The Windy Season (30 page)

And by five in the afternoon, when they'd set the last of the pots after twelve hours at sea, and when Jake turned the boat north towards Stark, Paul felt despair.

On the way back Michael slept, laid out on a leather bench in the cabin.

Paul sat on the toilet, the seat buzzing against his naked arse. He heard the wind humming against the aluminium box. He gripped his cock in his hand. He stood up when he was about to come and turned back towards the toilet. He leant against the wall, tried to scrub the mess with a boot. And then he cried. He looked into the mirror, saw the sunscreen smudged on his cheeks, his face red and creased.

When he stepped out into the bright light the deck was empty; Michael was still sleeping. Jake drove the boat close in, parallel to the coast, only five hundred metres or so from shore. Paul looked for Elliot's Pajero within the hot white of the dunes, the coast hazy in the heat. Scanned for the flash of sun on car paint, the glint of windows. There was nothing, of course. No one. For kilometres, nothing. Nameless beaches and coves, impossibly big and endless. Paul had the urge to call out, to scream and yell shorewards. Not in the hope anyone would hear. Just to feel his own voice disappear, have it taken by the sea wind.

Paul thought of that last night with Kasia. The words he had said to her, the memory of them, ran cold through his body. Sharp. The knife from abdomen to neck. It was tempting to
blame Stark, its silence, its wretched empty spaces. The distance it put between people.

And Paul thought maybe at that moment he understood how Elliot might have felt all those years, the torment of living in your own skin sometimes, alone with their father's secrets.

Whitebait

HE WAKES TO DARKNESS, FINGERS ON
his shoulders, the rude smell of whitebait on them. Paul keeps his eyes shut. He stays as still as dead. Elliot hisses his name and Paul tenses at the sound of it, his brother's urges somewhere between encouragement and harassment, and a kind of pleading. But Paul can picture the night sea. He can feel the reef, cold and sharp against his heels. He grips the bedsheets with his fingertips as if they're the thing keeping him from the squishy insides of a great white shark. Elliot gives up. He says he is going without him. Paul hears him pad out into the hallway. He returns a few minutes later. Paul senses him there, watching from the doorway.

When he knows his brother is gone, Paul relaxes, the relief in him spoilt by guilt. The feeling stays with him until he falls asleep.

It was midnight when he woke. He reached for his phone, listened to the irregular dance of the trees outside, the day's wind in its final throes.

Kasia, he said.

There was silence.

You there?

Hey, she said eventually, her voice low and composed. The calmness in it terrified him.

Where are you, Kasia?

That is not important, is it?

I'm sorry.

Do not beat yourself up. That is not what I wanted.

What should I do?

You do not need to control everything.

I fucked up.

You cannot expect everything to be how you want it to be. You have to learn that.

Are you leaving? Are you going back to Poland?

I have to go, Paul.

Home?

No, I mean I have to go now—they need me. I have to get off the phone soon.

Where are you?

Paul, she said, in a voice that sounded like a warning.

Will I see you again?

You want to know how everything will work out. You want everything so neat and perfect. She sighed. I cannot give you an answer you want.

Please just tell me if I will see you again.

You are not listening to me.

I am. I'm listening. I just really wish you were here.

They found Elliot, she said. Jules told me.

Yeah.

He heard her draw a breath. How are your parents? You should go home, Paul.

Why?

For them. They need you.

But I need you.

You should all be together.

I'm so sorry, he said. The things I asked. I said such stupid shit. It was dumb, Kasia. It was wrong. You are perfect.

God, Paul.

You are, he said again, not caring how desperate it sounded.

I do not want perfect, she said, the warning returning to the words. There is no such thing, not on this planet anyway.

I love you, he said.

He listened to her breath fill the line. He inhaled, trying to draw it in.

They are calling me, she said. I must go now.

Okay, he said, and could hear the defeat in his own voice. She waited a few seconds before hanging up.

Poppy

AFTER A PINT PAUL'S VISION HAD GONE
milky. The air filled with phantom smoke.

Hello.

The girl was standing at the end of their table in the beer garden, hands clasped and smiling like she was about to sell them something. She had belts of sunburn across her arms and thighs. Her skin glowed red.

My name is Poppy. May I sit down?

It was often possible to pick backpackers or new arrivals from their energy levels. Poppy's laughter and enthusiasm for everything said accentuated the deadness of the table.

Shit, she exclaimed, looking at Paul. You've all got eyes like the devil! She laughed.

Yeah, the sun, Paul began to explain and didn't finish.

Are you all from here? she said, and someone started
answering the question. Paul felt her thigh against his, their skin immediately slick with sweat, and his cock went hard.

So, where we going after this? she asked, nudging Paul in the ribs with her elbow.

Bed, someone said.

Oh, we'll find a club somewhere, Michael assured her.

Really? Poppy gasped.

There are no clubs, said Paul.

Oh, damn, she moaned, and laughed. When does the pub close?

Twelve, someone said.

No! she moaned again, mock whimpering. I really want to go dancing!

Later, in his room, Poppy straddled him as he sat on the edge of the bed. He struggled with the buttons of her denim shorts.

I told myself I wouldn't, she whispered.

Wouldn't do what?

I told myself I wouldn't do this.

Poppy pulled her t-shirt over her head. Kissed him as he wrenched her shorts down. He rolled her onto her back, pulled her legs up underneath him, levering her thighs up with his forearms until she locked her knees over his shoulders. He would never have done that with Kasia. He would have been too nervous. Too cautious. Kasia had occasionally urged him to let himself go, but he never could. Was it out of respect? Or fear of not pleasing her? He wasn't really sure. But he did know that with Kasia sex had always felt like a precarious thing, like he was always on the verge of being overwhelmed. Telling him to let himself go was like telling him to do a cartwheel on the edge of a tall building. Just being there, with her, occupied his mind more than enough. He didn't want anything else.

Here, with Poppy, he didn't care. She pulled him inside her. He thrust into her, hard. The sensation seemed blunted, numb. He was drunk. Drunk and indifferent. He went faster, as if trying to rush time itself. Her eyes went lazy, her face slackening with pleasure in a way that seemed melodramatic to him.

She pulled the condom off and said something about it getting in the way.

Her mouth only made things worse. Feeling her teeth through her lips, he felt himself softening. At some point the bed consumed him and he pulled the sheets up over himself.

Paul woke to hot damp on the sheets underneath him, the hair matted on his legs.

Poppy lay next to him, staring at the ceiling.

Morning, she said. You're a big sleeper.

What time is it?

Ten.

Oh, Paul replied. He had guessed it was already afternoon.

Paul held his hand over his face, as if to hide himself.

Poppy placed her palm on his back, her fingers drumming softly on his skin. Paul stayed still and she soon stopped.

You want to go for a swim?

I might need to work on the boat.

On a Sunday?

Yeah, we sometimes work Sundays, Paul replied, drawing on the half-truth to say the words with confidence. They weren't going out.

I need to drink something, he said. You want some water?

Um, yeah, thanks, she said, sounding sad. As he left the room he saw her reach for her clothes.

Who wants to go to the beach? she called out behind him. Paul's a sad arse, has to work.

In the kitchen Paul avoided the German's look.

Communion

I AM NOT GOING BACK, MICHAEL SAID
above the sound of the engines. Beyond
Arcadia
's roiling wake the town scowled, still in darkness.

Yeah? Paul said, only half listening.

I told him, last night. I told my father I will come home when it is time. I said if there is a God, and if this God has such a big interest in my career, he can tell me about it himself. Friedrich was not a happy man. Oh my goodness. Michael chuckled to himself. It is great, no?

I need to go back, Paul said. Back out there.

The wreck? Michael said. Jake is not going back to that place. And I am definitely not. Neither are you, Paul.

Once more they worked the inshore reefs south of Stark, sometimes less than fifty metres from shore.

Paul ignored the German's attempts to cheer him. Instead he worked hard, didn't slow for the twelve hours they were at sea, endlessly restless and impatient.

That afternoon when they had returned to the house Michael went into his room and closed the door behind him.

Paul lay on his bed and listened to Michael and Shivani through the wall. He heard the jaunty tone of the German, telling some story, and Shivani's laughter. Paul felt the burn in his eyes and swore at himself.

Kasia. He missed the way she had made him feel, how good it had been to be caught in the flux of her. She could shake him with a look, and she knew it. And he mourned for the peril he felt lying next to her, the feeling of being at the mercy of something, or someone. He cursed himself for ever letting himself want to resist it. How wretched the stillness felt.

Back into that void came all the familiar guilt. Elliot had been alone, tied to a marker at the edge of the earth. Paul thought of how afraid he must have been. It was beyond bearing.

At three in the morning, an hour before first light, Paul got up from the bed and slipped on his thongs. Hid the sheathed fillet knife under his jumper. He closed the front door behind him as quietly as he could.

He walked quickly down the main street. There was no wind at all, the sea hushed. It was all so quiet in the dark that the town had an apocalyptic stillness to it, as if abandoned.

At the jetty he found Richard's aluminium dinghy, tied to the dock where he sometimes left it. The skipper would be there in an hour, wondering where it was.

He climbed down into the dinghy. Eyed the level of the two fuel tanks near the outboard motor. Heard footsteps on the boards.

It is very nice of Richard to let you borrow his boat?

Paul looked up and saw Michael standing above him, backlit by the jetty lights.

And there I was thinking the old man was a miserable fucker.

Why did you follow me?

You will sink, Michael said. Twenty miles in that?

Go, Paul said. Go home.

You know you will sink, the German said. His forehead crumpled with the realisation. You do not really think you will make it.

Paul didn't answer. He threw the dock line to the jetty.

Jesus, Paul, Michael said.

Paul reached for the ripcord on the outboard engine but Michael was down off the jetty and in the small boat before Paul could turn the engine over. The tinny danced under Michael's weight. They looked at each other. Michael's eyes were wide, his chest heaved. He turned to the stern, lowered the propeller to the water.

What are you doing? Paul said.

We will need more fuel, he replied.

I've got enough.

And the GPS.

I'll be fine on my own.

Michael pulled the ripcord.

You don't have to do this, Paul said.

He pulled the cord again. The outboard cried out.

They stopped alongside
Arcadia
. Michael made Paul climb on board to fetch the handheld GPS from the cabin.

As they neared the mouth Michael accelerated. The four-stroke grunted and groaned in the dark. Beyond the rivermouth the black sea was calm. The sky bright with stars. At the bow, shadows sliced the water, the dolphins' hard bodies shining with moonlight on them. Paul fingered the knife under his jumper, watched the night sea. The boys didn't speak. There were no navigation lights on the tinny, nothing to warn a cray boat steaming out of the inlet they were there. And they both knew that twenty miles was too great a distance for the tender. Knew that if the weather turned they were in deep shit.

As the sky lightened the madness of what they were doing fully registered. Paul could no longer see the lights of the town. There was a hundred metres of water underneath the four millimetres of aluminium hull. A rogue swell would capsize them easily. The German looked sick. But it was too late to turn around.