The Gulp Read online

  “Nah, gotta be now. Can’t you send someone in from Monkton or Enden?” George’s voice was angry, but it was higher in pitch too. Scared? “Then what are we supposed to fucken do? Fuck! All right.”

  He hung up and the eyes he turned to Rich were haunted. “No one coming until the morning.”

  Rich’s eyebrows rose. “Overnight in The Gulp then?” It didn’t bother him, he had no one waiting for him. “Better ring your wife.”

  “I’m gonna back it up before all the air is gone.” George got back into the cab and lined the truck up along the left side of the loading bay, as neatly tucked against the supermarket as he could make it, leaving the damaged front right wheel easily accessible. He didn’t get out of the cab.

  Rich walked over, looked up as George wound down the window. “Where we gonna stay then? You know anywhere? Motel or something?”

  George barked a laugh. “Right here.” He held up an empty plastic two litre Solo bottle. The man chugged the stuff all day long. “I’ll piss in this and sleep where I sit. I suggest you do the same.”

  “I’m not sharing a fucking cab with you overnight, much less a bloody piss bottle, mate!” Rich gestured behind himself. “There’s a whole town out there. It’ll have pubs and motels and shit. Let’s have a feed, get pissed. Enjoy ourselves.”

  “Nah, no chance. I’m staying right here. You should do the same.”

  “You’re taking all this a bit far, George. I get it, I’m the new boy, wind me up. But this? It’s a bit much.”

  “You can do whatever you want, son. But I strongly advise you stay in here with me.”

  “No way, mate. I’ll find somewhere to stay in town. What time are they sending out a wheel?”

  “Said someone would be here by eight.”

  Rich nodded. “I’ll be back by eight then.”

  “If you’re not here by ten, I’m leaving without you. I’ve put in years and this is my last week. My last run to this place. I’m not being swallowed by The Gulp three days before I quit.”

  Rich laughed, twisted his face into something sardonic and said in a bad American accent, “I was three days from retirement, dammit!”

  “I am not kidding, Richard. Ten a.m. I leave, with or without you. Then I do my last two days of deliveries and I’m a retired old cunt with nothing but drinkin’ and moanin’ to do for the rest of my life.”

  Rich frowned, looking up at George, the sky above him darkening into night. “All right, mate. Whatever you reckon. I’ll be here by eight.”

  George nodded once, but his face was resigned, like Rich had suddenly become his biggest disappointment. Then he rolled up the window and was lost behind its dark mirror as a streetlight buzzed on and made a pool of weak yellow glow.

  “Crazy old man,” Rich said with a laugh. He turned and headed out of the loading bay, then turned left towards the harbour.

  The streets were wide, forty-five-degree angle parking bays along both sides, with deep stone gutters. It was relatively quiet, a handful of pedestrians wandering around, a few cars crawling by in the speed-restricted local traffic zone. Rich passed a Chinese restaurant, empty of customers, and a Leagues club that seemed quite busy, and crossed the road beside another roundabout, a neat circular bed of flowers in the centre. He entered the main street proper, surf shops and pharmacies, a Salvation Army thrift store, kebab shop, banks and a doctor’s surgery, a second-hand bookstore. The place was pretty nice, he decided, the architecture old-fashioned like so many country towns in Australia. There was a heavy air of colonial settlement in the style, the white man’s boot print heavy on the landscape. Again, like so many Australian towns. All of them, if he was honest about it.

  He came to a large park on his left, a big war memorial arch standing white and stark against the shadowy green grass. He frowned at a couple of piles of mushrooms, or were they toadstools? Normally you’d find wreathes of flowers placed against a war memorial, but this was the first time he’d seen fungus. And so deliberately placed. He laughed, kept walking. A children’s playground sat far back from the street in the middle of the park. It looked to be in pretty good condition, bright colours in hard plastic, rubberised crash matting underneath. Certainly the most modern thing he’d seen thus far in town. Streetlights beside a community centre next to the playground cast a wan orange glow across the play equipment, and Rich startled when he realised four people were sitting on the large double-sided metal seesaw. They were almost solid silhouettes with the weak light behind them, but they were clearly all watching him go by. He was a good fifty metres away, on the footpath raised a little higher than the park, but they stared up the slope at him with a strange intensity. Grown-ups too, not kids.

  Well, Rich told himself, teenagers more likely. There wasn’t much to do in country towns and kids tended to hang out in public places until they were old enough to drink, then they’d hang out in the pub. Rich was well past the hanging out stage of his life and most certainly headed for a pub. There had to be one. And it would hopefully have a bistro too. He was starved.

  He tore his eyes away from the curious teenagers and skipped sideways as a man with a dog walked right at him. “Scuse me,” Rich said, even though the man had made no effort to avoid a collision.

  He wore a heavy woollen coat, down to his knees, despite the late summer warmth. Rich was comfortable in cargo pants and a t-shirt, a light denim jacket clutched in one hand in case it got colder later. The dogwalker had a dark hat, a trilby or something like it, pressed down low on his brow, his face a dark shadow. His dog was a golden retriever, glossy in the streetlight, face split in a guileless grin.

  As they were almost side by side, Rich paused. “Actually, mate, sorry to bother you.”

  The man stopped and turned, streetlight splashing across his face under the brim of the hat. He had no nose, just two dark, vertical holes beneath his eyes. “What?”

  Rich swallowed, determined not to be spun out by the unexpected deformity. But George’s words slid across his hindbrain.

  Gulpepper is just... different, that’s all.

  “Well?” the man demanded. “I’ve got to be home, can’t be out when... got to be home.”

  His dog sniffed wetly at Rich’s hand and Rich absent-mindedly patted his golden head. It was damp, a little sticky feeling. He grimaced, pulled his hand away. “I was wondering if you could tell me where the nearest pub is?”

  “The Gulp’s got two. Gulpepper Inn about a hundred metres further along here on the other side, corner of Shellhaven Street. The Victorian Hotel is on the same block, diagonally opposite, corner of Tanning and Kurrajong Street.”

  Rich opened his mouth to says thanks, but didn’t get a chance as the man put his head down and walked quickly away. He was stocky and seemed to fill his coat strangely as he ambled off at speed.

  Rich walked on. After he passed the park he came to a large sandstone building, an old hall of some kind, now a museum. History of The Gulp was stencilled on the door. He might try to find time to spend in there when it was open, he decided. This place was certainly piquing his interest. And not in entirely good ways, but curiosity was a valuable trait, he’d learned. It tended to allay fears. Knowledge was power and all that.

  He looked over when he came to a crossroads, Shellhaven Street heading off up a fairly steep hill and whatever street this was continuing on further towards the harbour. Sure enough, across the road was the Gulpepper Inn, the name carved into the plaster façade of the second storey. Maybe they had rooms too. A sign in gold letters across the doors said Welcome to Clooney’s. Schizophrenic pub? A big sign in another window said Harbour Bistro. He imagined a line of sight right through the large block to the other pub the old man had mentioned and decided not to bother. No point in walking further when there was beer and food right here.

  Clooney’s, if that was its name, was a classic seaside town pub. Busy but not packed, a long bar all the way down one side with sets of beer taps at regular intervals. Shelves of spirits covered the
wall behind the bar, a huge plastic marlin mounted above. No stools at the bar, but high tables with tall stools around them at the front, plenty of regular tables and chairs scattered around the back half of the long room, again a little more old-fashioned than might be expected in a city pub. All manner of fish and fishing paraphernalia adorned the walls, a huge net hung across the ceiling in the front corner opposite the door, filled with faded plastic fish and crabs. A few photos, some old black and whites, others in colour, showed locals with particularly memorable catches. A few sharks, some big fish Rich would never identify. One showed a young man with a lobster nearly as big as he was, but kind of wide and flat. Surely that was a fake.

  People stood around the pub in groups or sat at tables, most of them young to middle-aged, a fair mix of men and women. A few older people here and there, most notably a table of six grey-haired women who must have averaged at least 80 years old. They were raucous, laughing and rocking back and forth in their chairs, wine glasses in hand. A general hubbub filled the place, the murmur of conversation, music coming from somewhere, but Rich couldn’t see a jukebox. Eighties classic “Love is a Battlefield”, he realised after a moment.

  Deeper in was a corridor with toilet doors on one side, then a back door leading out to a courtyard and more tables and chairs. Smokers were busy drinking and filling their lungs out there.

  Rich went up to the bar, an older man and a younger woman serving behind it. The man ignored him and the young woman came over. She was beautiful, with a killer figure and long dark hair tied back in a loose ponytail. Maybe mid- to late-20s, perhaps a year or so younger than him. Rich threw his best casual, disinterested smile at her. “How ya goin’?”

  “What can I get you?” she asked. Cold, clearly not interested in a chat or telling him how she was.

  Never mind, he’d play nice and friendly and see if she thawed. Would be great to get laid tonight, an unexpected bonus to the night’s weirdness. “Schooner of Lashes, thanks.”

  She poured the pale ale and he handed over ten bucks. When she came back with the change he said, “It’s my first time here and I need a feed. Any recommendations?”

  She looked at him for a moment with a strange hardness in her eyes. “I recommend you check the menu and pick something you like.” She smiled then, and there was a hint of genuine humour in it.

  He couldn’t help his own smile spreading and opened his mouth to say more but she turned away. Not to serve someone else, she simply turned and moved a couple of metres off and stood looking out over the bar. Well, all right then, Rich thought.

  The food service area was at the end of the bar and he went along to look over the menu. All the usual culprits, schnitty and chips, steak, chicken parma, salt and pepper squid.

  “Anything but the seafood,” a voice said.

  He turned to look and one of the old women from the group up the back was moving past, heading to get a drink. It could only have been her who spoke, but she didn’t even glance back. He decided to take her advice anyway.

  The man from behind the bar approached this time. “What’ll you have?”

  “Steak, chips and salad, thanks. Sirloin, medium rare.”

  “Sauce?”

  “Pepper?”

  “Yep.”

  “Thanks.”

  The man rang it up and Rich paid, watching the fluorescent light reflect off the guy’s head through a wisp of thinning hair. He was a big fella, maybe only an inch or two taller than Rich’s six foot, but he was wide and looked fat at first. Closer inspection revealed barely an inch of fat over thick rolling muscle. He reminded Rich of the powerful dudes he’d seen in World’s Strongest Man contests on TV, genetic mutants who seem to naturally grow massive. He probably carried beer kegs around like it was no big thing. He held out a number on a metal stand in one meaty paw and Rich took it. Number 13. He nodded his thanks and turned away.

  He pulled out a chair and sat at an unoccupied table towards the back, stood the number in the centre, looked around at the varied clientele. It all seemed pretty normal to him.

  “You’re a fucken idiot!” one of four young men at the next table said suddenly, leaning back with laughter. His three friends laughed along, one looking a little chagrined as well. No doubt he was the idiot.

  The accuser glanced over and saw Rich looking. Rich nodded.

  “How ya goin’?” the man said through his nose.

  All four were maybe early- to mid-20s, jeans and work boots, t-shirts, drinking schooners of beer.

  “Pretty good, thanks,” Rich said. “You?”

  “Nice night for it.”

  Rich wasn’t sure what it might be, but he nodded again. “Sure is.”

  The guy kept staring, his face entirely neutral. His three friends watched too. After a couple of seconds the weight of their collective expressionless gaze became uncomfortable.

  “The steaks any good here?” Rich asked, grasping for anything to say to break the moment.

  “Better than the Vic but it’s a harbour town. You should eat the fucken seafood, hey.”

  “Didn’t think of it like that.”

  “See any fucken cows on your way in?” another of the group said.

  “Can’t say I did. Saw a few farms, but not what was, you know, on them.”

  “Fucken great ocean out there full of good tucker. No point eating shit that has to be shipped in from elsewhere.” The guy said elsewhere like it was a disease.

  “Good point.” Rich smiled. “I’ll try the seafood next time.”

  The four of them stared again, clearly happy to peruse without conversation. Rich began to feel like a museum exhibit. “You guys fish?” he asked.

  “Course.” The man gestured around the table. “The four of us here are the best rock fishers in town.”

  This elicited waves of laughter and guffaws around the table and a few choice comments from other patrons nearby.

  “Couldn’t catch a disease if he licked a dead hobo’s arsehole,” one older guy said. He was probably late-50s, iron grey curly hair and corded muscle along his forearms. “Hey? Who’re ya kidding, Troy?”

  “Fuck ya, Trev!” Troy said, but he laughed along.

  “Couldn’t catch a train at a single-platform station,” one of his mates said.

  “Couldn’t catch crabs in a one-woman town,” said another mate.

  Laughter ran long and loud, including Troy. He seemed like a good sport.

  “Where do you fish?” Rich asked, as the laughter faded.

  The four around the table fell suddenly serious, all the others around quietening down. The man with the grey hair tutted loudly.

  “Tryin’ a steal our spots, mate?” Troy said.

  Rich had never fished in his life, had no idea what it even involved beyond a rod, a hook, and water. “Nah, nah. Just making conversation.”

  The expressionless gazes from before, which had become full of mirth, were now steely and hard, eyes narrowed. Rich swallowed.

  “Thirteen?” a voice said beside him.

  He jumped and looked up, saw a thin woman in the black and whites of a chef, long dark hair pulled into a greasy ponytail. She held out a plate.

  “Yes, thanks!”

  He took the plate, grateful for the distraction. The woman snatched up his number and walked away. The group of keen rock fishers were leaning into each other across their table again, talking quietly. The man with the curly grey hair had his back turned.

  Jesus, Rich thought.

  He kept his eyes down, concentrated on his dinner, which turned out to be really good. Except the dressing on the salad that seemed strangely bitter, with a tang he couldn’t quite place. Not unpleasant, just unusual. He cleaned his plate and felt a lot better for the feed. He drained the last of his beer and went back to the bar.

  “Same again?” the girl asked.

  “Yeah, thanks. I’m Rich.”

  “Are ya? Maybe I should marry ya. Then kill you for the money.”

  He laughed, b
ut her face was a little too intense for his liking. “Short for Richard. I’m a truck driver, so my wealth is not extensive, sadly.”

  “Your wealth is not extensive?” She laughed. “Fucken hark at ’im and his fancy talk.”

  She poured the beer and took his money, but didn’t walk away this time.

  “I wasn’t expecting to stay overnight, but turns out I need a bed,” he said.

  “It won’t be mine, cowboy.”

  “No, that’s not what I meant.” He hoped, but it wasn’t what he’d meant. “Can you recommend somewhere? Are there rooms here? Nice harbour town like this must get a lot of tourists, yeah? So I figure there’s plenty of places to stay.”

  “Tourists? Nah, not really. Not the sort of place folks pass through and no one comes to The Gulp for fun.”

  “They don’t? Why not?”

  She smiled a little crookedly. “They just don’t. Some maps don’t even show us being here.”

  “Seems a little weird.”

  “The Gulp is a weird place. Blackfellas had the right idea.”

  “What?”

  “They wouldn’t settle here. One of the few places white settlers really did find empty, but for wildlife.”

  “Is that right?”

  She tipped her head a little to one side. “You walk down the main street to get here?”

  “Yeah, I was delivering to Woollies, but the truck... broke down. So I have to stay till morning.”

  “So you walked past the museum?”

  “Yeah, I saw that. It was closed.”

  “You’re so interested in The Gulp, you should go in.”

  Rich nodded. “Okay, I’ll do that.”

  “Ocean Blue.”

  “What?”

  “Motel. Up the top end of Tanning Street. We don’t have much call for accommodation, but there are a couple of motels, and a campsite with a caravan park. All of ’em spend most of their time empty. You could take your pick of any, but Ocean Blue is probably best.”

  “Right, okay, thanks. Why that one?”

  She shrugged. “Just probably best, that’s all.”

  “Do you have a number? Should I ring ahead?”