The Eye of the Sheep (31 page)

I leaned back and felt the warmth of the engine through the walls as it charged the lights and the automatic door and the windscreen wipers. Nobody looked at me. I didn’t belong to the mother or to Eric or to the sleeping man or to Deirdre or the taxi driver or Anne White or Liam or Jake or the bus guard. I was separate, with no memory of being joined. My
recollection reached a fence and was stopped, as if what was on the other side was dangerous.

Soon we were out of the city and driving down a wide highway with six lanes of traffic. Sometimes two cars would be driving in opposite directions and if you looked far into the distance it seemed as though they were being drawn to each other, each vehicle generating its own horizontal gravity. Each vehicle was a magnet for the other and the force was beyond human power – it didn’t matter if the drivers pressed the brakes, they couldn’t stop the collision or prevent the fatalities. I held my breath as the car sped towards the bus faster and faster and then when I was sure it would hit, the car would miss and there was air between the vehicles and one more time we would live until the next car.

I sat motionless. There were my organs, my eyes, my hands, my sensory receptors, but it was as if they were accidental, not belonging to me, like an experiment made to happen, but not my choosing.

I don’t know how much time passed. I never did. Sometimes one minute was longer than one year. Sometimes a morning was longer than a night. Time was increasive, like elastic. The bus drove on and on and on, though time itself could have been stopped, or moving so fast it couldn’t be counted. The white lines on the road repeated, one after the other after the other. I was in suspension, riding the spaces between the lines, waiting to end or begin. It was the same with my eyes open or closed. It could have been a dream at night or it could have been real living. The bus rocked to the sound of its own deep rumbling. Nothing hurt. Not a single part. I was hurtless, weightless. I rested against the side of the bus and it rocked me like a cradle. Outside the light changed, moving from midday to afternoon.

Some time before dark Eric stopped the bus at a petrol station and the mother with the baby and the man with the bitten fingers and the old woman, tired from sitting, climbed slowly down. I watched through the glass as they walked into the light of the petrol station, the light glowing but at the same time sad, as if it couldn’t reach far enough or bright enough to show what was there. I watched as everyone lined up for snacks then I got up and went into the bus toilet and, keeping my eyes closed, I used it. After, I flushed bright green and it smelled sweet and sick. I washed my hands in the small sink.

Back in my seat I watched Eric through the window. He was sitting at a table inside the petrol station. Eric looked down at his dinner then up at a television high on a wall, then down at his plate then up at the television then down at his plate. He shook salt and pepper over his dinner. My mouth felt dry. Soon the people walked back to the bus and Eric wiped his mouth and paid, eyes still on the television. When he came back onto the bus he said to me, ‘I’ll be dropping you off in an hour, okay? Make sure you’re awake.’

I nodded.

We kept driving, the bus warm and darkening, and then the shining sea appeared before us, the night falling quietly over the top. I expanded as the sea entered my vision. I met the body of water with my inners; my linings stretched. ‘It’s always here,’ I said to nobody.

I kept my eyes on the ocean as the bus followed the narrow road down the mountain. The mother was asleep, her blanket around her shoulders, her jacket beneath her head. The old woman had taken off her dark glasses and her eyes were closed. The man only opened his eyes to take sips from his beer can. Eric and me were wide awake.

The road kept going down. The sea shone as the moon rose. I could only see the things in front of me. There was no history. The round moon over the sea and the cold glass, and Eric, and the warm rumble of the engine was all there was.

Soon I saw lights and a sign too small to read, and Eric drove the bus off the road. He kept the motor running and called to me, ‘Hey, kid! Your stop. Point Paradise.’

I got to my feet and walked down the bus between the seats. ‘Where is the caravan park, Eric? Do you know? Do you know, Eric?’ My voice sounded like it belonged to somebody small without powers or a map or lines to join him.

‘It’s the only thing in Point Paradise, mate.’ Eric spoke as if his answer was a joke. ‘See the sign?’

I did see the sign but there wasn’t enough light to read it.

‘Anyone coming to meet you?’ Eric asked me.

I shook my head. ‘No, Eric, no. No.’

Eric frowned. ‘Just follow the path into the park.’ He pointed at a narrow road leading into the darkness on the side of the highway.

‘Yes, okay, Eric. Okay, Eric.’ I looked down at the other passengers and I saw the mother wake up. She opened her eyes and blinked at me. There were no messages to decode. There was nothing left in her, it was all in the baby. The old woman woke too, and nodded and smiled as if to say,
Go on, go on. Go on, Jimmy Flick.

Eric opened the bus doors and cool air rushed at me as I stepped out of the bus. Thousands of road particles that didn’t know my foot was coming were forced into a different position. Eric closed the doors and the bus drove out onto the road. I stood and watched as it disappeared down the mountain.

After the bus had gone it was very quiet. There was only the sound of the night, a hushing, like a blanket coming softly down. I went close to the sign.
Point Paradise Caravan Park
, I read in letters bleached by the sun. Underneath the words was an arrow pointing the way. I looked up at the sky and saw the first stars.

I followed the arrow down the dirt road that ran off the highway. The cool wind that blew over me was the same wind that blew in over the water and across the cliff and over my mum and my dad in the picture. Time didn’t change it; the currents moved around planet Earth, cleaned by the rainbows after the rain, passing over the same places, new and ancient. I heard the music of the sea as water rose and fell, changing the shapes of rocks, pounding at the cliffs, wearing away the sea floor. I kept walking forward.

Soon I saw rows of caravans with yards and chairs, satellite dishes and flowers in pots, and through every window I saw the blue glow of the television. Every caravan leaned towards the sea, as if they were straining to hear its music. They all had names –
Traveller
,
No Looking Back
and
Freedom
– but the caravans couldn’t move. Their wheels were dug deep into the ground so you could only see the very tops of the tyres. Electrical cords were tied around their bases and the cords went right into the ground, and though I couldn’t see it, I could hear the central network at the core, supplying electricity to the televisions, powering the voices inside, giving them news and things to sell on the ads. I didn’t see anybody outside. The salty coolness of the sea entered my sensories as I walked past the rows of trapped caravans.

I came to a brick house with a light at the front, and a small black square beside the door that said
Office
. I walked inside and on the desk there was a bell to ring so I rang it and I rang
it and I rang it until I heard someone say, ‘Alright, alright! Calm down!’

A woman came through a door behind the desk with her hair in a high ball. Pieces hung down at the sides like Deirdre’s princess doll and she wore bright pink lipstick. Her eyebrows were pencil lines and over her eyes there were blue clouds. Everything was pulled down, as if there were hairs attached to every pore and somebody was tugging on them.

‘You’re not on your own, are you?’ the woman asked.

I nodded yes.

She frowned. ‘What do you want here?’

‘My dad,’ I said.

‘Your dad?’

I nodded again.

‘Your father is here?’

I nodded.

‘You sure about that?’

I nodded again. There was no other choice.

‘Who is he?’

‘Gavin Flick. Flick, Gavin. My dad.’

The woman shook her head slowly and the blue clouds over her eyes came down low. A smile played on her mouth, not sure whether it was safe to stay. ‘Is that right? Gavin Flick is your father?’

I nodded.

‘You’d better follow me.’ She came out from behind the desk. ‘Derek!’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Start without me – I’ll be back in a minute.’

We walked out of the office and onto the path that ran between the rows of caravans. As the woman walked I could see
every part of her flesh through her pants from behind. There were little stories hidden in the dips.

Soon she left the main path and took a track that was narrow and bumpy away from the lights. The park had almost run out of caravans. I could only see two, both small and white; one was close and the other one was further. I followed the woman past the one that was close until we came to the last one.
Happy Times
was written across the side. It had a small window and its wheels were dug the deepest. Beyond
Happy Times
I could see the same cliff that stood behind my mum and dad in the picture. Beyond the edge of the cliff the moon rose over the sea, full and shining white, indentations in its surface, giving it shadow. I saw steps on it leading underground. Every moon has a core with a network in the centre.

The woman pointed to
Happy Times
. ‘This is Gavin’s,’ she said. ‘Ha!’

There was a small light in the caravan’s window – somebody was home.

I took a deep breath.

‘Come on,’ said the woman. She walked just ahead of me along the three squares of cement up the steps to the door of the caravan, her vapours blown back into my face as she guided me: perfume, cooking meat and cigarettes. She knocked on the door of
Happy Times
.

Nothing happened.

I looked up and I saw that the sky was the sea upside down. They reflected each other; but which one was the mirror?

The woman knocked again. ‘Gavin,’ she said, her mouth close to the door. ‘Someone here to see you.’

There was a muffled answer from inside.

‘Gavin!’ she sounded cross. ‘Open the door, will you? There’s someone here to see you.’

I stood at the bottom of the three steps. He was here; I heard him moving. All points came together in me, forming one single beat. Dad Dad Dad Dad.

‘What is it, Denise?’ Dad opened the door.

‘Look who’s here,’ said Denise, as though she knew a funny trick was about to be played on my dad. She held out her arm to me. I was the trick.

Dad looked at me and his mouth fell open.

‘I’ll leave you to it, shall I?’ said Denise.

Dad stood swaying in the doorway.

‘I don’t want any dramas, Gavin,’ Denise said. ‘Sort this out in a hurry, will you?’ She turned and walked back down the path.

‘Where’s his mother?’ Dad called to her.

She didn’t stop.

He called again. ‘Denise? Where’s his mother?’

‘No mother, Gavin. He’s here on his own,’ she called back. ‘Sort it out.’ And then she was gone and it was just Dad and me.

Dad shook his head as if something was too big to believe. There was my dad’s mouth, his eyes, his arms, his legs, chest and shoulders, but there was no life in them, as if they were powered by yesterday’s resources. Like the lawnmower blades still swinging after the engine has been turned off – it’s only a matter of time. I smelled Cutty Sark mixed with the same medicine they used in Emergency.

‘Jimmy,’ Dad said, still shaking his head. His mouth hung open. His face was made of rags. His eyes floated in Blended Scotch; the Cutty Sark had dimmed the light. He held out his arm.

I took another deep breath, climbed the steps and went through the door.

Happy Times
was a land of bottles, some brown for beer, some see-through and others green. They stood in the corners and they filled the sink and they stacked up against the walls. There were bottles on the television and there was a chair with a bottle on it next to an ashtray, and there was a bed not made and there was a towel and soap, and everything, including my dad, was shrunken to make room for the bottles. Merle sang ‘I’d Trade All of My Tomorrows’ as the Cutty Sark sailed the currents.

‘Wh . . . wh . . . where’s your mother?’ he asked me. ‘Where’s Paula?’

‘She couldn’t . . . she couldn’t . . .’ I told him.

He frowned. ‘What?’

‘She couldn’t, she couldn’t . . .’ My words were jamming at the toll gates. ‘She couldn’t, she couldn’t . . .’

‘Jimmy, what? She couldn’t what?’

‘She couldn’t she couldn’t she couldn’t . . .’

‘For Christ’s sake, Jimmy! What? What?’

‘She couldn’t she couldn’t she couldn’t she couldn’t breathe! She couldn’t breathe! She couldn’t breathe!’ The words pushed past the gates, their message on repeat.

Dad stood looking at me, too soaked to absorb me, or the words I was saying.

‘She couldn’t get it in,’ I said again. ‘She couldn’t, Dad! She couldn’t! She couldn’t!’

His mouth kept opening and closing. He was older than when he left. All the waves of Broken Island were gone from him. The crude oil was clogged, unrefined in his network. The only thing to flow was whisky. It rushed thinly through him, faster
than blood, more effective. He shook his head as if he was trying to clear something from it, to make space for what I told him.

‘She couldn’t get it in,’ I said.

‘What are you talking about?’ Dad slurred.

‘The air, Dad. The air! The air! She couldn’t breathe.’

‘What the hell are you saying?’

I took a deep breath. ‘Dad, Dad. Mum was in the bed and she couldn’t get the air in and the puffers were empty, Dad. All of them in the house empty and there was no Robby and no you. There was only me, and I left her when she sent me to the shops. I went to the shops, Dad, and I got lost. The streets all changed their order and the houses changed their places and when I got home she couldn’t breathe. I was with her and she went back, Dad, ahahahaaaaaa!’ I made the sound of my mother pleading with the air, begging for it to save her. ‘Aaaaaaahhhhhhaaaa aaaahhhhhhaaaa!’