90 Packets of Instant Noodles (2 page)

The old man pulled the car over where the road meets the track. It was Sunday, a good day for new beginnings, he said.

Right on, Dad. I think he was more nervous than me.

We hauled on our packs. Well, I hauled on mine. Dad could have picked his up with his little finger. He'd brought a day pack, with a couple of litres of water and food and sunscreen. I had the mother of all packs; it ended somewhere near my knees. The zips bared their teeth over my gear like they might vomit if I put any more in.

We stayed on the main track until we reached an old fenceline, which Dad reckoned should take us right to the shack if we followed it.

‘Yeah, and how long has it been since you were last here, Dad?'

‘Not as long as it's been for you, I'll just point out, you little—'

‘Now, now, be nice; new beginnings, remember?'

We tried to keep it like that on the walk in. Cheery. The months ahead, and the weeks before, were heavy enough for both of us. I think we were just sick of all the
weight,
you know? We just crapped on like nothing unusual was happening. I was really grateful to Dad for that. No last-minute sermons.

The day before, of course, had been a different story. He'd come out with this new thing that I had to
write
to him once a week.

‘
What?
What is this, army camp?'

‘Well, it sure as hell isn't a bloody holiday for high achievers!'

We stared at each other.

He shook his head. ‘Look, Joel, you're going to have to go into town once a week anyway to report in and stock up on food; you won't be able to carry very much each time you go—it's pretty far, believe me. You may as well drop me a line at the same time.'

Oh, jeez-uss. Fun.

‘It's just so I know you're okay, and sticking to the deal. I'm not kidding: if you don't write I'll presume you've gone AWOL and I'll have to tell Sergeant McPhee. He'll contact Wardle and send him over—and we both know what that means.'

That was true. I wasn't gunna argue. I'd been shitting my pants about the whole detention centre thing, to be honest, which the lawyer said was definitely a goer this time. This shack idea of the old man's seemed pretty crazy at first, but anything's gotta be better than the alternative.

We'd had these talks, Dad and I, after it all came out, after school threatened to expel me and everything. It was like Dad had been pretending it wasn't happening until then, until the second or third call from the cops. And then it was real all of a sudden. Like the lights went on. He'd open a couple of stubbies and pass me one and you could see him trying to stay calm. I knew it was serious when I got a beer out of it just so he could talk. We've always been able to talk, you know, but there's never been much time. And this whole thing wasn't anything to do with him. I've never had any big issues with the old man. So when he flipped his lid it was actually terrible. He asked me why I'd done it and I never really had much of an answer.
Cos I could. Cos everything was boring. Cos I couldn't talk properly and people took the piss out of me. Cos I wanted to show them I was cool. Cos I couldn't say no. Cos Craggs is my mate and we do everything together. Cos I dunno.
And that's all pathetic, I know that; they're not reasons, but they're the best I can come up with, cos I don't really know why else. I don't really know who I am, or who that person is—the one who rips off gear and flouts the law. Are they even the same person? Are they both Joel—whoever that is? I've been thinking something random. I've been thinking, yep, yep, they are.

I'd chosen my skankiest boots for the mission. The track was pure sludge in parts, so that was one good decision. But my
pack
! What the hell did I have in there, man? Thank god I didn't have to carry in cooking equipment as well. The shack had all that stuff, even if it was covered in dried-up mouse turds and the dust of fifty years. It was like a nuclear bomb had gone off and everyone had just dropped what they were doing and evacuated. I brought some clothes, a couple of books that the old man forced me to pack (
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
—what kind of hippie dope-smoker would call a book that?), and eight zillion packets of instant noodles—my idea. I might have brought a few too many, in retrospect.

During a drink stop on our walk in Dad said, ‘I've set up an account for you at the general store in town, so you can buy food and things you need, okay?'

I nodded uncertainly, wondering what that meant, exactly.

‘There's a limit on it,' he said, reading my mind. ‘It's $650 all up. That's fifty bucks for each week. To buy food with
only,
Joel.'

‘Right,' I said, thinking of all the things I could do with that amount of cash.

‘I won't be shelling out any more if you spend it on other stuff.'

‘Yeah, got that, Dad.'

He looked at me hard and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a card-hand of twenties. ‘And that's $100, in case of
total emergency.
Okay?'

I took it and shoved it into a bunch of clothes right in the middle of my pack. That money wasn't going anywhere, not today, anyway.

But he couldn't quite wipe the doubt off his face. ‘Joel?'

‘I said,
G–o–t i–t,
Dad. Got it?'

I knew Dad wouldn't want to hang around when we finally rocked up. He had to get all the way back to the car before dark. The concept of anyone doing the return walk straight away seemed fucking insane, quite frankly. He reached over and kind of shook my arm. ‘Good luck, all right?'

And that was it.

I tried not to watch him walking away. It was too weird. Maybe, until then, I'd thought it was all a trick, and he wasn't
really
going to leave me out here alone.

He didn't turn around, either.

I kept seeing Bella around at school after that party. It drove me half psycho trying to find times to talk to her, and seeing her hanging out with other crew, other guys. Somehow I got her address and I went round there one Saturday afternoon. It was down near the river. We went and watched the windsurfers and kids kayaking until the sun went down and the families went home. We talked as if neither of us had ever told anyone anything before, until it made us dog-tired, until we lay back on the grass and watched the seagulls do figure eights in the fading blue. It kind of clicked over then, from a teasing, chatting, giving-shit thing to something else, something that made me feel different—stronger, weaker, down-deep happy but almost sad, somehow. And excited and bloody terrified at the same time. We both completely forgot about going home for dinner. The mozzies came and went and lights glowed up on the other side of the river where people were prawning. Bella told me she liked me in this way that made me feel like I was having a heart attack, in this clear, true way that had nothing to do with girl games. She said it and I knew she meant it. That's how it was. That's how Bella is. And this time I really wanted to get it all right, not do something at the wrong time, or
not
do something at the right time; I didn't want it to be clumsy-awkward-embarrassing like it sometimes is, and Bella made it easy, somehow, she made it right. We didn't do anything much but that's not what I mean—there was something about it, that night, the two of us down by the river, Joel Strattan and this awesome, cute, smart, funny chick, that I hope I don't ever forget.

I ate and crashed last night, I was so shattered. After Dad'd gone, I just dropped my pack, shovelled some no-cook sustenance into my belly and then face-planted the stinking bed and slept. In a layer of dust.

This morning I'm sore like I've survived a brawl, and the thought crosses my mind that if I'd had a shower last night I might actually be able to move now. I have
bruises
on my shoulders from the pack. I hobble over to the kitchen and spin open the tap to wash the crusties out of my eyes.

Nothing comes out.

I look at it.

No water is splashing into the sink, dribbling onto my hands, swirling down the plughole.

No water?

I stare at the tap, slowly realising how badly I need there to be water. Drinking, showering, cooking all those instant noodles, the list goes on.

How does this joint get water, anyway? I rack my tiny mind for conversations with Dad about the place. Didn't he say something about having to bring in water during summer?

It's not summer now, that's for sure. I tuck my T-shirt in and scrabble through my bag for an extra pair of socks. Can you get frostbite down here?

I go outside and look around, for I don't know what. I walk around the house and just as I'm beginning to really worry I see an old tank nesting just under the roof, in line with the gutter. To catch the overflow, presumably.

Thank Christ.

The tank is raised up on some chunky tree stumps. I grab a stick and gently hit the side of it to see if there's anything in there. It makes a
boing, boing
sound. The thing's bloody
full.

So why is nothing coming out of the tap?

I lean against the shack and look up at the roof. There's no easy way up there. I go back inside to look for something I can stand on, but all the chairs are too low. Back outside, I forage around and finally think to look under the verandah.

What I find looks like it might succumb under the weight of an anorexic but I think you could call it a ladder. Of sorts.

I go up pretty gingerly, and it creaks like it hasn't seen the light of day for a few decades, but it does the job. When I get up there and yank the lid off the tank, it's not a pretty sight. I cover my mouth and nose.

The water is putrid. It reeks so bad I gag and nearly fall off the roof. I try not to breathe and fish around in there with the broom. Whatever it was has drowned and blocked up the outlet. There's still a bit of fur and stuff floating around. Possum? Don't they sometimes crawl into roofs? It must have been thirsty, poor fucker, really thirsty.

Eventually I find a plug on the outside of the tank and pop it. The rank sludge pours out onto the ground beside the house.

Now I really don't have any water.

I'm wrecked by the end of the day. I had to go up and down that dodgy ladder about five times to clean out as much of the deceased as possible, which is 11 on the difficulty scale when you are without that old cleaning essential: running water. I had a couple of litres left from my hike in, so I splashed it around a bit with some chlorine I found and saved the rest for drinking. Now I'm just praying that it rains before I die of thirst out here, or the last that'll be seen of Joel Strattan is his skeleton, with an empty glass rolling around next to him.

I look exhaustedly towards the kitchen. I'm starving.

Right, Joely, dinner. Well, okay ... food.

I'm not exactly what you'd call a chef.

Need one of Nan's lamb casseroles, don't you, really?

Dad's always done the cooking—well, since Mum left he has—and I have to do the washing up, that's the deal at our place. He who cooks does not also wash up.

Here, though, I have to do both.
Here,
though, no one'll be hassling me, so I'm gunna let the dishes stack up for
days.
Relative joy.

‘Tonight,' I announce way too loudly, ‘we are having Joel's deluxe pasta with tomato sauce.'

It goes like this:

I discover too late that if you
heat
the sauce before you pour it on, the meal will taste much better—and it will stay hot.

Outside it's pitch. Mega-moths are banging to get in. The sounds of the forest are kept out by my general noisiness in here. It's better that way. It's only day two.

‘Three months.'

She pushed the reds hard behind her ears, then, but they kept falling forward.

I'd explained the whole thing to her—well, the bits that I could get my head around. I told her about Craggs, about the deal with the cops, about the gigs even—I just didn't want to bullshit her. She's got satellite-sized crap detectors on her, Bella does. I've seen them do their work on a few other crew, and it can be brutal. Like Karen never gets away with the whole
you pronounce it Kaaaren
thing. Bella just calls her Karen to her face, as though she's never heard of the other way.

‘This is just...' She shook her head. ‘Just unbelievable.' She looked at me. ‘I mean, Joel—' Shook her head again. ‘It's—'

‘I know.'

‘Why—'

‘I don't know.'

Shook her head. Didn't touch me. She seemed to go into herself a bit then. I felt her pull back from me. And, god, that made me feel desperate ... I just wanted to reach over and grab her,
grab
her physically and pull her back to me, to make her understand that it had nothing to do with
us,
that it was stupid,
stupid,
what I'd done.

But she was
freaked
—couldn't speak in whole sentences for the first half-hour—and after it had sunk in she kept saying, ‘It's not the end of the world, this is not the end of the world.'

‘I've stuffed everything up.'

‘No. No.' She was concentrating as she spoke. ‘Not everything. Just one thing. It's
not
everything.'

‘It's long, Bella, it's three months we're talking about.'

‘It's not that long. It's one term.' She moaned. ‘Oh, it's long, it's too long.' She looked scared for a minute, really worried, then she re-composed herself. ‘We can write. Can we write to each other? Letters? I'm not into the phone.' Her fingers rubbed hard across her forehead, back and forth. ‘I'm just not good on the phone, you know?'

She looked at me slightly wildly. ‘
But I love letters,
' she whispered.

I smiled about as much as I'd been able to since it all happened. ‘Yeah, yeah, we can write letters,' I said.

‘Okay,' she said. She took a careful breath. ‘Then it'll be okay.'

But she couldn't get it out of her voice. The doubt.

You tosser, Joel. Pin-dick loser fuckwit.

‘It'll be okay, Bella,' I said, trying to sound strong. ‘I promise.'