Tim Winton - Eyrie

Conan was asleep. Or lying doggo. Maybe biding his time between eruptions. The dozing inferno. Keely was keen to be on his way. Feeling as tentatively fair as he did this morning, there was no point pushing his luck by staring recklessly into the maw of this Vesuvial force of nature. So he looked away, finished towelling off briskly and was gathering himself to go when his eyes wandered back treasonously. Which was when he saw it. Buried deep. But patently there. Camouflaged by sodden underpants, beneath hanging kelp and broken fronds of saltbush. His bike. Keely’s spirits rose. Then sank again. Because just seeing this had complicated his day irrevocably. Conan was mad, not stupid. He loved to negotiate. Especially when he couldn’t lose. Like a desert warlord in a hostage bargain, he’d choose the longest and most indirect path to the least pleasant outcome.

The Malvern Star wasn’t worth suffering for. Its ransom would include an hour’s foulmouthed argy-bargy and a carton of Emu Export at a bare-arsed minimum, not to mention having his woebegone name shouted up dune and down dale for a week. Keely hadn’t even had breakfast yet. He had five bucks seventy in his pocket. He was supposed to be home cleaning the flat. Then to the barber to satisfy Gemma. These days the price of twenty-four cans of industrial-grade beer was no small thing. And it seemed so much steeper when you weren’t drinking them yourself.

No, he thought. Bugger it.

And yet.

He needed the bike. It was, after all, his bike. And it browned him off, being robbed and stood over by a lunatic.

He was fresh from a swim. Fresh-ish. Damp flab. Headache in partial remission. Weak. But no kitten. He could dash in now, right now. While Conan slept the sleep of the unloved. Wrest the treadly from the grimy heap and bolt before the malodorous thief even stirred. Yes, dammit. He’d have it back.

Dry and dressed, Keely stalked towards Conan’s camp, thongs clapping him on. I’ll outrun you, mate, outride you, and you can take your pants-down, butt-slapping warrior dance elsewhere. It’s my fucking bike.

Keely went all the way. He did not deviate. He strode right through the eye-watering frontier of Conan’s encampment, head up like a man with a sturdy will, and actually had his fingers around the handlebars when a single basso fart sent him scurrying in search of an ATM, an early opener and a slab of Western Australia’s nastiest.

*

The bloom was well and truly off the morning when Keely finally wheeled the redeemed Malvern Star into the cycle shop. He wanted a titanium lock. Immediately and forever. Yes, it was worth more than the bike and twice the cost of a carton of piss, but after what he’d just endured he needed to know there’d never be a repeat performance.

He was comparing two rival brands and muttering to himself when he heard her voice.

Tom?

Before he even looked up, he knew it was Harriet. She wore a black suit and blunt-toed shoes. Pushed back on her head, her sunglasses held up the dark tide of her hair. She looked flushed, even blotchy; he supposed it was the heat.

I didn’t recognize you for a moment, she said. The beard.

Right. Of course.

So.

Right. Yeah.

So, um.

How’s things?

Harriet did that slant thing with her mouth. It was hard. Lovely. Terrifying. To see her again after so long. A year? Fourteen months. There before him. Smelling of herself.

Thought you’d gone to Brussels.

She shrugged. Changed my mind.

Ah.

You okay?

What? Why?

You know you were talking to yourself?

Bullshit.

Whatever.

I have to buy a lock, he said, holding up the gizmos in their sealed packets. Bloody Conan.

The homeless bloke?

Homeless? He loves the outdoor life. Makes himself at home wherever he goes. Helps himself to whatever you have. Shits in front of old ladies.

So, okay. Right. The street bloke.

Keely recognized the tone of aggrieved patience. He waved abstractly and put the locks down in surrender.

Anyway, he said. Not a good start to the day.

They stood miserably a few moments, during which time Keely registered the fact that she’d put on weight. For a second he had the dimwitted and painful thought she was pregnant again. The things he did to himself. She was ten years his junior. But that glorious youthful gloss was gone. Which just made her more sad and lovely.

I was in town for a meeting. Always loved this shop. You know, she said, tilting her head towards the boys putting sleek machines together, bustling about in their dreads, talking nerdy bike lingo.

Yeah, he said, just to make a sound.

Thought I might even buy a new bike, she said. I’m chubbing up, as you can see.

Bollocks.

Thought maybe I could ride along the river before work. There’s a nice path on the foreshore.

Keely nodded, a little lost. It was a lot of talk. Out of nowhere. Out of nothing. After such resolute silence.

Listen, she said. You want to get some lunch?

Us?

It’s only food.

But. I mean. You think that’s a good idea?

We’re not savages, are we?

No. But.

A quick meal, Tom. Don’t get —

Okay.

Right, then.

He looked down at his thongs, his damp shorts and T-shirt.

It’s Freo, she said. No one gives a shit.

It was too hot to go in search of somewhere anonymous, so they ended up in their old regular, the Thai joint a couple of blocks away. Their entrance caused some confusion amongst the family staff who’d witnessed the dissolution of their marriage, enduring it week by week with sad discretion.

After a minute’s skin-peeling banter with various members of the clan, Harriet ordered a bottle of semillon. Waiters came and went gingerly around their table. He was glad when the food came and they were free to do more than stare at one another indulgently.

You’re living in Perth, then, said Keely despite himself. In the CBD?

It’s odd. Like living in an industrial park. Bit of a shock, actually. They weren’t kidding; it really is Dullsville.

I guess there’s the river.

Yeah, there’s that. The flat, shallow, brown bit.

And the food’s better there.

If you fancy a fifty-dollar steak.

Are they good? The fifty-buck steaks?

She glared at him.

And work’s okay? he asked with a grin of small satisfaction.

Corner office.

So you’re a partner at last.

I live a block from the building. No wonder my arse is bigger than my tax bill. All I do is work.

Keely gulped wine, caught himself. He set the glass back and made handprints on the bare wood of the table.

So.

So, she said.

Is it still good work?

Righteous work, you mean? she said with a wry grin. Sometimes.

I meant is it stimulating, interesting.

I know exactly what you mean; you’re a Keely.

He held his hands up in concession.

Harriet cracked a wan smile. Anyway, you know how it is.

Afraid so.

So, yes, they own my bones.

But it’s interesting?

Of course. I’m in China once a month. Paying homage.

He nodded — what could you say?

You look shocking, Tom.

Thanks for noticing.

Sorry. That wasn’t… But the beard — Christ.

The beard is not long for this world.

But are you okay?

He shrugged.

Are you seeing someone?

Harriet.

I meant, like, counselling.

He stonewalled with a mirthless grin.

I wish it hadn’t happened, she murmured. Any of it.

Keely took a breath but she clarified immediately.

I don’t mean the marriage. I don’t regret that. Just —

Let’s not, eh?

No, you’re right. I’m sorry. Hey, is it true you’re living in the Mirador? That’s different.

You’ve been talking to Doris?