I nod and stand there, not sure what to do. Marcus puts his hand out and this time I shake it.
‘It was nice to meet you, Nate,’ he says. ‘You know, I reckon we might have got on, you and me.’
I look at Marcus, at the tuft of hair below his bottom lip and half smile. ‘I doubt it,’ I say.
Jangles, one of the newer screws appears behind us, jangling a nest of keys. He stands next to Marcus, who gives him a nod, then he heads off down a corridor with me and Uncle Mick trailing behind. After a few more corridors and doors, Jangles turns a key in a lock and we walk outside.
When I step out from under the awning, I angle my face to the afternoon sun and feel it warm against my skin. Accustomed to the outside world, the others are a lot faster than me. I walk slowly, following the concrete path, bordered by yellow lines, until there’s nowhere left to go. When I catch up, Jangles brushes a plastic card against a small black box and the last metal gate clicks open. Uncle Mick goes first. He walks through the giant frame and, as I follow him, Jangles mumbles something I don’t catch.
Getting out is nothing like I imagined. I thought everything would be over when I walked through the last of the gates. I thought there’d be this moment, a lightning bolt of freedom and release. But it doesn’t feel over at all. Croxley was hard, harder than I ever imagined it would be. There were times when I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to see it through, but at the same time it’s been home for eighteen months. Eighteen long months. I’m not saying I’ll miss it, not one bit, but I suppose in a way it’s a part of me now. Maybe forever.
Uncle Mick’s ride is a battered F100, one of those American-style gas guzzlers with the big tray at the back and a bench seat across the front that fits three. The tray is filled with fishing gear – nets and baskets and buoys. I toss my backpack in there too, open the passenger-side door and climb in.
Uncle Mick dons a pair of cheap sunglasses and starts the engine. It rumbles to life.
The cabin’s a mess. As we move off into the traffic, I make a space for my feet amongst the pile of junk that’s been tossed there. I scan the empty junk-food wrappers that litter the dash.
‘You on a health kick?’ I say.
It’s like he doesn’t hear me. He keeps his eyes on the road and as we take a left turn I spot something beneath the wrappers, something grey and hard. I reach forward and pick it up.
Uncle Mick glances sideways. ‘Do you know what that is?’ he asks.
I turn it over in my hand. ‘A scallop?’ I say.
‘It’s an oyster shell.’
For some reason I lift it to my nose and sniff.
‘You don’t remember?’ he says.
‘Should I?’
‘Maybe not. You were young.’
Everything outside seems to be moving so fast. Through the window, I see a blur of colours and shapes. I try to hold on to one thing at a time, to a building, a car and a tree, but nothing seems to stay still for long enough. I shift my eyes back to the cabin and try to take stock of where I am, of who I’m with.
I’m not sure how to feel about the man sitting next to me. Maybe if we had a history, I’d know. Maybe if the two of us had done some uncle-and-nephew stuff, if we’d actually shared something memorable and meaningful, I’d be able to slot back in and pick up where we left off. But there’s nothing familiar about this man, nothing except his eyes and the hurt beneath the blue.
‘So, what do I call you, then?’ I ask.
‘Mick’ll do,’ he says.
I feel like a chore, and it makes me wonder why he even bothered to pick me up.
‘You don’t like me much, do you?’ I say.
‘I don’t even know you, son,’ he says. ‘And what I know, I read in a file.’
‘So, why did you bother coming?’ I ask.
‘It wasn’t my idea.’
I’m not sure what he means so I turn my head slightly his way.
‘Me and you,’ he says, ‘this custody thing … it was your mother’s idea.’
I get the feeling there’s going to be more so I sit there and wait.
‘It was a few years ago,’ continues Mick, ‘around the time she took out the restraining order against your old man. She wrote me a letter, just in case.’
He doesn’t need to explain the ‘just in case’ part. I know what he means. He means my father and all the shitty stuff that comes with him.
‘Hadn’t heard from her in years,’ says Mick. ‘Then this letter turns up, just like that.’
I can’t remember a time when my mum and I didn’t live in fear of my father. Of course, there were moments that were bearable. There were times here and there when things seemed as if they might get better. Maybe it was the hope that kept my mum there, kept her hanging on and coming back. But my father was an unpredictable man, and that was the thing that scared me the most. He was blue skies and storm clouds, a man of opposites who never made sense.
I haul myself back from the past, from my father and a long-ago slanging match in our kitchen. Mick’s staring at the road.
‘As far as I’m concerned there are no excuses for the things you’ve done,’ he says. ‘And, to be honest, I’m not asking you to give me any. But there’s something we need to get straight, right from the start. You get one chance with me, and one chance only. You stuff up again – you’re on your own.’
I was expecting an ultimatum early, a laying down of the law. I’ve got no comeback for that so I swallow it down and we rumble along the highway in silence. I don’t mind not talking. Before Croxley, I wouldn’t have been able to just sit there in silence after a spray, but I’ve learnt a thing or two about when to talk and when not to talk, and now it doesn’t worry me at all.
We drive for about ten minutes and neither of us says a word. We hardly even move. On a straight stretch of highway, a few kilometres further on, Mick reaches up and flips the sun visor down. There’s a solitary CD in the plastic sleeve. He plucks it out and pushes it gently into the stereo. I’m expecting something heavy, AC/DC maybe.
I’m wrong. It’s cheesy disco and high-pitched voices, the type of stuff they play in supermarkets and elevators.
‘You’ve got to be kidding.’ The tone in my voice is a little harsher than I expected.
‘What?’ he says.
‘The Bee Gees?’ I ask.
‘What’s wrong with the Bee Gees?’ says Mick.
‘Nothing, if you’re sixty years old. You got a seniors card as well?’
Mick whips his sunglasses off and looks at me hard. ‘You know, you might want to show some bloody gratitude,’ he says. ‘In case you haven’t realised, looking after you wasn’t something I had factored into my life plan.’
‘Obviously.’
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It means you’re seventeen years too late, that’s what it means. And anyway, I never asked you to look after me in the first place.’
‘Well, you’re stuck with me for now, but you can get out and walk if you like.’
‘Okay, I will.’
Without a word, Mick veers left and brings the pick-up to a stop by the side of the road. I reach for my seatbelt, unclick the buckle and open my door.