Eyrie (32 page)

D
idn’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.

T
hen, 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.

Keely went for him. Felt the boyish thinness of his flashing wrist. And heard the knife before he saw it.

The blade clattered to the floor and Clappy stooped a moment before drawing back, glancing again at the table behind them. Keely grinned at him. Clappy blinked, chewed the air a second and then fled, crashing out onto the gallery, leaving Keely with a hot flush of relief coursing through his guts.

Somewhere in the building there was singing. Eggs were being fried. Next door his neighbour chanted metrically, musical as a nursery rhyme. As he staggered out onto the walkway the east wind rose in his face. It tasted of dust, of crops, the great country. He heard a siren. Every fingertip began to spark. He felt lightheaded with overcoming. He was larger than himself. His legs shook.

And now, in nothing but a T-shirt, Gemma came running his way.

Where’s Kai? he said.

Up here, she cried. He’s safe.

Go back, he said. Get inside.

Lie down, Tom. They’re coming. The cops, the ambo. God’s sake, you need to lie down!

He heard her calling, left her behind on the gallery as he set off. I’m the one, he thought. This little prick hasn’t seen the last of me. I am the one.

He didn’t bother with the lifts. He surfed down the stairs, thudding through every steel-railed right angle with the wind in his ears. Pursued by his own gathering momentum, he felt stronger and faster by the second. He was peaking. He felt power in his teeth, a great force pressing for escape.

At every floor the lift trundled ponderously earthward in the shaft. Clappy like a rat in a box. And Keely was close, in touch, nearly there, ready.

In the lobby, he crashed against the closing glass doors, saw the dark figure sprint across the forecourt into impossible light swarming with dim figures that surged away, crying out in consternation. The glass drew back and he was out there in the white world, in a field of stars and specks, of dancing sun. Faces loomed and bodies twisted aside as he ran on squelching feet. Ahead on the street there was a howl of braking tyres. Screams. And then people. So many people. Coming. Surging in, a gathering flock of heads and legs. Whatever was out there on the road, whatever had happened at the kerb, it was waiting for him, just within reach. He swam the hot air, reaching, clawing the breeze towards the flare of turning faces, open mouths, buffeting against the empty space of morning, puzzled, happy, still reaching.

So why the pavement, sudden and hot against his face? Palms scorched. Cold feet slippery-wet. He rolled to a shoulder, fell back strangely breathless to see the purling sky and the pink finger of the building above him. The world flashed outside him, shuttering light, stammering sound. A circle of dark heads in hoods enclosed him, offering moments of merciful shade.

Sir?

Dark-skinned noses, black eyes, pieces of face through the letterbox slits of cloth.

Sir? said the pair of spectacles, the swatch of human shape behind. Sir, are you well?

The veiled faces retracted uncertainly and Keely understood. He’d fallen. He saw the tower beyond and the tiny figure of the boy safe on the balcony. He smelt salt and concrete and urine. Saw lovely brown thumbs pressing numbers, cheeping digits, reaching down. The edit was choppy. The boy’s face a flash – or was that a gull?

Sir, there is bleeding. Are you well?

Yes, he said with all the clarity left to him. Thank you. I am well.

Tim Winton has published twenty-five books for adults and children, and his work has been translated into twenty-eight languages. Since his first novel,
An Open Swimmer
, won the
Australian
/Vogel Award in 1981, he has won the Miles Franklin Award four times (for
Shallows
,
Cloudstreet
,
Dirt
Music
and
Breath
) and twice been shortlisted for the Booker Prize (for
The Riders
and
Dirt Music
). He lives in Western Australia.

ALSO BY TIM WINTON

Novels

An Open Swimmer

Shallows

That Eye, the Sky

In the Winter Dark

Cloudstreet

The Riders

Dirt Music

Breath

Stories

Scission

Minimum of Two

The Turning

For younger readers

Jesse

Lockie Leonard, Human Torpedo

The Bugalugs Bum Thief

Lockie Leonard, Scumbuster

Lockie Leonard, Legend

Blueback

The Deep

Non-fiction

Land’s Edge

Local Colour
(with Bill Bachman)

Down to Earth
(with Richard Woldendorp)

Smalltown
(with Martin Mischkulnig)

Plays

Rising Water

Signs of Life