Tim Winton - Eyrie

Suddenly the chef was screaming. Something he couldn’t hear. The bloke was brandishing a cleaver at him from across the room and next moment Keely was on the reeking mats amidst a forest of clogs and legs. I’ve been struck, he thought. That idiot’s actually thrown the thing at me, cut me down. No sound at all. And then, like an approaching cataract, a rush of noise overtook him — laughter, cutlery, music — and he was wrenched to his feet.

Fuckin plonker, said some kid.

Go outside and get yourself what you need, said the chef without a hint of camaraderie. Ten minutes. Or piss off now.

*

Keely sat on a milk crate in the reeking alley as a waiter and a kitchen hand played hackeysack during their smoko. Bub appeared beside him, squatting on the step.

Everything alright, Tom?

Yeah.

Sure?

Soft, mate, that’s all.

Bub glanced at him sceptically. Keely’s younger workmates propped and kicked and giggled amidst the weeds and the flattened cartons.

Geez, mate. You must need the money.

I need something, Keely thought. But all he could manage was a thin grin.

Go home, said Bub. God’s sake, go to bed.

I’m fine, said Keely. Sorry about the fuss.

Behind them in the kitchen a tub of plates smashed. It was like a mortar blast between his temples, but he got up, wiped his bacon-greasy hands on his apron and watched Bub go.

Hey, he said to the kids with the hackeysack. You know a speed-freak called Clappy?

The kitchen hand shrugged and stooped to pick up his little beanbag.

Ask Gypsy, said the waiter.

Nah, he’s off the gear, said the kitchen hand.

Still, he’ll know.

Gypsy ? said Keely. Are you serious?

The waiter sniffed and the kids resumed their game.

The morning chef’s studied machismo wasn’t just irritating, it was silly. It was as if he’d worked up an act to imitate the celebrity bad boys of New York and London. The pirate scarf, the earrings, the sea-leg swagger. Gypsy might have been a good-looking dude in his time, but he was ravaged. Probably in his early forties. Looked a lot older. Even before the stunt with the cleaver Keely hadn’t liked him. It wasn’t just the posturing, it was the sourness, the lack of generosity. As if a roomful of people scurrying to keep things afloat deserved to be shat on.

Yesterday, after his shift, the chef had sat out at a street table in his checks and clogs, necking espressos and passing comment on women as they swept by. And he was there again after lunch today as Keely stepped out into the shade like a man delivered. The day was over. Thank Christ.

There was an old bloke with Gypsy, an Italian gambler he recognized from around town. The chef shook his hand and the geezer cranked himself to his feet and gimped off. Keely hesitated, then sat down uninvited.

Ah. The fainting dishpig, said Gypsy. That had to have been embarrassing.

I guess it was.

This is my table.

I think it’s Bub’s table.

And, what, you’ve come to apologize for being a pussy?

I wanted to ask you about a couple of blokes.

You look familiar. Which bothers me.

Maybe we were in Sunday School together.

That’ll be it.

Tom Keely.

That your name, or the bloke you want me to tell you about?

No, it’s me.

Hang down your head, Tom Keely, sang Gypsy. Hang down your head and cry.

Bloke called Stewie Russell — you know him? He’s got a mate called Clappy.

The chef’s eyes narrowed.

Why would I know two little shits like that? Shitlets. Small pieces of ordure.

So you do know them.

Never said that, said Gypsy. Fellas you met inside, are they?

Here? I don’t think so.

Fucksake.

Oh. Inside .

The chef uttered a sardonic laugh. Christ.

No. Nothing like that.

Figured you for a lag. Bub giving an old mate a second chance. He does that, bless his cheap little heart.

I need some information.

Mate, if you’re looking to score you’re talking to the wrong bloke.

I just wanted some advice.

A bloke looking as fucked as you, talking about shits of a certain species, sounds like you’re in the market for advice I don’t give anymore. Wake up, mate, clean yourself up. Leave me out of it.

I wanted to clarify something. A situation.

Tom Dooley. In a situation. Who’da thunk it?

I need to know who I’m up against.

Gypsy circled the espresso cup on its saucer, shunting it round with a be-ringed pinky.

There’s just something I have to deal with, said Keely. For someone else. I need to know how dangerous they are.

Smaller the stakes, the nastier the fight, Dooley. Morons. And what could be worse?

How d’you mean?

Nitwits with nothing to lose. They’re not people you deal with. You walk away. Or find some mates to fix it for you. And if you’ve got those sort of mates don’t talk to me anymore, I don’t wanna know. I’m not shitting you. Don’t even come near me. These little cunts are only ever a few weeks from fucking up. They’ll be banged up in Casuarina soon enough. Your ‘friend’ needs to cash up or keep his head down. Now move on, Dooley, you’re frightening the ladies.

Kai was fidgety, restless from being cooped up in the flat all day. Their Scrabble game felt desultory. The kid was not really interested.

BARGS isn’t a word, Keely told him. At least he thought that’s what it said.

The kid shrugged. He’d been distant before, but not this sullen.

What about Mario? We could play that.

Kai sniffed disdainfully.

What is it, mate?

You cried.

What?

Last night. When you was sleeping.

Oh, said Keely with his spirit sinking — something else; it was endless. Did I?

I got scared.

The kid ran his hand through the lidful of unused tiles.

Why were you scared?

The boy looked away.

Kai? Why were you scared?

I dunno. Just the bawlin.

Kai pushed the tiles around the board — the game was toast now.

Is that all? Really? Honestly?

The boy shrugged. He looked at his palms.

Was I sleepwalking or something? Did I do something strange?

Cryin, that’s all.

Well, blokes cry too, you know.

The kid’s scepticism bordered on contempt.

But we do, he said. Even if we have to do it in our sleep.

Kai lifted the board and funnelled the tiles back into their box.

My dad, said Keely. He cried, you know.

The boy pressed his lips out sardonically.

True story. He wasn’t some action hero, mate. He didn’t spend all day biffing bad guys. He was a minister, like a priest. Just a bloke. I’m just a bloke too.

Can I watch TV?

I spose, said Keely.

He stood behind the couch awhile, watching the boy thumb through the channels. In fifteen minutes the school bell would ring.

Gemma came in, blotchy from the heat. She set down the bags of groceries and opened the fridge. He stood close, so Kai wouldn’t overhear.

Nothing, she said.

I might take a look.

What’s the point? Kai’s not even down there.

Just to know what this little prick looks like.

Stupid bloody car, she hissed.

He peered down from the gallery. The side street was gridlocked with parents in vehicles. People of all shapes hung at the chain-link fence and smoked outside the seedy restaurants and shops across the road.

He wished he still had binoculars. He wanted to see faces but from up here people were only figures, bodies whose postures he couldn’t read. And the longer you stared, the less innocent they seemed. Everyone began to look sinister. Lurking, plotting, in gaggles of colour and movement, indistinct behind the rippling hot updraughts. But they were just folks, parents, aunties, older siblings, waiting to collect their kids, walk them to the pool, the airconditioned shops, cricket training, dance lessons. He had to let them be people. Even the bloke at the corner. In the beanie. Black tracky-dacks, blue singlet, reflector shades. On a day like today. A woollen hat. Pity’s sake. Folding his arms. One leg cocked against the wall. A small bloke.