Quota (31 page)

‘You think the
Caravel
wasn't insured?'

‘I know it wasn't. Eavesdropped on the cops at the wharf the night they towed it in after the fire. They were sayin it hadn't been registered for ten months, and anyone knows you can't insure an outta-rego boat.'

A long silence fell between them. Barry still felt exposed in the carpark and wanted to leave. He was about to hint at a departure—
so, anyway, best be off, both got a long trip—
when Patrick spoke again.

‘What'd you think of Taia?'

‘Probably the most terrifying person I've ever met.' Barry barked with laughter as he saw the amusement in Patrick's eyes. ‘Made Missus Murch look like a pussycat. I think it woulda been less scary if he'd acted meaner. He was really polite. It was weird. He coulda totally done me over—taken the barrel an fed me through his cryovac machine an' dumped me in a ditch somewhere.'

‘Mags used to say the same thing,' Patrick replied. ‘He told me once it felt like swimming with a shark—you never knew if he was going to change his mind and tear your head off your shoulders. How'd you find him anyway?'

‘Ah, well. How'd I find him?' Barry had to stop and think. ‘I read the company name on the Murchisons' fish boxes down at the co-op, you know,
Property of Seafood Handlers International—please return,
that sort of thing. So I thought, that's where their legitimate abs are going; everyone knows they were selling over-quota, so I thought, it's a bit of punt, but maybe they were moving everything through that mob. Anyway, I went in to the co-op and I spun ol Fergus a tale about wanting to buy a stack of them fish tubs for me home brewing. I said, you know, I'd heard that you can get em through Seafood Handlers, and did he have their number. Fergus actually said to me, he said you can ring em if you want, but the bloke there, he's a fucking gigantic islander with a tattooed face. He's pretty scary. I don't know if you'd want to bother him with stuff like that, he said. Anyhow, he fished around and found a business card for me. I went down the street and rang him from a public phone and I explained that I had a barrel and I thought he'd be innerested in it. He was cagey but I could tell right away I was onto the right bloke, because he was keen to talk. Real keen. He said he'd ring me at home that night, and so we had another talk that night, then again a couple of days later, and eventually I went up there and did the exchange. Got to say, young fella, I don't know how you deal with people like that. It was bloody nerve-racking.'

Barry saw himself wandering into Taia's lair with a barrel of drugs. Just hoping for the best. It defied belief that he'd walked out in one piece.

‘We didn't really deal with him all that much,' said Patrick. ‘I think we'd done two or three trips, but they were mostly extra abs that the Murchisons didn't want to risk their licence on carrying up the highway. The only dope we took up was little bits here and there. Mags'd leave me watching the car while he went in to negotiate. Who'd you have watching the car anyway?'

Barry jerked a thumb at the dog outside the drivers window.

‘Ablett.'

Patrick smiled, but suddenly shifted around in his seat so he was facing Barry more squarely.

‘I want you to know that I was dead against what Mags was doing that night. He was all worked up about the Murchisons ripping him off. He hated em. It's only looking back, I s'pose I…I had no idea it was such a big amount.'

They both looked at the bag. Barry frowned, his spiky silver eyebrows pressing downwards.

‘I'd never seen the barrel before in my life,' Patrick continued. ‘I mean, you see plenty of them blue barrels around the place. They're a dime a dozen. We get on board and Mags runs straight past it, heads for the wheelhouse. So once I'd tied off, I just had this flash. I just thought,
dump it
. There was gonna be trouble on that boat, you could just tell. By the time Mags'd gone tearin off, I'm standin there alone and I thought, right, you're goin overboard. If I'd known what bloody Mags was doin I might've tried to talk him out of it. But he was the big brother. You know how some people are always gonna be the big brother, even when everyone's old and grey. That's just who they are. And little brothers will always be little brothers. You can't break out of that. He was set on the path he was on.'

The dog scratched at the drivers door and Barry opened it, scooping the grateful animal up in one arm and placing it on his lap. It nestled immediately with its snout buried in his belly, its hindquarters pressed against the steering wheel. Barry stroked its back until it started to snore softly.

‘How much money's in the bag?' asked Patrick.

‘Dunno. There's five thousand in each of those bundles. By the way, I took a couple of fifties for petrol.'

‘Do we need to go through that business where I say I can't possibly accept this, and you say no, but I insist, and all that crap?'

‘Nope. I think we both know you need the money. Certainly isn't mine.'

The panic in Barry's belly had died down, leaving a quiet sort of comfort. The day was starting to weigh heavily on him.

‘You know Delvene's gonna be after you for ever more.'

Patrick shrugged. ‘It's not her town, any more than it's mine or yours.'

‘Well, that's good to hear. But you've crossed her now and she's a vengeful old bitch. You watch your step, won't you.'

A silence fell between them, broken only by Ablett's soft snoring.

‘What happens now?' Patrick asked.

‘I dunno.' Barry turned his hands up and shrugged, momentarily startling the dog from its sleep.

‘Guess you can't walk the streets with that thing. How bout I take you home?'

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The first few chapters of
Quota
(though not necessarily in the order they appear herein) were written as exercises for a writers' group hosted by the brilliant Brian Edwards and Robyn Gardner. Brian was also kind enough to read the full manuscript, giving me the benefit of his lifetime's experience in literature.

I owe a considerable debt to my first two editors in freelance writing, Keith Curtain and Vaughan Blakey. From the very outset, both encouraged me to think of myself as a writer, and whether they knew it or not, they kept me going. Nick Batzias, Jo Canham and Meg O'Hanlon read the manuscript and offered their insights. Again, their experience and wisdom was of huge assistance.

I've heard it said by other writers that the business of getting published was more gruelling than writing the book in the first place. In my case, nothing could be further from the truth. Mandy Brett at Text took an early interest in the
Quota
manuscript, but extracted a mountain of work from me before she took it on. She was calm, considered and deadly accurate.

Thanks also to my parents Julian and Helen, and to Alison and Arthur at the Pennygreen Writers' Retreat.

Lastly, and above all, I wish to thank my wife Lilly. Her wise counsel and endless optimism built this book.