Act of Grace Read online

  ‘I’d rather die out here than in a fucking nursing home,’ Jolley growled.

  Then, four months in, a suicide bomber swerved into Toohey’s ASLAV. It was a bit of a fizzer, but Toohey was taken to the medic while the others skull-dragged the vehicle back to base. The American doctor said it wasn’t essential to remove the shrapnel; it could do more harm than good. Best to let it make its way out in its own time. He dressed Toohey’s neck with a bandage after heaping on a stinging antiseptic. ‘It’ll hurt like hell for a while,’ he said, giving Toohey a strip of painkillers and a handful of tiny tubes of cream, as if they’d only been provided with samples. Some guys liked to think of their shrapnel as souvenirs, the doctor said. Better than herpes, he added.

  When Toohey got back to base, Jolley was talking about how they found the bomber’s foot lodged under the ASLAV. ‘He was wearing Adidas socks with sandals,’ he said. ‘No wonder the fucker wanted to die.’ They laughed, Red too. It was as if a boil had been lanced.

  Toohey got twenty-four hours off, the padre checking in, their commander too, everyone wanting to know about his mental health. ‘We’re happy to bring your rest period forward if you’d like,’ offered the commander, but no way did Toohey want this. He felt fine – great, actually, like he’d licked death. He felt lighter than he had in ages going out to do checkpoint that evening, cracking gags as they set up, sorting out snipers in the buildings, paper-scissors-rock for foot patrol. The breeze was sweet with orange blossom.

  Toohey was with Jolley and Red and they’d almost sauntered, forgetting the weight of their gear. Later, it was written up that Toohey was in a state of shock from the previous blow-up – but in reality he was happy. It was almost lazy, the way he hoisted his gun and fired when the street suddenly lit up with headlights. He said, in his army interview, that he could’ve sworn he’d already heard someone fire off a warning shot and the car had kept coming. It was effortless, his aim. He nailed it, the car swinging around and coming to a stop, the nose facing the other way. And then the wailing started up and men got out, their faces anguished. ‘Li-yesh?’ they kept saying, pulling their hair. ‘Li-yesh? Why?’

  The unit was separated for interviews after that. A bunch of bureaucrats were flown in from Canberra to make a report, and Toohey was put in a stuffy empty room and told to write up the night. He had to ask for a new sheet of paper because he kept starting at the end, with the woman and the blossom of blood on her blouse. When he finally got it down right, they ran through his version of events three times, to see if it lined up with the other accounts, before getting him to sign off.

  At the barracks, everyone rallied around him. The car didn’t fucking stop, that’s what they said. He did what he’d been trained to do. But still Toohey got paranoid, got the sense he was being carved out of the unit. When he learned the commander had gotten some of them to convoy back to the neighbourhood to deliver an act of grace payment to the woman, he felt like they’d stabbed him in the back. But he sucked it up. Put his head down, did his job.

  *

  ‘Hope you ain’t scared of mice,’ Mac said with a grin as he led Toohey through the shed. ‘We got a fucking plague.’

  The stink was unreal, and the place was swarming. The chickens were chasing after the mice, feathery necks bobbing. They struck with their beaks, leaving a shallow imprint in the dirt and then a lump in their throat as they swallowed the grey rodents whole. ‘You’d think the buggers would steer clear,’ said Mac. ‘But they just come back tenfold.’ Behind him, mice ran up the walls – whole sections of the corrugated tin were carpeted with them – and out along the wooden beams, they looped in and out of the white plastic pipes that refilled the chickens’ drinking supply. ‘It’s like a fucking horror film.’

  Toohey bristled. ‘You haven’t been to Iraq, mate. That’s a horror film.’

  Mac looked at him with interest. ‘Yeah?’ Then he tilted his head. ‘You see any action? Kill anyone?’ He looked at Toohey the same way most civvies did when they found out he’d been to Iraq, eyeing him for an anecdote. Toohey felt his stomach slide. Civvies made him sick. Most weren’t even hungry for these stories, they were just something to chew on, same way the Americans chewed gum, jaws going even when they were yelling the fuck out of the Iraqi soldiers.

  ‘Course I did,’ Toohey said roughly. ‘That’s the point.’

  Mac looked sheepish and Toohey stared at him, not saying anything, just holding the stare, and watching with enjoyment as a blotch of embarrassment crept up Mac’s neck. ‘You can tell the strength of a man in how he handles silence,’ a US corporal had said to him once. ‘You don’t even need to lay a finger on most fuckers.’

  Sure enough, Mac was soon in a state, stammering about how he’d always been for going into Iraq, that the city wankers who had protested knew nothing about nukes, until finally Toohey looked away and Mac sagged in relief.

  Toohey walked around the shed like he was just there to inspect it, the dust thickening each time the chickens got into a flap. Nothing free-range about this operation – turned out ‘Happyland’ was code for 10,000 chickens crammed into a tin box, a pecking free-for-all.

  Mac ran him through the day. ‘Normally you’ll do all the jobs for this shed, but Sonny’s already fed them this morning so you only have to do that at the end of your shift.’ Mac showed him how to change the water, where the cleaning equipment was and how to shovel the shit into plastic bags for manure. Then he led him through the flock, demonstrating how to mark the birds ready for harvesting. ‘They’re all tagged, but you’ll be here for the rest of your life if you’re picking every bird up to check when it was hatched.’ He grabbed a hefty red hen. ‘You want the birds that look like this.’ He held his hands over its wings and tipped it over so Toohey could read the tag on its leg. ‘Should be about eight or nine weeks.’

  Toohey calculated. ‘Yep, just on nine.’

  ‘Perfect,’ Mac said. ‘Can you grab that wheelbarrow and bring it here?’ Toohey walked to the far end of the shed and wheeled it back, birds squawking out of his way, the wheelbarrow carving out a channel like a boat through water. Mac held the bird up. ‘You know how to kill a chicken?’

  ‘Got a gun?’

  Mac laughed. Then he gripped the bird’s legs with one hand and dangled it upside down. He cupped the head with his other hand. The bird was surprisingly still. ‘You put your index and middle fingers here,’ he said, pressing into the bird’s neck, ‘just where it connects to the head. Then at the same time, you just yank the head down and lift the legs up.’ Mac tugged the chicken sharply at both ends. ‘Easy. You should feel a pop.’

  Now that it was dead, the bird began to flutter, as if it had only realised after the fact that it was in trouble. Mac tossed it into the wheelbarrow, its wings flapping and legs kicking in a frenzy, only settling when Mac thumped another carcass on top of it. ‘When the barrow is full, you take it to the bone shed, the last one on your right.’

  ‘Got it. Should I keep count?’

  ‘Nah,’ said Mac. ‘The ladies will do that.’ Mac surveyed their surroundings. ‘There should be about two thousand, two thousand five hundred, in here ready to be slaughtered.’

  Toohey looked around. ‘Jesus, all today?’

  ‘Nah, two, maybe three days.’

  Mac also showed him how to pick out the sick-looking birds to toss into the tubs outside. ‘Pet food,’ he explained, watching as Toohey killed one bird with an ugly growth under its wing. ‘You can kill them if you want,’ Mac said, shrugging, ‘but it’s quicker if you don’t.’

  So all morning, Toohey snapped necks and threw birds. By the time the bell rang for lunch, he had tossed about a hundred in the tub and killed about double that. It was automatic after a while, though the mice gave him the creeps, skittling around the shed and gathering in clumps.

  *

  Kill anyone? The only time Toohey had ever answered the question properly was back in Melbourne, at a pub on Melville Road. It was late and he didn’
t want to go home, so he propped up at the bar next to an old guy who looked like he’d been parked there for a long time.

  ‘You got a feather duster?’ Toohey had asked the girl behind the bar, nodding at the man. ‘I reckon this fella needs a bit of a dusting.’

  The old man grinned, his watery eyes like a flounder’s. ‘Kill anyone?’ he’d asked when they got to talking and he learned that Toohey had been in Afghanistan and Iraq. Toohey had almost flipped him off, like everyone else, when he stopped himself, sizing up the shrunken man, and figured what the fuck – what was the harm in telling an old wino? He said he had, of course he had, that was the point, but he went on, talked about the fog of war.

  ‘You know that saying?’

  The old man nodded, his fish eyes sliding into the bone of his nose.

  ‘Well, they never spoke to us about that when we were training, like they thought it was too smart an idea for us grunts. They got vets in to talk about coming home, how queueing up for chicken and chips would give you the shits, but fog of war, nothing. And there’s another thing I bet you never heard of. It ain’t in Apocalypse Now or Saving Private Ryan or fucking anything. You listening?’

  The man nodded.

  ‘Act of grace. You heard of it?’

  The man shook his head.

  ‘Nope,’ said Toohey. It felt good, like finding a fleshy hole and talking into it, knowing that the words would stay right there. He got to thinking that maybe confession would be a good thing if the priests could guarantee they’d be drunk and not remember a thing. He told the old wino about the incident, set it up like a riddle, asking questions along the way, checking to see if the wino was still on his side, and when he got to the punchline – because it was a punchline, a fucking king-hit – when he got to the car that lay sideways across the street and the bit where he was looking in at the woman in the back seat, her blouse blossomed with blood, her mouth open, and he thought, how can she be screaming if she’s dead?, and then he saw it wasn’t her who was dead, it was the bundle in her arms, a little meat-works of his own making.

  The wino didn’t blink; his flounder eyes took it all in, down into the sandy bottom of the bay. When the girl called last drinks, Toohey felt cleansed. He paid the wino’s tab, shook his hand and felt the old man’s pulse, there but weak. It was perfect. The night was clear, and for the first time he noticed people’s gardens, their homes, a lone bat flying overhead.

  *

  The veteran had been right: it was embarrassing how much Toohey had thought about Jean, and towards the end of each tour the dreams would get so vivid, he’d wake up feeling the shape of her, his body curved around hers. But when his last tour wound up, a creature clambered onto the plane with him. A few of the other guys felt it too, brushing past their legs, but when they looked, nothing. Yet if there was a lull in their talking, it would be there, slick. It crept behind them and touched their shoulders. So the men kept talking. They talked over one another, getting louder, yelling down the aisles, honking with laughter when Wedge gestured at one of the air hostesses and whispered, keeping his back flat against the window so she had to lean over the others to hear him, her shirt gaping open.

  At one point word spread that the defence minister might be waiting at the airport to greet them. ‘What is this,’ one of them scoffed, ‘a fucking pony show?’ They laughed and neighed. But when the plane touched down and the minister was nowhere to be seen, something was sucked out of them; the bravado faltered. No one looked at Toohey, but he felt them thinking, It’s because of you. No brass wants to know us because of you.

  In duty-free they milled around. ‘What’re you getting your boy?’ Red asked kindly, probably just for something to say, and Toohey growled, ‘I’m the fucking present, mate.’

  When customs waved them through, the soldiers frowned and made a show of unzipping their bags, talking loudly about security. But still, it was happening too quickly. The unit reached the sliding-glass doors and the guys at the front peered through. ‘Shit,’ they said, and the soldiers took a collective step back. It took a nudge from an elderly couple wheeling their bags to force them forward.

  ‘Well, it’s back to being useless pricks again,’ Jolley yelled, copping a look from the older lady.

  ‘Fat fucks, here we come!’ rallied Wedge, as the doors slid open.

  There was cheering when they appeared. Homemade placards flopped like the heavy heads of sunflowers. You’re my hero, Daddy, one read. None of them knew about the act of grace. It was all under wraps. Toohey hadn’t even told Jean, and never planned to. People held their phones above the crowd to take photos, and some of the nervier soldiers flinched, shielding their heads with their arms. More than a few looked back longingly as the doors shut behind them.

  Almost immediately, Toohey spotted Jean and Gerry leaning over the railing. She was calling his name; the boy’s big eyes were staring at the blur of khaki.

  ‘Toohey, honey!’

  Toohey did something strange. He pretended not to see them. A wild, unhinged thought ran through his head – he could tell her that he had forgotten something, that he had to return to customs, that he’d be back in a sec, and keep going, arrange a ticket, get on a plane, go, go, go. He tried to slow down but the men behind propelled him on.

  Up ahead, they were being released into the throng, their backpacks on the floor, arms around girlfriends and wives, kids hoisted onto shoulders – as if the men hadn’t carried enough – hands already clutching greedily at their presents. He should have gotten the kid a present, something to hold out, to put between him and them. How can I even look at the kid? Toohey stopped and stepped to the side. Oh fuck. He flattened his palm on the wall to steady himself. He could see Jean wending her way to the front of the crowd, pulling the boy’s hand.

  ‘You okay, Toohey?’ It was Red. He was peering at Toohey with a concerned look. Toohey could see Red’s family, his girlfriend, at the railing waiting for him.

  ‘Yeah,’ Toohey croaked. ‘I’m fine.’ He pointed at the girlfriend. ‘Go on.’

  Red nodded but didn’t move, still considering him.

  ‘Toohey!’ It was Jean. Toohey didn’t look.

  Red put his hand out and Toohey shook it. It took every bit of control he had left to let go.

  *

  It was just on four when Mac stuck his head into the shed and said it was time to do the feed. ‘You want me to help?’ he offered, but Toohey waved him off.

  The feed was in a small airless room towards the front, and Toohey held his breath going in so as not to breathe in the stink. He opened the blue plastic barrels and mice poured from under the lids, running up his hands and arms, some leaping from his shoulders to the walls, grey legs outstretched like sugar gliders. Others skidded down his jeans to the floor. Toohey didn’t flinch even though the room was writhing with the fuckers. Then, as Mac had shown him, he mixed up the feed and filled ten buckets, picking up five in each fist and kicking the door open. As it swung back, a couple of mice got squashed along the hinges.

  He wasn’t even thinking when he re-entered the holding pen. You don’t think, Sarge had told them, you keep your mind clean, like your weapon. But then the entire fucking shed came to life. Thousands of chickens rushed at him. Some were just skeleton and skin like chooks in the supermarket, feathers already pulled out. They came out of the walls, from under machinery, from clumps of hay, these prehistoric birds, tufts growing out of their claws, sinewy necks bobbing, black beady eyes on him. Even the ones lying in the mesh came to life, scrambling, their legs caught in the wire. They threw their flimsy bodies at him and Toohey screamed. Not once on tour did he scream and now, in a chicken shed, he was screaming his head off. Dropping the buckets, he started to kick the birds away, spinning wildly in circles as they came at him, his steel-cap boots snapping their heads back so their necks dangled loose. Feathers, dust and mites floated around him, but still they came at him, pecking till there was not a grain left, and only then did the remaining chickens scur
ry away. A ring of dead and almost dead chickens surrounded Toohey. His boots were smeared with blood and feathers. The other workers had gathered in the doorway, staring.

  Then the mice moved in. With tiny teeth bared, they began to fight over the carcasses, sniffing out the blood, tracing it back to the source and finding their way inside the skin, past the bones. As a sea of grey fur washed over the carnage, the remaining chickens came back, pecking and swallowing up mice. Toohey bent over and vomited. He pushed his way out of the shed, past the other guys, past fat Bob in the yard, who was moving as fast as he could, wobbling towards him. ‘What’s going on?’ Bob shouted, and Toohey kept walking, got in his car and got the fuck out of there.

  *

  In the motel room, Gerry was watching TV, lying on the double bed. His mother was in the shower. He wasn’t really thinking, doing that thing where you get sucked into the program, the rest of you switching off – which was stupid because when the door snapped open, he wasn’t prepared. Not like normal, when he was alert to his dad’s return, listening for the car. On hearing it park he’d curl up wherever he was, often surrounded by Lego, shut his eyes and pretend to be asleep. It was something he’d started doing before they left Melbourne. He would listen to the key in the door, for his father’s voice – ‘Where’s Gerry?’ – and then the footfall, Gerry feeling his dad’s gaze on him, the room filling with a muddy feeling, and he’d try to detect the meaning of the static in the air. Back in Melbourne, if it felt calm, he’d open his eyes, pretending to be sleepily surprised to see his dad. Toohey would come over and look at what he was building. But later, in the new city, when his dad’s job fell through, Gerry didn’t do that, even if it felt safe. He kept his eyes shut, sometimes falling asleep for real, because the static, it could change too quickly, too unpredictably.

  ‘Get up, you lazy shit!’ The motel door rebounded off the wall and his father punched it back open, his face jagged with rage. Gerry tried to move, but he was frozen. ‘Up, you shit, up!’ His father shoved him off the bed and onto the floor, and then walked around to where he lay and scooped him up, throwing him against the wall. ‘Up, you shit! Up!’