Ironbark (17 page)

‘It's cool,' I say. ‘It's all cool.'

‘Is it now? Is it now? Well, that's good. Seems like it's cool, George.' But George doesn't say anything. We stand there for a few moments. Richie takes my wallet and flicks through it without any interest, drops it back on the counter. ‘You can put this away now,' he says. ‘You're free to go.'

I stuff things back so quickly I drop my keys at Richie's feet and have to bend down to get them. For a moment I've got this close-up of his shoes. I see my face distorted in the shine. Then I'm past him and getting the hell out the door.

‘Have a nice day,' he says.

The street is blurred. I wipe my eyes with the sleeve on my right arm and cross the road. Turns out the only car for sixty square kilometres is coming along at the same time and it screeches to a halt, skidding slightly on the rainslick road, horn blaring.

The guy leans out the window and gives his honest and forthright opinion of my character. It's comforting. It's almost like being back in Melbourne.

‘Language, dude!' I yell and break into a run. Richie would love the excuse to haul me into the station for jaywalking. He'd probably break my arms getting me there.

I pull my clothes from the dryer. They aren't dry yet, but I don't care. I just stuff them into the plastic bags and leave. The woman has disappeared, but that's something I only pick up on the edge of awareness. I have to split this town. That's all I know. Big splats of rain smack the pavement as I rush back down the main strip. I see the dog tied up in the tray of Granddad's ute. He has his head back and is looking at the sky as the rain comes down harder. Probably wondering what he's done to deserve it. I see the blurred outline of Granddad through the rain-splattered back window and it's relief I feel. Relief I won't have to sit and wait, there on the main strip, in plain view, a target with the cross hairs on my forehead, on alert for a cruising police car.

I open the passenger door and leap into the seat in one movement. Scares the poop out of Granddad. He jumps. Maybe he's going to let me know it's not a good idea to scare someone whose use-by date is looming. But he doesn't.

‘Are you all right?' he says and there's concern in his tone.

I nod. I don't trust my voice. I worry it'll come out shaky.

‘You sure?' he says. ‘You look like hell.'

‘Just drive,' I say and that comes out okay. It's only two words, mind.

Granddad hesitates. He stares at me for about thirty seconds, then shakes his head slightly and cranks the engine over. I'm peering in the cracked side mirror as we take off down the street. No sign of Richie. But I know I won't feel safe until we've put distance between us and him. Even though it's raining, I keep the window down, my face half out. The rain feels good against my skin. It washes against the muddle in my head, damps it down. Plus, Granddad can't ask why my face is wet now.

He doesn't say anything and I'm grateful. We drive for a klick or two and then he indicates to turn off onto our dirt track home.

‘Keep on this road,' I say.

‘What?'

‘I don't want to go home yet. Can we just keep driving?'

I
really
don't want to go home. I don't know why, but I can't face the trees, the shacks and the endless sitting in chairs waiting for something to happen. I need to get away from it all. And the rain still feels good against my face. I don't want it to stop. Even the sound of the tyres thrumming on the bitumen is relaxing. For a split second I think Granddad is going to ignore me. I can see him out the corner of my eyes and he seems to be searching my face for some kind of answer. I have no idea if he can read anything there, but I don't want to talk. I don't want to explain. I just want him to drive.

And he does. The turn-off is behind us and we keep on down the road, the sea stretching off on our left-hand side. Even in the rain, the effect is nauseatingly pretty. There are brightly coloured fishing boats bobbing about, seagulls wheeling and screeching above them like they're all waiting for a photographer to come along and record the moment. It doesn't get much more cheesy than this, but I like it. It's slow and calm and I feel the demon in my head slipping back into its dark cave. I close my eyes and let the rain wash over me. We've driven in silence for about ten minutes before Granddad says anything. And that's cool, because now I feel I can handle conversation. Up to a point. Provided it stays within limits.

‘Could you wind your window up?' he says. ‘You're floodin' the cab.'

‘No problemo, dude,' I say. Of course, keeping the damn thing up is another matter. So I wedge a piece of cardboard ripped from my ciggie packet into the perished rubber of the window track and that seems to work. For the time being at least. While I'm at it, I light up a cigarette, offer one to Granddad, but he turns me down. I tilt my head back where the headrest would be if there was one and blow smoke towards the stained vinyl on the cab roof.

‘What happened?' says Granddad.

‘Nothing,' I reply.

He's not buying that, of course.

‘Something happened,' he continues. ‘You're upset. Maybe you should tell me about it.'

And maybe I should. I seriously consider it. But what can I say? Judging by my first meeting with Richie, he's some kind of local hero. Granddad was brownnosing him big time. And how do I counter that? I'm the outsider here and bagging the local cop would only give the impression I've got serious problems with authority. That might not be too far from the truth, it has to be said, but still . . . And what if Granddad doesn't believe me? If he'd rather take Richie's word over mine? That would suck. Anyway, I'm not in the mood. Seriously. To be honest, I'm just starting to get control over my feelings. Talking about that would only stir up the whole sorry mess again. For the first time I regret throwing out my pills. I hate them. They make me feel . . . I don't know. Dead, almost. But maybe feeling dead is better than feeling like this all the time. Not much point in regret, though. They're rotting into the forest back at Granddad's, scattered to hell and beyond. Gone.

‘Granddad,' I say. ‘I really don't feel like talking about it. Sorry.'

He glances over at me, like he's weighing up whether to push it or not. He scrapes at his chin again with one leathery hand.

‘Well, at least you could tell me where the hell we are going.'

It comes to me in a flash. ‘Milton.'

‘Milton?'

‘Yeah. It is down this road, isn't it?'

‘Sure. But why're we going to Milton?'

‘'Cos, like the mountaineers always say, it's there, dude. Because it's there.'

That's not the only reason, of course. I like this idea of travelling, of putting kilometres of bitumen between me and Richie. And the sea is better than endless trees. But I also want to get that phone for Kris. In fact, I think I
need
to get that phone for Kris. Maybe it's to do with being in control. And, hey, the idea of retail therapy doesn't seem too bad, either. If Milton's got a cinema, it must have other things. A restaurant, maybe. Shops that sell more than T-shirts, fridge magnets of Tassie tigers and tired antiques.

I need to touch base with civilisation.

‘We could take in a movie, Gramps,' I say. ‘I'll buy you lunch. Whatever.'

He still looks like, in his head at least, it qualifies for worst idea of the millennium, but he doesn't say anything and shows no sign of slowing. If I haven't sold him the package, at least he's willing to indulge me. It cheers me up no end. Seriously. Even the clouds thin and a pale sun struggles to make itself seen. I warm to my theme.

‘We could hit the clubs. A couple of spunks like us, we'd hook up, no worries. Then we could bring the chicks back to the shacks, have a wallaby-watching fest and who knows what from there on in. Lock up your women, Milton. The boys are coming to town.'

Granddad still doesn't say anything. But that's cool. I just like the feel of the words in my mouth, anyway. I'm not too worried about making sense. Probably just as well.

We stop for petrol just outside Milton and I pay. Granddad makes no objections. I reckon he thinks it's the least I can do, given the trip was my idea. I'm running my credit card through the machine when this convertible slides up to the bowser next to ours. The young guy in it has the sound system so loud I can feel it in my fillings. He doesn't even stop the music when he fills up, which is pretty damn antisocial. I try ringing Kris, but her friend's phone is turned off.

Back in the ute, we head for civilisation. The clouds are breaking up now and the sun keeps making fleeting appearances. Given this must be the main road down the coast, heading towards Hobart, I guess, there's not much traffic about. I reckon I spot the same Kombi van we passed when Dad and I first hit the island, but it's probably my imagination.

The sports-car driver overtakes us on a bend, almost as if he was waiting for just that chance. He speeds past us at Mach 3 and swerves in front. We miss clipping him by no more than half a metre. It all happens so fast, I barely get time to react. Every muscle in my body bunches up and my heart tries to exit through the ribcage. Granddad slams on the brakes, which were never much good in the first place, and the ute starts to slide. I hadn't checked the tyres, but I'm willing to bet the treads could be measured in microns. Granddad tries to correct and for a moment it feels like it's going to be an overcorrection. The back of the ute slips to our right. Then we brush the gravel at the side of the road and it fishtails. I can't see out my window for the clouds of dust. A small, calm part of my mind thinks that the rain must not have been too heavy around here. I brace myself for the shock of collision. I hadn't noticed whether there were trees or shrubs or concrete pillars at the side of the road. If we hit anything solid, it's going to be a mess.

We don't.

The ute slides and then comes to a stop, rocking gently on its axles. I'm out of the cab before I'm even aware what I'm doing. The dog is all right. Looks kinda puzzled and more awake than I've ever seen it. But okay. It's funny. I'd forgotten he was even travelling with us. Least, I
thought
I'd forgotten, but some part of me must have being paying attention.

‘Hey, Jai,' I say. ‘How are you, dude?'

I ruffle the hound under the chin, but he doesn't look thrilled.

Granddad gets out as well. He leans against the side of the tray and despite the fact he's all weather-beaten I can see he's pale. It's difficult to believe how quiet it is out here. No birds, no other traffic, just the ticking of the engine block. The sports-car driver must have seen what happened to us.
Must
have. Because we've gone round the bend now and there's a long straight ahead. But he didn't stop to check. Short odds he's a Melbourne driver. I look at Granddad's face and reckon the driver made the right choice. Granddad's fit to be tied. He's got his hands on the tray's edge and his head is down. Only then do I realise he's talking to himself. I can't make out the words. I don't need to make out the words.

I know self-talk when I hear it.

So I leave him to it. That's what I want when it's me. I light up a smoke and untie the dog from the tray. He jumps down from the ute reluctantly, like he doesn't trust his legs. And I take him off to the side of the road, so he can find a shrub or a tree to relieve himself against. He's a fussy fella, though. We pass plenty of good candidates before he finally finds the outcrop of choice and cocks his leg. By the time I've finished my ciggie and the dog's had enough of sniffing around, Granddad seems to have recovered. He's behind the wheel again as I lift Jai up into the tray and fasten him safely in. Gramps doesn't say anything when I take my seat. Just turns the engine over and pulls out onto the road. I offer him a cigarette, but he shakes his head, reefs his rolling baccy from a jacket pocket and hands it to me.

I'm no good at rolling under normal circumstances, but I give it my best shot. Only takes ten minutes before I've got something I don't feel too embarrassed about offering. He lights it without even glancing at it.

‘Self-talk, eh, Gramps?' I say after a minute or two.

‘What?' he says.

‘Talking to yourself, using words to calm down. You've got anger-management problems of your own, haven't you, Granddad?'

He flicks ash out of the window.

‘Don't know what you're talking about,' he says.

‘Yes, you do. You know exactly what I'm talking about. Not many things I'm an expert on, but this is one.'

‘I don't want to talk about it,' he says.

We drive into the outskirts of Milton in silence. How macho is that? Kris, for one, wouldn't be at all surprised.

Then again, judging by the blank screen on my mobile, maybe she wouldn't be interested.

I worry about the dog, but Granddad doesn't seem concerned.

‘He'll be fine here in the back of the tray. Falls asleep. Done it plenty of times.'

‘Yeah, but we could be gone a couple of hours, dude. Won't he bake to death back there?'