When work is done for the day, I look at Franky, he looks at me, we balance, I throw my arms out as though we might hug, we don’t, we shake hands, he says he’s going to visit his nurse, I kick the Beast in the guts and head over to the Jungle Bar for thirty or forty quick drinks before the usual evening meal. I don’t make it, the meal. Howie Merkel turns up out of the impending dark and fading blue, or the mountains, the mists of grime, wherever it is he has been hiding. As soon as he enters the bar the noise level seems to drop. People turn, see who it is, take a deep breath and go back to their conversations, their drinks, their inner thoughts and fears.
Hey, says Howie.
How’re they hanging, Howie, I say.
He leans into me.
They’re hanging all right, hanging out for a beer, or fifty, some sweet pussy to suck and maybe a punch in the face from some dumb shit willing to have a go.
Once I tried to repeat what Merkel said and it didn’t work, got no laughs. There is something demented about Merkel, but when he says the nasty shit he says, right there in front of you, you have to laugh because of the way he says it, the mix of his lilting poetic tones and the cheeky charming face that he puts on to go with it.
I can see trouble up ahead. I am ready for it. I want it. I have missed it.
We drink for a couple of hours then head down to the Moroki Club and drink more. We try to start a game of snooker but the tables are booked solid and even though we are sure we put our names on the board they aren’t there when we go to complain to the bastards who seem to be involved in every game. Merkel offers to take them on, all four of them, outside, now, anytime, but all they do is laugh. We eat something. No idea what. Then we go up to Jimmy Irish’s but he isn’t home so we drink a bottle of Bundaberg Rum on his back step. When it’s empty Merkel pisses in it, puts the cap back on and puts it on his Land Cruiser running board.
What’s that for? I ask.
Next party I go to and see one of those snooker thieves, says Merkel, I’m swapping their rum bottle. That’ll teach the maggots to fuck with me.
Merkel chuckles a strange, deep chuckle. I haven’t heard him chuckle before. It makes me think of my grandfather’s old outboard motor, the Seagull, the one on the back of his ancient dingy.
Jacky boy, says Merkel, what about we drive over to May’s and she can get one of her friends in for a four-way fuck.
Howie, that’s not May.
Whaddya mean that’s not May?
We’re not doing that.
Mate, don’t you go fallin’ in love with her. These people are great for fucking but...
I stand up and stumble away from the step.
Have you stuck one up her arse yet, he yells. They love it up there. She’s probably had her brother up there.
I go to his Land Cruiser, grab the bottle of Bundaberg piss and hurl it at a tree. It misses, falls and smashes on a rock.
Get fucked, Merkel.
I stumble over to the tree, pick up the broken bottle neck and hand it to Merkel.
And stick this up your own arse.
Jacky. Jacky. I was joking. I know she’s your girlfriend. She’s a lovely lady. And I wish you all the best for your future happiness. The Lutherans would love to have you in their fuck, sorry, their flock.
Howie Merkel laughs his other laugh, the one that turns a mood around, even after he has said the nastiest, most insulting thing. He hasn’t changed my mood but he keeps trying. He stands up and joins me pissing into the shrubs beside the house.
Nothing like a good piss in the wind, right? Jacky? I was joking, mate, fuck me, I’d never fuck May. She’s all yours.
I’m buggered, Howie. Think I’ll go home.
What? Back to that fucking bank mess, with all those poofs? You must be joking.
He turns. He hasn’t finished. He sprays me.
You’re a piece of shit, Howie.
Maybe, Jacky boy, but let’s go find some sweet pussy.
We don’t find any. Merkel drives around like he does, with wild abandon, paying no attention to intersections. We hear a siren. There’s a police truck behind us. The cops in the truck are led by an old mate of Merkel’s, Pete Silvester.
What the fuck are you blokes up to? says Silvester.
Nothing that you’d be interested in, says Merkel.
Well get off the fucking road before I take you home and let my wife work you over.
Fuck me, Sil. Not that. Anything but that.
Silvester’s wife is a strong, athletic woman and a legend in the town because she punched an ex-expat in the face after he grabbed her arse at a party. Knocked him flat for ten minutes. When he came to he was lying on the front lawn with a busted nose and no pride. He left the island soon after.
Okay, says Merkel. We’re going. I’ll take this deadshit home.
You pissed? says Silvester.
What’s it to you?
That’s the way it always ends. Sil asks Merkel if he’s pissed. Merkel says what’s it to you and Sil replies, nothing, just asking. They both laugh so hard their heads look like they are falling off then Merkel drives away and Silvester goes back to patrolling roads without cars.
Merkel doesn’t take me home because he sees a couple of maries on the side of the road that he likes the look of and after a brief conversation in pidgin they get in the back of the truck and we head back to Jimmy Irish’s.
How we going to get in, Merkel?
Who gives a fuck. I want a fuck. We’ll bust a window.
When Merkel is in one of his fucking moods, nothing stands in his way. If Jimmy can’t be home when we want him home, fuck him, we’ll make his home our home. And we do. Merkel busts a side window, climbs in and lets us in the back door. He doesn’t turn on a light, just grabs one of the girls and heads for a bedroom. There are only two. I head for the other one, the one where I had my first. The bed is made and I pull back the sheets.
You like? I ask the girl.
She smiles. She is sweet. She climbs on the bed. I remove my clothes, she lifts her dress and the lizard finds his way into her. He shoves himself into her. Again and again. They are always ready these girls, the girls off the street. They lift their dresses, open their legs, and in we go, smooth, moist and easy. It’s over quick. Always is. As soon as I sit back Merkel is at the door.
Come on, swap, he yells.
What?
Yeah. She’s ready.
Who?
Mine.
What’s her name?
Mary. What’s yours?
I turn to the girl and say: Jack. Name belong me.
Martha, she says.
Merkel laughs: Martha? He pulls me off the bed and launches himself at Martha.
When we are done, rather, when Merkel is done, we take the girls down the road a bit and they get out of the back of the Land Cruiser and walk away.
You all right, asks Merkel?
Yes, I say.
But I’m not. I feel sick. I am licking my arm. It’s salty. I am angry. I’m not sure why I’m angry, or what it’s about, or what to do with it, but it reminds me of something that I can’t remember but I wish I could because then I could do something to ease the rush of burning blood. The lump is there again, the one in my chest. There’s another lump, or thing, something, somewhere outside, in the jungle, following me, ready to pounce, fuck me up the arse, eat my face, do something to finish my miserable life.
Merkel drives like an idiot and I don’t care. I am rather hoping he might miss a turn and plough into a tree, or a fence, a house, anything that will cause us to slam through the windscreen and smash our heads on something that will kill us, instantly, at least maim us until this time, this mood, passes, or until the Phantom or Jesus or some other prick who’s supposed to be looking after us turns up and tells us what it’s all about. I feel like smashing Merkel but I don’t have the energy, the desire, or a good enough reason. I have lost my way, my moral core, my reason for being. Jesus is dead. The Phantom is a comic book hero. My dad thinks I’m useless. My mum thinks I’ve been poisoned. Margaret Baker is denied me.
We’re here, Merkel says.
Where? I ask.
Where you live, you stupid fuck. The bank mess.
Oh.
Hey, what say we shake up the bank johnnies.
What you got in mind?
I don’t know.
No, think I’ll go to bed. I’m fucked.
Jesus, Jacky, you’re a fucking pooper.
I get out, quickly, before I can change my mind, but when I get to the front door, it’s locked.
Fuck!
What?
The bastards have locked me out.
Right. That fucking does it.
What?
We’ll climb the railing.
Merkel drives his Cruiser up under the veranda, close to one of the pillars. He gets out and climbs up onto the veranda. I join him, surprised I still have the monkey in me. Once there we climb through my window and then Merkel has the fire-extinguisher in his hands and I know I am in trouble, but the anger is still with me and the hot blood and enough energy to grab it from him and burst into Haines’ room yelling: Fire! Fire!
Haines jumps out of bed but not quick enough and I catch him full in the chest, then I turn away and run into the next room and blast the bed, the walls and the body lying under sheets. Outside I hear a voice yell and run out to see Merkel with the other extinguisher in his hands and blasting three blokes cowering before him, including my best mate in the building, Franky Fletcher.
Shit, Franky, I yell. Sorry, mate. We’ll fuck off. We’re pissed. I’ll clean it up.
Christ Almighty, Muir, yells Franky, and then other voices join his.
Fuck you, Muir.
Fuck off you gin-jockeying arseholes.
That must have been Haines. No snort, so he didn’t think it was funny. He can’t resist a gin-jockeying crack. He must be getting lonely, just him, his hands, and his dumbbells. Merkel is screaming as we run down the stairs, out into the yard, into his Cruiser and away, but too quick to maintain control and the Cruiser slams into the bank manager’s portico, the one outside his office where he takes his smoko, his morning and afternoon tea, demolishes it, collapses it in a nice, neat pile.
Fuck, Howie, you’ve got me fucking done for.
Merkel laughs and laughs.
You were done for, Jacko, long before you met me.
Howie.
Yeah.
Take me around to May’s.
It’s late, but May lets me in, as always. It doesn’t matter how late I am or how drunk I am, May takes me in. She is a Christian and maybe she sees something in me, something I can’t. She has been sleeping. At the door she peers out towards Merkel’s Cruiser. I push her through the door and inside.
Who is that, Jack?
Howard Merkel.
Him a bad man, Jack.
I know, May. I’m sorry.
I stumble to her bedroom and fall on her bed. May does not join me. I hear her fussing around in the kitchen of her tiny house.
May.
Yes, Jack.
Come to bed, please.
Jack, you don’t want sex, please.
No, I just want you to hold me. Say something to me. Tell me I am not a bad man, even if you think I am.
May walks into the room and sits on the end of her bed.
Jack, you not a bad man. You treat me good.
May, I’m tired.
Go to sleep, Jack.
But I want sleep too much. Sometimes I want a big sleep.
I drift off. I’m running in a jungle. Something is chasing me. The thing? It has to be. It must be. I run and jump in the air, trying to fly. The thing is almost at me. I can smell it. I can feel its breath on my arse. Not my arse, please, don’t eat my arse. I jump higher. Then I fly. I don’t look down. I can’t believe I’m flying.
May wakes me early with a cup of tea.
Jack, I have no blood, she says.
I think I know what she is saying, but I don’t want her to repeat it.
Jack, you hear me?
I say nothing.
Maybe I be pregnant.
I look at her. I love her. She is sweet and kind and beautiful, but I am not ready to be a father, not like this, this filthy dirty piece of shit, this is not a fathering man, this empty shell, this useless maggot. I have a long way to go to be like my father, a solid man, a man with position, status, and a man to respect.
What do we do, May?
I have some gin and I go to a friend for a hot bath. This sometimes works. Jack, you must leave, now, before the neighbours wake up and see you.
But, May, they must have seen me coming and going many times.
Yes, my Jack, but that was in the dark, with the raining. That’s okay. But is not okay in the light.
Nothing makes any sense in this country. They know I come here, they see me arrive, but because it is dark and raining that’s fine? If they see me leave in the light that’s bad? My head hurts. I remember the fire-extinguisher and my head hurts more.