Authors: Sam Carmody
WHEN THEY REACHED THE JETTY
they saw Jungle, the huge man swaying strangely as he walked away from the small crowd following him. Richard had the deckhand by his left arm and seemed to be trying to hold him back. Paul sat frozen in the skiff as the two men tumbled up the jetty. Jungle's face was twisted in a way that made Paul lose his breath. His eyes were huge and his mouth was stretched wide open, as though in a scream. But as he passed them there was no sound coming from him other than the drumming of boots on timber and Richard's hoarse pleading.
As they went by Jake yelled out to him. It looked as though the deckhand was going to throw himself off the end of the jetty and into the sea with the old man attached. But when he reached the edge, Jungle simply dropped hard onto his knees, the boards making a short, oddly musical sound. The men behind him stopped, the crowd on the jetty falling silent, and with Richard
standing stiffly beside him, a hand still clenching the arm of the large man's jacket, Jungle began to cry. Michael moored the boat and they joined the crowd of deckhands.
Jungle's eldest boy, Zach, had that afternoon drowned. Fred had been waiting for Richard's boat to arrive back at the harbour to deliver the news. The boat crews stood together uttering quiet statements of disbelief as Jake and Richard knelt with the quivering shape of the man who had lost his son.
When Courtney arrived, the men left the pair alone, huddled together on the damp boards of the jetty where Zach had fished so many evenings.
In the tavern versions of the story circulated, most of it gathered from the account of his friend Dan, who had been in the water with Zach. The boys had set off to surf the back beach just a few kilometres from the centre of town, close enough to ride their bikes. The surf was small, the water clear. When they first walked over the dune and saw the super trawler's net in the surf they had thought it was a shadow from a cloud but the sky above them was big and empty and blue. The size of the net mystified them. Its long inky shape stretched several hundred metres down the beach, so vast that it hardly seemed real; stranded on the bank, shifting back and forth in the surf, as if alive.
Apart from a jetski further around nearer the point, the boys were alone. Dan had wanted to ride back to town and let people know of the net but Zach wanted the chance to see it up close.
They paddled out on their surfboards, stood on the sandbank as they neared it, waded closer. Dan was scared. Put off by its size up close. Its slow, heavy movements in the surf. The shining scales beneath the netting and the smell of rancid flesh. But Zach had wanted to touch it. He was holding on to the floatline when
a wave came and the giant net distended as if breathing in and when the wave had passed Zach was gone. Never made a sound.
Two older boys were towing each other around in the beach breaks on the jetski, taking turns whipping into the small swells on surfboards. Dan had waved to them, cried out, but the older boys didn't hear him above the volume of the motor.
And Dan, just twelve years old, had paddled to the beach alone, the trawl net quiet behind him, the indifferent whine of the jetski in the distance.
THE FANS ON THE CEILING OF THE
church worked hard. It was dim inside, airless with the crowd of men dressed in sagging suits. Jowels slick with sweat.
Father Mobu gave a homily on Jonah and the great fish. Jesus had clung to that story, the priest told them. Jonah swallowed whole and resting in the gullet of the fish for three days, taken by the sea, before being delivered back to land. It was a story Jesus returned to often, he said. It gave him faith in the possibility of renewal in the aftermath of death.
Paul looked for Tess, Jungle's niece. She wasn't in the front pews. Not where Jungle sat leaning into Courtney, the big man limp, as if all his bones had been broken. Eventually he spotted her standing at the back of the church, leaning against the white brick in a short velvet dress. Tattoos on her right shin. He recognised her face from the photograph in Elliot's room. Later,
as Jungle and Richard and other men carried the coffin up the aisle towards the doors, he looked for her and she was gone.
After the service they drove to the inlet. Paul watched the younger men in their op shop suits or ill-fitted hand-me-downs. Black sunglasses. All stone-faced, hands clenched tightly in front of themselves, observing Hollywood convention.
They stood on the jetty. The wind blew the ashes back across everyone.
It was hard to look at Jungle, to witness how completely a parent could be undone by the death of a child. The rumour was that Jungle and Courtney would leave Stark for Perth. Paul tried to imagine renewal, how either of them could emerge from the guts of such a thing.
The wake was at Elmo's place. Michael, Shivani and Paul sat on the back lawn as the men drank beer to the edge of consciousness, fulfilling some apparent last stage of the process. Richard looked even more tired than normal. He grabbed Paul by the arm, told him to watch out for himself. There was talk going around, Richard said. He should avoid Roo Dog and Anvil best he could.
PAUL WALKED BACK TO THE HOUSE ALONE
, in the middle of the road, limbs numb from the beers. He sweated through the suit Ruth had lent him. It belonged to her husband. Fred was crawling alongside him in her squad vehicle, head out the driver-side window, before he even heard the engine sound.
Paul, she said.
Where have you been? he asked.
Fishing, she said, and cut the engine.
Yeah, sure, Paul said. It's been days.
I want to talk to that girl of your brother's, she said. Tess. Jump in.
Why? I don't even know her.
She's not cooperating. You're Elliot's brother. She might talk to you.
Paul climbed into the passenger seat. It was a strange feeling
to be sitting next to the police officer, in her car. He was suddenly aware of how drunk he was.
Fred was quiet as they took the road to the main highway, nine kilometres climbing out of Stark, the ocean growing big in the side mirror, the land low and beaten like a battlefield.
You think I'm right, he said. You think I'm right about Arthur's boat.
I don't know, she said. The girl might, though.
There was a long silence before she spoke again.
Cetus
. The bulk carrier. That's its name.
Cetus
, Paul repeated.
Flag of convenience ship. Russian crew.
How did you find out?
I went out there. I saw it. It was off the shipping routes, east of the shelf, right in the maze of reefs. It was as if it was looking for something. Lost cargo, I'm thinking. Something too valuable to leave behind.
Deadman
. You think they're looking for it too.
Fred nodded.
So what's happening? Can't you arrest them?
No.
But you told people? You told the authorities?
It doesn't work like that. This kind of thing takes a lot of resources. A lot of boxes need to be ticked. There's no coast guard in Western Australia. Just customs and the navy, and they're busy rounding up refugee boats for the PM. It's a political hassle to divert border patrol down here. Then you got the Organised Crime Squad. They have their hands full in the city. They want more information, more evidence, if they're going to sniff around up here, miles at sea.
Fuck.
Language, she said.
What about Elliot?
Deadman
? Roo Dog's gun?
Fred turned right at the highway.
Think about it, she said. You've got a lone copper in a town of eight hundred people calling up the feds. Customs think I'm some old nutter playing sheriff on her boat. Sounds like conspiracy theories to them. They need something solid. That's why we're speaking to Tess.
They didn't talk for the rest of the drive out to Notting, an hour's drive south and then east for another half hour. Away from the sea, out of the path of the wind, there was colour and height to everything. Peppermints and eucalypts. Dark greens and yellows. In Stark there was hardly a living thing above shoulder height, just spider orchids and smoke bush ducked behind dimples in the red sandstone as if avoiding gunfire.
Fred pulled into the thin unmarked road, shadowed by white gums. She parked in front of a fibro cottage. Fred got out and Paul walked slowly behind her on the gravel path, through the overgrown garden, wildflowers in the long grass. Bottlebrush and everlastings. Stood on the small porch. Fred knocked on the flyscreen.
They heard footsteps.
Tess opened the door, wincing as she put her face into the sunlight. Dark eyeliner. Pale. Thin-faced. Still in her dress from the funeral.
Who are you? Tess said, looking at Fred, then at the squad car on the verge.
Senior Sergeant Freda Harvey.
You're the new Stark copper.
Fred nodded.
I've already talked to another one of you. Gunston, or whatever his name was. I've talked to lots of people.
Paul looked beyond Tess to the dim, carpeted hallway. Imagined Elliot standing there.
Can we come in? Fred asked.
No.
Tess ignored her and turned to Paul. What about you? You come to sell me God or something?
No, he said.
Where did you get that suit? She looked him up and down. It's fucking awful.
I was at the funeral.
Her face flushed with suspicion.
We just want to talk, Fred said.
You don't want to talk. You want to ask questions.
Elliot, he said.
The police have already been up my arse about all that.
You told them nothing, Paul said.
Fred sighed.
I wasn't going to tell them shit, Tess said.
I'm his brother.
I figured, she said, looking him in the eye, jaw tensed.
Paul looked to Fred.
I don't know what you want from me, Tess said.
You've had contact with Reece Hopkins.
Roo Dog? Haven't bought off that horrible fucker in ages. I've kept my distance. Like I said, the police came down on me over all that. I've paid my dues.
I'm not here to bother you about whatever you've bought or not bought, Fred said. Your habit is not my concern.
Don't talk to me like that, Tess replied. She began to close the door.
You know something, Paul said.
Tess sighed. Nothing that will change anything.
But you know something. How could you not say anything?
It's not my business, Tess said, louder. I told you, I told the police everything I could. The rest, it's not my business.
She closed the door.
Paul looked at Fred. She stood a moment then turned back towards the car.
Paul watched the greenery recede on the drive back towards Stark, the bush giving way to stone. He shielded his eyes from the lowering sun and the windblown ocean west, the horizon white as hot iron.
You hungry? asked Fred.
Paul shrugged.
Well, she said. I am hungry.
They pulled into the roadhouse south of town, sat in the empty dining room. Red carpet. Chequered. Jukebox in the corner, unplugged.
Wish that girl would talk, Fred said, almost speaking to herself.
Maybe she's afraid, he said, tiredly. She's scared of Roo Dog.
You know they're related? Tess and Reece. Same mum.
Roo Dog is her brother? Paul said, sitting up.
She wouldn't be alive otherwise. The debt she is in.
Paul leant on his elbows, hands in his hair. Tried to process it all. They sat in silence. He thought about the cottage, its dark hallway. Felt already hungover from the wake earlier that afternoon.
The counter hand put down the plates. Porterhouse steak in front of Fred. Chips in front of Paul.
There you are, the girl said, and walked back to the kitchen.
Paul took a chip. Fred unwrapped the napkin from around her cutlery, placed it over her lap.
What kind of gun is it? he said, glancing around the table at her duty belt, wanting to talk about something else.
Glock 22.
Fred picked up her knife and fork.
You ever shot it?
Of course, she said.
Not during training and things. I meant, have you ever shot a person?
I know what you meant, she said. She looked at her plate. Yes, she said eventually.
Kill them?
She rolled her eyes. Can I eat?
You've killed someone, Paul said.
Two, she said. It was two people.
Fuck.
Language.
Fred sawed through the steak.
Sorry, he said. It's justâwho?
Father and son back east, in Sydney. Drug family.
Paul resisted the urge to curse again. What happened?
We were doing a bust, she said. Fred shook her head. It was them or me.
Is that why you're here? Why you left Sydney?
She laughed. I'm not your sob story copper, kiddo. Nothing about that keeps me awake at night.
You thought it would be easier, Paul said. You thought it would be easier working in a small town. Like Gunston did.
Fred shook her head. Rural beats are always hard. I knew that. Police work in a fishbowl. She chewed and swallowed. It was
Robert's idea. He thought the sea air would be good for his lungs. Fred tapped her chest with the back of her hand. Sea air doesn't do it, it turns out. Oncologist was spot on. Lasted six months.
ON FRIDAY AFTERNOON THEY FISHED
the coral grounds twenty miles out. The wind up. Surf foaming on the reefs around them.
Arcadia
slowed on a pot, idled. Jake yelled down. Paul looked to the upper deck, saw the skipper's arm stretched over the railing, index finger pointing westward. In the middle distance he could make out the markers, like figures standing on the surface. A coral head or a shipwreck beneath them. There were three of them. The one in the middle thicker around its top half. An irregular clump. Like something had become caught on it, or was tied to it. It looked like drapes from a distance. A decoration.