Driving back feels like flying, with the window down and warm air blowing in my face. The sky is still a deep aqua colour, so every black bush and tree looks like a shadow play.
Amie’s coming back to Mildura. She’s only a few hours behind me. The knowledge makes my brain hum. I don’t want her there: it’s too dangerous, too close. But I want her there so bad. Just knowing she’s arriving later tonight fills my whole body with energy.
After she finished on the phone to her cousin, we sat on the dirt under the tree until our skin felt like liquid sunlight, and it was time for me to leave.
When I got up and dusted myself off, Amie stood up too.
‘This doesn’t have to be all your responsibility, Harris. You don’t have to keep going with it. Dad’s looking for your family. He said to remind you that you can pull out any time –’
I shook my head. ‘It’s nice he’s trying to track Mum and Kelly. I dunno how far he’ll get, but it’s nice. As for the rest… People are getting hurt. More people will cop it if we don’t shut it down.’ I scuffed the dirt with my boot, looked out to the sunset on the other side of the rez. ‘And I’m in it now. I’m gonna see it through to the end. I think I need to do that.’
Then something happened: Amie hugged me. Just grabbed me by the back of the neck and pressed herself in. I don’t know what surprised me more – the fact she did it, or the feel of her against me. All soft, and skinny arms, and her face in my neck, and plump breasts against my chest. The shock of it made me freeze in place for a second before I unfroze and wound an arm around her. Both arms.
She squeezed me hard enough to make me gasp, then she pulled away. ‘C’mon, I’ll walk you to the car.’
We didn’t really say much more before I left. She clasped my arm before I slid into the driver’s side. She was still standing there by the trees near the rez when I looked in the rear-view. Then I pulled out onto the dirt road to the turn off, and she was gone.
I keep going over and over it in my head: the things Amie said, the easy way we talked, the whiteness of her teeth when she laughed. That moment she asked me how you know when sex is good, I almost said, I could show you. It was right there on my tongue’s tip while I was looking into her eyes. But I wouldn’t have managed the proper jokey tone. And the conversation was already so loaded I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t go there.
This isn’t like the way I felt about Rachel. It’s different. Rachel made me feel as if I was worth something. But Amie makes me face myself, the whole unvarnished truth of me. And she accepts me. The bad shit as well as the good.
Even the sensations I have around her are different: clearer, sharper, hotter. Definitely hotter. Hot enough that my skin feels too thin to contain everything. It’s like I’ve been saving up the wanting inside myself, and it’s so close to the surface now that if I let it go, I’ll shatter.
I try to consider it in really concrete terms. I haven’t had sex for a long time. Girls’ bodies are nice: you can’t help but think about them. This feeling, like I’m barely stopping myself from reaching for Amie every time I see her, it’s just normal. I shouldn’t wind myself up about it.
And I can’t be a prick about this. If Amie and me… Well, let’s just say I’m not interested in having Sergeant Blunt chasing me around for the rest of my life.
But if Amie and me…
I let the thought carry on. I can’t touch, but I can fantasise, right? A guy can fantasise. Nothing wrong with that. Not a hanging offence, a bit of fantasy.
Christ.
*
Amblin Court is more of a disaster than usual when I rock back up. The kitchen is like a bloody bomb site and the couch is tipped over, lying on the living room floor like a giant brown cockroach on its back.
‘Reggie and Dil,’ Kevin says, shrugging. We right the couch together.
I clean up in the kitchen, then realise my own room is as much of a dump as the rest of the house. I shove all my dirty sheets and clothes – which is basically everything I own, except the stuff I’m wearing – into a bin bag, twist the top and take it out to the Pitbull. Food’s a priority, and I’m planning to cruise by the club and see Snowie, let him know the delivery went okay. May as well make a stop at the laundromat if I’m heading into town.
Being inside the club before opening time is weird: everything looks a lot more squalid under harsh fluoros. Bartenders are setting up and some bloke is giving the dance floor a sweep. Music is playing, stop-start and down low, as the DJ preps her set.
Snowie is standing by the bar, sucking back a cold one. He’s jittery. I’ve noticed he’s been drinking a lot more lately, and I wonder if he’s on the gear. It wouldn’t surprise me.
‘All good, mate, all good,’ he says, when I tell him the news. His head bobs as he talks, and he lights another cigarette off his last one. ‘Come back later and we’ll see what else the bossman wants done. Hey, you haven’t seen Ando about, have ya?’
‘Nah, mate, I just got in. Feet have hardly hit the ground, y’know?’ I wouldn’t be keen to lay eyes on Ando anyway, but I don’t need to mention that.
‘Awright, no worries.’ Snowie looks worried, though. ‘Guess I’ll catch up with him later.’
I get out of the club, pick up some takeaway and collect my laundry. Everyone is getting tight as delivery day for the big batch approaches. Tempers are starting to fray. It’s like when I’m driving from Mildura to Ouyen and back again: I’m always on the lookout, I’m always scanning from one side of the road to the other, checking for roos. Because you can’t predict when they’re gonna jump. They just come at you with no warning.
That’s how I feel now I’m back in the thick of things: like I’m always on the alert. I’m always scanning. It’s kind of exhausting, being so alert all the time.
Later that night, after I’ve got orders to report back to the club tomorrow, I lie on my bed with the window open. I check the texts on my phone, return again and again to the message I got from Amie just before eight p.m.
Test results have arrived all clear. Contact reception for apptmts as rqd.
I’d like to call her, ask her how she’s getting on, ask how her nanna’s going, just listen to her voice… But the atmosphere around here at the moment is fragile. The closer I stay to the house, the better.
My clean sheets are soft from the laundry, and the breeze through the window is fresh. The scent of Ouyen, of wheat fields and dust, is gone: the aroma of car exhaust and suburbia has swallowed it up. But somewhere to the north of town Amie is breathing the same air. For now, that thought has to be enough to calm me.
*
I’m eating leftover noodles in the kitchen next morning when Steph clumps in, still in her leathers. Her black cropped hair sticks up from her head, and she dumps her motorbike helmet on the floor before making a cup of instant shit.
‘Business or pleasure?’ I ask, nodding at the helmet.
She glares at me over her shoulder. ‘Harris, it’s been a long fucking night, so if you’re only talking to piss me off –’
‘Jesus.’ I check out the set of her shoulders as she turns around with her mug. ‘Just making conversation, hey. My bad.’
She sighs, unkinks her neck. ‘Sorry. I’m tired.’
‘Sit.’ I lift my chin at the other plastic chair. ‘Drink your coffee.’
She flops in the chair, jacket unzipped in front, sipping slowly. Her face is sweaty from the helmet, cheeks flushed.
I eat my noodles, try not to look like I’m examining her. ‘You got a good bike?’
‘Yeah.’ She seems surprised by the change of subject. ‘I mean, it’s okay. Running a bit rough lately, I gotta spend some time on it.’
‘I could have a look, if you like.’
She turns the mug in her hands. ‘I usually do my own work.’
‘That’s cool. Whatever.’
Noise from next door – a woman yelling, a little kid crying – seeps through the kitchen walls. I scrape up cold noodles with my fork. ‘You’re studying, right? What sorta study are you doing?’
‘What do you care?’ She sees my expression. Makes a bit of effort. ‘Business management.’
‘Business management?’ I amend my tone quickly at the look on her face. ‘Okay, business management. Sounds all right.’
‘It’s just a diploma.’ She shrugs. ‘Something to do, hey.’
‘You like it?’
‘I got a brain. I like to use it.’
I think for a minute. ‘What sorta study would you do if you wanted to be a photographer?’
‘What?’
‘What would you study if you wanted –’
‘You wanna be a photographer?’ Steph stares at me.
‘No. I mean, I don’t wanna be a photographer. I just know somebody who’s… I was just interested, that’s all.’
‘Harris, has anyone ever told you you’re weird?’
Any reply I might’ve made gets shelved when Reggie gallops into the kitchen. He runs to the fridge and rummages for his Gatorade, spins around and slams the fridge shut with his arse. ‘Yo, what’s up? Whatcha talkin’ about?’
His green hood slides off and I see his head. He’s shaved off his hair. All that’s left is the skinny rat’s tail at his nape. It’s a crap shave job: there’s tufty-dark patches, bald patches, as well as red nicks here and there where the razor slipped. He looks hard-man tough and impossibly young all at the same time.
‘Just saying how Harris is weird,’ Steph says.
‘No shit.’ Reggie grins, gulps like he’s parched, gulps until the bottle’s empty.
I blink at him. ‘What’d ya do to your hair, ya crazy fucker?’
‘It was itching me,’ Reggie says. He pitches the bottle at the sink, takes off with a snorting laugh.
There’s a little silence in the kitchen. Me and Steph look at each other across the table, both our jaws clenched.
*
‘Nice work,’ Leon says, ‘taking that packet to Ouyen.’
I shrug. I’m wondering how nice he’ll think it is if he learns one of the receivers got busted. Or maybe he doesn’t care – what’s gone is gone. Not like anyone can trace it back to him.
‘All right. Now go to this address.’
He waves a scrap of paper which I pluck from his fingers to read. ‘What am I doing in…Tulane Road?’
‘Let’s call it collecting the rent.’ Leon smiles, which looks unpleasant. Someone should tell him not to bother. ‘Should be a packet for me. Bit of cash, and some product samples.’
‘The new stuff?’ My head lifts.
Leon is cagey. ‘Just samples, like I said. Nothing substantial yet.’
If we’re getting samples that means it’s not far off. Could be a matter of days. I’ll have to let Amie know.
‘Talk to Skunk,’ Leon goes on. ‘Scruffy-looking guy, wears thongs. Be nice and he’ll offer you a beer.’
‘Great.’ If his name’s anything to go by, Skunk might offer me more than a beer. I tear the scrap of paper into pieces.
‘Don’t bring the whole package back here,’ Leon warns. ‘Give the samples to Snowie, then let me know when you’re coming in with the rest.’ He dismisses me with one hand. ‘That’s it. Happy travels.’
It’s not until I’m in the Pitbull that it occurs to me: Leon and I sounded so casual. I’ve started to relax around him. It’s unnerving because I thought I’d kept my guard up. I don’t want to be comfortable around Leon. He’s not the kind of guy you want to take for granted. And one slip by me when my guard’s down…
I wonder what’s caused the shift in me, then realise straightaway what it is.
Leon is a businessman. He does a lot of really bad shit, but it follows a logical pattern. He might have Ando break someone’s legs, for instance, but it’s not because he dislikes them. It’s because he’s trying to get what he’s owed, or because someone’s done the wrong thing for the business, or because they’re a competitor. Sure, he might get pissed at them – maybe he takes it a bit personally. But for Leon, it’s generally not personal. It’s all business.
So his actions are explicable, reasoned. There’s no drunken whims or paranoid delusions or volcanic eruptions of anger. He’s a lot more predictable and considered than my dad, for instance.
And that’s what’s made me relax. Knowing Leon has a system, has logic, is easier to handle than my father by a wide margin. Dad’s actions are erratic, explosive. Dealing with Leon is a cakewalk by comparison.
The thought is freaking me out as I get closer to Tulane Road. Clouds play tricks with the sunlight on the street as I park the Pitbull near the corner and walk in. Nicer part of town, this. Lawns are tidy, plenty of bottlebrush in flower on the pedestrian verge, roomy on the road. Not quite the Paris end of town, but getting there.
The house I’m heading towards is a pleasant-looking cream weatherboard on a rear-sloping block. Blue trim edges the window frames. The garden’s overgrown but nothing looks out of place – except for a muddy chewed-up section of grass on the verge out front. Some idiot’s parked his big-wheeled car here and then burned off. Bad manners, some people.
I open the gate, follow a concrete footpath around to the left – a closed-up look to the front entrance suggests it’s rarely used. Past a Hills Hoist, wooden stairs lead up to a kitchen door at the backside of the house. Rosellas startle out of a jacaranda nearby, fly off in a shrieking whirl. It all seems very country-suburban.
I keep my hands in my hoodie pockets as I take the stairs to a white-painted door. I’m about to knock when I see the deadbolt on the door is snibbed: the door isn’t locked. Friendly of them. I’m not used to friendly. And what the hell are any of Leon’s people doing, being friendly? Something makes me stay my hand and call through the door instead.
‘Ah, g’day? Mate of Skunk’s here, come to say hi?’ No answer but the rosellas’ screeching call. ‘Folks? Anyone home?’
That’s when I lift my hand to try a knock. The door creaks back under my knuckles. I get a strange whiff of sourness, a sudden premonition, but it’s too late. I can’t unsee what I’m seeing now, as the white door swings wide.
It’s the kitchen of the house, of course. Sink on the right, under the glass louver windows. At the end of the narrow room, the fridge. This would be a nice place to live: lots of natural light, airy, the blue-trim theme carried on inside the house in little details like the skirting boards and window frames.
On the left, an aluminium camp table with a dead girl resting her head on it.
She’s looking right at me. Her skin is grey. She’s wearing a long hippie skirt, and her dirty-blonde hair hangs down in the classic flower-child style. A hole in the middle of her forehead is coated in black blood. Flies are hovering around it, and around her chapped purple lips.
I notice these details, and I notice the smell – stronger now – and I notice that I don’t seem to be able to do anything but stand here. My fist is still raised.
I lower my hand slowly, take deep breaths through my mouth. Take the step over the lintel of the house. I seem to do that without thinking. I stare at the girl and breathe. My skin is tingling.
A buzzing sound – my head swings sideways without volition. Another body lies on the floor to my right. A guy this time, in trackie pants and a tie-dyed T-shirt. The movement I’ve made, the change in the air currents, makes all the flies on his body lift and swirl around so I can see a mottled face, a beard.
I stand stock still. Listen. The whole house is quiet.
I should be looking for sample bags, loose cash, gold A4 envelopes. I need to do those things. If I don’t…
Leon’s black-marble eyes swim in my vision.
I make myself move. Walk through the kitchen, into a front living room. Again, natural light from the windows makes everything seem brighter. A mustard-yellow retro couch faces the windows, a bong standing on the coffee table in front of it. Flies circle a guy in jeans sitting on the couch, his hands splayed out to the sides and his brains soaking into the cushions behind his head. He’s wearing thongs.
I hear Leon’s voice inside my skull: Talk to Skunk – scruffy-looking guy, wears thongs. Right. Looks like I’ve found him.
Hands clenched, I move further to the left, into the hallway of the house. There are three doors along the hall. I open each door with my hoodie sleeve over my fingers. Behind the door to the first room: nothing. A messy bedroom with the maroon curtains drawn. In the second room: more flies. A guy is half-fallen off the bed, his body slowly sinking into the brown-stained carpet. The smell is powerful here, probably from a gut shot. I check the third door, find another empty bedroom. The bathroom is empty, too.
I go back the way I came, try not to jump when I pass the second room and the couch in the living room. The bloated buzzing of the flies seems to be merging with a hot electric prickle on my skin.
I get back into the kitchen. There’s an ashtray, a set of electronic scales, a stubby, and two coffee mugs on the table near the girl’s head. The chocolate-y liquid in the mugs is skinned over, drying. A pair of latex gloves sits in the congealed black puddle under the girl’s ear. I don’t look at the matted black crater in the back of her head.
I move around to her front. My brain feels dry. All my goosebumps are stabbing me with tiny needles. An empty ziplock bag is clutched in the hand resting in the girl’s lap. No samples. No cash.
The buzzing in the kitchen swirls together with the buzzing in my head. I walk out the kitchen door, down the wooden stairs, turn left onto the concrete path. The smell of the house is still in my nostrils. I take the path through the creaky gate, walking as fast as I can with my limp. More than anything in the world right now I want to be in the Pitbull, clutching the wheel, driving.
I’m only two metres out the gate when a car passes me slowly on Tulane Road. It’s a police car.
Shit.
I keep my head low, walk faster. The Pitbull is close. No, wait – getting into my car now is a dumb idea. They’ll remember the car.
I limp briskly up to the car, pass it, keep walking. Turn the right-hand corner. Walk to the end of the block. An old man is sitting on a plastic lawn chair in his garden, watering his plants. I turn the corner, right again. I’m sweating. My hoodie is sticking to me.
What the fuck am I doing? I’m moving without direction. The police have seen me walk away from Tulane Road. Did they see me leave the house? I don’t know.
I limp halfway down this block, then swing around, double back. The cop car is just coming out of Tulane Road. It noses onto the main drag, goes straight ahead. I wait until it’s further down that street, then limp as fast as I can around the corner, until I’m at the Pitbull. I slide into the car, keep the engine quiet, peel off the verge. Drive in the opposite direction to the police.
Where am I driving to? Can’t drive to Leon. If I lead the cops to him, he won’t be best pleased. Amblin Court is out, too. Gotta get off the street, just for a few hours. But if I drive through town, every man and his dog will see where I’m headed.
My mental directory is coming up blank. Then I remember: Amie’s Mildura house is a little north of here. Maybe only a few blocks away. I pull my phone out and call her, driving one-handed.
‘Harris?’ She sounds sleepy, like she’s just woken up from a nap.
‘Amie, I’m in trouble.’ I can’t keep the shake out of my voice. ‘I need to get off the street, and I’m on the north side.’
She replies without hesitation. ‘Number seventeen, Jubilee Court. No one’s home but me and Nani.’
‘Is that off Walnut Avenue?’ I’m close. I’m so close I can almost touch her.
‘Yes, but come in the other way, off Ontario. That’s quicker.’
‘Five minutes,’ I say, and disconnect, because it’ll be more like two.
I turn left onto Fifteenth Street, try to keep my brain disconnected from my body. Try to just act and do and be, without thinking.
I can’t manage it though. The girl’s face comes back to me, with the black hole in the middle of her forehead like a third eye. The smell in the house sits in my throat. The buzzing echoes inside me. It’s infecting me, burrowing its way into my guts like a maggot squirming into dead meat…
I turn right onto Ontario Avenue, pull the car over. Open the driver’s side door, lean and sick up onto the street. Cough everything out, spit, wipe my mouth on my sleeve. Take a shaky breath and close the door. Drive on.
Jubilee Court is only one block further.