The Windy Season

by Carmody, Sam

  He walked quickly down the main street. There was no wind at all, the sea hushed. It was all so quiet in the dark that the town had an apocalyptic stillness to it, as if abandoned.

  At the jetty he found Richard’s aluminium dinghy, tied to the dock where he sometimes left it. The skipper would be there in an hour, wondering where it was.

  He climbed down into the dinghy. Eyed the level of the two fuel tanks near the outboard motor. Heard footsteps on the boards.

  It is very nice of Richard to let you borrow his boat?

  Paul looked up and saw Michael standing above him, backlit by the jetty lights.

  And there I was thinking the old man was a miserable fucker.

  Why did you follow me?

  You will sink, Michael said. Twenty miles in that?

  Go, Paul said. Go home.

  You know you will sink, the German said. His forehead crumpled with the realisation. You do not really think you will make it.

  Paul didn’t answer. He threw the dock line to the jetty.

  Jesus, Paul, Michael said.

  Paul reached for the ripcord on the outboard engine but Michael was down off the jetty and in the small boat before Paul could turn the engine over. The tinny danced under Michael’s weight. They looked at each other. Michael’s eyes were wide, his chest heaved. He turned to the stern, lowered the propeller to the water.

  What are you doing? Paul said.

  We will need more fuel, he replied.

  I’ve got enough.

  And the GPS.

  I’ll be fine on my own.

  Michael pulled the ripcord.

  You don’t have to do this, Paul said.

  He pulled the cord again. The outboard cried out.

  They stopped alongside Arcadia. Michael made Paul climb on board to fetch the handheld GPS from the cabin.

  As they neared the mouth Michael accelerated. The four-stroke grunted and groaned in the dark. Beyond the rivermouth the black sea was calm. The sky bright with stars. At the bow, shadows sliced the water, the dolphins’ hard bodies shining with moonlight on them. Paul fingered the knife under his jumper, watched the night sea. The boys didn’t speak. There were no navigation lights on the tinny, nothing to warn a cray boat steaming out of the inlet they were there. And they both knew that twenty miles was too great a distance for the tender. Knew that if the weather turned they were in deep shit.

  As the sky lightened the madness of what they were doing fully registered. Paul could no longer see the lights of the town. There was a hundred metres of water underneath the four millimetres of aluminium hull. A rogue swell would capsize them easily. The German looked sick. But it was too late to turn around.

  After an hour the sky was a pale, washed pink. The ocean oily smooth. Swallows skipped across the surface.

  About eighteen miles from shore the engine sputtered then stopped. The tender skated across the sea for a moment and sunk low in the water. Michael swore. The main tank out was of fuel. The German switched the fuel line to the spare. They exhaled with relief when the outboard moaned back to life.

  When they reached the Delft wreck there was no sign of what had been tied to the marker. Nothing to suggest it had been a crime scene. The ropes that had tied the body to it had been removed. The centre marker was just as the two either side of it; striped black and red paintwork bubbled and peeling. The iron cradle at its peak, where the light was fitted, was rusted through.

  Michael idled the motor metres from the marker, the four hundred year old Dutch wreck somewhere on the shallow coral shelf beneath them. The German said nothing, giving Paul the moment. But Paul didn’t know what it was he was trying to do. Maybe he hoped he might sense him there, in some way. Commune with Elliot’s spirit, or whatever people might do at the place someone had died. But he didn’t sense him there. There was no communion in that moment, no presence of his brother. Just the feeling they were somewhere they shouldn’t be.

  They had only been idling there a couple of minutes when they felt the first hint of the breeze, the soft tug on their clothes, in their hair. They looked at each other.

  Michael nodded. We should get back now, he said.

  I thought I might find something, Paul said loudly, attempting an explanation over the noise of the outboard.

  I know, Michael called back to him. I understand it.

  I’m sorry.

  Don’t be. Not yet. We might actually survive this. The German grinned at him.

  No, I mean how I’ve been. You were right. What you said. I have been a coward.

  Yeah. You have.

  Paul nodded. Head down.

  But you are out here, Michael said. Searching for him. In the middle of the fucking ocean on a tiny boat.

  Yeah, and for what?

  Exactly. It is crazy shit. But it is not what a coward would do.

  Soon the ocean had changed. The sea breeze was still only light but the swells had grown and begun to whitecap, standing up on the deep banks. The horizon gone. Water slapping over the bow. They held their breaths when the dinghy surfed down each ridge of water. Cursed when the boat bottomed out in the trench before each swell. They were convinced they would roll, sure every time that they were done. But Richard’s tender held fast, somehow. They went like that for an hour or more, the gale pursuing them, always strengthening.

  They were three miles short of the inlet when the outboard finally ran out of fuel. The boat skated for a moment and then stopped, low in the sea. They looked at each other. Silent. The wind in their ears. The tink and thunk of water against the chines. Michael put his head in his hands. For a moment Paul thought he was crying, but the deckhand threw his head back and hooted before giving into lunatic laughter. On his back in the pitching tinny, making the sounds of a madman.

  When Richard came up on them in Hell Cat and saw his stolen tender Paul thought he would be wild with rage. But the old skipper just shook his head at them and muttered things to himself that they couldn’t hear over the cray boat’s diesels, and when he tossed them the towrope he almost looked amused.

  They’re all ghosts

  IT WAS THE FIRST OF FEBRUARY AND THE tavern was quiet, being a Sunday night and with most travellers from the city returned to work or school. Most of the fishing crews would be already to bed, set for 3 am starts. A couple in their fifties or sixties sat at a table over lamb shanks. Pemberton pinot noir. They had bought the bottle. Kathmandu hikers’ jumpers. Paul thought he should tell them that they had been duped, that Stark was no place to find yourself. He would have told them that if he had the energy. He figured they would work it out for themselves.

  Paul felt for the knife in his jumper pocket. The blade was cool against his palm. He eyed the doors, listened for the sound of boots on the tavern steps.

  This doesn’t look good, Jules said as she walked her way up the bar towards Paul. It’s late, she continued. Arcadia’s not going out in the morning?

  Yeah, he replied. We are. Just can’t sleep.

  You heard from her?

  Kasia? He shook his head. Got her on the phone for a few seconds. She wants to be left alone.

  Backpackers, mate. Farts in the wind.

  You’re not going to tell me where she went, are you?

  She wouldn’t be happy with me if I did.

  Well she hates me.

  There are things worse than hate.

  Like what?

  Indifference. Not giving a shit.

  Paul looked at his empty pint. Can I have another? he asked.

  Go to bed.

  Yeah. Okay.

  How you getting home?

  I’ll walk.

  I’m driving you, she said.

  The inlet glowed under what must have been a full moon. Jules turned into his street, pulled the car up on the kerb in front of the house.

  You’ve got to take better care of yourself, she said.

  Paul felt for his seatbelt buckle.

  You were waiting for them, Jules continued. Weren’t y
ou? Back there, alone. You were waiting for Roo Dog and the rest of them.

  Paul shrugged.

  You could have got hurt.

  Maybe not.

  Was that the plan? Paul, were you trying to get hurt?

  He contemplated the question. He didn’t know the answer.

  I mean, you might have killed them, too. Jules sighed. I swore it was like looking at Jake, all crazy eyes.

  Paul looked at her. How can you work in that place? he said.

  Working a boat is hardly a dream job, Paul.

  I know. I just mean Roo Dog. And Anvil. Arthur . . .

  Those boys? They’re full of shit. And they know it. They wipe themselves out. Ice, benzos, they fucking destroy themselves with that stuff. They talk all loud and hard. But they’ve got nothing in them. Nothing good, anyway, and they know it. It drives them crazy.

  Don’t tell me you feel sorry for them?

  I’m just not afraid of them, Jules said. Arthur’s boat, they’re all ghosts. They are all scared shitless. You can see right through them, Paul. You, on the other hand, you’ve got something to you. You’re not your average smelly Stark prick.

  You coming on to me, Jules? Paul said.

  You wish, you little dickhead.

  There was a brief silence.

  Still, Paul said. Why stay? Michael said you’ve always been here.

  It was my father’s. He built that place, ran it for forty years, almost. It was his whole world. And I grew up in it. The tavern was my first job. The only job I’ve ever done. She snorted a laugh. Jesus.

  You stayed for him?

  Everyone loved Dad, she said. He was a good man, and that was his whole world. He was a great barman. Real funny fucker. But a bloody lousy businessman. Got himself into debt, not huge, but a bit. Started gambling, trying to double backflip his way out of it, like an acrobat, you know. That’s how it always was with him. It was going to be some big event. A big win. And it’d be all good. More than good. He’d leap us all out of hell and land us in heaven while he was at it. The two-for-one deal. He lost the house. The boat. Lost Mum. Poor bastard couldn’t live with the shame of it.

  He ran off?

  She shook her head. It was me who found him, in the coolroom. Hanged himself.

  Fuck.

  Yep, she said. Jules put a short smile together, but Paul could see the sudden reflection of the streetlight in her eyes, like fire behind glass. Everything went underwater with him except that fucking pub. Banks didn’t want a piece of it, not back then. It was worthless. There was no way Mum wanted it, so I got it. I was seventeen. I’ve had it ever since.

  Do you regret it? Paul asked.

  I wish I’d done some travelling, maybe saw some more things. I always wanted to go live in Spain, Barcelona or somewhere, look east for a change, she said, and glanced out her window in the direction of the sea. The Mediterranean seems nice, from what I’ve read, you know. Just warm and calm, less in the mood to sink and drown things. She laughed. I don’t know.

  It is as far as you can get from Stark, he said.

  Yeah, she said, smiling. It probably is. Not as windy, I imagine. And better-looking men.

  It’s not too late, Paul said. You’re not that old.

  Oh, thanks. Jules laughed. Of course I’m not past it. But it is what it is.

  What does that mean?

  It can be tough loving someone so much. It is damaging loving damaged people. Not too late for you, though, mate. You know, being loyal to people who aren’t here anymore is a fucking average idea. I can see that now. There’s no point going under with them. You can waste a whole life doing that.

  Yeah, he said. I just don’t know where to go.

  There’s always the city. Go learn something other than crays.

  I don’t know if I want to go.

  It’s always easier where you are, she said. Or where you’ve been.

  Yeah, I know. Rear-vision syndrome. I know I’ve got to move on. Same for Mum. Dad has got his own stuff to work through.

  You’re a good kid, Paul. You’re an idiot, but you’re a decent guy.

  You sure you’re not coming on to me?

  She screwed up her face and pushed his upper arm. Get the fuck out of my car, she said.

  Thanks, Jules.

  Yeah, she replied.

  When we near the turnoff I tell the President I need to piss and ask him to pull over. He says that I should have gone at the roadhouse. I say I’m sorry and he shrugs and says he might as well stretch his legs. He turns the ignition off and gets out, still holding his jam doughnut, and shuffles around the bonnet.

  I grab the rifle and step out of the car.

  When I shoot him the President stops and makes a sound like a thought has just occurred to him. Not a scream but a sort of grunt. He turns and looks at me and I can see it in his face, how puzzled he is. He has the look of an innocent man who has just been slapped. He looks at the doughnut for a second and then drops it. He puts his left hand to the bonnet of the car and sits down and coughs twice. He says, Swiss? like it is a question.

  I shoot him again and the sound he gives then is a long sad noise and I think that it is the sound of the dead speaking through him.

  It is the hardest thing I ever did, dragging him off the road. If there wasn’t gravel all over the bitumen I never would have been able to do it. I cough up blood for five minutes. Pick up the keys from the bitumen in front of the car where the President fell down. Drive some ways before I see that turnoff to Notting.

  Troy

  FRED CAME TO THE HOUSE LATE IN THE afternoon to tell him the body wasn’t Elliot. It felt like another death, the way she gave the news. The results from forensics had come back. She wanted him to know before it all came out in the media. She looked him hard in the eye until she was sure it had sunk in. And he stared back like it was sinking in, nodding as if he was feeling those things a person should feel, whatever they were.

  Paul asked her what she knew and she told him.

  Troy Little had been missing eight months. He was sixteen, a kid from Tennant Creek, in the Northern Territory. His only guardian, his grandmother, had died when he was twelve. He was a known meth cook, under the thumb of an outlaw motorcycle club. Moved all over the country. Town to town.

  Forensics found a bullet graze on the spinal column. They were diving the wreck underneath the marker, looking for the bullet. Fred said it was hard to know if he’d been tied to the marker alive or not. She guessed he had. Looked like punishment to her. Shot in the stomach, left to bleed.

  At the door of the cottage he doesn’t say much but just looks at me seriously as I tell him that there are fellas out there who will never stop looking for him. I tell him that he should head east, right through the heart of everything, till he hits the border. I tell him it’s his best chance. Avoid the highways and the towns. The girl will be okay but he won’t be. If he wants to survive this, he shouldn’t tell anyone where he is going. He has to disappear completely and wait till it all dies down.

  I drive back to the farmhouse. I can’t think of anywhere else to go.

  They all look at me strangely when they see me returning alone. I tell them I killed the boy from the city. Shot him dead, just like they wanted. But they want to know what happened to the President, and I don’t know why I say it, but I tell them I shot him too.

  Abatement

  THE WHALERS STALKED THE BOAT. There must have been a dozen of them, at the fish heads like yard dogs. Hard, shining snouts and saggy jowls. The German stood at the gunwale, beer in one hand, his camera in the other. The deckhand glanced over, gave a mad smile. Paul didn’t get the same thrill out of seeing the sharks as Michael did, but he noticed he no longer felt the same dread when they gathered by the boat. Even the bigger sharks that emerged nearby whenever the boat slowed, the tiger sharks and the occasional white pointer, he didn’t fear them like he once had. There was a polite desperation about them; it was like being approached by a beggar. Their perpetual need
, the twitchiness of their hunger, was more than greed. It was survival.

  It was late afternoon but the wind hadn’t come. The sea was smooth and clear, as blue as Paul had seen it in three months. There were fingers of cloud on the horizon; a storm front moving up from the south. Paul baited the last pot. The engines juddered.

  They were on their way in when Paul heard the engines drop and then idle. The big boat sank into the sea. Jake stepped down into the cabin with his sunglasses still on, swearing about the broken radio. Muttering. Paul caught the word mayday. Michael must have too. He dropped his cigarette onto the deck and pressed on it with his boot. The deckhands watched the skipper from the cabin door, listened to the operator from Geraldton.

  We had a mayday. Bloke gave his position and that was it. Over.

  What’s the issue? Jake said, running a hand through sweaty hair.

  Didn’t say. Sounded distressed. But no call sign, no description.

  The operator gave the position. Jake tried to write it down but the pen wouldn’t work.

  Fuck! he screamed, so loud the metal walls of the cabin continued ringing with the word. Paul, get up there and fetch a fucking pen that fucking works.

  Paul leapt up the bridge ladder. It was the first time he had ever been up there. He searched the dash, heart beating. Found a stash of lidless pens in the centre console. He grabbed them all. It was then that he saw the photo taped above the speedometer. A boy, not much younger than Paul. He knew it was him, the boy from the harbour. And it made sense, then, that Jake had strapped himself in every day to stare at that photograph, punish himself.

  Back in the cabin Jake took down the coordinates on the front page of a newspaper. Instant weariness fell across his face. He signed off and then pushed past them with the newspaper in hand and was up the bridge ladder in two steps. Paul and Michael looked at each other. The engines cried out underneath their boots. Jake turned the boat to the horizon.

  The deckhands peered west. Just boiling reefs, storm clouds above in atomic blooms. Jake yelled again. Paul strained his eyes and then he saw it, dark against the fluorescence of broken water. It was Deadman. A wave struck Deadman’s bow, a huge, unhurried blow, casting a cloud of spray that hung in the air like cannon smoke. The boat reared, its chest out, indignant. Another large wave moved in from deeper water. They’re caught! Jake yelled down. They’re going under.