Death of a Whaler (17 page)

‘So what can I do for you?'

Flinch clears his throat. He sits perched on the couch. He wishes he could be closer for this, be in reach of her hand, ready with a handkerchief.

A dull buzz sounds from the bedroom. The woman sighs.

‘Wait,' she says. ‘Excuse me.'

She walks up the hallway, the hard soles of her slippers making a clacking noise on the floorboards. The buzzing stops. She returns a moment later.

‘My husband,' she says. ‘Has Alzheimer's. Not long to go, they reckon. But he didn't want to die in the hospital. The nurses wouldn't let him have even a nip of booze in there.' She chuckles.

‘I'm sorry,' says Flinch.

‘What can you do?' She shrugs. He can read no emotion on her.

‘What … what about your children?' He doesn't know how he will tell her now, here in this place where things seem forever stagnant, the dying husband in the bedroom up the hall.

‘Oh, they're fine, I guess. Haven't seen either for a long time.'

Flinch swallows but his throat and mouth remain dry. Thinks of the letter the priest said he would write and wonders if he had bothered sending it — or, if he did, who mistakenly received it, who opened it then shrugged it all off as a bad joke.

‘Those kids knew how to take care of themselves.'

She's not looking at him. She's gazing out the window, towards the lantana.

She sighs. It seems to come from some place so deep within her that Flinch is worried that exhaling will exhaust her.

‘Anyway,' she says. ‘The past is the past. Can't do anything about it, can you? There's no point trying to change things now.'

‘No,'he says, though he knows itwasn't a question.

‘No,' the woman repeats. Nods towards the photograph of the children. ‘Nate knew that anyway. Elly had other ideas.'

Elly. Eleanor.

‘His sister,' Flinch says out loud, before he can stop himself. His hand starts to shake and his teacup rattles against the saucer so hard that he fears it may chip, but he can't stop himself. He puts it down on the coffee table. Stares at the photo, the children clutching each other. Nate's arm around the girl's waist. The forced grins for the camera. Not happy children, he can see that.

‘What do you want?' The mother. She is looking at him with palpable suspicion. Says it almost in anger, turning on him. He realises he has been sitting in silence for one moment too long.

‘Oh,' says Flinch. The confession now seems all wrong, the woman as sharp and brittle as dried bone. ‘I was just wondering, have you, if you, do you need insurance?'

The woman bursts out laughing, spits her tea into her saucer.

‘What would we insure? Look around you, son.'

‘Sorry to bother you.' He is desperate to leave now. The atmosphere of the house has settled upon him like an itch that he cannot scratch.

‘No problem. Nice to have a visitor for a change.' It's sarcasm, perhaps, but Flinch can't decide.

He hurries down the hallway.

‘You didn't bring a briefcase,' the woman yells after him from the living room. ‘They usually bring a briefcase. Who are you? What do you want?'

The screen door slams shut behind him. He waits for the sound of her slippers up the hallway, pursuing him, but she does not.

He needs to double over outside the house to catch his breath, leans against a wall. Through the open window nearby he can hear the buzzer sound, then snatches of a conversation.

‘Was it him?' An old man's voice, out of breath, the pain sounding like a blade stuck in his throat.

‘It wasn't him, you delirious fool,' the woman replies. ‘It will never be him. You had your chance. Go to sleep.'

The man whimpers in short wet breaths, as a child might.

On the way back to Mt Isa, Flinch pushes the Datsun as fast as he can make it go. It shudders over the gravel, makes crackling noises, small stones fly up to hit the underside. Just outside of town he takes a bend at speed and, before he can brake, hits a kangaroo that is bounding lazily across the road in front of him. There's a loud dull thud and the Datsun is launched over the body of the animal as if it were as solid as a speed bump. The car spins out of control on the gravel and comes to rest inches from a tree. Flinch sits shaking in the front seat until he notices that half an hour has passed. He turns the key in the ignition and, to his relief, the Datsun starts. He drives slowly back to the site of the accident, stalls the car twice because his legs are still wobbly, his hands sweaty on the wheel.

The animal is lying by the side of the road. Flinch gets out, leaves the car door open, the engine idling in neutral. He stumbles over to the kangaroo. Its body is intact; its back legs, though, are squashed and bloodied. It's still warm, breathing in and out slowly, its eyelids half closed, long dark lashes covering its eyes. Blood trickles from its nostrils. Flinch looks around for a large rock, lifts it above his head and throws it down hard on the kangaroo's skull. The animal jolts and then it is still. The ribcage ceases to rise and fall. Flinch sits down next to it, knees up to save his thighs from burning on the gravel, and sobs into the crook of his elbow.

NATE

Breathing becomes difficult but I know not to panic.
Many times, swimming in the surf, I've been held under
water by the pressure of a wave. As soon as I overcame the
urge to struggle, the wave would inevitably disgorge me
nearer to shore. But that's not where I learnt to control
myself.

Even now, I can feel the exact pressure of his hands
around my neck, smell the foul stench of the whisky as he
spat threats into my face.

Breathe.

Breathe.

I was the distraction so I had to stand still and take it.
If I fought him off, and God only knows I could by then,
such was the strength of the anger he'd nurtured in me, he'd
go for someone weaker. He wanted to dominate. Mum knew
to crumple in a corner and take the odd kick up her skirt or
slap around the head with little more than a whimper.

Eleanor fought back.

The first time he struck her, she was only twelve. He
was very sorry, he said. He cried for days after he sobered up.
When he begged her, Eleanor sat on his lap and let him
dampen the shoulder of her school blouse with his tears and
regret. Never again, he said. He realised, he said, that he was
out of control. He had a problem.

He was good for about a month afterwards. All of us
crept about the house as if it were a minefield, wondering
when the next bomb would detonate, what would set him
off. When Mum dropped a teacup and it smashed on the
kitchen floor, we froze. ‘Better clean that up,' my father said,
without putting down his paper. This subdued reaction was
discussed at length in the lantana.

But things were back to normal again after payday.

He didn't go for Eleanor often, but it was when I
thought he was going to that I stepped in, took him on. Let
him win.

Our focus became clearer; we plotted our escape with
extravagant plans mapped out on pieces of butcher's paper
and in the back pages of school exercise books.

Mum couldn't wait that long. One afternoon, before
he came home, she told us to get our toothbrushes and
ushered us down the street. We slept that night in the church
in town, stretched out on mattresses underneath the pews.
The church had stained-glass windows and one depicted
Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. A lamb was asleep
next to a lion. Birds flew in a dazzling blue sky. In the
background, a green snake was wrapped around an apple
tree. When the sun rose the next morning, the window lit up
and coloured reflections covered our bare legs like a quilt.

‘That's where I want to live,' said Eleanor.

That same morning, my father was waiting outside the
church in his Sunday best.

‘Best come home, eh, love?' he said.

Mum heard the threat and nodded.

‘Are you sure, dear?' said the minister's wife.

‘I just needed a little break,' said my mother.

‘If you need us again…'

‘They won't,' my father answered.

Breathe.

Hang in there, be brave,
someone is telling me.
Empty words, hollow words, like wind pipes. Just statements
through which to blow noise so that there isn't silence.
Be brave.

I'd like to say that I am, but I know the truth. If I was
brave I would've killed him. But instead I left. Mum and
Eleanor stood on the steps crying and hugging. My father
didn't come outside when my mate's truck pulled up to take
me into town. I saw his silhouette in the living-room window
as we drove off.

I left Eleanor my pocket knife and some of my savings.
I promised to write.

I took jobs wherever I could. Picked fruit. Loaded boxes
off trucks and onto boats at the wharf. Chucked bins onto
garbage trucks. Cleared empty beer glasses from tables. Shot
wild pigs and culled kangaroos. And somehow ended up
here. Butchering whales.

There was a girl in one of the towns. I moved on before
it got too serious. I was my father's son, after all, and I didn't
want to love somebody so much that I would end up hurting
them. I wish I could remember her name now.

Blood dribbles into my ear and fills the cavity. I think
it's coming from my mouth. I can no longer hear what they're
saying to me.

I sent Eleanor almost half of every pay packet I earned
during that time. More than anything I wanted her to escape
too. I knew I would never be free of our childhood. I can kill
a whale with little remorse, but seeing a bruise on a woman
still makes my stomach turn. Eleanor has a chance, though.
She could start again, make a place for herself. Build herself
a whole new world.

Colour has leaked from my world. I am the black and
white photograph of myself that my father took when I was
seven. Grazed knees, long socks, missing teeth, a rugby ball
under one arm. Hair the texture of a toilet brush, spiked
thick and straight despite a palmful of Brylcreem and a wet
comb. Squinting into the solid afternoon glare.

The whale is dead. Her massive pectoral fin is flipped
upright, extended, so that I can see its pure white underside.
It looks like the wing of an angel.

Somewhere around me, someone is reciting the Lord's
Prayer over and over.

But this is what I know by heart. Words from a letter
I kept folded in a shirt pocket and read nightly, like a vigil.

Dear Nate,

Well, darl, hope this letter finds you well. Would like to say things have changed around here but you probably already know they haven't much. I am out of the house more, have a job at the service station, that one on the way out of town. Just work behind the hot food counter serving sausage rolls etc to truckies. The Old Bastard thinks I am there every day after school but really I am there for two afternoons and Saturday morn and the other days I go to the library to study. That was the plan, wasn't it, get the hell out of here and uni looks like the way to go. So far am doing really well at Gr 11 biology and chemistry so think I'll apply for vet science tho' don't know if I could put down someone's dog but guess that's life isn't it and there'd be good things as well like healing wild animals etc.

Well had better go. Mum would say hello I'm sure, she is very distressed that she doesn't know where you are and talks about you quite a bit and I say you are probably alright but don't want to give away that I know about this p. o. box or anything. The Old Bastard isn't well these days, seems to be losing his edge. Either way it makes him easier to ignore when he's too tired to start anything. Probably rotting from the inside out.

My brother I love you and I miss you and I will come and join you one day soon, just be sure to keep letting me know where you are. I haven't heard from you for a while but you are probably out having adventures either way I hope this letter gets to you.

All my love,

Eleanor. XX

Well, darl

Thy kingdom come

Thy will be done

That was the plan, wasn't it

On earth as it is in heaven

Give us this day our daily bread

Serving sausage rolls etc to truckies

And deliver us from evil

For thine is the kingdom

My brother I love you and I miss you and I will come and

join you

The power and the glory

Either way I hope this letter gets to you

Forever and ever, Amen.

Eleanor.

TWELVE

Flinch drops the car back in Mt Isa and returns the keys. The girl comes out to inspect it.

‘Bit of stone damage,' she says. Flinch nods. She doesn't notice the blood splattered along the chassis. She probably thinks it is mud. He doesn't mention it.

‘Boss won't mind that, though. Have to break in these cars on the country roads sometime, hey.' She ticks a few boxes on the paper on her clipboard.

‘Alright then. Here's your deposit back.'

Flinch crumples the notes into a pocket and heads for the train station.

He's missed the last train back to Townsville, but there's another one early in the morning. He sinks onto a bench. From his suitcase he takes a bundle of clothes and fashions a pillow at the end of the seat. He straps his belt through one of the belt loops on his pants, then through the handle of the case. If someone were to run off with it, they'd have to drag him along as well. Nate said it could be a rough old joint.