Tide (7 page)

You wanna make something of it, you poofter-girl-bitch?

He's havin' a go, he's havin' a go.

See how aggressive he was?

He knew he'd be in for a kicking now, somewhere on the walk home. Then the pants might come down and Kirsten wouldn't be far away with her posse of sun-bleached blondes, the stuff of the beach already sticky in their thoughts.

He told no-one. Almost no-one. He told the first officer of the great bulk carrier
Helen.
They'd become friends when the boy introduced the man to his older sister. There'd been a fling or something. The officer went mushy whenever he asked about her. But she'd moved to the city and was working in a movie theatre. The officer had written to her and received a reply, but that was it. Yet he held no grudges, just thought the boy a wonder for having such a sister. She has long legs, your sister, and beautiful dark skin, said the officer. The boy couldn't work out why the officer went on about her skin so much. I am pale, said the officer. He went on about his own skin a lot as well.

I wish I could go to sea now.

Finish your schooling first. And you should train to become an officer. It's better.

The boy mixed very little with the able-bodied seamen who didn't speak much English.

Nah, I just want to leave.

Why?

The town's too small. There are kids at school who beat me up and the teachers won't do anything about it. They're the sports stars, and the popular girls love them.

That's not acceptable, said the officer. I will have some of my crew ‘talk' with them (he said it in that meaningful way) if you point them out. Do they come into town?

The boy wanted to say, All the time, hanging out at the leisure centre, drinking piss behind the pub, fingering girls down on the sliver of beach in front of the station, but he kept his mouth shut. Nah, they don't come into town much. And it was left at that.

As the limit of the grassed area was approaching, he knew he had to pull out of his stagger. Year 12s were allowed to sit out the front but couldn't go onto the path. That was a violation of school rules and could mean a suspension. As usual, the boys were herding him to this point of violation – it especially amused them because he never got into trouble in class and was so quiet it was loud. What's more, there was a sports teacher on duty who thought the boy a weakling, and delighted in his sport stars doing a bit of basic training on the boy.

But then he could hear the breeze and the sea and even imagined he could hear the sea eagle that had nested in an old craypot placed on a post down at the point. And that was miles away. All was clear and peaceful. He stood upright and looked around. The boys, Kirsten and her crew, and a bunch of quasi-stars had turned sharply on a new kid. Arrived a couple of days ago.

The kid had drawn attention to himself by having a lamington in his lunchbox. A girlfriend of Kirsten's who'd gone over to suss him out, to see if he had balls, had seen it. What a poof!

They formed a semicircle around him and started the barrage. The sports teacher smiled and whistled and wandered around the end of the administration building, vanishing into the quadrangle area. The captain of the football team suggested they should take it easy, but one of the full forwards smashed the lunchbox to the ground and then wedgied the kid, lifting his underpants from behind so hard the kid was hoisted from the ground.

Wedgie! Wedgie!

He'll have a girl's wee-wee now, Kirsten laughed sarcastically.

The boy had wandered over, nudged his way into the semicircle, and was watching eagerly. A tugboat horn blasted in the background. It was all background now. The sea was no longer present. They could be deep inland for all the boy cared. There was only here and now, the green grass and the wedgied kid crying like a sissy sprawled over the ground. The boy called out, Lamington, Lamington! That's what we'll call him! The crowd turned around, stunned, and stared at the boy.

The school captain thought hard but quickly: an executive decision. Yeah, that's a bloody good name for the new git, Lamington! Lamington! Lamingtonlamingtonlamingtonlam ington!

Two weeks later, the
Helen
was in. It had been six months since her last visit.

The first officer said, Well, not many months now until you finish school. We'll be back in another six months, and if you've got your ticket you can work your passage to Europe.

No, said the boy, I won't. I'll stay here. I'm only fit for the land. I would bring bad luck to the ship. The boy knew how superstitious the sailors were, even the officers with all their training and their technology to guide them through and around storms, the mysteries of the deep. The officer laughed and ruffled the young man's hair. For he had grown so much since he'd last seen him. And his voice had finally broken!

Just having a bad day, son! Would you like a magazine to take home and cheer yourself up?

The boy said no, then yes and, taking it, glanced at the cover, thinking how much the woman on the front looked like Kirsten.

Still having trouble at school, asked the officer.

Yeah, said the young man, that never changes, but I'm glad it doesn't. It's better when things stay the same.

FLYING FISH (COUNTERPOINT)

Flat out in the V8; Acca Dacca on the stereo. Loud. Yelling over the music. Pumped. They're on their way to Geraldton to sort the travel arrangements for their Big Trip. The Boys (as they like to be called) will fly to Java, then board a ship in Jakarta and sail up the west coast of Sumatra to Padang. Then they'll head inland, into the jungle, and see what happens. Swigging from a bottle of Jacks, they joke about how out of it they'll get on Sumatran heads and mushrooms. Better than getting them second-hand in Perth. We'll be stoned off our faces and won't even know which country we're in. Fuck yeah, out in the jungle being chased by Sumatran tigers!

Around the islands the waters make shadows work up against the sun. It's all in reverse. The flying fish skim the surface. Sometimes they fly right through you.

At twenty years old, neither of them has been out of Australia, even Western Australia, before. They're hyped. Steady on, Josh says. You'll stack the car before we even get to Gero.

The killing of cats at the rubbish tip. Picasso. Memory forged its links and the flying fish baking on the deck became overwhelming. All the dead they'd made stank in the tropical sun.

Anything would do as targets by the wheat bins, the pickling air getting to them. They fired off round after round.

Exocoetidae.
Exocet. Josh's mother was French, though she'd never spoken a word of French to him. Not even as a baby, she said proudly. The only register of her Gallic pride came when Josh's school project on the Falklands War (‘Why the Falklands War, Josh?' his teacher had asked) had gained a distinction, the high point of Josh's schooling life. Exocet. French. Named after flying fish.

Perry – real name Jake, but called Perry by a girlfriend who wagged school to watch daytime television: she called Jake ‘Perry' because she thought she herself looked like Della – Perry guns the accelerator even harder, and the V8 Commodore hits 200 k's an hour, the bodywork vibrating at maximum stress levels.

As the sails of the fish take lift and the tail zigzags the glinting sea, orange-red at that latitude, at that time of day, the Boys are dazzled, confused. The kill urge is confused. The girls, the radical girls, are standing beside them. Looking out over the railings, the ferry furrowing north. The girls have peace signs on their batik tops. They are on the run, they've confided. A Marxist-Leninist group from Europe. They are German. This is history, Josh has told Perry, who wants to know if they've killed people. Bombed places. Josh won't let him ask. They watch the flying fish, fast, sleek, full of purpose.

Asians are okay in their own countries, says Perry. That's what Dad reckons. We should be fine. Perry and Josh have hung out with white nationalists on visits to Perth. How did that happen? Guns. At the shooting range. Josh and Perry have handed out leaflets but didn't really take much notice of what they said. Though Josh was a reader, is a reader, will always be a reader. But that's what he claims. Who is he telling? Assuring?

Cypselurus.
Sleeker. Do they overlap? Cross flight paths? We've been friends forever. Neighbouring farms. Big farms. Eight thousand acres. Mothers lonely, both born elsewhere. Both with accents. Touches of other places. Fathers hating that. Things in common. Hunters. Ride over to each other's places on dirt bikes. Boundary riders. Are you girls lezzos? What? You know, do you do each other? What? Lick each other out? What? What? What?

Once, the Boys were hauled up by the new cop in town, but he was disciplined and transferred. At 200 k's they laugh about it and Josh hurls the empty Jacks bottle out the window, something else at that speed. Beyond the laws of physics. Fuck, man, see that? No! Ha. Funny bastard. I'll roll a spliff – slow down, you mad cunt.

Flying fish are mythical as well. Of course. ‘Fish out of water'. It sticks in Josh's craw as he apologises in private to the girl. His girl. A terrorist. Assumed name, false passport, on the run. I am into peace, she says. But I hate the state, I hate fascists, and I hate racists. Would you kill a racist? he asks. Where is this boat sailing and why? she asks. It is following the flying fish, he says. No, they are accompanying it, she replies. He wonders how Perry is making out. Perry had wanted to sleep with ‘Sumatran hookers'. He was getting sidetracked.

This car is a fucking flying fish, yells Perry. He is
pumped
and the car is disintegrating around him. Slow down – fuck ya, Perry. Slow the fuck down.

But why tell us so much about yourselves? You pulling our legs? Spinning a story, making it up and having a joke at our expense. Sorry! You were giving signals. I thought you wanted it. That you were bi or something. I'd do it with a lezzo, no problem. We're here because of the flying fish. We caught the ferry at the same time as you. Out of Jakarta. We arrived, went to a hotel, slept, and got a cab down to the port. You gave us money. Lots of money. But we're not doing it for that, or you. We're just doing it.
You
took us on board that yacht? We heard your words, your anger. Didn't we fuck you senseless while those big crew-mates of yours listened. We had no problem being understood by the driver or anyone in the hotel. You'd think English was the language here. We even tipped the bloke. He seemed fine. And we've not complained about the egg, rice and fish-head meals. We've not pushed anyone around. When in Rome …

You'd think Perry was a sports star, but he isn't. He played footy but was middling. He was a lousy schoolboy cricketer. But he is a fair shot and loves roo shooting. He isn't averse to wounding, to leaving them hopping around in circles. Actually, he finds it hilarious. ‘Hilarious' is a Perry word. A catch-all.

Wanna feel how hard my arm muscles are? See, like rock. That's because I work hard. Perry does as well. We were on the bins making extra dough for this trip. We'll both inherit farms. We'll take wives from outside the district. Maybe from far away. We'll take them back and … domesticate them. It's a family tradition. Nah, I'm joking! Can't you take a joke? You might speak English okay but you sure as hell can't understand it. Nah. But seriously, if you want to come back to Australia … You bitches think you've got us by the short and curlies. You're mouthy, but you don't know what that means, do you?!

Steam erupts from the bonnet and the car rapidly decelerates. Fuck ya, Perry, now you've screwed it. The car careens and Perry rights it onto the gravel shoulder, hitting the brakes, skidding, fishtailing back onto the bitumen and then back onto the shoulder. Pounding the wheel, shrieking, Cunt cunt cunt of a thing! Josh hands him the spliff which he'd arced up just before. Perry grabs it, tokes hard, holds it, then slumps back into the seat. Fucken hell, sorry mate, he says. They are friends to the core.

I don't get all this political shit, says Perry to ‘his' girl. I've handed out some pamphlets. Keep everything in its place, I reckon. Yeah, it's nice being next to you. Yes, it's nice. It's so damned humid. I'm sweating like a pig. Probably puts you off.

Okay. We'll have to hitch. Let's just get to Gero and sort the trip out and then worry about the car.

Perry, you've changed. We've only been on this boat for a day and you're saying I've changed? I changed when we got into the Sandman. I changed when we boarded the yacht with the clothes we stood up in. I changed when I begged my girl for more. For more. But then again, you've changed too. You're an ocean of change. I don't know you anymore. Did she ask you again? To do it? Yeah, she did. Will you? Might. And you? Same. Blood brothers.

He's stopping. Grab the bag. I've got the shit down my pants. Okay. Long time since I've seen a Sandman panel van done up like that. See what it had on the side? Repainted. Some kind of beast.

We'll just store the stuff in our bags and carry it, casual-like. If it goes off before we get there, fuck it. Pain in the arse, but we won't know much about it. You know, I like her. I like mine as well. They might like it where we come from? Good place to hide. Yeah! Fuck, did you see that flying fish. Must have flown miles. Nah, it went in then out. Fucked the water. Yeah …

Hey Josh, Perry calls, reaching the PV first. It's a couple of chicks driving. I thought it was a pair of hippie blokes. Josh reaches the car. He is studying the paintwork. That's a flying fish, he says. A what? A flying fish. Looks magic. Yep, going to Gero. You girls just cruising around, on holidays or something? Yep, great, we'll climb in the back. Sound like Germans to me, says Josh to Perry as he turns the handle to open the hatchback. Look strung out. Should we go with them? Yeah, why not. Might get a root! Right. Let's go.

A Sumatran prison would be a bad move, Perry. Yeah, true mate, but to tell the truth, I've got nowhere to go anyway. Not really. And it might not happen. You know. I'm sick of the farm. Of inland. I like the sea. I like the air. I like the tropics. The flying fish. Water and air. You're sounding poetic, Perry. Yeah, mate. It's frightening, ain't it!