‘It’s in the truck.’
But the bloke didn’t get out of his way. Instead of moving, he lifted his chin and pursed his lips, a question. Put a hand on Lee’s chest, to stop him moving. ‘Where your people from?’
‘What?’
‘I said, where your people from? What your country?’
The anger was sudden and powerful. With his free hand,
Lee made an elbow and shoved it into the guy’s chest, pushed him back a few steps. ‘The fuck away from me.’
The guy backed up, but dropped his hands, rocked on the
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bal s of his bare feet, the classic stance. Lee didn’t move, but kept his right fist closed, ready to throw a southpaw jab.
A single word would bring it on, but Lee didn’t want it. The last thing he wanted. He was sick of it.
He walked to the truck, ignoring the eyes of the other man, watching him leave. Lee climbed into the truck and turned
the key. Robbie slapped him hard on the neck.
‘Fucken nice one man. I think the boong might’ve pissed
himself. You got my sausage roll?’
Lee released the handbrake. ‘Nope. Forgot. You still want
one?’
‘Fucken oath I want one. Let’s see if the boong’s got anything left.’
Robbie got down from the cab. Lee waited until Robbie was
inside the deli. He put the Ford in reverse and pulled onto the road, changed forward and drove off. The street was pruned
bottlebrush and peppermint trees right to the highway. He got to the intersection and saw Robbie standing back there, in the middle of the road, his hands up and his mouth stuffed with pastry and meat.
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9.
Lee found the address listed on Emma’s letter. It was on
another suburban street lined with peppermint trees, further west, sloping down toward the river. A two-storey pale brick affair with a skillion roof built over an excavated garage. Big windows to take in the view. Emma’s father was a school
principal and on a good salary.
It was the middle of the day and there was nobody around.
Lee scanned the windows on the top floor and wondered
which of the rooms was hers. Probably the one with the closed drapes and the little balcony. He looked at the house and
figured out the best way to scale the wall and reach her room, as he used to do back in Geraldton. She had once told him
about boys in alpine Austria risking their lives by climbing to the top of mountains to pick a single edelweiss flower as proof of their love.
Lee’ d been with Emma in the back of his father’s Sandman,
the rear doors open to a view of the ocean. Lee had tried to 102
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think of an equivalent gesture of romantic bravery that didn’t involve fighting, or crime, or drag racing, and that was the problem with his hometown right there.
He had already told her about spearfishing with his father
off the back reefs, drawing in tiger sharks with fish-heads tied to his belt, his heart blooming inside his chest like a jel yfish while his father trod water beside him. Lee hoping for a juvenile tiger shark and not a school of bronze whalers. The shotgun cartridge loaded into the bang-stick held in his shaking hands.
A shark’s brain about the size of his big toe. Miss it and it’ d just make the shark angry. His father similarly armed beside him, looking into the deep blue depths that sloped down to the
continental shelf. The ten-foot tiger emerging from the gloom with slow swipes of its tail, moving to circle them, taking a look with its cold eye – the tiger stripes a nice camouflage in the dappled sunlight near the surface. It came closer and Lee’s heart pounded and his bladder emptied and the thing was
moving impossibly fast, his father gone from beside him, a
glance telling Lee that he was now hunting his own shark, far bigger and more wary, thirty feet to his left. Lee hung at the surface, trying to make himself limp, knowing that the shark could read his heart, could smell the chemicals of fear on his skin and the piss that was leaking from his wetsuit in warm threads.
He hung limp, and waited, terrified that his forced calmness had become paralysis, turning the bang-stick in his hands
to prove that he was alive but scared that he’ d drop it. Surf crashed onto the reef a hundred metres behind him. Sunlight 103
DAVID WHISH-WILSON
danced on his head. The shark feint-charged and looped back around. Lee heard the drowned percussion of his father’s
bang-stick discharging, looked over to see the second giant tiger swimming erratical y then thrashing, and then stopping all movement, gliding down into the blue depths. Lee turned his head and his own tiger was sweeping past him again, a
closer orbit, and Lee took a breath and kicked and slammed
the stick into the shark’s head, just behind the eyes. He felt the cartridge detonate and the shockwave pulse up his arms and
into his shoulders as the pig-shot burst under the animal’s skin.
rolled its eyes, jawing the water. It tried to swim but merely spun, a slow death spiral, circling down into the gloom. Lee watched it and felt terror and pity, his father’s hands on his arm, pulling him back to the surface for air.
The story didn’t impress Emma. She ran her hand over his
face, looking into his eyes. ‘Your eyes are so sad,’ she said, and held him tight, squeezing and releasing. She felt sorry for him, and he understood that her pity was because of the life that his father demanded of him, and for the first time Lee felt anger toward his father, and resentment too.
*
A police van entered the street at the bottom of the hill and Lee realised that he’ d been sitting in the truck staring at the house for some time. He lifted the book of maps off the seat beside him and began to scan the nearby streets for her school.
The police car passed, the hatless driver ducking under the 104
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sun visor to check Lee out. This was a rich neighbourhood
and neither Lee nor his truck fitted the picture of quiet streets, manicured gardens and fancy houses.
Emma hadn’t named her school. There were a couple of
private colleges in the area, but only one of them was Catholic.
He dog-eared the page and drove to the end of the street,
turned in the general north-east direction indicated on the map. The school wasn’t far away and he hoped that it was the right one. It was close enough for her to walk. He could park up one day soon, when his face was less disfigured. Wait for her by the side of the road.
There were girls of all ages on the sports fields, the youngest ones playing chasey and the older ones practising netball in bloomers and t-shirts. Groups of girls sat in lazy circles under trees with a view over the river, but their uniform wasn’t the one that Emma had described, and Lee searched through the
grids across the suburbs toward Fremantle, and north of the river, where there were several that sounded Catholic enough.
He drove the truck down Stirling Highway across the river
that narrowed toward the port busy with container ships, the hot stink of live sheep transports carried on the sea breeze.
He found Maria College just as the siren sounded to end
lunchtime. Girls wearing the uniform described by Emma
moved in clots toward the largest buildings. He drove the
truck closer to the river, looking for the place where girls who smoked would gather outside the cyclone fenceline, but
couldn’t see anywhere likely.
The school grounds were deserted and he put the Ford in
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gear and followed the river through a new suburb and then a light industrial area back toward the port. His pla
n was to go to the harbour, past the gigantic crane derricks and sit on the limestone groyne at South Mole, where he and his father had always eaten Cicerello’s fish and chips.
He crossed Stirling Bridge but got boxed between an
empty sheep truck and a two-container road train, and had
to follow them deeper into suburban Fremantle. At the first opportunity he headed toward the limestone ridgeline that
glinted with sunlight and rose over the city below. He was
nearly at the peak of the hill when the traffic thickened. He saw a woman standing beside her Holden with the bonnet
popped while another man who’ d parked his ute on the
verge attached jump leads to his own car. Lee’s Ford wouldn’t be needed, and he joined the right lane and had gone about
a hundred metres when the traffic slowed and he watched
two thickset men skipping on the pavement while another
shadow-boxed. There were no signs, but Lee pulled over
and parked the truck. Two more men ran out from a sunken
driveway that led beneath a video store.
Lee turned off the ignition and locked the truck, then
walked up to the men on the pavement. None of them
showed any interest, and he looked down the driveway to a
parking lot at the rear of the building. He walked down the steep drive and heard the familiar sound of gloves hitting
bags and sharp exhalations and the clinking of weights.
Behind the corner was a darkened room with a bare concrete
floor and heavy bags bolted to frames in the concrete ceiling.
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A thin young man at the back of the room moved through
his circuit, turning to work the speedballs, the heavy bag
beside him still creaking and rocking. The room smelled of
stale sweat and Dencorub. There was a boxing ring in the
farthest corner with a carpet floor. The ceiling was low and the room was hot.
The gym was exactly what he’ d been looking for. Lee
glanced around and noticed the older man who’ d been
watching him the whole time. He was tidying up a shelf of
gloves that he’ d pulled to the floor to sort out in pairs. He was black-skinned and dressed in stubbies and a tight singlet over a gut shaped like a basketball. He waved Lee into the
room. As Lee got closer he could see that the old blackfella was a good size, with long arms and large hands. He smiled
at Lee and shouted, ‘Frank!’
From an office to Lee’s right an older white man emerged,
lean and rangy with combed wet hair, wiping his face with
a towel. He was shirtless and dressed in footy shorts and
thongs. He wiped his hands and reached out a paw for Lee to shake. ‘I’m Frank. That’s Gerry.’
They looked like a couple of ex-pugs and neither of them
said anything about the state of Lee’s face. He nodded. ‘Lee.’
Frank waved a hand at the floor of the gym. ‘Help yourself.
If it works, let Gerry know. I’ve gotta go to work. See ya, mate.’
Frank went back into the office and shut the door. Gerry
knelt to sort out the gloves. Lee untied his boots and slipped off his socks. He stood in his jeans, shirtless. The cement 107
DAVID WHISH-WILSON
was oily underfoot and he went straight for the nearest heavy bag, banded around its guts with gaffer tape. He gave it a left jab to make sure it wasn’t filled with sand. His ribs ached and his face felt like a papier-mâché mask but it was good to move.
‘You don’t want to wear gloves?’
Lee ignored Gerry behind him. Began to rock on his feet,
warming up with a flurry of jabs, letting the impact of the blows loosen his shoulders. When he was ready he stood back and took the stance and belted the bag with five side kicks, his hands balanced above his head and his foot returning
to the same mark on the floor. He was starting to sweat in
the hot room and he wiped the bal s of his feet on his jeans and repeated the kicks, this time with his left leg. The smacks on the leather were loud and satisfying. He stood back and
delivered a kick–punch combination. He could feel his heart pumping faster and his skin begin to tingle. His face wasn’t aching anymore as his body made its own painkillers and
pumped them around his body.
‘Hey.’
Lee turned and Gerry was holding up a pair of wraps. ‘You
don’t have to wear gloves, but you got to wear wraps. I don’t want your blood on my bags.’
Lee saw that he’ d already skinned the two contact knuckles on each hand, which were seeping a clear fluid. Now he noticed the prison tattoos on the dark skin of the other man. Ink teardrops on his weathered face. His arms a mess of faded patterns that were indecipherable in the shadows.
Gerry passed the white bandages and went back to his
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business while Lee wrapped his hands. He worked the heavy
bag for a couple of minutes before he noticed the black man watching him.
‘Keep that left shoulder up.’
Lee hadn’t sought the man’s advice and pretended he hadn’t
heard. Next thing, he felt a whack on his back. It was Gerry, holding up a leather face mask with an iron grille. ‘Yer face is messed up enough. You better wear this.’
Gerry walked over to the boxing ring and climbed inside,
turned and waited for Lee to follow. Lee had never worn a
mask before, but understood that it was a good idea. ‘And get yourself sixteen-ounce gloves. We got carpet here, so your
bare feet don’t matter.’
Lee moved cautiously around the man, who turned with
Lee’s circle. There was nothing in his eyes except the job, scanning Lee’s footwork. Lee made his first foray with a
double jab and then a third jab to the stomach but the old
man was surprisingly fast, ducking, dancing and circling
round. Every time Lee entered the man’s range he got a sharp tap on the forehead, the jabs deliberately north of his broken nose but powerful enough to snap his neck back. Lee went
in with a flurry but the old man danced away, giving him
another tap in the process. There was no enjoyment in his
dark eyes, just the odd grunt for Lee to keep his left shoulder up, to keep moving. Now Gerry went on the offensive,
forcing Lee back into the corners with repeated jabs, boxing him in, rounding his shoulders and protecting his face and
taking the hooks to the top of his blunt head. The guy was a 109
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bull, and there was no let-up. Pretty soon they were bathed in sweat, Lee short of breath, his heart hammering and his
knees weak, although the old guy showed no signs of fatigue and just kept bustling and jabbing.
Lee put up his hands. The disappointment on the man’s
face was obvious, although he nodded.
They stood in the sunlight and let the wind cool them,
loosening their wraps. ‘You show promise. We usually open
early evening, for the local kids. You start coming regular I’ll give you a key, so you can train whenever you want. We spar every night at seven if that’s your thing.’
‘What do I owe you?’ Lee asked, only now getting his
breath back, his face still full of blood.
Gerry shook his head. ‘Nothin, mate. Till you start coming
regular. Sling us a five every now and then.’
There was no warmth in his voice, and Lee understood.
The man had seen something in Lee’s eyes that he was used
to seeing. It didn’t require comment, until the look became words, or something else.
Lee was too h
ot to get back in his boots. He stood there,
feeling like an idiot, holding his boots and socks, his t-shirt hooped around his neck. He waited until the black man
looked up, and met his eye.
‘Thanks,’ he said, and the old guy nodded.
*
Lee followed the river toward the city, getting to know the smaller streets whose names he committed to memory.
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There were countless little bays where the river opened up to Melville Water, separated by limestone cliffs and mansions
with high wal s. Down on the mudflats were weed-beds and
patches of sedge-grass and reed. He could see different species of waders poking about in the shallows. Pelicans and shags
stood in the sunshine watching the smaller birds fuss and
preen. North across the river Lee saw a pod of five dolphins cruising the shallows, swimming laps around the pylons and
buoys, playing rather than hunting. One of them was a baby
and, as he’ d done ever since his father taught him at Shark Bay, Lee felt like swimming out and joining them. He’ d speak to them underwater, mimicking their sonar chatter of squeaks and bended notes. Instead, he turned the ignition and moved east and north toward the city, in no particular hurry, but examining the new feeling that had occupied his mind since
leaving the boxing gym.
It had been there throughout the day, but now that the
afternoon was drifting toward evening it was becoming
obvious. The urge had no name because he’ d never felt it
before, except that every time the flush of anxiety grew in his stomach he thought of Frankie. Lee examined his mind
for something to explain the recurring image of Frankie, but there was nothing there. It was his body speaking to him,
trying to trick his mind. It wasn’t Frankie that his body was yearning for but the peace that came with the little push of her syringe. The image of her crouched beside him crystallised
with the force of understanding. The tenderness she’ d shown him, and the warm shadows cast by her black hair over her
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eyes, and the touch of her fingers on his forearm had become the same thing as the flushing tranquil warmth, and the hours of wakeful dreaming that her syringe had delivered with its finest point and prick of steel.