to say any more, Atkinson looks to Tom Crean, who has been bowled over by the men. He is now climbing back to his feet, and Atkinson can see him sizing up the newcomers, ready to jump them. But Atkinson, completely unsure how this might all play out, says, ‘Come over here, Tom.’ Then he turns to the first armed intruder and demands of him, trying to muster up sufficient bluster for the task, ‘Explain yourself! Who are you, sir?’
‘The name’s Kelly, Ned Kelly,’ the man says flatly.
‘Whose men are you?’ Atkinson demands.
‘We are our own men,’ Kelly replies, and bangs his chest with the butt of his pistol. It rings of iron too.
‘But how did you get here? And what do you want?’ Atkinson asks. The only other people who could possibly be out on the ice are the Norwegians.
‘Ah, we’ll get to that presently,’ says Kelly. ‘Why don’t you gentlemen all just take a seat first.’ He waves the pistol at them again. One by one the crewmen all sit down around the long table in the centre of the hut. Crean and the other seaman have their own smaller table near the door, but Kelly says, ‘All together now. There’s no need for class differences here, is there?’ At the urging of his pistol the seamen join the long table, taking the places of the absent Polar Party.
The three men who came in with Kelly are now trying to get their helmets off too. But one of them has clearly let the cold metal touch his face. He yelps in pain as his comrades try to lift the great metal thing from him.
‘My nose!’ the man squeals. ‘It’s stuck to my nose. You’re pulling my bloody nose off!’
Apsley Cherry-Garrard, the expedition’s timid young assistant zoologist, who has a finer eye for detail than any of the men he has lived with for the past year, raises a hand, like a boy in school might do. Kelly turns to him and asks, ‘What is it?’
Cherry-Garrard speaks slowly and carefully, ‘You must let it thaw out first, or separate the skin from the metal with warm water, or…’ With a scream, the helmet comes free and the poor young man falls to his knees clutching at his nose. Blood trickles between his gloved fingers.
Atkinson feels faint. The dream was a premonition, certainly.
‘Snow will stop the bleeding,’ Cherry-Garrard says, but the one called Kelly ignores him. He glances quickly at the young man’s injury and says, ‘I’ve seen worse. He’ll be alright.’ The young man doesn’t appear to agree though, howling against the pain, until Kelly says, ‘Shut it, Steve.’
The man then sits down at the seamen’s table near the door, nursing his wound and whimpering like one of the dogs in a blizzard.
‘How about a drink then to warm us from the cold?’ Kelly says. He waves the pistol again until Atkinson nods his head. The cook fetches a bottle of Scotch.
‘Now that’s sure to be a nicer drop than we’re used to,’ says Kelly, pouring himself a liberal drink into an empty mug on the table. Then he pours one for each of his three companions and pushes the bottle back to the men at the long table. ‘Let’s all be having a drink to good times,’ he says.
‘We’ve been saving it for the return of Captain Scott’s party,’ says Atkinson defensively.
‘Ah, now there’s an interesting topic to be raising,’ says Kelly. ‘Isn’t that right, Joe?’
‘Very interesting,’ the man beside him says. He is clean-shaven and looks less wild than his leader.
‘And when would you be expecting his return then?’ Kelly asks.
‘Surely any day now,’ says Atkinson. Surely.
‘They’re overdue,’ offers one of the other men. ‘We thought you might be them.’
‘Good, good,’ Kelly says, stroking his still-icy beard. ‘Now, you’ll all just go on about your business like nothing untoward is happening here.’ He waves the pistol at them once more. But nobody moves, as if the idea of having any other business except sitting prisoner to these men was an incomprehensible notion.
‘What do you want?’ Atkinson asks. Kelly turns to the one he called Joe. ‘He’s after asking what we want, like there could be any number of possibilities.’ Then he looks to all the seated men and says, ‘The prize!’—his eyes glittering.
‘The prize?’ Atkinson asks.
‘Yes. The papers have been full of it.’
It takes the crewmen a moment to understand. These men have come to rob them of the prize of attaining the Pole! As if it was something you could seal up in a strong box and lock inside a bank.
‘So we are all going to have a little drink, and maybe share a song or two,’ says Kelly, ‘and wait for this fellow Scott to arrive.’
The fourth intr
uder, also a young man, looks at the sullen eyes staring at them and says to his leader, ‘Remember Stringybark creek, Ned. We don’t want to see it turn ugly again.’
‘Not if it can be helped, Dan,’ says Kelly, ‘And that couldn’t have been helped. They was stupid enough to go for their guns when they should have just surrendered.’
‘I’m just saying,’ the one called Dan says.
‘And well said too,’ says Kelly. Then he says to the crewmen, ‘I don’t need to warn you what happens to any man who gets other ideas into his head, do I?’
The one called Joe pulls out a shotgun from under his coat and says, ‘No. I don’t think anyone will be getting any other ideas into their heads, Ned.’
Atkinson sees Crean lower his eyes to the table. The tough Irish sailor has clearly had other ideas already, but is now reconsidering them. All the intruders have guns out now, even the one with the nose wound. The hut is totally silent for a moment, the rising roar of the blizzard outside reminding the polar crew, as it does almost every day, that they are constantly captive to capricious rages.
‘So,’ says Kelly, ‘Why don’t you put on a brew or make us all some dinner. We don’t want Captain Scott going hungry when he arrives. He’s bound to be cold and done in.’ Nobody moves for a moment until Kelly gestures to the cook with his pistol. The man moves slowly over to the stove, and begins moving pots and pans about. ‘That’s the way,’ Kelly says. Then he turns to the one he called Joe, and says, ‘Why don’t you stand first lookout and let me know at any sound of horses.’
Cherry-Garrard puts his hand up again. ‘They will have no horses. They were eaten.’
‘Eaten?’ says Kelly, in amazement. ‘That’s a very desperate thing to be doing.’
‘It can be a desperate land,’ says Atkinson defiantly. As if that explained everything that needed to be said. As if there was a universality to his British understatement that these men would understand and respond to.
But all Kelly says is, ‘Yes, we know a lot about desperation.’ Then he adds, ‘This would not be my first choice for a land selection, that’s for certain.’ He looks at the men seated before him who glare at him, as if that had somehow offended them. They both love and hate this land, he can see. They carry its hardships like sashes of valour. And that is something he understands alright. He knows how the land can shape a man. Can grind him down, sucking all his sweat and blood into it. But this land is so white and pristine, surely it’s never seen death nor bloodshed on it. And it would be a pity to ruin that. So he smiles and says, ‘We’ll have a grand time waiting. Who knows a good tune or two?’
Still none of the crew responds.
‘Not a very lively lot, are they,’ says the one called Dan.
‘Not to worry,’ says Kelly, seating himself at the seamen’s table, ‘As long as there’s no brave folly. We’ll all just make ourselves comfortable and wait for Captain Scott to arrive. As your man there said, he’ll be along with that prize any time now, yes.’
He looks around the hut and sees the way Atkinson is staring at him. Like a man filled with sudden despair. ‘And what would you be staring at in such a way?’ Kelly asks him.
Atkinson says nothing for a moment, then, ‘I saw you in a dream. Coming into our hut like this.’
‘Did you now?’ says Ned, his eyebrows climbing up on his forehead. He’s always been interested in dreams. Has great belief in their power. ‘And how did it end up?’
All Atkinson says is, ‘Badly.’
Tuesday Fucking
James Klousia
He had an hour each Tuesday. She was supposed to arrive at six-thirty p.m., but would usually get to his place anywhere between six and seven. When they had finished making love—she preferred to call it fucking—he would dress quickly while she took care of herself in the toilet, and then sit on the edge of the bed and listen to her talk. She’d lay on the sheets, fully naked, and tell him the wildest stories about her week in reverse.
She’d tell him what she had for dinner, what movies she had seen, who was sleeping with who on Neighbours, while he would make a mental note of the changes to her body. Her breasts, so perky and taught ten years ago, had drooped. Her nipples were now always red and irritated, the areola chafed. He could smell the moisturiser that she’d slathered on them.
Every week something new and exciting had happened to her. He was amazed at the variety in her life, though it was strangely terrifying for him to imagine. He once asked if her stories were made up, but she’d threatened to slap the sense out of him. He didn’t ask again.
Yesterday arvo, I went to Launceston to do a bit of shopping. I got halfway to Campbell Town and my engine started making a clunking sound. Thumpa-thumpa, thumpa-thumpa, thumpa-thumpa. A guy in a ute pulled over behind me. Really big arms. He reckoned it was some rod or something, so I ended up waiting an hour for a bloody tow truck back to Hobart. Then the mechanic tells me it’s not even worth fixing. Bastards. So I sold it to him for scrap. I needed the money anyway, but he totally ripped me off.
Her face had changed the most drastically over the last decade. She’d quit smoking five years ago, but her lips still crinkled at the corners when she spoke. The edges of her eyes were lined, as though she were permanently squinting at the sun.
I’m thinking about changing my hair colour, just to spice things up a bit. Maybe doing something crazy, like red. I think I’d make a sexy redhead. Maybe even shave down there so no one will know the difference. What do you think?
She had two tattoos. One was a turtle on the instep of her foot, the other was the word angel across the small of her back. The angel had become slightly mottled from the small amount of extra cushioning around her midsection. He guessed that she’d gained about ten kilos over the years, but knew better than to ask. It was a different attractiveness, one he’d warmed to over the years, his taste maturing with her changing looks.
He once asked what her tattoos meant, but she just shrugged. She’d gotten the turtle on her eighteenth birthday because she thought it was cute, and the angel was what her daddy always called her.
On Sunday, I had tea at that little pub off Liverpool, that one with the fireplace. One of my clients from a few years back walked in with his wife—she must have been a hundred and fifty kilos—and they sat down at the table right next to me. They were halfway through dinner when he saw me—right as he was drinking a pint of beer—and he spat beer all over her. She tipped back her head and cackled like a two-stroke starting on a cold day.
He loved hearing her laugh. His laugh was a measured ha-ha-ha, a precise three syllables. But when she laughed, the mirth shook her entire body. It reminded him of the way his mother used to laugh. He also liked watching the way her breasts jiggled—this didn’t remind him of his mother.
A couple of years ago, she’d begun using lubricant. He’d nearly stopped seeing her then; he hated the greasy ring it left around the base of his penis (she preferred to call it cock) and on his sheets. But her rates hadn’t gone up for three years, which he thought was excellent value for money. So instead of finding someone new, he washed the sheets every Tuesday, just after she left.
On occasion, she offered to spend the night for an extra two hundred dollars, but he always declined. It wasn’t that he couldn’t afford it; the idea was simply not pleasing to him. She sometimes offered new services, tried to excite him with role-playing or other indelicate things that made him uncomfortable. One time she brought a black plastic toy shaped like an engorged penis. But he wasn’t interested. She asked him once whether he had any imagination at all, and he told her not very much. She’d laughed so hard she snorted.
In this small town in America, they had this case of a bunch of girls from the same school all getting pregnant at once. Like six or seven girls. Apparently, the teacher showed the students how to put a condom on using a broomstick for a cock, but forgot to explain the part about how it’s actually supposed to go on the dick. When the parents sat them down, the girls swore t
hey put the condoms on the brooms just right. She drumrolled across her knees. When I was in school, they used bananas.They’ve been my favourite fruit ever since. She checked her watch, chuckling. OK. Ten minutes left.
Although her arrival time varied, she always left exactly one hour later. There was never any kissing during the fucking—it was her only rule—though she always pecked him on the cheek as she left, making his face burn red for a few minutes afterwards.
Then, after he had changed the bed sheets, he would cook himself steak with potatoes and broccoli. He’d also have a glass of red wine.
Did you see the news last Friday? The story about how much sugar is in everything and how it’s killing us. Apparently a glass of orange juice has as much sugar as a can of bloody Coke. Here I was drinking a glass of OJ every morning thinking that I was being all healthy, when really I could have drunk Coke!
Every four weeks their routine changed. He hadn’t understood the first time she explained to him about feminine cycles, as though she was somehow trying to cheat him out of his money. But she offered a pleasant alternative, and now he looked forward to receiving his medicine orally—she preferred to call it a blowjob. Every four weeks, he allowed himself chocolate for dessert, to coincide with this extra treat.
He loved the way she put her socks on. There was no rhyme or reason to it. Last week, she had slipped the right foot on first, this week it was the left. He’d made a mental tally over the last decade, and she obviously favoured the right foot—at a proportion of about three to one. But he couldn’t find any pattern in it. He put it down to whimsy—something he would never understand.
She once told him he was like clockwork, which he thought was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to him. On Sunday, he ironed his shirts for the week and made spaghetti for dinner. He ate the leftovers on Monday and Wednesday. For breakfast every morning he had plain porridge (with one spoonful of honey) and a single cup of coffee.
Review of Australian Fiction, Volume 16, Issue 6 Page 1
