Ironbark (20 page)

The food arrives and suddenly I discover I'm hungry. It's the smell. And the fish looks great, two huge pieces, thinly battered. I tear off a piece and take a bite. It crumbles on my tongue, hurts as it goes down my throat. But I tear off another piece anyway. Granddad opens a second stubby, but he doesn't touch his food. We sit for five minutes in silence.

‘No one needs to be behind bars,' says Granddad, finally. ‘You'll be right.'

‘I won't be right,' I say, and I'm angry he doesn't understand. ‘I'll never be right carrying this thing round with me.'

‘You're a good lad,' he says. ‘You'll beat it.'

‘And what the hell do you know, Gramps?' I yell. ‘You've got no idea what I'm capable of.'

Emotions are churning up inside me so much I don't even feel ashamed of shouting at him.

‘The first time I went to jail, it was for six months,' he says. He isn't looking at me, but over my shoulder, into the past. His voice is quiet. ‘Two years the second time. Nearly beat a guy to death over a game of pool. Took six coppers to arrest me. I broke the jaw of one.'

He rolls a cigarette and lights it. His eyes screw up as the smoke rises.

‘I know one thing. Prison's no place for a hothead. I ended up in the infirmary three times. Got serious internal injuries once. Never stopped fighting, as I remember. And all the time I was fighting against me. When I understood that, I beat it. So will you.'

I'm suddenly aware I've been holding on to a piece of fish. It's all bent over, drooping towards the table. I drop it. Granddad smokes, gazes over the bay. The silence cloaks us again.

‘I didn't know, Granddad.' I say.

‘No one does,' he replies. ‘Apart from your gran, you're the only person I've ever told.'

The word slips out without me being aware of it.

Granddad scrunches the cigarette butt into the table, scoops up the pouch of tobacco, the papers and filters, and then smiles.

‘Language, dude,' he says. ‘Unnecessary.'

Even though I'm in the passenger seat, the headlights dazzle me. The darkness on the dirt track is solid until the ute's cabin is suddenly awash with light. Granddad squints, curses, and pushes the rear-view mirror to one side – and now I'm squinting, and the light pulses red and blue.

Granddad indicates left, but drives another half kilometre before he finds a place to pull off the track. The police car parks behind us. Its lights stay on.

‘Say nothin',' says Granddad. ‘Understand?'

I nod. We wait.

We wait for what seems forever. The engine block ticks, and the cracks in the windscreen make starbursts of reflected light. Finally, we hear a door slam and the crunch of approaching footsteps.

‘G'day, old timer,' says Richie. He crouches by Granddad's open window and smiles in at us. Maybe I should smile back, but my mouth has forgotten how. I notice he has one gold tooth, on the top right. It gleams yellow and reminds me of a dog's snarl.

‘G'day, Richie,' says Gramps, but he doesn't smile either. ‘Problem?'

Richie rubs his chin. The scraping sound is loud in the ute's cabin.

‘Not really,' he says. ‘Not really. A chat, is all. Been for a drive, have we?'

I want to tell him that with his standard of deductive reasoning, it's no surprise he's the head honcho of the regional constabulary. I keep the thought to myself.

‘Yup,' says Granddad. I'm pleased to note it's not just with me that he's economical with words. Richie's smile widens. I don't know whether to look straight ahead or meet his eyes. I compromise by staring past him at the shadowy bulk of ironbarks pressing against the track.

‘Great day for it,' he says. ‘Great day. Down the coast, was it?'

‘Aways.'

‘Didn't get as far as Milton, by any chance?'

‘Nope.'

I want to tell Granddad that he needs to be a touch more forthcoming. It's a good idea for
me
to say nothing, but not so great if it's the two of us. There is nothing more guaranteed to tick a cop off than the monosyllabic defence. I have experience in these matters. And it's as if Richie reads my thoughts, because he turns his attention to me.

‘Hey, young 'un. Had a good time today?'

‘Mad fun,' I reply.

‘So where did you go?'

‘Some random beach,' I say. ‘Sand, seagulls, sailing boats. You know the scene.'

Richie goes in for some more chin-rubbing.

‘Doesn't sound like
your
scene, though. I thought you were a bright-lights, big-city kinda guy.'

‘Hey, man,' I say. ‘I'm one with nature.' I'm beginning to understand why Gramps has difficulty passing more than one word at a time. It might not be wise, but winding up a cop is really satisfying.

‘There was some trouble in Milton today,' says Richie, and his smile is starting to annoy me. ‘Thought you might have been witnesses, but I guess if you weren't there . . .'

Granddad and I keep our lips zipped. Richie shifts his weight.

‘Hey, old-timer,' he throws in. ‘I couldn't help noticing your tail-light's shot. You need to get that fixed. And, while you're about it, your muffler. In fact, looking around the cab here, it seems there's heaps of work needed to make this ute roadworthy. I'd hate to see you get hurt, mate. You can't be too careful.'

‘So, what, Richie?' says Granddad. ‘You giving me a ticket?'

Richie's smile gets even wider.

‘Course not. Course not. You're a local, old-timer. And we look after our own round here. You know that. Just a friendly warning.' He pushes himself upright and I'm treated to a close-up of his groin through the driver's window. A hand thumps on the roof. ‘Have a good day, fellas,' comes from a considerable height. ‘Drive safe.' There is a crunch of receding footsteps.

Granddad swings the ute back onto the track. We drive in silence for a couple of minutes.

‘Local celebrity, huh?' I say.

‘Yup,' says Granddad. He is fishing around in his nose again.

I go to bed as soon as we get home. It's only seven-thirty, but I'm exhausted and my head is thumping. As soon as I hit the pillow, I'm gone. Doesn't matter that there's no fire and it's like a fridge in the shack.

I dream, and it's vivid. Kris and I are arguing. It's about something really stupid. I've gone ballistic because she's thrown out this bunch of flowers I bought her. They're all dead and withered. The stalks are slimy. But I'm yelling at her that she doesn't care about me. I'm trying to get her to take the soggy mess out of the wheelie bin and she's refusing. So I hit her. She slumps back against the bin and it's the expression on her face that freezes me. Horror – as if she's looking at a monster. And that just makes me worse. I want to hit her again and again. In the dream I pull my hand back and she runs. I chase her and suddenly we're in a forest. Kris is stumbling, but she's quicker than me. It's as if I'm wallowing through thick, treacly air. The trees swallow her.

And I can't move. I'm in the middle of a clearing and my feet are rooted to the spot. The forest is motionless around me. A bead of sweat trickles down my brow. The first sound comes from behind me. A crashing through undergrowth. I turn, but I still can't take a single pace. Branches bend. I'm terrified, but my legs won't work, so I watch, watch, watch, and time has become as thick and treacly as the air. I open my mouth to scream, but everything is in slow motion. Everything except the crashing approach.

The bush parts at the edge of the clearing and the figure is upon me, blurred, violent motion. An arm is raised. A glint of light on a sharp, metallic surface, and my scream finds voice. I scream into the face, the strange distorted face that blooms before my eyes. And I scream. Not because of the flash of light on metal.

Because the face is mine.

I sit up in bed. My throat is raw, my breath ragged, my face basted in sweat. It takes time for the images to fade and my breathing to regulate. I put my head in my hands.

The room is warm and there's a flicker of light on the ceiling above the fireplace. Granddad must have come in and lit the fire while I was sleeping. I get to my feet. There's no way I'm going to sleep again for a while. I'm fully dressed and I empty out my pockets. The familiar action helps to soothe the fever in my blood. I arrange the items on the bed. Line them up. Neatly. Only when the thudding in my chest has faded entirely do I pick up my phone.

It's turned on and there's a message. It must have come a while ago. Without reception, nothing gets through here. But I can't understand why I didn't hear it. I check. The ring tone is turned to silent. The chick at the cinema must have done it while she was charging it for me, then forgot to let me know. Either that, or the fight at the arcade messed up the settings.

The message is from Kris and it came through sometime when we were driving back from Milton. I'm almost scared to read it.

Couldn't ring today. Home sick. Ring me tomorrow at
lunch. Need to talk. Kris.

I smile. I admire her dedication to the apostrophe. And she'll never use ‘2' instead of ‘to'. My instinctive feeling is relief – not that she's sick, just that there's a good reason for her not ringing or texting today. I wonder how she's managed it now. Maybe a friend came to visit her. The number is certainly one I don't recognise. Then other thoughts intrude. Why do we
need
to talk? What is happening that makes it a necessity?

Once I start on this train of thought it's difficult to stop. What would happen if I rang the number from her text? Would I get some guy? I am so tempted. My finger even hovers over the connect button, but I decide not to. It's not so much that it's two in the morning. It's more to do with being scared of what I'll hear. And then I remember there's no reception anyway. Duh!

Wisps of the nightmare float in my head and I don't know what to do with myself. My face feels hot and there's still sweat on my forehead.

My journal lies closed on the table, a pencil ranged neatly along the binding. I have nothing else to do. And, after today, there's never been a better time to write. I'm certainly not short of material.

Kris is smart. And gorgeous.

She could have anyone. Yet she chose me.

I wonder why. I mean, there are easier people.

Everyone, for example. And she's not shy about telling
me my failings. Checklist:

I'm not considerate.

I don't buy her enough presents.

I'm not romantic.

That's just for starters.

And then there's my anger. You'd have to be some
kind of saint to put up with that. Kris says she believes
in me. What does that mean?

But I worry she'll stop believing.

Today has been good. I went to the cinema with
Granddad. Crap film, but lots of bonding. I think
Granddad believes in me, too.

That makes two of them.

I
am
short of material.

What am I gonna do? Say I'm being victimised by a local copper, that I've stopped taking my medication? Oh, and by the way, I also beat the crap out of a couple of random guys for the very good reason they were laughing at Granddad, and, in the process, I wrecked a games arcade. Then Granddad broke the law by helping me get the hell out of there. Followed it up by lying to the police. All in all, an uneventful day.

Someone, sometime, might read this. Beats me how they expect me to be honest in my writing.

And it hits me like an axe how worthless this is. Writing stuff down is supposed to be helping me, but I can't write down the important things. Not unless I want to cut my own throat. What if they
do
read it? Maybe I
should
be honest. Maybe I should describe everything that happened today, just as it happened. So what if they stick me in a psychiatric ward as a result? Or a juvenile detention centre? Didn't I say to Granddad that would be for the best, that the world would be a better place if I wasn't in it?

But I can't. When it comes down to it, I've got a yellow streak a couple of klicks wide.

The more I think, the more depressed I am. All that guff about being in a quiet place where there would be less stimulus for my IED. All those trees and quiet walks. The simple life. Since I've been here, I've had more outbursts than I would in a month in Melbourne. Maybe it's the medication – or lack of it. But I don't regret that. When it comes down to it, I'd sooner be an alive menace than one of the living dead. Possibly I should be ashamed of that. But I'm not.

I close the exercise book and line the pencil up neatly along the binding. The shack feels hotter than hell, even though the fire has basically died. There is only a dim glow from the embers. I wipe my hand across my forehead and it comes away slick with sweat. Sleep isn't an option, so I step outside. The cool air calms me.