Tim Winton - Eyrie

What the fuck? said Gemma when Doris was gone.

Keep your voice down. Please.

Tell me.

He says Clappy’s watching him, said Keely.

Shithead! What’d he do?

Nothing. He’s just there. Stands across the street from school, out in the open. Like he wants to be seen. Gemma, you have to go to the cops.

I told you.

Then there’s a place down south. Doris made some calls.

Fuck Doris!

You have to protect him, Gem, he said despite his fury. You have to think of him.

They’ll take him off me — that’s what’s gunna happen. I am thinking of him — you haven’t got a clue.

No one’s going to take him off you, mate. You’re just rattled, that’s all.

They’re crazy, she said, picking up her bag and heading through to the livingroom. Fuckin mad dogs, that’s what.

Keely followed as she collected things he hadn’t even noticed — folded laundry, celebrity magazines. She pitched them into a plastic washbasket.

They’ve got debts. And now they’re jumpin out of their skin cause some other joker’s movin in on their business. Like someone’s declared war. They want the money right now.

So tell the cops, he said, reeling.

Stop sayin that! Fuckin look at you.

Then go tonight. The key’s here. You heard Doris. Go away for a bit.

There’s no goin away, don’t you understand? No one’s gunna pull these pricks in. Even if they do and some copper gets lucky or fits em up with a bit of gear, they’re out on bail. Just down the road there. Even if a charge sticks there’s only jail.

Then at least they’re locked up.

What planet are you on? Nothin stops em from in there.

Keely felt for the couch, braced his knees against the frame, pressed his hands on the curve of its back to keep himself upright.

So what are you saying?

We have to find money, she hissed.

But this’ll just go on, Gem.

Not for them. They won’t get a cent.

I’m not following.

We need money to pay someone else. To fix this, stop em.

He took her arm, led her out to the deck. Slid the door to behind them. She shrugged him away, scowling.

Gemma. Paying someone else. What’re you talking about?

You gunna stop em? You’re a fuckin softcock, mate.

Well, thanks a lot. But Keely knew she was right. All he’d done was make it worse. He’d indulged himself, thinking he was so bloody clever.

I don’t need your pissfartin about, I need this sorted. And it costs money.

What, like some kind of standover man? This is insane.

Properly. Professional.

No.

No choice.

It’s wrong, Gem. It’s his father.

I don’t care. I’ve made me mind up.

Jesus, Gemma. You can’t pay.

I’ll pay.

How.

She looked at him. In the light her face was cold with resignation. He’d seen that look before. Just seeing it made him ashamed to be a man.

And then Doris was approaching from inside the house. Her heels thudding on the floorboards. She slid the door open.

Tom, can we speak for a moment?

I’ll go pack, said Gemma.

You’ll do it, then? asked Doris. You’ll go south?

No, she said. We’re goin home. Thanks for havin us. Sorry it’s such a bloody mess.

You’re always welcome, love, said Doris sorrowfully, stepping aside to let her pass. Catching the kiss on the cheek she wasn’t expecting.

I’ll go, too, he said.

I wish she’d go to Stephanie’s.

Me too.

Look after them, Tom. And yourself. Please.

I will, he said hopelessly.

We’ll talk.

We will.

In the Mirador carpark he tried to jolly the kid along a little but Kai was unresponsive.

I shoulda stayed, said Gemma in the lift.

You’re here now.

He looked at their things stuffed into shopping bags, a plastic laundry basket. The kid’s schoolbag.

The door cranked back at the tenth floor. There was no one on the gallery. No sign of anything wrong at either flat.

I can sleep on your couch, he said in her doorway. Kai went straight in to bed.

No, she said. No need.

Really.

I’m late for work.

You’re going?

Of course I’m goin.

What about him?

He’s got your number. He’ll stay here now.

What about school?

Not until it’s over.

She shut the door on him.

His flat smelt stagnant. He flopped into his armchair and thought of Kai. Heard Gemma leave for work a little before nine. Sat up. Waiting. He’d do it all night, stay awake until she was safely home.

*

But somebody was pounding at his door. And it was dark. Well, half dark. And when he groped on the floor beside the chair there was no plausible weapon to hand.

He snapped to his feet and felt the sickening lag as if half of him hadn’t made it there yet. Thumping at the door.

His name.

They were yelling his name.

Clawed the wall. He was bare-chested. Lurched to the bedroom. For a shirt. Absurd, but he needed a shirt. To do this, confront what awaited him. Wondered if he had the balls to do anything more than cower behind the door. The room was dim. He groped for the cupboard. And almost trampled the kid. Curled in his jarmies. On the carpet, at the foot of the bed. Stirring now as Keely stumbled around him.

Open the fuckin door, Tom!

Keely wheeled back into the livingroom at the sound of Gemma’s voice. Only Gemma. He was fine. Everything was fine. He plucked at the door-chain.

Right now!

He leant against the fridge a moment. Things were blurry.

You hear me?

The door jumped in its frame; she was kicking it. He turned the lock. Hauled it open. And she had the force of dawn behind her. It was like having his head staved in.

Where is he? Jesus Christ, Tom, what the fuck?

Keely sagged against the fridge, fists against his temples. She pushed past him.

You, she said at the boy grinding sleep from his eyes in the bedroom doorway.

Gemma grabbed him up fiercely and Keely caught Kai’s glance across her shoulder as she hugged him.

Keely pulled himself around to face the kitchen clock. It was 6.52. Which meant he was supposed to be at work in eight minutes.

What’re you fuckin doin? she hissed. What happened?

Nothing happened. I think he let himself in.

Gemma rounded on him. You don’t even know ?

I only just saw him now. He was asleep on the floor.

Jesus Christ, she said, lowering the kid to his feet and hauling him towards the door. You didn’t even hear him come in? You let him sleep on the floor?

He looked at Kai, saw the key on its shoelace against his pigeon chest.

He’s alright, Gem, he’s safe.

No thanks to you.

All I did was go to sleep in my own flat.

Pissed as a stick.

No, he said.

She dragged Kai past him and out onto the gallery.

The boy looked back hopefully. Keely tried a reassuring smile but the kid was not fooled.

At Bub’s he was a man hauling his own corpse through a swamp. The air in the kitchen was miasmic. He felt the grease settling on his skin and he drew it hot into his lungs with every breath. He was queasy, lightheaded, sore and clammy, so unsteady others had to jostle and dodge him. Kids, most of them. Taking the piss. He saw their mouths move, their eyes roll. Sound seemed to come and go intermittently. Everything around him — light, noise, space itself — felt sliced and diced. The morning towed him along a little way, sluiced past him, washed back to get him. Time was choppy. Fitful. Endlessly interrupted. Like a broken signal. Dirty coronas hung over every passing object. He worked, aping his own movements, head fluffy as the suds rising in his face. Bub looked disgusted. The chef — that squirrelly hipster with all the earrings and the pirate get-up — had the shits with him. Scowling, flashing his ruined teeth. Keely stayed at it all morning, digging deep; he was determined. But the Hobart cabinet had racks backed up beside it and the benches against the sink were head-high with pans and trays, everything, clean or dirty, glistening horribly. And then in the prep-hour before lunch he found himself just hanging against the trough, hands jerking in suds. Vertical. But useless.