as he belts his gun back behind his waist. ‘Driver, before sundown tomorrow you will have the lady’s belongings sitting on this porch by the front door, you follow?’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ the van driver says, already dragging Teddy along the grass of the front yard. The two goons heave Teddy inside the blue van and start off up Lancelot Street. The driver nods respectfully at Alex one last time and Alex nods back. He turns to us at the window. ‘I always told my mum that’s the worst part about this country,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘All the fuckin’ bullies.’
*
Alex sips a tea at the kitchen table.
‘That’s a nice cuppa, Mr Bell,’ he says.
‘Call me Rob,’ Dad says.
Alex smiles at Mum. ‘You raised two fine boys Mrs Bell,’ he says.
‘Call me Frankie,’ she says. ‘Yeah, ummm, they’re all right, Alex.’
Alex turns to me.
‘I had some dark periods inside,’ he says. ‘Everybody just assumes the head of an organisation like mine would be flooded with letters from friends on the outside. But the reality is, in fact, the complete opposite. No bastard writes to ya because they think every other bastard is writin’ to ya. But no man is an island, ya know, not the Prime Minister of Australia, not fuckin’ Michael Jackson, and not the Queensland sergeant-at-arms of the Rebels outlaw motorcycle gang.’
He looks back at Mum.
‘Young Eli’s letters were probably the best thing about my lag,’ he says. ‘This bloke made me happy. He taught me a bit about what’s important in bein’ human, ya know. He didn’t judge. He didn’t know me from a bar of soap but he gave a shit.’
He looks at Mum and Dad.
‘I guess you guys taught him that?’ he says.
Mum and Dad shrug their shoulders awkwardly. I fill the silent space.
‘I’m sorry I suddenly stopped writing,’ I say. ‘I’ve been in a bit of a hole myself.’
‘I know,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry about Slim. You get to say goodbye?’
‘Sort of.’
He pushes the gift he’s been carrying across the table.
‘That’s for you,’ he says. ‘Sorry about the wrapping. Us bikies aren’t known for our gift-wrapping skills.’
I pull back the roughly taped and folded red cellophane at each end, slide the box out. It’s an ExecTalk Dictaphone, colour black.
‘It’s for your journalising,’ he says.
And I cry. I cry like a seventeen-year-old baby in front of the formerly imprisoned, highly influential senior member of the Rebels outlaw motorcycle gang.
‘What’s wrong, mate?’ he asks.
I don’t know. It’s my loose knee-jerk tear ducts. I’ve no control over them.
‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘It’s perfect, Alex. Thanks.’
I take the dictaphone out of its box.
‘You’re still gonna be a journalist, aren’t ya?’ he asks.
I shrug my shoulders.
‘Maybe,’ I say.
‘What, but that’s your dream, isn’t it?’ he asks.
‘Yeah, it is,’ I say, suddenly glum. It’s the faith he has in me. I liked it more when nobody believed in me. It was easier that way. Having nothing expected of you. Having no bar set to reach or fail to reach.
‘So what’s the problem, Scoop?’ he asks, chipper.
There are batteries in the box. I slip the batteries in the dictaphone. I test the buttons.
‘Breaking into journalism hasn’t been as easy as I thought it would be,’ I say.
Alex nods.
‘Can I help?’ he asks. ‘I know a thing or two about breaking into things.’
Dad laughs nervously.
‘What’s so hard about it?’ Alex asks.
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘You gotta find a way to stand out from everybody else.’
‘Well, whaddya need to stand out from everybody else?’
I ponder this for a moment.
‘A page-one story.’
Alex laughs. He leans over the kitchen table and hits the red record button on my new ExecTalk Dictaphone. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘what about an exclusive sit-down with the Queensland sergeant-at-arms of the Rebels outlaw motorcycle gang? Gotta be a yarn in that.’
Such is life.
Boy Drowns Sea
Can you see us, Slim? August smiling like this. Mum smiling like this. Me slowing time like this in my nineteenth year on earth. Pull it up, thanks, Slim. Let me stay here in this year. Let me stay in this moment by Dad’s couch, with August’s eyes bright and wondrous as we stand around him reading a typed letter from the Office of the Premier of Queensland.
I know, Slim. I know I haven’t asked Dad about the moon pool. I know this happiness depends on me and August and Mum forgetting the bad old days. We lie to ourselves, I know, but isn’t there a little white lie in all acts of forgiveness?