One Dead Seagull (18 page)

‘
Y
ou
haven
’
t
seen
anything yet.
Me
and
Mandy
are
putting
out
a
video
next
week,’
he
said
and
rolled
his
eyes.

‘Makes
these pornos
look
like
Play
School
.’ Now
that
is
sick.

Griz
started
calling
me ‘Captain’
because
he
reckoned

I
should
have
a
hook
like
the
dude
in
Peter
Pan
.

And
he
made
me
one.
It
was
Decembe
r
.
Maybe
he
was infected
with
the
Christmas
spirit?
I dunno.

I
was
late.
He stopped
me
in
the
breezeway
and
handed
me
a
brown
paper
bag.
I
half
expected
it
to
have
a
dog
’
s
turd
inside
it
or
something
dead.
I
certainly
wasn
’
t
about to
open
it
without
some
sort
of
facemask.

‘Go on,
you
wimp.
Open
it.
It
won
’
t
bite
you,
I
promise.
Y
ou
kno
w
.
Cross
my
heart
and
all
that.’

There
was
something
black
inside.
Black
fabric.
Black fu
r
.
Something.

‘Here
.
Giv
e
i
t
t
o
me,
’
h
e
sai
d
an
d
snatche
d
th
e
bag
.
He
pulle
d
ou
t
a
cylinde
r
o
f
heav
y
fabri
c
an
d
rippe
d
i
t
apart
.
It wa
s
joine
d
wit
h
V
elcr
o
an
d
h
e
aske
d
m
e
t
o
hol
d
ou
t
my
stump
.
H
e
slippe
d
i
t
ove
r
th
e
soc
k
I’
d
take
n
t
o
wearin
g
over m
y
bandages
.
I
t
fitte
d
neatl
y
an
d
fel
t
comfortable—the insid
e
wa
s
line
d
wit
h
blac
k
lamb
’
s
wool
.
H
e
reache
d
back int
o
th
e
ba
g
an
d
pulle
d
ou
t
a
hoo
k
tha
t
screwe
d
int
o
the end
.
I
t
wa
s
a
classic
.
T
e
n
centimetre
s
o
f
shin
y
cu
r
ve
d
steel.

He
stood
back
and
looked
at
my
face.
‘What?
Don
’
t
you like
it?’

‘No.
Y
es!
It
’
s
fantastic.’

‘
Y
eah,
well
.
.
.
you
kno
w
,
I
thought
it
would
be
useful
as well,
you
kno
w
.
For
picking
stuff
up
and
all
that.’

He
kept
shrugging
his
shoulders
and
I
couldn
’
t
stop smiling.
He said
he
had
to
go
and
I
put
my
hand
out
so he might
shake
it.
He
didn
’
t
see
it
as
he
loped
off
to
class.

‘Arghhh!’ I
shouted
and
waved
my
hook
at
him.

‘Dickhead,’
he
grumbled.

There
were
some
savage
rainy
days
before
my
birthda
y
, and
some
hot
ones.
The
bloke
on
the
radio
said
it
was
already
the
wettest
December
in
Melbourne
’
s histo
r
y
.
I
believed
it. Mum paid
for Den,
Hendo,
Shane Lee, Carlson
and
I
to
go
to
the
pictures
for
my
birthda
y
.
W
e
saw
T
e
r
ra Fi
r
ma
VIII
—awesome!
Real
footage
of the most brutal
sports
stuff. Blokes
totalling
motorbikes
and
doing
mad-arse
things
on
skateboards.
Eve
r
y
time
one
of
the
blokes
did
an
awesome
stunt
and
pulled it off,
Hendo would
say:
‘I
reckon
I
could
do
that.’
Bullshit
artist. He
’
s flat
out
pulling
a
mono.

Mandy
got
a
boyfriend.
W
e
were
sitting
in
front
of
the
theatre
and
they
came
out
with
flushed
cheeks.
I
wanted to
ride straight
home.
Big
ugly
sucker
from Chisholm
Catholic
.
Bible-readin
g
bo
y
wit
h
bum-fuzz
.
Ponytail,
earring
and
lots
of
little
pimples.

Hendo knew
him and
hated
his
guts.
‘
Y
eah,
Phillip Baxte
r
.
Arsehole.
Keep
your
hands
off
her
you
big
prick,’
he
said
to
himself.

Looked
like
Phillip
was
a
mate
of
Che
r
yl
Bickerton
’
s
boyfriend,
Steve
with the
eyebrow
rings.
Ahh,
good
luck to him.
It
’
s
not
as
if
I’ve
kissed
Mandy
or
anything.
Hendo tried
to
jump
his
imagina
r
y
motorbike
over
our
seat
and
ended
up
on
his
guts in
front
of
the
two-dollar
shop.
That bloke
is
out
of
control.

Dad
modified
the
lawnmower
so
I
could
keep
the
jungle
at the
back
of
the
flat
under
control.
For
my
birthday
he bought
me
a
fishing
rod
and
reel—expensive
Shimano job—and
covered
the
bottom
of
the
handle
with
V
elcro. He
stuck
a
patch
of
V
elcro
on
the
hook
Griz
had
made
me and
it
worked!
I
practised
casting
and
reeling
in
on
the road
in
front
of
the
flat.
Haven
’
t
worked
out
how
to
bait
a hook
yet,
or
tie
a
sinker
on.
I
guess
I’ll
just
have
to
go fishing
with
someone
who
can
do
all
that
stuff.
I’ll
reel
in the
whales.
The
Humes
were
going
to
Mars
Cove
again
after
Christmas
and
I
was
dropping
hints
like
crazy
that
I’d
like
to
tag
along.

I
worked
hard
on
my
school
stuff.
It
was
as
boring
as lunch
in
an
old
people
’
s
home
but
I
kept
at
it.
Johnson
had
organised
with
my
teachers
that
they
give
me
the
bare
minimum needed
to
catch
up
and
that
was
fine,
except
fo
r
English
:
Mr
s
Leave
y
lumpe
d
m
e
wit
h
tw
o
one-
thousand-word essays.
I
hadn
’
t
written
one
thousand words
back-to-back
ever
in
my
life.
Looked
like
I
was
going to
bomb
it
but
I
wasn
’
t
phased.

But
Mrs
Leavey
turned
into
a
monster
in
the
last
two weeks
of
term.
She
dogged
me
constantly
about
my
essays,
to
the
point
where
I
almost
told
her
to
get
stuffed.
It
was like
she
could
read
my
mind.

‘
W
ayne.
Y
ou
may
have
lost
your
hand.
There
’
s
nothing I can do
about
that.
Y
ou
may
have
had
a
long
period
of time off school.
There
’
s nothing I
can
do
about
that eithe
r
.
I’m
your
English
teache
r
.’
She
spoke
flatly
and
moved
closer
to
me,
staring
into
my
eyes.
Her
breath
was
stale
and
smelled
like
spe
w
.
Her
eyes
were
milky
brown where
they
should
have
been
white.

‘It
doesn
’
t
matter
how
much
work
you
do
in
the
other classes
.
.
.
if
you
fail
English
you
fail
year
ten.
If
you
don
’
t
complete
those essays
you
will
fail.’

I
got a
‘B’
for
one
and
a
‘C’
for
the
othe
r
.
I
passed
year
ten.
Whoopee-do.

The last
few
days
of
term are
like a
blur no
w
.
I
can
remember
the
things
that
happened
but
I
wasn
’
t
really there.
The
Humes
invited
me
with
them
to
Mars
Cove
(surprise,
surprise)
and
I
agreed—barring
accidents—to
go.
For
one
reason
or
another
I
forgot
to
mention
it
to
Mum,
until
three
days before
Christmas.
The Humes
were supposed
to
leave
on
Boxing
Da
y
.

‘What
do
you
mean,
Boxing
Day?’
Her
lips
were
pulled
tight. ‘
W
e
are
all going up to
Shepparton,
until the New
Y
ea
r
.’

I
can
remember
her
mentioning
it but
it must
have slipped
my
mind.
I
told
her
it
would
be
oka
y
,
I’d
just
go
around
to
the
Humes’
place
early
and
stay
over and
she could
go
up
by
herself.
That
wasn
’
t
what
she
wanted
to hea
r
.

‘What
about
Christmas?’

The
thought
of
sitting
with
all
the
old
farts
and
my
cousins
(Jenelle
is
the
oldest
and
the
smartest)
didn
’
t
turn me
on
at
all.
Christmas
had
lost
its
appeal
for
me
years ago.

‘
W
e
can have
Christmas
here
before
you
go,’
I
said,
and she
slapped the
arm
of
her
chair
and
sent
her
ashtray flying.

‘
Y
ou’re
so bloody
self-centered,
W
ayne.
Y
ou’re
like
your
bloody
father—you
don
’
t
give
a
shit
unless
it concerns you.’

She
went
on
and
on.
Gave
me
a
big
lecture
about
how I
don
’
t
pull
my
weight
around
the
flat
and
don
’
t
respect her
or
all
the
effort
she
puts
in.

My
eyes
just
glazed
over
and
from
the
corner
of
my
eye
I
could
see
what
looked
like
a
thundercloud
hanging
over her
and
coloured
bolts of
lightning, red
and
orange, shooting
into
the
lounge
room
from
the
top
of
her
head.
If
I
looked
right
at
he
r
,
I
could
see
little
bits
of
spit
flying out
of
her mouth
but
if
I
looked
beside
her
I
could
see the heavy
cloud
and
the
lightning
hovering
over
he
r
.
Bizarre.