‘I’ll get you another,’ Sally says, standing up and walking towards the bar.
I watch her walk. She’s got a way of handling her jeans and heels. I like her confidence.
There’s the smack of billiard balls behind me and it’s like someone snapping their fingers in front of my face telling me to wake up. Bloody hell, I’m thinkin’. What am I doin’ here? I think about running back to my room and leaving Sally here, but then she knows where I live. It’s no retreat. She’d probably come back knocking on the door, and then after a few drinks, there’s no telling what I’d want to do with her.
That last thought makes my head spin. I’ve never been with a woman. I’d love to say that I haven’t been with anyone, but I can’t. Not honestly. In my last job the blokes at the pack-and-stack with me would always be mouthing off about their horny dicks. Which girls turned them on, which ones turned them off. Which ones they’d landed, the ones they were trying to land. I just listened and kept to myself, and they never seemed to ask me anything directly. I wonder what it would be like to think about those kinds of things without a weighted noose around my neck, the feeling of bars and a squeaking caravan. I’m as geared up as the next bloke. But I push it down. I don’t know what to do with it. It’s like I’ve got a bomb inside me. If I don’t end this ache inside I’m gonna explode and, if I do, I’m gonna die. Either way it’s a disaster.
And there, in between my thoughts, is Mr Cash singing his sadness with a voice like the tone of your own pain. He’s wishing the girl was his, but he’s all caught up in his own sea of tears, drowning him down and holding him back and, with him singing it like he does, you believe every word and they’re not even his, they’re like your own.
‘You drink anything ’cept beer?’ Sally’s back with two drinks.
‘Not really.’
‘Wow,’ she says, smiling. ‘Two words. Together.’
I’m smiling now, too. Despite everything. My palms are sweating and no amount of wiping them on my pants can get rid of it. She sees me. ‘Bait lick,’ she says.
‘What?’
‘Bait lick,’ she reaches under the table and finds my hand. She puts hers over them. ‘Can’t get the feeling off your hands.’
‘Yeah. More like Bait-pat,’ I say, pulling my hands away.
Sally puts her hands around her drink. ‘Do you like me, Barra?’ she asks.
I choke on my beer. I’m coughing and spluttering and she’s laughing, snickering into her hands, her body lowered over the table.
The song finishes and it’s just Johnny, his guitar, and the ‘Sea of Heartbreak’ over and over again and I realise I don’t want to go through life not knowing what it’s like to love so bad it hurts to let it go. The way I figure it, you can drown swimming or drown not trying, and being a man might just be about making a choice between the two. I want to be the kind of bloke that tests the feel of his body against the water even if it’s more than he can break through.
‘What difference would that make?’ I manage to say.
She shrugs. ‘I dunno. Just wondered.’
‘Hey,’ I say, ‘come on. I want to show you something.’
Sally raises her eyebrows and stands. ‘Okay.’
I get up and walk out through the beer garden to the dirt patch. The air outside is thick from the day’s humidity. There’s a breeze up and the smell of wet dirt and eucalyptus hits me. Sally’s beside me. A few guys whistle at her as we push our way through the crowd.
‘Shut up,’ she says to a short bloke who tries to grab her arse.
The chickens are in the corner of the dirt, scratching at the fence line. I tiptoe over towards them, glancing behind to find Sally stationary with her arms crossed over her chest. I wave my hand for her to follow me. The air smells sweeter all of a sudden and behind the chooks, beyond the fence, is a small unruly garden. Big flowers droop down from the branches.
I saw those kids grab the chicken, and it looked easy enough, but now that I’m the predator, sneaking up behind the little feathered birds, I don’t know if I’m going to repeat the trick or make a complete arse of myself.
The chickens are clucking and crooning, but they’re more or less in the one place. I cross the ground tentatively, then just when I think I’m within reach, I lurch forward and make for the nearest feathers. The bird I’m aiming for squawks and flies off, but the one beside it is pretty slow. I feel my hands on its back and it’s squashed down on the ground. A mound of feathers. The first thing I think is how soft the feel of her is under my hands. Nothing like Bait. I stand up with the little thing in my hands. Its neck is sticking out here and there, there’s a low and slow squawk coming from its throat. I walk back over to Sally. She’s scowling in a cheeky way, half-smiling. Her earrings glint like Christmas lights on a timer when the moonlight catches them.
I look her full in the face and smile. Then I wink. I flip the chicken over in my hands so it’s flat on its back. I stroke the soft part over and over. The chicken goes quiet and still. Sally, too. I can feel it limp in my hands. I kneel down slowly and lay it on the ground and stand. Just like the day with the kids, the chicken just lies there. Stunned. Not moving.
Sally looks at me. Impressed. I feel triumphant. My chest expands, and for a moment I can’t feel the noose around my neck. Time slows down while the chicken just lies there. Then, all of a sudden, it comes back into the world. Startled and flustered and full of life and confusion. It rights itself, runs off in a mad panic in no particular direction till it spots the others back in the corner, and runs there on scurried little feet.
‘How did you do that?’
‘Just something I learned.’
‘That’s the coolest party trick.’
Sally links her arm over mine and we walk back to our table. Our drinks are gone and there’s no gap on the seat any more. She looks at me and shrugs. ‘Your room, then,’ she says and walks in that direction.
We’re sitting on my bed with a couple of packets of Samboy barbeque chips open and a Darwin stubby beer between us. We’re sharing the bottle. Her lips then mine. It’s the most intimate thing I’ve ever done.
Sally burps. ‘Pardon the pig,’ she says, laughing. ‘Now. What’s this about your list of fathers? I’m not going to leave until you tell me everything about it.’
I’m caught. She’s lulled me like a bloody chook. I’m relaxed and happy sipping beer and eating chips, and she hits me with something I can’t avoid. I can’t leave. It’s my room. And I don’t really want to throw her out. I decide there’s nothing else to do.
‘Well,’ I begin, ‘my father could be any one of those five names on the list.’
‘Let me see.’ She leans across me towards the pillow. I lean back so she can’t reach it. Her body is over mine. Close.
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Like that, is it?’ She doesn’t move. Then she rushes forward and kisses me hard. On the lips. I’m so bloody surprised I have no idea what to do. Then she slips her hand underneath my head and drags the paper out from under the pillow. She sits up. ‘Haha. More than one way to stun a chook,’ she says, laughing.
She’s reading the names and I’m reeling with the kiss. I can still feel her there. A pressure. I think I’m a landmine. One step closer...
‘Teabag. Toucan. Stumpy. Lovejack. Boomboom. Is this a joke?’
I sit up and wipe my mouth. She’s left a sweet taste.
‘Really? You’re not kiddin’?’
I swing my legs over the side of the bed. She’s quiet now, lookin’ at the paper in her hand. I don’t know what to say. Or do. I suddenly remember what happened in the car. The words on the radio come flooding into my head and I’m sweating hard. Nausea rushes up from my stomach like a geyser. I rush from the bed over to the toilet and throw up.
I’ve got the toilet bowl cradled in my hands. My head’s on the seat. Sally’s at the door. ‘Come on,
Barra. I’ll fix you up.’
She helps me to the bed and gets one of my shirts and wets it in the basin. She’s sitting next to me wiping my face and my arms with the wet shirt. Then she wets my hair. I close my eyes. No matter how hard she tries to cool me down, I’m on fire. Somewhere near my legs, my ribs. My balls. The beer’s gone to my head and I’m swimming free, like nothing’s real.
‘Shhh,’ she says, but I’m not talking. All at once, the cloth is on the floor and she’s on top of me. My grenade is throbbing and I can’t control it any more. Suddenly the feeling of wanting her is rushing up inside me and it’s louder than my own fears and memories and I just don’t bloody care about anything else. I hear the sound of a zip opening and then her hand is around me. I hear the beer bottle fall to the floor and the steady dripping froth of the last of it running free. Somewhere chips are crunching, but a soft, endless chasm has me and for now nothing else matters. At last the bomb inside me explodes and I am blasted to oblivion. It’s just possible I could wake up a man.
I wake up in a panic. My pants are halfway down my legs and, for a minute, I can’t understand what’s happened. It’s quiet. Hot. The room is flooded with orange light. Then I remember. I feel numb. I sit up and my head spins. But I have to piss. I see it on the fridge. Words in lipstick. You’re lovely, Barramundy. See you around.
11
It’s Saturday. The first day of my life as a man. I look in the little mirror above the basin in the toilet. I’m sure I’m going to see something different. But the same face stares back at me. Serious. Dark. Dirty. I practise smiling, but it looks all wrong. I try small ones, large ones. Exaggerated ones. Cunning ones. Nothing works. My face settles back into its familiar grooves and I go to the shower block and I’ve got a sick feeling inside me that seems all wrong. I should be walking taller. Instead my shoulders are hunched forward as always and I’m clutching a towel to my chest. At least nature’s perky this morning. The air smells sweet and hot and birds are clucking and chirping madly.
The Humpty Doo Hotel does breakfast on the weekends. Usually I just have bread in my room and wait for Boof to pick me up, but on the weekends I go into the small dining room with the plastic, strawberry-covered tablecloths, and have bacon and eggs with toast and coffee.
‘Ah, hi there, love,’ Bessy says. She’s the weekend woman of the diner. I smile and quickly get rid of it now that I’ve seen the way my smiles appear to others. A smile on my face looks as out of place as a tiara on a croc. Or boxing gloves for that matter.
There’s a huge ten-metre boxing croc on the corner of the Humpty Service Station. Smiling stupidly – as much as a croc can with a jaw already fixed in a stretched, frozen grin. I have no idea what this plastic croc is supposed to show.
Hey there little people. Come near me and I’ll smile like this, raise my paws with bright orange boxing gloves and give you a good cuff around the ears.
I’ve named the boxing croc, Shelby. And I’d love to see him come to terms with any of the salties in the river. Albert, Elvis, Scoop. Especially Mavis. She’d have his gloves off and his arse in a deadlock roll quicker than he could wipe the smile off his face. Apart from fear, humans have a fascination for big things. You know. The Big Banana, The Big Pineapple, The Big Crab, The Big Tomato. We want to lure people in with whatever we have. Food, beasts, crustaceans. I wonder how many tourists actually see ‘The Big Thing’ and think, ‘Wow, that big thing looks so good, we should stick around and see the small ones.’ Tourists have photos taken with ‘The Big Things’. Some people probably have a whole photo album of them. You go to Coffs Harbour to see The Big Banana, not the farms of little ones. What’s interesting about the real thing?
‘Here, you want to read the paper, love?’ Bessy’s beside me with a folded-up newspaper. ‘Another bloke left it here.’
I look up. ‘Thanks.’
I’m not much for reading the paper but it’s something to do while I wait for my breakfast. I open it up and lay it flat on the table. There’s a brochure for Top End Game Fishing and Fogg Dam. I move them out of the way and there on page one is his name. McNabm Blue. I scan the article. There’s pictures. Some of the same words leap out at me. Inquest. Inquiry. Children still not safe. Where are they now? Cycle of abuse repeats itself through a new generation. I rush from the table and run to my room where I vomit in the toilet again. I lay there on the tiled floor and suddenly the thought of what happened with Sally and what happened with Blue – the good thing and the bad thing – are all in a mess together.
I’m at the back of the van, crying. Mum clouted me with the wooden spoon so hard my bum hurts and I’m that bloody annoyed I’m crying. It wasn’t my fault I saw Mrs Dickers in her knickers. I was lookin’ through the window to her van to see if Jonny was there. Mum caught me, saw Mrs Dickers inside with her knickers down at her knees, and slapped me across the back of the head. Then she dragged me back inside our own van and went at me with the wooden spoon. She took off then. For making her go and lose her temper like that and get stuck into me like she promised herself she’d never do.
‘I reckon you could use a sweet or two. Whaddya reckon?’
I turn around and Blue is there with another small white paper packet. I wipe at my face. I don’t want anyone to see me with tears and red eyes. I’m not a baby.
‘No shame in crying, Barry. Here, take ’em.’
I take the bag and put two lollies straight in my mouth.
He sits down on the ground. He’s smiling. He’s nice. I don’t sit because my bum hurts.
‘You get a beating?’
I nod.
‘Yeah. Happens when you’re a kid. You’re doin’ me another favour, you know. By eatin’ those sweets. They’d only rot my teeth and make me get older quicker. It’s lucky there’s good kids like you to help an old bloke out.’
I smile at him because I feel better with the aniseed and sugar in my mouth.
‘If you want, I could have a look at your bum for you. If it’s real red, I’ve got cream that could help.’
He’s real nice. My bum hurts and I don’t know how to make it any better and my mum’s gone and she’s the one who hurt me. I turn around and let him look.
I’m hungry now that my stomach’s empty. But the rest of me is filled with everything that happened back then. I don’t want to have to explain myself to anyone, especially Bessy, and I don’t want to have to find somewhere else to have my meals to avoid her forever, so I go back into the dining room. I fold the paper without lookin’ and wait for my breakfast.
She’s there straightaway with a plate of steaming food. Bacon, crisp and burnt. Fried eggs with sauce. Chunks of butter on thick toast and black coffee.
‘I knew you’d be back,’ she says.
She leaves the plate on the table and goes back to the counter. I’m about to dig in when she calls out to me.
‘Oh, Barry, I almost forgot. That young lass was in this morning. She said to give you this.’ She walks back over to me and pulls a piece of paper out from her apron pocket. She winks and nudges me with her elbow. ‘She’s a real sweetheart, that one,’ she says, then leaves me to the note and my food. I put my knife and fork down and open the piece of paper.
Ask Bessy about Teabag. She can tell you a few things.
S.
I fold the paper and tuck it under my plate. S. S for Sally. S for Sweetheart. I turn slightly towards the counter where Bessy is wiping the bench and humming to herself. She doesn’t see me and I turn back to face the eggs and bacon.
There’s other things I keep in my head besides stories. I collect facts. Incidental, meaningless facts. Sometimes I run them through my mind just for the fun of it. Sometimes they come up all on their own, like now.
Sweetheart: a large male crocodile responsible for attacks and damage to boats and dinghies on the Finnis River. He was finally captured on 19 July 1979. In
the process he died and is mounted on permanent exhibit in the Darwin Museum and Art Gallery. He was approximately 50 years old. He was 5.1 metres in length. He weighed 780 kilograms. The contents of Sweetheart’s stomach were:
Pig bones and bristles
Two long-necked turtles
Parts of a large Barramundi.
I’ve suddenly got a picture of Blue splayed and stuffed, hanging on a wall in the museum of depraved individuals. The Big Blue. His face in a plastic grin. His eyes wide and stunned. His teeth sharp and whitened. A noose higher up on the wall. Waxed and shiny. In my mind there’s a black space at his crotch, like a doll. No sex parts. Just the thought of them. And underneath there’s a plaque which reads:
Sweet-tooth: a large male paedophile responsible for attacks in rural towns up the Top End of Australia. He was finally captured in Batchelor. In the process he died and is mounted in the Federal Office for Child Affairs. He was approximately 50 years old. He was 1.5 metres in length and weighed 89 kilograms. The contents of Sweettooth’s stomach were:
Kids’ bones and sugar
Two long-necked beer bottles
Parts of a small Barramundy.
I pick up my knife and fork and decide to eat my breakfast even though I’m not hungry any more. The egg’s on my fork and Bessy sits down on the chair next to me.
‘Now,’ she says. ‘I’ve got a spare minute. The crowd hasn’t come in yet. Your sweetheart said you’d be wanting a word with me.’
She’s sitting there smiling. Her face is round and pink and squashed up in an unknowing, pleasant sort of way. I’m cornered. Again. Nowhere to go. Too much to say and a fear of saying anything. I squash the eggs in my mouth and chew slowly. Bessy just sits there. She’s got her hands linked together, rolling one thumb over the other. She’s waiting. I have to swallow.
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