Act of Grace Page 5

  ‘Toohey?’ Jean stood in the doorway of the bathroom, her wet hair dribbling down into her breasts, a towel held tight around her torso. An outline of steam poured out around her and briefly enveloped Toohey as he put his face in hers. Jean whimpered and Toohey shoved her with force. ‘No fucking way,’ he snapped. He pointed his finger in her face. ‘Don’t you dare fucking cry.’ Jean nodded, trying to stop trembling. Toohey spun back around, grabbing the suitcase off the floor. ‘Get dressed,’ he said. ‘We’re going.’ When neither of them moved, he swung around again. ‘Get fucking dressed,’ he snarled, and it was enough to make Jean and Gerry start in fear, the distortion of his features, the way Toohey’s eyes were almost entirely black, his blue-grey irises sucked into the pupils.

  Gerry held his arms out like a doll, letting his mum help him get dressed. She frantically yanked his swimmers off and put on his shorts, while he risked a glimpse at his father’s neck. They were moving. The way rice shivers in a jar when it has weevils in it. At the last school – the one in Cannington – he and the other kids had watched when some men with a digger came to get a car wreck out of the oval. Somehow, overnight, it had risen from the earth. The lumps were mysterious like that. A bunch of times since his dad got back that final time, he’d called Gerry into the bathroom to show him a piece of metal the size of a sesame seed that had worked its way up and out of his skin. After examining it, he put it in a jar with the rest of the shrapnel that had come out. Once, there was a piece of glass. ‘I reckon that’s from Red’s specs,’ Toohey had said. Another time, a fleck of green lacquer. When he presented it to Gerry, he said, ‘I was right. It was a green Volvo. The bastards kept telling me it was blue, but look.’

  Gerry was dressed and on his knees looking for his sneakers when he saw Toohey grab his backpack, and before it even happened he knew they were going to fall out. Knew he hadn’t done the zip up properly. The travel brochures he had hoarded from Miss Munro’s class fell onto the unmade motel bed, fanning out as if in a commercial. Toohey stopped and stared, his anger momentarily stilled. ‘What’s this?’ he said, and Jean, who was waiting at the door, looked over. ‘What’s what?’ she asked nervously.

  ‘This,’ Toohey said. He picked one up and began to flick through the glossy pages. Gerry pitched forward. His heart had been racing before but now it was going too slow. It was hard to breathe, his palms sweaty. His dad was looking at the brochure with Horseshoe Ranch on the front and he knew – again – that his father would stop on a page towards the back. It was like Gerry had been here before, had dreamt it, because sure enough Toohey did pause.

  It was the page where the tours were listed. Gerry had circled the three-week tour, which involved sleeping out with cowboys and riding alongside them. ‘Four thousand three hundred and twenty dollars,’ Toohey said slowly. ‘Plus taxes.’ He looked at Gerry. ‘Who gave you this?’

  ‘It was for school,’ Gerry said, stammering slightly.

  ‘And you think you’re going to go? Leave your mother and me while I work and pay for you to have a good time?’ Gerry shook his head. He was going to pay for it. He was going to find a job and save. He started to cry. Jean tried to go to him, but Toohey blocked her way.

  ‘You reckon you could earn this kind of money, Gerry? You think it’s easy? What can you do, Gerry?’

  Gerry squeezed his eyes shut.

  ‘No, really, Gerry,’ Toohey said in a hard voice. ‘I want to know. What do you think you can do? Answer me, Gerry. What. Can. You. Do?’

  Gerry sobbed, his eyes still shut. He tried to picture the cowboy again, the one who had ridden alongside them on the drive. But the vision wouldn’t come. ‘Toohey,’ Jean said, her voice faraway. ‘Please Toohey, he’s just a kid.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Toohey said viciously. He flung the brochure across the motel room. Gerry quickly opened his eyes and Toohey caught his gaze. ‘Exactly,’ he said again. ‘Get in the car.’ And just with his eyes, Toohey made the boy stand up and walk around him, skittish as a horse, into the car park.

  *

  For dinner they stopped at a roadhouse, CHEAP BURGERS flashing in neon outside. They sat out the back, where white plastic tables and chairs were set up under a tin roof, beside a play area with a slide and a sandpit. There was a boy there, carefully transferring sand into a dump truck and tipping it onto the surrounding fake grass. Wary of him, Gerry climbed up the slide’s ladder and sat at the top, watching. In the quiet, the boy hummed to himself.

  Then, out the front, there was the wheeze of air brakes. A bus. Gerry slid down and sat next to his mother as within minutes the roadhouse filled with tourists. The play area became crowded with children. Their voices bounced off the tin, the place deafening.

  Toohey became agitated, looking around furiously for the waitress. ‘Where’s our food?’ he said, when he spotted the teenager with lurid cherry-red hair rushing past with a handful of plastic menus.

  ‘I’ll check,’ she called, as she handed out the menus to the new arrivals. Then, as she made for the kitchen, a table of six people stopped her and started asking questions.

  Toohey pushed his chair back, about to get up and go find out for himself, when a hoarse voice rang out from the sandpit. ‘Get out! Get the fuck out!’

  The outdoor area fell silent as everyone looked at the boy who had been there first and was now waving his red plastic spade at the other kids. ‘Get the fuck out!’

  The children stared at him and then looked to their parents.

  The boy started to flick sand at those close to him with his spade. ‘I said, get out!’

  The tourists looked around, raising their eyebrows at one another, waiting for the boy’s parents to intervene. The waitress disappeared inside.

  ‘Get the fuck out!’ the boy screamed again and filled his spade with sand, throwing it in a girl’s face. A woman leapt out of her chair and ran over to pick up the crying girl.

  Gerry, along with the other children, was in awe. The adults all looked shocked – except for Toohey, who’d forgotten about the food, and was watching the scene with a strange smile. His grin broadened when a short, sunburnt man stood up and walked over to the sandpit.

  ‘Give me the spade, mate,’ the man said, putting out his hand.

  The waitress returned with plates of food. People started to look away, making room for their meals. Jean and Gerry quickly began to eat. Toohey had said in the car they were to be in and out of the roadhouse. No fucking around, he’d said pointedly to Gerry. But now Toohey barely looked down as the waitress slid his burger and chips in front of him.

  The kid stared at the man. ‘Fuck you, arsehole.’ He scooped up more sand and flicked it in the man’s face.

  Again, the food was forgotten. People stopped mid-chew to stare as the man clutched at his eyes. ‘Argh!’ he yelped. ‘You little bastard!’ He drew himself up so that the boy had to lean back to look at him. ‘Where are your parents?’ he asked, and glanced around, his eyes finding Toohey.

  Toohey cocked his head in reply as if he were a friendly dog, before cupping his hand around his lips like a megaphone. ‘Not me, mate !’

  There was a flicker of confusion from the man at Toohey’s response, but then the boy moved to throw more sand in his face.

  The man flushed furiously. ‘Give me the spade,’ he said. ‘I’m warning you. This sandpit is for everyone to enjoy.’ He waved at the other families, looking around for support. No one said anything.

  The boy tipped his head back so that he could look the man in the eye. ‘Fuck off, you’re not the boss of me,’ he said, and Toohey whooped with delight.

  The man went a deeper shade of pink. ‘Give it to me,’ he said, and this time he grabbed the spade. The boy started to scream, pulling on the handle and spitting at the man.

  ‘I’m warning you. I’m warning you, son,’ the man repeated, and gave a final tug. The boy lost his grip and let go, falling back into the sand.

  ‘You arsehole! You arsehole!’ he screamed. He started to
punch the sand, sending fistfuls of it into the air.

  Neither Gerry nor Jean had noticed Toohey stand up, but he was there, beside the sandpit, the entire bulk of him flexing. ‘Give me the spade,’ Toohey said, and the man sagged with relief, handing it over, glad to be released from the situation.

  ‘Thanks, mate, I just —’ he said, but Toohey cut him off.

  ‘Now fuck off.’

  The man’s eyes bulged. ‘What? Now listen, if this is your son, then —’

  ‘He’s not my son.’ Toohey stepped closer to the man, standing over him just as the man had done to the boy.

  The man glanced around for help, but no one met his gaze. He held up his hands and stepped out of the sandpit. ‘Alright, alright. Take it easy, mate,’ he said as he backed away, heading over to his wife and kids. He pulled out his chair to sit down.

  ‘No,’ Toohey said. ‘Get the fuck out of here.’

  The man stopped, his mouth round with surprise, and looked around desperately. His wife leaned over to gather up their things from the floor, her hair hanging over her blushing face. She bustled the kids out of their seats. He put his hand out to stop her, but she glared at him and pushed past. A moment later, he scurried to follow and they disappeared inside the building.

  The waitress reappeared with more food and people looked down at their plates, appetites diminished. Only Gerry and Jean dared to watch when Toohey bent down to give the spade back to the boy. As he put his hand on the kid’s head, the boy’s eyes briefly closed. He pushed his head up into Toohey’s palm like a cat does for pats. Gerry briefly shut his eyes, imagining he was the boy. When he opened them, his hair was tingling.

  *

  In the bathroom at a service station, a stuffy cubicle down the side of the building, Toohey was pacing while Jean and Gerry waited in the car. He couldn’t stand being near them: he’d driven a hundred kilometres with Jean too scared to speak and he fucking hated her.

  They weren’t far from Melbourne now – four, maybe five hours. Houses had started to appear more frequently by the side of the road. They seemed to rise up out of the ground like teeth. In front yards, lemon trees were bloated with gall wasp.

  As they’d drawn closer to the city, Toohey had begun to sweat, his chest hammering. It had been a bad idea to go through the desert, and an even worse idea to come out of it. But there was no place, really; everywhere was simply an idea that disappeared as soon as he reached it.

  His neck was throbbing. The cubicle was wet, as though it had been hosed down. The toilet seat was saturated, the roll of loo paper wrinkled like feet left too long in a bath. The mirror was flecked with dark spots, and Toohey arched his neck, leaning close to look. With his fingers, he pressed on both sides of the inflamed lump, coaxing it, feeling the sting of it, and a pop. The stink of pus. He wiped away the blood, touching the hard, jagged speck. He rolled it carefully between his fingertips and washed it under the tap, pinching it tight. He put it in the centre of his palm. It was about the size of a match-head, yellowing and smooth on one side, pocked like coral on the other. His hands trembled.

  He was in the bathroom at the service station. Jean and Gerry were outside, waiting in the car. The key to the bathroom, it had to go back to the guy at the counter. These were the things he kept telling himself to hold it together.

  Because: it was bone.

  It was bone.

  It was bone.

  *

  Jean was surprised when Toohey let her drive, saying that he needed to sleep. Gerry was to sit up front. For a while Toohey chain-smoked in the back. Puffs of smoke unfurled out the window, ghosts snatched by the wind. Then he closed his eyes and lay on his side, curled up like a baby.

  At first, his dreams were banal – a lot of driving, trying to light cigarettes that refused to light. Outside, the night thickened around them. Every now and then the car lifted at corrugations, and there was a whir as Jean drifted over the painted line into the emergency lane. Gerry fell asleep too, his face pressed against the glass, father and son twitching as if a dream were passing between them. There was dirt on Toohey’s hands and he was pulling bodies from the ground; he dug deeper, clumps of earth collapsing into the hole, and then black chadors came flapping out of it, crows with human faces. He put his hands up to protect himself, but beaks suddenly grew from the faces, pecking him, and all over his body there were holes, tiny pricked holes that had a strange quality of opening and closing. Eyes, he realised; he was covered in eyes.

  When his own eyes snapped open, the beaks receded, but the feeling of holes in his skin stayed. He sat up. The car had stopped. They were at an intersection, on the edge of the desert. The lights were green, but Jean wasn’t moving. There was a car in front of them, he saw, its hazard lights on.

  ‘C’mon, you idiot,’ Jean muttered under her breath. He leaned forward and made out the U-shape of a powerline that had fallen across the intersection. It hung low, the black cable whispering above the bitumen. Jean made an impatient sound. ‘Bloody hell,’ she said, turning the steering wheel so they could go around the car.

  Toohey sprang forward, and Jean screamed as he grabbed the wheel, swerving them into the lane on the opposite side of the highway. ‘You want to get us fucking electrocuted?’ he yelled. She was still screaming as he pulled the handbrake up. He began to punch her in the head to stop the sound of her cries. The niqabs, he thought, oddly recalling the argument he’d had with Jean’s bitch of a sister. The men make the women wear them because they’re tired. ‘You stupid bitches, you stupid bitches,’ he shouted. Jean tried to protect herself with her arms, and the door on the other side opened as Gerry scrambled out, his sneakers hitting the gravel, disappearing into the scrub.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ It was the driver of the other car. The man had got out, leaving his engine idling. They could see his outline in the orange flashing lights. Toohey stopped hitting Jean and opened the door, muscles triggering, burning. The man stepped back, uncertain. Toohey started to run towards the car, haunches rolling like a dog sprinting at speed, and the man got back in, jamming his gears and driving off the road and into a ditch, then careening around the powerline to the other side. The wheels got stuck briefly in the dirt before heaving back onto the bitumen.

  Toohey turned back to Jean. She was out of the car now, crying and cowering. The headlights cast two long beams into the scrub. ‘Gerry,’ she said, pleading. ‘He’s out there. Please, Toohey.’

  Toohey stared hard at the darkness in front of him, and slowly the landscape took shape. ‘Gerry!’ Jean screamed. ‘Please, Gerry, please!’ and Toohey felt a sharp pain in his head, a white flashing in his vision, the taste of metal at the back of his throat. Her voice, all their voices, the high pitch – they were everywhere now, on the radio, even on the fucking football. He couldn’t stand it. Always some pathetically suppressed emotion, edging towards hysteria and laced with bitterness. At least in Iraq they weren’t on the airwaves, voices coiling in your ears like tapeworms. But still, they were always wailing. Shut up! he had yelled once at a group of women after an explosion at a checkpoint, but they kept on wailing, ignoring him, flapping their black ponchos. How useless the training had been – they’d always had nothing but mechanical noise to work through, not this screaming, these women’s mouths open, and he thought of a bath draining when he heard them, the way they sucked the sound in. Toohey thought war would have almost been peaceful if it weren’t for their screaming.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Jean, shut up!’ he yelled and, unlike the foreign birds, she did. For that, he loved her. A solitary grey mouse came out of the scrub, sniffing his boots. Toohey looked down and was about to stomp on it when, just in front of him, he saw the skimmer. He crouched to pick it up, and rubbed it between his fingers. Then he spotted the kid staring back at him from behind a bush. From experience he knew it was moments like this when strange realisations struck. Like the time his unit came to a settlement and saw a group of women helping their children climb over a rock wall
and the shift of shadows in the shacks and he realised he was training his sights on the women while the rest of his unit were aiming at the shadows in the shacks. Something is wrong, he had thought, ever so briefly, with me. Or when the green Volvo ignored their warning shot and he thought, What hope do we have in this piece-of-shit place when you can’t even trust a Volvo? And so, when he moved to clock Gerry, he thought, The kid, he was never asleep.

  Turning Off the Lights

  Robbie started seeing Nik, short for Nikita, in Year Ten. He’d been one of the more unremarkable kids in her class, a bit of a nerd: the teachers were always calling on him to answer their questions, and he played the violin. But then he started selling dope and acid and suddenly he was beautiful. Pale and thin, with long, straight brown hair that fell over his eyes.

  Robbie began to watch him. At lunchtimes he made his way across the schoolyard, his hand in and out of his pocket, placing parcels in students’ palms still smeared with tomato sauce and pastry flakes from sausage rolls. With less grace, they’d slip him money. Nik was like a cat the way he worked the yard: with everyone trying to catch his eye, he’d skirt most, always calculating who to stop at, who to sell to. Someone started calling him the Messiah, someone smart enough to see how everyone seemed to lean into Nik, wanting to be blessed by him, and it caught on. Even the older kids said it.

  It was first term when things started between Robbie and Nik. Robbie was sitting with Tash, their backs warm against the bricks, Robbie’s long bare legs folded, dress hitched up to her thighs. Nik was talking to a guy near them and Robbie put it in her eyes, her interest, not moving a muscle in his direction. He became alert to her. He was about to walk over, she could see it, but the guy he was speaking to raised a fist to bump against Nik’s. Reluctantly Nik held his fist up, but just as the guy was following through, he changed his mind, dropping his hand, and the guy hit air. Robbie laughed and Nik grinned, showing his sharp teeth. It was difficult to know who was reeling in who.