Tim Winton - Eyrie

She crashed out the door in a dark suit, her satchel and handbag clutched to her hip.

In the wake of her departure, with Gemma already in bed, he waited as Kai dressed himself for school. Saw his own pillow and folded sheets on the couch. Protruding from beneath them, a sheaf of papers. Too neatly collated and placed to be accidental. When he riffled through he saw they were sheets from a legal pad. But this was not Doris’s work. A list of words.

On the sideboard, beside the ancient Scrabble set, was a dictionary — the Concise Oxford.

*

Traffic was slow on the highway. Kai sniffed furtively now and then but was not talkative.

So who won last night? Keely asked as they sat in a snarl by the rail crossing.

Doris.

She’s a terror for those little words at the end.

The boy nodded absently.

You working on your M-words?

Kai leant forward, opened the glovebox, rummaged through. Keely saw a hairbrush, a jar of Vicks VapoRub.

M is a good letter, said Keely.

Three points, said Kai.

And there’s only two of them. Isn’t that right?

The boy flipped the glovebox shut and held out his hands. For a moment Keely thought it was the preface to a game, some joke Doris had taught him. And then he saw the creases in his palms.

Two, said Kai.

Driving by Stewie’s again was tempting fate. He knew it, but couldn’t resist. After all, what did he expect to see — doors and windows thrown open in panic, speed-freaks tearing at their hair, a taxi being loaded with binbags?

As it happened, the place looked undisturbed. Office drones trudged by, a bloke hosed the pavement at the pub on the corner, hippies coasted past on bikes in the direction of the Strip.

He drove to South Beach, swam a ginger lap. Watched a bloke with his granddaughter building a sandcastle at the water’s edge.

Outside Stewie’s again, later in the morning, in the shade of a casuarina, he waited for the postie to swing by. Nuts. Being there, lurking in that blighted car. But he wanted to see something. So badly needed to witness some action, evidence of an outcome, a stirring of the pot. Oh, to see the look on Stewie’s canine face. Yes, he wanted that. Next time he’d send a parcel, a courier. Ramp this thing up. Lay siege. Full campaign.

But nothing was happening. No postman. No movement at all.

He drove back to Doris’s. Keyed up. Frustrated. Crept about in the cool refuge of the kitchen. Made himself a sandwich. Felt all his mother’s oil paintings watching, unblinking, expectant. It welled up in him. This urgent desire to see something happen, make it happen.

Stalked carefully down the hall. The door to the spare room was ajar. Gemma lay asleep in a singlet and undies, a hip and thigh exposed, one arm dangling from the bed. The soles of her feet were yellowish, heels cracked. The top sheet was rucked into a wedge where she’d kicked it down. On the floor beside Kai’s mattress were a few books, his laptop. Keely snuck in, grabbed the Acer.

Out on the kitchen table he booted the thing up, hooked into Doris’s wireless network. And keyed in the name.

It was too good to be true. He had to stifle a bark of delight. The little turd was on Facebook. There were several Stewart Russells and even more Russell Stewarts, but here he was, plain as dog’s balls, Stewie himself. Mista Gangsta. A wall of crim poses and tattoo displays. Arms across the shoulders of vamping molls in titty tops. Likes to PARTAAAAY. Approves of Black Eyed Peas, Wu-Tang Clan, Funkmaster Flex and a solid block of names that meant nothing at all to Keely. Has twenty-seven friends, lucky lad. What a cohort. What a boon to the culture.

And there she was. Carly. The girl from the happy snap in Gemma’s kitchen. A sexier, stringier version of that young woman. With kohl-ringed eyes and a fuck-you snarl. Still friends. Still in contact.

Keely sat back. Head spritzing.

Should have thought of it sooner. Because it really was tempting. All it would take was a new email address. A girl’s name. And a slutty photo to go with it. Some lame story he’d spin to Stewie about having bumped into him at a pub. Then, pretty soon, after a bit of Liking and Friending he’d be rattling around in Stewie’s hood. Talking shit. Sharing pics. Mixing in. Like a shadow-self. Just biding his time. Until he started lobbing a few grenades into his world. All he’d need was a bit of footage from a phone. Say, Stewie at his front gate. Doing something apparently harmless. But with an inflammatory caption. Along with his street address. Something impossible to ignore. Didn’t need to be true. Better if it wasn’t. KIDDY FIDDLER IN OUR MIDST. Some mad vigilante thing. And — click — upload it to YouTube. Flick it to all Stewie’s friends. Blam. Out there. Wildfire. It’d be a frigging riot. In five minutes it’d be viral. Pestilential. Exactly the sort of no-holds-barred guerrilla campaign he’d never let the kids in the movement unleash, regardless of how often they pleaded for it. Couldn’t happen to a nicer fella. Surround him with phantoms. Grind him to a gibbering pulp.

He shut the machine down. Crept back to Gemma’s room, set it beside the boy’s mattress.

Food for thought. But he’d need money. And a little help. Postcards were only going to get him so far.

After school Kai ran to the car. Buckled himself in, cranked up the window and locked the door.

Not such a good day, then?

The boy slid down in his seat and said nothing.

Fancy a swim?

Kai shook his head.

Right, he said. Back to dear-dear Doris’s. I’ll give you a game.

The boy gave him nothing.

How about a kick? There’s gotta be a ball somewhere.

Silence.

What about the boat, Kai? We’ll squirt out on the river, eh?

Kai looked sceptical. They settled in for the grinding crawl up the four-lane. Keely got nothing more out of him.

When they walked into the kitchen, Gemma was up and Doris was home, still in her silk blouse and skirt. There was a cheerful air in the room that seemed to falter the moment he arrived. The women fussed over the boy, who was still out of sorts but suffered their attentions with patience.

Any requests for dinner? he asked.

Doris’s bought steak, said Gemma. And there’s spuds and salad.

Okay, he said. Excellent.

Doris deftly avoided his gaze. He cancelled all plans to quiz her about the day. When there was frost on the lawn all you could do was wait for things to thaw. He went outside. Raked leaves halfheartedly until dinner.

At the table the women got to reminiscing.

We used to say you looked like some movie star, said Gemma.

Bollocks, said Doris, dragging her hair free from its workday bun.

Nah, it’s true.

What about yourself? said Doris. Who were you — Bo Derek?

Women, he thought. What a marvel they are.

He washed and dried the dishes as they kicked on, laughing and sledging till nightfall.

*

At eight, when Kai was in bed, Keely announced he was heading out for a stroll.

Gemma ironed her work smock. Doris was thumbing messages on her phone. He caught his mother’s glance at the bowl on the bench: the car keys.

Just a walk, he said with a bland smile.

I need some air meself, said Gemma, her rare animation undiminished.

Haven’t you got work? he asked.

Not till nine. It’s a stroll, not a hike, right?

Keely shrugged. He would have preferred to go alone but now he was snookered.

Doris paused a moment, stared at the tiny screen of the phone, as if it really were the focus of her attention.