Tim Winton - Eyrie

What? she whispered. What?

Panadol, he croaked.

It was Thursday. His first day of work beginning in less than two hours.

*

He reached the café on time. Actually he was early. And Bub seemed surprised, as if he’d forgotten the offer or expected a no-show.

Second adolescence, comrade? Bub said, pointing at the lumps on his face and neck.

Bites, he murmured.

That’s all we need, he said. A malarial dishpig. Come on.

Bub led him through to the greasy fug of the kitchen. Gave him a cursory briefing of the racks, the machine, the flow of the benches and sinks. He pointed out the hipster over by the stoves, a bloke in a chef’s jacket and pirate bandanna, scowling at his knife-roll as tongues of flame rose from the hobs behind him.

Steer clear, whispered Bub. Psycho in clogs. Thinks he’s a genius.

What is he really?

A third-rate cook trying to stay off the gear. Why else could I afford him? Why else would he be doing breakfast?

Keely took down an apron. There were pans waiting already and trays of glasses, coffee cups, saucers queued up in front of the old Hobart. His feet hurt. The drum-and-bass on the stereo was torturous. Bub slipped back with a double-shot and a slice of apple cake. Then he left him to the fifteen-bucks-an-hour reality of scraping scum and scouring glassware.

At two he limped in ruins to the Mirador.

Day one, he told himself. Fresh start. And feeling so damn fresh, too.

Rode the lift up alone. So far past tired he felt tipsy. Began to giggle.

After a tepid shower he sat on the balcony to let the sea breeze cool his feet. And the sudden respite brought the whole weight back down on him. The look on his mother’s face. The gnawing fear in those missing chunks of evening. And these savage impulses twitching in him.

Things weren’t going to work at Doris’s. Not now. Best he moved back here. Maybe Gemma would stay. Doris could brood over Kai like Yahweh over the formless deeps. She could make herself a neat little intervention, call in the kiddy squad. She knew what she was doing. And any fuckups that followed would be her fault.

He took a couple of mother’s little helpers and lay on the bed, breeze rifling through him.

The building clanked and gurgled. He felt a moment of kinship. Here we are, he thought, beige and past our prime, haggard but hanging on. He sniffed at the chicken fat and lemon detergent in his puffy fingers. Caught himself drifting. But he had Kai to collect at three. Having promised Gemma. Promised himself. He sat up quickly, so fast there were bubbles and specks behind his eyeballs and the room spun and for a second he thought it was the vertigo returning. Went hand over hand to the armchair. Fell in. Let the air settle. He was okay. All safe. All good.

A dove alighted on the rail of a balcony along the way. It lifted its shoulders, twitched and fell.

He thought of Kai’s little storyboard. His cartoon self. Brandishing the scimitar. Wished he’d never seen it.

*

At the school gate the boy stopped in his tracks, obstructing the path. You could see him register the absence of a vehicle. Not dismay; he was too blank-faced for that. But the hesitation was eloquent enough. He was shunted aside by kids at the rear. Stood there until Keely went in and extracted him.

Your nan’s got the car today.

There’s a Volvo, but.

Doris needs it for work. We’ll take the train.

I can’t.

It’s easy.

The kid crowded him, pressing so close Keely almost stumbled.

Can you see? said Kai.

I’m fine, mate. I just need room to walk.

Is he looking?

Here, said Keely. Give us your bag.

He was there, said the boy, taking a handful of shirt.

Who? One of your mates?

I come out and he’s there.

What? he said, stopping at the corner, looking down onto the crown of the boy’s head. Who?

The kid’s hair fell forward, he pressed his brow to Keely’s side and pulled on his shirt. Wouldn’t lift his head; it was maddening, but a chill flashed through Keely.

Kai? Who are we talking about? Who’s there? Who’s watching?

Can we go? said Kai.

Keely cupped the small head against him and swivelled to scan the street. The boy’s limbs snarled against his, almost tripping him. He felt impatience and alarm in equal measure. Just couldn’t get free enough to move properly. It was a crowded side street. Purring vehicles. Adult faces. Darting, chirping children. No one he could distinguish as a threat. And yet Kai clutched him, trod on his feet.

Please? said the kid.

The word resonated against Keely’s belly. He swept the boy up and hoisted him onto his back. Threaded the little bag onto his arm. And made for the station. The kid’s nose pressed hard to his neck, Keely broke into a shambling trot.

When they got to the platform the train doors were chiming. He bullocked his way aboard and nearly sat on the kid as he fell gasping onto an empty seat. Kai turned his head away from the window. The train pulled out of the terminus.

For a couple of minutes Keely let him be. He was too breathless anyway. They rolled along the quays, rode the giddy span of the bridge over sheep ships, car carriers, containers rising from the deck of something blocky and orange. And then they left the harbour behind. The derricks and funnels quickly gone.

Keely sat against the graffiti-clouded glass. The boy retained a fistful of his shirt, scanned the carriage again. The train smelt of feet and bubblegum. The aircon was freezing but the afternoon sun scalded everything it touched.

Kai, he said again. You can tell me.

Is this the way home?

This is it, mate. We’re on our way. We get off in a few stops and walk to Doris’s.

Is there a taxi?

No, mate. We’re walking. What is it? What’s bothering you?

Kai stared at the high-schoolers cavorting down the carriage, the raw-boned Christian Brothers boys poking and sledging each other. The sulky state-school chicks thumbing their phones, buds in their ears.

The sea flashed by in silver glimpses. Keely unpeeled the sweaty little hand from his shirt. Took it in his.

C’mon, Kai. Just say.

He’s watching.

Who?

At school.

Not a kid? A teacher?

No.

A stranger?

Clappy.

Clappy. That’s a man?

Kai dipped his head. Retrieved his hand. As if from habit he turned it palm up and scanned it.

Someone called Clappy, said Keely with a pulse in his throat. And he’s watching you.

The train slid into the station at North Fremantle. The boy nodded, stiffened as the doors opened, scoped the carriage while the train got under way again.

This only happened today?

Kai shook his head, gaze averted.

And not just after school?

The boy pressed his lips together.

Where does he watch from?

Across.

And you know him? You’ve seen him before?

Kai studied the grimy floor of the carriage.

It’s okay to be worried. And it’s okay to say it. I’m right here. Tell me, how do you know this bloke, what does he look like? Is he tall or short?

The train pulled up at Victoria Street. The boy blinked and dropped his head again, his face obscured by hair.

Just one thing at a time, said Keely, backtracking. Tell me how you know this fella.

The doors chimed. Rumbled shut.

Kai? This is the bloke who came to the flat. Isn’t it?

Kai took another fistful of Keely’s shirt.

Keely stared down into the pale blur of the kid’s hair. A cold feeling in his gut. Too familiar. And he knew. It had been coming. This carnage. Since before he even knew this child. It was this all along, not destiny but a chance.

The train stopped. Got going again.

No need to worry anymore, he said.