Tim Winton - Eyrie

Don’t spit, ya dirty bugger, she said. Some poor mug’ll think it’s rain.

One drop? said the kid.

That was a joke, ya knucklehead.

Was it funny?

Thanks a lot.

Keely subsided against his door. Like a badly wrapped parcel, a side of beef on the turn, wrappers sodden, every exposed patch of him livid and unwholesome. Christ, he reeked. He snatched up the key, fell through the door and left the pair of them bantering away as if he’d never been there.

Git down off that, said the woman. Carn, it’s hot.

Keely shut the door, pitched his pointless shopping onto the bench and lurched towards the bedroom. Fell to the mattress like a burning man into a swimming pool.

Thank God. Or whoever. Just, thank you. And in that first flush of deliverance Keely felt feverish relief. Before the blood rushed to his head and the ceiling blurred horribly, pressing down against his eyes, chest, tongue. Nothing for it but to lie there. Taking it. Giving it time to resolve. Willing the distorted sensation to back off enough for him to get his wits together, breathe easy again.

But there was a knock at the door.

Not now! he called.

The rapping continued. The fridge kicked in so hard he felt it in the neck. And a voice, like something through water. Burbling. Ramping up the pain. Every knock at the door was like a thudding heartbeat out of sync, needling through his teeth. For pity’s sake!

He got to his feet seeing double, slammed his hip against the kitchen bench heading for the door and was too consumed by all the competing sensations to even say anything when he reefed it open and saw them still there, backlit into fuzzy silhouettes on the other side of the insect screen.

Tommy Keely, she said.

He blinked. It was nasty, hearing his name uttered. Here in the building. Out in the open. Through his own screen door.

It took a while, she said. But I knew it was you.

Well, he croaked, congratulations. I guess.

It’s you, though, isn’t it? I’m right, aren’t I?

Maybe. Who cares?

Sorta bloody question’s that?

I dunno. I’m sorry. I’m. I dunno.

Keely sagged against the fridge a moment, his head ready to split like a melon. When he looked back, the boy was gone. The air outside danced with bubbles of light, camera flashes, a violet pulse.

You alright? she asked.

Yeah. Nah. Yeah.

You don’t remember?

Yes, he said. I remember who I am.

Not you, ya fuckwit. Me.

He stared at her through the flyscreen. Saw little more than the flaring nimbus around her head.

I’m sorry?

Blackboy Crescent, she said.

Shit. Really?

I thought you’d remember.

I remember Blackboy Crescent.

But not me.

It occurred to him that this was the point at which he was supposed to throw all caution aside and ask her in, but he’d lived too long in wary isolation. And already regretted admitting who he was. But Blackboy Crescent, that set him back. And where was the kid? What was she doing about the kid scampering somewhere along the open gallery?

Your little boy, he rasped.

Watchin telly. Bloody scam-artist.

He tried to straighten up. He could feel her peering in. Feel her scoping out his entire ruined carcase.

Your sister’s name is Faith.

Okay, he said, pressing against the screen door for a closer look. The woman chuckled. He could not truly see her for turbulent, twitching lights.

Mate, you’re off your chops.

No. Headache.

Right, she said sceptically.

So, he said. So. So, how d’you know Faith?

Same way I know your mum’s Doris and your dad’s Neville.

He’s dead.

Oh. Jesus. Sorry. Fuck. I forgot.

Doesn’t matter.

You look different, she said. Maybe it’s the beard.

I guess so, he muttered, finding the thought distantly amusing, as if it could only be the whiskers that were rubbish and the rest of him was in showroom nick.

She stood there a few moments more in hazy outline. He thought he might fall. For a moment he wanted to be sick. No nausea, just the urge, which was a recent thing and perplexing. Yet he could still feel her disappointment, the sense of something curdling. Blackboy Crescent. The swamp, corrugated-iron canoes, tuart trees, yellow dirt, the engine-oil smell of his father.

Anyway, she murmured.

Right.

I’ll let you go before you fall over.

Okay.

It’s Gemma, by the way, in case you were actually wondering.

Gemma? Gemma Buck? Are you serious?

No, I’m bloody makin it up, what d’you think?

I’m, I —

And then she was gone.

The bed came halfway across the flat to meet him.

When he woke it was almost dark. The sea breeze rattled the blinds above his head and the building clanked and gurgled with showering, dinner-making, dishwashing. Weird the way coughs and cries and TV laughter travelled through the bones of the place. Outside, only gulls and the murmur of traffic, everything subdued, as if the fever of payday had broken.

He got up slowly, in stages. He was weak. His headache had retreated to the intensity of a mere hangover and this was as close to relief as he was likely to get. His vision was more or less back to normal.

As ever, somebody was cooking with old-style curry powder — Keen’s or Clive of India — the smell of church suppers, student digs. The junkies would be content, on the nod. And, having peaked early, the drunks sleeping it off at home, on the street, in custody. Everyone else treating themselves to a nice chop, a bit of spicy chook. All was well.

On the kitchen bench in a puddle, his bag of groceries. He slung it into the fridge and tried not to think of salmonella. Over by the sliding glass door there was no longer a visible stain on the carpet but when he walked across it he found the area still slightly damp underfoot. At least it didn’t stink.

He slid the door open and stepped out onto the balcony to feel the briny wind in his hair, his beard. Out over the sea the western sky was all fading afterglow. Beneath him, the melancholy lights of the wharves, warehouses, streets.

Blackboy Crescent. Gemma Buck.

A festive mob of pink and grey cockatoos settled on the date palms behind the cathedral. Galahs, he thought fondly, they were the backpackers of the skies — rowdy, rooting freeloaders, God love em. For a minute or two he watched them preen and dance for one another, and it was calming. Until the slider next door grated open and he retreated inside as someone stepped out to light a fag and hack up a lungful.

Now he was forced indoors, he thought he should eat. His appetite was all over the place. He felt hollow, so maybe food was the thing. Cooking a meal every night was about the only form of self-discipline he’d been able to maintain of late. Apart from keeping his head down. But tonight he was too spent and shook up to bother. He’d nuke the leftovers of yesterday’s stir-fry and make it up to himself tomorrow.

And while the bowl suffered bedspins inside the microwave, he tried to make sense of the Gemma thing. Couldn’t even come at the kid on the rail, that whole freaking thirty-second scene, no, not now he’d levelled out. The idea of her, though. Being outside his door, here in the building. That was already more than he could deal with without burning a circuit.

Gemma Buck. Not a girl at all, but a woman — and a pretty ordinary middle-aged woman at that. He couldn’t get to grips with it. For in his mind she was still a needy urchin with white-blonde plaits. Someone’s irritating little sister.

Inside the machine the bowl of food began to sweat and the flat filled with the earthy scents of shiitake and sesame oil. A reminder that he’d been functional up until the early evening last night, at least. Which didn’t quite warm the cockles, but he’d take it as a small success regardless. The box bleated. He set his wholesome vegies free and plonked the bowl on the bench to let them cool. Which made him wonder why he bothered heating food at all. And then he actually was hungry, too urgently hungry to wait. So he burnt his tongue. Of course. Et cetera.