90 Packets of Instant Noodles (6 page)

I stagger out of the shack in the morning like an old dero. I just have to get out of the place, get some sun. I want to write to Bella but not with my head the way it is at the moment, or I'll probably say all sorts of lame stuff I regret. I've got a bottle of water and a packet of Saladas with me so I should be okay for a few hours. It's clear like space out here—everything looks hyper-real in the morning sun.

I take some deep breaths as I get going and try to settle my head a bit. I'm going walking; I'm going to find the swimming hole. That's today's list of activities from start to finish. Thinking, you may notice, is not on the list. Especially that psycho twisty-thinking that's like being on one of the rides at the Royal Show—you go over and over and over and over the same patch of ground until not only do you need to hurl into the crowd but you know nothing's going to change as long as you're on that ride.

The bush is thick and I get hell scratched trying to follow the old fenceline, but I can't afford to lose sight of it because it's my only guide. I hug the fence as it heads deeper into the forest, in the opposite direction from town, until it meets the hiking trail. The Bibbulmun or Bubblegum or Bubblebum or whatever the hell it's called. I work out that it's about 2 kilometres from the house, based on the estimate that it takes me about ten to fifteen minutes to walk a kilometre. As in, extremely bloody slow. You end up doing about 4 or 5 kilometres an hour, depending on how much you're gunning it. Dad said to get to the swimming hole you follow the track until you get to a hut where hikers camp at night, and the river isn't far from there. The track is pretty easy, over flat ground, and there are small triangular signs every kilometre or so, so I know I'm not gunna get totally lost or anything. It's quite reassuring to see signs of life round here to be honest, but I'm praying I don't come across anyone, cos I'm not up for small talk, if you know what I mean.

My mind roves over life at home. There's a few memories that are particularly
large,
no matter how long ago they happened. It must be the quality of the sun or something this morning, but this one time keeps popping up. I'd ridden over to Craggs's. I was bored and thought he might want to go for a cruise or something. As I got closer to his house I realised that was never going to happen. I almost veered away, to leave them all to it, but instead I pulled up along the side fence and looked over, keeping my head down, in case Mr Adams was there.

I saw Craggs and his sister straight away.

‘What's happening?' I said quietly, trying to get a view of anything inside the house.

Craggs's head jerked up. He was out the back of his place, with his little sister, Hannah. ‘Jesus! What are you, a bloody jack-in-the-box?'

I laughed gently. ‘Sorry, was just seeing what you were up to—but I guess it's not a good time.'

From inside their house I could hear his old man raging, and the high-pitched shrieks of Mrs Adams in between.

‘Nah, bad time. Very bad time.'

‘What are you doing?' I nodded towards Hannah.

‘Oh.' Craggs kind of shook his head. ‘Just getting her set up.' He looked over briefly. ‘She's only seven.'

He was arranging some plastic chairs around an old plastic table outside, in the shady side of the garden shed. He got Hannah to sit down and then he brought over a bucket of textas and pencils and a few sheets of paper. She didn't look at me, but I could see from the side of her face that she'd been crying. Craggs looked about as stressed as I'd seen him.

There was a smashing from inside, like someone was taking to the furniture with an axe. Then screaming—Mrs Adams—and more bellowing, more smashing. Hannah looked at Craggs but her chin didn't let her get any words out. Craggs pulled his chair close and put his arm around her. He said something to her that I couldn't hear and I reckoned then it was time for me to leave.

I turned my bike and mumbled, ‘See ya, guys. Come over if you need anything.' There was no need to wait for an answer before riding off.
I
felt scared. How must they have felt?

The track doglegs after half an hour and through the trees I can see the hut. It's pretty sweet—there's sun all over it and a fireplace out the front. There's space to sleep about eight and a wooden table to sit at. It's only got three walls, though, so it must get bloody ball-clamping at night. I reckon they've kept it three-sided for the view, cos the place looks down over tall, old forest. If it had four walls I reckon I'd nearly say it's better than my joint. There's a water tank around one side. Could come in handy if I run out.

I swing around the back of the place, which is empty—no sleeping-bags or warm fires or anything—and find an old trail leading away. I can't see anything else that looks promising, so I follow it. It goes way down, so I figure I'm doing okay, cos you usually have to go down to get to rivers, don't you? Rivers are always at low points in the land, I remember Mr Hanrahan saying. Cocksucker. But hey, he taught me one useful thing: that rivers are always at low points in the land. I meander down, trying not to think about Bella or Craggs or the old man's letter that I still haven't read, or the fact that I'm gunna have to go into town again horribly soon.

A kooka flies right across the path with a gecko in its mouth, bloody scares me. The track gets super steep and I slip down until I can see a round, green, perfect pool in the river. It's big, at least 20 metres across. And it looks deep—I can't see the bottom. There's a mini-waterfall rushing in at one end, so the water can't be stagnant or anything. It's awesome. I rip off my jeans and jocks and am about to throw myself in when I figure I should test it out first for temperature. I stick my foot in up to my ankle. And I pull it out again. It's ridiculously freezing, but I'm starkers out here so I just hurl myself in like a lunatic.

It takes a while before I can breathe again, even once I've popped up. I actually think my heart might have stopped beating for a few long, icy seconds. My balls shrink to lentils and my eyes probably resemble a frog's. It's the coldest water I've ever been in; it's
pain
ful. Once I'm sure I'm still alive I do some rapid freestyle to warm up, and then the water starts to feel halfway bearable. Soon I'm floating on my back in heaven, just happy to have found this place. The water is amazing! My eyes feel as though they are open—really
open
—for the first time since I got here. Lying on my back and looking up at the trees, I feel like I'm in a flotation tank or something. Eventually, I swim to the edge and crawl up the bank and it's about then that I realise I didn't bring a towel. It's too cold to sit here and dry naturally—my cods still haven't recovered from the shock—so I use my T-shirt to wipe most of the water from my body. When I pull on my jeans I feel like a new man. I lie out on the rocks for a while longer, soaking up the sun.

Tonight maybe I'll sleep.

I hear something moving through the bush on the other side of the pool. Sticks are snapping and leaves shuffling and I'm wondering: what the hell is this thing? What animals are out here, anyway? Roos, okay—it could be a roo. Pigs? Bush pigs? The real kind, I mean, not the ones at school. Wallabies? Most of the other critters are nocturnal, like possums and numbats and whatever. Let's face it, numbats may as well be extinct for how often anyone ever gets to see them—and stamps and coins don't count.

I can see branches moving and something coming closer—and it's quite big. Can't make anything out yet but I stay super still and silent. My heart's beating to an African rhythm, and then whatever it is comes right out, right out into the open, and I've seen one of these before, oh yeah, everyone's seen one of these. They usually hang out in the city, mumbling crap to themselves or going through the bins looking for half-eaten lunches. Species:
Oldus derus.
I'm pretty shocked to see this guy out here, actually, and don't know whether or not to say anything. The guy has obviously split the park bench scene and headed down here for a spot of quiet time. He looks about sixty or seventy, big beard, old clothes but they look clean, and he's leaning down at the edge, cleaning out his pots and pans in the stream! Who knows what I've been swimming in—leftovers from last night's old-dero ravioli? Jesus. I lean forward a bit and see that he's actually washing his gear in the running stream as opposed to the pool, so that's not quite as bad. It's then that the pointy rock under my left butt cheek decides that it's had enough of the view and falls away, clacking loudly on the rocks further down.

I'm busted. (How many more times am I gunna have to say that?)

He stands up straight and peers over the water.

I stand up, too, and raise my hand and call out like a total ask-the-Leyland-Brothers loser, ‘G'day there.'

He squints at me suspiciously.

What do I say? Anything? Nothing? I'm Joel? Nice weather? Nice outfit?

‘You one o them hikers?' he grunts out over the water.

‘Uhh ... n-no.'

I can see his eyes narrowing. He's looking seriously pissed off.

‘Well, what are ya, then?'

Good fucken question, mate. If only I knew. I concentrate on not stammering like a clown, highly likely when I'm nervous. ‘I'm staying in my dad's cabin, just up there.' I wave weakly in the general direction.

His eyes open up then. ‘What, the old shack?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Bloody bejesus son of Mary.'

Just what I was gunna say. And pretty much how I feel about it, too.

‘No one's been there for years.'

‘Yeah, I know. Where do you—? Do you live around here?'

Major squinting again. ‘Never you mind, sonny. A man's got a right to his privacy, that's all I ask.'

Jeez-uss. Sorry. Just tryin to be friendly, mate. ‘Yeah, course, okay.'

There's a fairly long silence. Parrots cry in the distance.

‘I went for a swim,' I finally blurt out.

‘Cold, was it?'

‘Oh yeah.'

That gets a laugh out of him. ‘Yeah, come down meself every now and then for a bath.'

Eerg.

‘Real refreshing, eh.'

‘Yep,' I nod.

‘Righto, then, well, I'd best be off,' he says, picking up his ravioli pan.

‘Okay. See you round maybe.'

More squinting. ‘Maybe,' he grunts, and disappears back into the ferns and gums, leaving me standing on the edge of the swimming hole, wondering if I was just in an episode of
The X-Files.

I hear twigs snapping. I guess not.

Snack time. Cheese on toast. (I have to admit, the mere sight of instant noodles is beginning to make me feel a little queasy. There's so many empty packets now that I had to scout around for a special
rock
a couple of days ago to put on top of the pile to keep them down. They crinkle away at me in the slightest breeze.)

Dad's letter's lying on the table, still unopened. His next one has probably already arrived, and I haven't even read this one. Rude of me, eh. I put the kettle on for a cuppa and sit down to read it.

Something's burning. I almost knock the chair over, trying to save my toastie. It's the last bit of cheese I have left until I haul my butt back into town and stock up again. It's burned, but only at the edges, so I sling it onto a plate and sit back down again.

I'm pretty shocked at this revelation from my old man. He's never mentioned Pop wanting him to become a doctor, or spending a
year
down here. It's funny imagining him here on his own, too. But a year! Jesus Christ, that would have been hardcore. I shake my head, feeling the pain. I'm surprised they didn't discover him dead—of boredom. But good on him, for leaving, for doing what he had to do. That would have taken guts. How harsh is that, to not be allowed your own way at that age? Dad's never been a control freak: he's the exact opposite. I mean, you know what the rules are in our place but I generally get to live my life how I want to, more or less. He never lectures; he reckons you have to learn from your own mistakes. I've always thought it's been great, and Craggs gets hell jealous when he comes over. He reckons it's a good scene, and so do I. But this letter ... it's made me wonder, maybe that's too slack, or something. I mean, maybe Dad's trying so hard not to be like Pop that he's gone too far the other way. And maybe that's why I'm such a fuck-up. I dunno. That makes it sound like it's Dad's fault, and that's not right, either. I'm the only one making the decisions here. Aren't I?