I’ve never seen anything like it. I take a few steps forward and let my eyes adjust to the dappled light inside. I reach a hand out and press it against the grainy wood, and when I run my palm slowly along its length the hull feels alive, feels as if it’s breathing and pulsing with life.
I look down at Barry and I swear to God … he smiles. As if talking to a dog isn’t bad enough, I actually smile back. It’s only a half-smile, mind you.
When my eyes leave Barry’s face, I notice there are wood shavings on the floor. There are hundreds of them, maybe thousands – thousands of golden-brown ringlets scattered beneath the hull. I don’t know where it comes from, but all of a sudden I feel this strange urge to step on them. I can’t help it so I start walking towards a table on the other side of the room and the ringlets crunch under my bare feet like leaves in a park.
The table is covered with jars of nails and screws and littered with various woodworking tools. Some of them I’ve never seen before but there are standard tools amongst them, ones I remember from school – screwdrivers, hammers, planes, chisels and sanders.
A coil of butcher’s paper sits off to the side so I find its end and unroll it. Drawn in lead pencil is a rough sketch of what I’m guessing is the boat behind me. The plans seem basic enough. In fact, a lot of the measurements have been crossed out and there are question marks attached to some of the comments below them.
Barry seems keen to keep moving so I let go of the paper and it springs back to the way I found it.
I follow him and he trots his way onto the jetty towards the fishing boat tied up at the landing. It’s an impressive-looking thing. Towards the front, under a faded canvas canopy are two bucket seats covered in white-and-blue leather – they look like they belong in a sports car.
Except for a few storage containers and bench seats, the stern of the boat is all deck. I assume the wide-open space is designed for fishing, for the hauling in of baskets and nets. On the side of the boat, painted in a cursive black, are two words: Forever One.
I’m keen to walk out further along the jetty, but a whistling noise pricks Barry’s ears and he swings his head towards the house. He whines to tell me it’s time to go back.
I gaze out across the river one last time and take it all in. I know it sounds funny but after eighteen months of bars and walls and routines I feel hopelessly lost in the real world. When I was in Croxley, I would have given anything to get out, but now that I am, without the walls, without people telling me what to do … I don’t know what to do.
I shiver. The temperature has dropped and the dying sun casts a crimson haze through the trees.
A small fish breaks through the water, then another and another and they skitter across the glassy surface about twenty metres out. A black-and-white bird launches itself from a gum tree on the opposite bank. It works its wings and gets some height, then tucks itself up and dive bombs the unsuspecting school of fish.
FIVE
It smells meaty when I walk into the house. Mick’s wearing a navy-blue apron with KISS THE COOK written across the front. I walk over to the bench and gaze into a sizzling bowl of chicken and rice.
‘Is that the chicken you bought from the store?’ I say.
‘Yep,’ says Mick. ‘Thighs are best, I reckon. Tastier.’
‘So, you can cook.’ I pick up a fork. ‘Yum.’ ‘Hold your horses,’ he says. ‘The chicken’s for Barry. This is us over here.’
Mick nods at the microwave and, as if on cue, a tiny bell sounds. He opens the door and pulls out a black tray, one of those pre-made dinners in a plastic container divided into sections. I can’t believe it. My first meal out and, although it’s a much smaller, throw-away version, the plastic container looks just like the meal plates we had in Croxley.
Mick grabs it with his fingertips and places it beside another one on the bench.
‘Let’s see, now,’ he says. ‘We’ve got Steak Diane or Lamb Korma. You choose.’
‘You’re kidding,’ I say.
Mick’s a little confused. His eyes shoot up at me then settle back on the dinners. ‘What?’
‘I just got out of juvie,’ I say.
‘And?’
‘I’m not eating that.’
‘They’re gourmet.’
‘They are not. They’re garbage.’
‘Well, don’t eat it then. Go hungry for all I care.’
‘Why can’t I have the chicken and rice?’
‘Because it’s not for you.’
I glance down at Barry. He’s sitting by the fridge, eyeballing me.
‘If you must know, Barry’s got allergies,’ says Mick.
‘Are you serious?’ I say.
‘Yeah, I am. Don’t worry, though. You won’t go hungry. Check this out.’
Mick cracks a victorious smile, reaches a hand out and opens the freezer door. Inside, the entire space is packed tight with frozen dinners.
‘Five bucks each at Chester’s,’ he says. ‘I bought the lot.’
I stare at the frozen dinners and their neatly labelled edges. I’m starting to realise what the girl at the store meant about expectations.
‘So what’ll it be?’ says Mick.
I look down at the choices and sigh. ‘I think I’ll go the steak.’
A rectangular, open-framed servery separates the kitchen and the living room. Mick leads the way to a small dining table and I notice there’s a place already set in front of one of the three chairs.
‘Are you expecting someone else?’ I ask.
Mick shakes his head.
I look around the room. On the mantelpiece above the fireplace are three large pieces of black metal. They’re letters – two ‘Ms’ with an ‘&’ symbol between them.
‘What’s with the letters?’ I ask.
Mick looks at the mantelpiece, stares at the two black letters, and I see something different in his eyes.
‘Mick and Malaya,’ he says.
‘Who’s Malaya?’ I ask.
‘No one,’ says Mick.
I’ve opened something I shouldn’t have, found a soft spot in Mick’s armour, but I decide that now’s not the time to get into it. I sit down at the table instead and shift the focus to something else.
‘So what’s with the boat in the shed?’ I ask.
Mick’s miles away. ‘What?’ he asks.
‘The boat,’ I repeat. ‘In the shed?’
‘It’s nothing,’ he says. ‘I’ve always wanted to build one, so I started a few years ago when we found out …’
I wait for him to finish what he’s going to say, but it doesn’t come.
‘When you found out what?’ I say.
‘Nothin’. The boat’s off limits, anyway. I don’t want you in there, all right?’
‘Okay.’
I stab my fork through the congealed gravy and hear Barry guzzling his specially prepared dinner on the verandah. I start on a piece of steak and it’s like chewing rubber. Mick’s watching so I roll my eyes and manage to get a few words out. ‘Gourmet, you reckon?’
We eat in silence for a bit, and I think about our scrappy conversation over the last few minutes. It’s not what Mick’s said that’s got me thinking, it’s what he didn’t say, it’s the secrets and the questions he’s left unanswered. I spike a few soggy carrots and he starts up again.