90 Packets of Instant Noodles (17 page)

Tremain's late when we go back to give the statement, and hustles us in, a bit embarrassed. He looks like he had a big night out last night. I bet Bunno's got some fairly scary nightlife on offer.

Because I'm under-age, Dad comes too and sits through me giving the whole spiel again. A tape recorder is on and Tremain asks me questions when I'm not being clear enough. He tells me it will be typed up and submitted with all the other evidence in court on Monday. I know I've just told my side of the story, but I can't help but feel like I've just given evidence directly against Craggs.

Back in the car, Dad says, ‘Why don't we go out to the cabin for the weekend?'

Oh, you're kidding me.

‘I haven't stayed there for years,' he says.

‘I have.'

‘It might help ... you know, get you straight back on the horse, sort of thing.'

I can tell I don't have much say in this. Besides, the old man seems cheered up by the idea, and after what I've just put him through, I can hardly refuse, can I?

I look at him. ‘You really want to? That hike's a killer, remember.'

‘Yeah, I know,' he nods. ‘But there's a shortcut.'

‘What?' No
way.

‘Yeah, it cuts off a few kilometres.'

‘Up along the ridge?'

He turns his head to me and grins. ‘Yep, the ridge way. Can't believe you found that already. It took me the best part of a year to discover that.'

‘No—someone showed it to me, a guy who gave me a ride into town one day.'

‘Hitching, huh?'

‘Well, the guy stopped—'

‘So did Ivan Milat.'

I look at him. ‘Yes, Dad. I know.'

Dad parks the car behind Nallerup Real Estate and we go into the office to check that it's okay to leave it there for a couple of days.

‘Well, there's been a bit of trouble round here lately,' the manager says, eyeing me over.

‘Yes,' Dad says, ‘we heard. But apparently that's been sorted out now.'

‘I most certainly hope so. Poor Mrs Pritchard, she's no spring chicken.'

The chit-chat rolls on and Dad does his bit, nodding and smiling, and only after a lifetime does he thank her and we get to split.

‘Everyone thinks it's me,' I mumble, not looking back because I know the old bag's staring at me through the front window.

‘Well, they're wrong, aren't they?' he says, striding down towards the shitty little shop. ‘People think wrong things all the time. And people perceive things differently. That's why there's always some war or other happening somewhere in the world. Misunderstandings,' he says. ‘Misunderstandings and misperceptions.'

My heart cranks up a notch or three when Dad pulls open the door to what used to be just the shitty little shop. I stall. I don't know if I can go in there yet, go in and face her.

Dad turns and looks at me. ‘What's the matter?' ‘I ... I ... Maybe I shouldn't c-c-come in,' I whisper.

‘You most certainly
should
come in, Joel,' he says, too loudly, guiding me through the flywire door.

I brace myself for the woman to hurl her worst at me.

Instead, some guy's behind the counter.

Dad goes off choosing food for the next couple of days, and while he's down the back I take the opportunity of the woman not being there to check for mail.

‘Joel Strattan,' I say, pointing to the box of mail behind the counter.

He looks at me. ‘Want your mail, do ya?'

‘Yeah, thanks.'

‘Yeah, well, my mum wouldn't mind gettin back what you little punks took from her the other night.'

Dad pulls his head out of the freezer where the year-old barbie packs are kept.

‘They've arrested the guy who did it,' he says, coming over calmly. ‘Your mother identified him herself.'

‘Yeah,' he sneers at me, ‘but you sure they got all the players?'

Just then Mrs Pritchard comes in from out the back. She has a bulging black eye and the side of her face is all the wrong shape. ‘What's going on here, Michael?' she says.

‘Just this kid here wants his
mail.
'

‘Oh, hello, son,' she says, looking at me. She turns back to the guy and gestures outside. ‘Bring in those crates for me, would you?'

Michael doesn't go far away.

‘Now, you'd like your mail, would you, son?'

‘Uh ... Mrs ... uh ... Pritchard, I'm really s-s-sorry for what happened here.'

‘Yeah, I bet you are,' he says from outside.

Mrs Pritchard looks at me.

‘I didn't have anything to do with it. I had no idea...'

The guy comes in and leans against the door and stares at me and Dad. There's this horrible long moment where I feel like I'm in the middle of a Mexican standoff, and any minute now someone's gunna pull a pistol.

‘I know, son. I know. You were just mixed up in something without realising it.'

‘Yeah,
right,
' he mutters.

Fucking shut up, you loser.

‘Thank you,' Dad says to her. ‘We appreciate that.'

She nods and shuffles things on the counter. ‘They've got the little bugger now, thank God. I just hope he pays for it—properly. Not one of these silly wrist-slaps they dish out nowadays.'

Michael loads boxes like he's pumping iron.

‘Anyway, things are almost back to normal here. Just need this to settle down,' she says, gingerly touching her face, ‘and it'll be like nothing ever happened.'

I look at the swelling and discolouration and try to imagine Craggs belting her.

‘It's a beauty, eh?' she says to me.

I nod weakly.

She leans towards Dad. ‘My family didn't want me to come back to work, you know, but I said to them: you can't waste this life walking around on eggshells.'

Dad nods.

‘No one's going to get rid of me that easily, I say.'

‘Yeah, well you're not Superwoman, Mum,' the guy says. ‘Just remember that, too, eh?'

‘I just feel so sad about Bob Neville,' she says. ‘He never got over his father's death. He must have been about fifteen. It ruined his life, really.'

I frown, a bunch of bananas in my hand, wondering why the hell Dad bought these. Where am I gunna put them?

‘His dad was a tree-feller, back in the days when that was still a job.'

‘And what happened?' Dad asks.

She shrugs her shoulders. ‘A big blow came through while they were out there felling. I'll never forget the day. I came here after school, like I always did, to help Mum. She was jittery when I arrived. Said the roof had nearly blown off the store. When we saw the men walking into town, we knew...' She takes a breath. ‘And Bob was just ...
changed
after that. He never really came out of the forest.'

We all stand there in the shop, me holding the bananas.

After a while, Dad shuffles and pulls out his wallet to settle up. ‘Thank you for keeping an eye on Joel, Mrs Pritchard.'

Just as we're heading out the door, she calls, ‘Oh, hang on, your mail.' She turns and rummages in the drawer that contains this whole town's mail before coming back with two envelopes.

One's from Dad. The other is my favourite olive-green.

Once we're off the road, I say to Dad, ‘Apart from the whole of Nallerup, who else knows about this ... about what Craggs has done?'

‘This time, do you mean?'

‘Yes,' I croak weakly.
This time.

‘Well, the juvenile justice team will know, of course. I'm sure they'll want you to go in there for a debrief. Apart from that, just you and me. And Craggs's parents, I guess.'

‘No one from school?'

‘Not as far as I know. I can't see how anyone else would know about it.'

‘Except once it gets in the paper.'

‘Well, they can't reveal names of minors, don't forget.'

‘Yeah, but the word “Nallerup” might raise a few eyebrows in my direction.'

He breathes out. ‘I suppose it might, yes.'

‘I don't want anyone to know unless they absolutely have to, Dad. At home, I mean.'

‘I understand that.'

‘I mean, I didn't actually do anything, so no one needs to know about any of this, right?'

‘No. I agree with you.'

‘That's a first.'

He laughs. ‘And Bella?'

‘What about her?'

‘You going to tell her?'

‘I'll have to. But not for a while, not yet. She'd...'

‘Ditch you?'

I sigh. ‘Yep.'

‘Good for her.'

I turn around. ‘Thanks a
lot.
'

‘Well, I just like a person who knows what they want.'

‘Yeah, well, she wants me.'

Dad coughs.

I hope.

‘That's ... creative,' Dad says when he sees the Wall of Noodles. ‘Brightens things up a bit.'

‘The cockies like it,' I say. ‘They hide behind it. You can hear them scurrying sometimes.'

‘Any nails left round here for anything else, by any chance?'

‘Jeez, Dad.
No.
But no recycling to carry out, either.'

He laughs. ‘I like your reasoning. Have you counted them?'

‘What? The nails?'

‘No—the packets,' he laughs again.

‘Nah,' I snort. I don't tell him how I've been stopping myself from doing that. I don't tell him how each one of those packets reminds me of a day I could have been with Bella. ‘Nah,' I say. ‘Too depressing.'

Dad has had to have a private reunion with the swimming hole, so I get a bit of time to breathe later on.

Bella's letter is waiting for me like something secret. But right now I want to enjoy some time without any new thoughts at all—just for a while.

Now I'm back here, it's almost as if nothing has happened and everything has happened. The place is exactly like it was before. There's a bit of a time-warp effect out here. With no one around, you can exist in a bubble. I can see now why Mr Neville stayed.

I head out along the ridge path, going quietly in case I come across anyone. Dad might cut back up this way. What I doubt is that he's familiar with the crops along this path. If I see him, I'll just say I'm getting some air.

I'm actually on a mission to re-stock my stash. I'm just gunna pick a couple of handfuls, hide them somewhere dry where Dad won't find them (as in, not in the shack), and then when I come back after this court bizzo it'll be ready for consumption. Kind of a good way to end my time in the shack, I reckon, especially after all this. I'm gunna need a bit of relaxation therapy once it's all over.

Dad asked me this morning if I feel up to coming back here on my own for my last few weeks. He said that I don't have to, given what has happened and that I've nearly finished the deal. But more than ever before I want to finish this completely. I want to finish it off, for me, so I can know I've done it. I want to prove to myself, to Dad and to Bella that I do what I say I'll do. What feels good is that I know I
will
do it—and I just hope I'll feel clear, then, like I've done my time and am ready to get back into life.

Everything's wet from last night's rain. My boots soak up the water and change colour. The forest is glistening and clean and there are small puddles in the flat parts of the path.

As I get nearer, I realise how much fitter I am now. I can do these walks without any pain at all. Dad was struggling when we hiked in, and I gave him heaps about it. I had to carry the food and tell him to stop whining about his knees. I remember that first night I did the hike—I seriously thought I might not make it. It seems like a lifetime ago now. A whole other Joel ago.

I get to the bend in the track that marks the spot. Through the trees I can see a lighter patch, a sort of paleness in the green where there's a gap in the forest. I crouch and hide for a few minutes, listening. Nothing.

Go go go!

It's hard to move through bush quietly, especially when your heart's become a fucking bongo. I make it in, looking around me like an emu on speed.

No one's here, Joel, just chill.

I push through the final section to greet the glorious crop, relieved to have finally made it.

But the crop is no more. It's all gone.

Completely
gone.
Not trimmed, not harvested,
gone.
Ripped up. There's no stems or dying leaves lying about, just a field of dark, healthy soil facing me.

I think I stand there with my mouth like the Luna Park head for a few minutes, before I snap out of it and realise there's nothing I can do about it.

Just get outta here.

I resist the temptation to crash out onto the trail, and sit and listen for a minute first.

Everything seems quiet, seems normal.

I eke forward, testing the water, so to speak.

All's cool.

And then I push my way out to the track and compose myself as if I've just been birdwatching or something, chucking a look over my shoulder to make sure there's no one on a
horse
behind me.

I think over everything I know, and some of what I don't. Who could have done that in the time since I was last there? That's a major fucking operation, it's not like pulling out a weed or two in the back garden on a Saturday afternoon. That would have required serious manpower, and a vehicle or something big to haul away the load.

Maybe that's what they do, professional dope growers: maybe they don't
pick
their produce but yank it all out when it's fully grown so they never have a crop in one spot for too long. Maybe it's just a way of covering their tracks. Or maybe—oh, Jesus—maybe the cops spotted it when they paid me a visit the other day. But then why didn't they say anything? Surely they would have said something about it. Unless they knew whose it was and did a swoop. Or maybe they've known about it for ages and they snatched the guy once and for all. And kept a bit for themselves, no doubt. Ahhh ... maybe
that's
why Tremain was so out of it when I gave him my statement.

I shake my head and manage a grin. There's a hell of a lot of shit going on out there that most of us just do not have any idea about.

Some might say you're just small fry, Joel. Small fry.

There's one other thing I want to do today. As I walk back towards the shack I scoop up a gum seedling from the side of the trail. Its perfect leaves have red-tinged edges, and I cup the soil in my hands to try to protect the roots as best I can.

At the half-fallen tree, I cross into Mr Neville's property. Down in the valley, the view comes as a too-real reminder. Blue and white police tape is staked on the four sides of his house. DO NOT ENTER, POLICE INVESTIGATION, DO NOT ENTER, POLICE INVESTIGATION, around and around, on and on.

The front door is shut and taped off. I wonder if there's anything left of what happened inside, any blood or broken things, or if it's all been cleaned up. I wonder what will happen to the old guy's things, if anyone will come and collect his stuff, or if it'll gradually just break down into mouldy piles.

Looking around, I choose a spot halfway back up towards the ridge. It has a view of his hut. I claw out a wad of earth and nestle the seedling inside, pressing down around the edges. It looks like it will be okay.

All that's left of ya is a bit of soil.

When I turn back around and take my last look down his valley, I feel something settle inside me. Something beds down in me for good.

I call it Neville's tree. And I hope it grows huge and old like some of the other widowmakers out here.