The Tell by Martin Chatterton

Author:Martin Chatterton [Chatterton, Martin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781760895945
Publisher: Penguin Random House Australia

That night alone in the city, I keep to the CBD and near to crowds. The first thing a pack of hunting wolves does is try and isolate their prey – and I have no doubt that, to Sullivan’s men, I’m prey. Numbers equal safety, at least for a while.

At Circular Quay, I watch tourists taking photos and listen to the didgeridoo buskers by the ferry terminal. The tourists only see one side of the city, one side of Australia. I feel like standing on a wall and shouting out about what’s back there, hiding behind the sun and surf and freakin’ kangaroos.

I don’t, obviously, on account of I don’t have a death wish.

When it gets dark, I go to a movie theatre on George Street and watch – or maybe ‘stare at’ is more accurate – a movie. It feels safe in there, so I walk into another movie and start to watch that one too, before a security guy asks me for a ticket I don’t have and turfs me out into the lobby. I don’t argue, don’t want to bring any attention to myself. At the counter I try to buy another ticket, but my card comes up dry. All I have in cash is ten dollars and some change, my phone is out of charge and the temptation to return to Corrigan is overwhelming.

I get on the next bus to the Eastern Suburbs. At Corrigan, I jump off two stops before my usual. You can’t be too careful, hey?

I know something’s wrong before I round the corner that opens out onto Marine Parade. A fire truck whoops past me and heads up the rise towards the headland. Straight towards the Tanic house. I run.

The whole place is on fire and a sizeable crowd has gathered to watch it burn.

‘Bloody gangsters,’ I hear someone say, and someone else laughs. Keeping my hood up, I nudge through the crowd until I reach the plastic barriers put there by emergency services. Near a fire truck is a cop car and, standing next to that, Ma.

Relief that Ma’s alive floods through me. I instinctively start to move towards her when, no more than ten metres away, I spot the two guys from the BMW in the underpass. Sullivan’s guys. They’re not looking at the fire.

They’re looking right at me.

The first guy juts his chin in my direction and they start moving. I swivel and slam straight into a big guy who I sort of recognise from days at EssSee. This guy’s an older surfy: my dad’s age, loaded and an interfering pain in the backside.

‘Hey, kid,’ he says, and when I go to brush past the guy grabs my arm like he’s doing some weird citizen’s arrest thing – for what? I’m not a crim, dude. I try and shrug him off. ‘You sure about that?’ I snarl at him when he doesn’t let go.

The surfy throws up both his hands in surrender. ‘Hey, easy, no problem.’ He knows who my dad is.

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