Kane was standing, lighting his joint. ‘See you round, mate,’ he said. Tom watched him mooch back over to his place, leering at that woman’s house, dragging his heels in case she came out. Tom shook his head and called for Dog. Couldn’t sit here and watch this; it made him sick to the stomach. Better off over at the marina. Have a chat with the boys and take his mind off things. What would they say about a woman writing filth? ‘Carn Dog,’ he said. ‘Let’s get out of this bloody place for an hour or two.’
Danny dropped his last customers at the petrol bowsers at seven-thirty, just as the red of the cliffs was fading, filled up and dropped the boat back at Alf’s. At the café, Jesse was just emerging from behind the counter with her bag over her shoulder. ‘Hey, stranger,’ she smiled.
‘Hey, yourself. Fancy a Chrissie drink?’
‘Why not? Pub or marina?’
‘See who’s down the marina, shall we, seeing as we’re already here.’
‘No worries.’ She linked an arm through his and smiled up at him.
So she was giving him another chance, then. He’d been living the life of a monk lately. Tonight, he thought, I’m buggered if I’m sleeping on my own.
It was the usual suspects hanging around outside the shop, bit more pissed than usual, in honour of the season. Couple of blokes from the island and the beach, old Tom already on his very unsteady high horse about something, poking Gareth from the shop in the chest, making a loud and drunken point. But Rob was there, so he left Jesse with him while he bought a six-pack in the shop. When he emerged, Jesse beamed at him. Rob was telling her a story about how in Danny’s first week on the water taxi job, he’d gone straight into an old jetty without slowing down and had taken out one of the piers. ‘Oh, great,’ Danny said as they laughed. ‘She really needed to know that.’
‘I thought so, mate.’
‘How’d you keep your job?’ Jesse asked, laughing.
‘Alf had buggered his back. He was desperate.’
Behind him, Tom was getting louder and starting to sway about. ‘Easy there, Tom,’ Rob said as he bumped into Jesse.
‘It’s OK,’ she said.
‘These bloody birds today,’ Tom shouted in Rob’s face, gesturing vaguely at Jesse. ‘They’re a bloody disgrace.’
‘Easy, Tom,’ Danny said. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘That bird, for example, pregnant sheila.’
Everyone was silent. Even Jesse’s smile had disappeared. ‘What are you on about?’ Danny said quietly.
‘Bird at Mancini’s. Guess what she does for a living?’
‘What’s that got to do with the price of eggs?’ said Rob.
‘She only writes bloody porn. Women these days. Christ.’
‘Come on, Jess,’ Danny said to her. ‘We’ll go to the pub. Bit feral here tonight.’
‘And she’s letting that wastrel in her boatshed into her bed,’ Tom slurred while a little circle of space opened up around him and people tried to start up other conversations. ‘What is wrong with these people?’ Danny heard him say as they slipped through the shop and out to the car park.
‘That’s that pregnant girl you took home, isn’t it?’ Jesse said as she, Danny and Rob walked up to the pub. ‘That’s who he’s on about, isn’t it? D’you reckon she’s really with that Kane? Someone should tell her what he’s like.’
Rob gave Danny a look over the top of Jesse’s head.
‘She couldn’t really write porn though, could she? Don’t look the type,’ she continued.
‘Hell of a way to make a living, though,’ Rob said. ‘Beat driving a rig, I reckon.’
‘He’s just a pissed old fart,’ Danny said. ‘About ten per cent of what he says makes any sense, and how you’d know which ten per cent is anyone’s guess.’
‘You mates, you and her?’ Jesse asked. ‘Bit weird, isn’t it? Pregnant chick, writing porn.’
‘I’ve just given her the odd lift. Look, it doesn’t matter whether any of it’s true. Point is you listen to too much of old Tom’s ranting and you’ll fill your head with a lot of garbage. But that’s up to you.’
‘Point taken,’ she said, and winked at Rob.
Danny took a deep breath. She was just kidding. He put his arm around her shoulder. ‘You giving me a hard time?’ She laughed, and moved in closer.
At the marina, the little crowd had quickly thinned out to just Tom. The shop had closed quarter of an hour earlier, and the men had all made excuses about getting home for their dinner, wrapping the kiddies’ presents for the morning. Tom took his last swig from the flask in his pocket and went through the empty café area to the car park to pee, Dog in tow. He noticed Alf’s van parked outside the toilets and, not having made up with him yet, decided to piss on the bonnet. He was shaking himself off when he heard breaking glass and voices, a couple of lads. Over near the closed fish and chip shop, two figures were letting themselves into a car. He fumbled for his fly and staggered towards them, pulling out his fishing knife from his jacket pocket.
The boys emerged from the car with a stereo and a pile of CDs, one almost fell over Tom as he turned around. ‘I’m gonna fucken kill you, you little arsehole,’ Tom said, and flashed the blade in the small space he’d left between their noses. Dog took hold of the leg of the boy’s pants in his teeth and gave a low growl.
‘Jesus!’ the boy said. He was only about fourteen, his voice high with shock. All the more reason to teach him how to behave now, Tom decided, before it’s too late. ‘He’s got a knife, Lachie!’ But his mate was gone, running for the train pulling into the station.
‘Lachie don’t give a shit about you, boy, and neither do I. I’m gonna chop you up and feed you to my dog here.’
‘Please—let me go. I’m sorry. It was just a dare.’
‘No, fuck it. I think I’m gonna kill you. My dog’s hungry.’
‘What you got there, Tom?’ came a voice behind him. It was Alf.
‘No cops about tonight, Alf. Up to the likes of us to deal with the criminals.’
‘You gonna chop his fingers off?’
‘I thought I’d just put bricks in his backpack and drop him in the river. I’ve had enough of these little shits.’
‘Want to chop his fingers off first?’
‘Hadn’t thought of that. Why not?’
The boy began to keen. ‘Please. I’m really sorry. Please let me go.’
‘Put the CDs back in the car,’ Alf barked at the boy, who backed away from Tom slowly, threw the CDs through the broken window and bolted after his mate, who’d already reached the footbridge.
‘Wait up, Lachie,’ he shouted, and ran up the stairs two at a time.
‘Merry Christmas,’ Tom called after him. He chuckled to himself. ‘I think he pissed himself,’ he said.
‘Shouldn’t go round pointing your knife at kids,’ Alf mumbled. ‘Draw attention to yourself.’ But he was laughing quietly; Tom could see his big chest wobbling in the dim yellow glow of the streetlights.
‘Well they shouldn’t go round breaking into cars. Come and have a beer, Alf. I haven’t had so much fun in years.’
Alf shuffled for a moment. On the water, some kid belched and laughed.
‘Allergic to beer now?’
‘Listen, Tom. Sorry about before.’
‘Ah, be quiet.’
‘It was stupid.’
‘Well, no one’s ever threatened to award you a Nobel Prize, Alf. Come on. You can get the first one in and I’ll tell you what those bloody dopey docs have been telling me.’
Chapter 12
Jesse was awake before him. He opened his eyes and she was watching his face. ‘Not some freaky-arse stalker, are you?’ Danny smiled.
‘Maybe I am, maybe I’m not,’ she said, and pushed the covers off to get out of bed. A pretty light fell on her, the water outside reflecting from the ceiling so that moving shadows fell on her skin. She was naked, and surprisingly curvaceous and graceful. She was quite boyish clothed, for all her flirtatiousness. He
hadn’t seen much last night. Too pissed for a start. He grabbed her arm and pulled her back into bed.
‘Come here and do some stalking then,’ he said, into her neck.
Danny watched the boats putter in and out of the channel from Jesse’s balcony while she cooked him breakfast. The view from up here was one of the best he’d seen of the river. A bit of elevation, no trees, though he liked the dappled views from the island. You could see up to the freeway bridge, past the village in the west and way down to the last bend before the ocean to the east. It was a gift of a view on a sparkling morning.
Jesse served breakfast with a Christmas cracker, and they wore paper hats while they ate their bacon and eggs. The silly season was in full swing, and there was the odd tourist doing something daft in a dinghy. The sandbar over near the island had claimed its latest scalp; a houseboat was stranded on it, wouldn’t be moving for several hours. A family was wandering about on the sand, maybe ten metres from the rocky shore of the island, poking about in the mud and gazing over at the mainland hopefully. Danny shook his head.
‘You look like you’re somewhere else,’ Jesse smiled into the high morning sun.
‘Nowhere else I’d rather be, Jess. Colour me happy.’
But he’d made an excuse when he helped her with the dishes, and left her with a kiss on the cheek and a long stroke of her bare arm with his forefinger. He sent Alf a text and let himself into the chandlery, borrowed the keys to the boat and backed her out into the river.
It was quiet now on the water as he chugged slowly up the channel past the swimming enclosure and the oyster leases. Just the stranded houseboat and a couple of tinnies between here and the island, maybe five white sails near the bend in the river that took you out to the heads. Coming out of the channel, he passed the ferry.
‘Shout you a beer, Dan?’ Steve called through the open window, on his last run of the holiday shift.
‘No thanks, mate. Errands to run.’
He felt the pull of home and sleep, the island so close. But it was a dream of a day—the smell of the nearby sea, shining blue water, soft breeze, not too many tourists away from the village and the island—shame to waste it in bed. And he’d been waiting for a day off to do this. He raised an arm to Steve, made a sharp turn at the end of the channel and stood, opening up the engine, headed for the broad shining water beyond the railway bridge. The dory was his boat of choice, his oars stroking cleanly through the water, but he enjoyed the power and speed of the Quintrex occasionally, tearing down the river at full tilt, charging towards his destination without effort or attention.
The wind on his face woke him up as he headed towards the dark ridges, spread out in folds either side of the twisting river. He felt he could keep on going right into the centre of the land, on an endless voyage away from people and towards some welcoming source meant just for him.
Travelling upriver, he was putting water and land between himself and the past. How much was enough, though? He should end all this; go round there, get Mum. Give the old man something to chew on while he was there. But what would he do with her? He’d gone through all this before. She wouldn’t come, anyway. He’d pop his dad one and she’d stay there, and get a black eye herself for her loyalty. And then the old bloke’d hunt him down and make his life a misery.
Since that night at the pub, with the bar stools flying and that reject spitting in his face, he’d indulged his little fantasies of violence, and not just towards his dad. When customers got shitty with him about the fare or if he turned up five minutes late, he saw himself smashing their arrogant heads against the hull. It didn’t take much. A bloke the other day had whistled when he’d asked for fifty bucks, and Danny had glared at him, feeling his eyeballs fill with blood.
He ploughed on, the boat skimming onwards without faltering. Danny tried to imagine the land, told himself this was just a little outing, no point in getting carried away. He might not even like it, and where would he find the cash in any case? But as he sped further and further away from the ocean, he plotted and schemed. Dollars and cents; hundreds and thousands. After a while he saw nothing of the wide, shining river, the steep banks of bush tumbling down towards the water. His mind was a blur of calculations: running costs for the boat, profit margins, mortgage payments. Everything was always slowed down by the money he sent back for the girl, but that was the price of sleeping at night—he couldn’t stop that now.
He limited his fantasy to a builder’s cabin. He’d earned enough favours around the river to be sure of a concrete floor, timber for the frame and tin for the roof. He even knew someone with a spare dunny and septic tank. Working the river at all hours in a big reliable boat—you ended up doing favours for all sorts, keeping secrets, saving marriages. It put him ahead. He was grateful for it; it might be what made the difference.
He saw windscreens glaring on the freeway in gaps in the dark ridges of the wooded hills, a man in a dream. He continued with his sums. Save much faster when the boat was his. No wages—he’d do it all himself, every fare, take his business up the river and get well and truly lost. Build when he got an hour or two to himself. Sustain himself with his work in all weathers and in all the river’s temperaments. Take any fare that would pay. There were days it might as well be the ocean and those were the busiest. Ferry not running, people not daring to go out in small, fickle-minded boats. But who’d find him, up here? That was the main thing, starting afresh, beholden to no one. There’d be the instalments to Alf, but that was all right. He wasn’t a man to hold something over you, so long as he was on your side.
He realised he was passing the town, could see the petrol bowsers, people eating fish and chips at benches outside the general store. Almost there. He followed the instructions he’d been given, took the taxi up a little creek on the right about a mile past town, kept going till he saw a jetty with an aqua pontoon. He tied up and made his way past the stand of trees at the jetty to the track beyond. Walked maybe fifty metres along the track, overgrown with gums and tea-trees, to a gate. Beyond the gate the land spread into a sloping paddock that swept up towards the wooded ridge above. He could see there was a nice level building spot towards the top of the property. Once he’d walked partway up he turned and saw the creek below, the water green and glossy, moving quietly over rocks upstream in eddies and whirls.
He carried on up the hill to the spot where he’d build, if it were his. He’d see what the view would be like from the verandah. It was turning into a warm day; the cicadas were loud as he climbed and it seemed a mob of flies had recently hatched. They clung to his damp skin as he climbed. Hot wind blew across his neck. Wouldn’t let himself turn again until he reached the top.
He was soon at the plateau. The bush began about twenty metres beyond the front of it. Dense knots of eucalypt marched away into the endless hills. He turned around. Below, a surprising way down, was his boat, then the wending creek, wide and steady, off to the river around a few more bends. Couldn’t see the river from here, just the ridges that surrounded it. Further upstream he could see wide patches of the creek that were almost sand. Only take the dory up there if you wanted to get out again before high tide. This was a good place, hidden from the world, and you could see visitors long before they saw you, if you built the place right.
He sat on the grass under the hot sun. Sometimes at night, slipping into dreams beneath an old grey blanket grown soft and worn, a picture came: a wooden house, a deep verandah, an orchard, a swing with a tyre hanging from a gum tree. He let the picture come now, dared himself to hope for a moment. Evening after a day’s work, gardening, building sheds. Cold beer in his hand. At last a life that he had chosen, that had not been forced upon him. Could he ask if his girl could come sometimes? He used to be mates with her mum, good mates. They’d known each other since they were kids, though she was a few years younger. Then he’d ruined everything and slept with her after the pub one night. Stupid enough to assume she was on the pill without asking. Never done that again. She was
a funny bugger, though; if the kid had her sense of humour, she’d be a riot. He hoped her mum still laughed. He hoped he hadn’t stuffed that up, too. They had a new family now. That was all decided. It had nothing to do with him. He’d just keep paying what he owed, as long as she needed it, and that was his part in it done.
He stood quickly and began to make his way down the hill. Better not spend too long imagining before he’d heard a price. He was warm and filmed with sweat after his hike, so he slipped down into the creek from his running board, floated on his back beneath the trees, listened to the birds. Naked, cool, light. Let himself dream just a little longer. He could see himself here. It was like a place in his imagination that already existed in his life, somewhere in his past, that he’d rediscovered. If he could keep his head down, save the money, organise things right, he could do it. It’s time to let yourself want something of your own, Danny boy, he told himself. Time to want something and just keep going till you get it. Bugger everything else. Christmastime next year, he decided. I’ll have it all sorted out by then.
The blue of the sky was deepening as Rose stepped from the bathroom wrapped in a towel, hair wet. She’d almost finished a chapter, but despite her shower she was groggy from the warm afternoon spent staring at the computer, the strange, hot barrenness of a Christmas alone, her first not in her father’s house with the three of them quietly pretending to be happy. They’d followed the ritual for so long, she thought now, that they actually had been happy in the end, to be back, to be doing this thing every year that never changed no matter what else did. The girlfriends never came. No one ever talked about it. It was just a rule that didn’t need to be spoken.
The River Baptists Page 11
