The Gulp Page 3

  She barked a laugh. “You’ll probably be the only cunt there. Just show up, Donny’ll give you a room. He’s in the office twenty-four seven. He lives there. Just ring the bell by the door.”

  “Okay, great. Tanning Street?” He’d heard that before, when the noseless man had told him about the two pubs.

  “When you leave here, turn right out the door. Get to the roundabout, big post office on the corner, turn right again, that’s Tanning. Long walk, it’ll take you probably fifteen minutes, but just keep going. You’ll pass the primary school on your left, then Ocean Blue is a bit further along on the same side. If you reach the servo you missed it.”

  “Easy as,” Rich said. “So what do you do when you’re not working here.”

  “Fuck’s sake,” she said, and for a moment he thought he’d annoyed her, then realised she was looking over his shoulder.

  He glanced around as a crash caught everyone’s attention, glasses shattering on the floor as a table went over. Two men, somewhere in their forties with beer bellies and chequered flannies, pushed and shoved at each other. One swung a fist in a haymaker that only skimmed the other man’s head from luck. That one grunted, staggered two steps sideways, then came right back, dukes up like a mockery of Queensbury Rules. The other one had his elbows out to either side, fists clenched in front of his chest, and they circled each other, work boots crunching on the broken glass.

  “Barry, Mark, will you two cut it out!” the bar girl yelled. “Or take it outside, at least.”

  They ignored her. The one with his dukes up skipped forward and fired two quick right jabs. The first didn’t reach, but the second caught his opponent by surprise. He cried out as scarlet flooded his face from a busted nose. That one swung haymakers again, from both sides. The rest of the pub had all turned to look. People jeered and cheered, elbowing each other and laughing, like they were making bets, all moving back to give the brawlers room.

  The bar girl stood with fists on her hips, scowling. “You’re paying for any damage, fuckers!”

  The men closed again, each throwing useless punches, then clinched and stumbled around in a clumsy wrestle. They bumped into the table Rich had been sitting at, and the four rock fishers at the next table jumped up, saving their beers, laughing as they sidled around to keep watching.

  “Chrissy?” the big barman asked.

  The bar girl shook her head, watching, scowling. Rich assumed she was the manager, given the big man’s deference to her opinion.

  The fighting men broke apart and the one with a crushed nose swung another huge haymaker. It missed by half a metre and he spun around a full three-sixty from the momentum. He was only saved from going down by his shoulder crashing into a column holding the roof beams up. A roar of laughter exploded. The other man tried to take advantage, skipping in again and raining rabbit blows all over the bleeding man’s head and shoulders.

  “Here she comes!” someone near Rich said, and he turned to see one of the old ladies from the group at the back striding across the pub like a woman half her apparent age. She held a wine bottle like a club, knuckles white around its neck.

  Just as Rich started thinking, Surely she isn’t– she did.

  The old woman brought the wine bottle around in a wide, flat arc and it rang as it clocked off the side of the man’s head. He’d had his back to her and it came out of nowhere. Amazingly the bottle didn’t break. He staggered sideways, almost falling, but somehow keeping to his feet. The man with the bleeding nose looked up to see where his opponent had gone just as that man turned to face his new attacker.

  “Maisie, fuck’s sake!” he said, and the woman stepped up to him and brought the wine bottle down in a massive overhand strike, right between his eyes. This time it did break and the big man dropped to his knees, wailing as blood flooded his face.

  “Fucking hell!” Rich said aloud.

  Cheers and applause exploded, the man with the bleeding nose joining in.

  “Greg, get a mop,” Chrissy said, and the big barman nodded once and moved away.

  The one on his knees had both hands to his face, blood streaming out around his palms.

  “You started this,” Maisie said to the other combatant. “Put him in your ute and take him to Doc Blaney.”

  “Aw, Mum!” the man said.

  The woman raised the jagged neck of the wine bottle, all that was left of her weapon. “You want this in your balls?”

  Mum? Rich thought, stunned.

  “Fucken hell.” Barry or Mark, whichever he was, lifted his recently felled foe with an arm around the back and walked him out of the pub. The hurt man didn’t take his hands from his face the whole time.

  He could be lacerated under there, Rich thought to himself. So much blood all down his front, all over the floor. Rich realised he was still holding his second beer, barely touched. He upended it, downing it in one.

  Greg appeared with a mop and bucket, started picking up tables and chairs. A couple of people helped by collecting the larger pieces of broken glass. All the other patrons had returned to their drinking and talking like nothing had happened.

  “Same again?” Chrissy asked him.

  Rich managed a weak laugh. “Nah, thanks. I reckon I’m good.” He checked his phone. Still not a skerrick of signal, and the time showed not even eight o’clock yet. He wanted to keep drinking, now more than ever, but he didn’t feel like staying in Clooney’s, despite the beautiful woman behind the bar. “You do off-sales?” he asked.

  “Bottle shop around the back, drive through.” Chrissy pointed.

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “See you again, hey?”

  He smiled at her, felt his lips tremble slightly as he did so. Violence wasn’t something he coped with too well. “Sure. See you again.”

  He left the pub, thankful for the fresh air, tangy with salt and seaweed. He walked around the Shellhaven Street side of the pub and found the drive-through bottle shop. He bought a six-pack of One Fifty Lashes pale ale stubbies and a big bag of salt and vinegar chips, then walked back around the pub heading for the post office and Tanning Street. He was looking forward to the long walk to the Ocean Blue motel.

  George lay across the front seats of the truck cab, doing his best to ignore a stabbing pain in his hip and lower back. He thought it likely he wouldn’t be getting much sleep. In some ways he was glad young Rich had wandered off into town. It meant he could lay down, rather than try to sleep sitting up. That also meant he could stay hidden from view by the high dashboard and side doors. It made him feel safer. He just hoped he saw the new driver again in the morning.

  He pushed up onto an elbow and looked out across the dark car park. From his vantage point he could see maybe half the neatly marked parking spaces, and the footpath going along the side. Across the road was a coffee shop and a hairdresser’s, closed up and dark. The supermarket closed at 8pm and the last shoppers were straggling out, pushing trolleys or carrying bags. By a quarter past eight, the car park was empty.

  The arsehole’s van still sat parked at the entrance to the loading bay, though. George lay back down on his side, knees up and crammed against the gearshift because the cab wasn’t wide enough for him to stretch out straight. He shifted onto his back, knees up, but that was hell on his neck. He needed a pillow. There was a first aid kit in a padded case under the passenger seat. He sat up and shifted around to get to it. Movement outside caught his eye.

  Someone approached the van parked at the loading bay entrance. A tall, gangly fellow, with strangely long arms and fingers, that rippled like white seaweed as he walked. George had never seen such a pale person in his life, the guy was white like marble. Like chalk. He had a long face too, with dark eyes and a mouth that hung half open. He wore overalls, a tatty jumper underneath with voluminous sleeves that didn’t reach his thin wrists, and heavy black boots. He slid open the side door of the van then loped away again. George lost sight of him past the bushes and scraggly trees at the kerb where he’d busted his wheel
rim.

  There was a temptation to hop out and look in the van, but George trembled at the thought of it. Nothing would get him out of this truck cab before dawn lit the sky. Not in this town.

  The tall, pale man came back into view, walking backwards. He carried something bulky, a large canvas bag. Another man held the other end. He was entirely normal looking compared to the first guy. This one had dark hair, jeans and jacket, running shoes. His face was twisted in something like disgust and he wouldn’t meet the pale man’s eye. They turned sideways and hefted the large bag into the van. As they did, it twitched and rippled, like something, or several somethings, were squirming around inside. It flexed and pulsed, then disappeared into the shadowed interior.

  The man in the running shoes nodded once, hurried away. The pale man slid the side door of the van closed, then turned and looked directly at George.

  George gasped and slumped out of sight behind the dashboard, knees cramped into the steering column. His heart hammered, his palms were cold and sweat-slicked. He licked suddenly dry lips and stayed still, waiting to hear the van start up. It didn’t. After several minutes, his lower back began to burn. Nothing for it. He had to move. Surely the guy had gone, maybe locked the van and wandered off again.

  George sat up and the pale man was right there, still staring. He hadn’t moved a muscle. His half-open mouth gave him the impression of being simple-minded, but his dark eyes were sharp and focussed. That mouth fell open a little wider. Is that a grin? George wondered, mesmerised. The man had no teeth.

  George nodded once, raised a shaking hand in a weak greeting. The pale man’s mouth opened even wider, a black chasm in his white face. Then he turned abruptly to the side and climbed into the cab of the van. George watched as it coughed and rattled twice before firing into life and the pale man backed away from the kerb and drove off.

  “This fucken town,” George said aloud, and scrunched back onto his side across the seats, pulled his jacket over himself. He squeezed his eyes shut, but sleep seemed a lifetime away.

  Rich walked along Tanning Street, the plastic bag with his beers and chips bumping against his thigh. The road was long and straight, rising and falling, heading due south along the coast. The post office had been pretty cool, with a clock tower and everything. Large sandstone blocks and interesting architecture. He lamented they didn’t make buildings like that any more. On the other side as he’d turned the corner was the harbour, glittering in the moonlight. A large curve of stony coast with the cement berths and breakwaters further east as he turned south. He saw a lighthouse on the end of the furthest promontory of rock, its light circling, spearing through the night.

  He passed a couple of restaurants and takeaways, most with hardly any patrons. The Victorian pub on the diagonally opposite corner from Clooney’s had seemed warm and welcoming. More old-fashioned country pub, less weirdo sea shack. He’d paused briefly, looking in, part of him wishing he’d gone there instead of Clooney’s. Still, all country pubs were fundamentally the same under the veneer of their décor. He had his own beer now, and thought it wise to find somewhere quiet.

  He passed a doctor’s surgery on the right and another park and playground on the left, this one butting right up to a small beach and the ocean beyond. Low white caps of surf reflected light from the half moon. A surf lifesaving club building stood at the south end of the park, but it looked dilapidated, a couple of the windows boarded up.

  Tanning Street undulated lazily, rising twice to a roundabout crossroads, descending again in between. Left off the roundabouts were small headlands with houses, like the bigger headland that made the south side of the harbour. It seemed The Gulp had numerous small beaches and coves along its coast before the high cliffs to the north and south. The shops and services quickly gave way to houses after the small beach and park. He passed a big primary school on the left, Saint Augustine’s.

  Most of the houses were single storey, from at least the 70s if not older. A lot of weatherboard, a lot of metal roofs, some tiled. Low garden walls and neat lawns in front. As he approached one he heard a kind of low whistling sound, and lots of scuffling. He frowned, then saw the garden was full of cages. As he leaned closer, he realised the cages were full of whiffling guinea pigs. Dozens of them, at least ten to a cage, crawling over each other in a mess of straw and vegetable scraps. It couldn’t be right, keeping them so overcrowded like that. He grimaced and walked on.

  He passed a large funeral director’s on the right, a low building with a neat drive and well-tended shrubs. Let Us Care For Your Dead the sign said and Rich frowned. Hell of a way to phrase it.

  A little further on he saw the sign for the Ocean Blue Motel, a large white square lit up inside with fluorescent tubes that flickered slightly. A U-shaped drive had a single story of motel units all around it, twelve in all, with an office at the end. A car park space was painted on the bitumen outside each unit, but none of the spaces were taken and the only lights on were in the office. Reception, it said on the door. Rich walked up and peered in through the grimy glass. A rack of postcards and flyers stood just inside to the left, two old vinyl chairs on the other side, and a desk with computer on it against the back wall. A door led away behind the desk but that was closed.

  Ring the bell, Chrissy had told him. He looked for a button, then saw a weathered rope hanging down. The rope led up to a small brass bell that made him think of fishing boats. He let out a short laugh. “An actual fucking bell,” he muttered, and pulled the rope.

  The bell swung in its mounting and the high brassy ring was strident in the otherwise quiet night. Rich winced, glanced around. Not really anyone to disturb, he supposed. The nearest house was on the other side of the office and the motel seemed unoccupied.

  He waited, reluctant to ring again, despite the lack of people. He was also reluctant to try anywhere else. He’d had enough walking and needed a quiet spot. After the weirdness and mayhem of the pub he just wanted to be on his own and drink his beers. He raised a hand to knock when the door behind the desk popped open. He jumped, then gathered himself. A young-ish man came out, maybe mid-30s. He had on striped pyjamas and a black woollen beanie, oversized ugg boots on his feet. His hair hung long and greasy in brown and blond strands around a narrow face with the most hooked nose Rich had ever seen and a strangely prominent Adam’s apple. He smiled and nodded, pointed to his desk. Rich waited. Donny, Chrissy had called the proprietor.

  Donny dug in a desk drawer, then came up with a bunch of keys and unlocked the office door.

  “How are ya?”

  Rich smiled. “Pretty good, thanks. Donny is it? I’m Rich. Chrissy at the pub said you’d be able to fix me up with a room for the night?”

  “You’re rich? Maybe I should charge ya double, hey?” Donny hyucked a laugh.

  Why was everyone making the same joke, had they never met a Rich before? “It’s Richard, and I only have a card to pay with. No cash.”

  “That’s all right, we’re not entirely medieval here.” Donny leaned out the door and looked left and right, sizing up his motel. “Number six, hey?”

  Rich shrugged. “Sure, I’m easy.”

  Donny gestured inside and went back to his desk. He pulled out a large book and opened it. “Sign-in details here, please.”

  The page was otherwise blank, so Rich filled in the top line with his name, address and mobile number. He chose not to include his email address. He pointed at what he’d written. “My phone gets no service here.” He pulled it out to check again and it still had no signal. “Yep, not a thing.”

  Donny grinned, pulling the book back across the desk. “Only a couple of providers get any signal in The Gulp. The cliffs either side put the whole town in a kind of bowl. Don’t worry about it, just a formality. I won’t be calling you for a date or anything. What brings you here then? No bags?”

  “Unexpected stopover. Truck broke down, waiting for a repair in the morning.”

  “Right. Pain in the arse, hey?”

&n
bsp; “Yeah, I guess. Still, it’s given me a chance to check out Gulpepper. I’ve never been before.”

  Donny looked up from under the rolled over wool of his beanie, eyes narrowed. He licked his lips and nodded once, then turned his attention back to the book. What was he looking at for so long? There were only ten or so words written there. Donny sniffed suddenly and put the book away, then rummaged in the drawer. He pulled out a key on a ridiculously large wooden tag, shaped like a dolphin. It had SIX 6 burned into both sides.

  “Eighty-five bucks a night and we put a deposit of another hundred bucks on your card. That’ll get credited back right away assuming there’s no damage when you leave. Just one night?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  Rich tapped his card, waited for the beep, then Donny handed him a receipt and his giant key fob.

  “No car?”

  “No, I walked up here. Truck broke down?”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  Donny sat, smiling up at Rich. His two front teeth crossed ever so slightly, making a slight ridge that pushed his top lip forward under his weirdly large nose.

  “Okay,” Rich said. “Thanks very much. I’ll, errr...” He gestured back over his shoulder.

  “Right-o,” Donny said.

  Rich turned away and was halfway out the door when Donny said, “How hot is Chrissy, hey?”

  Rich looked back. “She’s really good-looking, yeah.”

  “Good-looking? She’s a fucken cracker, that one. I’d love to...” Donny rocked in his chair, like he was trying to thrust his hips while sitting down. The chair creaked.

  “Ha. Yeah, I get that. Night then.” Rich hurried out and closed the door before Donny could share any other thoughts of what he’d like to do.

  The room smelled of dust and damp when he opened the door, a slightly off, briny smell no doubt from being so close to the sea. But it was clean enough, simply furnished. A double bed, desk and chair, small bar fridge in one corner with a microwave, kettle, tea and coffee stuff on it. A wardrobe with sliding mirror doors in one corner reflected Rich back at himself. He looked into the bathroom at the back. It had a sink, toilet and glassed-in shower cubicle. Simple and clean enough.