Fireball (5 page)

‘Hey – that one's jerking.'

‘We got a bit of jerky, all right.'

Sometimes we'd trawl, and other times he'd cut the engine and we'd sit around casting and jigging. That's when I first started noticing his hands. It sounds bizarre, but his hands were something else. The palms were all cracked, like old soap, and the fingers were thick and muscular. They looked tough enough to crush coal, but he could tie off fishing lines, or bait hooks, as delicately as a granny knitting wool. He could do anything with those hands.

One thing he did with them was give us beer.

‘You boys want a brew?'

‘Sure.'

The fridge on the boat didn't really work, so near the stern he kept a little cooler – one of those blue coolers with a white, flip-up lid. There was always a motley selection of beers inside, covered in brine to keep them cold. He felt around and pulled out two cans of Kokanee and a bottle of Molson Dry. We got the Kokanees.

‘Watch this.'

Chris's dad leaned back and whipped his rod forward, one-handed. Line whizzed out, chasing the lure across the water in
a high, perfect arc. It landed with a satisfying splash about forty
yards away. He grunted and began reeling in. That was another thing he could do with his hands. I'd never be able to cast like that. I have to swing the rod over my head with both arms, like an axe. Half the time I nearly snag myself or the person sitting next to me. I'm a pretty shitty fisherman, actually.

‘You boys getting any pussy these days?'

We laughed. His dad always said stuff like that, just to mess with us.

Chris said, ‘Yeah. Every night.'

‘What about you, buddy?'

That's what he called me. He called Chris ‘son' and he called me ‘buddy.'

‘Yessir. Lots of pussy.'

‘More than you know what to do with, I bet.'

‘Yep. I got pussy coming out my ears.'

That got him laughing. He had this huge, booming laugh that reminded me of Santa Claus. Come to think of it, with his red plaid shirts and that hoary beard, he almost looked like Santa. Almost, but not quite. He was more like Santa after a three-week drinking binge.

Nobody really knew what happened with his dad – not even Chris. When his dad didn't pick him up at the ferry terminal one weekend, Chris just assumed their fishing trip had been cancelled. He was used to that. But his dad didn't call that week, or the next. There was no way to reach him so a family friend went down to the marina to check on him. The berth was empty, and his boat was gone. For a while, everybody assumed he'd taken off.

Then some kayakers found his boat – anchored near Ucluelet.

Apparently there'd been some sort of accident. He'd been putting out his crab traps, got tangled in the lines, and fallen overboard. The weights had held him under, and there wasn't much left when the coastguard hauled him back up. Chris didn't like to read the articles so I read them for him. They all said the same thing. The investigators had found a bunch of empties in the boat and ruled it an ‘accident due to negligence'. The articles were always accompanied by statistics about alcohol and water-related deaths.

The day Chris heard, I was on my way over to his house.

‘How's it going, man?' I said, totally oblivious.

‘Not so good. They found my dad's boat. He's dead.'

Neither of us knew what to say for a bit. We just stood there, fidgeting.

‘Do you want to be alone?'

‘No. But don't treat me any different, okay?'

‘Yeah. Okay.'

We got out our bikes and went for a little ride. It was a clear, spring morning and his dad's death didn't seem real. It was more like something I'd heard about on the radio.

Halfway to Cates, Chris said, ‘It wasn't like I knew him super well, anyways.'

That was it. He never mentioned it again, and I didn't either. He lived with us for a while, and after a few months it was like his dad had never existed. I mean, we were pretty young at the time and I just didn't have any reason to think about it. But now, after all the shit that's happened, I've been thinking about it more and more. There's been a hell of a lot of drowning going on lately, and I figure you could do worse than going out that way. It would be the same as taking a long drink. Nice and cool and thirst-quenching.

Not that I'd like to try it or anything.

9

You could see everything from up there. The ground dropped straight down in front of us, as if we were standing at the top of the longest slide I'd ever seen. Except the slide was covered with trees and rocks and patches of dirt. And at the bottom, instead of a playground, there was an entire city smothered by layers of smoke and smog and heat.

‘What does it remind you of?' Karen asked.

We stood and stared. Totally seared.

‘Paradise,' Julian said. ‘A city in the clouds.'

In a way, he was right. The haze and the light were almost magical.

‘No,' Chris said. ‘It looks like ruins. Like a bomb wiped everything out.'

I could see that, too. Not much was left in the vapour – only a husk of a city. I kept looking, trying to decide who was right. But the longer I stared, the less certain I became. I could see skyscrapers and warehouses and bridges and cranes, but they seemed to shimmer and shift in the heat. None of it was real. I didn't even know what I was looking at any more.

‘It's one of those things dying people see in the desert,' I said finally. ‘A mirage. It's a fucking mirage for sure. As soon as you get too close, it vanishes.'

‘All at once?'

‘All at once.'

Chris's dad had told him about this cabin – a little emergency shelter hidden in the mountains behind Seymour. Hardly anybody knew about it. The cabin was on a lake, and there was only one way to get to the lake. You followed a secret trail that kept going higher and higher. Then, when you couldn't go any higher, you stopped to burn a fat one. That's what we did, at least, and I can't imagine doing it any other way. It was probably the best time the four of us spent together – except maybe for when we all went swimming and pretended to be starfish. At that point, she hadn't chosen Chris, yet. It was like we were standing on a four-way seesaw. Perfectly balanced.

‘You're all wrong,' Karen said. ‘It's a cocoon, can't you see?' She cupped her hands in front of her, tracing the cocoon's shape. ‘One day it'll split open.'

I squinted my eyes. Then I saw it. I saw that the layers of smog were really layers of silk, and that the buildings buried within were actually part of a single, massive creature.

‘But what's inside?' I asked. ‘What's going to come out?'

She smiled at me – this very knowing smile. ‘Something better.'

I'll never understand girls.

We kept climbing. We passed the first ridge and wound our way into the coolness of the next valley. The air down there was rich and earthy. With each step the ridge we'd crossed rose higher behind us, blocking out the city. After that there was nothing but shaggy pines, jagged rocks, and cliffs that loomed at wonky angles, like big grey waves about to crash over us. Every so often we stopped to smoke a bowl or hack a dart. That was when we talked. We had these super deep conversations, just like the one we'd had on the ridge, about everything and nothing at all.

Chris took the lead. He picked his way along the path, casual and comfortable as a cat. He'd worn his beige cargos and carried a duffel bag slung over one shoulder. He loved the woods. Not because he was a nature fanatic, but because nobody lived there. He would have loved the city just as much if it was empty. His favourite movie was this low-budget science fiction flick where everybody in the world dies at once. Or maybe they get sucked away to another planet or something. I can't really remember. But basically, three get left behind. Most of the movie is about these two guys and this one girl, hanging out together in abandoned cities. Chris loved that. He wanted to be one of those people. He told me so.

‘Man, what a great day!'

Julian kept saying stuff like that. He'd worn his favourite hiking outfit: shorts and sandals, with a white tank top and this huge, ten-gallon cowboy hat. I don't know what he thought about the woods. I doubt he thought about them at all, actually. Knowing Jules, he was probably thinking about her, walking right behind him. Keeping his back straight and his chest puffed out, he swaggered along like a pimp hopped up on goofballs. Every so often he'd stop to stretch his arms, flexing all the muscles and taking these deep, dramatic breaths.

‘Don't you just love this?'

‘It's beautiful,' she'd say.

She was always polite like that. She had great manners. She was rich, too. Later on she admitted it, but I suspected right from the start. She just smelled rich. Rich people smell different. They smell newer and cleaner, somehow. But it's a fake smell, like apple air freshener in a dirty car. Come to think of it, Julian smelled like that, too.

‘Listen.'

We stopped and listened. When Chris told you to do something, you did it. I could hear our ragged breathing, and the soft zip of flies, and birds chattering in the trees. Behind it all was this gentle breeze, nuzzling the pine needles and whispering in my ear like a ghost.

Chris said, ‘That's the sound of forever.'

Stuff like that makes perfect sense when you're baked.

In the next valley, the trees gave way to piles of rocks and boulders. There'd been a landslide. Half the mountain had crumbled away, pouring into the basin like cereal into a bowl. It took some acrobatics to hike over the rubble. Being at the back was agonising. Not because it was any harder, but because Karen had taken her shirt off for the hike. She scrambled along in front of me, stretching and leaping in nothing but a bikini top and these scruffy jean shorts. I didn't know where to look. I mean, it was impossible not to stare at her, but I didn't want to act all sleazy. So I stared at her backpack. She'd brought along one of those little kid backpacks, just big enough to hold a sleeping bag and a twixer of vodka. She wore it pretty low, hanging down near her waist. There was a tiny white flower stitched into the canvas, along with the words: York House Academy. Super classy. Karen went to this all-girls private school across town. It's the kind of school where a year's tuition costs more than a new car. No joke. It's like twelve or fifteen grand or something.

Julian asked, ‘How much further to the lake, man?'

‘About three hours.'

I had to stare at that shitty backpack for three hours. I'll admit I didn't stare at it all the time, just most of the time. Once in a while, I couldn't help peeking at other parts of her. And I don't mean her ass, either. What I mean is her pointy little ears, or the spot between her shoulder blades where all the sweat gathered, or the curve of her hip just below the waist. That's the problem with staring at a girl's ass. You miss everything else. There's about six hundred body parts that are way hotter than a girl's ass. Like eyebrows, or elbows. Elbows are so hot it's insane. Some elbows, anyways. Like hers.

At the lake, there was a lot of flirting going on.

Julian was an expert. I don't know how he did it. He'd pinch her arms, or poke her belly, and once he had her giggling he'd tickle her until she screamed. She seemed to like it, too. That was the weirdest part. If I tried something like that, it wouldn't go over so well. I'm not loud enough, I guess. With Jules, acting loud was part of the routine. It made him seem harmless, like an overgrown kid. Come to think of it, he was pretty harmless.

‘Look at these chicken wings.'

That was what he called her arms. Don't ask me why.

‘They're so delicious.'

He took her bicep into his mouth, biting it like a dog.

‘Julian!'

It went on and on and on. It started to harsh piss me off, actually. I would have given anything to flirt with her like that. Not Chris. He had his own methods, which were even better. He flirted with her by completely ignoring her. Julian fawned all over her, and Chris treated her like an unwanted dog that had tagged along.

‘What are you guys doing?' she asked him.

‘Blowing up the dinghy.'

‘Can I help?'

‘No.'

She made a face – this pouty face – and went back to Julian. Chris didn't even notice. Once we'd finished inflating the raft, me and him paddled out into the middle of the lake. It was cramped and cosy in there. Our legs were all folded up and sort of entangled, like Siamese twins. After a while, we let the paddles rest and spiralled in slow circles. Just chilling. Near the valley rim, the smouldering sun looked impossibly large, like a giant tangerine. It squirted orange and red light across the water, staining the surface. We floated like that for maybe ten minutes among the oozing streams of colour.

Karen and Julian's voices reached us clearly over the water.