90 Packets of Instant Noodles (13 page)

We don't say much on the way home. Craggs is cut, I can tell. The old guy
is
a bit of a tosser, carrying on like that. I mean, anyone's allowed to walk through the forest—there's people hiking around here along the Bibbulmun, and I doubt he stops them and gives them the bloody Spanish Inquisition. Plus, he knows me, we've chatted ... so who knows what's up his coit. Apart from the fact that we were checking out his place, through the camouflage and everything (and I said something about the
Vietnam camouflage,
oh shit, did he hear that?). I guess it must have looked like we were spying on his joint. We were only
looking;
it's hardly a criminal fucking offence.

I shake my head and keep walking. I'm hungry. Ham and cheese toasties coming up a.s.a.p.

‘Stupid old prick,' I hear Craggs mutter up ahead.

I sigh. ‘Yeah.'

‘Complete fucking cocksuckers, guys like that.'

‘Yeah, but the weird thing is, he's been all right up till now. I mean, he even came over to my joint with candles when the electricity died.'

‘Yeah, well, that doesn't mean shit, Joel. He's just shown his true colours.'

What does he
do
all day? He's on his own in that mouldy old cabin tucked away in the middle of nowhere. He must be lonely as hell.

‘Probably hasn't had a root for the last fifty years.'

Craggs snorts. ‘There's plenty of sheep and roos round here for that, mate. I'd say they probably all know him pretty well by now. How long has he been living there, anyway?'

‘No idea. Weeks, maybe
years,
man, I really dunno.'

‘Well, you sure got a townful of fuckwits down here.'

‘Yeah, there's a fair few weirdos.'

‘Yeah, well...' he says, sighing long and slow.

‘What?'

‘Never you mind, Joely,' he says, running his hand along the fenceline. ‘Never you mind.'

By the time we've eaten lunch we both know that if we don't hit the shitty little shop soon it'll be death by starvation. It's a bit of a worry because I've spent my funds for the week and have a feeling Craggs has zero cash with him. If I dig into next week's now, it won't be long before I've spent all my money full stop, and I don't think roo on the barbie is really an option for us, unless we can spear one with a kitchen knife.

Craggs pokes his head in the place where I keep the stores. ‘Food,' he says, round-shouldered. ‘Snacks.'

‘I know,' I nod grimly. ‘And you know where the nearest supplies are.'

He collapses onto the couch.

‘That's okay,' I say, ‘I've gotta...' I'm about to say
send some letters
when I realise that could lead to an embarrassing conversation, so I say ‘... do some other shit anyway.'

He turns his head to me and frowns. ‘What other shit?'

I can't send her another letter yet. She's had about three to my every one, it's not cool, Joel.

‘What shit, Joely? Love shit?'

‘God, you're sad, mate. You're beginning to sound desperate, you know, like you need a bit yourself.'

Maybe I can ring her. It would be so awesome to ring and hear her voice. There's a phone box outside the shop.

‘Not likely,' he mutters.

‘Huh?'

‘I said, not likely. Chicks just make everything complicated.' He meets my eyes.

‘Craggs, it sounds like ... You're not ... a
poonce,
are you, mate?'

He laughs then. ‘Not as much as you are, Joel-boy. Not even close.'

Tea is the last can of baked beans, toast and a cone, thanks to Craggs's handiwork with an old OJ bottle and a piece of hose he found. I almost regret it because it gives me bad munchies and we have nothing else to eat.

Craggs says at some point, ‘What are we gunna do tomorrow?'

‘I guess I'll go into town. There's not much point both of us going, unless you're so bored you wanna come for the thrill.' Bored is not good for Craggs.

‘Nah, not really,' he says. He looks around. ‘We need some music or something in here, don't we?'

‘Tell me about it—the shitbox over there only gets Radio National, a bunch of old stiffs talking about poetry and
art.
'

He doesn't say much for a while. I wonder what he's thinking, but I don't really want to ask. I'm tired of talking. Swapping the shit takes energy, and I'm out of that today. The thought of going into town again tomorrow brings a wave of exhaustion.

Except for one thing.

I've decided. Tomorrow I'm gunna ring Bella.

Craggs ends up having a fair few more cones than me, his reason being that he has to ‘test' the bong design again (and again, and...). He's so impressed by his craftsmanship that he needs to experience—from every angle—the full joys of his original smooth-flow design.

‘So good,' he croons.

‘The work of an angel,' I say, feeling the blood moving around my body again, thanks to the thought of talking to Bella tomorrow.

We sit in silence for a while and it's mellow hanging out here together with the sounds of the forest behind us. I can hear him biting his nails and spitting out the bits onto the floor. I have a session of my usual ultra-focus stoner thoughts and let them roll through my head to see what's on offer.

It's almost like being in a black hole, I reckon, like we're in between the past and the future, kind of suspended. None of it even has to be real, all that shit back in Perth. I mean, imagine if it didn't exist—if we'd never done the bottle shop fly-by and if we hadn't parked opposite the servo—then we wouldn't be
this
Joel and this Craggs, here in the shack. We'd be the cleaner-cut versions (the cardboard-cutout Joel and Craggs?), and that would mean in the future that we could be whoever, whatever kind of guys we wanted. Like getting handed a new future. Like you wake up one day and all that stuff's been erased from your past and you're okay, you're cool, you've got Bella and a few mates and life's pretty chilled. What a relief that would be.

You could do it, I guess. Move somewhere completely different and start again.

If yer trying to get away from somethin by comin down here, son ... it isn't gunna go away, whatever it is, no matter where ya go.

Thanks for the flash of inspiration, mate. Ever since he said that, I keep hearing it, like a bad album that gets too much airplay. It's always great to know there's no hope.

You can get a reputation by doing one thing, but how many things do you have to do to get rid of it? Can a couple of mistakes decide a whole life? What if Bella and Dad and Mum never think of me any differently than ‘Joel who screwed up'? I squeeze my eyes together and feel my heart pumping against my ribs.

Whatever I do, I'm rooted. I'm amazed by the sudden clarity of it; by what it might mean for the rest of my life.

That's the brutality of mull-enhancement for you.

Craggs lets out a shocking fart just as I'm starting to feel unreachably sad and says, ‘Whaddya reckon me chances are when I go back?'

My eyes click open. It takes me a minute to get out of my thoughts, to re-focus.

‘Chances of what?'

‘Pretty well everything. Surviving.'

I crunch forward a few inches in an effort to look at him. He's got his eyes closed and he's leaning back against the couch.

‘I was just thinking that. We're pretty fucked, aren't we.'

‘Oh, you'll be okay, you big poonce.'

I laugh about as much as I can manage. ‘Have you got any plans?'

He chews his bottom lip and his eyes stay shut. After a pause he says, ‘Avoid the old man.'

‘Fair enough.'

‘Avoid school.'

‘That won't be hard—you're expelled, anyway. So what's left?'

He opens his eyes and grins hard at me. ‘You, mate. Joely's all I've got left in this world.'

‘That is tragic,' I say. ‘What about Hannah?'

He gnaws at his fingers and says nothing. His silence fills the shack.

When he finally speaks again he sounds so weird that I have to look at him to believe it's really coming out of Craggs's mouth.

‘I actually wouldn't mind ... there's stuff I might be able to do, if I could finish school. Not that I want to be at
school
or anything, but if I don't get to finish I reckon I'm totally fucked. Especially now. Mr Holland reckoned I could have been doing Maths 2/3, he got me after class one day and said I could blitz it. He was talking about mechanical engineering and shit.' He looks at me. ‘The fucken joke of it is that getting expelled's probably the worst thing that's happened in all of this shit.'

‘What about getting a job?'

‘Yeah, doing what? Skilled ... shit-stirrer? Experienced hockshopper?'

I pull my jumper sleeves over my hands to keep them warm. ‘What do you wanna do?'

‘Shove my whole life up my old man's date.'

I nod and shake my head at the same time. Jesus. ‘Can't you finish school somewhere else? Just because Hammy High shafted you doesn't mean you can't go to TAFE or one of those adult colleges or something.'

‘Yeah, but doesn't that cost money?'

Oh. Yeah, money. ‘Your mum? Could your mum help?'

He shakes his head. ‘Not if Dad's got anything to do with it. He hardly gives her enough to do the weekly shopping.'

I frown. ‘Where are you going to live?'

‘I dunno. Maybe my brother's. He's got a spare room. Dunno if his girlfriend'd like it much. She's a bit of a moll.'

‘Have you asked him yet?'

‘Nah. Haven't seen him for ages. Guess I'd have to go round there and check it out.'

Yeah.

It's like there's a crack between Craggs and me that's growing, and we both know it, but all we can do is watch it get wider.

Outside, something screeches like it's being tortured. Terrible things might happen out in the forest every night, and we wouldn't have a clue. Things must be getting attacked, dying slow scary deaths, getting decomposed by maggots. Jesus, Joel!

‘Maybe you could...' Shit, I dunno. Craggs, live at my place? Just for a bit, maybe. ‘Maybe you could stay at—'

‘Nah, nah, mate, thanks, but there's no way—I'll be fine, really, I'll sort something out.'

‘What if your brother says no?'

‘Cross that bridge later,' he says as he pushes another thumbful of mull down into the cone. He takes a long suck and lets it eke out of the corner of his mouth. It makes the room darker, kind of hazy, it makes everything seems less harsh. Eventually I lean back into the mushroomy cushion and let the smoke just take over.

Craggs shoves a twenny in my back pocket as I'm leaving and puts in his shitty little shop request: Pepsi Max. I'm relieved to know that he has
some
cash, but—and this is terrible—I wonder where he got it from. I mean, it's like the guy can't have anything anymore without people, including me, thinking he's fleeced it from someone else. Some mate I am. Though I guess that's what people think about me, too, let's face it.

Does Bella still trust me? And Dad? I mean, I know they'll try, but deep down?

I shake my head against it all.

I just hope Craggs doesn't get too hell bored today. He might end up wishing he'd come into Nallerup just for something to do. I'm stoked to be on my own, cos there's no way I could ring Bella with him there. And as I track through the bush, it feels good to be just me again.

I cringe at the thought of Bella's reaction to me ringing her. She might think I'm a total schmuck loser.
Desperate Joel.
Or maybe she'll think it's sweet? And maybe she's been
waiting
for me to call? Put it this way: if I had a phone at the shack and she called
me,
I'd be amped, man. And girls like that stuff, don't they? Phone calls and flowers and notes and ...
wooing.
Old-fashioned stuff. Joel The Gentleman: yes, finally, he emerges, like a butterfly from a once-ugly caterpillar.

Clearly, I'm losing it.

I decide to check out my mail first, to make sure nothing else has arrived. I doubt it, but I may as well double-check. I'd hate to get the one saying it's all over two minutes after I've called her.

And as I come round the final bend, the Telstra phone box glows orange like a huge warm lantern in the street.

No more mail. That's cool, I tell myself. I got her last letter only a couple of days ago, so I wasn't really expecting her to have written again.

I push open the phone booth door and it sucks shut behind me.

I slide a five-dollar phone card I bought at the shop in the slot and check the number again, even though I know it by heart.
9455-1014. 9455-1014.
I take a couple of deep breaths before I dial.

A recorded message cuts in.
This number is not

listed. Check the number and dial again.

Did my fingers mess up? I slowly punch in the number again. Yep, all there, definitely. My heart jangles like a tambourine.

This time it rings.

‘Hello?'

It's her old man.

‘Uh, hi,' I manage. ‘Is B-Bella there?'

Long pause. ‘And who is this?'

‘Oh, it's Joel, Mr McKenzie.'

You dickhead—you shouldn't tell him who you are!
Inner groan
. Yeah, well, the speech impediment probably gives it away, mate. B-B-B-B-B-B-butthead.

‘No, she's not home at the moment,' he says, as though he's never met me before.

Oh.
‘Do you know when she'll be back?'

‘No, son, I don't. And I wouldn't be telling you if I did.'

I try not to choke into the receiver.

Lowering his voice, he says, ‘After what you've been getting up to in your spare time, you are no longer welcome in this—'

‘Dad, who is it?' I hear a muffled voice in the background.

Bella! That voice.

‘It's no one,' he barks. ‘Prank caller.'

‘
Dad!
'

And then he hangs up on me.

I slump down at one of the tables in front of the shitty little shop. The sound of being cut off is amplified in my head. Fucking prick! She wanted to talk to me, I could tell by her voice. Thank Christ for that, at least. Her old man's always been a fucking Nazi about what she does
and with whom.
He's got ridiculous rules about what time she has to be home and poor Bella freaks out if she's even five minutes late, cos she'll get read the riot act by Herr McKenzie. He confiscated her mobile when he found out about the bottle shop gig.

It's probably a bit outside his box that her boyfriend is on the local cop list.

I look over at the phone box. I've still got most of the value of my card left. Maybe I should try calling again, and maybe this time she'll pick up before her old man can get to it. Or maybe that's a bit like my chances of winning Lotto, or Craggs's chances of becoming Head Boy. Pissing in the wind. I think about the long walk home. I've come a long way for this. The thought of not talking to her now after all this time
and
when I know she's there is too much. I almost feel panicky as I walk from the bench to the booth and force the door open again.

I jam the card in and dial fast. I'm wired to do this. He can't stop us talking to each other. It's her choice who she talks to and who she doesn't.

It rings.

If she doesn't want to talk to me, then that's one thing. But if she does, well, she's got rights, hasn't she? It's only a fucking conversation.

Still ringing.

That's what I'll tell him when he picks up: I only want to talk to her if she wants to talk to me.
I only wanna talk to her!

But no one answers this time. It rings on and on and on until it cuts to silence.

I do the shopping in a daze, which is why I grab 2 litres of Pepsi Max without thinking about the 17 kilometre hike back. I buy a box of frozen hamburger patties, too, and some rolls, and that's about all I can remember, even though my backpack's full by the time I leave.

The journey home is like walking through a strange new place. I feel distant from everything, out of it, like I don't know where I'm going and I don't recognise anything around me.

There are no more thoughts in my head, just an uneasy space.

The shack is a Dutch oven by the time I get there, murky and smoke-filled. I dump the pack, prise off my boots and fall on the couch. He passes me a roach and it's the only salvation in my day.