Death of a Whaler by Newton Nerida

Author:Newton, Nerida [Newton, Nerida]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Australia
ISBN: 9781741158694
Publisher: Allen & Unwin Pty Ltd
Published: 2010-05-25T04:00:00+00:00

ELEVEN

Flinch follows the woman’s directions, the dust from the dirt road billowing behind the car, clouding his rear-vision mirror. The trees grow sparse, the ones still out here greying in the leaves. Along the way he passes a few small weatherboard houses on stilts, a rotting wooden and corrugated iron shed. But at the end of the road the woman described, he sees the house and knows it must be the one. Cracked green roof, white paint flaking like sunburn to reveal the pale, worn timber underneath. The rusted bodies of two vehicles are in the front yard. A truck of some sort and an old Hillman. Next to them lie dismantled engines, bolts and wires, bits and pieces of twisted metal, as if they have been gutted and left on display as some sort of warning. Flinch drives past the place slowly and pulls up a few hundred metres further on. He hasn’t thought about exactly what he will say to Nate’s parents, and realises now he is here that they too may blame him for Nate’s death, even if he doesn’t confess to it.

The beer has made him light-headed and he needs to pee. He gets out of the car and stumbles over to some nearby shrubs. As the spray lands on them, a scorpion darts out from underneath the shrubs and scuttles away. A crow caws overhead. There is, though, mostly silence, as if layers of dust have settled over everything, weighed down all signs of life. Flinch wonders how Nate spent his time here. Can’t picture him in this environment, all his anxiety and energy like a whirlwind in this still dirt corner. The pages of his books browning with the soil on his fingers.

He returns to the car and reverses the entire way back up the dirt road until he is outside the house. The dust rushes into the car’s open window, almost choking him, making his eyes water. He pulls the handbrake harder than necessary when he stops. He has to brush himself off when he gets out. Spits into the palms of his hands and rubs them through his hair. He walks up the pathway to the house quickly, taking the biggest steps he can manage, so that he doesn’t have time to think about what he’s doing and turn around.

The house sits slightly off the ground, but the steps to the veranda have decayed. Off to the side, there is a makeshift ramp, a couple of planks of wood nailed to the veranda. Flinch walks up them sideways to keep his balance. The front door is unlocked and hinged back. The screen door appears shut, but it moves slightly with the wind, clicking in and out of its latch.

Flinch knocks on the wall to the side of the door. Hurts his knuckles, makes little sound.

‘Hello there,’ he calls in through the screen.

There is no answer.

He tries to make out what lies behind the screen, but all he can see is a dark hallway.

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