Tim Winton - Eyrie

This is it. The bounce off the bottom.

You want to walk away. But you don’t walk away.

Because here you are. Shining in the dark. Poisoned head radiating power. Parked two blocks from the problem. Smarter. Bursting. With nothing left to lose.

Across from the decaying row of houses, a spare parking bay. He backed into it and switched off the ignition. There was a light on upstairs and music audible even at this distance. Although it was nearly two, it was evident that neighbours were well-enough acquainted with Stewie’s nature to refrain from complaint.

Keely thought first about a molotov cocktail. Simple procedure. But you couldn’t set fire to a house adjoining so many others. You couldn’t set fire to a house full stop. That wasn’t smart. Just thuggish. Cowardly.

But he was here now.

And now was the moment. Whatever he was going to do would happen now.

He restarted the Volvo, pulled out, floated around the block. There was no alternate point of access, no rear lane. Unless he could scale a wall and scuttle over the tin roofs of the markets and leap down into Stewie’s backyard. And then what? Be caught like a wharf rat in a kero tin?

Outside the football oval, in the shadow of the weatherboard grandstand, he parked, killed the engine and switched on the interior light. No. There would be no scaling of walls, no window-breaking. No fire, no charging in full of piss and vinegar. He wasn’t dealing with a neighbourhood drunk here. This was a snaky, drug-addled sociopath. Who required something a little weird, something asymmetrical. Immobilizing. Paralyzing. Keely would never pound a man’s head in, but he could surely fuck with his mind. Knew a bit about that, didn’t he?

Reached for the glovebox, inspired.

There was a ballpoint, of course, and a pocket torch, a tube of hand-wipes, a notepad. Dear, dear Doris — ever prepared. Wedged into the pad was a blank and sun-faded postcard. Rio de Janeiro. The monumental statue on the mountain was all blotchy, the colour chemicals on the card were failing, but the image was plain enough — Cristo Redentor. Photographed from above, across the figure’s shoulder. And beyond the great head and the Redeemer’s outstretched arms, the teeming city below. Roiling chaos at his feet. The watchful Saviour. It was perfect. Christ the Redeemer, why not? Enough Nev in that to make you smile.

The ballpoint was dry and the ink a little lumpy at first but with the notepad as backing, he got his message written quickly enough.

Then he took the notepad and began to draw. Words wouldn’t be necessary. But it was hard work, trembling as he was, suppressing the spasms of laughter that welled up in his neck. He couldn’t believe he was doing this. He felt bloody fabulous.

He tore each picture free and laid them on the console beside him. Yes. If they wanted to play funny buggers, then this was a start.

There was no one in the pedestrian mall. As he strode beneath the frangipanis that overhung the limestone wall of the row, he felt adrenaline sparking in his lips and teeth and fingertips. The stone was rough underhand, as alerting as a cat’s tongue. Up ahead, the music was an approaching headache. The urge to laugh evaporated. He willed himself on.

The wooden gate to Stewie’s place was only slightly ajar and without the churning bass from upstairs the noise from the hinges might have been disastrous. Keely picked his way up the path onto the junk-strewn verandah and bent carefully to slip the postcard beneath the flywire door. There. Jesus on the doorstep.

Then he took the first sheet of paper. Threaded it into the ruined flyscreen.

As he turned for the path, he reeled momentarily, seeing spots. The sudden welter of smells around him pressed in. Wood rot, the inner soles of shoes. Dry mortar. Sea air. Incense. Clove cigarettes. Hash. Sweat. Sardines. Garam masala.

And.

And.

For a couple of seconds he thought he’d puke. Found the verandah post in the dark. Hung off it a while. Staring back at the red glass of the fanlight over the door. Pulsing in time with his blood. That colour. The angry music.

He felt a nail in the post rake his palm and the pain pulled him up. He impaled another sheet on it.

Then he launched himself clear of the verandah, plunged down the path and glanced off the open gate, reeling into the street to rub his hip and get his breath. He was two doors down before he felt the last sheet in his hand. He hesitated. And went back. Shoved it bloodied into the letterbox beside the gate.

And ran like a maniac.

Clambered up from the couch with a start. Fuck. It was ten o’clock. In the a.m. Mouth tasting of rusty nails. Doris’s house. Hot. Bright. Silent. And his hand smarting. A divot gouged from his palm. Felt worse than it was.

A terse note on the table. From Doris. Saying she’d given Kai his breakfast and driven him to school herself. That the boy’s sheets were on the line. And please bring them in before Gemma wakes up.

He leant against the bench with a groan.

Crept into the bathroom. Stood beneath a cold bolt of water. Drying off, he caught a whiff of tobacco smoke.

Gemma was sitting at the kitchen table with a coffee and a fag.

I woke you, he said. Staring at the note in her hands.

Bloody hot, she said. I dunno how you can sleep in it.

Pfizer, he said.

What?

Merck. Aventis.

What’re you talkin about?

Nothing.

He crossed to the livingroom in his towel. It was awkward rifling through his cabin bag for clean clothes, dressing in plain view: underpants, shorts, T-shirt.

Gemma wore nothing but a stretched and shapeless singlet. Her hair was crushed, damp with sweat. He noticed the points of her nipples, the back-curving thumb as she held the cigarette aloft, elbow in hand.

He’s wettin the bed, she murmured. And no one tells me.

I guess we didn’t want to make you feel any worse, he said, pouring himself a coffee.

She squinted through the smoke. We?

I know, he said. All this.

No shit.

Why don’t you go back to bed? he asked. You’ll be knackered tonight.

I told you. It’s too hot.

I gather there was a call.

Doris. Does it all, does she?

He let it go. He didn’t feel well. The coffee was thin.

Where were you? she asked. Last night. When I was at work.

The concert. Remember?

After.

Why?

Why not tell me, Tom? I want to know what you’ve done.

Done? he said carefully.

She nodded slowly, regarding him through the haze she put between them.

Just drove around, he said.

In your mother’s car.

Like being young again.

He got up, tipped the coffee down the sink.

I think we’ll go home, she said. Me ’n Kai.

He glanced back at her but Gemma’s eyes were averted. She twitched the fag with her thumb and sniffed.

Something’s happened?

I’m over it, she said. I want me own things, me own bed.

But it’s not safe, he said.

It’ll have to do.

What about Kai?

He’s not happy here.