The Ink Bridge (17 page)

His hands gripped the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles silhouettes of small hills.

‘The problem is, people don't want other people to be happy. They see a bit of happiness and they gets jealous and want to stomp on it. A hundred years back cameleers built this bloody country. Now the cousins of those cameleers are in trouble and what do we do when they come here looking for a better life? We lock em up and toss away the key.'

The truck driver sucked in air through his teeth then spoke again. ‘See this scar.' He held the back of his hand out for him to look. ‘Know what a blue-tongue is?'

Omed shook his head.

‘It's a kind of lizard. Pretty harmless sort of an animal really, but he can give you a hell of a nip if the urge takes him. Got this bite when I was knee high to a grasshopper. Summertime it was – week before Christmas. Thing with yer blue-tongue bite is that she comes back every year to remind you. Round Chrissie, this old wound starts weepin and givin me grief. That old blue-tongue got magic in his mouth all right. Seems to me we need a bit of pain to keep us rememberin.'

The driver went quiet after this and before long Omed was asleep.

When he awoke they were rumbling through the streets of a dusty town.

‘Marree,' said the driver. ‘Int she a beauty!'

Marree seemed little more than a meeting of brick and board and tin in a vast expanse of sand and rock. There was one fine building of two stories, with a shining new roof and a second-floor verandah thrust at the street like a hawker's basket.

But they didn't stop at that building or anywhere in town. They kept going until the houses got smaller and smaller and were built of less and less. Scraps of iron and stone, a rag of blue sky tied like a flag, sand running into doorways, tree stumps and plastic sheet windows.

The driver's home was built of sheets of tin. The flat roof held down by large rocks placed all over like landmines.

‘This was Grandad's place. Built it with his own hands. Seen better days, the old joint.' The truck, as it stopped, pushed out a noise like a small animal being thrown to the ground. ‘Used to live in Adelaide. When Grandad died, I moved back up here to take up what he left me. Found out a bit of me background. Dad never told me, guess he was shamed or somethin. Nothin to be shamed bout as I see it.

‘Come on, I'll introduce you to the better alf.'

Omed shook the Snake awake and they climbed down from the truck, legs stiff in the morning cold. Small plants struggled from the rust-red soil and from tin cans hung with wire from the windows. The dirt path was swept clean and lined with small men in bright red caps.

‘Gnomes,' explained the driver, shrugging his shoulders. He moved down the path. ‘Let's see if we can rouse the missus.'

A door opened and a
missus
leapt out. She was very tall and wide and wearing a quilted pink coat. ‘Haz, come here and give us a hug you old bugger. Missed you, I did. Missed you sore.'

They held each other for a while before Haz turned to them and said, ‘And this is me new mates. Didn't get their names, but they was hitchin on the back road.'

The Snake stepped forward. ‘Please to meet, Missus. My name Saladeen. This boy ankle.'

‘Ankle?' said the woman.

‘Uncle,' said Haz.

‘Pleased to meet you, Saladeen. My name is Minnie.' She held out her broad hand to him.

‘And this clown,' Haz pointed to Omed, ‘doesn't say much. Reckon we'll just call him Rowdy.'

‘Pleased to meet you, Rowdy.' Minnie's hand was rough and warm. She stood looking at them for a moment. ‘Come inside. You look like you could use a cuppa.'

‘They might need a place to stay too, Min.'

The Snake shook his head. ‘No, we are to city.'

‘Adelaide?' asked Minnie.

The Snake nodded. Omed had heard of this city too. It was one of the biggest places. ‘Is far?' asked the Snake.

Haz and Minnie looked at each other and burst into laughter. Haz said, ‘Yeah it's far okay. You guys really were lost, werncha. I'm stayin put for the next week or so, but there's trucks that'll be headin south. We'll get yuz a seat tomorrow.'

Omed and the Snake spent the night in the dark front room with the smell of kerosene and boiled potatoes. In the morning they ate a breakfast of eggs and thin rolls of meat that Minnie called sausages
.

‘Beef, not pig,' said Haz. ‘You can eat em. They're safe.'

The day was already blinding, as they went outside to wait. It wasn't long before the truck arrived. A huge beast hauling trailers of cattle, packed tight. Omed and the Snake walked to the cabin. Haz grabbed hold of Omed's arm. He put his mouth close to his ear.

‘You take care of yersel, okay. I dunno what mess you and yer uncle are in, but if ya need help then just sing out. Here's a number of a guy in Melbourne that can help you. Mebbe Adelaide's okay, but it's harder to find someone in Melbourne, if you get my drift.'

Omed understood less than half of what Haz said, but he took the paper and the fifty dollar note wrapped inside.

Minnie took hold of Omed and kissed him on the forehead. She pulled back and looked him in the eye. ‘Betcher mum misses you, eh?'

Haz shook the Snake's hand. ‘Take care of this young nephew of yours, you hear.'

Minnie folded her arms. ‘Or you'll have me to answer to.'

Omed could see neither of them liked the Snake.

They got into the truck and as they drove away, Omed looked back at Minnie and Haz waving. It was a long road and they weren't there yet. Maybe in Melbourne they could finally rest.

part two
Hec

HEC WAS HERE AGAIN IN the waiting room. Waiting. Reading old copies of
National Geographic
. Traditional bridge-builders in PNG's wild country.

His dad had a hand in bridges. He knew about stress values, the importance of load and span. It was an old science built over centuries. When Hec was small Dad would show him pictures: the Bridge of Sighs in Venice where the prisoners would take their final walk; the Golden Gate hugged by mist; the Howrah in Calcutta with an eight-lane snarl of cars and double tram tracks.

They would drive down to the docks on winter's nights to look at the West Gate, its slow double curve, dark water gulping the small blots of light. It would snatch Hec's breath; so big in his small horizon that sometimes it crowded his night-thinking. That bridge knew sorrow, was built on bones, disaster after disaster, big and small, ending with theirs.

‘Hector Morrow?'

He continued staring at the pages of the
National
Geographic
– men with penis gourds, women with sagging bags for breasts, kids with rivers of snot.

‘Hector Morrow?' The receptionist checked her book. She coughed. ‘Sorry,
sorry
. Hec. The doctor will see you now,
Hec
.'

He's no doctor. Not real. Just blood and bone and chicken
innards. Mumbo jumbo.

‘The doctor will see you
. . . now
.'

He went into the room. Creaky chair. He held his own wrist, counting the beats of his heart. The Mickey Mouse clock. Photos of the doctor's pasty kids at Dreamworld. A poster of that Disney castle somewhere in Europe.

‘Hector?' It was him, Dr Feelweird in the same diamond-fronted cardigan, thin across the shoulders.

‘Hec, Hec, Hec! I keep forgetting. Your dad told me, “Not Hector,” he said, “He doesn't
like
Hector, Dr Freeboard.” But I'm just an old jelly-brain sometimes.' He giggled – a big child with shiny scalp.

‘So, Hec, what are we going to chat about today? Hey? How about it, Hec?'

The doctor looked at his notes. Actually flipped pages. Hec wondered what was written there. Hec had given him nothing. His dad maybe? It must have been him. Them. Conspiring behind his back. Trying to analyse. Trying to work out what went wrong. As if it wasn't obvious.

‘Hec, if you don't want to talk then that's okay.'

One . . . catanddog . . . two . . . catanddog . . . three . . .

‘We can just sit here like last time.'

And the time before that. Mumbo jumbo.

‘But if you feel you want to let go, then here's a good place. I'm not going to judge you. Just let fly. Let those emotions out.'

The Doc had eaten tabouli for lunch. There was a fleck of parsley on his tooth, a grain of couscous in his mo. It disgusted Hec, made him want to punch those lips just to see what it was like. He had never punched anyone before, but he would make an exception for this moron with his lunch advertised on his face.

‘Or
. . .
not. It's up to you.'

He walked back home under dusk's cover. Streetlights shocked into life behind him. The footpaths were slick with almost forgotten rain. It was March. Nearly a year.

When he got to the door, he pushed his key at the lock or where he thought it should be. In daylight he could see the scars where he had often missed. It was a log of these nights spent walking and coming home to silence and dark. Finally he found metal and the yield of the hole.

Inside there were coats on pegs and he slipped past them like a blind man, hands outstretched, feeling the darkness. He found the lounge room under the firefly glow of standby lights. It wasn't long before Shaboo found
him
, weaving through Hec's legs in a complicated pattern of cat knots. He picked her up and smelled warm fur.

The chalkboard hung on the wall by the fridge. It was the information superhighway for the house.

Home late. Dinner in freezer.

Dad

Hec could picture him, hunched over his drawings under the stark fluoros, his face streaked with worry lines, liver-blue pouches beneath his eyes. Hec's defence was to grow younger; Dad's punishment was to grow old.

He lay back on the couch with Shaboo purring, dribbling her happiness onto his chest. Healing him as cats were supposed to. Mumbo jumbo. Sleep.

He dreamed his dad was a landslide, eyes lost in spooling mud, his features jumbled, pouring past him. Rough hands that never touched him anymore grabbed at his shoulders. He had forgotten what that touch was, what his hands meant. When Hec was small they had been a fortress. Those hands so big. He had pressed his own palms against them and shuddered. They were like paws, fingers so thick, veins on the backs like cable.

Dad was whispering, shaking him. Whispering and shaking. Hec pushed the dream and the edges hardened, light streamed in, sound cartwheeled across.

He blinked, his eyes climbing the room, finally landing on Dad lying on the floor. Had he pushed him?

‘What is wrong with you?' Dad asked as he pulled himself up, brushing cat hair from his pants.

‘Have you had dinner?'

Hec shook his head, untangling the last fibres of dream, spinning them like fairy floss into the room.

‘Lasagne?'

He shrugged and Dad went into the kitchen. ‘Did you see the doctor today?'