One Dead Seagull (11 page)

I
was
in
the
toilets
before
homeroom
and
Den
rocked in to
take
a
leak.
He
pushed
me
into the
urinal mid-stream
and
I
managed
to
pee
on
my
runner
and
put
my hand
on
the
wet
stainless
steel.
Mongrel.
He
laughed
and showed
me
the
bruise
that
Griz
had
given
him
while
I washed
my
hands.
It
was
yellowing
already
and
the
size
of a
tennis
ball.
He
said
it
still
hurt.
I
asked
him
what
he
was
going
to
do
about
Griz
and
he
grinned.

‘Pay
him
the
mone
y
.
Y
ou’ve
got
it
in
the
bank,’
I
said.
He
nodded.
‘That
’
s
not
the
point.
The
pants
and
seat
are
worth
about
twenty
dollars
not
two
hundred.
It
’
s
extortion
he
’
s
into,
not
compensation.’

    
Sometimes
he
sounds
like
his
mum.

Mandy
was
funny
that
week.
She’d
been
strange
since
the
part
y
.
It
was
the
last
day
of
school
before
I
got
to
talk
to
he
r
. Sally
Thomas
’
s mum works
at
a
bake
r
y
and
had
brought
in
a
heap
of
cakes
for
our
last
da
y
.
It
was
like
a little
party
in
the
common
room.

‘Hey
Mand
y
.
How
are
you
going?’

‘
Y
eah
good,
W
ayne.
How
are
you?’
she
said
pecking
at the
corner
of
an
apple
slice.

‘I’m
all
right.’

An
uncomfortable
pause
broken
by
stupid
laughter
as Hendo
and
Carlson
pretended
to
ride
around
the
corner
on
the
big
yellow
Labrador
that
eve
r
yone
calls
‘Spitball’. They’re
really
mean
to
that
dog
and
it
annoys
the
hell
out of
me.
It
must
be
someone
’
s
pet.
I
knocked
on
the
window and
told
them
to
leave
the
dog
alone.

‘How
would
you
like
it
if
someone
rode
around
on
your
back?’
Mandy
yelled.

Carlson
extended
his
middle
finger
and
gave
me
the bird.
Hendo
motioned
for
Mandy
to
come
outside
and
get on
his
back.
Mandy
told
him
to
piss
off
and
I
laughed.

‘Are
you
going
away
for
the
holidays?’
I
asked
and
she
shook
her
head.

‘
Y
ou?’

I
nodded
and
shrugged,
having
just
stuffed
a
creamy slice
of
sponge
in
my
gob.
I
chewed
hard
and
explained that
I
was
working
with
Dad
in
the
first
week
and
going
to
Mars
Cove
with
the
Humes
after
that.

She
lit
up
at
the
mention
of
Mars
Cove,
explaining
that
her
family
had
been
going
there
for
years.
She
said
I’d enjoy
it. Che
r
yl
cut
into
the conversation
then and
I decided
it
was
time
to
leave.

‘Hey
W
ayne!’
Mandy
called
as
I
walked
off.
‘If you’re working
over
the
holidays,
remember
it
’
s
my
birthday
first week
back
and
I’d
love
a
really
big
present.’

I
nodded
and
asked
her
what
date
it
was.
She
said
that she
liked
chocolate
and
hadn
’
t
got
the
new
Feral
Pigs
CD.
T
wenty-second
of
Septembe
r
.
She
laughed
it off
and continued her
conversation
with
Che
r
yl
but
I
jotted
it down
in
my
mind.
Maybe
I
could
get
her
something.

Den
was
unusually manic
over
lunch.
Griz
hadn
’
t turned up
at
school
so he
felt
as
though
his
death
sentence
had
been
reprieved.

Dad
burst
into
the
flat
at
seven
o’clock
the
next
morning. Mum
asked
him
to
look
after
me
and
he
grumbled
that
he always
does.

His
old
ute was
parked out
the
front
and
it
had
a
bit
of
a
lean
to
the driver
’
s
side.
It
used
to
be
white
but
it
’
s
more red-brown
rust
and
mud
no
w
.
There
’
s
so
much
shit
piled in
the
back
that
it
looks
as
though
he
’
s
constantly
heading for
the
tip.
All
his
decent
tools
are
locked
in
two
battered steel
toolboxes
that
live
in
the
back
and
the
ladders
he needs
are
tied
to
the
roof
racks
with
shaggy
rope.

The
passenger
’
s
side
door
handle
is
broken—has
been since
before
I
was
born—so
Dad
leant
across
the
piles
of
clothes
and
papers
to
let
me
in.
T
wo
green
beer
cans
fell out
of
the
door
and clattered
into
the
gutte
r
.
I
picked
them
up
and
stuffed
them
back
with
the
others
in
the
foot well.
Stale
beer
and
cigarettes.
It
smelled
like
adventure.
Dad
pumped
the
accelerator
pedal
and
braced
himself
as

he
turned the
ke
y
.
The
starter
motor barked
and
the engine
roared
into life.
W
e
bucked
and
lurched down Vincent
Drive
and
into Merrimans
Creek
Road.
Five minutes
and
we
were
there.
W
asn
’
t
even
in the next suburb.

Th
e
hous
e
wa
s
on
e
o
f
thos
e
flash-lookin
g
Federation-styl
e
place
s
wit
h
a
doze
n
bedroom
s
an
d
a
n
upstairs
.
It wa
s
totall
y
unlik
e
th
e
sor
t
o
f
shac
k
Da
d
normall
y
works
on
.
A
waist-hig
h
bric
k
fenc
e
surrounde
d
a
garden
burstin
g
int
o
springtime
.
Th
e
tree
s
wer
e
covere
d
with
lime-gree
n
bab
y
leave
s
an
d
th
e
law
n
neatl
y
finished
wher
e
th
e
ros
e
bed
s
began
.
I
t
looke
d
pe
r
fec
t
excep
t
for th
e
stack
s
o
f
brick
s
an
d
pile
s
o
f
san
d
an
d
crushe
d
rock tha
t
wer
e
blockin
g
th
e
sid
e
gate
.
Da
d
parke
d
th
e
ut
e
on th
e
natur
e
strip.

I
shovelled
crushed
rock into the wheelbarrow
and carted
it
across
the
yard.
It
looked
like
Mr
Thompson
was just
t
r
ying
to
spend
mone
y
.
A
big
area
of
concrete
had been
pulled out—Dad
said
contractors
did that,
thank
God—and
he
wanted
Dad
to
lay
bricks
the
same
colour
as
the
house
in
its
place.
W
e
spent
the
whole
day
moving rock
and
putting planks
of
wood
in
level.
At
about
four o’clock,
I
filled
a
barrow
a
bit
too
full
and
rolled
it
onto
the
grass,
spilling
the
rock
eve
r
ywhere.

‘Smoko,’
Dad
chuckled
and got
the
thermos
out
of
his
bag.

W
e
got
to
talking
about
the
flaming
shit-bomb
incident and
he
asked
me
if I
knew
anyone
that
would
have
a reason
to
do
it.
No-one,
except
maybe
Griz.
I
told
him
that Griz
was
a
bit
pissed
at
Dennis.
Y
eah,
it
would
be
something
Griz
would
do.

‘What
’
s
the
bloke
’
s
name
again?’

‘Shane
Grizotto.’

Dad
didn
’
t have
a
single
smoke
all
da
y
.
Maybe
he
had quit.
Jesus,
I
was
dying
for
one.
I
picked
up
my
mess
and
put
it
where
it
was
supposed
to
go.

Mum
invited
Dad
to
stay
for
dinne
r
.
That
was
out
of
the
blue.
He
said
he’d
love
to.
I
was
getting
a
drink
and
Mum said
under
her
breath
that
it
would
probably
be
the
first home-cooked
meal
he’d
had
this
month.
Shepherd
’
s
pie. Bliss.
I
ate
like
a
kelpie
and
dragged
myself
from
in
front
of
the
telly
to
bed
at
about
half
past
nine.
Knackered.

Sunday was
much
of
the
same
except
my
arms
and
bum
ached
and
after
lunch
Dad
had
me racing
around
with
a thing
he
called
a
‘whacker’.
That
’
s
exactly
what
it
does.
It weighs
about
as
much
as
I
do
and
it
vibrates
like
hell
as
it
whacks all
the rock
into
place.
T
urns
loose
rock
into
hard, flat
rock
and
then
we
put
the
sand
on
top
of
that,
one
wheelbarrow
at
a
time,
and
make
it
level
with
a
screed—a long
bit
of
wood
with
a
handle
nailed
to
it.
At
half
past four
I
was
totally
whackered
and
screeded
out,
so
we
went
home
and
Mum
had
tea
ready
for
us
both
again.
She’d been
at
Uncle
T
ed
and
Auntie
Penny
’
s place
all
day
so she’d
bought
pizza
on
the
way
home.
And
a
couple
of
beers.
It
was
something
else
sitting
in
front
of
the
telly with
my
mum
and
my
dad
eating
pizza
and
drinking
bee
r
. The
beer
was
good
and
I
almost
finished
a
whole
can.
Give me
bourbon
any
da
y
.
After
tea
Mum
and
Dad
started
to talk
so
I
wished
them
goodnight
and
left
them
to
it.
I
think
I
heard
one
song
on
my
radio
before
I
dozed
off
but I
can
’
t
be
sure.
Knackered.

I
got
the
surprise
of
my
life
the
next
morning.
I
showered,
had
breakfast
and
went
to
wait
for
Dad
out
the
front
and
his
ute
was already
there.
It hadn
’
t
moved.
I
ran
into Mum
’
s
bedroom
and
gave
her
a
kiss goodbye—he wasn
’
t there
eithe
r
.
I
asked
if
she
knew
where
he
was
and
she
grumbled
that
he’d
slept
on
the
lounge.
Something
was going
on.
Dad
hadn
’
t
slept
in
the
same
suburb
as
Mum since
I
was
seven
and
Mum had
let
him camp
in the lounge
room.
Wicked!
He
was
sort
of
scrunched
up
in
a ball
and
I
hadn
’
t
noticed
him
while
I
was
getting
read
y
.