I’ll be seeing them again a little later, said Rhino, spitting gravel back onto the ground. Okay, son, he said, standing over Ken. Standing behind him so Ken couldn’t see anything but Rhino’s boot as he looked back through his legs. Rhino was close. Every now and again another car went past, slowed a little, then went on. Though on the edge of town, it was not a busy road. Okay, son, so you’re a poofter, are you?
Ken didn’t know what to say. He was shaking. He hated the town. He wanted to go to Paris. He wanted to get to the city. It took five hours to drive to Perth. And now he would probably lose his licence. For what? Going ten k’s over the speed limit. He said, Was I going too fast, sir?
Speeding. Yes, you were doing seventy in a sixty zone. I am going to give you a ticket. Now, answer me, are you a poofter?
Some of the kids at school call me that.
And what do you say back to them?
Nothing.
They aren’t my friends. They’ve only been hanging around with me because Mum’s let me use the car.
Gotcha. You know, son, that was a weak thing to do, calling your mate over. Wanted to share the blame, did ya?
I’m not sure. I think so. I was scared.
So you are a poofter?
Maybe. Ken took his hands from the bonnet and wrapped them across his chest because he was shaking. Shaking hard. There was a sea breeze but it wasn’t cold. He smelt the salt and the pissy smell of dune vegetation, and he felt nauseated. He wanted to be anywhere but there.
I’m not a poofter.
Rhino laughed in a gut-wrenching way. It was beast-like. Nothing wrong with being a poof, mate! But trying to pass the buck is gunna be the end of you.
Rhino went across to his patrol car, took out his citation book, and wrote Ken a ticket. Now, you can take that home to your mum all by yourself. Don’t need your posse to keep you safe, son. This is a small town. I know everyone. I know your mum, and I know you. And I know secrets about those other arseholes that’d be your passport to the bottom of the deep blue sea. I love this town. And you better start loving it too, or get out of the range of my radar. Now fuck off home.
Acknowledgements
Thanks to the journals Antipodes, London Magazine, Meanjin, Prairie Schooner, and Southerly, where some of these stories first appeared. I would also like to thank Curtin University where I am Professor of Literature and Sustainability, and Churchill College, Cambridge University, where I am a Fellow. I would also like to thank the University of Tübingen and the Literary Cultures of the Global South thematic network project, where I was a ‘Public Intellectual’ Visiting Fellow for part of 2016. Special thanks to Penelope Goodes for her insightful and accurate copyediting, and to Barry Scott, my supportive, energetic and enthusiastic publisher at Transit Lounge. And my profound thanks to Tracy Ryan and the rest of my family.