Tim Winton - Eyrie

There was a weird vibe in the kitchen at Bub’s. A sort of repelling field, a fraught space that nobody would enter. After yesterday’s little fiasco it stood to reason. But it gave Keely the creeps the way the hackeysackers surveyed him in sideways glances, exchanging round-eyed looks and shrugs. Gypsy offered nothing but scowls and glares. The volume of the kitchen music was hellish, as if the chef had dialled it up for purposes of punishment or mastery.

Bub seemed fine, if somewhat distracted. Saturday mornings the joint always got smashed and Keely knew he needed all hands, even him at a pinch. The work was hectic and unceasing, a wave they all rode for fear of being overtaken.

The first lull didn’t come until ten. Keely made himself a heart bomb — a four-shot espresso that filled a tumbler — and he was perched on the back step when Gypsy’s spattered clogs appeared beside him. Keely made space for him to pass but the chef squatted close by, gazing out across the blighted little yard, all rings and fingernails and greasy curls, rubbing the burns and scars along his hands and forearms.

What the fuck, Suds?

Sorry?

Are you insane?

I hope not. Have I done something?

Well, that’s cute.

Just give me time to get this down and I’ll come in and fix it up, he said chugging his coffee.

Hardy-fuckin-ha. What’ve you got, a death wish?

I’m not with you, said Keely, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, properly rattled now.

The events of last night . Ring a bell, Suds?

Keely shook his head, set the glass down on the step beside him.

You’re a smartarse, mate. I don’t like it.

Maybe you could explain the problem.

Chrissake, mate, don’t insult me.

I actually don’t know what you’re talking about.

A bloke gets dragged from the water last night at the sardine wharf.

Okay. I’m listening.

And just after midnight someone I know sees someone you know rolling by on a gurney in the A & E. All wet and untidy. Both his legs broken.

You’re shitting me.

I don’t need to be shitting you, mate. You need to be shitting yourself. You fucked it up.

Keely swam to his feet. He gazed over Gypsy’s head to the flashes of movement in the kitchen, a rectangle of fluttering shadows, momentary visitations, blurs more abstract by the second.

You think so?

Well, Jesus, even this little scumbag’s got friends. The cops’ll be heartbroken he didn’t drown, but now they’ll have to show some kind of interest in who mowed him down.

In a car?

Ran him down. Into the water.

Nothing to do with me.

So why do you look like you’re about to pass a fucking kidney stone?

Keely had nothing to say; he was too busy chasing his own thoughts.

This is a bloody small town, said Gyspy. A village of village idiots. People talk.

So let them.

Those kids in there. They know you were asking about a certain couple of dipshits. And they sent you to me. But I need to stay sweet with old Bub. I can’t afford any trouble. So I’m not happy, Suds.

Fair enough.

You asked me, I didn’t know who you were talking about. Right?

Alright.

You’re just some derro off the street, I don’t know you, we only spoke the once.

Keely shrugged.

And if I were you I’d piss off. Or take steps.

What kind of steps?

Mate, I’m not even here, said Gypsy, getting to his feet and dusting himself off like some sort of potentate regaining the dignity of his station.

Keely stood out in the yard. He stared at the coffee glass on the step, the jam-tin of butts, the row of fat drums, the wheelie bins, the big plastic skips.

He wondered if Bub would let him go early, whether this in itself might attract attention. He had four hours to get through. Gemma and Kai would be locked in the flat, that was something. But he had no idea who was in traction and who was still out on the street. Whoever had gone into the drink last night had likely consented to a meeting, with someone known to them. Neither Stewie nor his noxious mate was likely to give the cops anything. They’d want to fix this themselves. But money would hardly be sufficient now. From here on this would be about revenge.

He dug in behind the apron and pulled out his phone. His fingers were slippery and unsteady but he found the number.

What is it? she said.

You have to ask?

No idea what you mean, she said.

Kai alright?

Bored, she said. I bloody hate Mario.

Have you thought about… travelling? The key is still at my place.

Thinkin about it.

Don’t go anywhere till I get back, alright?

Keely thumbed through a few sites. He had his own ideas about pissing off, but the other alternative — the taking steps business — that was another matter.

He was halfway across the town hall square, heading for the Mirador at something just short of a trot, when he saw the figure in the shadow of the Moreton Bay fig. The man stood with his hands in the pockets of his trackpants looking busy doing nothing, the way some blokes could, and there was nothing out of the ordinary in the blue singlet, the Adidas pants, the lizard eyes or the tatts. There were always charmers here lurking to sell or floating to buy between the figs and the date palms. But this character gave off a malevolent interest that didn’t seem accidental. The twinge of fear quickened Keely’s pace a moment before he reined himself in, and then he was as angry as he was afraid.

At the far edge of the square he stopped and turned. It seemed to him the man’s face was still angled his way, at this distance little more than a pale disc.

Keely raised a hand in the unmistakeable shape of a pistol. Saw the man’s hands leave his pockets in alarm. Took aim. Mimed the discharge and recoil of a weapon. Blew imaginary smoke from the end of his index finger. Saw the stranger’s arms fall to his sides in shocked relief. Turned for home. Did not run.

The lobby was empty. He went straight through to the rear door and into the carpark, scanning the rows until he found the Hyundai wedged in the farthest corner. There was no point searching for any obvious signs of collision because every window was smashed and from front to back no panel had escaped a stomping. Three tyres flat and on the front hood, coiled like an adder, a human turd.

He hurried to the relative shelter of the bike shed and called her. It was hard to keep the panic from his voice.

Have you seen the car?

What part of the car?

Shit, Gemma.

What?

Well, travel just got harder. There is no car. It’s trashed.

Fuckin Clappy. How does he even know?

How do you think?

Oh, Jesus Christ.

Call the cops, he said. I’m begging you.

You know that’s not gunna happen. Tom. Jesus. Help me.

Stay there, he said. Don’t open the door to anyone. I’ll be back in an hour.

He climbed down from the bus and oriented himself at the truck-snarled junction.

It was brutally hot. Houses fronted by concrete lions gave way to factory units, discount furniture stores and machinery dealerships. He trudged east a hundred metres, still in his greasy shirt and half-dried pants, until he saw the window with all the steel bars. He wiped his palms against his sleeves and pushed on the door.

When he stepped inside a buzzer announced him and he saw the surveillance cameras. The tinny smell of light oil greeted him. For some absurd reason it reminded him of his mother’s ancient Singer sewing machine. And then of the old man’s Triumph, up on blocks in the shed.

Ah, g’day, said the red-bearded bloke rising behind the glass counter.