Eyrie (14 page)

It won’t take long.

What’re you picking up?

Just some stuff that’s ours. I’ve put it off too long. It’s not easy doin all this shit on me own.

No, it doesn’t look like it is.

When we first come here, when the Housing people put us here, it gimme the creeps, this place.

A school for Kai. Right next door.

Yeah. And work, too. In the beginning at least. It’s somewhere, I spose.

That’s what I tell myself.

There’s others with nothin after all, she said. And Kai likes it.

He’s a nice kid.

He likes you.

Keely’s heart gave a treacherous ping.

And his dad – there’s not much contact?

Restrainin order.

I see.

Anyway.

Gemma reached into the front of her dress and his balls buzzed again. From inside her bra she drew out a key tied to a dark loop of wool.

Here, she said, getting up. This morning I got a fright, that’s all.

I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do. And then I fell asleep.

Just look in on him, willya? When I’m at work?

He nodded.

Other night.

Yeah?

You’n me. We were just lonely.

Yeah.

And I’d had a couple. You see?

Yeah, of course.

I don’t want a bloke anymore, Tom. I haven’t got it in me. But I could do with a mate.

Not a problem, he said too brightly.

Christ, will you stop
sayin
that? she said with an exasperated laugh.

Absolutely.

Thursday. Means you got time for a shave and a haircut.

You serious?

Wouldja mind?

She gave him a winsome, girlish grin of supplication that excited and annoyed him. But Keely thought about it, the itching nest his beard had become. What was it anyway, all this hair, but a kind of wallowing in defeat?

Honest, you’re no use to me lookin like that.

Okay, he said, from longing more than friendship.

She kissed him chastely again and when she was gone he gathered the key and held the woollen loop to his face to catch her musky scent.

C
onan the barbarian was harmless enough. Between spells in the locked ward the scrofulous, bellowing vagrant was a fixture on the streets in all seasons, and at his least offensive the locals were fond of him. He did a lot of unfocused seething and roaring, his great leonine head thrown back in rage or pleasure, and although he was an infamous and copious public defecator there was some charm in knowing he did this more for effect than from need. Conan was nuttier than Queensland batshit but he wasn’t mad enough to underestimate the grander pleasures of performance; he laid it on with a trowel – and that wasn’t always just a figure of speech. Wags in cafés said it was only a matter of time before he got an arts grant. In summer he liked to colonize bits of public space – a bus shelter, park bench, beach awning – where he could hunker down in his midden, snooze, scream and drink epic quantities of beer. He was entirely harmless. Unless you offered him money, advice or help of any sort. Keely, who had over the years done all three, knew that the best way to get along with Conan was to avoid him completely. For once you fell into his noxious orbit he liked to reward you with his attention, for hours, sometimes days, and this would entail blistering harangues, buttock display, and the trumpeting of your name in public as he pinched a loaf. All in the service of extortion, for the purpose of securing free lager, in bulk. And the wily bastard never forgot a face or a name. Which was why, next morning at the beach, rinsing at the spigot and feeling semi-decent, Keely was so studious about ignoring him.

He’d come straight up between the dunes in a sweet pain-shadow, mildly revived by his swim, and he was standing beneath the shower when he caught the glint of crushed beer cans around the awning. There was a denser mass of junk in the shade where it looked as if someone had backed a truck in and dumped a load of garbage. But the sight of two horny feet protruding from beneath a candlewick bedspread was all it took to know that overnight the beach shelter had become Conan’s latest bivouac. Keely cut his ablutions short. Morning regulars jogged by, wincing as they caught whiffs of the old stager’s ruinous miasma. Some raised a conspiratorial eyebrow and grinned circumspectly, with the sort of boho-bourgeois forbearance locals prided themselves on. As Keely towelled off he observed from only the very corner of his eye the mattresses, shopping bags, rags and cartons, the profusion of empties shining in the sun like footlights around the perimeter. He was seasoned enough not to gaze frankly but found himself caught up in documentary wonder all the same. You had to marvel at the havoc one man could wreak on a place in the space of half a day.

Conan was asleep. Or lying doggo. Maybe biding his time between eruptions. The dozing inferno. Keely was keen to be on his way. Feeling as tentatively fair as he did this morning, there was no point pushing his luck by staring recklessly into the maw of this Vesuvial force of nature. So he looked away, finished towelling off briskly and was gathering himself to go when his eyes wandered back treasonously. Which was when he saw it. Buried deep. But patently there. Camouflaged by sodden underpants, beneath hanging kelp and broken fronds of saltbush. His bike. Keely’s spirits rose. Then sank again. Because just seeing this had complicated his day irrevocably. Conan was mad, not stupid. He loved to negotiate. Especially when he couldn’t lose. Like a desert warlord in a hostage bargain, he’d choose the longest and most indirect path to the least pleasant outcome.

The Malvern Star wasn’t worth suffering for. Its ransom would include an hour’s foulmouthed argy-bargy and a carton of Emu Export at a bare-arsed minimum, not to mention having his woebegone name shouted up dune and down dale for a week. Keely hadn’t even had breakfast yet. He had five bucks seventy in his pocket. He was supposed to be home cleaning the flat. Then to the barber to satisfy Gemma. These days the price of twenty-four cans of industrial-grade beer was no small thing. And it seemed so much steeper when you weren’t drinking them yourself.

No, he thought. Bugger it.

And yet.

He needed the bike. It was, after all, his bike. And it browned him off, being robbed and stood over by a lunatic.

He was fresh from a swim. Fresh-ish. Damp flab. Headache in partial remission. Weak. But no kitten. He could dash in now, right now. While Conan slept the sleep of the unloved. Wrest the treadly from the grimy heap and bolt before the malodorous thief even stirred. Yes, dammit. He’d have it back.

Dry and dressed, Keely stalked towards Conan’s camp, thongs clapping him on. I’ll outrun you, mate, outride you, and you can take your pants-down, butt-slapping warrior dance elsewhere. It’s my fucking bike.

Keely went all the way. He did not deviate. He strode right through the eye-watering frontier of Conan’s encampment, head up like a man with a sturdy will, and actually had his fingers around the handlebars when a single basso fart sent him scurrying in search of an ATM, an early opener and a slab of Western Australia’s nastiest.

*

The bloom was well and truly off the morning when Keely finally wheeled the redeemed Malvern Star into the cycle shop. He wanted a titanium lock. Immediately and forever. Yes, it was worth more than the bike and twice the cost of a carton of piss, but after what he’d just endured he needed to know there’d never be a repeat performance.

He was comparing two rival brands and muttering to himself when he heard her voice.

Tom?

Before he even looked up, he knew it was Harriet. She wore a black suit and blunt-toed shoes. Pushed back on her head, her sunglasses held up the dark tide of her hair. She looked flushed, even blotchy; he supposed it was the heat.

I didn’t recognize you for a moment, she said. The beard.

Right. Of course.

So.

Right. Yeah.

So, um.

How’s things?

Harriet did that slant thing with her mouth. It was hard. Lovely. Terrifying. To see her again after so long. A year? Fourteen months. There before him. Smelling of herself.

Thought you’d gone to Brussels.

She shrugged. Changed my mind.

Ah.

You okay?

What? Why?

You know you were talking to yourself?

Bullshit.

Whatever.

I have to buy a lock, he said, holding up the gizmos in their sealed packets. Bloody Conan.

The homeless bloke?

Homeless? He loves the outdoor life. Makes himself at home wherever he goes. Helps himself to whatever you have. Shits in front of old ladies.

So, okay. Right. The street bloke.

Keely recognized the tone of aggrieved patience. He waved abstractly and put the locks down in surrender.

Anyway, he said. Not a good start to the day.

They stood miserably a few moments, during which time Keely registered the fact that she’d put on weight. For a second he had the dimwitted and painful thought she was pregnant again. The things he did to himself. She was ten years his junior. But that glorious youthful gloss was gone. Which just made her more sad and lovely.

I was in town for a meeting. Always loved this shop. You know, she said, tilting her head towards the boys putting sleek machines together, bustling about in their dreads, talking nerdy bike lingo.

Yeah, he said, just to make a sound.

Thought I might even buy a new bike, she said. I’m chubbing up, as you can see.

Bollocks.

Thought maybe I could ride along the river before work. There’s a nice path on the foreshore.

Keely nodded, a little lost. It was a lot of talk. Out of nowhere. Out of nothing. After such resolute silence.

Listen, she said. You want to get some lunch?

Us?

It’s only food.

But. I mean. You think that’s a good idea?

We’re not savages, are we?

No. But.

A quick meal, Tom. Don’t get —

Okay.

Right, then.

He looked down at his thongs, his damp shorts and T-shirt.

It’s Freo, she said. No one gives a shit.

It was too hot to go in search of somewhere anonymous, so they ended up in their old regular, the Thai joint a couple of blocks away. Their entrance caused some confusion amongst the family staff who’d witnessed the dissolution of their marriage, enduring it week by week with sad discretion.

After a minute’s skin-peeling banter with various members of the clan, Harriet ordered a bottle of semillon. Waiters came and went gingerly around their table. He was glad when the food came and they were free to do more than stare at one another indulgently.

You’re living in Perth, then, said Keely despite himself. In the CBD?

It’s odd. Like living in an industrial park. Bit of a shock, actually. They weren’t kidding; it really is Dullsville.

I guess there’s the river.

Yeah, there’s that. The flat, shallow, brown bit.

And the food’s better there.

If you fancy a fifty-dollar steak.

Are they good? The fifty-buck steaks?

She glared at him.

And work’s okay? he asked with a grin of small satisfaction.

Corner office.

So you’re a partner at last.

I live a block from the building. No wonder my arse is bigger than my tax bill. All I do is work.

Keely gulped wine, caught himself. He set the glass back and made handprints on the bare wood of the table.

So.

So, she said.

Is it still good work?

Righteous work, you mean? she said with a wry grin. Sometimes.

I meant is it stimulating, interesting.

I know exactly what you mean; you’re a Keely.

He held his hands up in concession.

Harriet cracked a wan smile. Anyway, you know how it is.

Afraid so.

So, yes, they own my bones.

But it’s interesting?

Of course. I’m in China once a month. Paying homage.

He nodded – what could you say?

You look shocking, Tom.

Thanks for noticing.

Sorry. That wasn’t . . . But the beard – Christ.

The beard is not long for this world.

But are you okay?

He shrugged.

Are you seeing someone?

Harriet.

I meant, like, counselling.

He stonewalled with a mirthless grin.

I wish it hadn’t happened, she murmured. Any of it.

Keely took a breath but she clarified immediately.

I don’t mean the marriage. I don’t regret that. Just —

Let’s not, eh?

No, you’re right. I’m sorry. Hey, is it true you’re living in the Mirador? That’s different.

You’ve been talking to Doris?

I’m always talking to Doris.

And she’s talking to you.

Well, sometimes it’s professional.

She never said.

She’s a bloody legend, you know. Anyway, everyone still wonders what you’re up to.

Sure they do.

Hey, I saw Freda from the EDO. She sees the WildForce crew all the time. Half the movement knows where you are.

And so few visits, eh.

Come on, Tom. You’ve left them in no doubt about where things stand.

So why ask? he said, pouring himself another glass.

I dunno. Worried, I guess.

Right.

People respect you. I know you don’t feel it.

Stop.

And they’re curious about what you’ll do next. Both sides.

What is this, a bloody reconnaissance mission?

Sit down, she said. And don’t be a wanker.

I mean, shit mate.

Let me rephrase —

Don’t bother.

Sit down. Please. You’re embarrassing me. Everyone.

Keely flopped back to the chair. Chugged his wine. Refilled. Went again. And Harriet sighed. The sound was so familiar he could have wept.

Sorry.

Me too.

But I mean it. A lot of people wish you well.

It was wasted. All that time.

The reef? The karri forests? Are you serious?

Fuck it, anyway.

Like I said, they wish you well. Wish you
were
well.

I’m fine, he lied.

So. The Mirador.

It’s just a little flat, he murmured, noticing they’d almost finished the bottle already.

But it’s okay?

Come and see, he said. If you’re that curious.

Doris says you won’t even let her up there.

No.

What’s that about?

I don’t even know anymore.

So why ask me?

I’m not planning to jump, if that’s what you mean.

What?

Lure you up and jump. It wasn’t on the agenda. I’m all out of romance.

What the fuck are you talking about?

Nothing. Sorry.

Jesus, Tom.

Well, don’t just sit there looking guilty and buying me lunch. Say something interesting. Spice up my sad little life.

Try not to be a shit, will you?

Keely shrugged hopelessly and downed the last of the wine. He badly wanted to leave. To take her with him.

We should have had children, she said. I concede that.

Stop it.

I know that’s what this is about. I know it’s why you
went
like that. We were stupid, both of us.

No, just me.

Well, you were stupid and I was cruel.

I was shooting for cruelly stupid. Fell short, as usual.

I’m a ruined person, she said dully. I know it sounds melodramatic, but it’s how I feel, even on a good day.

You’re still young. You’ll recover.

Not that sense of who I was. No. I don’t think so.

What do you mean? How can you say that?

You know damn well how I can say it, she said, staring him down like he was a vexatious litigant. There’s just part of me I don’t believe in anymore.

Keely blinked. In recognition. It smarted.

You know, she said, I was proud, in a way. Proud to be me. I don’t think I was conceited. I think I had good reason to be proud and so did you. We always did what we said, acted from principle. Couldn’t be bought, felt like we were authentic.

Oh, that old crap.

Yes, that old crap.

Harriet, you’re still the same person.

No. It’s as if one betrayal unlocks others.

People screw up, mate. It’s normal.