90 Packets of Instant Noodles (10 page)

Steak. Juicy, slightly burnt on the outside, flame-flavoured. Fire in the pan, blood in my belly. With a couple of barbie snaggers, it's my favourite meal ever—and I'm not even stoned yet. Just the thought of some stash has helped, though, I feel like I'm already relaxing.

Foxy doesn't even get a whiff of a sausage, and I make sure he knows it. He's been hanging around like a cheeky pup the whole time I've been eating, drooling at me like I'm the latest
Ralph
centrefold. Suck shit, I say cheerily. Finally, when I've had my fill I give him a hunk of gristle and he takes it and curls up in a corner and chews on it like it's the score of the century.

The power's still out but who cares? I like the candlelight thing, anyway. It's quite ... romantic, just quietly. I only wish Bella could be here. She'd like this place, the cool walks and the swimming hole, the candles. Not the ganja; she's not really into that. We smoked a jay together once and it made her crook. She went dizzy and threw up after a couple of tokes. They say it affects everyone differently. Well, for me, it's like honey coating my entire system. It makes me smooth and relaxed, but with a kick. I laugh at everything and am interested in
every
thing, intensely interested. And it makes me amazingly smart. I mean, like fuck-off brainy. The thoughts that come into my head when I'm whacked are in Einstein's dreams, man!

I have two letters to read, and a whole week before I can check again for mail—and even then I bet there'll be nothing from Bella. She's dumped me, I know it. I'm scratched from the scene, man, I'm out of it. There's not a thing I can do about it. That's the hardest part to swallow. That's what this joint is all about. The old man had it all planned—how to punish Joel so he really gets it—and it's working, fuck him, hideously well.

I push Craggs's letter forward, then look at Dad's. I feel the anger growing just looking at Dad's writing on the envelope. Why would I want to read what he has to say, after what he's done to me? Bella's gone.

More like what you've done to you, Joel.

Sorry?

What
you've
done to
you.
You.

Aaah. Sanctimonious-prick-Joel has landed. Seems he chimes in whenever I'm bottom-dwelling more than he likes.

But why out
here
, for Christ's sake? It's like solitary fucking confinement, it's doing me in!

What do you think Craggs is doing at the detention centre? Macramé? And Sull, locked up in some boot camp halfway to the Western Desert? Do you know what the hell happens at those places when the guards aren't looking, Joel? When the new kid comes in and needs to be introduced to the joint's self-appointed leader? You got off lightly, mate. So do us both a favour and cut the whining.

Oh, get fucked.

Oh, you don't like what you're hearing? Hang on while I get this straight ... You raided a drive-through bottle shop, got tanked on the proceeds, then sat back while your mates used a crowbar on a chick for a couple of hundred bucks. It wasn't your first offence. Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't that the kind of shit you hear about on the news?

We didn't intend to do any of that second part—how many times do I have to say that?

Well, it happened, didn't it? And you were there.

Yeah, but I didn't take part in it. Big difference.

No, you didn't take part in anything once that began, did you, Joel? You didn't do anything. You shivered in the background. Bit scared of your mate, are ya? Bit worried he wouldn't like you anymore?

This is pathetic.

Great influence, Craggs.

Fuck you.

That's an intelligent answer. Is there any argument behind that?

Look, Craggs is good value. He's a top mate.

Maybe so, but that doesn't mean Jesus wants him for a sunbeam. It doesn't mean he's good for you.

I don't choose my friends according to how ‘good for me' they are.

Really? I thought that was part of the thing with Bella.

Bella's different.

Why's that?

She's a girl, for one thing. And I have a different kind of relationship with her than I have with Craggs, don't I? Completely different.

Yeah, she's supportive
and
she's fun to be with. She makes you think about important stuff, rather than how to throw your life down the shitter because of somecops-and-robbers fantasy Craggs is living by.

Look, just piss off, okay? I'm my own person. I make my own decisions.

Well, that's good to know. I'm really looking forward to seeing one.

Only down here could I end up in some kind of fruitcake debate with The Voice of Reason. Foxy's staring at me like I've lost the plot. I get up and put the kettle on. There's a stale piece of bread on the table. I throw it to him. This time he goes over to my jacket, which I chucked on the floor when I got back, and he sits right on it like it's a fox cushion and proceeds to chow down on the bread. He's getting his fleabag hair and crumbs all over my jacket just so he doesn't have to sit on the floor.

‘This is actually a prison, Foxy,' I remind him.

He looks at me.

‘It's not meant to be cosy.'

He cocks his head, then goes back to eating.

I tear open Craggs's letter.

I stare at the letter. My thoughts ram together like a freeway pile-up. I really don't think it's a sensational idea for Craggs to come down here. What's he gunna do? I could get in trouble for
harbouring
him or something, couldn't I? Craggs is nearly out but I've still got weeks left of my sentence. Then there's that list of conditions I signed before coming down here:
no contact with Craggs,
it said—about ten times. Anything else is considered a
violation of the conditions.
Yada yada yada.

Someone's gunna notice when he doesn't roll up at home, surely. Fuck, I should burn this letter in case it incriminates me. And what money will he be using? He's got none, as far as I know, but my account isn't gunna be enough for both of us, no way. He'll just get hell bored and you know what happens then—and I am not gunna get into that down here. Down here, down nowhere. I'm not doing that shit anymore!

Maybe I just won't go into town to meet him. I mean, he won't have a clue where this joint is unless I meet him in Nallerup and bring him back here. He'll just be standing around, waiting. Stood up. But,
Joel,
Jesus, you
do
have his letter, and you got it in time. It would be shitty—darkly shitty—to blow him off. It would be totally gutless, true-to-form Joel: just pretend something's not happening. The poor guy's just got out of detention, for fuck's sake. He thinks he's doing you a favour. Get a grip, mate. You can handle this.

It could be okay. We could smoke a bit of weed (no way am I showing him the location, location, location, he'd be uncontrollable). We could hang out at the swimming hole, and maybe he'll bring some music with him. Now that would be joy. It
could
be cool if he is cool. But if he's not, it'll be tough, cos I'm not doing jack shit down here except biding my time so I can go back to Perth and see Bella and suss out the situation with her. That's it. And he's not gunna like it, I know. He'll think I've lost my balls. And I have, I guess. Or ... I've found my limit. I just don't think he has yet.

Christ. It's just one thing after another. At least I won't be bored anymore, that's a bonus, for sure. I'm just gunna have to be clear in my head about what I do wanna do, and what I don't. And bad luck if he doesn't like it. That sounds harsh, I know, but these are harsh times.

I dry out the stash in the oven for a few minutes, taking care not to burn away all the THC. Then I chop it up with scissors in a bowl and roll myself a nice chunky scoob. One thing Dad didn't find in my pack: my Tally Ho papers. I hid them in a pocket he completely missed, along with Bella's number near my nads, which he also thankfully missed. Bella's number. I scrawled it down on a piece of paper as soon as I got here so I didn't forget it. That piece of paper is next to my bed. I know she doesn't like talking on the phone, but surely there's room for the occasional exception? There's a phone box in town. It would look pretty desperate, though, me ringing, when she hasn't sent a letter for a while. Especially after my
love letter.
Oh god. Why oh why did I do it? My stomach aches. Forget about it, Joel, forget it.

I miss her, though. Bella by the river. I put it aside for now, it just makes me feel ...
lost
when I think about her with someone else. I don't know for sure that she is, anyway, and I can't bear imagining, so I'll stop. Stop.

This is exactly why I need this joint.

I go easy at first, testing the strength of the stuff. It's a lesson I learned way back at the beginning, when I nearly popped my lid a couple of times after choofing away on some stuff that packed a punch, but I smoked it like it was a cigarette or something. Pretty nasty after a few minutes of that, and of course the whole experience is ruined when you think you're going to die. I think I actually asked a guy to take me to hospital. It was fairly scary, it put me off mull for a few months, that's for sure. I felt like my head was going to explode and I couldn't breathe. I nearly passed out (pretty embarrassing in front of your mates). Then I wanted to hurl (extremely embarrassing in front of your mates).

Tonight I take it easy and enjoy. It's smooth and fills the room with that aroma that makes you feel like you're in mellow heaven. Honeyed-up.

Which I am for a while. Then my heart picks up the pace and my brain starts firing off Karl Kruszelnicki thoughts. There are some old magazines here that I've ignored until now—and I'm bloody kicking myself, because once I start reading I realise they're the best thing in this joint. Old
National Geographic
s, with articles about meerkats and African villages and the nearly-extinct southern tropical fruit bear, with awesome,
awe
some photos. Once I've picked one up, I can barely put it down to make snacks and put the kettle on—this stuff gives you the munchies, man, and I plough through quite a lot of my supplies. But fuck it, I'll worry about that tomorrow. On my way to the kitchen I pass Craggs's letter, open on the table, and I have to force myself not to pick it up and re-read it. It won't help. I can't stop him coming.

I light another couple of candles from the old coot's stash. He really saved my arse on that one, I'd be sitting around in the dark right now if he hadn't come by that evening. So much for
the Western Power boys'll be out this afternoon—
right on! Just all part of the shitty little service in this shitty little town. Tomorrow's Saturday: they'd better bloody hoof it out here soon or it'll be a long, dark weekend in hell.

I have more of a puff when I feel the effects of Round One beginning to fade, and get back to the magazines. Within a few minutes I reckon I've solved the problem of the fruit bear, and am questioning the way the meerkat scientists did their research—I am
smart,
man; I'm on top of this shit! These are science questions to blow Mr Sykes's brains out. He'd bloody Dux me for the year if he could hear me now, he'd have to, and Dr Karl himself would struggle to keep up.

Once the hyper phase is over I'm overwhelmingly exhausted and have to sleep—
now.
On the couch. I can't move anywhere, least of all the ten long steps to the bed, and on the way I'd have to brush my teeth and everything so I just stay...

h e r e.

I sleep like an animal hibernating. Like I've never slept before, long and sound and heavy. Even at nine when I wake up it's a struggle to pull fully out of the sleep. I reckon I could keep kipping and snoozing all day.

But I know there's something I have to do, so I force myself up and at em. Well, not quite at em. Up, yes. At em—well, maybe later.

Craggs. That's what I have to do—worry about him coming tomorrow. And Bella, I want to think about her (that's nothing new). But I want to write to her today. Last night one of the things I was thinking about was that maybe I could—it sounds funny now—but that maybe I could bowl her over with my
devotion.
You know, like in old movies and things, when the guy wins the girl after hassling her for ages and sending notes and flowers and more notes and more flowers and finally winning her over. Do I sound desperate? Christ.

I can send Bella's letter tomorrow. I reckon I must be getting fairly fit these days—feels like I'm doing the hike into town every other day at the moment.

I've still got the old man's letter to read.

I open the front door and breathe in the air. Sunny, glorious. The bush is showing off all its different kinds of green in the streaking sun, and trees are fairly sunbathing. It's a perfect day for the swimming hole. I turn my head and the view's suddenly not quite so nice—the shack's rubbish has been attacked, and there's shit spread all over the place. Great. There's always something to bloody sort out around here. Maybe it was Foxy. He split sometime last night. Or other animals? There's gotta be plenty of critters around here that wouldn't pass up a free feed. I trudge over and pick everything up and shove it in a placky bag and hang it from a hook high up on the side of the shack this time. That oughtta keep Foxy away, at least.

Over my Coco Pops (this week's super special treat—six bucks—what a rip-off!) I tear open Dad's letter. Figure I'd better read it before I write to him, seeing as my last few efforts were so sketchy—just a scribble outside the shitty little shop when I was feeling like crap because of being forced to watch back-to-back episodes of
Days of Joel's Life.

Oh man, can this
stop?
Firstly, Dad, I say out loud, and loudly:
too much information.
Read my lips! Your sex life—do I
need to know?
Secondly ... well ... here you are apologising for something you haven't even done, virtually saying this gig is
your
fault, somehow. I shake my head and reduce my ranting to a mutter.
Any moron can see there's only one moron in this picture.

It's not because of the divorce, or him working a lot, that I'm the way I am. I mean, if Dad had come home every night at five and we'd hung out more, would I have somehow
not
gone to the grog shop that night with Craggs and Sull? Would I have been able to stop them going into the servo? Wouldn't Craggs and I still have ripped off the power tools from that guy's shed, back in the early days? How the hell would kicking the footy around with Dad have stopped that?

Jesus, there's other kids at school whose olds work 24/7 and they aren't in the shit I'm in. It's me, and that's all. Me and Craggs. Us together. I think back to how things were before I knew Craggs, and I wasn't doing much apart from shoplifting Mars Bars back then. But I admit it, I got a kick out of it when things went right, back when we kept it simple. It was a self-confidence thing. It fired you up, it was like a shot of something wiring through you.

Getting caught just wasn't part of our picture. The invincibility factor, I guess.

It's so obvious all of a sudden. Somewhere back there, way back in the beginning, there was a choice. Like a big intersection. I went the wrong way, and then kept veering the wrong way until I was on a fucking roundabout, going round and round, faster and faster, until eventually I pranged right up my own arse.