Tim Winton - Eyrie

I had the Minister in here an hour ago, said Bub.

Which one?

You know which one.

Shoulda poisoned him.

Clowns I’m hiring, I probably did. Pig and bumnuts do you?

Perfect.

The sheeny-domed proprietor set him up at a stool beside the servery and his tall apple juice and double-shot appeared soon after.

You’re limping, Tommy.

Crook back.

Shagger’s back.

Not likely.

Keely picked up a pre-loved paper despite himself. Flopped it on its ugly face to see what fresh recruiting disasters the Dockers had gotten themselves into in the pre-season. But it was all cricket. He threw it down as his breakfast arrived in the arms of a lovely goth in a kilt and fishnet singlet.

Cricket, he said. What’s that about?

Money, I guess. And blondes. Who could resist, eh?

Keely smiled and she set his plate down with an ironic flourish. As she sashayed away he caught a glimpse of the dish station through the swing door where a buzzcut kid wrestled the gooseneck amidst a pile of trays and pans. His acned face was flushed and miserable and their eyes met for a moment before the door swung to.

Bub’s had always been their morning joint. Him and the WildForce crew. It was a modest place, decent but unfussy. During the week it was a haunt for seedy locals, policy wonks, coppers and fishermen. Once upon a time half the NGOs in town began their day here, back when a coffee and a good bitch session passed for a briefing. Since his messy exit old comrades and rivals seemed to have moved on to other establishments. Which left a few dejected humanitarians who ignored him from either pity or fear of contagion.

Bub never mentioned his public blow-up. He had the discretion or perhaps the indifference of a bloke who’d torched a few bridges himself. Today he seemed particularly harassed. The Sunday crowd required a different level of energy — a lot of fluffy milk to make, for one — and he looked short-handed.

I know what you’re thinking, said Bub, passing him with plates of pasta. You’re transparent.

Keely worked at his eggs and bacon and as Bub returned he raised his head.

Actually I was thinking about you, you poor bugger. You want some help?

Piss off, Bub said good-naturedly.

I’m serious.

You look like a bent nail.

I’ll be right.

Eat your breakfast, said Bub, heading for the kitchen.

Keely watched him and the girl in the kilt blow to and fro, sweating and harried.

Really, he said, catching him on the next pass. I could help out. You need another dishpig?

Bub took his plate and wiped the counter.

You actually serious?

I’m broke, mate. Today I’ll work for love. Any other day I’ll do it for money.

Fuck me.

Is that compulsory?

Bub looked across his shoulder towards the kitchen. It’s settling now anyway. But thanks. You need a few bucks?

Only if I can work for it. Without actually having to, you know, deal with the general public.

Well, it’ll be weird. But I could do with the hands. Every other prick’s at the mines and the backpackers are all heading home to save what’s left of Europe.

I’m serious.

Thursday. Come by at seven.

Hey, thanks.

That’s a.m . And don’t be late.

Stepping into the lobby after the white heat of the streets, Keely was momentarily blinded. He hesitated. The doors slid to behind him and he took a second or two to get his bearings in the much weaker light. As he turned the corner for the lifts, he clashed shoulders with someone he hadn’t seen coming.

Look out, ya dumb cunt, the bloke said hoarsely, pushing past without a pause.

Geez, mate, said Keely, flattened hard against the wall. What’s your problem?

You, said the bloke over his shoulder. Fuckwits like you.

Listen, sport —

But the doors rolled back and the little oaf was gone, lost in the welding flare of afternoon. Nobody he recognized. Not that he got a proper look at him. Just the impression of somebody small and dark-haired with a whiff of sweat about him. Keely hoped he wasn’t a resident; his heart sank at the prospect of regular encounters. What a charmless turd. The Mirador wasn’t exactly genteel — there were all sorts of characters pressed in floor upon floor, some of them less than lovely — but people mostly managed a kind of strained civility. This sort of default-setting aggro was not promising.

A lift opened. Keely stepped in, rubbing his shoulder. On the ride up he let himself reclaim some satisfaction about the job. It wasn’t much. In fact it was work for teenagers and halfwits. But he’d come away from Bub’s with a little buzz on, just a faint glow of self-respect at the idea of having made a start. It didn’t matter that Bub was embarrassed. Keely had to work. And he’d made something happen. This was a good thing.

Up on the gallery he pulled out his key but hesitated at the door. It was silly — mortifying really — that he should want so badly and suddenly to share his news. Maybe Gemma wouldn’t see the funny side or even the flicker of hope it gave him, but he had to tell someone. He rapped on her kitchen window and something crashed in the sink.

I’ve got a knife! she bellowed. She was muffled by the glass and obscured by the curtain. Get the fuck away!

Keely recoiled.

You hear me? I said a week.

Gemma?

Come near me I’ll use it, I swear.

Gem, it’s me — Tom.

The nylon curtain lurched askew. A flash of face, hair. She looked raddled, mad even. And she wasn’t bluffing about the knife; it was an evil steeled-out boning piece.

Just me, he said.

The curtain fell to and he heard the door-chain in its slot. His skin tightened with apprehension. As the door heeled open he retreated instinctively and felt the rails against his spine.

Gemma’s face was flushed, her skin mottled. There was snot on her lip and tears clinging to her chin. She held the knife at her side.

Gem, what’re you doing? Is everything alright? Where’s Kai?

In the bathroom.

Something in Keely’s gut turned over. He stepped up and peered in through the screen. She was shaking.

Is he okay?

Hidin.

The knife, he said carefully. How about we put that down. You’re freaking me out here.

Oh, she said, looking at it.

Is that alright?

She turned aside and set it on top of the fridge.

Can I come in?

She nodded.

As he slipped past he felt the heat coming off her. She closed the door behind him and he nabbed the knife while she had her back turned. He headed for the bathroom, calling the boy as he went.

Only me, he said to the locked door. It’s just Tom, Kai. Are you okay in there, mate?

The handle rattled and the door opened a crack. The boy’s face was white but he looked unharmed.

Kai?

Did you get him? said the kid. With that?

What? Keely saw it was the knife he was referring to. No, I didn’t get anyone. Who are we talking about? What’s happening?

Keely stared at the boy a moment. The kid looked confused. Keely took the knife back through to the kitchen and tossed it onto the bench. Perched on an arm of the couch, Gemma flinched at the clatter.

Just tell me what’s going on.

The flat smelt of grilled cheese and burnt toast. The TV lay on its back, flickering away. Things were in disarray everywhere he looked. Gemma tried to light a smoke but her hands were shaking badly. He strode over and lit it for her.

What’s happening?

He hauled the TV back onto its stubby base. Judge Judy soundlessly dishing out rough justice.

Gemma?

I can’t talk with him here, she said in barely more than a whisper.

I told you he’d come, said Kai.

Well, he came too late, didn’t he?