Tim Winton - Eyrie

The boy lost command of his face a moment. His shy grin betrayed him.

Despite Doris’s best efforts, dinner was a subdued affair. Keely couldn’t tell whether Gemma resented having to cook or if she was simply nervous. The food was fine, but Keely had no appetite. He was still getting over his complete failure at Scrabble and Kai seemed crestfallen, even resentful. Things had started out normally enough, but a few minutes in Keely began making elementary mistakes. He couldn’t distinguish an E from an F. Ds and Bs confused him. Kai seemed to suspect him of playing dumb and looked more and more affronted, but for minutes at a time the letters of the game became inscrutable to Keely and it was difficult to tamp down his creeping panic. The call to dinner had come as something of a relief.

When the meal was finished, Gemma excused herself and retired to the bathroom and Kai sat on the couch to watch television. Keely got up to help with the dishes and caught Doris’s eye as she took up a saucer and tilted it his way discreetly before tipping butts and ash into the bin. He shrugged.

She’s not well, he murmured.

Oh, it was her that was sick?

Yes, he lied.

Faith called. She’s home safe.

Pulled the bank out of a nosedive, has she?

Some foundation in Geneva is asking about you.

They contacted her?

She bumped into someone. In London.

She’s touting for me?

She was approached.

I doubt that.

A climate change thing.

Now, there’s a defeat I haven’t suffered yet.

I looked them up, she said. They seem good.

Who was this person?

She can’t say.

It’s Harriet, isn’t it?

No, it’s not. I wrote down the number.

And the name?

Apparently you just call the number.

What is this, Secret Squirrel?

I’m just passing on the message.

Why couldn’t she call me herself? he said, setting down a plate with more force than he’d intended.

You need me to explain that? The fact she’s even bothering to do this for you seems angelic to me.

Keely did not respond. He was puzzled. What could be bugging Faith?

Tom?

Yes?

Did you hear me?

Yeah, he said. It’s good of her.

You won’t call anyway.

Probably not.

Well, she said, wiping her hands and cracking the freezer door. No need to trouble you with details, then.

The shower thundered through the wall. It seemed to get louder the longer the water ran. Doris stood at the sink, appeared to hesitate over the hot water tap.

Perhaps we’ll wash these later, she said.

Okay, he murmured. Think I’ll just go for a walk.

You don’t remember, do you?

Remember what?

Faith. Your behaviour.

He made for the door.

It was still light outside and the air was hot and motionless. Gemma’s car stood in the driveway, all its doors and windows open. The interior reeked of vomit and disinfectant. The street hissed with sprinklers. The sky was a starless blue and the ground felt firm enough underfoot.

All the local shops were closed. He walked on out to the highway and found a big servo where they sold hot food, car parts, homewares and stationery. On a rotating stand he found a promising selection of postcards. He bought one of every kind. The surfing koala, the colour panorama, the arty black-and-white, a wildflower, a shark, the body beautiful, and the sleazy double entendre. He sat at a table with a Coke and a felt pen and as punters came and went from the pumps on the tarmac he went to work. The eye. The memorial cross. The Luger pistol. On the last card, the one featuring a Great White with gaping maw, he wrote a message: Coning soom…

He returned them to their packet and walked back to Doris’s as darkness fell.

Gemma was in the drive, wiping out the car again. She gasped as he stepped up behind her.

Jesus Christ, she said. As if I haven’t had enough today.

Sorry, he said, copping a little spray from the bucket as she tossed the rag down in disgust.

Bloody useless.

Stewie, he said. What’s his surname?

That scumbag. Who cares?

I just need to know who I’m dealing with.

Knowin his name won’t help.

Just tell me. Please.

Chrissake! Name’s Russell. Wish I’d never heard it, meself.

And you remember the address?

What are you, thick? You were there.

I know the house, he said. But the number.

I don’t remember. Four, six. Somethin like that.

Okay, he said. The name’ll do.

You’re in enough shit already, she said, closing the passenger door.

You think?

Doris found your stash.

Stash of what? he said.

Your pills.

Oh, he said. That. I get these headaches, that’s all.

Tipped em down the toilet. I shoulda known. Figured you were just a boozer.

It’s not like that.

I’ll bet it’s not.

It’s complicated.

Yeah, mate. They all say that.

I spose they do.

I mean, Jesus, Tommy. I thought I could trust you.

You can.

Yeah. What choice have I got anyhow?

He set Gemma down outside the glass doors of the supermarket and waited until the uniformed guard arrived and let her through. She went in without turning or waving. Keely sat there a minute or two. Trying to reassemble the plan in his head. Had to concentrate. To keep it clear. It was exhausting. But it was still there. He had it.

So he drove on in to Freo. The Mirador. Into his flat for a couple of those bigboy codeines. Quick scout around. Over to Stewie’s. Rolled past, to the next block. Got out and walked back. Casual. Copped the house number. Six. Shoved a card into the letterbox. Said the number to himself over and over, all the way back to the car. To calm himself. To remember the number.

Pulled in beneath the big old ghost-wall of the empty prison. Wrote it all out. Steady as he could manage. Then headed east. Canning. Great Eastern. Flashes of river. Towers across the water. Glitter in the far hills.

Halfway to the airport he remembered his promise. Pulled into a servo. Did what he could with the steam-cleaning gizmo. But he’d never used one before. Began to think it was making things worse. Had some taxi driver watching him, shaking his head. But just ploughed away until Gemma’s money ran out. Him being short. And Doris not feeling magnanimous tonight.

Climbed back into the swampy pig of a thing and rode on inland with the smell revived and the damp seeping into his clothes. But it sharpened him. That smell of bile. Kept him focused.

Driving into the hot, dry western night with all the windows down.

He put it together. Made the run he’d mapped out for himself. Well, not completely to plan. Got lost a couple of times. Distracted, really. But he got it done. With the pain backing off he rode them all out, those cards in their motley envelopes, stamped and addressed in every variation he could make of his own handwriting. Which was none too steady tonight, hard for even him to recognize, truth be told.

Posted the first at a street box in Midland, the second at the Inglewood post office, another outside a 7-Eleven in Cannington. By the time he reached the northern suburbs the Hyundai’s interior was nearly dry but the carpet still had a whiff to it. He tooled around a huge, empty shopping complex in Morley until he found a mailing point. There was a box near the aquarium at Hillarys and as he headed back south there was another by a glass-strewn bus stop along the wilds of Marmion Avenue.

It was late when he coasted down the hill at Blackboy Crescent. For some reason he had trouble finding it tonight. He skirted the restored wetland and idled along the edges of the park where once he’d kicked the footy with neighbourhood kids every evening until dark. The bounding silhouettes, mothers bellowing, the ball hanging in a spiral climb against the sky. The memory skin-close. And strangely consoling. I was happy here, he thought. The world made sense. All of us together.