Free Quota by Jock Serong

going on upstairs with all the little attic rooms you can see from the street?’
    â€˜They’re not rooms.’ He pointed at the ceiling tiles. ‘Might’ve been once. Now it’s just a false ceiling and roof joists.’ Les was rolling the bar towels up as he walked the length of the room. ‘Barry Egan’s dog got loose up there one night, little highland terrier thingy, before he got the staffy. Chased a rat up the old staircase and ran around on the top of the false ceiling, tiles going whoomp whoomp whoomp as he ran…see the three white tiles over there?’ He pointed to a pale spot above the cigarette machine. ‘That’s where he fell through…dog, rat, ceiling stuff, whole bloody show come crashing down on Don Whittle and his missus. Absolute pisser.’
    His eyes fell as he realised Charlie hadn’t broken his stare.
    â€˜You’re tired, eh.’
    Charlie didn’t respond.
    â€˜I can put you in a place till you work out what you’re doing.’
    From behind the door he produced a set of keys on a green plastic tag and flicked a hidden bank of light switches to black out various patches of the room. Charlie’s drunken stare had rested on the bright colours of the Casablanca Lucky Envelopes machine. Les reached behind it with a grunt and killed the happy blipping. He opened the main door, and the cold air curled around them both.
    â€˜Come on.’
    In the street, puddles had formed around the wounded Saab. The gutter was blocked by milk cartons and shredded cardboard. Les had taken off at a reasonable speed for a big man, but as Charlie watched him from behind, he could see a limp that originated at the right knee. He was heaving the right leg completely straight through each stride, so that his head veered from side to side as he walked.
    â€˜You done your knee?’ Charlie called tactlessly to his back.
    â€˜Long time ago, yes.’
    They were heading south, the houses thinning out and gradually giving way to scrub. The footpath lost definition, trickling out into a smooth track, greasy from the rain. There were no gutters, Charlie noticed. He made a mental note to take issue with this at some later stage when things made more sense: where the hell were the gutters?
    Les walked ahead of him, the wet scrub now brushing his ample flanks as he passed. They’d topped a rise and the wind hit them with renewed force as the dark mass of the ocean appeared. Les was muttering disconnected words every few steps. Charlie missed the first few, then caught one.
    â€˜Heath.’
    â€˜What’d you say?’’
    â€˜I said heath .’ Les stopped. ‘That’s coast beard heath. It’s what makes this whole coast look dark green. Gets little white berries on it in summer. They taste like granny smiths.’ He started along the path again, waving an abstract hand to his left. ‘Coastal daisy. Polygala. Dreadful shit. Introduced. Saw-sedge. Poa. Pigface.’
    â€˜Thanks, Les,’ called Charlie, failing to conceal an edge of sarcasm.
    Les stopped. ‘Don’t you want to know what all these are?’ he asked, blinking.
    â€˜Why would I want to know that?’
    The question seemed to strike Les as impossibly trite. ‘Why wouldn’t you want to know that?’ He shook his head gently and walked on in silence, visible to Charlie only as a faint silhouette against the dark sky.
    â€˜What are those lights?’ asked Charlie, trying to rebuild whatever he’d just crushed.
    â€˜Where?’
    Les stopped and followed Charlie’s gaze out to sea, to where a series of vague glows lit the horizon. There were nine of them, stretching from one end of the visible sea to the other, evenly spaced.
    â€˜Squid boats. It’s the season. They’re out every night at the moment.’
    Under the loose canopy of the ti-tree, a timber fence appeared. Les turned in at the gateway and crossed a small