90 Packets of Instant Noodles (12 page)

The hike back is pretty gruelling with my blister screaming at every step, and it's slower this time because of Craggs. I don't think he's walked much further than from his house to the deli until now. He suffers but doesn't say a word.

We go the long way. The dope field is not something I want to get into today; besides, I've got heaps left at the shack, so there's no need to go there again for a while. It's not somewhere I want to hang out—you never know when the dudes are gunna roll up and you don't really wanna be caught with a fistful of prime cuts when they choose to show, do ya?

Craggs doesn't say much. I don't bring up the jail thing as I figure he probably wants to forget about that, and I don't wanna talk to him about Bella, so it's pretty quiet out in the bush, with us making our way through. Every now and then I roll the yin–yang stone over in my hand. I tell him about Mum after a while.

‘She did what?'

‘Yep. Hitched him.'

‘Shit, that's rude, man.'

‘I know. Especially to such a total poonce.'

We laugh at that.
Poonce
is Craggs's word. He reserves it for special cases only.

It's really good to hear him laugh. I might try to keep up that vibe if I can—it'll be better for both of us. I've got a few things I can pull out that will crack him up.

‘At least your mum is doing what she wants, ya know? My old duck should leave. The old man's a complete deadshit. No one should have to put up with what he does to her.'

I nod.

‘He and I had a fight before I left.'

I turn back. ‘What, like, a
fist
fight?'

‘Yeah, I punched him in the head. Sent him full across the room. It's the best thing I've ever done,' he says. ‘By far.'

I try to look like it's no big deal. Punching out your old man. Fark.

He laughs. ‘He told me never to come back but I was never going to anyway, the stupid fucker.'

I don't really know what to say. Craggs keeps walking, doesn't miss a beat. Above us, leaves spiral down and sun cuts though gaps in the trees.

It's night. Craggs is out of it on the couch. It's bloody freezing—I've got maximum velocity doonas happening and I'm still glacial. I lurch out and pull socks and a jumper on in record-breaking speed. There's all sorts of squawks and scratchings outside, and I wonder if Foxy is part of the action. He wasn't around the shack at all today, probably scared off by all the new sounds around here.

Bella's letter, finally. I've been hanging out to read it and it's been like this sweet thing at the back of my mind all day.

I look at the cute envelope with her writing on the outside. You can tell stuff about a person by the way they write, I reckon. Some kids write like they're doing graffiti or composing a ransom note and others do it like they're going for a neatness contest. Craggs's writing is a hell scrawl, teachers always get him to rewrite stuff before they'll even read it. Before he got expelled, anyway.

Bella's writing is like something out of ... the olden days. It's smooth and slightly looping and you can tell by looking at it that it's a smart person's writing. It's not showy, it's not boring, it has
style.
Like her.

I open it slowly, and try to stop my eyes from racing down the page.

Except when you're stuck in today perpetually.

No mention about ... about what I said. Not a word.

And no special thoughts—she could have been writing to anyone! It's not personal at all, this letter.
Don't let it mess you up.

God, I'm dying for her. I've got desperation in my blood, it's gutting me.

But really, I know what all this is coming to. She's warming me up to cool me down, man. She's getting me ready for the big let-down. She's splitting. And I can see why.

It made me feel a little closer to you.

How could she not say anything about all that stuff I wrote to her? What does
thanks
mean?

I look around the room. Craggs's body is on my couch. I want to go over and shake the shit out of him for messing up my head space—my
space,
actually. Nothing, nothing can help this. My eyes hurt, my head's reeling. This is one of those times when I could go and do some really bad shit, where I could go riot, cut into the night and
ditch
some of this
shit.
I feel like getting Craggs, getting going. I pace the room. I'm sweating, my heart's double-pumping, I'm cramped, I'm crowded, I'm fucked, I'm so fucked. If I do anything—anything—it'll be over with Bella for sure. Who do you reckon they're gunna blame if something happens round here?
We all know where you're staying.
Oh,
FUCK OFF!

Bella. Think about Bella.

I breathe like I'm winding down from a cross-country. I breathe and I try to get my head back.

Breathe,
breathe.
And
think.
I don't wanna spend the night sweating and hating and furying in this mouldy room, in the middle of the freezing forest god knows where, with jack shit to do tomorrow, just the same old same old that won't make any difference to me or anyone else, no matter what Bella says. It isn't working, Bella! I'm as fucked up as ever, see?

Oh, I'm stuck, man, stuck. Every day here equals a day without her, equals drifting further away from the only thing I know I want. I'm the guy caught in the rip: no matter how hard I swim against it, I can't get back in.

Brekky bongs have never been my thing but today's an exception. I'm feeling low as hell, like there's a thunderstorm settled right on the roof of the shack and it's gunna piss on me all day.

If we had some DVDs and a TV in the joint I'd be set for a sweet day of staring down boredom. The fact that the electricity is back on doesn't even excite me. Especially as it happened at six o'clock this morning. There's nothing quite like all the lights shining blindingly bright all of a sudden at 6a.m. when you only got to sleep at three.

Craggs is amped when he sees my stash. ‘Where'd this little girl come from?'

I wave vaguely in the direction of the forest. ‘Came across a couple of plants one day when I was out there.'

‘What? Where?'

‘Dunno, exactly. Everything looks the same out there. One bush, another bush, Bushes-R-Us, mate.'

Craggs shakes his head at me in disbelief, half laughing.

‘Nah, really, I just yanked off a handful and came home for a private p-p-arty. This'll last me a while, this stash.'

‘Bollocks, not with me here, it won't. Rack your brains, Joely, we've gotta find it again.'

I shrug my shoulders. I don't care what he thinks today. I shove a piece of stale bread in the toaster and jam down the button.

‘What's up your date?'

‘Nothin. Want some?' I pass him a ready-made scoob.

He sucks it in like it's pure gold.

‘You know, this could make us some extra cash, man.'

‘Yeah, but whoever owns it might notice their shrinking crop and put two and two together, right? I'm happy just to partake of the goods. Fuck the extra stress right now,' I say.

Soon the place is smoky and we're more chilled. Craggs giggles occasionally, out of the blue in the middle of a long silence. He tries to tell me what it is that's so funny, but as usual what's funny to a stoner is only funny to the stoner. I just laugh at him. He bursts out in small snorts after that, at weird moments.

‘This is good shit, man,' he croaks.

I nod.

‘And that's an interesting ... piece of art you've got there,' he nods at the Wall.

‘The Wall of Noodles,' I say knowingly. ‘A visual feast.'

He laughs like a cartoon character, then; can't talk for laughing. I lie back, a guru.

‘Whose are those plants, do you reckon?'

‘No idea, mate.'

‘Well, who lives round here?'

‘I only know one old dude who lives not far from here, up towards the ridge, in an old piece-of-crap shack, and there's no
way
it's him. He's about 150 years old.'

We curl up in laughter at that.

Once I get my breath back, I say, ‘I reckon there's probably farms and stuff around but I don't know where or whose they are. It's a huge area. I've only got foot-power, remember.'

‘Yeah, well, we could change that fairly easily.'

I look at him until I get it. ‘Nah. I mean, yeah, I know, but nah. Seriously, Craggs, I'm not into it.'

He frowns. ‘Why don't we just go over and ask the old guy?'

‘What?'

‘About the ... crew around here.'

‘Oh, yeah, I can really imagine you just coming out with, “Hi old man, whose dope is that back there?”'

We suffer through several minutes of suffocation by mirth—there's virtual silence in the shack while we try to stop laughing long enough to suck some air back into our lungs.

When I can stop my mouth from spreading into a wild grin at every word, I try to explain to Craggs about the old coot.

‘Look, the guy's a bit of a psycho, man. He's got a huge rifle perched on his verandah and every time I've seen him walking about in the forest he's sussed me out and reminded me how he
likes his privacy.
He doesn't want to see anyone, and there's no way I'd go over there uninvited.' I shake my head. ‘He wouldn't tell us anything anyway. And even if he could, what help would it be, knowing who lives round here?'

Craggs thinks about that for a minute and seems to realise there'd be no point. I feel bad about what I'm not telling him—
just a couple of plants
—but, seriously, I do not need Craggs to get a whiff of what's really out there at the moment. It could make my life hell. He can just be very convincing, put it that way. It's hard not to see everything from Craggs's point of view once he embarks on a mission to persuade. His logic is terrifying. So long as I keep our stash stocked up, that should keep him happy. I hope.

‘What's the old guy got the rifle for?' he asks. ‘There's nothing out here, is there?' he looks out the window into the bush.

‘Dunno. Because he's a headcase? One guy in town did tell me that some of the local crew hunt roos for the barbie.'

‘For the
barbie?
People give that crap to their
dogs
!'

‘We're not talking about your average bloke, here, Craggs. Anyone who can live down here's gotta be a chop short of a mixed grill in the first place, don't ya reckon?' And it feels like hours before we can say anything again after that. Craggs rolls off the sofa at one point and just lies on the floor, weeping with laughter.

When it gets too boring sitting around the house and we've finished the week's supply of instant noodles, we go out into the hurt-your-eyes bright day. I decide to show Craggs the swimming hole so he can go there whenever he wants, rather than having to hang around the shack all day like a bad smell. He's pretty good with directions, and seems to get his bearings quickly.

‘Hope you don't mind a bit of below-freezing water, mate.'

He grins nervously and says, ‘Reckon I need a shower.'

I laugh. ‘There is one at the shack, you know.'

‘There's spiders and scorpions and shit in there.'

‘There are not scorpions, you tosser. And, what, little Craggsy Waggsy scared of spidey-wideys?'

He tries to clip me over the head but I accelerate and we keep running, all the way down the valley, bush flying past us, till we reach the banks of the river.

I'm sweating like a fat bastard by the time we get there and Craggs looks suspiciously at the water. ‘I'm throwing myself in right now while I'm hot,' he says, ‘otherwise I know I'm never gunna be able to get in there.'

He strips down to his jocks while I'm taking a breather, climbs to the highest point on the bank and leaps off in a perfect bombie before I can say
nice jocks,
or anything about how shallow the water is.

My eyes widen as I watch him smash into the water.

It's not deep enough for that.

Bubbles prickle the surface quietly.

I perch forward on my rock. I can barely breathe.

No Craggs.

Stupid fucker.
Stupid fucker! I fumble for my bootlaces and start yanking them loose, keeping my eyes on where he went in so I don't lose the spot.

‘Uuurhhhhaaaaa!'

Craggs's body torpedoes out and he treads water frantically, looking around for the quickest escape route.

‘Are you all
right?
' I say. ‘You fucking idiot!'

He jiggles about in the water, total white shock on his face.

‘You had no idea if the water was deep enough, you schizo
turkey.
'

He shakes his head in pain and tries to breathe. ‘It's way deep, mate, no worries about that, but it's outrageously—fucking—
cold.
'

I breathe out and close my eyes.

‘Joel,' he says in a small voice, ‘it's too cold.'

I lean back against the rocks.

‘Urgh.' He swims around like a penguin, bobbing up and down, going to the edge, then changing his mind and pushing back into the middle. Finally, he starts to relax. ‘I think I'm getting warmer now,' he croaks, blue-lipped.

He treads water in the middle and shakes his head again at me. ‘Joel, you old
woman,
I'm telling you I

knew
by looking at it that it was deep enough.'

‘No one can tell by looking unless they've got bionic eyes, mate.'

‘Well, just call me Superman.'

‘Yeah, whatever,' I say, ‘whatever. By the way,' I raise my eyebrows at him. ‘Nice jocks.'

After we've had our fill of sun, lying out on the rocks like lizards, we haul up to the ridge to get the view of the area. On one rise you can see the blue outline of the mountains, but when you turn around it's like you're in the heart of some massive jungle, with no way out. If I didn't know where all the paths led, I'd be worried that I'd end up spending days or weeks lost in here, trying to figure out which berries you can eat and which are lethal, sleeping in termited logs, trying to force myself to eat frogs and bush mice to survive.

As we head home for some food, I'm tossing up whether or not I should point out to Craggs where the old coot lives. Craggs breaks in on my thoughts. ‘So, how's it all going with Bella?'

‘Huh?'

‘Bella? Your girl? Don't tell me you've forgotten all about her, mate, come
on.
'

‘Nah, nah, course I haven't.'

‘Then what's up?'

‘Well, I dunno, really, do I, being this far away.'

‘What, hasn't she written or anything? Little love letters?
Oh Joely, I miss you...
' he squeaks.

I pause and take a breath. ‘That's where the old guy's joint is, right down in there,' I point.

He stops then. ‘Where?'

I crouch low. ‘See, the little wooden place through the Vietnam camouflage.'

‘Oh,
yeah.
Jesus Christ, it's hell tucked away.'

‘Yeah, bizarre, eh?'

‘Very suss. Maybe he's our man.'

‘Whaddya mean?'

‘The dope man.'

I snort. ‘Oh, come off it. The guy's virtually in a wheelchair. I doubt he's in there rolling spliffs and living the good life.'

Craggs concentrates. ‘What's he doing down there, then?'

‘Why not just ask me yerself, sonny?'

Oh,
shit.
I stand up. He's standing, waiting, behind us.

I smile weakly. ‘Oh, sorry. I was just showing my mate here some of the sights.'

He raises his eyebrows at me. ‘Really?'

‘Well, I reckon you've got a cool little spot down there.'

He nods slowly. ‘Bet ya do.'

By now Craggs is standing and the old codger is checking him out like he's up for a job interview.

‘Hiya,' Craggs says, shifting his feet slightly on the ground.

‘G'day,' he says, glaring.

No one says anything for what seems an extremely long time, and then I blurt out, ‘Time for lunch, eh, Craggs?' I look at the old guy. ‘We were just heading back from the swimming hole.'

‘Goin the long way round, were ya?'

‘Err, well, yeah, I was showing my mate some of the trails so he won't get lost when he's out here on his own, you know.'

‘Will he be comin out here on his own a lot?' he asks.

‘It's a free country, mate,' Craggs says darkly.

I butt in, going for damage control. ‘Ah, no, nah, well, not round here, anyway. Maybe more around our place, but I only come this way when I walk into town sometimes, so I was just showing him the way.'

I swallow. I keep on thinking about the candles he dropped by for me that night and feel really bad he's found us doing this.

‘I told ya before, kid, I like my privacy. If I
ever
see ya round my place or snoopin or anything, there'll be hell to pay. Got it?'

‘We weren't doing anyth—'

‘
GOT IT?
'

I nod. Craggs stays silent, thank Christ.

We turn around and walk back towards the shack, with him watching our every step, but I don't look back to see. I know he's there. He's got a presence, somehow, that old guy. He gets into you.