Ironbark (7 page)

The court-appointed psychologist said I could write
what I want in this journal.

Not what anyone else wants.

I suppose I should write about my IED. I don't have
to. Not if I don't feel like it. I can write anything. But
I might as well write about IED.

I don't know where I end and the IED begins. I read
somewhere – no idea where – that cancer-sufferers can
feel that way. They take on the identity of the disease.

That sounds right. That sounds like me.

IED stands for Intermittent Explosive Disorder. It
sounds kind of cool, but it's more like a nightmare.

It means I can't control my anger. Some people – hey, the
prosecutor for one – think it's a fancy name for a hooligan.

A hothead. An excuse for just blowing up. Being violent.

Thing is . . . I'm a coward. A serious coward. I
never actually want to fight. But when the IED kicks in
. . . might as well wave goodbye to control. I don't even
remember what happens.

Possession. I read about that somewhere. Or maybe
it was a TV program. Whatever. But it's like being
possessed. No control. Taken over. Like in a cheesy
sci-fi flick. If I'd been born a few hundred years earlier
they'd have burned me at the stake.

When I lose it, I'll fight anyone and anything.

Doesn't matter if it's an old lady or a hundred off-duty
soldiers. Until it passes I'm uncontrollable. When it
does pass, I generally hate myself. And that's okay –
everyone else hates me as well.

I can't blame them.

But what no one seems to get – how could they? – is
that it really is like living with another person inside
you – someone nasty, disgusting, evil – who takes over,
pulls your strings, makes you dance to a different tune.

A mad tune.

I hate that person.

No one else sees it like that. Everyone sees one
person. I see two.

Sometimes I feel I'm being judged, sentenced for
someone else's crimes.

I was put on suicide watch for a while.

I try to control it with drugs. But a better option, at
least I reckon it's a better option, is to try controlling it
using behavioural techniques. For example, when I try
to concentrate on something interesting, it takes my
mind off it.

I've learnt self-talk as well – a relaxation technique
where I repeat a phrase. That helps. Establishes some
control. Music is good. Writing is supposed to be good
too, but I hate writing. Perhaps it shows how much I
despise my disease that I'm prepared to sit here – a sad
loser, writing junk. Walking helps, I'm told.

But I had a bout today while I was walking and
that scared me.

I have explosives attached to me. Inside me. I feel
like a suicide bomber. Difference is, I never know when
they're going to detonate. It could be a minute. Could be
a month or a year. But they will go off. Some time.

All I can do is listen to the ticking of the bomb. And
wait.

Tick, tick, tick . . . Tock.

I like that last bit, so I decide to finish there. I reckon my English teacher would be proud. And stunned, since she never ever saw me write anything at all.

I slip outside for a last smoke. I don't like the idea of smoking inside the shack where I sleep. I probably could, since Granddad never seems to come in here, but it would be Murphy's law for me to fall asleep with a lit ciggie and incinerate the shack, with me in it.

It's darker than a bear's rectum out here and a lot colder. I'm using my imagination, by the way. The wind is gusting again, rustling the branches of the trees. I can just make out the dark shapes of the wallabies on the other side of the fence, but there's nothing else out there tonight. At least nothing I can feel. I finish the cigarette as quickly as possible, stamping my feet on the ground to keep my circulation going.

Back inside I carve a second line on the post by the light of the mini fluoro. I didn't bring anything to read, which might have been a mistake. I tell you. The TAB would have given phenomenal odds on me ever saying not having a book was a mistake. Not that I could have brought anything to read, unless I'd joined a library. Round about the same time hell freezes over, I reckon. And there's no books in our house. Dad likes minimalist furniture. You know, a small white leather chair in a corner, a glass-top coffee table and a plexiglass abstract sculpture. Books would spoil the ambience. He really is a tosser.

Thinking about Dad is always depressing, so I put in my iPod and select random shuffle. After a while, I hang the blanket over the window and turn the iPod off. I don't know why. I can't relax if I can't hear what's going on at night. I watch the flames from the fire paint light on the ceiling.

The wind is picking up outside. It sounds like someone moaning.

I've seen some beat-up utes in my time, I can tell you, but Granddad's is a piece of work.

I walk around the outside, trying to find a panel that isn't dented or streaked with rust. Nah. It looks like it's got some kind of terminal disease, its skin flaking and peeling and rotting. A couple of good thumps and it might crumble into a heap of red dust. I guess it suits him, like a pet getting to resemble its owner.

It's almost nine-thirty. We get in and I reckon there's Buckley's chance of the engine cranking over. It does, though. It coughs and splutters into reluctant life as I go to strap myself in. But the seatbelt is cactus. It's just a length of frayed canvas without a buckle. I notice Granddad doesn't even try his. He slams into gear and the gearbox screams and grinds on metal. Trust me, in this kind of vehicle you don't even look for an aircon button, so I crank down the window. It gets about a quarter of the way and then something disengages, dropping the glass suddenly into what's left of the door panel. I don't even wanna think about the state of the brakes.

We set off down the dirt track, a huge cloud of grey dust billowing behind. I'll give Granddad credit. He's got a real lead boot on him. We swing round bends and he doesn't let up on the accelerator. I reckon there's bugger-all chance of meeting another vehicle out here, but I can't help cringing whenever we steam round a blind corner, just in case there's one of these serious logging trucks about to swat us into the nearest tree. I feel like telling Granddad that he might not have much of a life to cut short, but I don't fancy joining him as road pizza. I don't though. I just watch the trees roll past. I'm not sure if I've mentioned this before, but there's a lot of them.

It's Granddad who starts talking. I'm surprised. He's usually like his ute – real reluctant to crank over.

‘So you finish school? Then what?' he asks, and spits this humungous oyster out the window. Gross, but kinda impressive.

‘Who knows, Gramps?' I reply, wondering if I can muster a gob to match his. I don't even try. ‘I'm sort of undecided on the career aspiration front.'

‘Follow your dad?'

I snort. Dad is some mega cheese in the business world. I don't know exactly what he does, so don't quote me, but it's something to do with acquiring companies that are on the point of folding and rationalising their assets. Don't you just love that? Rationalising their assets. What I
think
it means is buying the company for about fifty cents, sacking everyone, selling everything that isn't bolted down, unbolting what is and selling that, and stashing obscene amounts of money into your corporate bank account.

I say Dad acquires companies, but that doesn't mean he ever actually
sees
them. He's strictly a sit-behind-his-desk-with-a-mobile-phone-and-a-sharp-suit kinda guy.

I tell ya. I bust up a business and they sentence me to hard labour in Van Diemen's Land. Dad does it and he's in the running for Australian businessman of the year. This probably makes sense to most people. I just wish someone would explain it to me.

God knows how much he pulls down a year, but it's gotta be excessive. You should see our house. And the cars. I'd bet he spends enough at the car detailer's in one month to buy Granddad's ute ten times over. Money's the only thing at my place that's not in short supply.

‘Yeah, right, Gramps,' I say. ‘I can just see myself in some office with plastic pot plants, an acre of desktop and a carpet to practise my putting on. Not my scene, dude. Plus, you need the moral conscience of a saltwater crocodile.'

Granddad glances at me.

‘You don't get on with yer dad, then?'

‘The man is a prince. An absolute prince. But let's say we have a different world-view. We dance to the beat of different drummers.' I love that last bit. I've waited years to say it.

‘Whaddya mean?'

‘I mean that on the basic personality front we are not exactly synchronised. Plus, he's a sphincter.'

Granddad chews that over. I watch his jaws moving. Why do old guys do that? They always seem to be chewing something, probably the stringy bits from last night's dinner.

‘Well,' he says, finally. ‘Perhaps that runs in the family.' I laugh. He's a dry old buzzard.

‘Dude,' I say. ‘Don't you think you're being a bit hard on yourself?'

‘I wasn't talking about me.'

‘I know, Gramps. I know. And I guess you're right. But me and Dad . . . we're different
types
of sphincters. And, in my book, that makes a significant difference.'

I let this idea hang for a moment so Granddad can get his dentures around something else. He clears his throat like he's summoning up another oyster, but the moment passes. Then he takes one hand off the wheel to fish around in his nose. He's got some great personal habits, I tell you. But he doesn't say anything. I look out the window to see if there's any thinning on the tree front, but they're out in force and tight.

‘I might become a chef,' I say.

‘A chef?' says Granddad. If you were to judge purely by his tone of voice, you'd think I'd expressed ambitions in the area of gay porn.

‘Yeah. Not a lame kitchenhand scraping grease around in some dodgy cafe. A proper chef. With the big white hat.

The sort that shouts, “Give me a rack of lamb with a fennel salad,” at scurrying minions. Has his own TV show. Gets to swear a lot. You know what I'm talking about.'

‘No,' he says, looking carefully at what he's mined from his nostril. It's clearly nothing nine-carat because he rolls it up and flicks it out the window. ‘No. I don't.'

‘Well then, I guess I'll have to show you,' I say. ‘Strap your tastebuds in tonight, Gramps. They're headed for a roller-coaster ride.'

We lapse into silence. Granddad has probably used up a week's worth of words and needs to rest. I turn back to the trees and try to get them to disappear by sheer force of will. Works, too, because they thin and the dirt track becomes scattered with loose stones. Signs we are approaching what passes for civilisation out here. I pay more attention. I've got this horrible feeling we are going to end up at some bush shack that sells canned meat, the local newspaper and tractor parts.

But we don't. Granddad sprays up loose gravel as he drifts onto a main road. Well, it's sealed and it's got lines in the middle. About twenty minutes later we hit the town and the coast. I can't remember the name of the town. Something Pom-sounding. There's just one street, overlooking the ocean, but it has a supermarket and a bottle shop, so I'm not complaining. Tassie's equivalent of a city shopping centre. There's also a couple of cafes, a newsagent, a craft store and a few antique shops that you can tell are going to have junk at stupid prices that some relic in a bow tie will flog to tourists. The place is so picturesque I wanna throw up. I don't, though. I've checked the mobile and, wonder of wonders, I've got another signal. Only two bars, but hey . . .