Authors: Sam Carmody
AS HE ATE, PAUL WATCHED KASIA
, just like Michael and the other men. He liked to think there was something different about his staring, but he'd seen his face in the mirrored wall behind the bar, the strung-out redness of his eyes, and he would look down in shame whenever she walked by. He could sympathise with the others in some way, as ugly as they all looked lined up like that in the mirror, like the row of them had been struck simultaneously by lightning, faces drawn tight and almost expressionless with sunburn, hair stiffened by salt. At the end of a day on the boat, just the sight of the girl was medicinal.
Michael had taken to the beer garden for a cigarette when a large man took his chair, setting himself down next to Paul in a rush of exhalation.
Hey, son, he said to Paul. Name's Jungle.
Paul, he replied. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Jules smirking behind the bar.
Jungle thumped him on the shoulder and smiled. Paul had seen Jungle in the bar a number of times, overheard his long stories, but never spoken to him before. Up close the man had a huge head, and his eyes seemed to follow individual lines of sight, neither of which fell on Paul.
Who you working with? Jungle said.
Arcadia
.
Ah, he said, licking his lips. Captain Jake. Poor old Jake, eh? He let out another big lot of air through his gritted teeth. Don't know why he keeps at it. If it had been me I would have left this bastard place, that's for damn sure.
Jake the snake, said Noddy, seated further down the bar. Fucking scum.
Paul almost asked Jungle what Noddy meant by that, but the deckhand had shifted his attention towards the bar, waving down the older barmaid with a big red arm.
How you going, Jules?
Good thank you, my boy, she replied. What you having?
The usuals, he said. The usual suspects.
How's the lady? Jules asked.
Spending all my money, Jungle said, giving a slow wink and elbowing Paul in the ribs. Had to get a locksmith out the other day. Now, that's a joke. And I thought strippers cost money. Was thinking I should maybe give it a go. A locksmith. Sounds fancy, too.
Jungle turned towards Richard, the veteran skipper of
Hell Cat
sitting to his left. Richard had a stubby beard, and his short dark hair was peppered white in the way of an ageing blue heeler.
Imagine being a locksmith, Richard. Imagine learning that. What would you call that? Locksmithing? Locksmithery? I mean, where does that happen? At a college? Do you do a course?
Jungle, do I look like I give a fuck? Richard said, eyes squinting with the words. The men further down the bar laughed.
We had a guy come out the other day after we got locked out, Jungle continued. Zach, the silly prick, dumber than his old man, has dropped my car keys through the jetty. So I call this bloke. Never seen him before in my life. Guess how much it cost?
Jungle looked up the bar as the men ate their food. Cost me a hundred and fifty bucks, he said, and shook his head as though reliving the shock of it. He turned again to Jules behind the bar. A hundred and fifty just to get into me own house! Isn't that a joke? But with the reno and everything, the house is all so fucking new and watertight. You'd have to break a window. Courtney made us get this big fucking front door, you know. Looks like fucking Alcatraz. You've seen it, Noddy?
At the far end of the bar, Noddy grunted confirmation, his mouth full of mashed potato.
No shit, Jungle said. It is like a door that you'd have in a police station, in an interrogation room or something. Heavy as hell. Big stainless-steel handle, not a door knob. One of those sleek lever things. And this guy comes. I've never seen him before in my life. In a minute he's jimmied the fucker open. I mean, just imagine that.
Mind-blowing, Jungle, Jules said, smiling.
Seriously, picture it in your head, you're a budding locksmith. Imagine the very first time you do that, out in the real world. Instructor is with you, and you proper open a locked door to someone's house. You are suddenly standing in someone's lounge room, looking at all their things. That has to do something to you. No shit, it would be like sorcery or something. It's fucking Harry Potter, that kind of thing. Seriously, how many locksmiths do you reckon would turn criminal?
The men laughed. Jungle seemed to enjoy the moment.
You still talking? said Richard.
The power of it, Jungle continued. Any door. Not just houseâshops too, even banks. Car doors. Imagine if there wasn't a lock in the world you couldn't crack.
That's not possible, mate, someone said.
And not everyone is a cunt like you, Jungle, Richard grumbled.
Yeah, laughed Jules, placing Jungle's pint in front of him. Remind me never to hire you as a locksmith.
Human nature, said Jungle. Everyone has their limit. Their price, you know, so to speak. I'm just saying, learning to unlock doors could be it for some people.
Jules laughed and made her way to the side of the bar where Arthur and his crew were sprawled, lounging over the bar and across the tables beneath the TAB televisions with all the casual menace of pack animals. There was a ripple through them as the woman drew closer. Elbows on the bar were replaced by hands as Roo Dog and Anvil and the others leant forward. Often, when he watched Jules and Kasia at work behind the bar, Paul thought of divers in a cage, the men like sharks in orbit. Some pressed hard up against the counter, others hung back in the gloomy corners of the bar, but they were all watching. Paul couldn't understand why Jules would run such a place. Michael had told him that Jules had worked there for twenty years, since she was seventeen. Grew up in Stark, got a job in the family tavern and never left. You could see it in her face, too, as though she had been surrounded by ugliness too long, ugly talk and ugly looks, her beauty stalked and circled by men for two decades. But in that place, amid the ghoulish faces and unhinged laughter, she was almost angelic.
Kasia was something else completely. She'd become for him like a possession. It was likely the boredom of working a boat,
but when he wasn't thinking about Elliot and his parents, he was thinking of her.
So what brings you to Stark, Paul? Jungle said, turning back to him. If you don't mind me saying, you stood out like an upturned turtle's boner when you first showed up.
Jules smiled, back behind the taps nearest them.
Gee whiz, Jungle cried. Never seen a less likely fisherman. He hit Paul across the back hard enough to wind him. But I hear you're doing alright.
I'm Jake's cousin, Paul said.
You're Elliot's brother?
Yeah.
He was dating Tess, Jungle said. My niece. She's a tough kid, Tess. Had her battles, too. Got caught up in that horrible crystal meth shit. Jungle considered Paul for a few seconds. You look like him, he said. You got that look he always had, like a train's coming.
Jungle shuffled on his stool, and Paul could see the man turning something over in his head. So, what you think of this fishing business? Jungle said eventually.
Paul shrugged. It's alright.
It's not for everyone. You've got it in your blood or you don't. My boy, Zach, he's got it in his blood. I can see that. He's only just hit twelve, but first thing in the morning he's down the beach with one of my rods or his surfboard. After school he'll surf till it's dark, then he fishes all night from the jetty. Poor old Courtney is always trying to whistle him back to her. He turned to Jules and winked. He's like a fucking fish.
Jules nodded. Like his old man, she said. More brains, hopefully.
More brains than a fish or more brains than his old man? Jungle said, setting himself up, mouth open with anticipation.
Not sure there's a difference, Jules replied cooperatively.
Jungle whooped at the joke and slapped his thigh. Richard, slumped half asleep next to him, flinched with the commotion.
Jungle turned to Paul with a huge-eyed expression of consternation. But I'm serious, mate. Even when there's a fucking storm going Zach will be running around in it all. Scares Courtney shitless. But there's nothing I can do about it. Not a thing.
Paul laughed. The man seemed pleased. Paul wanted to say that Elliot was just the same, that Jungle might as well have been describing his brother when they were younger, the way he talked of Zach. There was always somewhere else he wanted to be, at the edge of a jetty or the end of a beach or a bush track. Outside, away from things. He wanted to tell Jungle how the city beaches bored and depressed Elliot unless there was a storm up, when the water shed its crowds and traffic. Paul wanted to tell Jungle all that. But the pain in the thought kept the words docked in his mouth.
You, though, Jungle said, you strike me more as your indoor recreation type. You know, on a computer. The man working an invisible joystick.
Gamer, Jules said.
Yeah, Jungle replied. That's it.
Paul heard Noddy's laughter down the bar. Jungle seemed annoyed by it. What I'm saying is, it's dangerous work, all this. Even worse if you don't care much for it. You be careful, son.
Paul saw the concern in the man's red face. He didn't know how to respond to it.
If you're bored or scared, Jungle said, or just don't want to be there, the boat will take care of that for you. If you want off, it will help you out. That's what I'm saying. You have to have a reason
to be out there, not to get lazy. You've got to have something to focus on. Me, it's Courtney and Zach. It's probably the same for everything. You've got to have a reason.
Jungle, Richard said angrily, sliding off his stool onto unsteady legs. What the fuck are you talking about?
Meaning of life and all that, Jungle replied.
Fuck's sake, the old man muttered as he shuffled in the direction of the toilet.
Jungle beamed at Jules and took a triumphant scull of his beer.
THE SCENT OF DEATH WAS SO FOUL
, so choking, that he woke to the echo of his own yell in the bedroom. He had seen Elliot, naked in a shallow grave, uncovered, his body shrunken and bent like a spider's corpse. Paul lay there in the wake of the dream waiting for Michael's footsteps in the hall but the German didn't stir.
After a time of attempting to fall asleep he thought of praying, but he didn't put his hands together. There was a danger in doing that, the risk of feeling nothing at all.
When Paul was younger he prayed. He prayed when the dark got to him at night. And it made him feel better. He didn't need to keep his eyes on the cupboards in his bedroom or the window.
Some nights, Paul would instead pluck the figurine of Hulk Hogan, the wrestler, out of his box of toys and take him to bed. Just like when he prayed, clutching the figurine he knew he was not alone. The rubber Hulk, deeply tanned with knee-high red
boots and white underpants, had his eyes open permanently. He could keep lookout. In a way, Paul was suspicious about that then, that God could be interchangeable with Hulk Hogan, that both gave him the same comfort. Even before he hit high school he'd figured that maybe God was just something to cling to when your nerves were rattled about something.
Elliot might have believed in God. It was hard to work out what Elliot thought about anything. His father never talked about God either, though he hadn't ever missed a Sunday mass as far as Paul knew. A man just didn't talk about his beliefs, Paul gathered, and no one asked him about them. You just turned up to church, crossed your name off the divine checklist, and went home.
And the whole religion thing bored Paul. It had bored him for years. But when he thought of Elliot dead, he found himself thinking about all that stuff again. When you grow out of Hulk Hogan, grow out of God, what else do you believe in?
JAKE DROVE
ARCADIA
HARD AT THE HORIZON
. Paul could almost feel his cousin's anger in the deck. With each drop of the bow over the wind swell he felt the jarring in his bones. For half an hour he braced his legs for each impact, every time holding his breath. He closed his eyes and saw the boat breaking apart, disintegrating, like one of those videos he had seen of a space shuttle burning up on re-entry.
What did you do back in the city? Michael asked, almost yelling above the wind and noise of the deck.
I worked in a supermarket. I thought about going to university. I don't know.
You do not know what you want to do?
My marks weren't the best, Paul said. My mum wanted me to go to a college, do all my exams again. Reckons I should have done better.
Is she right?
Paul shrugged.
You know my father, Michael said, my father is a money guy. That is his life. He was always saying to me, Get a degree. Get a house. He wanted to send me to the same university he went to.
Oxford, Paul said without thinking.
How do you know? Michael said, his smile fading.
Shivani. She said something about it.
Shivani? Michael replied. He reached for the tobacco in the pocket of his tracksuit pants. Paul looked to sea.
He wanted me to work at his firm, Michael continued. He thought I would be a property developer, like him. Michael raised his arms as he said the words, outstretched like an opera singer. A property developer, he declared again. Can you imagine it?
No, Paul said.
Exactly, Michael said. It makes him very angry that I am here. He gets red in the cheeks, like he has a fever.
Paul laughed.
I am serious, Michael said. I swear I will make my father ill. And it is not just him. Everyone at home in Stuttgart, all the rich friends of my parents, they are so worried about that stuff. It is all they talk about. What are you studying? Which university? What are your grades? What will you do? They ask all these questions like it matters. Michael smiled. So I tell them I want to be an elephant trainer.
Will you ever go back?