Tim Winton - Eyrie

On soft tyres he pedalled through the morning streets as they stirred, past discount stores, supermarkets, cafés, keeping where he could to the footpaths to save being mown down, and within a few minutes he was in the residential arc between the marina and the beaches, where he felt safe enough to tool along taking in the weatherboard cottages, limestone semis, peppermint street trees and vine-strangled verandahs. The old neighbourhood was a comfy mix of prosperity and bohemia, where the Kombi lay down beside the Beemer, and the little garden patches in front were either wistful references to Provence or a homely riot of hippified vegies and bougainvillea. The further south you rode, the more prayer flags there were strung from porches, the more bikes and dreads you saw, and the thicker the reek of patchouli became.

He pulled up a moment outside the old house. Its lovely window sashes were freshly painted. The jarrah boards of the verandah had been oiled. And there was a silver Prius gleaming in the drive. Alerted by the familiar creak of the front door opening, he stood on the pedals and teetered away.

Along Marine Terrace, tradies in idling utes sucked choc-milks and wolfed meat pie breakfasts as brokers pulled into the boatyards and dealerships in Mercs and Range Rovers. A few seedy liveaboards weaved in from the marina on their rusty jetty bikes, all deckshoes and earrings, abroad in search of coffee, sex and cheap labour.

Keely pushed on past the stockaded perimeter of the yacht club and on to the grassy apron behind the dunes. At the open-air showers a woman hefted a woolly mutt beneath the spray; holding the dripping pooch to her breast she looked blissful in a way that didn’t bear examining. He leant the old crate against a casuarina and picked his way through the eternal dog shit to the water.

Stripped down to his Speedos, he plunged in by the rock groyne. The sand bottom was a creamy blur and the water delicious. But his limbs felt heavy and uncoordinated and it took a little time to find a rhythm. Eventually he settled into a long, reaching stroke and for several minutes thought of nothing at all except the feel of the sea. But by the time he reached the southern breakwater he was back to wondering what it meant for a child to dream of falling — not just flying, but crashing to his own death surrounded by faceless aliens. And what did having such a dream repeatedly say about Kai’s mental health?

Keely couldn’t get it out of his head, the plausibility of the kid’s description — or was it more an intimation? — of the actual sensation of dying. Like a failing current: no battery . You couldn’t ignore that; it was alarming. Though what could he do? He’d already overstepped as it was. And now the shutters had gone down. He’d pissed Gemma off. There was no mistaking her fury. He’d be back to keeping his sorry self to himself. And he should be glad.

He swam until the acid built up in his shoulders and his lower back began to tighten. Inshore, locals gathered in gossiping knots — long-shanked men, women with high, late-life bellies. They all hurled sticks for galumphing mutts, their sun-fucked faces shining with adoration. It was a village of cults, Fremantle, but of all the twisted sects it harboured, surely the dog folks were the hardest to take.

He waded ashore, breathless, mindful of where he trod, and as he retrieved his gear and towelled off, he felt restored, even modestly cheerful.

But of course when he got to the grass beside the casuarina, his bike was gone. No sign of it in the saltbush thickets nor the maze of trails behind the ti-trees. He scouted south towards the kiosk and the carpark where weed-dazed backpackers were only now beginning to spill from vans in the heat, but it wasn’t there.

He trudged homeward alongside the rail line. The low fence was festooned with purulent yellow bags of dog shit. These daily offerings were part of the liturgical practice of dog folks. Who bagged their pooches’ turds, tied them into gilt baubles and either left them on the sand or hung them here on the fence. As evidence of their good intentions. To be collected later. Which of course they never were. And after an hour or so the contents began to fester in the heat until they became objects of penitential contemplation for wayfaring pedestrians. Haste-making incense. The collect of the day. And Keely was, in the spirit of things, both hastened and incensed. He was impressed to the very limits of derangement. How could they be matched for devotion, these dog folks? What a spiritual service they did! Doubtless, good people and true. And yet smug and dozy fuckwits all the same. What else could these golden offerings, these buzzing prayer flags be except emblems of right-thinking, evidence that actions were but paltry moments of attachment? This wall of ordure said it all. It was so Freo .

Of course, he might be a little bitter. A tad jaundiced. And his day wasn’t shaping up as he’d hoped.

He held his nose. Pressed on. Mocked by the wet slap of his thongs.

Fucked-fucked.

Fucked-fucked.

Fucked-fucked.

Yeah, very funny.

Googling aimlessly, sniffing the panic abroad, Keely wondered how Faith’s rescue mission was faring. He hoped that whatever she was saving was worth the sweat. It was two degrees in London. Maybe not so much sweat.

Knew he shouldn’t be looking. Letting himself be persecuted by the news cycle like this. Given what it did to him.

A noise outside. Someone scraping against the security grille on the way past. The door was closed. He was in full lockdown. Back to business as usual. Whatever happened out there did not interest him. He had to learn from the dog people. Rise above mere shit.

But there it was again. That sound. Like somebody sawing against the insect screen with a fingernail. Irritating. Hard to detach from. Given it made the hairs rise on the back of his sunburnt neck.

The screen door opening. Bloody cheek of it. The Mormons were in the building. Or worse, someone from the body corporate.

Then knocking. One-two-three. Tiny knocks, too timid to be official. Perhaps the lonely demoniac next door. Seeking garlic.

Keely yanked the door open. And there was Kai. In clammy school kit. Clutching a book to his chest. So small. So fair. Making his heart jump. It must be after three — God, where had the day gone? He struggled to reassemble his expression for the kid’s sake. He had the face of a monster; he could feel it.

Kai, he said.

The kid blinked. The wind ran through his hair. His uptilted eyes were dark, his gaze was cautious, even apprehensive. Then averted entirely.

Where’s your nan?

Kai tilted his head towards home.

She know you’re here?

The boy pursed his lips eloquently.

Kai, I don’t think she’s very happy about last night.

Kai did not disagree.

She won’t like you coming over without her knowing.

The boy held the raptor book face out, presenting it at arm’s length.

What’s up?

The kid peered past him to the roasting interior of his flat where the westering sun was having its way.

I don’t think you better come in, mate.

I was here before, said Kai.

Yeah, you said.

The boy took the book in one hand and raised his arms from his sides. Keely’s first thought was of a bird, that he was stretching his imaginary wings, but then he thought, Underpits. The kid was letting the breeze cool his sweaty underarms.

Maybe you should run along. Your nan won’t be happy. This morning was my fault. I fell asleep.

It wasn’t a osprey.

Sorry?

Kai opened the weathered book and pointed to a photograph.

It wasn’t a osprey, said the boy, what we saw at the river.