One Dead Seagull (32 page)

‘Let
him
go!’
I
chucked
my
bag
down
and
pushed
Otto in
the
back.
He
turned.
Griz
caught
his
fist
mid-punch.

‘Leave
him
alone,’
Griz
growled
at
Otto
’
s
face.

Otto
shrugged him
off
and
lunged
at
me,
knocking
me onto
my
back
and
losing
his
beanie. Griz
dragged him
off me,
kicking.

‘Leave
him
alone,
Otto.’

Otto
gave
Griz
one
of
those
baboon
smiles.

‘Why?
Because
you’ve
got
the
fucking
guilts?’

Griz
looked
at
the
footpath.
Those
words
caught
him
off
guard.

I
looked
at
him.
Guilty
about
what?

Otto
poked
at
Griz
’
s
chest.
‘Because
you’re
the
fucker who
turned
the
tap
off.
Y
ou’re
the
prick
who
made
him cut
his
hand
off.
Cos
you’re
the
.
.
.’

Griz
silenced
him with
a
fist
to
the
face.
Something
went
crack.
Pic
let
Den
go
and
grabbed
his
bike.

‘I’m
sor
r
y
,’
Griz
said.

Den
held
his
guts
and
groaned.

‘
Y
eah,’
I
said,
and
picked
up
my
bag.

‘Sor
r
y
,’
he
said
again.
I
walked.

I
walked
for
a
long
time,
through
the
suburbs
and
into
the
darkness.
Made
it
all
the
way
to
the
highwa
y
.
My
whole
body
ached.
My
eyes
were
stinging.
I
pulled
up
a
chair
in
a
truck
stop
and
had
a
Coke.
It
made
my
guts
hurt.

An
old
bloke
in
a
blue
singlet
asked
me
if
he
could
eat
his
sausages
and
eggs
at
my
table.
I
couldn
’
t
say
anything so
he
sat
down.

‘Where
you
heading?’
he asked
through
a
mouthful
of greasy
shit.

T
ook
a
few
seconds
for
my
brain
to
click
into
gea
r
.
‘Up north.’

‘Oh yeah?
Me
too.
I’m going
up
to
Brisbane
in the
morning,
I
am.’

I
nodded.

‘
Y
eah.
That
’
s my
rig
out
there.’
He
pointed
with
his shiny
chin
to
a
monstrous
white
truck
parked
at
the
back of
the
restaurant.
‘Goes
pretty
well,
it
does.
Sleep
in
the
back,
I
do.’

H
e
talke
d
a
t
m
e
fo
r
a
while
.
Lonel
y
ol
d
bugge
r
.
H
e
was cartin
g
a
loa
d
o
f
sweet
co
rn
u
p
t
o
Brisbane
.
H
e
doe
s
two
trip
s
a
week
.
Ha
s
bee
n
a
t
i
t
fo
r
nin
e
years
.
H
e
talke
d
in
whisper
s
abou
t
ho
w
h
e
avoid
s
R
T
A
camera
s
s
o
h
e
ca
n
drive
i
t
i
n
on
e
hit
.
Eightee
n
hour
s
straight
.
Christ
,
wha
t
a
life.
H
e
too
k
himsel
f
of
f
t
o
slee
p
i
n
hi
s
truc
k
afte
r
a
cu
p
o
f
tea tha
t
wa
s
s
o
thic
k
an
d
blac
k
h
e
mus
t
hav
e
ha
d
t
o
che
w
it.

I
sat
there
for
hours.
Occasionall
y
,
a
bolt
of
lightning would
go
off
in
my
head
and
I
swear
I
could
smell
singed
brain
cells.
Griz
turned
the
tap
off.
Crack!
Hendo
made
my
nose
bleed.
Zap!
Mandy
still
likes
me.
Ker
r
y
hates
me. Crack,
crack,
kaboom.

There
was
a
telly
mounted
high
on
the
wall
and
it
got suddenly
louder
as
the
waitress
behind
the
counter
poked the
remote.
They
were
counting
down
the
seconds
and the
waitress
and
a
few
others
in the
restaurant
started chanting
with
them.
Fou
r
,
three,
two,
one.
Happy
New
Y
ear!
They
started
kissing
each
other
and
I
looked
out
the windo
w
.
A
couple
of
cars
passing
on
the
highway
tooted.

Mum
will
be
pissed.
Maybe
I
should
call
her?
It
was three
o’clock
in
the
morning by
the
time
I
could
think clear
enough
to
phone and
I
decided
it was too
late. Probably
wouldn
’
t really
be
missed
until the morning anywa
y
.
Oh
well,
happy
New
Y
ea
r
,
Mum.

I
curled
up
there
with
the
trucks
and
pissed
New
Y
ear revellers
rolling in eve
r
y
few
minutes.
I
got
to
see
the regulars.
I
saw
the
waitress
check
her
watch
and
make
a
burge
r
.
A
thin
man
with
a
scruffy
moustache
came
in
and smiled
to
her
as
he
picked
up
his
burge
r
.
She
held
his
hand
for
half
a breath
and
took
his
money;
not
a
word
was spoken.
Sad.
Later
she
made
a
coffee
with
five
sugars
and
sat
it
on
the
counte
r
.
An
hour
passed
and
the
coffee
just sat
there.
Eventually
she
tu
r
fed
the
whole
thing
into
the
bin.
I
don
’
t
want
to
be
like
that.
I
don
’
t
want
to
be
like
the
truckies
and
do
the
same
thing
eve
r
y
bloody
da
y
.
And
I don
’
t want
to
be
like
that
lad
y
.
W
aiting.
W
aiting
for
the
same
old
people and
the
heartache.
W
aiting
for
the
next truck-stop
romance.
Stuff
that.

The
old
bloke
came
back
in
as
the
sun
was
colouring
the
sky
and
ordered
another
ace-of-spades
tea.

‘Still
here
are
you?’
he
said
and
sat
opposite
me
again,
big
smile
on
his
face.

‘Are
you
still
going
up
to
Brisbane?’

‘
Y
eah,’
he
chuckled.
‘Got
to
get
this
corn
off
before
it
goes
rotten
and
stinks
my
truck
out,
I
do.’

He
took
a
sip
of
his
tea
then
spat
it
back.
He
looked
up to
see
if
I’d
seen
him
and
his
eyes
were
watering.
‘Whoo! Bloody
hot.
Just
burnt
the
bubble
wrap
off
my
tongue,’
he said,
fanning
his
mouth.

‘Can
I
come
with
you?’

He
looked
me
ove
r
.
‘
Y
eah.
I
suppose
you
can
come
if
you
want.
Y
ou’d
better
go
to
the
toilet.
I
only
stop
for
food
and
fuel,
if
you
know
what
I
mean.
Y
ou
know?’

His
name
was
Jack.
Jack
Gobstopper
or
some
wog
name
like
that.
The
sun
was
low
on
the
horizon
and
occasionally streamed
in
through
his
windo
w
.
T
old
me
his
whole
life sto
r
y
before
we
got
to
Seymou
r
,
not
bad
going
for
an
hour on
the
road.
One
wife,
Georgina,
who
he
hadn
’
t
seen
in
two
years
and
one
son,
Stephen,
who
lives
in
a
juvenile detention
centre.

‘Sixteen
years
old and
he
’
s already
in jail. She
just didn
’
t look
after
him,
she
didn
’
t.
Y
ou
know?
And
I’m
on
the
road
a
lot
so
it
’
s
hard
to
keep
track
of
where
he
is
from
the
front
of
my
truck,
you
know?’

The
truck
was
an
Iveco.
Bloody
comfortable,
once
I’d conquered
the
steps
that
were
more
like
a
ladder
up
to
the
doo
r
.
Made
my
bedroom
look
like
a
tip.
Even
had
an Iveco
recycling
bin—no shit—one
bag
for
rubbish
and one
for
bottles
and
cans.
Had
a
fridge
loaded
with
little
bottles
of
Coke,
I
reckon
he
drank
one
per
hou
r
.
Didn
’
t
offer
me
one.
I
didn
’
t
really
mind,
my
guts
were
aching
and
the
count
r
y
and
western
music
that
droned
through the
stereo
made
me
want
to
chuck.
‘My
dog
can
’
t
walk properly
because
his
balls
drag
along the
ground
and
my wife
stole
my
truck
and
run
away
with
my
horse.
Y
eah.’
It put
me
to
sleep.

Dragon
’
s
fart.
That
’
s what
the
handbrake
sounded
like and
it
scared
the
shit
out
of
me.
I
didn
’
t
know
where
I
was
or
which
way
was
up.

Jack
apologised.
‘
Y
ou
want
to
grab
something
to
eat,
W
ayne?
Do
you?’

I
nodded
and
fished
my
wallet
out
of
my
pack.
I
wasn
’
t quite
with
it
and
I
stumbled
getting
down
from
the
truck. Ended
up
on
my
arse
in
the
gravel
in
full sight
of
the
packed
café.