I think I’ve finally figured out the deal with the house.
Basically, it’s a bus terminal for small-time distributors, the grunts in this little army. Ando and Snowie call in from time to time, usually only long enough to drop off a package. Kevin hangs at the house, goes out when he gets something to deliver to his cadre or when he needs a break. Barry’s name is on the lease, but he’s never home. His room is just a front. That room, and the caravan, are just way stations for the small privates like Reggie and Dil and Jules, whose own homes are so bad or whose lives are so erratic that they sometimes need a place to crash. As the go-to guy, I qualify as a sergeant in the ranks. Kevin uses his status to boss the kids around. I mainly use it to give myself some privacy.
A few nights ago I met Steph, the other member of our motley household. Walking back from the kitchen with a bowl of cereal – I seem to be living on Weet-Bix a fair bit these days – I noticed the door after the bathroom, the one closest to mine, was ajar. It’s been closed tight with a padlock on every other day. My curiosity got the better of me, and I poked my head in for a gander.
The walls were dark with the curtains drawn, crap everywhere. A full set of motorbike leathers lay draped over the back of a chair, a bike helmet perched on the seat. Someone was sitting on a mattress on the floor, lit by a desk lamp. At first I thought it was another bloke, but then the person looked up from the thick hardback book in their lap and I realised it was a girl.
‘Yes?’ Definitely Indigenous, with a sinewy look, her black hair was chopped rough around her face like she’d done it herself with blunt scissors.
I found myself caught on the back foot. ‘Ah, hey. Sorry. Didn’t know anyone was –’
‘I got that.’ Her expression was parched dry. ‘Who’re you?’
‘Harris.’ I detached a hand from my bowl to wave. ‘Hi.’
‘Steph,’ she said.
‘Right. Nice to meet ya.’
‘Sure.’ She put the book aside – the mattress was covered in paperwork – and got up to walk over. For a second, I thought she was gonna shake my hand. ‘Harris, you said?’
‘Uh, yeah.’
‘Okay. Stay the hell outta my room, Harris.’
She closed the door in my face.
When I tell Reggie about it later, he laughs his head off.
‘Ah, fucking Steph, she’s a classic.’ He guffaws as we walk. ‘Snowie probably told you she’s a hooker or something, did he?’
I shrug. Snowie had certainly implied that much.
Reggie laughs harder. ‘Steph’s not a hooker, mate. She’s a driver. Drives down to Melbourne in the little van, grabs a package, drives back up. Or she goes on the motorbike. And get this – she’s studying. Goes to night classes and stuff.’
So I’m not the only person in the house who’s trying to do something meaningful while surrounded by shit. I file that info for later examination, keep following Reggie. Over the last week and a half I must’ve heard him whinge twenty million times about how nobody would have a kick with him. Today I finally relented, said I’d walk up to the Mildura South footy ground and keep him company.
He badgers me the whole way, practically skipping with excitement. ‘Who d’ya go for?’
‘Brought up a Magpie. Me dad’s a Magpie.’ I shrug. ‘But mixed loyalties, hey. Me mum’s from Adelaide. I should probably support the Crows.’
‘Shit. You can’t support the Crows, mate.’ Reggie makes a face as we come in sight of the ground. ‘You should do what I do. Screw everybody and barrack for Essendon.’
I snort. ‘You’re a Bombers man?’
‘Underdog team, that’s me.’ Reggie grins. ‘They’re in the doghouse now, eh? Not to worry, they’ll be back.’
Underdog team. Yeah, right. I squint at his dark complexion. ‘How are you a Reggie? You don’t look like a Reggie.’
He points a thumb at himself. ‘Recep. Reggie. Same diff, yeah?’
‘Shouldn’t you be playing soccer, Recep?’
‘Fuck off. Soccer’s for wogs.’ He bounds ahead, rattling the fence as he gets to it. ‘You can’t climb, can ya? No worries. There’s a low place we can skip over.’
It’s actually a relief to get out of the house. The fuggy smells and sounds of Amblin Court seep under the door to my room, get under my skin. But I’m outside now and the day is cold and fresh. A brittle sun makes the details of the Mildura South footy ground snap into focus. Reggie shows where we can slip over the fence, then we’re tooling around out on the ground.
Reggie isn’t one of those cute kids you see on Tourism Australia ads. His face is narrow. He’s got thin lips, and he’s all skinny arms and legs. He’s got good eyes – big, and so dark they’re almost black – but they’re his standout feature. The rest of him is just average.
But shit, can he play footy. I handball it to him, he receives on the fly, kicks it a mile, runs to fetch it back. Most kids his age can’t kick over a jam jar, but Reggie has real power in those little sticks of his. He’s fast, does a good feint, and talks strategy like a pro. If he was playing in the local league I’d back him for sure.
He seems more like a kid when he’s doing this. When he slouches in at the house – watching TV with Kevin, picking up whatever he’s come to pick up, shooting the breeze with Steph in the kitchen – he seems older. He’s got a good line in bullshit patter. He flops on the couch, smoking cigarettes he’s cadged and making snarky commentary, for all the world like a street-smart kingpin. But now, watching him drop the ball onto his boot, kick it like he’s in the Grand Final, gallop around with a grin on his face accepting the imaginary applause of the MCG crowd, I can see how young he really is.
I dump my cane to do a bit of receiving, nod my chin at him. ‘Why d’you throw down with Ando all the time? I mean, you don’t seem like a complete idiot. But around him you act like you’re looking to get your head smacked in.’
‘Ando’s a dickhead.’ Reggie shrugs, kicks unerringly.
The ball lands right in my hands. ‘Jesus. Stop the press.’
Reggie laughs. ‘I dunno. He’s too easy. I mean, what, he’s gonna get upset about something I said? And he’s so up himself. Just cos Leon gives him private jobs he thinks he’s King Shit.’
I handball back, my Spidey senses tingling. ‘What kinda private jobs?’
‘You read the papers?’ Reggie glances at me, rolls the ball laces-up to drop another shot. ‘Gotta read the papers around here, mate.’
‘What?’ I almost fumble the catch.
Reggie lopes over, pulls a folded newssheet out of the back of his jeans, shoves it in my direction. It’s a page from a recent copy of the Sunraysia Daily. ‘Check it out.’
I read the headline on the page Reggie’s folded over. ‘Man hospitalised after home invasion. What’s this?’
Reggie waggles his eyebrows. ‘Not a break-in, that’s for sure. Your fella, Ando. That’s his work.’
‘Ando’s not my fella,’ I say, distracted. I scan the first paragraph of the article. ‘This guy got a punctured lung? Christ.’
Reggie whisks the newspaper away, tucks it down the back of his jeans again and covers it with his T-shirt. ‘Just so’s you know, yeah? It’s not all beers at the club. You’re playing with the big boys now.’
‘I knew that.’ I nod, but my forehead’s creased, I can feel it. ‘I mean, yeah. I knew that. We’re not in Kansas anymore.’
‘What?’ Reggie screws up his nose.
‘Forget it.’
‘Just…’ Reggie scans around before looking at me. ‘Watch it, okay? Ando’s risen up the ranks real fast around here. Now he does the tidying up for Leon. Someone gets shirty, Ando straightens them out. Someone can’t pay, Ando makes sure they pay. I heard he knocked a bloke in Buronga. When Leon wants something done, Ando gets it done.’
‘He knocked a bloke?’
Reggie makes a little gun-finger, shoots it at the turf. ‘Fffttt. You’re gone. They send you back to Five Mile in a box.’ He slaps my shoulder with his gun hand, grins. ‘Hey, don’t get the wind up. Just passing on useful info. Go back to Flamingos tonight and give Snowie a smile, eh?’
‘Yeah, sure.’ But these new facts have my mind running fast. I thought Mick the Leb was Leon’s muscle, but maybe that’s not the real story. Mick must be just Leon’s security. Ando is the real standover man. And, on special occasions, the hit man. The sarge will wanna hear about it – but do I need proof or something first? I can’t just go on hearsay, can I?
And if Ando’s that heavy, what’s Reggie doing stirring him up?
I catch Reggie’s eye. ‘You should watch out, too. Unless you wanna end up with something punctured yourself. Hospital, mate – s’not all it’s cracked up to be, I can tell you.’
Reggie laughs. ‘I look after meself. I can play the good boy – and I can run a lot fucking faster than Ando can. What about you, though?’
‘Hey, I’m Teflon.’ I tap my chest. ‘All the shit slides off.’
Reggie’s eyes get serious. ‘What about bullets? They slide off, too?’
All of a sudden the day looks less bright.
Things pick up, though. I do two late deliveries, and the last package of the evening is to a guy at a house in Red Cliffs who sends back a handwritten note that seems to make the bossman happy. He leans back in his chair at the metal desk with his hands behind his head, massive elbows out, looking frighteningly like Jabba the Hutt in a party mood.
‘Finally,’ Leon says. ‘Some fucking good news.’
The sweat stains under his armpits are like dark maws. I try not to stare. Bass from the club is deadening the carpet beneath my feet and light from the streetlamp outside filters in strips through the filthy blinds.
‘Here ya go.’ Leon releases his hands, reaches down to his desk drawer and comes out with a thick multi-coloured bundle. ‘Bonus points. And if you’re as smart as I think you are, you’ll listen to this pearl of wisdom – don’t go blowing it all at once.’
He tosses me the bundle. Small bills, but a lot of them. There’s about a grand there. That’s my car paid off, and another payment on Dad’s debt. I can almost taste the flavour of release.
‘I won’t.’ I look from the bundle to Leon. ‘I mean, I won’t blow it. I got a use for it.’
‘So I hear.’ Leon looks at me speculatively.
I stopped feeling like I want to piss my pants in Leon’s presence a while ago, but this comment makes me swallow. What does he hear? From who? I’m writing a mental list of what Snowie, or Ando – or even Reggie – might have said about me.
I try not to feel the prickle in my shoulder blades when I shrug. ‘Got bills to pay, hey.’
‘Not your bills, though.’ Leon’s eyes are beady. ‘You don’t gamble.’
I’m gambling right now, aren’t I? ‘Yeah, well, the bookie doesn’t care where the money comes from, so long as he gets what he’s owed. Thanks for this.’
Leon doesn’t say You’re welcome. He just inclines his head. I make a quick escape, find Snowie talking on his phone outside the club.
‘Ando’s at the tatt place getting a touch-up.’ Snowie snaps his phone back into his pocket, sees my expression. ‘Not that kind of touch-up, ya dirty bastard. Come on, it’s a few blocks down.’
We catch up with Barry at the Mildura Hotel, where he’s sinking a few beers to line his stomach in preparation for more alcohol later, then wander past the palm-treed traffic island to the corner of Eighth Street. The little shop Snowie’s heading for is flanked by another op shop and a place that sells bikes. It’s black on the outside: all the dark glass reflects the red and green and white flaring from headlights, stop signs. Barry spits into the the street and lopes behind Snowie, tugs my sleeve to follow.
In spite of my man-of-the-world attitude, I have never actually been inside a tattoo parlour before. The place is small, a long corridor with checkered lino on the floor, a counter on the left and vinyl waiting seats on the right. On the wall above the seats, laminated pictures of tatts are displayed in all their razor-sharp colourful glory: cars, tribals, Japanese waves, titty girls, fauna and flora.
The long counter separates the walk-in area from the business side of things. It looks like a barber’s shop, that part. I see mirrors, a bench of white melamine holding neatly shining equipment, racks of ink bottles, desk lamps, white hand towels. A bloke with shaggy ginger hair, wearing latex gloves, is hunched over Ando’s stuck-out leg. Ando’s in a black tank and trackie pants, sitting in what looks a helluva lot like a dentist’s chair, getting work done. The buzz of the needle is loud, like a really big pissed off mosquito, and the tattooist moves smoothly: buzz, wipe, buzz, wipe.
‘How’s it going, mate?’ Snowie leans over the counter to check out the action.
‘S’going good.’ Ando, voluble as ever. He’s got a stubby in one hand. He and Snowie exchange some chat while I check out the flash.
Barry pokes me, pokes a finger at a picture of a busty blonde riding a pistol barrel. ‘Whaddya reckon? I’m thinkin’ of getting that done next.’
‘Uh, yeah, looks good.’ What else am I supposed to say? ‘This mate of my old boss, he got “Angel” written on his bicep. Only the tattoo artist was tanked, so now he’s got “Angle” spread all over his arm for the whole world to see.’
Barry makes a face.
I scan the shop, but my eyes keep returning to the pictures. The designs look flat and weird divorced from their flesh backgrounds. Some of the tatts have a distinctive realistic style: I figure it must be the same artist. There’s photos of newly completed tatts – I squint at them, find them more familiarly real than the flash, if a bit sore-looking. Maybe it’s the time I’ve spent in the hospital, but looking at these photos makes me hear Amie’s voice in my head explaining which kind of wound dressing would work best, which paper tape to use.
‘You haven’t got any ink, have ya, Harris?’ Snowie calls to me.
‘Huh?’ I’m pulled away from contemplating a photo of a koi fish, in lurid golds and reds, gliding over some girl’s back. ‘Ah, nuh. Nothing like that yet.’
‘Yet, he says.’ Snowie makes a big grin and lifts his chin at me. ‘Thought you woulda signed up in Melbourne?’
‘Nah.’ I make something that could look like a disappointed face. ‘Never did. Always too broke, hey.’
‘You got cash now,’ Snowie challenges.
‘Yeah, well.’ I shrug.
I got money in my pocket now, sure. But I had some plans for it – like food, maybe, petrol. Some of it will go to Nick’s forwarding address, some of it will go to Dad, and the bookie, and sorting out the Five Mile bills. I got no plans to decorate myself with it. I’d be better off buying a new shirt.
‘Tell you what,’ Snowie says. ‘I’ll cover you for it.’
‘What?’
‘You, getting some ink.’
The fuck? I want to say. I don’t say that.
‘You ripper!’ Barry whoops. ‘Harris is gettin’ his ink on!’
I’d tell him to shut the fuck up but that might come over a bit extreme. I look at Snowie. ‘You’re gonna pay for me to get a tattoo. Bullshit.’
‘No shit, mate. You should go for it. Get Leela to do it.’ Snowie is practically crowing. He leans over the counter, gets the attention of ginger bloke. ‘Leel on tonight? She up for a greenhorn, you reckon?’
‘Yeah, she’s out the back,’ Ginger replies, stripping off his gloves after fastening a bandage to Ando’s leg.
‘Hang on –’ I start, but don’t get to finish.
‘Leel!’ Ginger calls to someplace over his shoulder. ‘Leel! Come out, you got a customer!’
‘Snowie –’ I try again, but Barry is already slapping me on the back.
‘Aah, awesome! Leela’s great, she did me arm, wanna have a look?’ He rolls his sleeve and waves a garish cowgirl at me. His arms are so woolly, it looks like the cowgirl has a hairy chest.
‘Sounds good.’ Ando’s all done now, easing the leg of his pants down over the bandage as he leans against the counter. ‘Whatcha gonna get?’
‘Buggered if I know,’ I mutter.
‘Have a look at the flash behind you,’ Ginger offers. ‘See something you like, or maybe you got something in mind, Leela can draw it. She’s good freehand.’
I hear the clump of boots on lino and the chick in question, who is apparently ‘good freehand’, dips out suddenly from behind a black velvet curtain at the far right behind the counter. She’s smoking a cigarette and her dyed red hair is slashed just below her chin.
She’s tiny, even in chunky black boots, and she’s good-looking. Older than me, pierced eyebrows arching over kohl-darkened eyes, other piercings at ears and lip. All her silver looks immaculate, like she polished her studs and ball-bearings just this morning. Fingerless fishnet gloves, a kind of rockabilly-goth thing going on with her wardrobe, juicy curves. She’s standing there, looking me over like she caught something interesting on her line.
‘You the newbie?’ She blows out at the ceiling, looks at Snowie. ‘This your idea, was it?’
‘Sure,’ Snowie says, grinning, ‘but Harris is keen. You’re keen, aren’t you, mate?’
I look at Snowie, at the tattooist chick. Feel the eager stares of Barry and Ando.
‘Sure,’ I say slowly. ‘Snowie said he’ll cover it.’
‘Right.’ Leela ashes her smoke on the floor. ‘You got anything in mind?’
‘Ah…’ I make a wave of my hand.
‘Take your shirt off,’ Leela says.
‘What?’
‘Take your shirt off,’ Leela repeats. ‘Turn around and let me look at you.’
This has got to be some rite-of-passage thing: I feel it when I stand my cane against a chair to comply. All the other blokes nudge and snort and stare, make jokey comments. I pull off my hoodie and my T-shirt and turn in a slow circle, my hands held out a little from my sides. I don’t feel embarrassed – I know I’m outta shape after the last five weeks, but I’ve still got a bit of lean muscle on, and enough scars to prove I’m not completely soft. But I’ve never paraded in front of a girl before with this feeling of being deliberately sized up.
‘You don’t want any tribal crap, I’m guessing,’ Leela says. The bangles on her wrist chime together as she draws and ashes again.
‘Dunno,’ I say.
‘What do you know?’ Leela stares at me hard.
I shrug, make a face. ‘Engines. Quarry work. Lizards, rocks. Dusty shit.’
‘Lizards,’ Leela says contemplatively. ‘Frill-necks?’
‘Get a few out our way,’ I admit.
‘Hm.’ She squints a little. ‘But you don’t look quite like a…’ She trails off, begging the question.
‘…like a lizard man?’ I suggest. ‘Nah, never was a big Doors fan.’
Her face is surprised into a grin. ‘That’s right – the Lizard King! How’d you know about that?’
‘My dad. He’s into the Doors.’ It comes out gruff.
‘But not you?’
‘Not really.’
She steps closer, absently hands her smoke to Snowie, who takes a long drag. Leela puts her hands on her hips, looks up at me. ‘You got nice eyes.’
‘Um, thanks.’
‘Yeah, but you’re not gonna be inkin’ his eyeballs, are you?’ Snowie says, rolling his own eyeballs.
‘Shut up, Snow.’ Leela makes a little pirouetting motion at me with one finger. ‘Lemme see your back again?’
I turn obediently.
‘You’re never gonna go to fat,’ Leela says quietly. She could be talking to herself. ‘Not the body type for it. Maybe get a little thick in the gut, when you’re older. But your back’ll always be nice. Something here, I reckon.’
When she traces one short red-painted fingernail from my shoulder blade to my kidneys, I feel it.
‘Something sinuous… Not a lizard.’ Her hand turns me by the arm. ‘Ever thought of a dragon?’
I shrug, but my face must show my distaste. Dragons are for wankers.
Leela’s eyes narrow. ‘What about a snake?’
My eyes drag back to the flash on the wall. There’s snakes there, all types. Some of them punch out of flesh, fangs bared. If I’m gonna go through with this, I don’t want anything grotesque.
‘Not like that,’ I say.
‘Nah, but look at this.’ She points at a picture high on the wall. ‘King cobra. No colours, just monochrome. Or this.’
She taps another picture. I see a stark angular head, muscular brown coils.
‘You put that on many people?’ I ask.
She smiles, showing teeth. ‘Only you, baby.’
Sounds like bullshit to me, but she’s walking back behind the counter now, grabbing latex gloves. She pats the dentist’s chair invitingly. ‘C’mon up here. Straddle backwards.’
‘Nice choice,’ Ando says, nodding his approval.
I baulk. ‘You’re just gonna ink it straight on?’
‘Draw it first.’ Leela snaps into the gloves. ‘Check the fit, then we start.’ She looks over at Snowie. ‘Two sessions. He’ll need touch-ups and shading next week. Three hundred.’
‘Jesus.’ Snowie looks reluctant for the first time. ‘C’mon, Leel. Don’t I bring business in?’
Leela shrugs. ‘Two-fifty.’
Snowie gives me a look of appeal. ‘You don’t wanna go for something smaller?’
Leela makes a disgusted noise. ‘You want him to get a tramp stamp? Fucking hell, Snow.’
I raise my hands, like I’m helpless. Actually, I’m kind of enjoying watching Snowie squirm.
The dentist’s chair has been wiped clean with Windex, or something that smells like it. The vinyl is cold on my stomach. I straddle the seat awkwardly, shoving my left leg into place, balancing my cane. Leela appears in front of me, swivelled forward on a wheeled office stool, pulling her hair back with a band.
‘Little accident, was it?’ She nods her chin at my denim-covered leg, at the cane.
‘Something like that.’
‘He got shot,’ Barry pipes up. Jesus – if his mouth opened much wider, all his teeth’d fall out.
Leela lifts her eyebrows, making the ball bearings dance.
‘It fucking hurt, is all I know,’ I grit.
Leela swivels back to someplace behind me. ‘Right. Well, this is gonna hurt, too.’
‘I figured,’ I say drily, and she laughs.
The tracing on takes about twenty-five minutes. Snowie gets bored in that time, and he and Ando go up the road for another beer. By the time they mosey back I’m standing side-on to the mirror, trying to see over my left shoulder. Barry’s holding a hand mirror helpfully to one side.
‘Looks awesome,’ he enthuses. His mouth might always be flapping, but Barry’s party spirit is kind of endearing. At least he’s keen.
Even Snowie seems to catch a bit of it. He leans on the counter, lighting a smoke. ‘Yeah, value for money, I reckon.’
Leela tilts her head critically. She angles me this way and that like I’m a hanging cut of meat, pushing my arm up so she can see the shape move. ‘Yeah, I think it’ll be all right. This bit over your hip looks good. I’ll add most of the detail with the outline now. It’ll look even better when the shading’s done.’
‘C’mon, get on with it then,’ Ando says, grinning. ‘We wanna hear him squawk.’
So I sit back in the chair with my legs dangling in front and my chest against the vinyl. I cross my arms on the headrest, lean my chin against them.
‘Have much to drink?’ There’s a snap as Leela dons fresh gloves.
‘Um, not really. Just a few beers. Should I have had more?’
She snorts. ‘Booze makes you bleed.’ She pats my arm with one latex-covered hand, picks up this thing that trails wires. It matches the chair: some kind of drill for sadistic dentists. Now she’s got my full attention. ‘Okay, this is it. You sure?’
I nod.
She gives me an intent look. ‘Be sure. This is forever.’
Forever. Forever and a day. Until my blood and bones and skin all pass away. Something for this moment, and for every other moment to come. My decision, my mark, my choice – something I chose, not something my father chose for me.
I nod again, more firmly.
She scoots back around and I hear the buzzing of the needle ignite, like a hive of bees. And then the pain starts.
*
‘You got all that?’
‘I’ve got it,’ Amie says, as she fixes the tape on my leg. ‘The part about Marcus Anderson will be the part Dad’s really interested in. Now are you gonna tell me why you’ve got a massive dressing on your back, or are you just gonna let me guess?’
Driving down to Ouyen for my final appointment, my shirt felt strange against my skin. The extra padding from the bandage made me squirm. Or maybe I was squirming at the idea of Amie realising what I’d done.
‘I got a tattoo.’ I’m torn between being pleased she noticed and preferring to show it off when it’s finished. ‘You done with my leg?’
‘You got a – yes, I’m done, put your pants back on.’ She waves that away. ‘Harris. Did you say you got a tatt?’
I slide off the corner of the table to zip, manoeuvre back on to do my socks. ‘Yeah, it’s nothin’.’
‘It’s not nothing, it’s something.’ Amie leans around to catch my eye, and I’m relieved to see she’s grinning. ‘Can I look?’
‘It’s not finished yet,’ I protest.
‘Please? Can I peek?’ Her fingers brush my neck as she eases the collar of my T-shirt back. ‘Oh, I can see the edge of it. It’s, ah, a big tattoo, Harris. Can I take the dressing off? I’ll tape it up again, I promise.’
‘Yeah, I guess.’ I’m self-conscious about it all of a sudden. ‘I s’pose you could check if it’s healing okay. I can’t really see it properly to tell.’
She snorts. ‘Well, yeah, it’s on your back.’
She moves behind me and suddenly I feel this mind-blowing sensation, which is Amie taking my shirt off. The air is cool on my chest and back as she slides the fabric off me. She makes me lift my arms up, angles her head to give me a quick grin. We’re doing this together, this undressing. For a second, I get dizzy, like bells are clanging hard in my head. I can’t think. My breath comes in short.
‘Here,’ she says from behind me, ‘let me unstick this. I don’t wanna hurt you –’
‘You’re not…you’re not hurting me.’ My voice sounds weird. The bandage sticks in a few spots. The sharp tugs on my skin bring me back to myself.
‘Oh my god,’ she breathes.
‘Is it okay?’
‘Haven’t you seen it?’
‘Tell you the truth, I’ve been a bit scared to look,’ I admit.
‘It’s amazing. Hang on, there’s one more piece of tape… Holy crap.’ I can hear the smile in her voice. ‘My god, who did this? It’s incredible.’
I shrug my unmarked shoulder. ‘Just this tattooist on Eighth Street.’
‘Well, it’s frickin’ cool. And it’s huge.’ She leans around again, her smile lighting up her face. ‘Harris, you’ve got a massive naga on your back.’
‘Naga?’
‘A snake. A naga, a samp – that’s what my Nani calls them. They have a lot of meanings in some Indian religions.’
‘Like what?’
She stands at my shoulder as she explains, her hands moving excitedly. ‘Snakes are supposed to be powerful. Most of the old stories portray snakes as sacred beings, either for good or evil. Sometimes it depends on how they’re depicted. Sometimes it depends on the number of heads they have.’
That makes me grin. ‘This guy’s only got one head.’
She raises an eyebrow, grins back. ‘Well, that’s an odd number, so it means infinity. Like my name. Because everything in the universe came from One.’
‘Like your name?’
‘Yeah. Amita. It means…’ She searches for the best word. ‘Boundless. Limitless.’
‘Limitless. I like that.’
I do like it. It’s a great word. Lots of promise. I like the way Amie blushes when she talks about it, too. She ducks around behind me again so I can’t see.
‘It’s healing up fine.’ I feel her prod at the tattoo edge. ‘Is it irritating you?’
‘Nah. Well, it’s itchy sometimes. But it’s okay.’
‘Are you putting Bepanthen on it?’
‘Yeah. Trying to, anyway.’ I twist my head sideways to squint at her. ‘How do you know about it?’
She colours. ‘Oh, well – Nick. He’s kind of obsessed with tatts. He’s had some work done on his back and legs, from some guy in Melbourne.’ She tugs gently on a lower piece of tape. ‘There’s more bandage here.’
‘Yeah, it goes over my hip.’
‘That’s why your jeans are slung so low.’ She nods as if she’s contemplating that. ‘How far down does it go?’
Her hand darts for the waistband of my jeans. I grab her wrist just in time. ‘Far enough.’
Holding her wrist lightly only reminds me of the places she’s not touching. I don’t think I could keep up a conversation if she touched me there. In fact, it’s probably better if I don’t even think about it.
‘Oh, right. So it’s okay for the tattooist to see it, but not me?’ She shakes me off, her eyebrows raised. ‘Harris, I saw you when you came out of surgery.’
I startle. ‘Not all of me.’
‘You had a drape.’ She shrugs.
I relax enough to snort. ‘Yeah, well that’s not all of me. This goes underneath my jocks, so I think we’ll just leave it at that, hey?’
‘Fine, then. Prude.’
‘Prude?’ My own eyebrows go up. ‘Really? I been called a lotta things, but that’s definitely a new one.’
She pouts, her lips making that pillowy shape…aaand I think it’s time I put my shirt back on.
‘Hang on, let me fix the bandage…’ Amie fusses with the tape as she re-fastens the white padding. ‘You’re kind of getting into the role, then, getting a tatt.’
‘Snowie paid for it,’ I admit. ‘But it wasn’t just for the job. It was for me.’ I ease my T-shirt carefully over my head, my back. ‘I haven’t really had that for a while.’
Amie’s expression changes as she comes around to face me. ‘You’re a good person, Harris. You know that, right?’ I snort, and she becomes insistent. ‘No, it’s true. Don’t blow it off.’
‘I’m no more good than anybody else,’ I say firmly. ‘I mean, look at you. You’re committed, too.’
‘I’m not living in it – you are. You’re doing a really full-on thing. You need to be so careful.’ She’s concentrating on her hands as she packs away the medical supplies. ‘I used to believe if you’re a good person, good things happen to you. But I was kind of proved wrong when Mum died. She was good, and then she died. Just remember, good doesn’t equal safe. I’ve heard plenty of stories from Dad about shitty things happening to nice people.’
It makes me feel warm, that Amie thinks I’m a nice person. But I don’t want her to be disillusioned when she realises the truth. ‘Well, I get that. My mum was a good person, too, but Dad made her life really miserable. She left before it got too serious.’
‘Too dangerous, you mean?’
I examine my hands. ‘Yeah, I guess. And my sister was so little…’
Amie stops where she stands. ‘You have a sister?’
I didn’t mean to mention that. I move on quickly. ‘Anyway, I can understand why my mum left. How stressed she must’ve been.’
‘But…she left you behind.’ Amie looks genuinely shocked.
A sudden smarting pain smacks me in the chest, deep inside. ‘Yeah, but my dad didn’t really give her any say in the matter. He set terms.’
‘And…you were part of the terms,’ Amie says.
This isn’t as much of a revelation for me as it is for her, but it still makes the pain in my chest thrum. I clear my throat but my voice comes out husky. ‘Being a nice person has never been something I’ve learnt to see as an advantage.’
Amie’s eyes hold a challenge. ‘So why do you keep trying to be one?’
‘Who says I’m trying?’ I half-grin, squint at her. ‘What about you? Who are you being good for?’
She shrugs, like it’s not as important as we both know it is. ‘For Mum, I guess. And for my dad. But I don’t believe anymore that being good automatically immunises you from harm, or brings you luck.’
‘Well, you can’t play it safe all the time.’
‘I guess. I just…’ Amie seems to be avoiding looking at me. ‘I worry about you.’
‘That’s…’ Probably the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me? Can I say that? But I reckon I need to spell something out to her. ‘Amie, that means a lot. But you don’t have to carry all my shit.’
‘But –’
‘Seriously. Don’t go getting all responsible. You’ve got enough on your plate. Feel free to look out for me – it’s nice, and I appreciate it. But don’t look after me. I can look after myself.’
I leave the hospital, and Amie, a few minutes later, flop into the car for the drive back to Mildy. The wheat fields on every side of me are darkening into a cold yellow sea. Sunset seeps up, hits the arses of the clouds and tans their hides pink.
Amie worries about me. Now there’s a concept. She worries about a lot of people, though: her dad, her nanna… I’m just one of many. I don’t want to be another load she has to shoulder, another person her thoughts spin pointlessly around.
I try to keep my mind on the reality. She’s got her problems and I’ve got mine. I need to stay loose. I got Dad, I don’t need anything else tying me down. When this job is done I’m cutting outta here – to Melbourne, to wherever, as far away from Dad as I can manage. Find Mum and Kelly, if I can. Stoking the fire in my belly over an unattainable girl isn’t gonna get me anywhere.
By the time I get to Hattah, I’m so tired that the red-and-white road markers are making neon tracers in my vision. Like those glowsticks me and Mike used to buy from Metcalfe’s grocery when we were kids – we’d put strings on them and spin them around our heads to make a firefly lasso…
That’s all I can think about as I’m driving home: fireflies spinning, circling endlessly through centrifugal force around the person at the centre. And the question keeps returning again and again: who am I circling around?