White Ute Dreaming (17 page)

T
HERE WERE NO BIRDS SINGING WHEN
I
WOKE UP
. A
POSSUM
had found its way into the tent and when I woke, it lay curled up against my cheek. In bitter panic I threw it off me. It rolled back and I scrambled on top of the sleeping Ernie. He squirmed and burst into the wall of the tent.

The possum was still. In the murky morning light, I realised that it wasn't a possum at all. It was Den's head. Had to get out of there.

I spent ten minutes tucking the laces of my runners in beside my ankles. My head was so thick that it felt like my brain had decided to have the day off and every action was a huge effort. I stumbled to the river, my tongue fat and hairy—like a little labrador in my mouth—and still tasting of vomit and bourbon. I splashed my face and hair with water and drank the shining stuff like medicine. Rinsed and spat. Begone fat dog in my mouth. I hardly had to use my hand walking back to the camp—the medicine was working.

We packed without saying a word. Den opened some salt and vinegar chips for breakfast. I told him I wasn't hungry
and started walking home. I thought we'd make it back before Kez and Gracie and Baz left to see the monks. Den jogged to catch up. It started raining, gentle and soaking. I thought about sitting in the car and sleeping while they watched the monks make their sandcastles.

Ernie set the pace. He'd bolt twenty metres ahead then vanish into the scrub. Just as we drew near he'd come crashing out of the undergrowth and tear off up the track again. The rain got serious. Puddles formed on the track and for the first half-hour I dodged them. My runners got wet and started squelching. After a while, I couldn't give a shit about my runners and I splashed through the puddles instead, showering Den at every opportunity. His face screwed up to begin with and he called me a bastard under his breath, then his eyes frowned but his mouth smiled. When he kicked an arc of brown water into my mouth his lips cracked and I could see his teeth. He stumbled into me and said sorry too quickly. I rolled off the track and onto my arse. He started pissing himself laughing and before I could think, I called him a poofter. Right to his face. I'd done it a thousand times before but mate, how cruel. I sucked a breath but he didn't stop laughing. He held out his hand. I saw his fingerprints highlighted by camping grime. I saw the scar on his thumb that he got when we stacked our bikes at the bottom of Merrimans Creek hill. I saw the smile fade from his face as I struggled to balance the pack and stand on my own.

God must have been taking a huge piss that morning. It just kept raining. The drops hit the leaves and busted into a fine mist, ran down the trunks of the trees and made tracks of foam on the bark and fallen leaves. Felt like it took hours to get back. To the right of the track the bush
was littered with broken branches. Through the grey trunks I could make out the line of a fence running the same way as the road and beyond the fence, paddocks studded with sheep.

‘Nearly home,' Den said. It was the first thing he'd said for an hour and I noticed a house in the paddock. It looked abandoned except for the smoke from the chimney. It had freckles where the blue paint had fallen away from the walls. No garden, no trees. Looked like the sheep could eat the grass right up to the stumps of the small verandah. Never have to mow those lawns. I almost walked into Den as he crossed the track and jogged down the path that led to his back gate.

The carport was empty, except for Jesus the cat who meowed until Den let him inside. He threw his pack down on the bricks and ripped off his jumper, his shirt, his shoes and pants. I wondered if he was going to stop. He stood there in his socks and undies and looked at me.

‘What?' I asked.

‘You going to stand there all day?'

I swung the pack off and propped it against the wall. I untucked the laces on my runners and Den vanished inside leaving wet footprints. An electric pump started and I realised Den was in the shower. With my shoes off I stood up to undress and felt really light. I did a half-hearted dance and ripped my clothes off. I had one foot free of my jeans and stomped them into the bricks to drag the other one out when a thought raced through me like an icy breeze. ‘Where's Ernie?'

The gunshot was so loud I thought it was inside my head. A fierce crack that bounced off the trees until it faded to a growl. A yelp. Another gunshot, and another. In
my heart, I knew what had happened before I made it to the fence, before I saw the round of his belly lying on the grass, his legs kicking uselessly at the air.

The old man heard my scream. He'd been standing against the rail on the verandah, rifle in hand, now he vanished into the shadows.

At first I couldn't look, couldn't get close and didn't want to know. Where the hell was Den? Ernie's body was shaking. The rain fell on him and his skin twitched and rippled. A blade of grass had stuck to his eye, the eyelid strained open. My own eyes were blind as I picked up his heavy, limp body, saying over and over, ‘No, no, no, no'. I could smell the colour of the drops falling on my thighs. I walked on unsteady legs, rocking him, praying he'd lift his head and pant. I didn't know what to do, didn't know where to go. I staggered to the Humes' fence and lowered him over, the barbed wire biting into my stomach. I felt no pain.

Ernie's legs stiffened and shook. The life had been blown out of him. My beautiful mad dog. How could anyone kill anything as innocent as my yellow dog?

As I stood and lifted my head, I felt a fire in my guts. It raced along my body and screwed my hands into tight fists. I turned and ran at the dingy house, my eyes scanning the ground for weapons. I wouldn't need much to kill that prick. A stick, a rock, a bone. I found the biggest chunk of a broken brick and let out a wild scream.

The old man had crept out of the shadows and now lifted his rifle at me. The barrel shook. I ran hard and pelted the brick at his head. He ducked and the brick bounced off the verandah post and ripped through the window behind him. He covered his head and before the
glass had finished flying I'd found another weapon. A rock that was bigger than the brick. I heaved it at him. It hit him squarely on the hand that covered his head and he lost balance, but quickly righted himself.

I dug at the ground for ammo but there was nothing. I tore out a clump of grass and earth and growled as I chucked it uselessly at the old prick. He leant against the verandah post and took aim. Staring at the black dot on the end of his gun, I felt no fear. I dropped my arms and pushed my chest out. ‘Come on!'

I breathed hard and deep, each breath forming a faint cloud in the rain.

‘Get orf my land now or I'll shoot you, too. You fucking feral. I won't arks you again.'

There was blood on his hand and he shook like he had old-timers' disease. I realised that I had won. Standing there on the open field, in my socks and undies, splashed with blood, tears and mud, I felt no fear. A bullet would tear a hole right through me but I felt no fear. The rage that filled my body was a ferocious power, one that could take over my mind. I was bristling with the wild heat that could make one man kill another. I was not frightened of dying. The old prick didn't have the guts to pull the trigger. I felt like I could kill him with my bare hands. Savage him like a wild animal. Tear his fucking head off. I knew I could but I didn't have to. He was already beaten. Cowering in the fortress of his house, with gun loaded and aimed at my heart, he trembled. I had won. I turned and walked away.

I sniffed and spat. I didn't hear the gunshot but I saw the clump of soil lift ten feet to my left. I saw the sheep a stone's throw away jump and look around like idiots. I
heard it echo off the trees. I didn't change my step, didn't flinch, except for the smile that formed on my lips and he couldn't see that.

‘Get orf my fucking land, you feral.'

A mad smile that came from knowing I'd made that old prick shit his pants. He'd killed my dog. I could easily kill him.

With my hand on the top of a fence post and a sock-covered toe hooked on the wire, I kicked my leg over and came to rest on my knees beside Ernie. He wasn't moving at all now. I rested my head on his bloodied flank and whispered, to his spirit, his dead body, the dirt and the trees.

‘Sorry, Ernie. I'm so sorry. I love you.'

Den came running outside with a towel wrapped around his hips. ‘Shit, what happened?'

I started shaking.

‘Are you okay?'

I gently slid my hand under Ernie's body and lifted him up.

‘Fuck. Are you . . . What happened?'

His face flooded with horror. Maybe he could smell the guts. Maybe it was just the blood. He steadied me as I picked my way into the bush and through the gate. My teeth chattered.

‘Where do you keep the shovels?'

He put his hand over his mouth. ‘In the shed. Next to the water tanks.'

‘Go . . . ring the cops. The old bloke next door shot my dog.'

‘Fuck,' he said, and held his towel as he hopped along the path back to the house.

My knees could barely hold my weight and I laid Ernie
down beside a boulder that was bigger than him. I shuffled back to the shed and found a shovel. I tried to break the rocky ground. It was useless. My hand slipped off the shovel. The ground was too hard. I knelt beside his head, the cold rain tracing down my spine making my whole body shake. Ernie's pink tongue was spotted with balls of sheep shit.

Den jogged from the house. He had black tracksuit pants and a black shirt on. His feet were bare and flecked with dirt.

‘Don't bury him yet,' he said. ‘The cops want to have a look at him.'

He gave me a towel. I shrugged. I could hardly lift my arms.

He pointed to Ernie. His voice was a thin whisper. ‘The towel was for him. Cover him.'

I nodded and spread the towel over his body. I couldn't cover his head. I wanted to leave his nose out so he could breathe.

Den's hand was on my shoulder. Warm on my wet skin.

‘Come on, mate. You've done all you can,' he said.

I closed my eyes and pulled the towel over Ernie's head. I tried to stand but my arms and legs felt dead. I staggered and Den grabbed my arm. I started to moan. It came from the core of me. All the sadness that had been hiding flooded out. Den hugged me and I held on to him, my fingers balling into a fist on his shirt. Hugged me and held the back of my head as my sorrow echoed through the bush.

The rain eventually stopped falling, from the sky and from my eyes. With my body shocked and shaking, Den helped
me back to the house. He helped me out of my blood-spotted socks and jocks and I knew I was safe with him. I felt safer with Den pushing me into a steaming shower than I would if it was my mum's hand on my back. I thanked him and he left.

The blood washed away. Not all of it was Ernie's—on my stomach there were three deep scratches; the middle one still oozed blood. I dried myself and dressed in tracksuit pants, socks and a shirt. The police arrived while Den was in the shower for a second time.

‘Thank God,' I said to the men in blue as I opened the door.

‘What's your name? Where are your parents?' the first one asked. I read his tag. Constable A. Ryan. His mate was Constable G. Jefferies.

‘I'm Wayne Armond. A-r-m-o-n-d. I don't live here. It's my mate's place. I'm just visiting.'

‘Where are his parents? What's his name?' he said, and pulled out a pad and pen.

‘Dennis Hume. His folks have gone out to see . . . I dunno . . . some monks or something in Bermagui.'

‘So you're here on your own?'

‘Yeah, me and Dennis.'

Constable A. Ryan looked up the hall behind me.

‘He's in the shower,' I said.

‘What happened?'

I told them how it happened. Stone-faced and clear. Constable G. Jefferies nodded. Constable A. Ryan wrote the whole time. They asked to see the body of my yellow dog. I stood a few metres away and pointed to the lump under the towel. Constable G. Jefferies drew the towel aside and looked at Ernie then covered him again.

‘Don't you have to take a photo or something?' I asked. Constable A. Ryan shook his head.

They both looked when I told them the old prick had taken a shot at me.

‘Had a shot at you?'

‘Yeah after he told me to . . . you know . . . piss off, I started walking away and he shot at the dirt about three metres or so away. I saw the grass lift up.'

‘Warning shot?'

‘I dunno. I had already started leaving by then.'

‘You're very lucky, Wayne. Mr Higgins has decided not to press charges. Trespass, willful damage, assault.'

‘What the fuck are you talking about? He killed my dog!' I shouted. I could hear Den behind me.

Constable G. Jefferies shifted feet and rested his hand on his belt of tricks.

Constable A. Ryan straightened and pushed his palm at me. ‘Settle down, Wayne. This is a farming area. Mr Higgins has the right to destroy any feral or unrestrained animal he sees as being a threat to his stock. Your dog should have been on a lead.'

Threat? If a sheep had bleated or looked sideways at Ernie he'd have run and hidden under the car. I bit hard on my lip and looked across to the paddock.

Constable A. Ryan's voice grew softer and deeper. ‘I'm sorry, Wayne. That is the law. If you get angry with him, for Chrissake take it out on something else. Stay out of his way, you hear?'

I must have nodded. He talked to Den but I didn't hear a word. Ernie had just been given the death penalty. And the crime? Eating sheep shit. We live in a seriously fucked-up world. I wished the weak-arsed prick had put a bullet in me.

T
HE SUN POKED THROUGH THE HEAVY CLOUDS LATER THAT
afternoon and the bush smelt good enough to spray under my arms. Den asked me if I wanted to bury Ernie and I sighed and nodded. Den ended up doing most of the digging. I scraped the rocky soil from the hole with my hand. Den helped me lower the body into the bottom of the hole with the towel and scrape the earth in on top. It was more like planting a tree than a funeral, though neither of us said a word. Den grunted when we rolled a huge rock on top of the grave. We dusted our hands at the same time.

Den made pasta for dinner. It tasted like bought stuff and it brightened me from the inside out. We sat on the floor of his room and listened to music until eleven. I could hardly keep my eyes open. We brushed our teeth together and pissed off the verandah together and when it came time to say goodnight, Den pinned me into my sleeping bag and poked me in the guts. When I laughed, it echoed around the house like a donkey's bray.

He got off me and did a little victory dance. ‘Goodnight.'

I nodded, and as he closed the door I said, ‘Thanks.'

‘Yep. No worries,' came the muffled reply. ‘You'd do the same for a mate.'

It must have been one o'clock in the morning when the door cracked open and a head poked through. Like a Vietnam vet, I went from deep sleep to wide awake in two seconds. I had my sleeping bag up to my chin and I pulled it over my head. Make it quick, Higgins. Quick and painless.

‘Wayne?' Kerry whispered.

I uncovered my ear and listened.

‘Wayne? You awake?'

I grumbled and rolled onto my back.

‘God, Wayne are you okay?' she asked, and crouched beside my mattress.

I nodded. Den had told them the sweetened condensed version of Ernie's death. Kez sat with me until the sun came up. She wet my cheek with her tears and shushed me when I snarled through clenched teeth.

‘There's nothing you can do, Wayne. It's all over.'

I nodded slowly but that wild animal in me that wanted to tear that old fart apart almost broke his lead.

‘Don't blame Higgins. Don't blame yourself. Just leave it alone.'

‘You've been listening to too many monks.'

She laughed. ‘It's true. He'll get his. You watch. And if he doesn't, I'll kick him in the balls so hard he'll need a bra.'

‘Can I watch?' I said, and she chuckled. It made me think of Angie's poem about the toilet and seeing her pee. That was crazy.

Suddenly I wanted my own bed. My radio and TV. Something normal and easy. Right up until that point, I think I'd wanted to live with Dad. I'd wanted a new life on the coast with my old man. A new school, new home, new friends and close to my real mates. I thought I wanted to live with Dad but right then he would have been useless. Totally useless. I could hear him say, ‘Ernie? Shot? Jeez, that's a bit rough.' And then he'd go on talking awkwardly about the footy or some shit. Living with Dad would be great for a holiday but hard if it was my entire life. Dad's life always seems shaky. Unstable. The flat is my home. Mum might piss me off and that, but I can rely on her. Mum is like a rock. My friends? My best friends live in Fishwood but I couldn't just leave my life in Chisholm. I hadn't finished doing what I had to do. Had to finish school, maybe go to uni. Buy myself a white ute.

‘I want to go home,' I said. It was the honest truth. My heart had taken about as much pounding as it could handle for one so-called holiday.

Kez didn't go off at me. She sat up quietly and said, ‘Yeah. I could understand that, Wayne.'

I rang Mum but there was no answer. I thought about ringing Richo but I got embarrassed just thinking about what I'd say if he answered the phone. How stupid was that? I rang the bus line instead. The next coach I could get a ticket on was Wednesday morning. The bloke on the phone was Indian or something, I could hardly understand him. School holidays, he said. Very busy, he said. I booked the ticket. Gracie paid for it with her credit card. I phoned Mum again and she answered with a bright
hello. She bubbled and her voice squeaked when she realised it was me. She went quiet as I told her what had happened.

‘Oh Wayne, love. I'm so sorry,' she said, and sniffed hard. ‘That's bloody horrible.'

There was a long silence, the phone buzzing quietly. When she eventually spoke, her voice was almost a whisper. ‘I don't know what to say.'

‘I wanted to kill that bastard.'

‘I'm not surprised.'

Buzzing phone.

‘I'm glad you didn't kill him,' she said. ‘That would have been a bit . . .'

‘Yeah. Stupid . . .'

Mum sighed. ‘You poor bugger. I can come and get you if you want.'

‘Nah. It's okay. I'm coming home on the bus on Wednesday.'

‘Oh,' she said, surprised. ‘What time? I'll knock off work and come and get you from the station then.'

‘It doesn't get to Spencer Street until six o'clock. I'll get a train out.'

‘Don't be silly. I'll come to Fishwood and get you.'

‘No, Mum. I'm all right. I'll get the bus.'

There was a long silence, then she sighed. ‘This bloody independence thing you're going through is crazy. Wasn't that long ago I was wiping your bum, now I'm thinking that I should be getting you a car.'

‘Won't say no to that.'

‘Yeah, didn't think you would. It won't be anything flash.'

My jaw dropped and my lips made a popping noise. ‘Are you serious?'

‘Yeah. I'm not teaching you to drive in my car. I was talking to your Uncle Ted about finding a home for Don's car. The Lancer. Do you remember it?'

‘White. Little sedan thing.'

‘Yep. Ted said you should have it. He said the responsibility would do you good. It'll need some work done on the brakes but it's a great little car.'

‘I don't care about the work,' I said, and I didn't. What's that saying . . . never look a gift car in the brake pads? Something like that. Heh heh. I hoped it was an auto. I was sure Uncle Don would have loved the idea.

‘Oh shit,' she said like she'd remembered she'd left the oven on. ‘I spoke to your father yesterday. He said you were going to stay with him for a while.'

I grunted. ‘No thanks.'

‘He said you . . .'

‘Yeah, I probably did but I don't now. I've lived with you my whole life. We have our shit days but mostly we get along all right.'

She chuckled, then breathed into the phone. ‘He's expecting you . . .'

‘I'll give him a ring.'

‘He's at the Blue Water Caravan Park . . . or something like that.'

There was a phone book on the bench. I flipped it open. I only had to turn one page and I'd found the number. Miracle! I hung up from Mum and dialled the caravan park. The woman at reception said she'd leave a note on Dad's van to give me a call. At least I'd tried.

We walked past Ernie's grave on our way to the rocks. My
chest was tight and I could only suck in half breaths. Kez kept looking at me, her eyes wet and rimmed with red. I'd done my crying but I sighed, over and over trying to get air. We were silent on our walk to the cave but once inside, Kerry sat on my lap and it was like another game of truth or dare. We kept choosing truth.

‘What actually happened with that kid at school? Aaron?'

She was quiet for a minute as she held my hand and looked at it.

‘He's in my home group. On the second day of term—my second day at school—he came up to me and asked me if I wanted to go out. I told him that I didn't but he kept hanging around. One of the girls in my home group, Amy, she invited me to a party at her place.'

She turned to snatch a look at my face. I smiled and jiggled her on my knees so she'd keep going.

‘Well, I went and Aaron was there. It was a bit of a set-up I think. After I'd had a couple of Ruskies I got playful and I started teasing him.'

‘Flirt,' I said, and she chuckled.

‘Yeah. He kissed me and I thought I was going to chuck. His breath tasted weird and the whole thing felt off.'

‘So, did you kiss him back?'

‘Nup. I went and phoned Mum.' She started giggling. ‘He got on with Amy after that. They've been going out ever since.'

She turned and put her arm on my shoulder so she could see my face. She looked down her nose at me.

‘What happened with the note girl? Angie?'

‘Nothing.' My heart started going hard.

‘Yeah, right.'

My leg jiggled and gave Kerry a horsey ride.

‘We ended up going to a party and she kissed me. Bit like you and Aaron. It felt off. I ran away like a pussy.'

She laughed.

‘Nah, it was more than that. She was pretty pissed. She was hot as hell. She dragged me into a bedroom and I could have . . . she wanted it . . .' I said, and shrugged.

‘What?' she asked.

‘I could have had sex with her but I said no. I think she thought I was a total soft-cock after that. She went out with Griz.'

She grunted and put her hand over her mouth.

‘What?' I asked.

‘Nothing. It's just funny the way things go sometimes.'

‘What do you mean by that?'

‘Well, if I was as honest as you I would have told you that Aaron had his hand up my shirt when he was kissing me.'

I made an ‘O' with my mouth and Kez's cheeks flushed. She hid behind her hair.

‘It's you that I want,' I said. ‘I feel like I'm saving myself.'

She kissed me first on the cheek then on the lips, then on the neck. ‘Me too,' she whispered.

I opened my mouth to tell her I'd seen Angie pee but it didn't come out. That wasn't important. I shook my head. ‘Den freaked me out when we camped.'

I told her about Chris smashing up the car and she held her hand over her mouth.

‘Den's gay,' I whispered.

Her head snapped around. It wasn't disbelief in her eyes; it was like I'd been let in on a secret of hers.

‘He told you that?' she asked.

‘Yeah. Chris brought some grog. We got pretty hammered and Den told me.'

‘Thank God,' she said. ‘It has messed him around so bad. He can't talk about it, to me or Mum or anybody.'

‘How did you know?'

‘I live with him, Wayne. I notice these things.'

I looked at her puzzled.

‘The way he talks, the things he says. He is not interested in girls, never has been, you know. I mean he has friends that are girls and that but they are never girlfriends. I thought he was going to kill himself just after we shifted. He was so sad and angry. Mum was going crazy. What did you say?'

I shifted my feet. My leg was getting numb. I stood up and massaged my thigh. ‘Nothing much.'

‘Like what?'

‘I thought he wanted to root me or something.'

‘What did you say?'

‘Well, I called him a fucking poofter. I remember that much.'

‘Wayne. You didn't . . .'

‘Yeah. I did. I felt like smashing the shit out of him.'

‘Why?'

‘I dunno. I thought he wanted to root me. He told me that he loved me then told me he was a poofter. What was I supposed to think?'

She was quiet for a long time and when she spoke her voice had lost all expression. ‘Do you think he chose to feel attracted to men? Could you imagine the risk he was taking, telling you?'

I hung my head. Yes Mum, I'm a bastard, Mum. ‘We got over it,' I said. ‘We're still mates. He can root chickens for
all I care. His life. Yesterday, he was just my mate. He didn't want to root me. He hung on to me while I bawled my eyes out.'

Kez nodded.

We walked back to the house in silence and hand in hand. There was a strange grey BMW in the driveway. Kerry grabbed my chin as I looked at the car, and kissed me. It started off as a little kiss but I had to flick at the temperature gauge when we parted. Hot, hot, hot.

‘God, you're gorgeous,' she said, and led me inside. ‘Uncle Al, this is my boyfriend, Wayne. Wayne, this is my Uncle Al.'

He didn't look like a sex maniac. To be honest, he sort of looked normal—neat black beard, neat black hair. He shook my hand like he hadn't seen me for years. I kept expecting him to wiggle his finger in my palm like a secret handshake or wink or something. He just held my stare with his warm eyes. He and Baz and Gracie started talking business so Kez and I poured ourselves into her room and closed the door. She kissed me and pushed me onto the bed. I certainly didn't fight but I did feel a bit queasy. Did Uncle Alan really root his sister when they were younger?

‘What is it? What's the matter?' Kez asked.

‘Nothing.'

She frowned. I gave her my coolest smile and rolled her onto her back. She went stiff like an ironing board.

‘What?' she asked again.

My shoulders dropped. ‘Well, a long time ago . . . like last Christmas holidays when we were at the beach . . .'

‘Yeah . . .'

‘You told me a story about one of your uncles . . . like, you know, having a bit of a go at your mum.'

She looked vacantly over my right shoulder and in time slapped her hand over her mouth. Her eyes nearly popped out of her head and her body started shaking nicely underneath me.

‘Well? Was it Uncle Al?'

She was shaking her head and little gasps of laughter were leaking from her hand.

‘Not my uncle,
her
uncle. Neville,
her
mum's brother. He died before I was born.'

‘Phew. Thank Christ. I kept expecting Alan to feel me up or something.'

She laughed again. ‘Not Uncle Al. He's a real sweetie.'

‘I dunno about that but he seems like a nice enough bloke. Wouldn't make much of a child molester.'

Kerry's so soft, you know. And hard. Soft and hard in all the right places. All the right ways. With her smiles and touches as her needle and thread, she helped sew up the hole in me. It would hurt in there for a long time yet—maybe it would never completely heal—but she whispered in my ear and squeezed my hand. Told me everything would be okay.