‘L
eft turn?’
They were in the city. It had taken them two hours to get there. Nathan was holding the mud map his father had drawn for the trip. The bigger map was opened up between them, on the middle console. His father glanced at it.
‘Left,’ Nathan said, reading from his dad’s map.
‘And then left again?’
‘Yes.’
‘Street name?’
‘Ha–ay–te. . .Hat-ter, Hatter?’
‘I think we’ve got this nailed.’
A notice on the co-op door told them it was shut. They had an hour before it was due to open. It was eleven a.m. Monday. Nathan thought about explaining the Fanta can technique, but he couldn’t really see his dad throwing empty cans at windows.
Not many businesses in the area were open. They walked around the streets. It was overcast. They had jackets on. Drizzly rain began to fall.
They made their way back to the car. Sat in silence.
‘You learn things fast, like your mum,’ his dad said, out of the blue. ‘A good memory for things.’
‘The home schooler said that because I was read to up until I was four it helps with my learning.’
‘She said that?’
‘She says when it comes to a person’s brain the important years are younger than anyone can imagine. As a baby. She said it’s how much love you get then that matters. One and two are really important. You make all the big connections then. Your ability to learn happens then, too. Even the way you react to things. It’s all decided when you’re tiny.’
A gentle smile lifted his father’s face. ‘She sounds like a good teacher.’
The co-op’s roller door rattled up. Behind it was a small foyer. Hog was in sweatpants and a jumper with the co-op logo on it. He had on slippers and a beanie. He carried out an ice-cream sign and set it up by the light pole. He scuffed up the steps, through the foyer, and back inside.
Nuts must have arrived without them noticing. Jogged up the alleyway, perhaps, gone in the back door. He was flushed, dressed in a T-shirt and rolled-up trackpants. The ends of his hair were damp with sweat. He greeted them as they walked inside.
‘G’day there.’
‘Hello,’ Nathan’s dad said. ‘You must be Hog?’
‘I’m Nuts.’
Nuts hadn’t recognised Nathan. Hog walked up. He didn’t recognise Nathan either.
‘Hello, Hog?’
Hog and Nathan’s dad shook hands.
‘What can I help you with?’
‘I’m Mitch Fisher.’
It didn’t click. They summed him up. Eyed him head to toe. Nathan guessed Hog and Nuts wouldn’t see a lot of moleskin pants and cable knit jumpers in the gym. Not many farm boots. The downstairs lights were on. The place smelled of disinfectant, less like feet this time. Winter seemed to have cooled things down.
‘You’ve met my son, Nathan.’
‘We see a few kids.’
‘Nathan
Fisher
.’
Hog’s and Nuts’ faces opened up and their arms folded in. ‘Oh.’
‘He said he met you both. I hope you don’t mind us dropping in.’
‘Changed much?’ Nuts said to Nathan.
Nathan’s father smiled, looked at Nathan too. ‘He’s put on weight pretty quick.’
‘Middleweight.’
‘Probably so. In time.’
‘Quick time, I’d say.’
‘Can we talk somewhere?’
‘You wouldn’t pick it,’ Hog said, ‘but Mondays are busy for us.’
‘Just a quick chat?’
‘We got somethin’ startin’ real soon.’
Hog had slouched back into himself. His arms had not shifted off his chest. Nuts had loosened one arm, was scratching his ear, rubbing his neck.
‘We don’t want to hold you up. We wanted to ask about William.’
‘Billy,’ Nathan said.
Two teenage boys came in through the foyer. The boys whooped and whistled.
‘There you go.’ Hog waved in that direction. ‘It’s startin’ already.’
‘We were wondering if you could help us find him.’
‘Fizza!’ Hog hollered. ‘Pull it together!’
The whooping and whistling stopped. Another teenage boy came in.
‘Nathan thought you might know where we can find him.’
‘He said I could find him through here,’ Nathan said.
‘We ain’t seen him.’
‘We’d like to help,’ Nuts said.
‘But we ain’t seen him.’
‘He didn’t leave a message?’
‘Nope.’
Nuts discreetly shook his head.
The boys turned music on. One of them started skipping. More boys came through the doors.
‘Could we come back at a better time?’
‘Different day ain’t gonna change it.’
Nathan’s dad parked in front of the kiosk out on the road and they walked up through the gates into Newhaven Hill Caravan Park. The grounds were smaller than Nathan remembered them. It hadn’t been that long since he’d been there, eight months, but the dirt track seemed narrower and the gumtrees not as tall. Scotty’s house was more like a shack than a home. He’d taken down the bedsheet curtain. In its place was an orange blanket. Under the carport the same two cars were up on bricks. Everything was wet. It was cold, grey and quiet. A few magpies warbled. The gravel track crunched damply underfoot. His dad went around to Scotty’s kitchen door, where the office sign was pointing. He knocked and came back down the step and stood on the path with Nathan.
A couple of rusty tyre rims leaned up against a soggy cardboard box on Scotty’s lawn. You could hear the TV on inside the house. Nathan was smiling before Scotty opened the door. He didn’t disappoint: his small frame and pinched-in expression, glasses, jeans and thongs, a T-shirt with a car on it. Scotty was like a rabbit in Nathan’s mind. Spoke like a rabbit. Jumpy, like one.
‘Yeah, what?’
He was speaking from behind the wire door.
‘Hi there, my name is Mitch Fisher. I was wondering if I could have a word?’
‘Yeah?’
‘From what I believe you’ve met my son, Nathan?’
‘Hey?’
Scotty opened the wire door. He pushed his glasses up his nose and peered at Nathan. He then swung his eyes to Nathan’s father’s face, looking, it seemed, for signs of aggression. A small bright smile lit Scotty’s face.
He held the door wide.
‘Jeez, hell, hey. Bugger me. Come in. I wasn’t expecting this. Mitch, you said? Scotty. Nice to meet you.’ They shook hands. ‘Seen you on the TV. You’re a big bugger, aren’t you? I got the heater on. Hey, Nathan, how are you? It’s real good you’ve dropped in. Sit down, sit down.’
The fruit bowl had grapefruits in it. The red toolbox was there, the table and foam-filled cushions on the chairs, the board with all the keys. Lino floor. It was warm. The hallway door was closed. Nathan couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. His dad kept looking at him.
‘I’ll get you a cuppa. You wanna hot drink, Nathan?’
‘A cordial please, Scotty.’
After going through and turning off the TV, Scotty made the drinks and sat down. All the while he talked about how pleased he was they’d come.
‘I’ve talked enough to the police. If I don’t ever see another copper again in me entire friggin’ life it’ll be too soon.’
Nathan’s father was relaxed. He had one hand around the mug of coffee and leaned forward on the table, held Scotty’s gaze.
The conversation somehow turned to cars. They talked about broughams. Ford Gran Torinos. Scotty was saying he knew someone who had traded a yellow 1965 Galaxie 500 on a Torino GT hardtop. Nathan hadn’t known his dad could talk so fast.
‘Can I use your toilet, Scotty?’
‘Don’t reckon it’d be much of a visit if you didn’t.’ He gave Nathan a knowing smile.
The poster of the woman was gone. A new poster was in its place. This woman was blonde. She was kneeling in the sand, naked. Not even the beach backdrop could elevate the picture to something special. It was all to do with the woman’s eyes. They weren’t saying anything. No fearlessness. No devil glint. Nathan turned around and peed, even though he didn’t really need to, had to stand there for a while before it happened.
When he went out, the conversation had switched to Billy.
‘Wish he did,’ Scotty was saying, ‘but he hasn’t been within cooee. He’s got it in his head that the cops will pile everything on him. He won’t even go to his mum’s.’
‘Is she still in the caravan park?’
‘She’s moved out. He’s visited her at the new place, but won’t stay there. His mum and me haven’t always seen eye to eye, but she’s trying this time. I suppose. We’ll see. She wants him there with her. He tells her, though, that the cops will find him, same thing if he comes here. He’s rattled. Doing it tough, I think.’
Nathan sat back down.
‘Is there some way we could get in contact with him?’ Nathan’s dad asked.
‘I could tell his mum to mention you came to see him. He rings her pretty regular.’
‘Nathan would like to talk to him. We’re going to tell the truth about the shooting.’
‘Ah, okay, I see.’
‘If they tell their story together, I don’t think Billy is going to get in any trouble.’
‘That’s gotta be what has to happen. It can’t go on like it has been. Billy’s not gonna come around easy, though. It’s not just the cops; he’s paranoid about the church too. It sounds stupid, I know.’
‘Is he in Queensland?’ Nathan asked.
‘He did mention something about Queensland. I think he musta given whatever money he had to his mum. She’s been buying up big for the baby. Be just like Billy to give it to her. Just like her to ask for it too,’ Scotty muttered. ‘He’s not interstate.’
‘You’ve got no idea where he might be?’
‘My guess, he’s sleeping rough. Moving around. Other than me and his mum, I can’t think of anyone he knows who wouldn’t sell him out for a packet of smokes, or to get on the good side of the cops, or who isn’t tied up with the Mission.’
‘Could we go and see his mum?’ Nathan’s dad asked.
‘Hmm, not sure she’d be up for that. She might feel a bit shit, you know? I’d have to check. She’s pretty guilty about it all and that.’
Nathan’s dad frowned. ‘About covering for Nathan? We know he did it. We’re not angry that anyone tried to help him.’
Scotty pinched his nose and looked down. Sneaked a look at Nathan. ‘Probably more about things way back then. Looking back, I reckon she thinks she could have done a bit more.’
‘Is there anywhere else we could try?’ Nathan asked.
Scotty tapped his teeth and thought. He danced his fingertips on his lips. ‘I don’t think so. I’m just trying to remember stuff his mum’s said. She reckons he talks like he’s losing it. Saying he’s being followed and he can’t go out, stuff like that. Says he’s changed the way he looks so no one will recognise him. It might have all caught up with him, I think. Billy can’t see it, but if he starts talking, everyone’s gonna listen. He’s got some stuff to say, all right. About the Mission mainly. If you’re next to him, Nathan, the Mission can’t knock him down; they won’t be able to touch him. Someone’s gotta get that through to Billy, though.’
‘I’ll leave my number. If you could tell his mum we’re going to set the shooting straight. Tell her Nathan’s still got his clothes from then. There’s going to be evidence. It’s all pretty clear.’
‘Okay, yeah, I’ll tell her.’
‘And see if she wouldn’t mind us going to see her.’
‘I’ll ask.’
Nathan had been staring off to the side, thinking about something Scotty had said, or all the things together . . . a person not linked to the Mission . . . Billy staying in . . . changing his appearance. Nathan looked up.
‘I think I know where he is.’
The more Nathan thought about it, the surer he was.
Keeping low
. Obvious.
They got up to leave. Nathan stopped next to Scotty, leaned in to speak to him.
‘You had a different poster up in the toilet last time I was here.’
Nathan’s father was standing by the door, trying not to interfere or seem thrown by Nathan’s private words to Scotty. You could see it affected Nathan’s father, though. He stuck his hands in his pockets, dropped his head, looked wounded for a moment.
Scotty kept his ear close to Nathan’s mouth, frowned and shook his head. Then a grin lit up his face. ‘January,’ he whispered back. ‘You’re lucky I liked the detailing on the car. Stay here.’
Nathan’s dad pushed his hands deeper into his pockets. He glanced at the folded-up poster when Scotty returned with it.
Scotty slipped it into Nathan’s hand.
‘Good taste, I must say.’
On the way down the path, Nathan’s father looked again at the folded poster. Nathan didn’t know how to explain it, he felt too unsure to even put the poster under his jumper and protect it from the light rain. He kept it down beside his leg, pretended he didn’t have it.
In the kiosk, while his dad ordered pies for lunch, Nathan stuffed the poster up under his jumper, held it there with his arm – as casually as he could manage – across his tummy. He was careful getting into the car, not wanting to bend or crease it any more. Quickly, while his dad walked around to the driver’s side, Nathan took the poster out and stashed it under his seat. He sat up.
Nathan ate his pie. His dad opened up the map to look for the best route to the beach. They had Big M milks. They didn’t talk.
F
ootpaths were cleared of outdoor dining. People were eating inside the restaurants, in the warmth. Cold ocean wind cut through Nathan’s clothes and chilled him. Stung his cheeks. Made his eyes water. It whipped the colour from his father’s lips. They walked past the barbershop, past a footpath sign with pictures of Vern’s artwork on it. One was a small reproduction of the Silver Wave picture. Nathan’s dad motioned to it.
‘It says to go up the stairwell at rear.’
‘That’s right.’
When they got to the alleyway, Nathan’s dad checked behind them.
‘Is this artist guy a big fella?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he hurt you?’
‘No.’
‘Should you wait in one of the shops?’
‘Billy won’t know you. He won’t trust you.’
Vern’s brown van was parked beside the steel stairwell. Nathan and his dad climbed the steps. No seagulls about. Roar of sea and sky.
Nathan’s dad slid the glossy door open.
It was warm inside the studio. The fans were rotating slowly, pushing heated air down. Vern was painting at an easel. He was dressed in loose baggy pants and a knitted poncho. The smell of paint and turpentine was strong.
Vern called out, ‘Welcome. Please look around.’
Nathan kept his head down to avoid being recognised. Vern continued painting. The kitchen door down the back of the studio was shut. Nathan started towards it.
They wandered past large artworks. Wound their way around easels displaying finished paintings. Prices were written on hanging tags, gently fluttering in the moving air. All boys. In every painting. Most of them with naked torsos, some with bare backsides. Nathan could feel his father’s hackles rise. There was one painting that caused him to do a double take. At a glance the boy looked like Nathan. The boy was sitting in a gutter. Shirtless, solemn expression, a hairstyle similar to the one Nathan had when he was found. Nathan’s hair had been cut even across the fringe now. The sides and back were still short. His face wasn’t as gaunt anymore. It did seem, though, that his face was naturally bony.
‘Is it you?’ his dad whispered.
‘No.’
‘Did he paint you?’
‘No.’
‘Happy to look?’ Vern called. They were getting close to the kitchen door. He put down his brush.
‘We’re good,’ Nathan’s dad called back.
Vern got up.
His dad left Nathan’s side, walked to meet Vern.
‘I wouldn’t mind you talking me through this one over here.’
When they went behind the easel, Nathan made his way quickly to the kitchen door.
His heart hammered. He could sense, just
knew
, Billy was in there.
A piece of canvas had been hung over the window. The kitchen was dim because of it. A bar heater down on the floor glowed red. The smell in there wasn’t right for Billy. It was cold takeaway, body odour, the worst type of cigarette smell – tar and chemicals that seeped into skin and hair and nails – and another smell Nathan couldn’t place, earthy, fungus-like, not pleasant. The couch was strewn with clothes. The floor had greasy wrappers and pizza boxes on it. On the sink was a tobacco tin containing a row of roughly rolled small cigarettes. Beside that was a plastic bottle filled with dirty water, a piece of pipe pushed through it.
Billy was on the bed behind the door. He was on his side, facing the wall, lying on top of the blanket, in jeans and nothing else, legs curled, spine showing, shoulder blades protruding, shrinking muscles, a still-red scar running down the back of his arm, and a head of close-cropped hair. He hadn’t woken. Nathan felt a rise of panic, fear for his friend. This room, Nathan knew. This bed, he knew. The blanket, the empty plate on the floor, the poor light, the faint smell of urine. Nathan wasn’t recalling the kitchen from the last time he’d been in it; he was seeing the room for what it really was. Billy’s backroom.
Billy woke. He swallowed. You could hear it, a dry and sticky throat. He turned on the bed, squinted bleary-eyed at Nathan.
‘He wants us in the studio,’ he croaked. ‘Wait out there.’
Billy sat up, put his legs over the side of the bed, hands either side of him, head down, looking at his knees. With his short hair he looked finer-boned and frailer.
‘Fuck off, I said. Let me wake up.’
‘Billy, it’s me.’
He shaded his eyes, as though the weak light coming through the canvas was too much.
‘Kid?’
Nathan hadn’t shut the door. His ears had been ringing, now the ringing faded enough for him to hear his father’s voice in the studio. ‘I want you to call the police. Do it,’ he was saying.
‘What’s going on?’ Billy said. ‘Who’s that? Who have you brought here?’ Billy grabbed a fistful of blanket and pulled it up over his shoulders.
‘It’s my dad.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘We’ve come to let you know that we’re telling the police.’
Billy got up, the blanket slipped from him. He went across and took the tin and bottle from the sink, put them in the cupboard. Nathan went to the couch, picked up a T-shirt, held it out for Billy. Billy didn’t take the top; he eyed Nathan’s body, his clothes, his hair, his shoes.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I have to tell the police.’
In the studio, an easel or large painting dropped with a loud bang.
‘I know people,’ Vern was saying. ‘You’re making a very big mistake.’
‘I don’t care if you know the fucking queen.’
‘That’s your dad?’
‘Yes.’
Billy breathed out, snatched the T-shirt from Nathan’s hand. ‘Fucking hell.’
‘Nathan?’ his dad called. ‘You all right?’
‘We’re okay.’
Getting up and moving around had made Billy short of breath. And dizzy. He leaned on the table for support. There were dark circles under his eyes, bruising around his biceps, a red mark on his shoulder, one on his neck. He regained his balance and coldly surveyed Nathan again.
‘You don’t know what you’re doing. Vern will kick me out.’
Billy turned away, went to the sink and washed his hands, splashed his face. He used his T-shirt to dry himself. The act of washing weakened him again. He sat down on a kitchen chair.
Nathan’s dad pushed the door wider and turned on the light. Billy covered his eyes, blinded by the high-watt globe.
‘You okay, Nathan?’
‘Yes.’
‘Vern says he’s ringing the police, so that should be good.’
Billy kept his face shaded, swung his head and muttered, ‘Fucking hell.’
Nathan’s dad held Nathan’s gaze.
With the light on it was clearer what the room had been. A cell.
In amongst the clothes, Nathan found a jumper. Under the bed were Billy’s sneakers. Nathan reached and got them out. Nathan’s dad followed Billy into the studio. Billy went to the windows. He was looking for any sign of the police. Vern was hovering nearby, not too close, though. He might be solidly built, but if it came down to a fistfight, Nathan’s dad would win. Vern knew it too. Nathan took the jumper and shoes to Billy. He’d sat down in a brown leather armchair. It was a high-backed, crafted piece of furniture, a prop for paintings. As Billy put on the sneakers and pulled on the top, the fluidity worked its way into his body. His voice lost the croak.
‘If the cops come it’s because you called them,’ he said accusingly.
His number one habit returned: he looked around for his smokes. Remembering seeing them, Nathan returned to the room to get them for him. He came back out and handed the packet of smokes to Billy. The lighter was inside the packet. Billy took out a smoke and lit it. Sucked in hard.
Vern went into the kitchen. They could hear him there, opening cupboards and moving things about. Billy settled deeper into the chair.
‘Terrific you feel better for warning me, but you can piss off now.’
‘We’re telling the police I shot your dad.’
‘Happy days for you.’
‘William,’ Nathan’s dad said, ‘we had to come. Nathan has to talk. We know you’ve done nothing wrong. You don’t have to hide. Nathan can clear your name.’
‘He can do that, can he? Well, fuck me.’
‘The only way to stop the police blaming you is if we talk,’ Nathan said.
‘That’s gonna work real good for you and real shit for me.’
Vern walked past with a plastic bag of rubbish from the kitchen. Billy tried to catch his eye. Vern didn’t look across.
Billy switched to stare blindly out the window, his nose wrinkled. ‘You’ve told me. I know. You’ve done the right thing. Off you go.’
‘Scotty says the Mission won’t be able to touch you if you stand up next to me and say it.’
‘Scotty doesn’t know the Mission. He’s got no fucking clue. None of you have. The cops
are
the Mission. Vern is the only one they can’t touch, because he knows the next rung up. And you’ve just fucked that up for me. If you don’t believe me . . .’ He looked up at Nathan’s dad, pointed his cigarette to a wall covered in photographs. In one of the pictures Vern was on the steps of the Opera House. He was bowing in front of Queen Elizabeth. In other photos he was posing with TV stars and singers, politicians. ‘Not so clever now, hey?’
Nathan’s father stared across at the photos.
‘Come with us, Billy,’ Nathan said. ‘It feels like you can’t leave, but you can. The police know you were at the market. They’re making up how it happened. They’re saying you lit the fire. They’re saying you planned to kill your dad.’
‘And that’s exactly my fucking point.’
‘How about this . . .’ Nathan’s father said. He lowered his voice and crouched in front of Billy. ‘I can ring someone who was a detective but isn’t now. He knows people in the media. He was high up in the force and knows how it works. What if I can get him to meet us, and we can go together to a news station, straight to a paper? He’ll get you on the news, in print, before the police can lay any charges, or take you away, arrest you. Say whatever it is they’re trying to stop you from saying, say whatever you have to about this man, don’t hold back, and it’ll be out there. There’s no reason to chase you if you’ve said it, nothing will be gained from keeping you quiet if you’ve already spoken. It’ll be out. They might keep trying to charge you with things, but everyone will question what they say.’
Billy didn’t immediately dismiss it. He blinked fast and wide a few times.
‘The man is a friend,’ Nathan’s father pressed, seeing he almost had him. ‘He was in charge at the start of the case. He knows it top to bottom, but he’s out, out of the force. He won’t ring the police. I know he won’t. Use that against these people,’ Nathan’s father said, pointing at the pictures on the wall, ‘everyone will listen because of that. You’ll have Nathan backing you up. This ex-detective can get the biggest reporters onto it. He’ll get it on the news tonight.’
‘It won’t make any difference. They’ll find a way.’
‘It’s all going to come out anyway. If you move first you’re ahead of them.’
‘Don’t you hate me?’ Billy said suddenly to Nathan’s father. ‘Why are you trying to help me? Don’t you know what I did?’
‘I know.’
‘So leave me alone. Don’t pretend you wanna help me.’
‘If we’re not blaming you, Billy,’ Nathan’s father said. ‘I don’t see how you can keep blaming yourself.’
Billy’s hand trembled on the way to his lips. He swallowed the smoke more than drawing it in.
Nathan’s dad stood up. He went to the desk against the wall, picked up the phone, dialled. He stared flatly when Vern appeared and began to approach. He said across at him, ‘Well, come on, keep on coming, have a go.’
Vern didn’t. He folded his arms and just watched.
Nathan’s dad turned his back on Vern, kept his voice down. Nathan heard him say Gerard’s name, heard the beach mentioned.
‘And no police,’ he finished the call with. ‘Okay.’
How Nathan wished there was a way to lock Vern in the kitchen, like he’d locked Joe in the backroom. Then Vern might start to understand. Then he might finally get it. The kitchen walls might start to feel like bars to him. If no one came when he banged and screamed, if no one heard his cries, if they walked past the window and never looked up, he’d have to start to see. Or probably not. Vern was using Billy’s fear even now, using Billy’s hesitation, twisting that; Vern opened the studio door, slid it as wide as it would go, cold air flooded in, he put his hands on his hips and stood back, as though blameless, completely faultless, as good as saying,
The boy doesn’t even want to leave, the kid can’t have minded too much if he doesn’t want to go
.
Billy walked slowly to the door.
He had to stop and take a breath before stepping out onto the staircase landing.
‘I won’t be able to tell them everything.’
‘Tell them as much as you can.’
‘You won’t bail on me?’
‘I promise I won’t.’
‘He’ll know,’ Billy said, looking at Nathan, ‘Jason will find out I’m not normal.’
‘I think he’ll see how normal you really are.’
A chicken or a tiger, it was hard for both to leave their cages.