90 Packets of Instant Noodles (15 page)

He has scratched-up knees and legs from crawling around on all fours through the thorny scrub. He's pale after the freezing night out. Went looking for the dope plants to get some fast cash happening and got hideously lost instead. No dope, no cash, serious hunger. All he knows is that cones don't fill you up, even a shitload of them. Finally, thankfully, he came across the old man's hut after walking around and around in circles.

He's been there for an hour or so now, waiting, watching; he's sure there's no one there. No movement, no shadows in the house, no sign of any living thing. The old guy must be out hunting roo and blue-tongues for his next feed. Only thing is, Craggs is desperate for something to eat himself, something normal—there's gotta be something edible in there. And he's cold, he hasn't been warm for hours, even sitting in the sun doesn't help when you're cold deep in your bones. He's used up all his energy hiking through the forest the last twenty-four hours. He's run out of everything now. He needs energy or he's in trouble.

He approaches low. The closer he gets, the more confident he is that this mission has the all-clear. Rotting steps lead up to the front verandah. He quietly climbs them. The gun is there; he reaches and grabs it for security. Its weight surprises him. Old Vietnam relic. It's fucken heavy.

The flywire door squeals as he opens it.

All clear. All clear.

Beads of sweat prickle his scalp.

He tries to be quick. He goes directly to the cupboards and flings them open, slams them back, one by one. Nothing. Nothing. A bag of pasta. Some rice. A dead cockroach. Finally, some cracker biscuits. Thank Christ. Stale as hell, but anything's good at this point. He shoves a fistful in his gob and continues scouring the kitchen, spraying crumbs and breathing hard through his nose as he chews and moves around. There's nothing else for him here.

Water. Water, yes. He walks across the kitchen and sticks his head under the tap, lets it flow over his face and into his hair, cool and clear, he can feel it running right inside him, rehydrating him like he's a dying plant that just needs wetness.

Noise. A noise! Run—FLY! Which way—which—

‘What the—' The old guy lunges for him and Craggs stands back, holding the rifle at both ends to keep him away. He doesn't know if the thing is loaded. He shoves the old guy back to the other side of the kitchen with short jabs. He's wiry, the old codger, but he ain't strong.

‘Get out,' the old man spits.

Get fucked.

Craggs feels a darkness descend around the two of them.

‘Get out, I said.' His voice is gravel.

Things are black at the edges. He's exhausted. He's barely functioning. In that moment he's not sure where he is, or why; he's somewhere else, he's listening to his old man shouting at his mother, then the slapping, the repeated slapping, the small sounds his mother makes at each strike while his own heart beats like something in its final moments. Hannah crying somewhere in the house. He's gotta go in, he's not going to let it go on anymore, no one should have to endure this...

‘Get out!'

Who could love him? Who could even like him? He's disgusting, he's everything gone wrong, he's the wreck of this household and Craggs sees himself going in, finally, Craggs is walking in there and grabbing his so-called father by the arm and he swings him around so they're facing one another once and for all, and Craggs reaches back, he shunts the bolt backwards, and then forces it forwards, and he fucking pops the fucker, he pops him, with the most deeply sickening feeling of relief. The noise is shocking. The impact is like no other. The old fucker's face goes grey as he slumps to the floor, a solid, inevitable, easy sound, and there's blood, there's blood leaking out in a dark shape and then Craggs sees the wooden floorboards, that can't be right, there's lino on the floor at home, what the fuck is going on here? What the fuck?

The old man gasps.

Craggs can barely focus. His mind is fuzzy. The old man is a vision before him, an impossible vision.

Somehow, he gets the fuck out of there.

Some time early morning, I hear the curling ricochet of a gun going off. It's an unmistakeable sound; it makes me go cold. It's hard not to entertain all sorts of freaky ideas about what's going on out there in the forest. I can only think of the old man, shooting for kangaroos like the ute guy said. Nothing else fits.

In the afternoon there's another weird sound. Kind of ... heavy clumping. I go outside to see if I can see anything, and it gets louder and louder, coming up the path.

Suddenly, a fucking
horse
appears. And another one. Two blokes are riding them. They see me and nod, and guide their horses up to the house, where one drops a huge splattering turd right outside the front door.

I take a step away to avoid the splashback. I recognise one of the guys.

‘Are you Joel Strattan?' the older one says, from on top of his horse.

My heart stops beating.
Where do I know you from?

‘Son?' He raises his eyebrows.

‘Yes.'

‘Yes, I thought so. I'm sure you remember me: Senior Sergeant Wardle—we met in Perth—and this is Constable Tremain from Bunbury Police. Mind if we come in?'

I shake my head. Wardle. The big meeting Dad and I had with them all.

This is it.

I can't think.

They dismount and tie the horses to the nearest tree.

This is it.

What's he fucking
done?
What am I gunna say?

The truth, Joel, you have to tell the truth.

I'm not gunna dob on my best mate!

Even Craggs said you've gotta take care of Number One.

But this is different!

Yeah: this is important.

‘This your place?' Wardle says.

I nod. ‘My dad's.'

‘We've come a long way to find you, kid. Had to drive down from Bunbury, then saddle up in Nallerup to get all the way out here. Kind of secluded, isn't it?' He turns to his mate and laughs.

Don't say any more than you have to. But don't make it look like you're hiding something.

They come in slowly as if they're casing the joint.

None of us says anything for a bit.

‘Mind if I sit down?' Wardle asks, nodding at the kitchen table.

‘No, no.' I try not to look at what the other one's doing. ‘Do you want a drink of water or something?'

The younger guy—Constable Tremain—finally speaks. ‘Yeah, a glass of water'd be good. Thanks.' He wanders around, looking at things. He pokes his head into the bedroom, pushes open the back door.

After he downs his water, Wardle says, ‘So, what have you been up to the last twenty-four hours or so?'

‘Nothing. I've been here.'

Tremain comes and sits down.

‘You sure about that?'

I nod and say, right at him, ‘Yes. I was here yesterday and I haven't been out at all today.'

‘Can you prove that?'

I look around the shack for I don't know what.
How can I prove it?
I shrug my shoulders. ‘I dunno. I
was
here, though.'

Wardle slowly spins his glass around on the table. ‘And what about your mate?'

‘What mate?'

‘The friend you've had staying with you the last few days. Mrs Pritchard at the Nallerup Store said you'd had a visitor.'

Oh, shit. The stupid old bag. Craggs was right.

I take a breath. ‘Yeah, what about him?'

Try to think, try to think!

‘Put it this way, son. We have reason to believe that one or both of you went on a bit of a rampage round these parts early this morning. Now, if you were here, then it couldn't have been you, could it? So, what about your mate?'

I frown. ‘What happened?'

Wardle looks at Tremain sourly. ‘Grievous bodily harm, possibly manslaughter. We're not sure yet.'

I stare at him. Everything in my body dulls.

‘And unlawful entry, armed robbery, damage to property, deprivation of liberty, you name it—'

‘
Manslaughter?
'

‘Not yet. But if the assault victim dies, yes.'

‘
Dies?
'

‘Yeah. A Mr...' he looks through his notes, ‘Mr Neville.'

‘He's in a critical condition,' Tremain says. ‘Gunshot wound to the abdomen.' He leans forward and says, ‘This is the worst incident in Nallerup's history, son. Two people are in hospital.'

‘
TWO?
'

‘Several hours after Neville was shot in his home, the Nallerup general store was robbed and Mrs Pritchard was assaulted.'

I'm struggling here. ‘
What?
'

Wardle turns to Tremain. ‘He's pretty good at acting surprised, isn't he?'

Tremain keeps his eyes on me.

‘I don't believe this.'

‘Yeah, well, it sure as hell happened. The town's reeling, I can tell you.'

‘But did you say
gun
shot wound? The person was armed?'

‘Yes, armed.'

‘Well, then, there's no way it's Craggs. He doesn't have any weapons. Craggs doesn't have anything.'

The relief floods in.
It can't be him. It's not him.

They look at each other.

Wardle says, ‘So you do have a mate down here with you, then?'

‘Yes, but he's not
armed
—I know that.'

‘He is now, son,' Tremain says. ‘He shot the old bloke with his own rifle.'

The old bloke? The rifle on the porch ... No, he couldn't—

‘Mr Neville was living in a run-down old hut not far from here. Bit of a recluse, apparently. Thankfully, he managed to raise the attention of a bloke from Western Power who was working on one of the lines nearby. He put the old boy in his truck and took him to help. Lost a lot of blood on the way, by all accounts. They're saying he might not make it, given his age.'

Craggs couldn't
shoot
a guy. And not an
old
guy, not
the
old guy. I can't believe it was him. I can't believe this was Craggs, it's not possible. There must be some other crazy fucker out there.

‘Neville told the Western Power guy that he saw two young blokes staking out his house a few days back.'

I shake my head weakly. He brought me candles. Oh, fuck, what have I done? I showed Craggs the old guy's place, didn't I?

Oh, Jesus.

‘When was he last here, then?'

I look up.

‘Your mate.' Wardle reaches for Tremain's notebook. ‘Craig Michael Adams.'

I say nothing. I haven't heard anyone use his proper name since ... last time, when I saw it in the paper. It looked so strange. To think anyone ever called him
Craig
—I can't even imagine his mother calling him that.

‘Look, son, don't forget why you're down here. As you know, I know all about that Liquorama raid you did with Adams. Shortly afterwards he assaulted a woman at Southern Shell. He's not up for any youth of the year award, is he? Already been in Banksia Hill once.'

I sit in the chair while they throw it at me.

‘Now, all of a sudden, we hear you've got a mate down here, and the town gets hammered. Surprise, surprise.'

‘I really don't know anything about this.'

‘So you keep saying. But it still doesn't look too good for you, son. Every time I spin the bottle on this one, it comes back to you. Or Craig. Or maybe both of you, like before.'

Prick.

Tremain says, ‘You don't want to get busted for something you haven't done, do you? You've gotta tell us what you know, Joel. This is extremely serious stuff.'

‘I don't know anything,' I say too loud, standing up.

They're silent.

‘I've been here on my own for the last two nights—that's all I know. Yes, Craggs—
Craig
—was down here but he left the day before yesterday to go back to the city. There's no way he's done any of this, no way. You guys are just hassling me because of my record and I'm telling you, I haven't got
anything
to do with this. Okay? I'm not a fucking idiot.'

‘Language, son,' Wardle says.

I feel like I've got a fever, I'm so hot. Sweat slides down the insides of my arms.

‘How do you know he went to Perth?' Tremain says quietly.

‘I just reckon that's where he went.'

‘That's not good enough, son,' Wardle says. ‘We're coppers, not fairies.'

Tremain straightens up and looks at Wardle before saying, ‘I think you'd better come down to the station with us, Joel.'

I look up. I think I might pass out. ‘Why?' I say quietly. ‘I haven't got anything to do with this.'

‘Well, I'm not convinced of that. Unless you can give us something a bit more substantial you're under suspicion for this, along with Craig Adams.'

‘But I've been here all along,' I say. ‘I told you that.' I feel sick. I'm panicking. I want to cry.

Wardle stands up. ‘And Mr Neville says he saw you outside his house with some other kid a couple of days ago, in a way he did not appreciate. I'd put two and two together, mate. It ain't calculus.'

Afterwards he runs and runs, holding the gun long and low to make it easier to travel through the scrub. Hands and arms are scratched up so he looks like he's been attacked by something wild. His face is white and he runs almost without seeing, without blinking, on empty. There is only one place for him to go. He stays off the main trails, except where the bush is too thick to get through. He runs most of the way, stopping and collapsing for short breaks. He lies on top of the gun and hides in bushes as well as he can while he rests with his eyes open. When he gets up, he is clear in a way that is completely unclear; he is on autopilot.

As he arrives, he doesn't even check things out, just pulls the jumper onto his head and barges in and orders her to sit down behind the counter and stay quiet. She does it because of the gun, which he points her way. No one else is there; that is his sheer luck. He shoves boxed juices, bread, cheese, some salami stuff and several blocks of chocolate and hurls it all into a plastic bag.
She starts calling out, so he has to go over there, he has to, and make her shut up—she's crying now, gibbering—because this is the end of the road for him. His only chance is to get far away as quickly as possible once he's finished. He stands in front of her and she starts to shriek, so he turns the gun around and smacks the side of her head with it. Her head jerks to the side. No more noise.

He leans over and opens the till with the key she has left in the lock. There's only about a hundred bucks but he takes it and scoops up the gold coins, too. He grabs packets of fags, lighters and matches. He leaves the back way but doesn't even check before he walks out into the lane. The forest virtually butts up against the town and he's glad for it. He slips into it and looks behind him. No one.

He weaves his way into the thickest part of the bush and bunkers down. Hours pass. Does he sleep, or are those waking horrors? The sun's movement forces him up and onwards, away. His thoughts turn for a moment to the woman, to how her head swerved away as the gun struck her, and he stops in his tracks, guts surging.

He goes deeper in. The understorey closes around him.