Chapter 8

Dave pulled out into the traffic, leaving the hospital behind them.

‘Well, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when I suggested catching up before the wedding,’ he said.

Harry rubbed his face. The big yellow envelope holding his scans sat wedged between his knees. The guy who did the CT scan told Harry there wouldn’t be any side effects. But he felt weird. Slightly dizzy.

‘I know. I’m sorry. If it’s any consolation, sitting in a neurology waiting room wasn’t what I had in mind for my day off either.’

‘I was kidding. Any time. You know that.’ He cleared his throat. ‘So?’

Harry waved it away. ‘I’m fine. Normal.’

‘It’s normal to get tattoos and not remember it?’ Dave asked. He pulled onto the Inner City Bypass, waving to a driver who had made room to let him in.

‘No. My scan. They can’t see anything abnormal.’

‘Basically, you’re nuts then?’

Harry laughed in spite of himself. ‘You might need to work on your bedside manner.’

‘I call it how I see it. So…you don’t remember anything from last night?’

‘Nope. I remember bits of the nightmare. A lot of people drowning. Fuck, it was bleak. But about the actual night, no. I went to bed, woke up with the ink.

‘It’s stupid, but if I’m not going out to get the tattoos, then someone’s coming and giving them to me.’

‘Sounds a bit David Lynch,’ Dave said. ‘To what end? Best prank ever?’

Harry shrugged. They drove on in silence for a while. He squinted through the dusty windscreen of Dave’s sedan. Heat baked the road, turning the tarmac into a shimmering oasis. Harry wished he’d brought his sunglasses. At the top of the hill they passed St Bridget’s, the gothic-style church glowing like a red brick beacon. Then the run-down row of shops that had been a mainstay of uni life until rental prices pushed the students further out of town.

‘If you want me to stay, I will,’ Dave said.

The car dropped down the other side of the hill, into the shadows, following the traffic out of Brisbane.

‘Dave, you’re getting married tomorrow. But I appreciate the offer.’

Dave shrugged. ‘I’m worried about you.’

‘I’m fine.’

Dave cocked his eyebrow.

‘Well, not fine. But, you know.’

Dave shook his head. Sighed. Then threw a hand up. ‘Okay. Okay. Just…let me know if there’s anything I can do.’

The traffic ground to a halt at the charred remains of the Red Hill Skate Arena. Popular in the ’80s, it went the way of pinball machines in the ’90s, before closing down. The owners wanted to sell it for redevelopment. There was talk of it being heritage listed. Then the place was torched.

Harry had driven past the place hundreds of times. Now, for some reason, in this reddish light, its charred roof beams and rusting fences brought him out in gooseflesh.

‘How’d your interview with Mr Excitement go?’ Dave asked.

‘It was okay.’

Harry was still confused, still angry at Ron for dredging up all that stuff. The story was good. If he knew that, how many others did? How many others kept their mouths shut and let a uni student take the hit rather than have a scandal rock the ALP? He could have vented. But Dave would offer him a slightly bemused expression, make some quip, and that would be the end of it. They’d been friends for fifteen years, would probably be friends for another fifteen, or thirty. If Harry murdered someone, then went down for it, he could see Dave sitting on the other side of the plexiglass window, that same slightly bemused expression on his face, as Harry told him how it came to be. That’s just how it was with Dave.

‘Well, he didn’t bore you to death, so that’s one thing,’ Dave said.

‘So, who are you going to vote for?’

Dave shrugged. ‘What’s the difference? None of them have any real power.’

‘That’s a cop-out.’

‘Point out a politician in recent years who’s actually made a difference. The whole thing is a facade. We’re meant to believe this is real but they do their schtick, we all trudge out on the day, in the stinking hot most likely, tick the box…’

‘You number the boxes.’

‘What?’

‘The boxes, you number them.’

‘Oh right, yeah. Whatever. And then the next guy gets in, tells us that he can’t really do anything he said he’d do, because of the state of the economy or the deficit or some bullshit, and then we continue on as before.’

‘Jesus. You’re more cynical than I am.’

Dave shrugged. ‘When you work in a hospital you quickly get a sense of what’s important and what isn’t.’

‘In other words, it’s not you speaking, it’s the old people.’

‘Maybe they’re right. That’s another thing. We think we know better. They’re the ones who have been around longer – sometimes twice as long as we have. And yet we just discount everything they say. Maybe that’s why we never get anywhere.’

Like Fred. Quite true. Most people thought he was just a crazy old man. And sure, there was a touch of the crazies about him, but he also knew a lot. He had a lot of connections.

They wove through the streets. The water tower appeared like a lighthouse in the afternoon sun, looking out over a sea of jacaranda trees and corrugated iron. And then Dave’s car was plunging into the deep, dark waters of Croydon Road. He pulled up outside Harry’s place.

‘Do you want to come in for a coffee? Beer?’ Harry asked.

‘Nah. Gotta push on. The in-laws are doing a dinner thing. You sure you’re going to be okay?’

Harry shrugged. ‘I can look after myself.’

He climbed out. Dave turned the car around, then leant out the window.

‘Oh. If you can avoid getting anything tattooed on your face before tomorrow, that’d be great,’ he said. ‘You know where we’re meeting?’

Harry nodded. ‘Simmo may be a misogynistic prick, but he’s an organised misogynistic prick.’

‘And that’s why he’s my best man. See you tomorrow.’

***

Harry was about to walk up the steps when he remembered the scratching noise. He went under the house. The few packing boxes he’d finished with were folded up at the back, leaning against the wooden slats. Cardboard would make a perfect rat’s nest. He strode across the cracked, oil-stained concrete slab and pulled out the boxes. He checked them out, and they looked okay.

The far side of the under-house area, away from the laundry, was bare dirt. Harry walked over and peered at the ground. He couldn’t see anything that looked like paw prints, but then he wasn’t an expert. Over in the far corner was a rusty possum trap, covered in cobwebs. He much preferred the thought of possums scratching around under the house, but they’d be far more likely to stick to the mango tree, or his roof.

He came out the back and saw the woman from next door, bringing in her washing. She was about his age, but clearly much fitter. Dressed in a singlet and shorts. He wasn’t sure if he even wanted to talk to her. But as he was turning to go up the stairs she looked over, and he caught her eye.

‘Hey,’ he said.

‘Hi.’

Harry stood there, not sure what to do. Then walked over to the fence. ‘I’m Harry. Just moved in.’

‘Hi. I’m Karen.’ She dropped one of the blue uniforms into the basket and offered her hand. Harry shook it.

‘You’re a nurse?’

‘No, sex worker. I specialise in medical fantasies.’ Beat. ‘That’s a joke.’

Harry laughed, embarrassed.

‘Yeah, I’m an RN. At Royal Alex. You’re clearly a trained observer.’

‘Heh. I am actually. I work for the Chermside Chronicle. A friend of mine is a nurse, over at the Royal. Studying to become a doctor.’

‘Aren’t we all?’

‘Hey, have you had any trouble with rats at your place?’

Karen unpegged another uniform. Shook her head. ‘Nah. We do get bush rats around here though. They come for the mangos. You got some?’

‘Ah, I don’t know. Scratching under the house at night.’

‘Uh-huh. I’ve got some traps, if you want them.’

Harry considered. Deep down, he didn’t think it was rats. ‘I’ll see how I go, but thanks for the offer. Anyway, I’ll let you get back to it.’

‘No worries,’ Karen said, and Harry turned back to the house.