Tim Winton - Eyrie

She glanced at him as if she’d been struck.

I’ll drive you to the train.

Keely got out of the lift, turned the corner and there along the gallery in a puddle of light outside his door was Gemma. He hesitated a second but it was too late. She’d seen him. And his moment of indecision. In cargo shorts and a singlet, she leant against the iron rail, sucking on a fag beneath a cloud of moths. As he tramped on towards her, she glanced up and scattered them with a savage jet of smoke.

Evening, he murmured.

She said nothing. Lent on her elbows and stared out towards the bridges. Her hands shook.

Everything alright?

On his doormat was the laptop they’d retrieved that afternoon. It felt like days ago. He gathered it up and unlocked his door.

Gemma?

Moths churned and wheeled above her. She blew them into disarray once more.

Keely went in, set the little Acer on the kitchen bench and opened the sliding door to catch whatever mucky updraught there was. He turned to see her stab the fag out against the rail and pitch the butt into the darkness.

You coming in or what?

She turned beneath her corona of moths, ran a hand through her hair and peered in at him. She came on in, but unsteadily. She was drunk. Or drugged. Or something.

Kai asleep? he asked.

I can’t get him off that bloody Nintendo.

What d’you want me to do with this? he said, pointing to the laptop.

I dunno. Set it up or whatever for Kai? Dunno nothin about em.

You want a cup of tea or something?

She shook her head.

You’re not working tonight?

What is this — quiz night? I called in crook, okay?

As she brushed by to flop into the armchair he saw how puffy her eyes were, as if she’d been crying.

Something’s happened, he said.

Let’s go for a drive.

Maybe you should tell me.

I feel like a drive, she said.

It’s late, Gem. I’m knackered. And what about Kai?

He can come too.

He’s got school. I don’t think it’s a good idea.

He’s comin, she said hotly. Don’t look at me like I’m some horrible slag. All I want’s a bloody drive in me car — is that a crime? Come or don’t come, I don’t care.

She blundered back out onto the gallery and up the way. He watched her fumble at her own door.

Leave us alone! she yelled back at him before stepping inside.

Keely retreated indoors. Alert to the prospect of a stormy return, he left the door ajar and tidied the kitchen, but she didn’t show.

He was brushing his teeth for bed when he heard Gemma’s angry shout in the distance. A door slammed. He went out onto the balcony from where a child’s wailing carried on the warm night air. Keely told himself it could be anyone’s kid. Every window in the building was open as residents courted the tepid breeze; the place was as porous as a birdcage — sounds you swore you heard next door actually boiled up from several floors below.

He went inside, uneasy but determined to get an early night. But another door thudded shut and then footfalls rang along the gallery.

Do what ya bloody told! yelled Gemma.

Keely stepped out to see her hauling the resistant boy by the arm and the sight of them struggling out there between the wall and the railing sent a ripple of fear through him. When he reached them they were both flailing and tearful. A few doors down, from the safety of the darkness, someone threatened to call the cops. Gemma told whoever they were to get stuffed. But she gave up the car keys the moment Keely asked for them.

*

It wasn’t until they were past the Old Traffic Bridge and the container terminal that the boy’s rending sobs finally gave way to silence. Keely cranked down the window to let in a soothing rush of night air. He steered them along the coast, savouring the quiet, not knowing or caring where he was headed, his bewilderment and disgust gradually softened by the smells of limey sand, ocean air and saltbush. The road narrowed and wound through unlit bush reserves. The little car burped and rattled. There were sparks behind his eyes and that deep ache in his skull further back, but he tried to concentrate on the sweet feel of the wind rummaging through his shirt. In the mirror he caught the pale flutter of Gemma’s hair, the swipe of a hand blotting tears. She sat in the corner of the back seat cradling the kid. Kai seemed to have subsided into sleep.

Swanbourne, Floreat, City Beach. Gulls orbited the orange sodium lights of the northern beaches and above them the sky was starless, inky. The waterside carparks were scattered with vanloads of backpackers and partying youths hunting shadows. Every rocky groyne bristled with fishing rods and the shadows on the dimpled sand looked like moon craters.

At Scarborough he circled the roundabout beneath the ugly clock and wound slowly through the old terraces.

Christ, she said.

I know.

Why here?

It wasn’t deliberate, he said.

I’m just sayin.

I’m just driving, he said. I could be in bed, you know.

She said nothing and he caught a glimpse of her running a hand through her hair, gazing out at the old sights. Keely steered them past the tawdry strip of shops, the Norfolk pines, the kids sitting on the bonnets of their cars.

Saw a boy surfin a Torana here one night. The mudflaps were on fire.

I was there, he said.

Riot police and everythin.

Happy days!

Loved that show.

That too, he said, pulling up by the northern shower block where the coolest surfers used to hang and the stink of hash was often more pungent than the reek of piss. A couple of kids hacked up and down on skateboards. It looked desolate here now. But at this time of night perhaps it had always looked a bit bleak.

Carn then, she said. We come this far. Let’s check it out.

Check what out?

You know what.

What happened tonight?

Five minutes, Tom. It won’t kill ya.

Why?

Old times’ sake.

Why now?

Cause we can. And I got the car, Tommy. I don’t care what that little shit Stewie says. I got the car. I can drive where I like. C’mon.

The skater boys flipped their boards warily, waiting for the old folks to get out or drive away. With one of them in the front and the other in the back Keely knew they probably looked dodgy. He wheeled the car around and a minute later they were on the four-lane east.

I remember this, said Gemma. I remember when it was a limestone track.

Keely said nothing. He recalled it well enough. Wished she would shut up.

When he pulled into the old street he felt uneasy. Why couldn’t he have tooled along the river, somewhere neutral? He hadn’t been back in thirty-five years; he wasn’t sure he wanted to do this tonight. Maybe another day — alone, on foot, in daylight. But he was here now. And he could smell wild oats and lupins from the empty lot on the corner. He remembered this, the smell and the patch of dirt, from all those long treks to school. He thought of bikes with banana seats, boys in desert boots, hot tar.

In the back Gemma twisted and gasped.

Christ, she muttered. They’ve changed the name. Grasstree Crescent.

Grasstree? he said as evenly as he could manage.

I’ll bet it’s to keep the Abos happy.

Keely let it go. But he felt the twinge of loss, despite himself. He eased down the hill in first, struggling to get his bearings. The road was the same; he remembered when this too had been limestone. The crescent curved down towards the swamp, so strange and familiar. But few of the old places were there anymore. The modest uniformity of the original neighbourhood was gone and with it the sense of egalitarian plainness, the peculiar comprehensibility it once had. The quarter-acre blocks had been subdivided, the small brick-veneer bungalows replaced by two-storey triplexes pressed together without eaves or verandahs. On nearly every roof sat an airconditioner and a satellite dish. Where there had been picket fences, high brick walls. No families out on porches watching TV, no cars sprawled across front yards, no lumpy aprons of buffalo grass.