90 Packets of Instant Noodles (11 page)

I have the dream again. The Sull one. It takes ages for it to go away this time. No matter how much I knock myself out, the dreams find their way back in. I wake up sweating, boiling. The look on Sull's face ... I try to think about nice things, nice things, like Mum used to tell me at night when I was a little kid.

Naturally, Bella comes to mind.

And breasts come into it somewhere along the way.

Brrrrrrreassttssss.

Boobs ... norks, titties, jugs, gazongas, melons, funbags, bosoms, whatever you wanna call them. To me you've just gotta come back to breasts. It's the only word that really conveys their ... total lusciousness. How can they not be your favourite part of the body? Especially that small round curve that arcs outside the torso. It hangs slightly over the edge of her. It's so perfectly
round.

I wish I hadn't thought of that. That doesn't help me. Not one bit. After that I sleep pretty raggedly. I can't stand it by 6a.m., so I force myself outside for some early-morning fresh air. Fog hangs like a low cloud around the shack. I figure the pool will be worth seeing at dawn, so I head in that direction, feeling the cold seeping in at my knees as I walk.

You'd think that out here, at this time of day, you'd be pretty safe from seeing other weirdos in the bush, but that just goes to show how little I know about weirdos. The old guy's out here, perched at the edge of the pool, head down, a line in his hand. The water is still like a mirror and for a moment I think I can turn back without him noticing me. But just as I think I'm safe he calls out, ‘Ya like to fish, son?'

I can't ignore him, not after him bringing me those candles the other night. ‘Yeah,' I say, heading across the rocks in his direction. ‘Catching anything?'

‘Not a sausage. Sometimes hook a black bream here if yer early enough.'

I'm amazed. ‘Isn't this early enough?'

‘Doesn't look that way.'

We sit and wait and I watch his line crease the water. On the other side of the pool a metallic dragonfly wets its butt, dipping in and out of the water.

‘Gotta be careful out in this bush, ya know,' he says after a while.

‘Why's that?'

He looks at me strangely. ‘The big ones,' he jabs his hand up at the trees, ‘the oldest ones, they can go in a big wind. Just drop down right beside ya. That's if yer lucky, acourse. Spear ya to the ground if not.'

I look up at the trees around us. Now that I'm noticing, lots of them are fairly old and crooked. In fact, one's leaning right out over us at a 60-degree angle.

‘Widowmakers, we call em,' he says quietly.

By a quick calculation, the 60-degree angle one would fall directly on me if it decided to clag out now.

‘Left many a woman alone, they have, durin loggin times. They reckon ya can hear a widowmaker fallin but ya can't tell in what direction till it's too late.'

I try to shift out of its way. ‘Did you ever know anyone who was killed by one?'

There's the plink of something breaking the surface of the water. Ripples ease out as whatever it was disappears again.

He stares at the water. ‘Yeah, ya might say that. Long time ago now.'

Shi-i-t.
I wonder who. A mate? His father, or

brother?

He turns to me suddenly. ‘But the thing is—what it makes ya realise is—once yer gone, yer gone. All that's left of ya is a bit of soil. There ain't no going to heaven or greeting yer mates in a better world or any o that nonsense. It makes people feel better to think it. But if an animal dies, it goes back into the earth. It's the same for us. Ya go back to basics.' He pushes his fingers roughly into the ground. ‘Ya see what I mean, kid?'

I nod.

‘That's why I like it out here,' he says. ‘Somethin honest about it.' He looks at me. ‘It's good for ya,' he says almost gently.

I feel something ease up in me then. Something lets go a bit.

I look up at the canopy. Light filters through. Light and dark. Yin and yang.

‘Some o them blokes that made widows o their wives were only thirty when they died. Fit, strong, good men. A terrible waste, goin so young.'

It's the most he's ever said in one go and he looks exhausted for the effort. We sit in silence until he winds up his line, gives me a short nod and staggers back into the bush.

I write to Dad. It's hard. I write things I normally wouldn't say. I do my best to reassure him that as olds go, he's doing a pretty good job, though it's hard to sound convincing, coming from my position. I use Craggs's old man as an example of crap dads, and Dudley next door to show the other extreme: apart from thinking that ten-pin bowling is a great family outing, Dudley gets up at six every Sunday morning to mow the lawn before dragging his kids out to church. The son, Jason, has to wear special beige
pants
to church.

I also remind him that he did me the small favour of saving my butt from the detention centre.

I nail a few more noodle packets onto the wall. I put a lot into it; the hammering makes me feel better, somehow. You can bang them in really hard. I have to stand on a chair to find more space. When I step back, I'm impressed. It's big, this. Big.

Outside, I hear a plastic bag rustling. I listen carefully. Usually there's only sounds of leaves dropping or bushes scratching or parrots screaming in the distance. This is definitely a plastic bag, and I almost knock my chair over getting up. I poke my head around the door. Foxy is perched on a plank of wood that's leaning up against the shack and is stretched like a lacky band all the way to the rubbish bag.

‘Hey!'

He looks over at me.

‘What the fuck
is
this?'

He doesn't move.

‘Why don't you just come in and eat like a normal pet, you scabber?'

A paw reaches out again for the bag, eyes on me.

I know if I go over there he'll scuttle off, and I don't really want him to. I like him, the cheeky bugger. He's always doing naughty shit. Kindred spirit?

I go back inside and grab the crust from the loaf of bread. When I chuck him a piece, he jumps right down and grabs it, then looks at me. He's like a bloody dog, the way he carries on. When I take the bread back inside he does exactly what a dog would do: follows me in with an amped-up cute look featuring his ears, which perk about like little satellite dishes. I give him another chunk and then go back over to the table.

This thing with Craggs ... should I tell the old man? Call him when I go into town tomorrow? Or tell him, in my letter, just so he knows? Just so it doesn't look like I ever
asked
Craggs to come down here?

Nah. Nah—get a grip, Joel, what is this? The dob-in-a-mate hotline? It'll be fine. It will.

By the time I get into town I've got a blister the size of a twenty-cent coin on my heel, thanks to my ‘army-strength' bootlaces clagging it about 3 kilometres out. Not a good day for it, and not a good start to the day. I limp into the shitty little shop and scour the shelves for packets of shoelaces. I can't find any, and eventually the woman asks, ‘Looking for anything in particular?'

‘Yes,' I say with a small grin, pointing to my flapping boot. ‘New laces.'

‘A-ha.' And she pulls out a box from under the counter with dozens of packets. ‘Whaddya want, brown, black, white, stripy?'

I look at my boots.

‘And flat or round?'

The broken laces are brown and black round ones. I peer into the box. She has some yellow and brown ones in there that look kind of the same. ‘Can I see that pair?'

‘You want 35 centimetre, 45 centimetre or 65 centimetre lengths?'

Jeez, I didn't realise it'd be so bloody complicated! I look around to see if anyone's waiting behind me. ‘Aaah, dunno, the longest, I guess.'

‘Righto.' She slides them over the counter at me. ‘They're $4.60, thanks. I'll put it on your account.'

‘$4.60?'

‘That's right.'

‘But they're only pieces of string.'

‘I know, son, but that's what I pay for em so that's what you pay for em.'

‘Jeez-uss.'

‘There's no need for that.'

I figure she must have missed her nanna nap or something, because usually she at least pretends to be nice. I sign the receipt and she puts it in Dad's account file behind the counter.

‘Had some kid in here before, asking after you.'

I look up. ‘Really?'

‘Yeah, really.'

I frown at her and nearly ask her what her problem is but force my mouth to stay shut.

‘He was in here right on six, as soon as I could open the door and put out the papers. On a Sunday!'

‘Six? As in, a.m.?'

‘That's right, and I reckon he'd been waiting a while, too.'

‘Where'd he go?'

‘Off somewhere. I gave him directions to your place but he didn't look like he was heading your way.'

Shit.

‘Right rude kid, if you ask me.'

Oh, shit. That explains the attitude. Jesus, Craggs, what've you been up to? ‘Did he say anything else?' How the hell am I gunna find him?

‘No, he didn't.'

Shit. Shit-fuck-shit.

‘Your power back on?'

I couldn't give a toss about the power at the moment. ‘Uhh, nup. Nah.'

‘
What?
But they were meant to come out days ago.'

‘I know. But they haven't,' I say. ‘Thanks for reminding me. I need some more candles.'

She stands still for a moment, then goes and gets me a box.

‘Better make that two boxes.' I reckon the old man might need some more by now.

She shakes her head. ‘They're on the house. I'll call those buggers again and give em a blast. No one should have to go without power for days and days, even as far out as you are, it's not right.'

‘Oh—well, thanks.' I shove the stuff in my bag and remember the letter to my old man. ‘Oh, I need to send this, too.'

She looks at it. ‘That one's fifty-five cents. I'll put it on your tab.'

‘Has anything else for me arrived?' Asking her—it's so humiliating, especially when nothing's come in. Why can't there just be a normal postbox I can check, for fuck's sake?

‘Yeah, there is something. Came Friday,' she says, reaching for it.

Awesome.

I can tell, even before she's handed it to me, that it's from Bella. The cute scrawl on the envelope, and the colour of the paper—sort of olive-green. I take it from her and try to keep the grin off my face when I ask, ‘Which way did you say he went?'

She points down the road, heading south. ‘That way,' she says. ‘He was heading right out of town.'

I sit outside the shop while I'm deciding what to do. If he left a couple of hours ago he could be pretty far away by now, especially if he was hitching. Why didn't he wait for me? Maybe he changed his mind about the whole thing. But where was he going, heading further south?

There's no point me going back to the shack yet. I don't want to do this walk again for at least another week, especially now I've got a letter from Bella—there's no point. I toss up whether to read it now or save it for later ... like tonight, when I'm on my own. No way am I gunna let Craggs get even a whiff of this stuff from her; he'd take the piss out of me big-time.

I reach into my pocket. I brought the yin–yang stone along for the ride with me today, for a bit of moral support. Feels like there's a bit of Bella right here beside me. Maybe a bit of the old bloke, too.

A truck crawls by, pumping its air brakes, and a man goes into the shop, nodding at me as he passes. Talk about hicksville. The deli at home has a security guard out the front, scoping customers for potential go-overs, until it closes at 11p.m. And he doesn't even blink, let alone greet you.

A Brownes truck lumbers to a halt and Craggs climbs casually out of the passenger seat like it's something he does every other day.

‘Hey, Joel-boy.'

‘What the fu—'

‘Ahh, you just gotta know who to ask, Joel. It's all about contacts, mate.'

I laugh. Craggs is in the building.

‘Don't forget your bag,' I say, as he slams the door.

‘What bag? I don't have a bag.'

‘Errr ... no clothes or anything?'

‘Clothes? What do I need clothes for, Joel? I thought this was one of those hippie commune–type places, you know, thought we'd get about in the buff.'

‘Jesus, you're a tosser, you know that? What about music, man? Tell me you brought your iPod with you—I'm talking basic necessities here.'

But when he shakes his head I realise he probably hasn't been able to pick up any of his gear, especially if his old man was around. And if he couldn't have any personal gear with him at the detention centre, then he'd have nothing to bring at all. That's okay, there's plenty of spare stuff around the shack—clothes, anyway. Might be a bit fungal, but I don't think Craggs is that fussy.

‘So what have you been doing?' I say, grinning at him. It's weird to see him again after all this time. He almost looks older. ‘I heard you were here at the crack of dawn.'

‘Just checkin the place out. There's not much here, eh?'

‘Nah. Jack shit.'

‘And she's an old bitch, isn't she?'

I turn around. ‘Who?'

‘Her. The old bag in that shop. She checked me out like I was gunna flog all her precious shit, then she gave me the wrong fucking directions. Fucking bitch.'

‘Nah, she's all right,' I say. ‘It's just that if you're not wearing a flanno shirt, driving a Hilux or smelling of cowshit, you're a bit suss round here, that's all.'

He snorts, but he looks pretty dark about it.

‘How bout a pie?' I say. ‘B-b-brekky time, I'm starving.'

‘Y-y-yes, please, J-j-joel, but you get em, will ya?' He looks over at the shop. ‘I don't want to have to see that old moll again.'

I mentally check how much money I have left and go in and buy a couple of straight beef pies and wonder why this is the first time I've stammered since I can remember.
Probably because you haven't been talking to anyone since you came down here, you loser, Joel. You can't stammer if you don't talk.
But I have talked. Admittedly, to myself, a lot. And to Foxy. And the old man, the woman in the shitty little shop. So what's the story?

‘See you found your friend, then,' the woman says.

‘Yeah.'

‘I called the electricity people, the emergency line. They'll be out today, they reckon. Gave em a right going over, I did,' she says with a short nod.

‘Oh. Thanks,' I say, wishing Craggs could hear her now. He's paranoid about people giving him a hard time, like he expects them to, somehow. ‘That's great. Thanks a lot. And thanks for those candles.'

‘Pleasure. See you next time.'

The pies are warm and greasy and I try not to look inside when I'm eating mine. I always feel a bit gag-o-matic about pies ever since that story about the chick who found part of a mouse in hers. It made it onto the front page of the
West.
The mouse was sliced in half lengthwise, from head to bum—you could see it up close in the photo, suspended in the gravy. I nearly barf just thinking about it. But sometimes you want a hot pie, and today we sit outside catching the sun while we chow down. Craggs is looking thinner, and he's quieter than normal, but I think he's okay. He's still full of himself, so he must be all right. He probably needs someone to hang out with so he can get back to feeling half normal again. Now he's here, I'm okay about it. It'll be better when we get back to the shack, away from town.

I keep my back to the shop as I wolf down my pie, and fend off the worries that keep creeping in.