Harris has lost weight.
He was looking stronger by the time he left hospital, better still after some time at Mark West’s. Now he’s been in Mildura for six days, and his face is getting that leanness again. In another week, he’ll look angular.
It bothers me.
‘What else happened?’ I ask.
‘That’s it.’ He spreads a hand. The other one is helping him to stay propped on the outpatient bed. ‘Leon calls me when he needs money or messages delivered. Or Snowie calls me if he wants to see Leon, or deliver something. Not product – I mean, if he wants to organise a meeting with Leon, or pass back cash, or put in an order.’
‘Why doesn’t Snowie just deal with this guy himself?’
‘Snowie’s driving all over town, seeing his distributors. He’s got folks lined up all over the place, yeah? So he’s busy. Plus, there’s limited direct contact. That’s the most important reason.’
‘So you’re the go-between.’
‘I’m the go-between, yeah.’ He nods at the floor. ‘I’m used to slipping under the radar. Dodging the cops. Being just another scruffy bloke on the street.’
‘This is a bit of a departure for you, isn’t it?’ I raise an eyebrow. ‘Being the good guy.’
Harris scrubs a hand across his stubbled cheeks. ‘I guess.’
‘But you’ve worked with the police before,’ I say. ‘That quarry business –’
‘That wasn’t… I wasn’t working with the cops. Rachel had a problem, which the police were involved in. I was helping out a mate.’
‘Well, this is kind of the same. You’re just…helping my dad out. And a few other people in town who don’t quite know what’s good for them.’
His eyebrows lift. ‘I guess that’s true.’
‘So that’s it? Four deliveries, gold envelopes, four different places. You get the addresses written down?’
‘Here’s the last one.’ Harris scrawls more on the back of the pamphlet I gave him about post-op care, hands the pamphlet to me. ‘Tell your dad I’m just working my way in. If he goes gangbusters now, he’ll miss out. I haven’t seen anything solid, only cash in envelopes. That’s not what he’s after, I’m guessing.’
He looks tired. His blond hair has gotten longer, greasier, what Nani describes as ‘flypaper hair’. It’s flopping in front of his face, obscuring his expression as he talks. I don’t know what it’s like, the stuff he’s doing in Mildura, but it’s wearing at him. I wish I could push his hair out of the way, ask him how he’s really going.
I put the pamphlet in my pants pocket and wheel the tray over, plump the pillow on the right. ‘You want to lie down for this?’ The outpatient bed is shorter than he is, and quite hard, but he looks as if he could do with a lie down.
‘I’m good.’ He bites his bottom lip. ‘Can I, like, rest my back? Lean, or something?’
‘Recline.’ I smile. ‘You can recline, yeah. One sec.’
I adjust the bed so the head end is at a forty-five degree angle. Harris swings his legs up onto the flat end of the bed and leans his shoulders back as I wrangle the pillow. Close up, he smells of raw perspiration, unwashed clothes, cigarette stench. There’s dirt in his pores, and he’s warm. I’m tempted to put my hand on his forehead, check if he’s got a temp.
‘I came prepared this time,’ he says.
‘What?’
He grins, his lips thin and pale. ‘Found a pair of these at the op shop on Langtree. Didn’t wanna inflict my jocks on you again. Check it out.’
He reaches forward to the knee of his khaki pants, unzips at the leg. The whole bottom section of his pants leg zips right off. I help him tug the separated section away, pull it down towards his boot.
‘Nice.’ Then I open the dressing, see his wound. ‘That’s not so nice. It’s… We’ve kind of gone backwards here, Harris. What’s going on? I thought we had an agreement. You’re supposed to wipe it and re-dress it every morning, or I can’t –’
‘Amie, I live in a sharehouse shack with a bunch of drug dealers.’ He stares at me. ‘Roaches come outta the taps. Last time I was in the bathroom, there was a chick vomiting into the sink. Let’s just say it’s not a clean hospital environment, okay?’
That makes me blink. ‘Are you taking your medication, at least?’
‘I’m taking my meds, yeah.’ His shoulders release and his eyes close. ‘I’m doing what I can. But I can’t keep off my feet much as I should. And you don’t know these people. You show weakness, you’re roadkill. The leg – I tried to get some of those antiseptic wipes, clean it out and stuff, but if they knew how bad it was…’
The leg. I put my hand on his shoulder to get his attention.
‘Harris, look at me. It’s not ‘the leg’. It’s your leg. D’you get that? Your leg. And if you don’t take proper care of it, you’ll lose it.’ I take my hand away. My eyes should be enough. ‘Do you want to come back for an amputation? Seriously?’
‘No.’
He looks sulky. I need him to get past that. ‘No? You sure? Because if you want a prosthetic, you’re going the right way about it.’
That seems to sink in. ‘I don’t want a prosthetic.’
‘Good choice. But if you want to keep your leg, then you need to clean it and dress it every day, like we agreed. You’ve gotta do it – no, look at me for a sec. You’re miles away, without proper care if you don’t visit the hospital in Mildura, and you’re walking around on a post-op injury that could easily take a turn. Find a place. In your car, at a truck stop, in a public toilet – wherever you can, all right?’
He nods, glancing away.
I wonder if he’s really getting this. If my voice is firm enough, serious enough. ‘I’ll give you antibiotics and extra supplies, okay? I’ll give you everything you need. Sterile wipes, bandages, tape, distilled water, whatever you –’
‘Pain stuff?’ He presses his lips together. ‘Can you give me more pills?’
‘Are you in pain?’
He nods again.
‘On a scale of one to ten? Gimme a number.’
‘Five.’
And I know straightaway he’s not lying. The wound is healing slowly; it still looks very tender. It’s at that level where you can cope if you keep really busy or preoccupied, but let your guard down and the constant hum of it gnaws at you. I wonder if that’s why he’s tired, if it’s keeping him up at night.
I start slow. ‘Harris, you’re supposed to get an assessment for pain meds. Barb’s supposed to have a look at you.’
But if Barb has a look at him, she’ll go the whole hog. She’ll probably want to admit him. Part of me thinks he needs to be admitted. He’s not keeping up with post-op care, he’s in a high-risk living situation, he’s underweight and probably at risk of infection…
‘I don’t want an assessment,’ he says firmly. ‘I’m close, Amie. A couple more weeks, I’ll have the info your dad needs. I can feel it. Fine, I’ll start looking after my leg, I’ll get on it.’
I’m still torn. ‘I can’t prescribe pain medication for you, Harris. All I can tell you is to get some extra codeine-based painkillers from the chemist. But if you look after your leg properly, it’ll get better faster. The pain will ease.’
‘Then that’ll have to do me. I guess I’ll have to pick up my game.’ He looks at the exposed wound on his leg. ‘I’ll…I’ll try to rest it every day. I dunno how I’ll do that, exactly, but I’ll try.’
‘Okay.’ His eyes are so honest when he looks back up that my stomach clenches. ‘I still have to dress this. Um, hang on –’
I cut myself off, start cleaning out the wound. My fingers fumble with the sterile wipes. Harris makes a faint hiss.
‘So I’ve given you all my info.’ He grimaces, looks at the ceiling. ‘What’ve you got for me?’
‘You mean from dad?’
‘Nah, not that. Just… anything.’
‘Anything, huh?’ He’s after a distraction. I can see it in his face.
‘How’s the photography going?’
I try not to startle. He remembered. ‘It’s going good. I took a couple of nice ones near the saltworks, and I bought a foldaway light deflector for bouncing natural light.’
‘You’re pretty into it, huh?’
I’m so into it, I got an opportunity to do it overseas but I’m too scared to open the information folder about it. Crap. There’s no way I’m saying that. How can dealing with a few papers be scarier than being a narc’s contact? But it is, somehow.
I focus on what I’m doing. ‘My first camera was an old one of Mum’s. Some of her shots were really good. She had a decent old SLR and she handed it on to me.’
‘They’re expensive, huh? Good cameras?’
‘Yeah, like, really. I had to save up for ages for the one I use now.’
‘You must really love it, the photography thing.’
‘It’s…something I need to do. When I’m shooting, I forget about everything else.’ I think about it as I work. It’s true: regardless of opportunities or validation, making images is important to me. I don’t worry about anything when I’m out with the camera. ‘There’s something about it I find really energising. But it’s weirdly peaceful, too.’
He nods, and I wonder if he understands or if he’s just humouring me to keep me talking. But maybe Harris gets it. Maybe peaceful is something he’s only ever had in short supply.
I try to explain further. ‘It’s just me and the camera and what’s in front of me. The next shot, and the next, looking for the right framing, the colours… And you don’t really see until you check the frames on a big screen and print it up, it’s all just trusting you’ve got it right. It’s capturing the unexpected.’ I smile as I tear open a sterile swab packet, grab the Betadine solution. ‘Plus you come out of it with something you can look at, and remember.’
‘It’s a bubble of time.’ He winces as I dab a tender spot. ‘You can go back to it.’
‘I guess.’ I feel myself flush. This is unexpected. I hardly ever let myself get overenthusiastic about my pictures in conversation.
‘But you changed,’ Harris says. ‘You used to do those big landscapes, big sheets of light and colour –’
‘Your style changes as you grow up.’ I didn’t mean that to come out so bitey. I swallow, rephrase. ‘I stopped doing landscapes. They just felt a bit…naïve. Now I do close-ups.’
‘Of broken stuff. And suffocating trees.’
‘I thought you said you liked them?’
‘Hey, don’t get mad, they’re good, those ones. But I like your old photos.’ Harris isn’t looking at me and his voice is gruff. ‘The space in ‘em. Like you could jump into the background and fly.’ I’m still staring at him when he changes the subject. ‘And, um, how’s your nanna?’
But I’m thinking about it now. Those spaces, those big sheets of light and colour… They stopped about four years ago. Did Mum’s death really change my style that much? I’ve never considered it like that before. What else about me has narrowed down?
Flustered, I swipe my hot cheek with the back of my hand, concentrate on sizing the wound dressing. ‘You seriously want updates about my relatives?’ I conjure a smile, shrug. ‘Nani’s fine, I guess.’
‘You guess?’
‘She’s… Well, you know how I said she’s my dotty nanna?’
He nods.
‘She’s been acting a bit more dotty than usual.’ I clear my throat. ‘My cousin is getting married next week. Everyone’s running around, getting the wedding organised, and I don’t know if they’ve noticed how Nani’s going. She’s started talking about my dead grandfather like he’s still here.’
He tilts his head to see my eyes. ‘You’re worried about her.’
My smile tightens. ‘I’m kind of close with her. I spent a lot of time with her and my cousins when I was a kid. My mum used to take me up to visit a lot. And after Mum died, Nani was really supportive…’
Harris waits until it’s obvious I’m not going to go on. ‘Hey. I’m sorry about your mum.’
‘It’s okay.’ I blink my eyes a few times to remind them not to do anything stupid. Unpeel the plastic off a roll of bandage. ‘What I mean to say is, me and Nani have a connection. I look out for her.’
‘Don’t your cousins help her with stuff?’
‘Yeah, but she’s getting older and more forgetful. She needs more help these days. Like Dad.’
‘Your dad?’ Harris cocks an eyebrow. ‘He seems fine to me.’
‘Dad has a heart condition.’ I see Harris’s face. ‘It’s not major. It’s just something he’s developed as he’s gotten older. That’s why he’s retiring.’
‘That’s gotta be tough on him, having to hang up the badge.’
‘Yeah, he’s not thrilled about it.’ I adjust his leg so I can wrap the bandage, assess his expression before I ask the next relevant question. ‘So how’re things going with your dad, now you’ve shifted?’
He sighs. Since we had the conversation around the table at my place and he agreed to narc, it seems like he just can’t be bothered glossing it up.
‘We’ve talked on the phone a few times.’ He shrugs. ‘I called him – figured it was better to get it over and done with. He cracks the shits every time I call, but it’s easier than dealing with him in person. At least I’m not standing right in the line of fire, y’know?’
I can’t nod or agree with him: I’ve never had to handle anything like that. I don’t feel like my physical safety is ever in doubt when I’m at home, or with family.
‘I’m sending him some money,’ he continues. ‘And helping pay off the bills. That’s placating him a bit.’ He looks at me. ‘It’s not just the cancer or the booze, yeah? That makes it worse, but he’s been like this since I was a kid. He’s just…mean.’ He shakes himself suddenly, as if he’s shaking off a bad dream. ‘Anyway, I’m not living with him anymore which is a helluva relief.’
‘You’re living in a sharehouse shack with a bunch of drug dealers instead.’ It’s staggering that he considers his current accommodation an improvement on the one he had before. I tug the bandage end, fix on an elastic fastener. ‘I’m sorry about your dad.’
He snorts at how I’ve echoed his sentiments back. ‘Hey, I’m not bereaved. But sometimes, I can’t help thinking …’
‘…that it’d be easier if you were?’ I suggest softly.
He looks at me, looks away fast. I’ve hit a nerve, and maybe he’s just realised that implying you wish your parent was dead in front of someone whose parent died isn’t the height of sensitivity.
But I don’t know how his father’s illness is progressing, and now I feel guilty. ‘I’m sorry, that was bad manners –’
He makes a low laugh. ‘Don’t apologise. It should be me apologising. I didn’t mean to say that. I don’t know what comes outta my mouth sometimes.’
‘Well, don’t hold back for my sake.’ I keep my tone light. ‘Anyway, I get the impression the way I was with my mum and the way you are with your dad are very different things.’
‘Yeah, that’s possibly the understatement of the year,’ he says evenly. He pauses. ‘I’m just happy I had the guts to cut loose.’
‘God, I think you’ve been incredibly gutsy so far.’ That came out a bit more honest than I expected. I redirect. ‘Look, make sure you’re being careful in Mildura. I’d hate to think of all this first-rate nursing going to waste.’
He pats his now-bandaged leg. ‘Don’t worry. I got my own personal well-being in mind at all times. The last thing I want is Mick the Leb breaking my kneecaps.’
He hops off the outpatient table with more energy than he had climbing onto it, tests out the bandaging, taking a few steps around with his cane. I’m chilled by the thought of Harris having his legs broken because of what he’s agreed to do. What he needs more of, though, are people around who give him support.
I make my voice firm. ‘It looks better – more comfortable for you. Make sure you look after it like we discussed.’
‘I will.’ He zips his pants-leg back into place, looks at me. ‘Thank you. It’s just…good to talk, y’know? There’s nobody else I can talk to about any of this.’
I bite my lip. ‘I guess you have to go now.’
‘Yeah, it’s a long drive back.’
I say the next bit hurriedly. ‘Harris, remember to stay in touch.’ I smooth my hands down the sides of my work pants. ‘You’ve got my phone number.’
‘Okay. I will.’ He pulls his hood up. ‘Good luck with your nanna. Hope it works out okay.’
We have this weird moment, when it seems like our simple acknowledgements aren’t quite enough; I feel like hugging him, or giving something more than just a formal goodbye, and Harris seems to feel the same way. He hesitates, reaches out with the hand not on his cane. My fingers slip into his and we both squeeze, just for a second, before releasing. That’s about as demonstrative as we can be in public anyway. Our eyes make up the shortfall.
Then I open the door of the Examination room and watch him limp off towards the hospital foyer and the outside doors. I get busy again when I see Barb coming towards me from the opposite direction. She enters the Examination room while I’m gathering together all the wound-care scraps.
‘That patient of yours has been up to mischief, I hear,’ Barb says.
‘What?’
She helps herself to supplies from the cupboards. ‘I heard Harris shot through from Mark West’s place. That he’d gone to Mildura.’
I keep my expression appropriately mystified. ‘Who’d you hear that from?’
‘Came in to do my shopping yesterday, ran into Delphine, Mark’s mum. She was telling me what she’d heard from Mark. According to her, Mark said Harris is in Mildura. He said it was a shame Harris took off, that he seemed to be getting better.’
I try to look dismayed, as if this is all news to me. ‘Then…he came all the way down for his appointment. That has to count for something.’
Barb raises her eyebrows, shrugs. I know what the gestures mean. I’m starting to understand what Harris meant when he said people are happy to assume the worst about him.
Barb’s already commiserating with me. ‘You’ve got to let it go, hon. He’ll come to his appointments or he won’t. I know you’ve tried hard for that boy, but sometimes people don’t want your help as much as you want to give it.’
‘Maybe if he skips here he’ll go to the hospital in Mildura,’ I suggest.
‘Maybe he will,’ Barb concedes. She shrugs again. ‘Maybe he won’t. Like I said, best to just let it go.’
As Barb walks off I realise something. Me and Dad are the only ones who know exactly what’s going on. I’m going to hear people slagging Harris off a lot more often over the next few weeks. He already has a reputation in this community and posing as a drug connection in Mildura will blacken it further. Peoples’ opinions of him are only going to get worse.
And he chose this.
The fact that Harris is making a sacrifice to do this makes me think it must mean something to him, something important. What is it?
Maybe he wants to prove he’s not like his dad, not a heartless bastard. Or it could mean Harris doesn’t care what people think about him – he’s been living with other folks’ bad opinions his whole life. Maybe he doesn’t give a toss what people say anymore. I know he doesn’t let people in often. He must feel very much alone.
But there’s another scenario, and this is the one that worries me most. It’s the scenario where Harris has stopped caring about what he does and what the consequences will be. Whether he lives or dies. I thought that darkness had melted out of him after his last admission to hospital; maybe it just sank deeper, burned down into the core of him. He said he’s being careful, but he’s throwing himself into dangerous situations up in Mildura, double-crossing drug lords who don’t mind a spot of knee-capping, or worse…
Maybe Harris has a death wish.
It’s easy for me to fake disappointment for Barb at the idea Harris might have gone off the rails. But it’ll be even easier to act worried about what might happen to him as a result, because I’m one of the only people who knows what’s really going on in Mildura.
And I know enough to understand that Harris’s death wish could become a reality, with very little effort at all.
*
‘Wow, you’ve got a lot of gear.’
‘You should’ve seen all the shit I left behind,’ Nick says.
It’s Friday. We’re on the verge in front of my house, and Nick’s got almost every possession he owns stuffed inside his new second-hand car. He’s crammed three boxes of gear into the backseat and there’s two suitcases plus more in the boot.
‘Last chance, now.’ Nick eyebrows lift expectantly. ‘You sure you don’t want to climb aboard this train? You know I’d be cool with you crashing with me for a while, if you wanted to come down to Melbourne.’
His tone is joking but he looks hopeful, and I flash on my conversation with Robbie: he’s still into you. There’s so many reasons why I would never take advantage of Nick that way, but I don’t want him to feel bad about it.
I squeeze his arm. ‘If I ever decide to make the move, you’ll be the first person I call.’
His expression becomes resigned but he disguises it by shoving his hands in his pockets. ‘Be nice to Barb. She’s helped me a lot, and it was pretty cool of her to give me references and pay out my leave on such short notice. I feel like a bit of an arsehole for that. But Grant said these guys in Preston are okay for me to let the room in their house, and now I’ve got wheels…’
‘You should strike while the iron’s hot.’
‘This is all happening a bit faster than I’d expected,’ he admits.
‘Yeah,’ I say gently, ‘but you’ve been thinking about it for as long as I’ve known you. Now you get to do it – go out into the world and be awesome.’
I grin at him even though my eyes feel prickly and my head is full of nostalgia. Nick is standing there in his daggiest sun-bleached jeans and a white T-shirt. His black fringe falls in his eyes – all the Partridge boys have the same dark hair. It was one of the things I noticed about him when we first became friends, years before we started dating. I didn’t realise then I was letting into my heart another person who was destined to leave.
But people are impermanent. I should’ve figured that out by now.
‘Promise me something?’ His eyes hold mine. ‘If I take my awesome to Melbourne, you have to make up the difference here.’
‘Or there’ll be an awesome imbalance?’ I joke.
‘I’m serious, Amie.’ He looks serious, too. ‘Go get that residency. You’re shortlisted, that means you have a good chance. Have you signed up for an interview yet?’
‘Um, I’m still just checking out the paperwork.’ I lean back on the car – a white Ford hatchback – and let the heat from the metal bonnet warm me. I’m doing some disguising of my own.
‘Amie.’ Nick extricates a hand and tilts my chin. ‘You’ve only got one life. And it’s yours, not your dad’s or your nanna’s.’
‘I know that.’ I bite my lip.
‘Then stop worrying about everyone else and go live it.’ Nick presses a kiss to my forehead, releases me. ‘And sign up for an interview before the deadline.’
I ease off the car. ‘There’s a deadline?’
He snorts, shakes his head. ‘Just make sure you keep following my recommendation. One crazy thing per day, remember?’
‘I’ll…I’ll do my best.’ It would be interesting to tell him about the Harris situation, if only to see the look on his face. But that’s not gonna happen.
Nick’s expression shifts into a smile as he tucks his thumbs in his belt loops. ‘You’ll come see me in Melbourne, right? I want to take you out on the town in the Big Smoke, show you what real living’s like.’
‘Hey.’ I poke his arm. ‘Real living is right here, every day. But sure, you can take me out. On a tram, or something.’
‘On a tram…’ Nick guffaws, but I think he’s just doing it so he won’t get maudlin. He reaches for me, reels me into a hug. I squeeze him, because I think this might be the last hug for a while. Soon it’ll be time to let go.
‘Don’t cry,’ he whispers. ‘Don’t you dare.’
‘I won’t cry,’ I say, sniffing.
‘If you cry, you’ll just start me off.’
‘I won’t cry,’ I repeat, my voice muddy. ‘I’m happy for you.’
‘Now say “Bye, Nick, see you round,” just like we always do.’
‘Bye, Nick,’ I say. ‘See you round.’ I swallow hard and taste salt. Everything is blurry – the street around us, the houses, the sun.
‘See you round, Amie.’ Nick releases me, and his eyes are red. ‘I’ll see you soon.’
He moves over to the driver’s side, slides into the seat. Guns the engine and pulls the Ford off the verge. I step back as the car drives out. Stand there, waving, until I see the car turn the corner and disappear.
The kitchen seems very small when I go back into the house. Everything seems gloomy inside, after the glaring afternoon sun in the street. Dad is at the sink, doing the washing up. I’m supposed to be drying.
‘So Nick’s off and away,’ Dad says, over his shoulder.
‘Yeah.’ I wander over to the tea towel rack, touch each cloth to find the dry one. ‘Off and away to rescue some poor patients in Melbourne hospitals.’ I pull the cloth off the rack listlessly. ‘I shouldn’t be sad. He’s gonna be great in the city. And he’ll be a good nurse.’
‘You can still be sad,’ Dad says. He lets me lean against him, tilt my head onto his shoulder, as his voice rumbles on. ‘People end up all over. And you can tell me, y’know. If you’re ever thinking about it.’
‘Thinking about what?’
‘Shifting to the city.’
I un-tilt my head, step back to look at him. ‘Dad, I’m not thinking about shifting to the city.’
‘Maybe you should.’
‘What? My god, it’s like everyone I know wants me to leave home…’
‘Amita.’ Dad pulls the sink plug, takes the tea towel out of my hands. ‘Sweetheart, I’ve watched you these past few years. A lot of your mates are leaving. You’ve become more isolated.’
‘You don’t have to worry about me, Dad.’ I shrug. ‘I’m fine. I’ve got a job here.’
He hangs the tea towel on the back of the nearest chair. ‘But you’re not happy here.’
‘I am!’
‘Love, I don’t mean you’re not happy.’ Dad pulls out the chair and encourages me into it, settles his own bulk onto the chair opposite. ‘You’re a happy, easy-going person. You get along with everybody. You –’
‘I’ve got a position at the hospital,’ I point out. ‘I’ve got friends.’
‘I know that, love. I know you do. What I’m saying is that you might want to see a bit of the world. Go to the city. Travel, like you planned before your mother…’ Dad trails off. He frowns at the kitchen. ‘Y’know, this is my place. This is where your mum and me settled. But that doesn’t mean it’s the place you want to settle.’
He’s right: I’m not in the same position as a lot of rural kids around here, compelled to stay with the family farm. I’m not tied to the land here. But the idea of leaving Walpeup, leaving Dad alone in this little house…
I feel my face screw up. ‘But I want to be where you are!’
‘And I like having you around, don’t get me wrong.’ Dad pats my forearm on the table. ‘But that doesn’t mean I think you should live with me forever.’
But who will look after you if I leave? I can’t sacrifice dad’s health for some photography pipe dream. I won’t. More importantly, if I go, he will have lost another person. I don’t think I could do that to him. And what about my family in Mildura? What about Nani?
‘I-I don’t know, Dad.’ My hands are clasped in my lap. ‘My mental picture for the last four years has always just been of you and me, here.’
‘It’s pretty normal, I think, for kids to move out of their parents’ house at some stage.’ Dad’s look is dry. Then he leans back, starts picking at the table edge with a fingernail. ‘I’ve been anticipating it. You, leaving. It’s not like I haven’t thought about it.’
I can’t do anything except reach over and clasp his hand. Because since Robbie and Nick told me about the residency, I’ve thought about it, too. It’s been tormenting me.
But if I let go of this picture I’ve always had, of me and Dad and this house, and Nani in Mildura, what will flood in to fill the gap? All those photos in National Geographic – they’re just scenery. Not places where you arrive, step out, breathe in the air or feel the sun. It’s been a long time since I imagined myself in any of them. They’re two-dimensional and they don’t feel quite real.
This – this feels real. Sitting in the cool dingy kitchen with the mozzie zapper buzzing outside. The smell of tonight’s dinner still hanging around, settling into the curtains over the sink.
Dad’s hand, grimy with engine grease, curled around mine.
*
I don’t know what time it is. I fell asleep on my bed, in the middle of reading through the papers in the purple folder Robbie gave me. Then my phone chimes again and I realise what’s woken me.
I push my hair out of my face and grab my phone off the dresser. The first text from Patient #451 – which is how I’ve saved Harris’s number in my phone – says Need to schedule new apptmt. Pls get in touch. It’s from ten minutes ago. The newest message is the one that just woke me; it reads Call if available. It’s our pre-arranged signal: it means Harris is out of his sharehouse and free to talk. But this is the first time he’s used it.
I hit Call, anxious there might be some emergency. ‘Hey, what’s up?’
‘Ah, hey. Sorry to wake you.’ Harris’s voice is gravelly. He sounds like he’s been drinking.
‘It’s fine.’ I rub my eyes. ‘How’d you know I’m not out raging?’
I can hear his smile down the line. ‘It’s one in the morning. I know you’re not on shift, cos it’s Friday. And…you sound different. Sleepy.’
I huff out a laugh, settle myself back on the pillows. ‘Yeah, I’m a bit sleepy. It’s okay, though. What’s happening?’
‘Friday night, hey? Parties all over – it’s a busy time. Look, I thought your dad might wanna know Leon offered me a gun.’
I sit up again. ‘He wants you to carry a gun? Why?’
‘I’m the runner, yeah?’ Harris sighs. ‘I’m cruisin’ around town with bundles of cash stuffed down the front of my shirt. And Leon’s not the only game in town. The big bosses, they fight over turf all the time. According to Snowie I’m nuts if I don’t carry.’
‘But if you get busted by the Mildura cops with a gun –’
‘That’s what I’m talking about. I said thanks but no thanks. Bad enough if I get hauled in by the cops with a cash delivery, let alone if I’m sprung with a pistol down the back of my pants.’ He makes a snort. ‘I told Leon I was worried I’d accidentally shoot myself in the arse.’
‘And what’d he say to that?’
His tone changes. ‘He said it was my funeral.’
‘I think you did the right thing.’ I marshal my thoughts, try to keep my voice light and even. ‘I’ll let Dad know, but I reckon you’re much less likely to cop a charge if they bust you and you’re unarmed. And yes, less likely to shoot your arse off.’ I think about it more seriously. ‘But Harris, do you need to be carrying some kind of weapon? If there’s a situation, and you feel threatened –’
‘Hey, if there’s a situation and I feel threatened, I’m gonna drop the cash and run. I’m not gonna throw myself in front of a bullet to protect Leon’s profit margin. If that ever happens, you’ll know I’ve switched sides.’ He pauses. ‘The money these guys throw around, Ames… It’s crazy. Ando’s bought himself a new car. Some bloody ridiculous Land Cruiser thing, he’s driving it through town, parking it in Amblin Court. Like, Jesus, why don’t you put up a big sign saying Drug Dealer In Da House?’
I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t stop myself from laughing. Harris laughs too, as if I’ve surprised him. It’s one in the morning, we’re both tired, and we’re laughing over this insane thing… The laughter brings me back into myself, reminds me of why I think Harris has volunteered to do this. It isn’t for the money. It’s never been just about that.
‘What are you doing right now?’ I ask softly.
I get a shiver when he sighs again, long and low. ‘I’m up near the milk bar. I’ve only got a minute, hey. But I really needed to get out for a bit. It’s good to hear your voice.’
That makes the shiver spread inside me, all the way down to my toes. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m okay,’ he says. ‘But I’m living right in the middle of it.’ His voice drops into a huskier register. ‘That house, Amie, it gets to me. This girl comes over from down the street, she’s got her baby on one hip, and she’s coming for a hit off Kev’s pipe. Last night I woke up and I could hear the baby crying in the living room…’
His breath hitches, and there’s quiet on the line for a minute. I let him have the quiet before I speak because sometimes you just need to say it, just need to send it out there. But I don’t let the pause go on too long.
‘Harris, you only have one job, remember? You can’t do everything. You can’t save everyone.’ Which I realise is something Barb has said to me, on so many occasions. I push the thought away. ‘Just do the best you can with what you’ve got. And keep yourself safe.’ Because that’s the most important thing – I stop the words from falling out of my mouth just in time. To cover the blank space I say what’s been on my mind. ‘Nick left town today.’
He doesn’t make a joke, although I know it must be tempting. ‘He’s your friend, yeah? I’m willing to bet you’ll see him again.’
‘Yes, he’s my friend.’ I can’t stop a sigh escaping.
‘Amie, you’ve got more than one friend in your corner,’ Harris says quietly. ‘Gimme a call, if you need me.’
‘But you’re –’
‘I’m here. That’s all I’m saying. Text me and I’ll find a place to call.’ He exhales. ‘That’s self-interest talking, by the way. Sometimes, I think touching base with you is the only thing keeping me from going crazy up here.’
‘Harris –’
‘Hey, I’ve gotta go,’ he says quickly. ‘I’ll see you Wednesday, okay? Stay real.’
‘Stay alive,’ I blurt, just before the line drops out.
I hope he heard me. I hope he’s taking my advice.