The Best Australian Stories 2014 (4 page)

Mila and Rick, who have been scoping horses' larynxes, pass between the bay number four horse and the grey number five.

‘That one's lame behind,' Mila says. She points to number seven.

Rick answers, ‘I bet its mother walked like that. It'll probably win.'

‘That one has my money,' Vince says. ‘The black one. A fine filly.'

The fine filly tosses her head. Sweat foams between the horse's hind legs. Mila leaves them without saying where she is going, walking between the horses, tossing her own dark head and ducking under the white rail in the direction of the half-empty stands with their row of thick glass at the top. Now the jockeys enter in their silks. The jockeys are installed in saddles, take up the reins.

One by one, the horses leave the ring for the track; they canter to the starting gates, reefing at the bit, sweating with the desire to run, or with fear. Once at the starting gates, they are crushed inside. A little of the horses' feeling spills out and spreads through Jackie as she stands between Rick and Vince: longing, restlessness. She feels tingling in the tips of her fingers. It is the last race. It is her last trip to the races in Dubai.

The fine filly runs fifth. The horse that Mila said was lame behind runs a close second. Rick, Mila, Vince and Jackie go to a bar on the other side of the stands. Like all of the bars that Jackie has been to in Dubai, it is full of white people. Rick orders three rounds of tequila slammers. Lick sip suck. He licks the salt from Mila's neck, using a short purplish tongue, drains his tequila, sucks the lime. And Mila eats the salt from Rick's neck. For a few moments Jackie feels envious of Mila for licking Rick's neck and then she wonders if she would really want to taste Rick's sweat. It is pretty clear that Mila is with Rick and therefore she is with Vince. Then Vince reaches for her hand. He leans in and says that he really likes her and that she is like no one else in Dubai and – whether this is a complete con or not – she lets him hold one hand as she sucks the salt from the webbing between her thumb and forefinger on the other. Vince says that one day they will buy a racehorse. This is thrilling: she has never considered owning even half of a racehorse's foot. Jackie says, ‘Would you help me buy one?' And Vince says, ‘Yes. Of course.' She lets him touch her hair the way Rick did, that day after colic surgery. Vince finishes his slammer and then he drinks beer, Heineken. Jackie passes her third slammer to Mila and gets a beer too, because she has to do treatments at midnight.

Vince says, ‘What do you want to do tonight?'

Jackie says, ‘Go to the desert.' This is probably the wrong answer, she knows. She's supposed to say, ‘Go back to your apartment.' She leans into him, feels his lips at her hair part. His hand makes long, slow strokes down her back.

*

Not long after that, they are all in the car, heading for Rick's apartment via the desert. Rick and Mila are fondling each other over the gearstick in the front. A car ahead of them brakes and they brake too. Vince still has his arm around Jackie's shoulders and is kissing her throat when the four-wheel drive goes off the road, into the sand, down through a wadi and over a hump. It is not an accident so much as a misjudgement on the part of Rick, who is drunk. Jackie is not wearing a seatbelt because no one does. She did for the first two weeks she was in Dubai and then she stopped. She falls behind the front seat when they come to a halt. Her head strikes something on the way down – maybe the window – and she sits there, squeezed between the back and front seats, feeling the press of both as claustrophobic. Vince is pulling her hand. Mila and Rick are getting out and laughing.

Outside, the night air is cool, the sky obscured by brown smog. Rick has his hands up Mila's dress. He's making an
mmm
sound as he's taking off her underpants. Jackie steps away from the car, from Vince and Rick and Mila. Vince lunges towards her, encircles her shoulders and slaps his lips over hers. His mouth cuts off her air, but she moves her lips the way she's learned, open and closed like a fish, without breathing because she doesn't want to inhale him, until she tears her mouth away. Right then she goes around to the other side of the four-wheel drive and vomits. Her vomit – which is invisible in the dark – smells of tequila. She's disgusted with herself. She's been longing for the heat of Vince's hands on her ribs, craving his appetite for her and now that desire feels heartless. All four of them have been growing desire and this feeling has been feeding itself for days, weeks, almost a month; underneath there's nothing. Their lust is simply lust and she sees it – and her own desire, too – as ruthless and mechanical. She tries to hold her hair out of the way as she retches. Her feet are sore; the new shoes are rubbing off skin. She looks down at her shoes and thinks of taking them off and walking away from the four-wheel drive and Rick, Vince and Mila. Then she realises that she has no money and she can't see the road, not even a dark line, just the glow in the sky above what she guesses is Dubai.

Her mouth feels parched. She goes around to the other side of the car and says, ‘Take me home,' and collapses, sinking towards the sand, her hair falling over her face. She's grateful to George for teaching her how to act: she can play a drunk teenager at a party.

Vince says, ‘Are you all right?'

And Mila is on her other side, slurring. ‘Let's go back to Rick's.'

Jackie feels the warm desert sand beneath her. This is the closest she's ever got to the real desert. She begins to pretend to cry and shake her head from side to side. ‘Take me home,' she says. ‘I need to go home.'

Rick says, ‘Let's just take her back to our place. She can lie on the couch.'

Jackie holds her stomach. ‘Feel like throwing up.'

Vince lifts her, his hands in her armpits. The sand, still warm, slides in over the top of her boots. She makes a guttural noise in her throat as though she's retching.

‘Water,' Jackie says.

Rick says, ‘Are you going to throw up again?'

‘Water,' she repeats.

Rick says, ‘We could leave her here.'

Vince says, laughing, ‘Come back in the morning, see if she's sobered up. But I think we're a bit far out, you know?'

‘Remember the Ukrainian girl? I think we left her half a mile from the hospital,' Rick says. ‘She made it back all right.'

Jackie sees that she is already the Australian girl, just as the Ukrainian vet student had become the Ukrainian girl. She's angry now, but she can't show it.

‘They're joking,' Mila says, her mouth close to Jackie's ear.

Jackie isn't sure that they are. They are getting into the car. Jackie whispers, ‘Let's not go to Rick's.'

Vince is taking the front seat.

‘Come on,' Mila says. ‘You'll be okay. We'll get you some water when we get there. You'll see the view.'

‘Let's not,' Jackie repeats. What about Mila, who will have to live with whatever she does for another five months? At least Jackie's leaving in a few days. Rick is already gunning the engine. She can see his profile, his hair in a brown wave. Mila's opening the back door, pushing Jackie inside.

They head back to the city; the lights grow closer, the desert flows behind them and disappears in the back window and they are in a grid of the streets, yellow under the lights. She feels the same sense of confinement as she had when she was jammed between the seats.

She sees a mall, still lit up, slide by on her right. It looks like the one she visited that afternoon with Mila. Outside the mall they stop at a traffic light to let cars out of the car park. She sits with her finger hooked through the door handle. With her elbow, she nudges Mila in the ribs.

Mila says, ‘What?'

‘Quick,' says Jackie.

Mila doesn't get it. If Jackie doesn't jump now she'll miss her chance. Rick is still drunk; he's slow to put his foot on the accelerator and in that moment between when the lights change and Rick depresses the pedal, Jackie opens the car door, leaps onto the verge and slams the door. She feels the air move past her as the car accelerates. Dr Rick glances over his shoulder. Maybe he gives her the finger. Mila winds down the window, yelling stop, and for a minute Jackie watches the car speed away, its tail-lights recede. She can find her way back to the hospital, she tells herself, although looking at the mall and the straight streets leading in different directions, she could be anywhere. She begins to walk along the road she believes will take her home.

Submerging

Anthony Panegyres

The veins on Grandpa's legs protruded like thick tidal lines. Sam and Caleb scrambled to catch up, their toes vanishing and reappearing in the chalky sand as they trailed him homewards. Sam stared up at the island's cliff, its base gnawed away by the climbing ocean to leave only a thin shelf. Other places were submerging too: the jetty where he had nearly caught that white sea-snake was completely under.

I would have brought it in, jewelled skin glittering silver and white, if only they'd let me.

*

Once home, Sam and Caleb sank into their beanbags and watched
Family Guy
as the aroma of stewing fish, breadfruit and coconut milk wafted out from Grandpa's kitchen.

This was the family; Dad did not count, not anymore. He had nicked off to Brisbane. Their two aunts lived in New Zealand and never visited. Sam remembered his grandpa's words: ‘Everyone runs away.'

Caleb will leave.
All his brother spoke of was Queensland and the trip their dad had taken them on. Those adventure parks where the mad rides were higher than any dune they had ever run down, the flash cars that purred, the beach girls that came in every colour.

Tavloa is a paradise – it just needs some care.
It was their place and their island and their ocean.

‘Sam! Caleb!' hollered Grandpa. ‘Set the table.'

The boys placed cutlery and bowls out on the small pine table that still managed to saturate the kitchen space.

‘Groper today, boys.' Grandpa ladled the steaming stew out before them and clasped his ocean-scarred hands together. ‘Thank you, Christ our Lord, for our dinner, and take care of our ancestors.' They crossed themselves and dug into the large fish, which was good, soft and flaky white. A change too – usually they used those finicky finer nets for tiny ones like baitfish. ‘Just got to adapt, I guess,' Grandpa would say, ‘li'l-uns are tasty. But years ago there was big fish everywhere.' He gestured, as did all fishermen, spreading his arms to indicate size. ‘Those ships way out've scooped'em up and the li'l-uns have grown crazy with fewer big-uns to eat'em.'

Ordinarily, Sam could not wait for Sunday. Tomorrow was when everyone gathered outside the town hall after church. They would gorge themselves on pigs off the spit, crunching on the salty crackle and then tearing into the white meat beneath as the juice and fat dribbled down their lips and over their fingers.

But tomorrow was the dance.

Sam stared at his plate.

‘You'll get it too, Sam,' said Grandpa. ‘Just be strong, be patient.'

Caleb laughed. Sam jabbed his brother in the rib.

‘Hey! I didn't mean nothin'.'

Sam gripped his fork and stabbed down at some pale flesh on his plate.
It isn't right. My arms slap the wrong places.
He often hid away behind the rusted goat shed and practised until his feet felt heavier than iron but his body did not respond like the other boys'. Disobedient knees buckled when he spread them; his shoulders slid when they should tremble.

They washed the dishes then sat at the table as Grandpa warmed some goat's milk on the stove. He unwrapped a bowl next to him, revealing two mangrove crabs already painted red by boiling water, and brought them to the table.

‘We'll eat'em tomorrow night.' Caleb grabbed a claw and pretended to cut his wrist off. ‘We only had one or two of these ever when I was a boy,' continued Grandpa. ‘Didn't really have a mangrove swamp back then. Caught six today, gave two away and sold the other couple.'

‘They're massive,' said Sam.

‘You boys be careful down'em mangroves. Could really snap your hand off there, Caleb.'

Sam picked one up, rapped the hard shell and gingerly touched the spikes where the joints were.

‘Remember to take a long stick to test for bogs around the groves. Some of that mud sinks dangerously. You'll do your part to grow that swamp on the east side and plant'em mangrove trees to keep the ocean back.'

Grandpa's talk of the mangroves and combating the ocean was an echo the boys had heard time and again.

While they sipped their milk, Grandpa told a tale of an ancestor who called turtles to the boat. It was said he would feed the entire village in a single outing.

‘One day, however,' his voice hushed, ‘he called too many, and turtles of all kinds: leatherbacks, greens, browns, leapt from the water onto the craft. Their shells cuttin' into calves and feet. Others yelled at him to stop, eventually pushin' 'im down and wrappin' their hands round his mouth, but it was too late, they kept leapin' on board until the craft sank, drownin' the Turtle Caller and all the crew. Some say they're still on that ocean bed and if you fish that spot you'll know'cause you can still hear his ghost callin' for'em turtles.'

The boys shared the mattress, feet to head. ‘You'll be okay tomorrow,' said Caleb. ‘It's just a dance.'

‘Yeah.' Sam said as he lay there, sleeplessly awaiting the grey light of dawn.

*

A throng of people gathered around the three pigs smoking on spits in the foyer of the whitewashed hall. The boys formed two lines with gaps so that everyone could see. It would be better if the girls weren't watching; their brown eyes swallowed him. Grandpa, with an encouraging smile, stood behind Seth the instructor. Sam imagined Seth as his grandpa's younger reflection. Muscular, able.

Caleb turned round in front of him with a wink that said it'd be fine. When they began the chant, Sam felt okay as his first knee bent but then the smoke from the spits floated over, almost choking him. He lost rhythm. Seth called a halt. ‘Sam, hit that leg, let your knee tremble and your body will follow.'

‘It's the smoke,' his voice quavered.

‘Don't blame the smoke. Watch.' And Seth shifted from one bent knee to the other, his chest shaking in response. ‘See?'

Sam gulped some phlegm and fought to hold back tears. There was too much shame in crying.

They started again. In the background, fat dripped onto the coals, striking it in sharp sizzles. The air was heavy, leaden in the heat. Once more, he missed the step. Everything buzzed. Sounds blurred and amplified: the laughter, the hissing and crackling, the dull thud of their feet on the pavement. He hung his head. His eyes watered a little, surely from the smoke. He was not some crybaby.

He pushed past one dancer, then another and another. Girls pointed at him; the crowd pointed too as he shoved his way clear through them all.

‘Sam!' Grandpa called.

Grandpa wouldn't catch him. Only Sam's toes hit the ground as he sprinted through the village. Past the few tiny shops joined together by common walls. Past the sole asphalt road and the fenceless homes with overgrown beach shrubs. His mind emptied as the wind cooled his face and his heart drove blood to all parts of his body. He held his head straight and pumped his muscles, even when his calves ached and his thighs trembled.

Once out of the village he still ran, now more measured.
One, two. One, two.
At the slower pace he thought of isolated places.
The caves? Too damp. Too dark. The beaches? Too open.
He decided on the mangroves.
This is my island. No one can steal it from me. Not the dance, not the rising ocean, not my father in Brisbane, and not the people drawn to the mainland that blinds them
.

One, two, one, two
. Across the island he ran. Around the small bracken lake that had held fresh water in his grandpa's youth. Past the scrubland and the crumbling house of some former English governor. He ran until his breath wheezed and all that could move him were the numbers:
one, two, one, two, one, two
. He reached the swamp's outskirts, jogged for a while before entering the shallows. As the foggy water sprayed his ankles, he did not feel the midges and sandflies or see the mudskippers hop away or notice the crabs retreating with their pincers raised.

The wind between the swamp trees sounded like the faint singing of old ladies who knew all the hymns. Soon he was in a world of shadow, mangrove branches above him, occasional blades of light piercing gaps between the trees. Standing cormorants, their prehistoric wings held out to dry, flew from him whenever he neared.

He'd go deeper, out to where the bogs stopped and you could swim if you were gutsy enough. But his feet sank, plunging up to his calves in mud. He made to move and it swept up higher. Again he stirred and this time it climbed to his knees.
Be still. That way it'll take longer to sink. Move and no one will arrive in time.

He yelled, a wordless noise. If anyone were searching for him they would be a while yet.

To stem his breathing rate, he counted the air in and out.

His thoughts fled briefly to hopes of a vague future. To finding a wife who wanted to stay on the island; to becoming a fisherman like Grandpa and a better family man than his dad.

The mud rose slightly. Concealing his knees, he yelled once more. This time his mind sank into the past as if the mud laid claim on him. Sam remembered fragments from as far back as four. His mother, with eyes like warm coals and hair that fell in waves like the night ocean. He remembered when they all slept together, sandwiched on that same bed with Grandpa alone in the other room.

He remembered the UN men who came with countless sandbags, instructing the islanders on where and how to lay them to keep the ocean back. Sam could recall their words but only one face, John's, a Welsh UN officer with a mop of red curls and a moustache that flamed down his face to his chin. ‘Nice place,' John said and his lagoon-like eyes gazed at Sam's mother. Sam, even then, knew something was askew, and grabbed his mother's hand to lead her away. But their eyes stuck like the eyes of competitors. Who knew where they disappeared to on the island? His mother abandoned them all for Wales soon after. He wanted more from her than farewell, more than tears.

The mud gradually crept up to his thighs. By the time Sam was five, his father, defeated, no longer fished with Grandpa. He became flabby like a seal. It was Grandpa who allowed Dad to leave. When they came into the house that afternoon, it had reeked of that overly sweet stench of coconut left to rot. Dad had not cleaned at all but sat by the tinny radio, listening to the stories of others. Grandpa switched the machine off. Dad stood up, swung at Grandpa and missed. Another side of Grandpa unveiled itself as the old man's hand snaked out and grabbed his son's throat. Dad's cheeks turned to the colour of a bruise as Grandpa spoke. ‘Don't let this hurt swallow your life.'

The mud climbed, tickling Sam's testicles. ‘Help!' he screamed as loud as his lungs permitted.

He recalled his obsession with his teacher, Miss Rodanui, in Year Three. Drawing attention to himself by leaping onto a desk in class and reciting the opening of a Revolting Rhyme by Roald Dahl. He remembered those stinking hot days. Sandy-coloured grass, no breeze, giant hornets terrifying them. He trailed her around the tyre-swings in the dirt playground to hear her voice and glimpse her face.

Muck seeped up to his nipples.

He remembered rafting with Caleb, way out past the breakers. The wind turned, slapping the raft, stirring the water. Shadowy clouds jostled overhead. They toppled and were caught in the white foam, twirling. Sam's arms thrashed until he found the raft's edge. He clambered aboard in a splutter and heaved Caleb – who was gripping the raft – back on as blood streamed from a gash in his brother's head into the ocean where it stained parts of the water a powdery red.

It neared his shoulders.

Just offshore. Sampson, the sea lion that mauled everyone's catch but they loved him regardless. Stingrays, which they hand-fed in the shallows, moving like dark ponds over the ocean bed. The white sea-snake that he wanted to bring in off the guano-stained jetty but they'd cut his line. ‘Let me bring it in,' he'd called out as others around him laughed, making him feel red.

‘Let me bring it in.' Those words recurred in his mind over and over as the mud reached his forming Adam's apple. Briny rivulets fled from his eyes; he lifted his head and shouted – or sobbed – repeatedly. ‘Let me bring it in. Let me bring it in.'

There were voices in the distance. Sam looked over, his throat raw, his body ensnared.

Grandpa and Caleb trudged through sludge on the far side of the bog.
Is there time?
Perhaps if there were, even with the jetty long since drowned, he would bring that ivory serpent in.

Overland