MUTINY DAY

‘Would you eat this?’ Flick showed Paulina a recipe in the latest Women’s Weekly.

‘Fuck no! Looks like roadkill.’

‘It’s chicken.’ Flick peered at the glossy page. ‘“Butterflied chicken.”’

‘Why would you want chicken to look like a butterfly?’

‘Girls!’ Rita huffed, hugging a big cardboard box to her chest. ‘I thought I told you to set up that book display?’

‘We did.’ Paulina waved at the rack of Fayrf’k dictionaries and songbooks. ‘Now we’re doing the magazines.’

‘Would you eat this chicken, Rita?’ Flick asked.

‘Felicity: put those away and get back to the till.’ Rita pushed the box into Paulina’s arms. ‘Paulina: help me with these Mutiny Day decorations.’

‘Geez, that’s a shitload of bunting,’ Paulina marvelled, looking inside the box. ‘All this to celebrate your ancestors killing Captain William Lyme?’

‘It’s “Walter Lyme”, not “William”.’ Rita led her to a stepladder. ‘And the mutineers weren’t murderers. They set that tyrant and his loyalists adrift, that’s all.’

‘Yeah, alright.’

‘Mutiny Day is a celebration of our independence.’ Rita climbed the ladder. ‘Since the arrival of HMS Fortuna, we’ve been completely self-governing, self-sufficient—’

An old bloke in bike gear wandered over with a shopping basket. ‘Alright there, Rita?’

‘Oh!’ Rita went as red as she’d been when she was lugging that box. ‘Actually, we’re just putting up this bunting, but I’m afraid … I can’t quite reach. Would you mind, Rabbit?’

Paulina giggled. ‘Rabbit!’

‘Paulina.’ Rita glared. ‘Go help Flick.’

Paulina skipped to the tills, where Flick was once again preoccupied with the magazine. ‘Check it out: Rita’s on the prowl.’

Flick looked where she was pointing. ‘Gross.’

‘Check her checking out his tackle in that lycra. She’s frothing.’

‘Would you eat these carrots?’ Flick flashed another recipe.

‘I bet Rita would eat his carrot.’ Paulina flicked a glance at the glossy page. ‘Honey-glazed? Blergh, too many calories.’

They were still scoffing at recipes when the old guy sidled up with his basket, shadowed by Rita.

‘Girls, what did I say? No one’s going to buy that after you’ve put your grubby hands all over it.’

‘Aw, Rita.’ Paulina turned up her palms. ‘My hands are clean, promise.’

‘Mine too.’ Flick copied her. ‘Promise.’

Rita turned to the old bloke. ‘I’m sorry. Service isn’t what it used to be.’

Just to prove her wrong, Paulina smiled and swept up his shopping basket. ‘Sorry, sir. We just got distracted by the recipes. Do you cook?’

‘Uh, yes. I do.’ He blushed. ‘Indeed, I do.’

‘Good on ya. There’s some good ones in here, if you wanna try something new?’

He hesitated. ‘Women’s Weekly?’

‘It’s a new millennium.’ Paulina scanned his cereal and skinny milk. ‘Chicks love a man who’s in touch with his feminine side.’

‘Well …’ he stammered. ‘Alright.’

‘We’ve got some Fayrf’k songbooks, too? New edition?’ She swished her ponytail. ‘Everybody’s selling them, but ours are the best, just so you know.’

‘Alright,’ he said quickly. ‘Count me in.’

Paulina gleefully bagged his stuff, took his cash. ‘Enjoy!’ she sing-songed, fingers brushing his as she gave him his change.

As soon as he’d scurried off in his lycra, she cracked up.

‘Talk about easy money! Aren’t you glad you hired me, Rita?’

Next morning, as Paulina was power walking to King’s Lookout before work, Merlinda honked the horn of her van and shouted, ‘I’ve got a job for you!’

‘Geez, Merlinda!’ Paulina clutched her heart.

‘Get your skinny little bum in here.’ Merlinda patted the passenger seat. ‘C’mon.’

Paulina slipped off her headphones and hopped in. ‘Can’t help you, mate. My shift starts at nine.’

‘Oh, I don’t need you today. I mean Mutiny Day.’ Merlinda grinned like a wolf in grandma’s clothing. ‘What do you know about Mutiny Day?’

‘It’s a celebration of Fairfolk independence,’ Paulina recited diligently. ‘Youse honour the arrival of your ancestors on the island by setting fires and getting pissed.’

‘Yes, yes, excellent.’ Merlinda poked around for some brochures. ‘But more importantly … tourists!’

Paulina studied the brochure: old-timey costumes, burning ships, picnic tables laden with flowers and fatty food.

‘Fairfolk Tours holds this picnic every year, so the mainies can feel like they’re part of it. Now: I’m afraid we can’t pay an hourly rate, but these retirees tip very well, and you’ll get a cut of any souvenir sales, plus free lunch, drinks, and entertainment.’

‘Tony Tunes?’ Paulina grimaced. ‘No offence, but I’d pay not to listen to him.’

Sighing, Merlinda dug out her wallet.

‘Tell you what: if you can recruit those boys of yours, I’ll include a bonus.’

She counted out two twenties. Paulina crossed her arms. ‘Merlinda. I’ve seen those boys shirtless. I reckon they’re worth fifty each, at least.’

With a huff, Merlinda counted out another sixty.

‘Nice doing business with ya!’ Paulina slipped the cash inside her sports bra. ‘Oi, will I get to wear a costume? I love dress-ups.’

‘Costumes are for descendants, only.’ Merlinda’s face turned to stone. ‘You’ll get a Fairfolk Tours shirt and a name tag.’

‘Oh … Okay.’

Paulina reached for the doorhandle. But before she could get out, Merlinda grabbed her arm and gasped; pointed as the old guy from the day before zipped past on his bicycle.

‘Rabbit White! It’s my lucky day!’

‘Him?’ Paulina looked out the window dubiously. ‘Didn’t know you had the same taste in men as Rita.’

‘Darling.’ Merlinda fanned herself with the brochure. ‘He’s worth more than those boys you live with, shirt or no shirt.’

Leaning against the parked Fairfolk Tours bus, shivering in the brisk sea-breeze, Jesse lit a Camel and told her, ‘Fuck, I hate Mutiny Day.’

‘Oi, whip off your shirt.’ Paulina brandished her disposable camera. ‘I want a photo of you with the bonfire.’

‘Yeah, nay.’

‘Aw, c’mon!’

‘Get your boyfriend to do it.’

‘You look more exotic!’

‘Yeah, nay. Racist.’

Dismayed, Paulina turned her back. ‘Oi, Loh-rent!’

‘Eh?’ He stirred from his vantage point further downhill.

‘Photo time! Take your shirt off, babe?’

‘Cold.’

‘But, babe. You’ll look so sexy with the fire behind you.’

Laurent’s vanity got the better of him. Peeling off his Fairfolk Tours shirt, he posed on the hillside while Paulina giggled, and the costumed throng below sang hymns around the bonfire.

‘Soooo sexy, babe.’ Paulina passed the camera to Jesse. ‘Take one of me and my boyfriend?’

Just as Jesse was about to click, a bit of ash flew onto her Fairfolk Tours shirt, making her frown.

‘You’re not gonna cry again, are you?’ Jesse cracked a smile. ‘Crying won’t get you a pretty costume.’

‘Please, don’t cry.’ Laurent put his arm around her. ‘Not again.’

She had cried earlier, when she saw Kymba and her little girl in their long white dresses and garlands, carrying baskets full of seashells and flowers. This time, she snuggled up to Laurent, smouldered for the camera. When it was done, Laurent put his shirt back on and wandered downhill again.

‘What a beautiful design!’ A crone in lime-green resort-wear wandered up to Jesse and placed a hand on his camel tattoo. ‘Is that HMS Fortuna?’

‘Uh, no, ma’am.’ Jesse blinked his thick eyelashes. ‘It’s not a ship, it’s a camel.’

‘A camel ?’

‘Yeah, um. My surname’s “Camilleri”. It meant “camel driver”, back in the day.’

‘“Camilleri”’? Is that … Italian?’

‘Maltese, ma’am.’

‘Maltese and Fairfolk! How exotic.’ Admiringly, she patted his brown skin. ‘But why aren’t you down there burning little wooden ships with the rest of them?’

‘I made him help me.’ Paulina winked. ‘Didn’t wanna be the only direct descendant of Gideon King missing out on the festivities.’

‘You’re both direct descendants?’

‘Yep!’ Paulina smiled heroically. ‘It’s a shame not to dress up this year, but sharing our culture with youse is really special, hey. Did ya get a copy of the Fayrf’k Songbook?’

Stubbing out his ciggie, Jesse muttered, ‘Fuck this,’ and went to nap on the bus till the fire died down.

In the Fairfolk Tours marquee, Paulina drank so many plastic flutes of champers, she had trouble walking straight. Also, keeping her hands to herself.

‘Loh-rent!’ She came up behind him at the buffet table as he filled his paper plate with roast pork and banana dumplings. ‘Let’s get out of here?’

‘I’m eating, bébé.’

She stood on her tippy toes, nibbled his earlobe. ‘Eat me.’

‘Bébé.’ He unpeeled her arms from his waist. ‘There are all these people.’

‘What, you’re embarrassed of me?’

Laurent shrugged, placed some pork crackling onto his plate.

‘Yeah?’ Paulina snatched his plate. ‘Well, you’re embarrassing me. Pig.’

On her way past the stage, Tony Tunes gave her a pinch on the bum. She gave him the finger. Jesse found her at the bin, dumping Laurent’s plate.

‘That’s Camilleri’s meat you’re wasting.’

‘Meat is murder. Where’s my drink?’

‘You drank it.’

‘Get me a new one, Jesse-Camel?’

Jesse sidled off, came back with a cup of orange juice.

‘That’s not a drink!’

‘It’s a mimosa.’

She took a sip. ‘Bullshit.’

‘Just drink it, okay? I don’t want you spewing in some poor old lady’s lap.’

‘Nah. I’m saving my spew for next time Tony Tunes grabs my arse.’

‘Tony grabbed your arse?’ Jesse whistled. ‘Touched by a musical legend.’

‘Oi, ask him for his autograph. I dare ya.’

‘Drink your mimosa.’

Cringing, Paulina downed the orange juice. Jesse smirked and got a napkin, meekly approached the stage, and waited for Tony Tunes to finish his song.

‘Hey, brudda,’ Jesse mumbled, holding out the napkin. ‘Nice job. Could I get a, um …’

‘Anytime, brudda.’ Tony brandished a pen from the pocket of his waistcoat.

Paulina laughed into her hands as Jesse returned. ‘I’m gonna wet myself!’

Jesse handed her the napkin. ‘Here’s something to wipe with.’

‘Shit!’ Paulina crossed her legs, clutched his arm for balance. ‘Oh, shit.’

‘You didn’t. Seriously?’

‘Take me to the loo, quick!’

‘Seriously?’ Jesse looked around. ‘You can’t go by yourself?’

‘You made me drink juice!’

Shaking his head, Jesse walked her out of the marquee and across the too-bright lawn to the toilet block. On the left side was a mosaic banana and the word ‘TANES’; on the right, a flower and the word ‘VINIS’.

She went into ‘VINIS’, Jesse into ‘TANES’. He was smoking on the grass when she emerged.

‘Did you spew?’

‘Yeah.’

He gave her his ciggie. When they got back to the marquee, she was ready for another drink. Tony Tunes was strumming his guitar, talking into the mic. ‘This one goes out to Bill and Elsie on their golden anniversary. Fifty years, and more in love than ever.’

‘Jesus,’ Jesse marvelled. ‘That’s twice my age.’

‘I can’t imagine living with myself for fifty years, let alone getting a guy to live with me that long.’ Paulina’s eyes misted up. ‘I’m gonna die alone.’

‘Yeah. Probably.’

‘I’m gonna die alone, Jess.’ She pawed at his shoulder. ‘Jess: do you think he’ll propose if I say I’m preggers?’

‘Tony Tunes?’

‘Loh-rent!’

‘Yeah … nay.’

‘Why not? He wears a crucifix.’

‘He’ll just call you a “chalice” and tell you to get an abortion.’

Even so, Paulina gave it a go two drinks later, after they’d cleared the oldies out of the marquee, and herded them onto their buses, and stacked up all the tables and chairs.

‘Babe?’ She played with Laurent’s crucifix as he sparked up a celebratory spliff. ‘Sorry I called you a pig before. I’ve had a lot on my mind, hey.’

He shrugged. ‘Okay.’

‘Wanna know what’s on my mind?’

He shrugged again.

Paulina made sure Jesse was out of earshot, hauling the last rubbish bag to the skip. ‘I’m late, babe.’

‘Late for what?’

‘You know.’ She grabbed his free hand and pulled it to her tummy. ‘Late.’

He gave her the exact look she wanted: like a man given a life-sentence.

‘I know; it’s a lot, babe.’ Guilt bubbled up in her as she noticed Jesse returning from his garbage-run. ‘We’ve both got a lot to think about. Why don’t I leave you alone for a while, and you can have a nice long think about our future, okay?’

Paulina kissed him and pranced out of the marquee to find more alcohol.

The clouds were all pebbly and pink when she stumbled into the Islanders-only picnic in the field of limestone ruins just beyond Tombstone Beach. Everyone was barefoot and lolling around on picnic rugs; the women in long white dresses and garlands, the men in breeches and billowy white shirts, with waistcoats and straw hats.

‘Islanders only!’ a bloke bellowed. ‘No mainies!’

Paulina laughed and kept walking.

‘Oi!’ She noticed Kymba. ‘Kymba-leeeee!’

Kymba looked up, then quickly looked away.

‘What’s wrong?’ Paulina tumbled onto the picnic rug. ‘Embarrassed to be seen with a mainie?’

‘Oh … no.’ Kymba’s long light-brown hair was straight as a flag down her back; her little son curled up in her lap. ‘Just, we’re leaving soon. Hunter’s got a tummy-ache.’

‘Whatsamatter Hunty, did ya eat too much?’ Paulina rubbed the boy’s tummy, then peeked inside the nearest esky. ‘Ooo, Wild Turkey!’

She waved the bottle at Kymba, who shook her head.

‘Drink with me, Kymbaaaa-leeee! Whatsamatter? You preggers again?’

Kymba’s pink cheeks told Paulina everything she needed to know.

‘Ha!’ She threw back her head. ‘That makes two of us!’

Then she drank some more and told Kymba about what she’d told Laurent.

‘You lied about being pregnant?’ Kymba wrung the fringe of her white crochet shawl. ‘Oh, Paulina, that’s … not good.’

‘Whatever!’ Paulina swigged. ‘It’s time he took our relationship seriously.’

‘Yes, but … trust is the foundation of any good relationship.’

‘Trust men? Pffft!’

Kymba looked ready to cry on her behalf. ‘You just need to find your Mr Right.’

Right on cue, Kymba’s big ginger-haired hubby Simmo strolled across the field, holding hands with their six-year-old, Zoe. He wasn’t wearing a costume like the Island men, but he’d trimmed his beard and had on a collared shirt.

‘Auntie Lina!’ Zoe squealed. ‘No mainies allowed in here!’

‘Yeah? Howabout your daddy? His surname’s “Burney”.’

‘It’s Burney-King!’

Paulina got out her ciggies. ‘Maybe I should get myself knocked up by a King instead. Then I’d get invited to all the parties.’

Simmo looked uneasily from the ciggies to the bun in Kymba’s oven.

‘Sorry.’ Paulina put them away. ‘Oi, Simmo. Would you be pissed off if Kymba lied about being preggers?’

‘Um.’ Simmo looked at his wife’s belly. ‘She is pregnant. She had an ultrasound.’

‘Ugh, forget it.’ Paulina drank. ‘Youse are really lucky. I probably can’t even have babies. Mum had like five miscarriages before she had me … and look how I turned out.’

Kymba and Simmo glanced at each other. Head swimming, Paulina stood.

‘Oi, Zo,’ she slurred. ‘Let’s play chasey.’

The dark-blue air felt cool on Paulina’s cheeks as she dashed across the field. Zoe shrieked after her, ear-splitting. She ran faster, like she was fifteen again, playing centre-back defence for the Cherry Hill Colts. Until the booze rose to her throat, hot and bubbly.

‘You’re it, Auntie Lina!’ Zoe caught her. ‘Eww, you spewed?’

Paulina wiped her mouth.

‘Don’t tell your mum and dad. Okay?’

‘Islanders only!’ the same bloke bellowed, when they passed his picnic rug. ‘No mainies!’

‘Yeah?’ It was too dark to see his face, but he was big, even sitting down. ‘What’re you gonna do about it?’

Then she laughed and kept walking.

‘Mummy, Auntie Lina spewed!’ Zoe sold her out as soon as they got back to the rug.

‘Oh, no!’ Kymba furrowed her brow. ‘Did you eat? Simmo, get her a plate.’

Simmo sighed and got up.

‘S’alright …’ Paulina giggled. ‘I’ll probably just spew again if I eat, at this point.’

It wasn’t alright, though. Kymba’s face had frozen.

‘Islanders only.’ The bloke from before was looming over them, drink in hand, his stiff black hair frosted with moonlight. ‘No mainies.’

Then he crouched down to smooch Kymba and the kids.

‘Yorana,’ Kymba greeted him, drew Zoe closer and started fussing with her garland.

‘Nice to meet you, sweetheart.’ He turned to Paulina. ‘I’m Carlyle King.’

‘Pfft!’ Paulina scoffed. ‘That’s not a name, that’s two surnames.’

‘Two mutineer surnames.’ He had a dent in his fat chin and the typical Fairfolk eyes, like clear seawater rimmed with soot. ‘My mother’s a Carlyle, my father’s a King. I’m a direct descendant of Gideon King and his beautiful wife, Puatea. What’s your name, sweetheart?’

Paulina pointed at her Fairfolk Tours name tag. ‘Duh!’

He leaned so close that his beery breath warmed her collarbone. ‘Pretty name … Paulina.’

‘Yeah, better than “Carlyle”.’

‘My friends call me “Car”.’

‘Ha-ha! Vroom-vroom!’

‘That’s right. I own The Car Kings dealership.’

‘Is that s’posed to impress me?’ She swigged her bourbon. ‘I’m not a stupid mainie … I can see your wedding ring.’

‘Let me tell you a secret …’ Car leaned closer; through his flimsy shirt, she glimpsed a nautical star tattooed on his heart. ‘My missus and I are on the outs. She’s crazy.’

‘Yeah? What’d you do?’

‘A younger woman threw herself at me … and the missus blamed me.’

‘Yeah, right.’

‘Trust me. They all get crazy once they hit forty.’

Kymba muttered in Fayrf’k. Car ignored her. So did Paulina; she was having fun.

‘Yeah? Well, let me tell you a secret: I’m already crazy.’

‘Nay, you’re a sweet vini.’ Car fingered her name tag. ‘I’m gonna take you home and show you what a man with mutineer blood in his veins can do with a vini like you.’

‘Nah, thanks! I’ve got a boyfriend. And I don’t like fat old men, no offence.’

‘You don’t know what you like. Till you’ve had a King in your bed, you’ll never know.’

‘She said no, Car,’ Kymba interjected. ‘Don’t you know the meaning of that word?’

Car responded gruffly in Fayrf’k. Kymba snapped back at him, but her voice had a rickety edge. Hearing it, the kids started whimpering.

‘Look: you’ve made the kiddies cry!’ Car laughed and reached for Zoe. ‘Don’t cry, sweetheart. Come to Uncle Car.’

Kymba snatched Zoe back. ‘Simmo!’

Car raised his hands and stumbled to his feet, smiling graciously at Simmo, who’d rushed over with a paper plate. ‘Congratulations on your growing family.’ He held out his hand. ‘Kymbalee is absolutely glowing.’

‘Much appreciated.’ Simmo looked from Car to his tearful wife and children. ‘Give my regards to Tabby.’

Once Car had staggered off, Paulina cracked up laughing.

‘Bloody hell, what a dickhead. Are youse related?’

‘Just a drunk cousin.’ Kymba stood. ‘I’m going to find Pellet.’

‘I’ll go,’ Simmo offered.

‘I’ll go.’ Kymba gestured at Paulina and the kids. ‘Just, make sure Paulina eats.’

Kymba stormed off, round-bellied in her long white dress.

Paulina took a fiery gulp of bourbon. ‘Gawd, this place is inbred.’

Simmo shoved a plate full of cold roast veggies under her nose.

‘I don’t know why my wife is friends with you.’

‘Islanders only!’ Car King bellowed. ‘No mainies!’

‘Chill out.’ It was Jesse’s voice. ‘I’m just taking my drunk friend home, okay?’

‘I’m not drunk!’ Paulina protested, swigging more bourbon as Jesse appeared with Kymba. ‘Where’s Loh-rent? Is he angry with me?’

Jesse prised the bottle from her hands and gave it to Kymba. ‘I guess you’re not worried about foetal alcohol syndrome.’

‘First trimester’s a free pass!’ Paulina giggled as he pulled her to her feet. ‘Bloody hell, you don’t have to manhandle me! I can walk!’

Jesse let go of her; she collapsed back onto the rug.

‘You dropped me? Arsehole!’

‘Jesus!’ Jesse pulled her up again. ‘Cut the crap, Paulina.’

‘Bye, Kymbaaa-leeee!’ Paulina blew kisses like a beauty queen. ‘See ya at our antenatal class next week!’

‘Thanks for looking after her,’ Jesse told Kymba and Simmo. ‘And … sorry.’

Linking her arm with Jesse’s, Paulina zig-zagged happily beyond the ruins.

‘You’re with Camilleri?’ Car King jeered. ‘Let me know when you want a real man, sweetheart!’

All his mates laughed.

‘That’s the Car King. He wants to root me.’ Paulina snuggled into Jesse’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, I told him where to go.’

‘Well, that’s probably the smartest thing you did today.’

‘Where’s Loh-rent?’ She repeated as they climbed uphill. ‘Is he angry?’

‘In the car. And not yet, but he will be. Fucking hell, Paulina. Why do you have to make everything a drama?’

‘Life’s boring. Gotta make some noise or the void will swallow me, hey.’ She reached into the butt pocket of his jeans. ‘Gimme a Camel, Jesse-Camel.’

‘Fuck!’ Jesse stopped. ‘Don’t … don’t touch. I’ll do it.’

As he fumbled with his ciggies, Paulina pressed her hips against his, slid her hands inside his Fairfolk Tours shirt.

‘Jesus-fuck! What’re you doing?’

‘Nothing …’ She nuzzled him. ‘I’m cold, that’s all.’

He pushed her away; she fell back on the grass, giggling.

‘Get up.’ Jesse lit a ciggie. ‘There’s cow-pats everywhere.’

‘Get down!’ Paulina grabbed his belt-buckle, pulled him onto her. ‘I’m soooo cold!’

Their mouths mashed together, tasting of smoke and stale vomit.

‘Fuck!’ Jesse wiped away her spit. ‘I’m not Pellet! Don’t play with me.’

‘I like playing with you.’ Paulina bit his lip. ‘It’s good fun.’

He kissed her back with those lovely full lips, stubble scouring like a Scotch-Brite sponge. A ghoulish moan echoed from the hills around them.

‘Ghosts!’ Paulina clung to him. ‘Jess — ghosts!’

‘It’s a cow, you fuckwit.’ He sat up, looked at his ciggie; it had burned out. ‘Jesus. Oh, Jesus. Don’t cry.’

Paulina snatched the ciggie from his fingertips and placed it between her lips. He lit it. Then she lay back, weeping and watching the scudding smoke and clouds.

‘Is Loh-rent angry? Is he gonna break up with me?’

‘Yeah, probably. If he didn’t have a reason before, he does now.’

‘Don’t tell him we hooked up, Jess! You won’t tell him, will you?’

‘Fuck. No.’ He took the ciggie. ‘Just, stop crying.’

Paulina stopped crying; pulled Jesse back down. They kissed for a few more minutes, till the cow mooed again and she quavered, ‘I’m scared!’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ Jesse smoothed down his stiffy. ‘C’mon, Pellet’s waiting.’

In the backseat of the Commodore, Laurent was sprawled out, pale and glaze-eyed. Jesse shut Paulina in the back with him, walked around to the driver’s side.

‘Babe, I missed you!’ She smooched Laurent. ‘Did ya miss me?’

Shoving his keys in the ignition, Jesse tuned the radio.

‘Seurry, bébé.’ Laurent closed his eyes. ‘I’m not ready to be a fatheur.’

‘Nobody’s ever ready, babe.’ Paulina took his hand. ‘Till it happens.’

Jesse cursed and rolled the car onto the steep, pine-lined road.

‘Bébé.’ Laurent pinched his nose-bridge. ‘I did not expect this. You said you are on the pill?’

‘Accidents happen. The important thing is … we’re in love.’

‘Ergh!’ Laurent loosed his hand from her grip. ‘I never said that!’

‘You said it!’ Paulina’s heart cracked. ‘Loads of times!’

Exhaling through his teeth, Jesse turned up the radio.

‘Cálisse! I never said it!’

‘Don’t call me a “chalice”! You said it, you lying shit!’

‘You are the liar!’

‘You’re a liar! You said you loved me, and now you’re just gonna leave me and our baby? You lying French fuck, how dare you?’

‘Jesus, Paulina,’ Jesse butted in. ‘Tell him the truth already.’

‘Mind your own business, Camel!’

A car full of hooning teenagers, all dressed in their colonial whites and straw hats, sped past. ‘Fuck, I hate Mutiny Day,’ Jesse muttered.

‘Truth?’ Laurent questioned Jesse. ‘What do you mean, truth?’

‘Don’t talk to him!’ Paulina clawed at Laurent’s forearm. ‘Talk to me!’

‘You scratched me? Tabernac !’

‘I’m not a “tabernacle”! I’m your pregnant girlfriend! You’re really gonna leave me?’

‘I will leaf you on the roadside, if you keep scratching! Decriss !’

‘Jesus, Pellet,’ Jesse intervened. ‘That’s not cool.’

‘You’d leave me? If I was preggers, you’d leave me?’ Paulina crumbled. ‘Shit-pellet! You couldn’t knock me up if you tried!’

‘Ehh? Câlisse ! You made it up?’

‘Yeah-hh! Thank fuck. Now I know how shit you are.’ As Jesse slowed for a bend in the road, Paulina pushed the door open. ‘Wanna leave me here? Do it!’

‘Decriss! ’ Laurent shoved her. ‘I don’t care!’

‘Don’t, Pellet!’ Jesse stopped the car. ‘Jesus … she’ll be raped.’

‘She deserves it!’ Laurent pushed her again. ‘Go, lying beech!’

Staggering onto the roadside, Paulina power-walked away from the Commodore through the rain of her tears.

‘Oh, come on.’ Jesse got out, chased her down. ‘Paulina, calm down.’

‘Calm? He wants me to be raped!’ She yanked her arm away. ‘You’re just as bad. You’re his friend.’

Laurent honked the horn, unleashed a stream of French-Canadian cusses. ‘Go! Walk faster, beech! Camel … leaf her!’

‘Shut the fuck up, Pellet.’ Jesse followed Paulina as she rushed into the middle of the road, waving madly at a pair of headlights. ‘Paulina! Don’t hitchhike.’

The headlights slowed to a stop.

‘Car trouble?’ asked the old bloke behind the wheel.

Sobbing, Paulina shook her head and let herself into the passenger side of his car.

‘Please, help me, sir! My boyfriend wants me to be raped!’

The old bloke squinted through the glare of his headlights.

‘Camel?’

‘Not him! That French fuck.’ Paulina gestured at the Commodore. ‘He pushed me! Please, get me away from him!’

Jesse came up to the driver’s side, his face flushed.

‘Sorry, Rabbit. My friend’s really drunk. Can you drive her home?’

The bloke looked from Jesse to Paulina, and something clicked.

‘I know you,’ he said. ‘You’re the new checkout chick at Foodfolk.’

Paulina sniffed. ‘I was a financial advisor, once upon a time.’

‘I’ll drive you. Where do you want to go?’

‘Just get me away from that arsehole.’ She sighed, closing her eyes on Jesse and Laurent and the bullshit mutiny of her life. ‘Take me back to your place … I don’t mind.’