Tim Winton - Eyrie

Are you awake, Tom?

Yeah, he said, though everything felt and sounded dreamy. Yes, I think so.

But where are you?

I’m here, he murmured, trying to straighten in the chair. At home.

We didn’t know. We waited.

Where’s Gemma? he asked, still confused. Because it was dark, so late.

Sleeping, said the boy. She was cryin. But now she’s asleep.

Good, he said. That’s good.

She said you wouldn’t run away.

And Keely remembered the packed bag. The trip south.

Tom? Are you really there? Can I see?

What’s wrong? Is something happening?

Just, I had the dream. And I’m scared of falling back to sleep.

But you must be tired. Hell, I’m tired. It’s only a dream, mate.

The boy wheezed quietly. And there was a rushing noise behind him, as if he had the TV on; it sounded like static.

It’s only a dream, Kai. It can’t hurt you, mate. It’s just a thing running through your head. It’s not real.

Are you real?

Of course, he said. But Keely no longer felt real.

You’re really there? Can I see? Can you come out?

Out where?

Outside.

Keely felt a jolt of fear and suddenly he was alert. Kai, where are you?

On the balcony.

Keely flailed at the air, found his feet. His head was water-logged, precarious on his neck. He hauled the slider open and tottered out. Three doors up, there he was, in the milky spill of city light, pale and bare-chested.

Kai!

I can see you, said the boy, waving.

Go inside now. Please.

Kai moved, but only to the rail. The bars divided his figure into vertical strips. One hand rested on the horizontal. And Keely’s gut fluttered. He was back in his own nightmare.

Can I come over? Tom?

Really, mate. I just need you to go inside before we do anything else.

But Nan.

We’ll whisper, alright? Let’s just get you inside and you lock the door and lie down on the couch and we’ll talk.

Okay, said the boy.

Keely watched him go in, saw a sheen at the rear of the balcony as if the door had moved.

Have you locked it?

Yes, whispered the kid.

Why don’t you lie down, aren’t you tired?

Yes.

Just lie on the couch and I’ll stay on the phone. You can go to sleep if you want. I’ll just be here, listening.

In my ear, said the boy softly.

That’s right, he said, subsiding into the chair.

Like Father says? Says it’s in your ear, the Holy Spirit.

Well. I guess that’s one way of thinking about it, yeah.

Father’s not a father, but.

Um, no. Not in that way, no.

Not allowed.

No.

Are you allowed?

Yes, he whispered. I think so. But I think it’s too late for me.

There was only breathing for a while.

My dad isn’t good, said Kai. But I don’t want him to die.

No, of course not. He’s your father.

You didn’t do anythink bad. I know.

I make mistakes, Kai. Your mum and your dad they just made mistakes. People get stuck. They need help.

It’s you. I knew you was real.

Still here, mate.

You’re the one.

Shh.

I seen it.

Try to sleep, he said, unable to stifle a yawn.

I’ll get old, Tom. Like Doris.

Yeah, like Doris.

But it’s sad.

Nah.

We saw the bird.

That’s right.

And the bird saw you.

You sound sleepy.

Yeah.

It’s okay. I’ll be here. And then I’ll be —

In my ear.

Alright.

Bye, Tom.

Goodnight, mate.

Keely felt close enough to hear sleep overtake the boy. There was no hand in his shirt but Kai’s breath was in his ear, right in his head. Something sweet and benign finally inside him, like a bulwark. He sat a few minutes and listened to the holy wheeze of the kid asleep.

Didn’t know how long it was before he stirred again, still connected. Climbed up. Took the mobile into the next room. Blinked at the suitcase on the bed. He knew Doris would come if he called. But he was too blurry just now to get going and stay going. Needed to be competent.

Felt the mattress subside beneath him. Clutched the phone close. Sound of the living boy. Just for a moment, until he was clear.

Then they’d go south. To forest, white coves, granite boulders like beasts resting before the silver sea.

Then, in a moment, it was light. Something ground into his skull like a fist, like the muzzle of a gun. And a voice was in his ear, screaming, pleading. When he rolled over the phone fell squalling to the floor but the demonic noise was everywhere in the building, out on the gallery, at his shuddering door.

He was up, still dressed. She was calling.

And when he reefed the door open the little man exploded from the searing flare of sunlight and had him stumbling against the fridge before he could even speak. Both of them careered into the kitchen bench, and Keely felt the grip on his throat, saw the flashes of sari and opening phone as someone ran past the open doorway. Clappy trapped his free hand, forced his head back so hard his neck felt it would tear free of his shoulders, and all he could do was clamp the bastard’s forearm to keep from choking. The edge of the countertop bit into his spine and buds of light began to open behind his eyes.

You fuckin idiot arsehole, said Clappy.

Keely’s jaw was pressed shut. There was no way of answering. He did what he could to brace, neutralize the pressure, ease the pain, and he felt a brightness awaken in him. He was not afraid. Just angry. He watched the whiskery runt down the length of his nose. He was all pupil. The beanie was navy-blue. The earrings looked like fish-hooks, couldn’t be fish-hooks. Mackerel eyes. Sour, chapped lips. His breath stank of ruined teeth and battery acid. There was something about the moronic grin that riled Keely. It was a performance. This was Clappy’s act, a routine learnt from the telly. Dosed to the gills, he’d talked himself up, convinced himself he could be mighty, prevail, satisfy himself and whatever darkness ruled him. And it was kind of pathetic. He was half his fucking size. Malnourished, twitching, puny.

A laugh boiled up in Keely’s throat and it caught them both unawares. Clappy snarled and jabbed his knee deep into the softness of his thigh and it was as if there had been no real pain before this moment. After which Keely was sober. He saw his mistake. Here was havoc, after all. Despite his size, performance or no, Clappy was dangerous. He pressed Keely back with renewed vigour, twisting his vertebrae, wringing his throat.

Fuck us about, he hissed. Try that shit on. You don’t know what I can do, you dumb fuck. Finish with you I’m in there , mate, with those two, and then the fun really gets goin.

The strain on Keely’s neck was unbearable. He couldn’t draw away, but managed to ease himself sidelong a half-step before the little prick gained on him again and the second’s respite was enough; he saw how high his assailant was reaching to maintain pressure; Clappy was dancing on tiptoe. And the bench was breaking Keely in half. He could feel his windpipe beginning to collapse. Knew he couldn’t hold position for much longer. There was no help coming. But he could feel the other man’s arms trembling with the strain. Saw his eyes flick away, past Keely’s shoulder, to what — the view, the table? Shit, the table. The newsprint, the paint, the gun.

It was just a flicker, an instant of lost momentum, as if Clappy’s fevered mind had snagged a second. His eyes widened. He blinked. And Keely jerked sideways, felt the little bloke lose his footing and release a hand to steady himself. Keely spun free and saw him stagger then recover, an arm’s length away.

You dumb cunt, said Clappy.