90 Packets of Instant Noodles (8 page)

‘You again, sonny.'

I swing around. The old coot. Ha bloody ha: it's been weeks since I saw him.

I really don't need this today. I nod across the water.

‘Just on me way, anyway. Good timing, eh?' he cackles.

Yeah.

I nod again and watch him disappear into the same patch of bush he used last time. I decide to keep walking. Follow the old guy. Something to do, a way to burn up whatever it is that's burning me up. And I'm interested, anyway. Where—and how, exactly—does this guy live?

I can hear him muttering to himself as he goes. What a unit.

I move around the river bank, jump a couple of rocks and push into the ferns where I saw him go. I peer into the green, and see his bag flash way up. He's moving pretty fast for such a geriatric. He's going uphill, too. I feel my heart pounding. I try to stay back far enough so he doesn't see me. I'm praying he's deaf and can't hear all the branches I'm delicately folding into two on my way.

He reaches the ridge and for a while I lose him. I scrabble up the embankment, staying low, until finally I catch a glimpse of him again. This is beginning to feel like some kind of bad Aussie bush-cops thing—any minute now Skippy will bounce out and save the old guy from danger.

Next thing I know he's crawling under a huge fallen tree that hasn't quite reached the ground on its way down. When I get there, I can barely see through the dense scrub beyond it. Maybe I shouldn't go in there, wherever it is. I look back. I've come this far, I may as well go a bit further.

Once I plough through the wall of bush I see his place. It's a wobbly old hut that looks like it has room for a bed and not much more. There's a big fireplace outside and a gun propped up against the verandah. A rifle. Jesus Christ, this guy's even more of a crackpot than I had imagined. Now I've seen the gun, I reckon I don't need to know a hell of a lot more. I turn to go back.

I sneak towards the path, quiet and low in case he's on the prowl. At least I know where his gun is. Once I'm past the fallen tree I relax and check out the view from the ridge. From up here, you'd have no idea the old guy—or anyone else—was living down in that little valley. It's almost like he's grown the scrub around his joint for proper camouflage, or something. But that would mean he'd been there for ages—years—and I really doubt that. No one could live out here for that long. What'd be the point? What would he
eat?
I can't imagine him hiking to the shop every five minutes.

Back at the pool, I swim and try to relax. Today I brought lunch—cheese and Vegemite sandwiches, thank you very much. Once I've dried off, I check out the rushing part of the river for fishing opportunities. I brought a hand-line with me, just in case, but I can't see much action. Nowhere's really deep enough. Perhaps further along. I might check it out tomorrow, follow upstream. There's gotta be
some
stuff living in a river this clean. There are always birds and dragonflies hanging around when I come down, which is a good sign that there's some kind of food-chain happening.

I reach into my bag and find lunch down at the bottom. The bread must have been stale when I bought it, which might account for the two bits of squashed cardboard I now hold between my hands. I have Bella's letter beside me. I almost put it away. I have enough things going round and round in my head right now; I figure I can do without any more weird news. But the thought of her voice is irresistible, even if it is only on paper.

After I've read Bella's letter I walk home, feeling kind of strange. Not only is she dealing with some pretty heavy Joel-fallout (getting sick of the shit that's sticking to her because of me), but there's something else that's different—she doesn't seem to be missing me as much, or she's not as
warm
as she was in her other letters. She just told me
news.
Nothing was very personal. Look at how she says goodbye: it's kind of cool. Or maybe I'm just being paranoid.

When I get home I find more good news. Foxy has disappeared, and—surprise, surprise—so have the sausages I left out defrosting for tonight. The plastic tray is lying on the floor as a memento of what I nearly got to enjoy.

Perhaps it's just shock kicking in, but I stand in the middle of the shack like a roo in spotties. I assess my situation. I'm stuck in some kind of hippie-punishment forest jail, complete with a psycho neighbour with a fuck-off huge rifle swinging from his front door. Then I get the happy news that my old duck is marrying the jammer. Then this latest instalment from Bella in which she tells me she's forgotten why she's sticking up for me. And to top it off, there's a scabby runt of a fox that's using this joint as a Hungry Jack's drive-through.

Oh Joel. This whole thing is your fault,
your fucking fault.
Why are you here? And why is Bella there? Get it?
Get it?

Before my next haul-arse to town, I write to Bella again, using all the good vibes I can muster. I need her to remember why she liked me in the first place.

When I get to the shitty little shop, I remember to scribble Dad a quick note, too, just to stay out of trouble with him. I can't think of anything sensible to say about Mum and Scott getting hitched, but I tell him I'll write a better letter next time, and scrawl that Mum can do whatever she wants—I don't give a toss, it's her life, and list off a few other clichés to reassure him that I'm not going to go on a rage frenzy just because Mum's marrying a guy who clips his toenails while shouting out the answers to
Who Wants To Be A Millionaire.

Waiting for Bella's next letter is pretty hard. I keep hoping it will prove me wrong, that she will be just Bella again, missing me.

It doesn't.

Distance makes people forget. I know that, from Mum. Bella's so busy with the play, with school. It's like when you watch clouds—they're always shifting and morphing and replacing one another—you try to concentrate on one but it doesn't take long before you've completely forgotten what it even looked like.

It's the middle of the night when I make my decision to just kind of try to ride things out here, try to stay cool about things that I can't control. I feel a bit better after that.

But there are things we all take for granted, and when I get up the next day and go to make toast, I realise that elecfuckentricity—as I've renamed it—is one of them. Of course, I should have realised: it's Lotto time! Hey hey! And no phone to let anyone know.

I look around me. It takes a while to realise that unless a miracle happens and it comes back on by itself, I'll need candles, and that I don't have any candles. Oh, shit. And it's too too far to walk, not again, I'm not doing that fucking hike again, not before I have to. I'll sit in the dark all night until they fix it. I'll light fires; I'll light my own hair and make a massive bonfire. No, no—I'll light the shack and make a
really
massive bonfire before I stretch my legs for that hike again.

No one's coming, though. There's no one out there to sort things out for me here. It's a scary feeling, but worse is how alone it makes me feel. I go to bed.

The light's unbearably bright. I can barely see for the sheer whiteness all around me. Cupping my hands around my eyes and squinting into it, I can make out that I'm sailing a small yacht on the ocean. I'm sailing a yacht. I'm out in the ocean and it's sunny and just a little bit choppy and I'm wandering around on deck. I'm the only one on the boat and I'm aware that I haven't got a clue what to do, whether to tack or change direction or reel in ropes or just sit back with a beer and relax.

I'm trawling a fishing net from the rear of the boat. Something is thrashing in it, pulling it this way and that, loose then taut. The sun is white-black in my eyes as I approach. A hand is grasping the netting, reaching up from the water, then dropping away, and then the body lunges up through the froth. We make eye contact and it's Sull—Sull, my friend—caught in my net. He's grotesquely twisted up and is weak, as though the fight is nearly over. I watch him as he takes in huge gulps of water. His eyes stay on mine but he can't say anything because of the choking, and I simply stare at him as he drowns in front of me, pulled along by this weird boat that I'm on.

‘Hey kid, ya in there?'

The knocking at the shack door wakes me up. I'm sweating. I feel sick from my dream, it was so fucking vivid.

‘Kid!'

Around me, it's total-eclipse dark. More knocking. What's going on? I look around for my forest-design baseball bat. It's next to the door. Good thinking, Joel. I take a breath and croak, ‘Yeah, I'm here. Hang on.' I grab the torch. It throws a dull orange glow about 10 centimetres in front of me, but hey, it's better than a poke in the date. I open the door to the old guy. He looks like some kind of freaky forest warlock in the dark. He's got a stick and everything. I stand in the doorway so he can't come in.

‘Enjoying the moonlight, are ya?'

I squint at him. I don't even know where the moon is. This guy's sense of humour sucks.

‘Thought y'd have no candles. I keep a bunch of em up in me hut, thought you could use a couple. Could be a long night. Or a long few nights.'

I'm staggered: he walked through the pitch dark to give me candles?

‘But ... what do you mean? Won't they be fixing it right now?'

‘Who's “they”, dya reckon?' he chuckles.

I look at him. ‘I dunno, Western Power or whatever they're called,' I say flatly.

‘Yeah, well, in this town that means Jack Grey. And he'll be at the pub until one or two in the mornin yet.'

I must have my gob hanging wide open.

‘And let me tell ya, he'll only know about it if the town's lost power, too. If Nallerup has power, no one'd know we've been cut off. There's only three houses on this line, and the other place gets about as much use as this creakin old joint. Certainly no one there now.'

Oh,
shit.
‘Well, how long will it take if no one tells them?'

‘As long as it takes for one of us to tell em.'

‘Shit.'

‘Oy oy oy, no need for that. Whadda we need power for, anyway, eh?'

‘Everything!'

‘Ya got a gas stove here, right?'

‘I dunno.' I look around at the oven. The matches I use to light it are right there. ‘Oh, yeah,
gas
!' I say, like I just found a hundred bucks lying on the ground.

‘And even if ya didn't, ya could always light a fire. That's all I got, a fire, no stove or nothin.'

This guy is hardcore.

‘And for yer light, ya just use candles. And all's sweet.' And he shoves a bundle at me. There must be about five there.

‘But—don't you want any? Have you got enough for yourself?'

‘Ar, don't ya be worrying bout me, kid. It's you city folk who need these luxuries. How dya reckon caveman got on, eh? Bloody mobile phones and bedside lamps?' He snorts and takes a step back.

‘Well, thanks. I—'

He interrupts, pointing at the water tank. ‘Yer water's on god's-own gravity system, too, in case ya didn't know it—I've had to use it meself from time to time—so you won't die o thirst or nothin.'

I must look blank. He's right, of course I'd never even
thought
about whether it had a pump.

‘So, yer right, then?' he calls over his shoulder, already heading off.

‘Yeah. Thanks a lot.'

He takes a couple of steps and then turns back around and looks at me.

‘What?' I almost laugh. This is so bizarre, this weird old guy, the shack, the two of us here in the dark.

He kind of coughs. ‘Ya know, I been wonderin about ya, comin down here, so young an that. An ... an I been wantin to say ... if yer trying to get away from something by bein down here...' he eyes me cautiously, ‘let me tell ya, son, things don't go away, whatever they are, no matter where ya go.'

Woah.
‘Yeah, well thanks, mate, but I'm not trying to g-get away from anything, actually,' I manage.

He stands there for a bit longer, looking up into the black trees for Christ knows what. Finally he snaps out of it and says, ‘Nah, course yer not. Ya not stupid like me, course not.'

And he walks off into the dark, mumbling something to himself as he disappears.

I call out, ‘Thanks again,' and hear between snapping twigs, ‘Night, kid.'

His words replay in my head; they stick like shit.
Things don't go away, no matter where ya go.

It's only when he's gone that I realise he had nothing—not a torch, not even a match—to light his way home. With candlelight making gruesome shadows in the shack, the Sull dream comes back at me like something lurching out from a cave.

I stay awake for as long as I can, but eventually an unsettled sleep creeps over me. I'm awake again at 3a.m., my head ticking like a time bomb.