One Dead Seagull (12 page)

‘Hey
Dad.
Y
ou
coming
this
morning
or
what?’
I
said and
shook
him
gentl
y
.
He
sat
up
straightawa
y
,
still
in
his
grubby
work
clothes.
He
took
a
leak,
boiled
the
kettle,
made
a
cup
and
a
thermos
full
of
coffee
and
slipped
his boots
on.
The
whole
act
took
less
than
five
minutes.

‘See
you,
Sylvie.
Thanks,’
he
shouted
with
the
doorknob
in
his
hand.

‘
Y
eah,
yeah.’

It
started
raining as
we pulled
up
in
front of
the
Thompsons’
place.
Dad
said
that
the
rain
would
mess
up
the
work
we’d
done
with
the
sand
but
it
didn
’
t last
long and
we
were
screeding
and
moving
sand
for
most
of
the morning. Just
before
lunch, Dad
cracked
through the metal
tie
on
a
pack
of
bricks
with
the
claw
of
his
hamme
r
.
All
afternoon
I
had
the
privilege
of
moving
bricks
and putting
them
into
piles.
Dad
laid
them
down
as
quickly
as I
could
cart
them.
Quicke
r
.
He
had
to
stop
and
help
me unload
a
few
times.
Mr
Thompson
came
home
at
about
two
o’clock
and
Dad
introduced
us
while
he
oohed
and ahhed
at
the
work
we’d
done.
It
did
look
good
and
Dad was
right—Mr
Thompson
was
a
nice
bloke.
He
wore
one
of
those
train
driver
’
s
hats
and
he
laughed
a
lot.

W
e were
packing
up
when
a
group
of
kids
rode
past
the
front.
Griz
and
Otto
Christiansen
with
his
Saints
beanie
pulled
too
far
down
over
his
eyes.
There
were
two
other kids
I
didn
’
t kno
w
.
They
were
scoping
the
place
out
and
hadn
’
t recognised me.
Griz
spotted
me
at
that
exact
moment.

‘Hey
W
ayne.
What
are
you
doing?
Building
a
sandpit?’
Otto
looked
bewildered.
‘Is
this
your
joint?’

I
didn
’
t
say
anything,
just
prickled.

‘No.
Dickhead,
he
lives
over
on
Vincent
Drive.
Don
’
t you
W
ayne?
Having
fun
on
your
holidays
and
all
that?’

They
laughed.

‘Hey
W
ayne,’
Griz
said.
‘
T
ell
that
mate
of
yours
that
I’m
coming
around
to
collect
my
money
tomorro
w
.
Okay?’

Dad
came
around
the
side
of
the
house
and
they
rode off.

‘Mates
of
yours?’

‘Nup.’

He
looked
up
the
footpath
until
they
disappeared.
W
e finished
loading
the
stuff into
the
ute and
took
off
home. Didn
’
t say
a
word
the
whole
wa
y
.
He
dropped
me off
out the
front of
the
flat
and
said
he’d
pick
me
up
in the morning.
Mum
had
made
tea
for
him
again.

‘Arsehole,’
she
said
under
her
breath
when
I
told
her that
he’d
gone.

Den
rang
that
night.
He
hardly
ever phoned.
He wanted
to know
for
sure
whether
I’d
be
coming
with
them on
Sunda
y
.
He
’
s
a
different
person
on
the
phone,
like
he
struggles
with
the
whole
thing.
I
told
him
that
Dad and
I
would
be
easily
finished
by
Sunday
and
that
it
would
take a
heap
of
horses
to
stop
me
from
going
with
them.
I
gave
him
the
message
from
Griz
and
he
laughed.

‘All
piss
and
wind.’

•

Dad
had
me
laying
bricks
for
a
change
on
T
uesda
y
.
It
was easier
for
him
to
cart
them
and
he
only
had
to
fix
a
fe
w
.
W
e
laid
them
in
a
basket-weave
pattern
and
when
we’d
finished
the
big
area
it
did
look
like
it
was
woven.
Dad went
to
get
a
brick
saw
from
Stilson
’
s
Hire
and
he
taught
me
how
to
mark
the
bricks
to
be
cut
so
they
would
fit along
the
edges.
It
seemed
like
a
simple
operation
but
the first
few
he
cut
didn
’
t
fit
into
the
holes
they
were
supposed
to
so
I
had
to
mark
them
again.

The brick saw was something
else.
A
whirling, wet, nois
y
,
bench-mounted
saw
that
you
operated
with
your
foot.
Big
petrol
moto
r
.
The
cover
had
a
hose
attached
to it
and
a
jet
of
water
shot
onto
the
spinning
blade.
It
kept
th
e
blad
e
lubricate
d
an
d
stoppe
d
th
e
brick
s
from
jamming.

I
t
mad
e
a
blood
y
mess
,
sprayin
g
fin
e
re
d
mu
d
o
n
eve
r
ything
,
s
o
an
d
Da
d
ha
d
t
o
wea
r
a
funk
y
yello
w
raincoa
t
and
pants.
No goggles
though because
they’d get totally
covere
d
wit
h
wate
r
an
d
brick-dus
t
i
n
tw
o
second
s
flat
.
Dad wor
e
earplug
s
an
d
earmuff
s
bu
t
i
t
wa
s
nowher
e
nea
r
a
s
loud
a
s
th
e
Fera
l
Pig
s
concer
t
tha
t
De
n
an
d
I
wen
t
t
o
las
t
yea
r
so
I
reckone
d
h
e
wa
s
bein
g
a
bi
t
wimp
y
abou
t
it
.
I
aske
d
him i
f
I
coul
d
hav
e
a
g
o
o
n
th
e
sa
w
an
d
h
e
fobbe
d
m
e
off.

‘Maybe
tomorro
w
,
mate.
This
thing
’
s a
bloody
beast. Whip
your
fingers
off
in
a flash-of-where
’
s-you
r
-grand-mothe
r
.’

Th
e
nex
t
afternoo
n
h
e
decide
d
tha
t
he’
d
sho
w
m
e
how t
o
us
e
th
e
sa
w
.
I
thin
k
h
e
go
t
pisse
d
of
f
wit
h
usin
g
it. Wha
t
a
beast
.
Cut
s
throug
h
soli
d
brick
s
lik
e
butte
r
.
Dad
wa
s
shoutin
g
instruction
s
a
t
m
e
bu
t
I’
d
bee
n
watching hi
m
s
o
I
kne
w
wha
t
t
o
do.

‘Just
keep
the
brick
moving.
Backwards
and
fo
r
wards.
Y
ou
don
’
t
need
to
press
down
hard.
That
’
s it. Let
the blade
do
the
work.’

V
e
r
y
cool.
A
little
bit
sca
r
y
when
I
got
to
the
bottom
of a
cut
and
the
two
bits
fell
apart
in
my
hands.
I
imagined being
a
gem
cutter
or
one
of
those
palaeontologists
who cut
open
rocks
to
find
fossils.
The
cut
su
r
face
of
the
brick
was
shiny
and
silky
to
touch.

I
guess
I
was getting
a
bit
cock
y
.
Running
my
finger
over the
side
of
the
spinning
blade
and
tracing
patterns
in
the wate
r
.
Dad
had
crept
up
behind
me
and
scared
the
shit
out
of
me.

‘Oi!
Y
ou
bloody
idiot.
Keep
your
mind
on
the
job.
It
’
s
not
a
freaking
toy!’

I
didn
’
t
say another
word
that
afternoon.
Griz,
Otto
and a
few
of
their
mates
rolled
up.
I
think
they
were
impressed
with
the
brick
saw
too.
I
could
see
them
out
of
the
corner of
my
eye,
pointing
and
laughing,
but
they
stayed
a
while. They’d
just
left
when
it
happened.
Dad
had
parked
one
of the
legs
of
the
wheelbarrow
on
the
hose
and
unloaded
the marked
bricks.
As
I
piled
the
cut
bricks
into
the
barro
w
,
the
weight
had
gradually
cut
off
the
water
supply
to
the blade.
The mud
had
turned
to
dust.
The engine
started
to labou
r
.
I
got
a
flash
of
Dad
running
at
me,
screaming.
The brick
grabbed
and
dragged
me
into
the
blade.
My
head
smacked
into
the
cove
r
.
My
arm
got
stuck
at
the
back
of the
blade
and
I
could
feel
it
cutting
me.
Rasping
the
bone. Red
dust.
Red
blood.
Black.