Free One Dead Seagull by Scot Gardner Page A

’ s aprosth...’ The camel ’ s pisswas working
alread y .
    ‘Prosthetic.Fakehand,’Mumchimed.
    Nah.Don ’ tneedafakehand.I’vegotahook.I’lljust
saveitallupandwhenI’meighteenI’llbuyashit-hotcar likeaPorscheormaybeevenaSubaru. Mymind went wobblywiththepossibilities,somuchsothatIdidn ’ t noticeMumhuggingmeandkissingmeonthehead.
    ‘I’m sor r yabouttheotherda y ,love. Caughtmeona badtrot.
I’vemadearrangementsfor youtocatchthe train backto Melbourne on Christmasafternoon.
Of courseyoucangowiththeHumes.’
    ‘Iknowyouonlylovemeformymone y .’
    SheslappedmeasIgotup—hadtotellDen.
     
     
    Igotbacktotheflatataboutfive,sta r vinghung r yandstill
buzzing. Mumwascomingintotheloungefromthe hallwa y ,smoothingherclothesdown.Shewassurprisedto seemeandunsteadyonherfeet.
    ‘Oh,hellolove,’shesaidfluffingupherhairlikeshe’d justbeento the toilet. Her
facewas flushedandshe
fumbledwith,buteventuallylit, afag.ItoldherIwas hung r yandthetoiletflushed.
Dad cameout,fluffing his ownhairandMumsaidthemagicword:‘Pizza.’
    IreckonI’llrememberthatafternoonforeternit y .
     
     
    ChristmasDaywasastinke r .Itwas
thirtydegreesbyeleven
o’clockandMum ’ slittleHyundaiwasashotasachipvat bythe timewe’dmadeittoShepparton,evenwiththe ai r -conditioning
onflatout.Hugsandsicklysmiles all around.OnlyUncleDonwasanyfun.
    ‘HeyDickhead,’hesaidtomeandpulledmyarmsoI hadtobenddowntowherehewassitting.
Helooksmuch morelikeanAboriginethanMumdoes.Hisskinisdarker andhehasbrowneyesinsteadofMum ’ sblue—justlike hisdad.Hestunklikethatgreasyshitheusestocakehis
hairflatandhissedbee r -breathatme.
    ‘Sillybugge r .Whatdidyougoanddothatfor?’He grabbedmystumpfor acloserinspection.‘Cut off a pe r fectlygoodhand!Sillybugge r .’
    Ilaughedandheflashedhisgumsatme.Hegaveup wearinghisfalseteethagesagobuthealwayscarriesthem inhisshirtpocket.Itwasasit-aroundsortofday andIwas allowedtohave
acoupleofbeers. Isatintheshade
ofthe lemontreewithDonwhilethebarbiesizzledandpopped.
    ‘WhenSylviawas young...bit youngerthanyou... maybesevenoreight...thethreeofus,meandSylvia and T ed,allsleptinthesamebed.Anywa y ,onenight,
Sylvieclimbsoverthetopofmeinarealhur r y ,right?I think sheneedsthedunnyrealbad,right?NextthingI
hearthistinkle,tinklelikeshe ’ shavingapiss,right?And
Ithinkoh,shemadeittothedunn y ,right?Thenthelight flicksonandIhearmyolddadshouting,“Sylvia,whatthe bloodyhellareyoudoing?”AndSylviesays“Justgoingto
thetoilet,Dad.”Stillasleep,right?Andshepissedallover
thechairinMumandDad ’ sroom.Gawditwasafunny one,thatone.’
     
    Uncle T edandAuntiePennygaveme
abook.Thecover lookedstupidbutIflickedinsideandtherewereheapsof swea r words.Maybeit’ll bemoreinterestingthanIfirst thought.Dongavemeacardwithtwentydollarsinit.The cardwasonethathe’dmade himself.Whenhewas workinghewasanarchitectandhestilllovedtodrawand paint.Thepicturewasablackfella sittingbyasmokyfire
atthefootofahugewate r fall.Theimagewasmist y ,likea dream,andIstaredatitforquiteawhilebeforeopening itandreading:
     
    Dear W ayne,
    Y oucandowhateveryouwantto. Bestwishes,
    UncleDon
     
    It was the nicestcard.Ithought it hadthe proudest messageofalluntilIthankedUncleDonforit.
    ‘ Y eah,’hesaid.‘That ’ sallrightlittle
bloke.Madethe cardmyself,eh?Notbad.LikeIsaidinthecardmate,you candowhateveryouwantwiththetwentydollars.’
    Hepulledmecloseandwhispered, ‘Comedowntothe brothelwithmeonMondayandthattwentydollarswill buyyouahead-job.He,ha,ha,ha.’

 

     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Baz,Ker r yandDencametothestationtopickmeupin Gracie ’ s
little Honda. It was almost dark and Ker r y
couldn ’ t believe thatIhadeve r ythingIneededinone
pack,evenmysleepingbag.Irealisedwhyshethoughtit wasamiraclewhenwegotbacktotheirplaceandIsaw
their bluestationwagon.Itwasloadedlikeapregnant
hippo.Theroofrackhadduffelbagslacedontoitwith octopu s strap s an d th e boat—cleane d an d newly painted—waspiledfullaswell.
    ‘Areyousureyou’vegoteve r