1988

by Andrew McGahan

  ‘Well . . . ’ said Wayne.

  ‘You make money outta this?’

  ‘No.’

  Barry shook his head, turned back to his gear. ‘Don’t touch anything else. Those scuba tanks, just bump ‘em wrong and they’re fucked. I’ll load it all in the truck tomorrow.’

  He headed off. Kevin lingered on our verandah a moment, looking at us, looking at Barry. Maybe he was remembering all the ticks Wayne had pulled off him. The bed he’d offered. The food we’d given.

  Barry glanced back. ‘C’mon dog.’

  Kevin went.

  Barry was to stay for three days. On his first night Vince held a dinner for us all. Russel and Eve were invited, but declined. It wasn’t much of a meal. Vince was looking bad. Drunk, dirty, tired. Barry was the only one of us with energy. He swigged back beers, sucked on Marlboro Reds.

  ‘You been keeping Russel busy?’ he asked Vince, ‘Got him mowing the grass?’

  Vince was struggling with a glass of scotch. ‘I haven’t got Russel doing anything.’

  ‘He’ll mow it alright. It’s the only thing the lazy bastard will do. He’s shit scared of snakes. Hates long grass.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  We sat around after dinner, listening to Vince’s music. Barry couldn’t sit still. He roamed about the room, looking at things. The maps on the wall, the chart of aircraft silhouettes.

  ‘Can’t say I envy you Vince,’ he said, ‘Stuck here for two years. The bastards tried to pull that on me too. I didn’t mind six months or so—I got some fishing in, some diving—but not two years.’

  Vince gave a sour look to Wayne and I. ‘I haven’t done any fishing.’

  ‘Why not? Great fishing out there.’

  ‘The outboard on the boat, it’s stuffed.’

  Barry shrugged. ‘I’ll have a look at it tomorrow. I wanna get out on the reef one last time. Pity the cruiser’s not here.’

  ‘What exactly happened to the cruiser?’

  ‘I took it. Once I realised they planned to keep me in this shithole forever, I jumped in the cruiser and sailed straight to Darwin. Told them I wasn’t going back. I’m too senior for a one-man post. It was command of a proper station or I quit.’

  ‘And you got it?’

  ‘Sure. And the cruiser was due for a service anyway. They kept it there. Thought you’d have it back by now.’

  Vince drank, said nothing.

  Barry turned to Wayne and I. ‘What about you two? Done any fishing yet?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll take you out, when I’ve fixed the outboard. What about crabs? Big muddies around the mangroves. You gone after them?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What’ve you been doing all this time? You finished your book yet?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘How many you got published?’

  ‘None.’

  He laughed. ‘So where d’you get off calling yourself a writer?’

  He went off in search of another beer. The rest of us looked at each other. There seemed nothing to say. We’d all been lied to, this man had no problems, he was in complete control. It was worse for Vince. The Commission had suckered him. Nervous breakdown, emergency replacement . . . it was all bullshit. He stared into his scotch glass, swirled the ice. We waited for Barry to come back.

  Late next morning he was knocking on our door. He’d fixed the outboard motor, he said. It’d taken only a few minutes. Vince had missed something obvious. So, were we ready to go fishing?

  I said, ‘We have to do the weather in a couple of hours.’

  ‘Get Vince to do it. He’s not interested in fishing anyway. C’mon, you can’t say you’ve seen the Territory if you just sit on your arses all day.’

  So we went. We gathered a few reels and lines, then drove down to the bay. The boat was there, with the outboard re-attached. We shoved off and climbed in. Barry took the wheel, gunned the motor and we were on our way. Wayne and I sat forward, hunched on the small bench. We weren’t enthusiastic. I had no real interest in fishing. I didn’t even like fish very much.

  It was overcast, the ocean grey. We powered along at speed. The bay widened out and we hit a low, smooth swell. I looked back at the coast. Eventually I could see the lighthouse. Its lower half was hidden by trees. There was no sign of the houses or any other part of the compound. It looked insignificant, small. Passing by I would hardly have thought there was any reason to stop and visit.

  Still, we were out on the ocean. There was fresh air, salt spray and the call of the sea. I began to feel better about things. I stood up with Barry at the wheel, got the wind in my hair, stared out at the flat horizon. It was the Arafura Sea. The great Asian archipelago. If we kept heading north the next stop was East Timor. Or Indonesia. China. It wasn’t even very far. Two days, three days. Even a boat of this size might make it.

  We got about a mile out. Then Barry pulled back on the throttle, looked at us. ‘You guys know anything about fishing?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘See up ahead, where all the birds are?’

  We looked. There appeared to be a reef, a dark line just under the water, awash with white foam. In a wide arc around it were seagulls. They were hovering, diving, riding on the water. ‘Where the birds are,’ Barry explained, ‘The fish are.’

  He started inspecting the lines and the reels. He selected two, gave one to Wayne, one to me. I looked at the reel. The line. The hook.

  ‘What about bait?’

  ‘Don’t need any. There’s a whole school down there, feeding. They’ll snap at anything bright and shiny.’

  We approached the reef. The seagulls lifted, wheeled away. Barry stood in the centre of the boat, steering, watching. Then he gave the command to throw in the lines.

  I unravelled a few metres and tossed the hook over. Wayne did the same on the other side of the boat. I studied the water. I couldn’t see any fish. I couldn’t see anything. We chugged in a broad circle around the rocks. My line trailed away behind. No one spoke. I wondered if I should be slowly drawing the line in. Lure the fish. I didn’t do anything. I stared at the distant coastline.

  ‘Hey,’ Wayne said.

  Barry cut the engine. ‘Got one?’

  Wayne was staring at the line jumping around in his hand. ‘I think so.’

  ‘Well go on, pull the fucker in.’

  Wayne began tugging in the line. It looked heavy, digging into his fingers. The fish started circling. Wayne went with it, stumbled around, arms and legs waving. Barry yelled advice. I sat in my corner, rocking up and down. Finally we could see it, a large, silver fish in the water. Barry took hold of the line. Together he and Wayne managed to heave it over the side. It flopped about on the bottom of the boat, a foot and a half long, all scales and muscle. Wayne danced, keeping his feet out of its way. He sucked painfully on his fingers.

  ‘Well,’ said Barry, ‘Pull the hook out.’

  Wayne stared at the fish. ‘How?’

  ‘Just stamp on its head and rip the hook out.’

  ‘I’m not wearing shoes.’

  ‘It won’t bite.’

  Wayne shuffled, looking for a good angle. He lowered his foot gingerly, caught the fish around the tail, lost it altogether. Blood was pumping out of its mouth, the eyes bugged. Barry finally strode over and dropped one booted foot directly on its head. I could hear the jaws crunch. He grabbed the hook and worked it out. Then he dumped it in the bow cavity. ‘There. That’s how it’s done.’

  The fish bounced a few more times, gulping, then lay still.

  ‘What sort is it?’ I asked.

  ‘Queenfish.’

  ‘It’s big.’

  ‘Big? That’s nothing.’

  Then there was a tug on my line, and it was my turn.

  We pulled fish out of the sea for about an hour. There were two types, Queenfish and Trevally. We had sixteen when Barry decided it was time to quit. The floor of the boat was spattered with blood and muck. I didn’t know the corr
ect terms of weight or measurement, but all the fish were large. I was glad it was over. My arms were tired. There were cuts on my fingers. And I was bored.

  We motored back towards the bay. I smoked a cigarette. Wayne sat next to me, silent, staring out. He’d enjoyed it even less than I had. Barry had been hard on him. Wayne just didn’t have the knack. He pulled the line the wrong way, let it slip, couldn’t get the hook out clean. Barry didn’t believe it. Everyone could fish. What sort of idiot was Wayne.

  We were halfway in. Then Barry saw something. He turned the boat. We looked. It was a lone platform of coral, about a yard wide, just awash with water. We circled around it. From certain angles it looked as if there was no coral there at all, just ocean. Barry was excited. ‘I’ve got an idea for a photo.’

  He’d brought his camera. It was a big and expensive one. He outlined the plan. We’d pull up next to the coral and he would climb out. Then Wayne and I would pull away in the boat and get a photo of him standing there. The idea was that from the right position, it would look as if he was standing unsupported in mid-ocean. It was the sort of thing, he said, you sometimes saw in People magazine.

  Which settled that question.

  ‘They’re all yours?’ I said, ‘The People magazines around the lighthouse?’

  ‘Yeah. They’d love a trick shot like this.’

  We idled in, bumped up against the coral. I took the wheel, Wayne took the camera, and Barry climbed out. We moved away. Barry stood there. Alone, on a tiny wave-washed platform, a half mile from shore, in shark and crocodile infested waters.

  ‘Leave him there,’ said Wayne.

  I played with the wheel, bounced the boat around. The waves seemed bigger suddenly. ‘I’m not sure I can get back there even if I want to.’

  ‘What’s his fucking story, leaving us in charge of the boat? Doesn’t he care about his life? About ours?’

  ‘People magazine. They love that trick photography.’

  We were at the correct angle. Barry waved and yelled. Wayne took photos. Then it was time to get him back. It took me about fifteen minutes. I charged in too fast and had to swing away, or came in too slow and got washed off course. Barry shouted abuse and instructions. Finally we had him. He shoved me aside, took the wheel. Got his camera off Wayne.

  ‘Hope you took the bloody lens cap off.’

  Wayne didn’t answer. The boat turned for home. We sat up front again, waiting for the day to end, sixteen dead fish at our feet.

  THIRTY-ONE

  The day wasn’t over. We beached the boat and deposited the fish in the back of the Toyota. Then Barry announced it was time to go after crabs.

  ‘Crabs?’ I said.

  ‘Sure. The tide’s going out. The mudflats are there. Let’s go. Better get your shoes on Wayne. The bastards’ll take your toes off.’

  He strode off, following the beach towards the mangroves and the mud. All Wayne had was a pair of old tennis shoes without laces. He pulled them on.

  ‘I don’t want any crabs,’ he said, ‘Why do we have to catch crabs?’

  ‘Don’t ask me.’

  We followed him. Off the beach, into the mangroves. Wayne pointed to some marks in the mud. ‘Are those tracks?’

  They were. There was the furrow with the clawed footprints either side, just like I’d seen before. But these were new. Two sets. They led from the water into the darkness of the mangrove.

  ‘Hey, Barry,’ Wayne said, ‘Aren’t they crocodile tracks?’

  Barry looked back, nodded. ‘Don’t panic. If a croc comes at you, you can always paint it.’

  Wayne stared at him. I wasn’t too happy myself. I was no expert, but the tracks didn’t look very old. They just looked big. I moved away from them, out into the mud. Wayne came behind more slowly. I had better shoes than he did. I was wearing ankle-high boots.

  ‘How do you catch crabs anyway?’ I asked Barry.

  ‘Easy, fuck the wrong woman.’

  ‘Seriously.’

  ‘Just pick them up. The crabs that is, not the women.’

  He was a charmer alright. We waded about. The mud sucked and pulled at my boots. The flat was bordered mostly by mangrove, and on the far side was the mouth of the creek. A slow current oozed out, black. The mud got deeper. It was reaching my knees. Walking was difficult. My boots were coming off. It was fine for Barry. His boots were calf high and tightly laced. He was striding from spot to spot, peering at the muck.

  I stood still, examining the situation. We were maybe ten yards from the mangroves. Sandflies buzzed, wood creaked, small waves lapped. Wayne had stopped too. We watched Barry.

  I said, ‘Have you ever caught crabs here before?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Have you ever tried here before?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘How do you know they’ll be here?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  I looked at Wayne. He looked at me. We both looked at the crocodile tracks.

  We could die with this man.

  Barry had crossed the mudflat and was standing in the mouth of the creek. ‘I don’t think there’re any crabs here. But I’ve caught barramundi in this creek before. I should’ve brought the lines.’

  ‘So what now?’

  ‘Well, we could go out to the headland and get some rock oysters.’ He glanced at us. ‘Hey, I wouldn’t stand there too long. Those crocs are territorial you know.’

  ‘Fuck.’ I went to move, couldn’t. I’d sunk. The mud was over my knees. I could feel my foot sliding out of the boot. ‘Shit.’

  I looked at Wayne. He was in trouble too. We should never have stood still. From there I looked to the shore, to the mangroves. Anything could be hiding in there. Anything about fifteen-feet long, low, covered with thick hide and endowed with a huge, man-killing mouth. And fast. I’d heard about how fast. I remembered being told once that if I was ever being chased by a croc I should run in diagonal spurts. Crocodiles were supposed to be slow at changing direction. Was that true? Did it even matter when I couldn’t move. I tugged furiously at my feet.

  Barry was cutting across the far side of the flat, back towards the beach. ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘We’re stuck.’

  ‘Just rip your feet out, it’s no place to hang around.’

  ‘Then why the fuck are we here?’

  I was panicking I knew, but there was no stopping it. I ripped my foot out, leaving the boot behind. Then the other foot. I turned and dug in the mud. The boots had vanished. I glanced repeatedly at the shore. It’d come in an explosion of speed. I’d have maybe three or four seconds of terror before the end. Fuck Barry, fuck the boots. Were they worth my life? I found one, heaved it out. Then the other. I took off, running in big, high, running steps towards the beach. I poured the mud from the boots as I ran.

  Wayne was ahead of me. Bare feet. No shoes in his hands.

  Barry was waiting, smiling.

  ‘You really should’ve worn better shoes.’

  Wayne was furious. ‘You didn’t tell us.’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious? This isn’t downtown Brisbane. C’mon, we’ll check out the rocks for oysters.’

  He marched off. He couldn’t be real. He was a curse. A punishment for something we’d done, something we didn’t even know about. All we could do was follow. He took us up through the bush and then out onto the headland. It was a broad shelf of rock, pocked and barnacled, exposed by the tide. We waited and watched while Barry clambered around, poking at things with his knife.

  ‘Here we are,’ he said.

  We went over. He had two flat shells. He pried one open, gouged out the mussel and slurped it down. ‘Beautiful.’ He opened the next one, looked at us. ‘I don’t suppose either of you two are game?’

  ‘Not me,’ I said.

  Barry looked at Wayne.

  Wayne looked right back. He’d been pushed far enough. ‘Okay,’ he said.

  Barry dug out the oyster. Wayne took it, sat it on his tongue, swallowed. It went down. It sta
yed down. I was impressed. Wayne had struck a blow. It wasn’t until we got back to the Toyota that he began vomiting.

  Barry and I watched him.

  ‘Maybe it was off,’ I said.

  Barry shook his head, got in behind the wheel.

  We drove home, got out. Wayne still looked a little queasy. His face was red. Anger or embarrassment, I didn’t know which. He headed straight off for the house.

  Barry began throwing the fish out onto the grass. ‘I’ll get these buggers filleted. We can have a barbie tonight.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Hang on. Half of these are yours.’

  ‘Mine?’

  ‘You know how to fillet fish don’t you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Shit. Come on in. I’ll show you how to do the first few. Practice is the only way.’

  I watched and learned how to fillet fish. I ended up doing eleven of them, in the sink of Vince’s kitchen. It was trickier than it looked, filleting fish, and even less fun than killing them. In the end I was covered with scales and muck. The heads and tails and backbones went into the garbage. I thought about the Chinese and their soups, back in Brisbane. I missed the Chinese. What was left of the fish I stacked in the fridge for the barbecue. I wasn’t looking forward to it. I was sick of the sight of fish. Sick of the smell of them.

  I went home and checked on Wayne. He was fine.

  ‘That thing was fucking disgusting,’ he said, ‘I could feel it moving in my stomach.’

  ‘Ready to eat fish with Barry tonight?’

  ‘I’m not going. He’s a prick.’

  ‘If I’m going, you are.’

  We showed. It was a warm, still evening. Things were set up outside, under the tree. Vince and Barry were already seated, drinking. There was salad and bread, and the fish were all wrapped in foil, ready to go.

  Barry grinned up at Wayne. ‘How you feeling?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  We sat down, opened beers, lit cigarettes, said nothing. Barry talked, Vince listened.

  Eventually I said, ‘Are Eve and Russel coming?’

  ‘We asked,’ said Vince, ‘but no.’

  I looked over at their house. I supposed they were making a statement of sorts. They’d lived with Barry before. What had the lighthouse been like then? What if Wayne and I had arrived six months earlier and struck Barry as our ranger instead of Vince. I watched Vince pouring down his scotch. The round red face, the thick stubble, the belly poking through the shirt. Suddenly I loved him.