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  I remembered Trev’s advice: Tread lightly.

  I dashed to the window. If Trev started pushing hard too, Shaun might get even more worked up. He wouldn’t hold back on Trev, not like he had on Mum. Trev might be tough as, but Shaun could kill him in a heartbeat.

  I looked up. Trev’s feet were gone. He was inside the shed.

  ‘Shit!’

  Mum sobbed over her teacup. I kept my gaze glued to the steps.

  There hadn’t been a sound for ages. What if Shaun’d got him? Clobbered him with a ball as soon as Trev’d entered the shed? I raced out and stood on the verandah, listening.

  I could just hear Trev. On and on he went. Not in an angry voice, but kind of stern, serious like he was giving a lecture. Every now and then he halted, and Shaun would respond: low, muffled, calmer now. I caught a bit of what Trev was saying, a few words here and there: ‘Yes, we will, mate,’ and ‘Don’t get ahead of yerself,’ and ‘No, we don’t have to say nothing to them, nothing,’ and ‘That’s it…Have another one.’

  Gradually Trev talked less and less, and after about half an hour he stopped altogether.

  Then he strode through the shed door, wearing a triumphant grin. And as he bounded down the steps, his grin grew wider and he gave me two thumbs up.

  18

  This time it was a nightmare that shook me from my sleep.

  I was dreaming of everything that had just happened. It all played out the same. Exactly the same. Except for the end. It wasn’t Trev who emerged victorious from the shed. It was Shaun—with blood smeared from his forehead down to his chest. Standing in the shed doorway, he held his left hand straight in front of him and his right hand, clutching something, just behind his head.

  He was taking aim and I was the target.

  Whoosh! The pool ball spun towards me in slow motion, flecks of Trev’s blood flicking from it. The ball moved so slowly I had plenty of time to save myself: duck for cover, try and catch it, or dive out of the way. But I couldn’t move a single muscle. And when the bloody, slow-moving ball hit—SMACK, right between my eyes—it was as if it’d been travelling a hundred ks an hour.

  I sprang up on my bed, holding my face. ‘FUCK!’

  The scream drained my lungs so much I needed to suck in a deep bellyful of air. As my galloping heart and my heaving breathing slowed, I remembered how the night had actually ended—and the plan that Trev had come up with—and I started to feel okay. I rushed out of my room to check if they’d already taken Shaun to get help.

  After Trev had strode down the shed steps the night before he’d given Mum and me the rundown on how he’d calmed Shaun. ‘Only thing for it was some pills. Opened him a beer and tossed a couple of vallies to calm him. And a temazepam, y’know, to give him a good proper sleep. Some oxy to round it all off. Only halfa, though. Ha! I’m not that fucken generous.’ Once the ‘gear had kicked in’ and Shaun’d calmed, Trev’d laid down the law. Talked Shaun through it, convinced him that if he went to see someone, like a GP, he wouldn’t have to say boo to Defence. Trev told Shaun the best first point of call would be Dr Roberts (our old family doctor who Trev had a ‘solid relationship’ with). Trev reckoned Roberts might be able to help Shaun get some scripts for some more stuff to calm him and help him sleep, and an appointment with the right people, when he was ready for it. Plus, Trev told Shaun he could do everything in his own time. When Trev told us that, I’d snapped, saying what he’d said to me in the kitchen, that if Shaun got worse we had to get him to the doctor’s straight away. Trev told me to calm down and that Mum and him were going to take Shaun in the morning no matter what. Then Trev’d convinced Mum and me to get to bed while he set up camp on the side verandah to keep a lookout. Just in case. Plan was that first thing in the morning Mum, Trev and Shaun would head to the hospital in Small Town and wait at emergency till they could see Dr Roberts.

  On the side verandah I found Trev’s ‘camp’—three couch-cushions for a bed, a thin tattered paperback, a Thermos of coffee and a near empty bottle of Jameson. But there was no sign of Trev.

  I checked out the front. The Corolla was gone too. Didn’t need to check on Mum and Shaun to know they were with Trev, already on their way in.

  I could just see the faint glow of the sun behind the low-hanging clouds, like a dollar coin wrapped in a grey hanky. It was a quarter of the way through the sky. Mid-morning. The rain had let up but a cluster of darker clouds, the shape and colour of Shaun’s used mechanic rags, was moving in from the west. I wondered if the creek had risen during the night. If any bridges had gone under. I figured Trev, Mum and Shaun would’ve come back already if they couldn’t get through. They must’ve made it.

  Inside, I lay in the lounge room beneath the monstrous tinsel-octopus. Imagining them all sitting in the waiting room, Shaun getting ready to talk with Dr Roberts, I was relieved. Exhausted too. But as much as I tried to snooze, I couldn’t. I was wired, still buzzing from all the action. I closed my eyes, and in the blackness images of the night flickered one by one like a poker hand being revealed. Shaun screaming. Me grabbing the bat. Trev in the shadows. Mum cradling Shaun. Trev slamming the table. Shaun pegging the pool balls.

  I didn’t want to think about all that so I snapped my eyes open and turned on the telly. After a bit of flicking through the channels I stopped on a soap opera. A girl with hair the same colour as Jessica’s walked along the beach talking to her friend. She was about the same height too, and had the same colour eyes. She and her friend were talking rubbish, so I turned the volume down and put on Jessica and Jade’s voices and spoke when each actress on the telly did: Like, Jessica, I can’t wait till the party…Oh, me too, Jade. I’m going to eat Trysten right up! Jeez, I’d kill to hear her voice. That’d pick me up. I thought about calling her on the phone but then I remembered how on the last day of school when I’d asked for her number she said she didn’t want me calling ’cause her parents would get suss on her. So instead I headed to my room. If I couldn’t talk to her, at least I could look at her.

  I returned with a copy of The Annual, our school magazine. It had photos of all the grades, photos taken at sports carnivals of kids leaping over high jumps or crossing finish lines, and ones from school excursions as well as stories and art and poems from the smartypants kids. I flicked straight to the double-spread photo of our year, which was right in the middle of the magazine. There was about sixty of us year niners. The photo was taken only a week or so after Jessica had moved to town. Because she was one of the shortest in the year she sat front row, three from the left. I was in the second-last row, three from the end right-hand side. Aside from Ricky, who had his eyes rolled back in his head like a zombie, I was the only one who wasn’t looking at the camera. My eyes were looking down. Spying on Jessica’s legs. And while her eyes were directed at the camera they had this little look about them, like she knew someone was looking at her, perving on her. And I reckoned she knew that that someone was me.

  I looked at her legs in the photo. Her body was angled slightly to her right, so you could see the whole length of her left leg. Right from her ankle up the side of her calf-muscle to her knee, her thigh and up up up to the hem of her skirt.

  Well, I was starting to get revved up, so with the house to myself I was about to reach down me dacks when a thud came from the back verandah.

  I army-rolled off the couch, crouched low beside the coffee table. Taking cover. Waiting for something else to happen.

  Rat-a-tat-tat went the back door.

  I stood up, fists curled, ready for more action. But then I realised who’d be slinking up onto the back verandah on Christmas morning like a sorry old dog lost in a storm. I sighed, shook my head and shuffled down the hallway, slow as I could move, like a cranky old-timer heading to the door for some do-gooder doorknocker who he was only going to tell to piss right off.

  I eased the door open and as I took in his dishevelled state, I shook my head even harder. ‘Tsk, tsk, tsk.’

  Old Greggy Boy was wearing a t
hick maroon raincoat, one that he’d got for a steal from a garage sale years ago, which Mum reckoned made him look like a hobo, or a peeping Tom, or both rolled into one. The coat was buttonless—Mum’d always refused to sew new ones on it—so Greggy had it fastened round his gut with a length of rope. You could barely see that his gumboots were black for all the caked mud on them. The stench of his socks (must’ve been wet for days) seeped from the boots like fumes from a cracked septic tank. Frizzy grey tufts of hair sprouted from under the red and white football beanie perched high on his head. And his drenched beard stretched down to his chest, making it look a lot longer, but even more pissy-looking, than normal. By his side was all his gear, all the stuff he’d managed to salvage, tightly bundled in a piece of tarpaulin tied with another length of rope. One huge fat sack of loot.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ I said. ‘Amazing! In the flesh and blood. The big man himself!’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Saint fucken Nick.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Have another go at yer old man, why don’t ya? Nearly got friggin’ washed away down there trying to save all me gear. Been a wild night. Ooohhh, a real wild one. Coulda used some help, I could.’

  Dad took off his coat and boots.

  ‘So,’ he said, stepping inside, dripping everywhere. ‘Did I miss anything?’

  I shook my head and kept on shaking it as I followed Dad to the kitchen where he grabbed the milk out of the fridge, taking a swig straight from the carton as he sat at the table, and devoured half a dozen gingerbread men, shovelling them into his mouth like a lost bushwalker who’d hadn’t eaten for weeks.

  ‘Woo-wee, Trysten…Aaaahhh, these are good…Real good! Yer mum, she ain’t lost her touch…She must be doing much…aaaahhh…much better…Where is she then? Where are they all anyway? Thought everyone’d b—’

  Dad’s jaw dropped. A chunk of half-chewed biscuit tumbled from his mouth and landed in his milk-beaded beard. He swallowed what remained of the biscuit and kept his gaze cast over my shoulder. Then he sat up straight, wrung out his beard.

  ‘Kirsty.’ Dad lifted his beanie like a gentleman of the old times would his hat. ‘Good to see ya. And thank you kindly for the invite up and all…and…well…Merry Chri—’

  And then it was on.

  ‘Don’t you bloody Merry-fucken-Christmas me!’

  Mum leant against the doorframe, arms crossed. I looked past her down the hallway, expecting to see Shaun and Trev behind her. But when I noticed she was wearing her dressing-gown I realised she hadn’t gone in at all. Trev must’ve made the call to take Shaun by himself.

  ‘And get your filthy hands off that food. It’s for Christmas Day!’

  ‘Huh? What? I thought it was Christmas Day.’

  ‘Yeah, well, not now it ain’t. Postponing it till tomorrow. Till after the others get back and we‘ve all had a rest.’

  ‘Huh? What are you on about? What’s going on?’

  ‘Ah, calm down, would ya? I’m not telling you anything until you’ve got out of those filthy clothes and had a shower and a bloody good scrub. Christ, Gregory—you smell like a dead cow floating in a dam.’

  ‘So,’ I said, remembering the creek. ‘She up to the caravan yet, Dad?’

  ‘Ah, close, mate, close. Hazard a guess there’s only another day in it. Was right about the Landy, too. Didn’t have the guts to tow. Managed to get the Landy up to high ground, but the caravan’s got to stay put. Jacked her up a bit more, though. Got a few blocks under her. Two foot off the ground now, she is. Got me gear out, me valuables, just in case she goes under.’

  Thump thump thump. Mum stomped to the table. ‘Whoopde-bloody-whoop! While you’ve been fussing over your precious junk, we’ve been dealing with real problems. Now, go and get washed up and then come back to the table. You and I are going to have a nice…long…talk.’

  Nice long talk? Fuck—Greggy Boy was in for it now.

  Nice long talk was code for having a fight. Whenever Mum used to say they were going for a nice long talk she’d scoot off to the shed, or out to the Kingswood, or behind the chook pen, or down the backyard, with Dad dragging his feet behind her. Didn’t take Shaun and me long to work out they were fighting, because every now and again you’d hear Mum screeching and Dad yelling, Jesus, I said I was sorry, didn’t I? Give an inch, Kirsty! Give a bloody inch, I tell ya! I’d snuck up and eavesdropped on them a couple of times. Their arguments just went round and round in circles, but. All tit for tat. I got bored listening in. And in the last few years when they’d argued, not bothering to go somewhere private for it, I’d just tuned out.

  ‘Righto.’ Dad stood. ‘I’ll scrub up then.’

  He trudged to the bathroom, sloshing like a muddy bunyip. I looked at the table. He’d left a mess—half-chewed biscuits and the carton of milk. Ah fuck, I thought, he’s not just in for it. He’s dead!

  But before Mum even raised an eyebrow Dad spun round and swept the biscuit crumbs into his hand and tossed them in his gob. Then he picked up the milk and popped it in the fridge.

  He winked at Mum as he passed her, but before he’d even opened his eye from that wink, she’d clipped him on the back of the head. And as he continued on down the hallway, she held in the air that hand she’d clipped him with, and hesitantly moved it in front of her nose and took a whiff.

  ‘Gross, Gregory Black. Just bloody gross!’

  A few minutes into their nice long talk I turned my stereo on. I didn’t put it up too loud, though. Didn’t want to drown them out, just wanted to make ’em think I wasn’t listening. This was one fight I was keen to catch.

  Mum updated Dad on Shaun. All the while her voice was steady. She must’ve been trying real hard not to crack it.

  Dad stayed quiet as a mouse for a minute or so after Mum finished, then said, ‘Christ…ah, Jesus, this is no good. Well, can’t say I didn’t try.’

  ‘What?’ Mum shrieked. ‘Didn’t try? Didn’t try what?’

  ‘To steer him in another direction. Hell bent on it, he was. Probably all that time he spent with yer old man.’

  ‘How dare you? How dare you bring Pop into this! It was Shaun’s choice, Shaun’s dream. He was so excited to be following that dream, and what’d ya go and do? Sock him in the face!’

  ‘Now, you listen. I was ready to make peace that day. Just trying to come up with the words to say to him. Like what you just said—’cause, yeah, part of me was proud that he was doing something, that he was dreaming big—I just couldn’t come up with the words. Then he started goading me. Goading me like the rest of youse do. And I snapped. Didn’t I? I bloody well snapped.’

  ‘But in all the time after, Greg. In all the time after when he came back and you went off in hiding, off to visit Mick, or staying down the caravan. Avoiding him at all costs. Ya could’ve seen him. What, were ya scared or something? Hey, ya think he was gonna belt ya back?’

  ‘No, Kirsty. It wasn’t that I was scared. If he was gonna hit me back he’d’ve done it then. But he didn’t. Instead he looked at me, shook his head as if he was sorry for me. I was too bloody ashamed. Angry at myself. Remember what I said to you when Shaun was born, when I held him in my arms for that first time?’

  Mum’s voice softened. ‘Yeah…I remember…Promised you’d never lay a hand on him. Not do to him what yer old man did to you.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Dad, defeated. ‘And I broke that promise.’

  Robert, I thought. My other granddad. Died before I was born. Dad never talked about him. And when Mum did, or Shaun, the few times I’d asked about him, they both said the same thing: that he was a vicious old prick.

  ‘Come here,’ Mum said, real soft now. ‘Come here, Greg.’

  ‘Ah, Jesus,’ said Dad, close to tears. ‘I’m sorry. I really am.’

  ‘Well, you’ll need to say that to him, not me.’

  ‘I know. I know.’

  ‘Not that ya don’t owe me one, too.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘An apology.’

  ‘Wh
a—’

  ‘For the past eight months, that’s what! Leaving me to look after Trysten while ya sulked down at yer little hideaway spot. Reckon you’ve been dreaming of living there for ages. And if ya wanna live down there, that’s fine, do it! I just wished ya’d waited a little longer. The last six months’ve been hell. Didn’t ya think about how I’d cope when Shaun was deployed?’

  ‘Course I did! Course I bloody did! That’s what kept me down there. I knew what was coming—the moods, the boozing—and, well, I just couldn’t go through it again. And then I just got stuck down there. I was gonna come back up. Was stewing on it, but then when I heard Trev was round…well…I was worried that, well, maybe ’cause I hadn’t been up in a while and ’cause of that last nasty row, ya’d tell him.’

  ‘Tell him what?’

  ‘About Bumper.’

  ‘Ah, c’mon, Gregory. I told ya I’d never tell Trev about that. What, ya think I’m some mean old witch? Think I’m so vindictive that I’d tell him you’d called the cops on his mate? Ah, give us a break, would ya?’

  ‘Oh, thanks. Well, how’s he feel about the deal?’

  ‘The deal? Hasn’t mentioned it. What, ya think he’s back to renegotiate? Stake out a patch of the flats next to yer van? Pop left me the farm. Me! And I’ve taken care of Trev. Selling that land to the Davises meant he got a big pile of cash to drink and drug away. He’s not bitter or nothing. Just needed a place to crash for a while, and I’ll give that to him whenever he needs it. And you too. If ya don’t want to be up in the house with us, ya can go back to the van. Back to yer patch.’

  ‘No,’ said Dad. ‘I thi—’

  Rriiiiinnnggg. Mum answered the phone, saying yep and okay and good over and over, then hung up.