Another Night in Mullet Town (10 page)

For the better

Too early

or too late

we hear the four-wheel drive

barge onto the driveway.

Ella's dad!

I scramble out of bed,

hands shaking uncontrollably,

and put on my t-shirt inside out.

Ella jumps out of bed

and wriggles into her dress,

fumbling with the zipper.

I fall over as I pull on my jeans,

while she looks out the window

and waves a frantic hand

towards the back door.

I'm about to run

when

I take a deep breath

and remember where I am.

I walk towards Ella.

She smiles

and, for one moment,

we both think of last night

and what it means.

She kisses me on the lips

before I race to the kitchen

past the cat still asleep on the chair.

As I run down the back stairs

I hear Ella's dad calling her name.

I sprint the length

of the backyard

and take the rear fence in a single bound,

landing in the garden.

I laugh nervously

before strolling down the concrete path

and walking home

along Lake Road

wondering why everything looks the same,

when I know that

it's all changed

forever

and for the better.

Scrambled eggs

When I get home

Dad's asleep on the lounge

still in his work clothes,

a blanket kicked off on the floor.

His right hand covers his mouth

as if in shock from hearing bad news.

Perhaps he's dreaming

of driving a truck

instead of riding a surfboard.

I sit in the chair opposite

trying hard to remember every moment

of last night with Ella.

I stare at Dad

alone on the lounge

and wonder why he didn't sleep in the bed.

I imagine how he must have felt

that first night

moving into this house with Mum

when they were young.

How they would have spent more time

in the bedroom than in the kitchen.

It's not gross

or stupid

or unbelievable.

It's worth saving,

worth remembering.

Dad opens his eyes

and attempts a smile,

scratching his three-day growth.

He struggles up from the lounge

and searches for his boots,

finding one under the lounge,

the other near the television.

He stretches,

before walking into the kitchen

and calling out behind him,

‘Scrambled eggs make everything better.'

Grateful

Dad has already set the table

with plates and cutlery for both of us

when I walk in.

He stands at the stove

keeping a close eye on the eggs.

The toast pops

and I place two slices on each plate.

Dad heaps eggs beside the toast

and pours us both tall glasses of juice.

‘I didn't hear you come in last night,' he says.

I scoop the runny mixture onto a fork

and take a huge bite, chewing slowly.

‘I stayed out,' I answer.

Dad raises an eyebrow.

‘You and Manx causing trouble again?'

I think of Manx, taking a swig of beer

and offering the bottle to Rachel.

I don't want to lie to Dad,

but what can I say?

He adds extra salt and pepper to his eggs.

‘I stayed at a friend's place,' I say.

Please don't ask me.

Please don't ask me.

Dad looks at me for a long time.

I pretend to be very interested in the eggs,

and my hand reaches for the pepper grinder

before I remember that I don't like pepper.

‘Well, I'll be buggered,' he says.

He leans across and refills my glass

before taking another mouthful of eggs.

We eat slowly

occasionally looking at each other and smiling.

I'm grateful for the silence.

Too many of them

In the early afternoon,

I walk down to the lake

to find Manx

casting a line in our usual place.

‘Hey, lover boy!' says Manx.

I blush.

‘Have you caught any?' I ask,

to change the subject.

‘Only weed –

the type you can't smoke,' Manx answers.

We sit together watching the line

go slack in the breeze.

‘Rachel told me

you talked her out of leaving school,' Manx says.

‘It didn't seem fair,' I reply.

‘There's too many of them

and not enough of us.'

‘Did you hear the news?' Manx asks.

He points across the water

to Patrick's house at Tipping Point.

Two men stand on a scaffold

and blast a window

smeared in graffiti

with high-pressure hoses.

I look sideways at Manx.

‘Someone really doesn't like Mr Lloyd-Davis.'

I try not to laugh.

‘How much do you reckon they charge?' Manx asks,

looking at me before adding,

‘Double time on the weekend?'

‘You thinking of asking for a cut?' I ask.

Manx whistles and slowly winds in the line

before standing and casting once again

far into the lake.

The one that got away

An hour later,

we watch a police car pull up

outside Manx's house.

Two cops walk to the front door

and knock.

Manx's dad is at work all weekend.

Suddenly, the fishing line bends

under pressure of a large catch.

‘Perfect timing,' Manx says,

and stands to reel it in.

The cops hop back in the car

and drive slowly down Lake Road.

Manx gives the fish a little more line

as the car reappears above us.

Manx's hands tense on the rod.

He reels a little more.

and the line stretches to its limit.

Snap!

The fish is gone.

The cops walk down to the lake.

The eldest one takes off his cap

and asks, ‘Which one of you is Manx?'

Manx smiles and says,

‘The handsome one, officer.'

He hands me the rod.

‘Catch a mullet for me, Jonah.'

I watch as Manx leads the officers

away from the lake

back to the car

where the two men stand

on either side of my friend.

Manx shrugs in answer to their questions

before they open the rear door

and he climbs inside.

The cop car drives away.

I quickly ring Manx's dad

to tell him the news.

He listens,

his breath heavy on the end of the line.

I offer to mind the service station for him,

but he answers,

‘Let the bastards walk to the servo in Balarang Bay

if they run out of petrol.'

A reward

Manx doesn't turn up to school

on Monday

and Angelo tells everyone

that Manx was seen

‘doing the deed'.

Angelo says the police

have a witness,

and looks across to Patrick

sitting quietly against the wall.

‘Manx is toast,' Angelo says.

‘Bullshit,' I reply,

and everyone looks at me.

‘Well, you'd know pussy-boy,

you're always so far up Manx's—'

He doesn't finish the sentence

because Mr Drake steps between us

and marches everyone off to class.

All the way there

Angelo grins

as if he's solved the crime by himself

and is waiting for his reward.

Not even close

After school,

I walk into the real estate office where the assistant

sits behind a desk scattered with papers.

I ask to see Mr Lloyd-Davis.

She tells me he's in a meeting

and she isn't happy when I sit on the plush lounge.

‘I'll wait for as long as it takes,' I say.

She rings him and, within a minute,

he comes storming out.

Although my legs are shaking,

I walk into his office

and wait for him to follow.

I close the door as he sits behind his desk.

My throat is dry

and I realise I'm clenching my fists –

as if that'll be any help.

‘Your friend is gone this time,' he says.

I pull the money out of my pocket

and place it in a neat stack on his desk.

I went to the bank and withdrew ten dollar bills

to make it look like more than it is.

I don't tell him it's only

two hundred and forty dollars:

all of my savings.

He looks at it and laughs.

‘Not even close,' he says.

‘I … I can get more,' I stutter.

‘That kid should be locked away,' he says.

In the corner of the room

is a table lined with bottles of scotch and gin.

A few bottles have black labels

and some are in their own fancy carton;

enough alcohol to pay for months

of window cleaning.

I'm wasting my time.

I pick up my money.

Mr Lloyd-Davis smirks.

‘You're a lot like your son,' I say.

I leave the door open

on my way out.

Restitution

The next morning,

I hop on my bike

and ride past Manx's house

on the way to school.

He sees me and runs around the back

to get his own bike.

We set off at a slow pace

to Tipping Point.

‘You know the way through the swamp,

even in the dark,' I say.

It's my idea of a joke,

but Manx doesn't respond.

We pedal past the newly scrubbed windows

of Patrick's house

and take the dirt track through

the national park.

On the crest of a hill,

Manx pulls up and stares out to sea.

‘The cops have given me a week,' he says.

‘Either I own up to the damage,

they charge me,

recommend a fine

and something called restitution,

or it goes to court and I take my chances.'

A fishing boat fights the swell,

so small and insignificant in the vast blue.

‘I've got some money, Manx,' I say.

He fiddles with the grip on his handlebars.

‘Dad and me could pay for the damage,' he says.

‘But we've decided to take our chances

rather than give them anything.'

I wonder if they'd put Manx in jail.

Surely not for graffiti.

‘It's only money, Manx,' I say.

He spits between his teeth.

‘No, Jonah.

That's how they think.'

He hops back on his bike

and plunges downhill.

No matter how hard I pedal

I can't catch him

until we enter the school gates.

We park our bikes in the racks

and don't bother locking them.

Secrets

In the afternoon,

I ride my bike

to visit Mum at her sister's.

She's sitting on the front verandah

still in her SeaPak uniform.

Parked in the driveway is the Magna.

I drop my bike on the footpath,

leap the fence

and hug her for a long time.

She leads me to sit on the step.

‘The car's fixed.

I've packed it and I'm waiting for Trish

to thank her and say goodbye.'

She smiles.

‘I bought a lamb roast for tonight,' she says.

She holds my hand;

on her fingernails,

a few faint red scratches of polish remain.

‘I heard about Manx,' she says.

She clears her throat.

‘When your father and I were young,

he got into trouble

with a bloke from the city

who loaned him money for his first truck.'

Mum sighs.

‘It wasn't very pleasant,

but I remember something

your grandpa said.'

She looks at me and attempts a smile.

‘Everyone has a secret

they don't want the world to know.'

I think about Patrick and his dad.

Mum interrupts my thoughts.

‘Rich people have more secrets than most.'

Blush

The following day,

Ella and I sit together at recess

under the paperbark tree

overlooking the oval.

We're shielded by heavy branches

from a fine mist of rain.

The oval is bare

save for two boys from year seven

picking up rubbish:

Ms Wilson's idea of creative detention.

‘Patrick saw him,' Ella says.

‘He was walking home late.'

I look at the boys on the oval,

each of them taking turns

to pick up scraps of paper.

I can almost hear them sigh.

‘Patrick was too gutless

to step into the light,' she adds.

Ella holds my hand.

‘No matter what,' I say,

‘the rich always win.'

I feel her hand tense in mine.

‘It's Patrick's word against his,' I add.

Ella shakes her head.

‘Wasn't Rachel with Manx?' she asks.

I remember them sharing a beer on Friday night.

‘Did they leave the party together?' I ask.

Ella smiles.

‘I don't know, Jonah.

I was a little busy …'

I blush with the memory.

Crime of the century

I walk to the library

where Rachel is sitting outside.

‘I've solved the crime of the century,' I say.

Rachel pats me on the back.

‘Well done.

Let's hope the cops aren't as smart as you,' she says.

I lean forward and whisper,

‘The thing I don't understand

is why Patrick told the cops

it was Manx,' I say,

‘and only Manx.'

Rachel bites her lip.

‘Because Patrick's smart enough to know

Manx would never involve,'

she sighs, ‘the other person.'

I can't help but smile.

‘The other person could tell the cops

she was with Manx,

miles away from the scene of the crime,' I say.

Rachel shakes her head.

‘I suggested that

but Manx wouldn't agree.'

She looks across the schoolyard and says,

‘It's not just about Patrick.

It's his dad, too.'

The bell rings.

Rachel stands.

‘Manx told me to trust him.'

She tries to smile.

‘And I do.'