Tim Winton - Eyrie

But you said it yourself: he loves Doris.

Home with me he doesn’t wet the bed.

Keely drew a breath, but said nothing.

Have you got a gun?

A what?

You heard me.

No, he said.

She drew on the fag. Blew smoke at the ceiling. Didn’t think so, she said. Couldn’t even afford to buy one.

I don’t want one, he said.

You’re broke.

I told you I was.

Thought you were exaggeratin. But she says you haven’t got a pot to piss in.

So now you know for sure.

Look at ya, she said with a scornful grin.

What?

Never been skint before, have ya?

He spread his hands on the table.

You’re soft, Tom. That’s the thing.

You wouldn’t know, he said.

Believe me, she let out with a laugh. I know.

Tell me what he said.

Who?

You know who. On the phone.

It’s bloody hot, she said. Let’s go for a swim.

He’s texting you.

Carn, it’s hot as hell. Let’s swim.

I thought you were moving back to the Mirador.

Thinkin about it.

How does he have your number, anyway?

Where’s close?

Gemma, how does Stewie have your number?

She gave it to him, orright? Carly. The silly little bitch gave it to him. She’ll never fuckin see me or the boy again.

You don’t mean that.

I want a fuckin swim.

The river’s close.

Stinks, she said. Fuckin shithole.

Okay, he said, with puffs and sparks behind his eyes.

Fuckin jellyfish and brown water.

I said okay, alright?

Don’t shout at me , mate! I’ll bloody go on me own and you’ll be walkin.

Fine, he said, retreating to the lounge and the crackly bag of pills.

Bad thought, but the water was like novocaine. So cool at first, delicious and silky, stalking him pore to shivery pore before the numbing warmth sank in and clumsiness took hold. He felt heavy beside her, annoyed by her sudden playfulness, shamed by the hard-on he got the moment she clung to him. Steadying herself.

Gemma was no swimmer. But the way Keely felt today it was just as well. He looked about. After the shabby free-for-all of South Beach, Cottesloe was a total scene, a kind of flesh pageant.

The pair of them bobbed tiptoe on the sandbank, ducking modest waves. Laughing a little. Well, she was laughing. Keely squinted and held her hand and felt the weight of water roll by. Today a real swim was beyond him. The sun too bright. Sand in his veins.

Your wife, said Gemma. Doris loves her. Reckons she’s beautiful. Says she’s smart.

Ex-wife, he murmured. But yes, yes.

Screwed another lawyer.

Don’t want to talk about that.

And you dropped yer bundle.

Told you that already. Keely rose to his toes as a swell pushed past.

This before or after they sacked you?

I said I don’t want to talk about it.

Don’t mind talkin about my shit, but, do ya?

Before, he said. All happened before.

But Gemma seemed to have lost interest. She’d turned to survey the amphitheatre of sand and grass, the fatuous tearooms, the preening oilers and cruising hipsters on the terraces.

Makes ya sad, dunnit? All them young, beautiful things.

Why?

Doesn’t make you think of bein young? she said, grabbing an arm and hanging off him.

Didn’t notice, he said.

Liar.

What are you talking about?

What do you call this, then?

She brushed a hand across his shorts and laughed. He couldn’t tell what was scorn and what was simple exuberance.

I’m going to swim, he heard himself say.

He broke free and struck out through the surf to deeper water but every turn of his head sent his brain spilling like unsecured cargo and it crashed against the bulwarks of his skull until he could take no more. He rested a moment, floating on a sudden pulse of nausea. His hand stung. Starbursts went off behind his eyes. He sculled back gingerly. Whole ocean curving away beneath him. Shining hard and horrible.

Staggered to shore.

Down a long barrel. Gemma. On a towel. In the sun. Golden. Breasts pooled against her ribs. Startled. Snapping her phone shut. As he reeled up, dripping, at the other end of the telescope.

Christ, she said. What’s wrong?

Nothing. Just. J-j-j-just…

Steadied himself. Hands on hips. Gemma sat up. Shielding her face from the bursting sun. Her limbs shone. Smoothed by water, light. Belly soft. And a glow hung over her every movement, flaring and trailing white as if some kind of phosphorescence were upon her. Felt he was standing too long. Looming over her. Saw he didn’t know her, not really. Wondered if he even liked her. Wished she’d just shut up, leave him alone. Wanted to say it, but they bounced in his head, the words. Clotted his jaw. Ground it shut. Till his teeth went into his soft, glowing brain.

Why couldn’t he sit down?

Tom, you’re starin.

Head, he said. H-h-ha.

What? What’re you sayin?

Car, he said.

What about the car?

Ahr, he said.

Staggering through shelters. Volleyball games. Across towels and glistening, leaping limbs. Towels. And scowls. Howls of outrage. The light rode right through him; through his eyes, his throat, into his belly and balls. At the steps he stumbled. Stuck. And someone caught him by the arm. Canting there.

Christ, she said. All I wanted was a breather.

Rippling steps. Leaning trees. Hot tar. The horizon lurching, oceanic. The car. The ground turning as he fell into the roasting interior. Round in circles, tighter loops and whirls. Gemma drove fast, spinning him into the roof, his lap, the green furze of golf links, screaming, slapping his belly through the cowling of his head.

Hours after the room stopped spinning, Keely lay on the couch, eyes tightly closed, throat burning, his fingers sore from holding on, unable to believe it was over. The house stank of disinfectant. A fan oscillated nearby, but he couldn’t think about oscillation or rotation of any sort, not now the vertigo had finally wandered away like a storm seeking carnage farther afield. The floor pulsed slightly, as if there were still a swell running. But the turmoil was gone.

A car door slammed. Then another.

Don’t wake him up, said Gemma near the back door.

The fridge opened, closed with a rattle of bottles and jars. Keely dozed a moment, woke to the slight give in the cushion beside him. Heard the boy’s wheeze. When he opened his eyes Kai was there, studying him. Shirtless, pigeon-chested, his arms pitifully thin.

The car really stinks, said Kai.

Sorry.

Do you still feel crook?

I feel a bit better now, Keely croaked. Where’s your nan?

Kitchen. Look, said Kai, holding a book of some sort too close. It’s you.

Keely pressed the boy’s arm back gently and struggled to focus. It was an old clipping glued into a scrapbook. And there was his grinning face beside a startled Carnaby’s black cockatoo.

Where’d you get that?

The lady. Doris. It’s a whole book on you.

That’s a special bird, he murmured. Not many left.

Says it’s dangerous.

No, said Keely. Endangered. Means they might all die out.

Extinct.

That’s it.

The boy twitched the scrapbook back in order to peer at it again.

They mate for life, said Keely. They’re all left-handed.

Habitat , said the boy, quoting from the headline.

That’s the big problem.

For birds.

For all of us.

The boy drew his gaze from the clipping slowly. He examined Keely’s face, blinked.

Habitat, he said. Seven letters.

Extinct, said Keely. Also seven letters.

Kai peered at him, counting.

You think you can beat me? Keely said. Just cause I’ve had a bit of an ordinary day? Just because I’m not right in myself?