Tim Winton - Eyrie

*

A few hours later she was there again in the doorway. Kitted out for work, bearing a foil-covered plate.

And another thing, he said, trying to be funny.

I’m off, she said. Chrissake eat something.

Is this the heart of gold shining through?

Be buggered, she spat. I need you tomorrow. Whatever’s left of you.

Well, you’re not fussy, I’ll give you that. Couldn’t you find some poor prick in the street? Offer him an inducement?

Just shut up before I clout you.

Your sister did once. More than once, actually.

And that’s not all, I bet.

Nothing else. She never offered me anything but a thick ear.

And I’ll bet she had her reasons.

Doubtless she did.

Fuckin slag.

Fair go, he said blearily. She was just a girl. Tryna find her way.

Lookin out for herself. Never bothered much to protect me.

There was nothing Keely could say to this. It felt dangerous to proceed. He was too far gone. And the smell of food was making him queasy.

Kai alright?

He’s fine.

Done his homework?

He’s six.

Oh. Right.

In her pale-blue smock, her hair scraped back in a ponytail, Gemma looked like a faded, beaten-down schoolgirl. Sensible shoes, support hose. He was a little bit in love with her.

I didn’t mean to scare him, he said abjectly.

You won’t forget tomorrow?

All yours.

Two o’clock, orright?

Right you are.

Your teeth are all black.

I’ll brush before two.

What happened to you, Tommy?

My wife had an abortion.

What?

I couldn’t handle it.

Well, shit.

And it wasn’t my baby anyway.

You kicked her out?

No, he said with a laugh that burnt like acid reflux. She asked me to leave.

What the fuck?

Kept going on and on. About the baby. Mourning. Just mourning.

Well, it’s not bloody easy, take it from me.

Not her, he said, holding his hands in the air like a halfwit. Me.

Gemma looked at him with a mixture of bewilderment and scorn.

I would have taken it. I didn’t mind. I would have raised it. It was like my own child had died.

You’re bonkers.

This is probably true.

I’m late, she said, turning for the door.

At the security screen she stooped to collect her key on its woollen noose. And after a moment’s consideration she set it on the counter beside the giveaway newspapers and the leaflets for pizza bars and quick loans.

I have redeemed a bicycle, he whispered as the door clacked to. That is what I have saved. And what God hath joined together let no man… spoil, with a chunder.

He pulled the foil off the plate and smiled. Rissoles!

Jesus wept, she said when he opened the door at two.

Apparently.

You orright?

Fine, he lied into the blinding light of day.

You got some better clothes?

Better? Keely could only make out a shape, an outline, until she stepped past him into the dim fug of his livingroom and jerked the curtains apart.

More… formal. Like a suit.

A suit. Yeah, there’s one in there somewhere. But is it really necessary?

Would I ask ya just to be annoyin?

He offered a smile as evidence of his doubts — all scrubbed teeth and bleeding gums.

It’s in a box, he said.

Great, she replied. You got an iron?

Somewhere.

I’ll have to press it. Carn, let’s fix this.

A suit, he thought. And why am I doing this? Because she’s pretty, because she’s blonde? Because she’s little Gemma Buck the waif? Christ, his guts, his head.

Reaching deep into the wardrobe he fought a bilious shudder. You were rude to her, he thought, said something nasty you can’t quite remember, and she cooked you dinner anyway. You’ll do whatever she says.

I’ve only got an hour, she said. Kai gets off at three.

Here he said, digging the thing out and brandishing it as a single wodge.

Lovely, she said with full scorn. Dunno whether to press it or mop the floor with it.

*

As they walked through the back end of town with its sour smells, blasts of noise and pitiless rods of sun, Keely noticed, despite his nausea, that for all her hard-boiled banter Gemma was becoming increasingly edgy. She wore another small black dress that showed her figure. He recognized the heels from Tuesday, or whenever it was. Her hair was swept back in a black band that looked something like velvet and the dark vinyl satchel she carried seemed new. She looked like a real estate agent on the make, or the sort of defence lawyer who lived off a roster of ‘colourful’ clients. If he hadn’t felt so rocky he’d tease her about it — or at the very least dawdle behind her for the simple pleasure of watching those legs scissor away deliciously. Right now he was focused on keeping his rissoles in place. Gemma hauled him by the sleeve, drawing savagely on a fag. He prayed she wouldn’t blow smoke his way.

I’m coming, he said. Listen, where are we going?

Collectin some things, that’s all.

From the bank?

No. Geez, were you that pissed? I told you. From his father.

The father. I knew that. So what’s with the get-up? Both of us like pox doctors’ clerks.

Try not to whinge, Tom. It’s gettin on me nerves. Just tell me now if you’re pikin out.

I’m here, aren’t I?

Well, she said. A version of you, anyway.

A pale facsimile, he said.

Very pale.

And I’m sorry.

Well, beggars can’t be choosers.

Keely took it on the shaven chin and sucked in hot air, anxious for this task and the rest of the day to be over.

Near the markets, short of the grand old pub at the corner, Gemma drew up at a familiar row of semis whose narrow verandahs were variously draped with footy flags, banners advertising Bundaberg rum, and the kind of cheap bamboo blinds that reminded him of his student days. The street gave off a swampy stink of frangipani, ganja, incense and rotting vegetables. There was broken glass on the footpath and music spilled from open doorways. Gemma took his arm and steered him towards a traffic bollard.

You stay here, Tommy.

Well, he said peevishly. You’re the boss.

She angled towards the closest house, the seediest in the row, glanced back at him briefly and clacked her way up to the door. Her bum rolling in its dark sheath, her hair flaring from within the shade of the porch.

The way she thudded on the door was more than emphatic; he felt the percussion ten metres away. She kept it up, applying the side of her fist, until finally the door was opened by a scowling girl of about seventeen. She surveyed Gemma, squinted past her at Keely, who folded his arms instinctively and Gemma said something he couldn’t make out. After a long moment the girl slunk off in her tiny shorts and tanktop, and a minute later another figure loomed in the doorway. Gemma rose to her full height, seemed to exceed it. Her battle stance brought Keely to a new level of alertness.

The man was tall and wiry. His bare chest and arms were covered in the sorts of tattoos that hadn’t yet found favour with the cooler cadres of the middle class. Keely figured he was in his late twenties. He had an aura of easy violence about him. He looked as sly and unknowable as a mistreated dog. As he leant contemptuously against the doorjamb, he took the opportunity to reach into his trackpants to huffle his nuts.

Gemma spoke. The man began to shake his head disdainfully, projecting ostentatious amusement. Gemma unzipped her document case and drew out a folder. She held up several sheets of paper in turn and then began to wave one right in his face. Keely caught the bloke glancing over at him. The dark flash of his eyes caused something to hitch in Keely’s throat. The fellow licked his lips appraisingly, not breaking his glance as Gemma continued to speak. He seemed to consider his options. He glanced up the street, ploughed his fingers through his hair. Gemma’s voice became audible, but the only word Keely made out was a shout: Now! Even at this distance, the young man’s rage was evident. Keely knew this was the moment to step forward, to reinforce whatever point Gemma was driving home, but by the time he summoned the requisite courage the bloke had already turned in the doorway and disappeared.