One Dead Seagull (22 page)

Authors: Scot Gardner

The
girls
arrived
just
after
dark.
Che
r
yl,
Emma
Barclay and
Mandy
all
wearing tight,
tight
jeans
and
sloppy
Wind-cheaters.
Emma
had
her
hood
pulled
over
her
head
and
it
took
me
a
minute
to
recognise
he
r
.
None
of
them recognised
me.
Or
Den.
W
e
were
all
quite
hammered
by
then. I
heard
Phil
say
my
name—it
cut
through
the
music
and the
noise
of
the
ocean
like
he’d
spoken
in
my
ea
r
.
Next thing I
know
I’m flat
on
my
back
in
the
sand.
Mand
y
, vanilla-pe
r
fume
and
Bacardi
Mand
y
,
had
bowled
me
over
in
her
excitement.

‘What
are
you
doing
here,
W
ayne?’

‘What
the
hell
are
you
doing
here?
And
get
off
me
you great
lump,’ I
said.
The
last
bit was for Phil
’
s benefit,

I
wasn
’
t
in
any
hur
r
y
for
her
to
get
off
me.
W
arm
and
soft and
smelling
so
good.
She
sat
up
and
told
me
how
they
all
got
down
there
and
that
they’ve
been
going
there
for
years.
Then
it
was
all
ove
r
.
She
staggered
past
the
fire
to
Phil,
who’d made
a
seat
for himself
in the
sand,
and flopped
on
his
lap.
I
sat
up
and
smoked
some
more
with Hendo
and
Den.
Emma
dug
herself
a
seat.

‘Nice
couple,’
I
said
to
he
r
,
pointing
with
my
head
to Mandy
and Phil
cuddling
by
the
fire.
She
screwed
up
her
face
and
sucked
air
through
her
teeth.

‘Don
’
t
know
for
how
much
longer
though
.
.
.’ I
raised
my
eyebrows.

‘
Y
eah,
Steve
told me
that Phil
’
s got
a
girlfriend
in Sydney
and
she
’
s
coming
to
Melbourne
to
live
in
the
New
Y
ea
r
.
T
wo-timing
bastard.’

Some
time
late
r
,
after
the
fire
had
died
down
and
Davo had
stoked
it
up
again,
there
was
a
rat
’
s
nest
of
activity
over
the
wa
y
.
Swearing,
shouting
and
finally
.
.
.

‘Stupid
bitch,’
Phil
shouted
and
stood
up
with
his
arms
wide,
shaking
his
head.
Mandy
had
emptied
the
contents of
a
VB
can
on
his
head.
How
tragic.
How
disastrous.
The stereo
died.
How
convenient.

Phil
stormed
off
towards
the
beach
and
Mandy
flopped into
the
sand
and
covered
her
face.
Che
r
yl
came
out
of the
darkness
fixing
her
clothes
and
sat
beside
Mandy
with
her
arm
on
her
back.

I
think Davo
was
getting into the swing
of it. He
grabbed
the
stereo
and
pulled
the
cassette
out,
leaving
two
neat
threads
of
shiny
brown
tape
clamped
somewhere in
the
guts
of
the
machine.

‘Stupid bitch,’ he
shouted
at
the
machine.
Holding it
by
the handle he
began
to
spin.
Faster
and
faste
r
,
then—hammer throw! He
sent
the
stereo
crashing
off over
the
other
side
of
the
dune.
Party
ove
r
.

Mandy
got
up
and
started
walking
to
the
beach;
well,
staggering
at
first,
and then
walking.
I
followed
he
r
.

‘Leave
her
alone,
W
ayne,’
Emma
said.

‘I’ll
just
keep
an
eye
on
he
r
.’

She
walked to
the
beach
and
kept
going
right
to
the edge
of
the
wate
r
.
Looked
like
she
was
going
to
keep
on going
but
she
flopped
on
the
wet
sand
and
hung
her
head between
her
knees. In
the
weak
light
she
could
have
been a
big
lump
of
seaweed.
I
sat
on
the
sand
and
played
with
half
a pipi
shell
until
it
got
warm
in
my
hand
and
I
felt
like
throwing
it
at
he
r
.
My
eyes
had
adjusted
to
the
dark
and the smashing
waves looked ghostlike
as I
got
up the courage
to
move
beside
he
r
.
She
obviously
hadn
’
t
heard me
coming
and
she
jumped,
hanging
her
head
again when
she
realised
it
was
me.

A
gap
between
waves left an
enormous
silence
that

Mandy
filled
with
a
half-sob.
‘Hey
W
ayne.’

‘He
y
,
you.
Y
ou
okay?’

‘
Y
eah,
bloody
terrific,’ she
said,
and
looked
away
from me
up
the
beach.

I
rested
my
stump
on
her
shoulder
and
she
snuggled closer
to
me.

‘What
happened?’
She
shrugged.

‘His
old
girlfriend, Angelique,
is
coming
down
from
Sydney
next
week.
He
just
wants
to
be
friends
.
.
.’

‘That
’
s
a
bit
rough.’

She
reached
out
to
thank
me
and
grappled
awkwardly with
my
stump.
I
felt her
shive
r
.
She
jerked
away and groaned
like
she’d
smelled
vomit. Before
the shock
of
her
pulling
away
had
fully
registered
she
was
on
her
feet
and
pelting
me
with
handfuls
of
sand.

‘Get
off
me
you
fucking
cripple.
Fucking
freak.’

I
covered
my
head,
covered
my
ears
against
the
hard balls
of
wet
sand
and
the
words
like
broken
glass.
I
could feel
heavy
footfalls
vibrating the
sand
under my
bum. Dragged
to
my
feet—half
by
my
hai
r
,
half
by
my
T
-shirt— a
fist
thumped
into my
guts.
Before
I’d buckled
I
took another
blow
to
the
shoulder
that
spun
me.
I
fell
fo
r
ward, arms
covering
my
face.
My
arms
took
the
blow
from
a
boot
that hit hard enough to move
me
across
the sand. Pinpricks
of
white
in
front
of
my
eyes
and
the
taste
of blood.
I
could
hear
Mandy
screaming
and
the
scuffle
and splash of
more fighting
in
the
shallow
water
then
the
pain
hit
like
one
of
the
waves,
drowning
me.

The
wave
passed
and
I
felt
someone
gently
pulling
at my arm,
locked
tight
around
my
head.

‘
W
ayne.
Come
on.
Y
ou
okay?
He
’
s
gone.’
Groan.

‘Come
on,
mate.
Can
you
walk?
Here,
let
me
help
you.’
Den
dragged
me
along
the
beach.
I
felt
like
I’d
been
in
one
of
those
playground
spew-machines
that
had
been spun
so
fast
I’d
been
thrown
out.
Even
in
the
darkness
I could
tell
the
colour
of
the
sticky
witness
on
my
face
and
mouth.
Red.

I
was
c
r
ying.
Blubbering
like
a
five-yea
r
-old.
My
mate
dragged
me
and
carried
me
into
the
closest
toilets
at
the camping
ground. In the fluorescent
light
I
could see blood
stuck
in
the
moons
of
his
fingernails.
The
whites
of his
eyes
were
red
from
the
dope
and
the
effort,
and
he
took
a
sharp
breath
when
he
looked
at
me.

‘Shit.
Here,
mate.
T
o
the
sink.’

Dark
blood
dropped
on
the
stainless
steel
and
in
the
scratchy
mirror I
could
see
someone
else.
I
looked
like
one
of
those
dudes
on
a
drink-drive
commercial:
my
face splattered
with
blood
and
sand,
and
a
steady
drip-drip-drip
from
my
nose.
Den
told
me
to
get
my
shirt
off
and
I used
it
as a
cloth to
mop
up
my
face.
A
few
stinging minutes
passed
as
I
dabbed
at
the
blood
and
stopped
the flow
from
my
nose.
A bloke
with
a
round
red
face
walked in
and
took
a
piss
then
walked
straight
out
again.
Obviously
he
sees
road-trauma
victims
in
the
toilets
eve
r
y
da
y
.
Den
suggested
that
he
go
and
get
his
mum
and
the
first-aid
kit
from
the
back
of
the
wagon.

‘No.
Nah,
don
’
t
get
your
mum.
Eve
r
ything
is oka
y
.
Here,
look.
It
’
s
all
from
my
nose.’

Although
it
was
a
bit
sore
to
touch
it
didn
’
t
really
hurt. My arms
and
my
guts
felt
bruised
but
the
cold
water
and the
lights
helped
me
come
back
to
earth.
Den
had
one
wet shoe
and
it
made
disgusting
squelchy
fart
sounds
as
he walked me
back
to
the
tent
at
167b.
The
gas
lamp
was
out and
so
were
the
Humes.
W
e
crawled
into bed.
Baz
was snoring
like
an
idling chainsa
w
.
I
whispered
to
Den
to keep
quiet
about the
little
incident.
He
didn
’
t answer
for a
minute
then
he
whispered
that
he
wouldn
’
t
tell
his
folks. Thanks,
mate.

In
a
few
minutes
he
was
breathing
loud
and
regular
but the
blood
was
still
pumping
in
my
veins.
Pure
adrenaline,
making
my
temples
thump
and
playing
the
film
of
what
happened
over
and
ove
r
.
I
should
have
kicked
Phil
in
the balls.
I
missed
the
pe
r
fect
opportunity
to head-butt
him
in the
face—that
would
have
slowed
the
bastard
down.
I shouldn
’
t
have
put
my
arm
on
Mandy
’
s
shoulde
r
.
I
can
’
t
believe
she
said
that
shit.
Fucking
cripple. The words tasted
like
blood.
She
was
right.

At
about
three
o’clock
I
felt
like
walking
home.
I
couldn
’
t
see
the
door
so
I
just
stayed
in
bed
and
squeezed
my
eyes
tight
shut.
Bit
my
lip.
Felt
like
I
wanted
to
spew
my
guts out.
Scream.
Something.