Peripheral Vision by Paddy O'Reilly Read Free Book Online Page A

they are. This is an act to discourage us from staying. They want it all to themselves,’ she whispered back.
    The area around the counter was decked out with postcards pinned to a corkboard leaning against the wall, posters for Great Barrier Reef cruises and rainforest tours, ads for part-time salespeople and charity collectors, lost earrings and necklaces hanging on screw-in hooks, and a rubber marlin head looming over it all. Counter girl was filling in another form.
    Josie reached up to touch the marlin’s spike. ‘I don’t know how you talked me into this, Merryn.’
    â€˜I didn’t,’ I said. ‘You sent me a ticket to fly to Townsville. You said we’d hitch up to Cape Trib and have a ball. You said this was the trip of a lifetime.’
    â€˜You’re right. Let’s have a shower and lather up with bug spray. The good folk of Cairns await us.’
    At the pub, tables were clotted with backpackers conducting their travel conversations over jugs of beer and the crushed remains of silver chip packets. They wore singlets, shorts and thongs, and an array of fading tattoos.
    â€˜Tell me again, why are we here?’ Josie asked.
    The banter, our old clubby banter, was wrong, out of place. I didn’t know how to stop it. I took a mouthful of the yeasty cold beer and held it while it fizzed on my tongue. On the big TV screen in the corner I could see pictures of Melbourne. Something must have happened. After the opening shot of the skyline there was an image of a police car and a reporter sticking a microphone into the face of a spiky-haired kid who couldn’t hide his excitement at being on television. In between answering the reporter’s questions he kept looking around as if he was waiting for someone to applaud.
    â€˜Let’s go somewhere the locals go,’ I said. ‘I hate backpackers.’
    Josie was still looking at the TV. ‘That’s Hoppers Crossing. I used to live in a street near that street.’
    â€˜Come off it. That could be any street. All you can see is a few weatherboard houses and a dumb kid talking to a reporter.’
    â€˜No, really. I walked along that street every day when I worked at the sandwich shop.’
    â€˜You did not work in a sandwich shop.’
    â€˜Did so. For a month in school holidays.’
    â€˜You would make shit sandwiches. You can’t even slice cheese without the block falling apart.’
    â€˜I did make shit sandwiches. No one cared. They ate their shit sandwiches and enjoyed them.’
    â€˜Came back for more.’
    â€˜Daily. Sometimes they bought two shit sandwiches.’ Josie stood, drained her beer, picked up her bag. ‘Let’s find that local joint. Meet some locals. If they’re lucky I’ll consider making them a shit sandwich.’
    What’s wrong? I wanted to ask her. Why are we doing this stupid talk when you’ve flown me up here because something is terribly, awfully wrong? But I couldn’t ask. She had that power over people, making them unable to voice the same questions she would ask without hesitation.
    Every bar, every pub, every cafe was full of backpackers and their singlets, shorts and thongs, their array of fading tattoos and face jewellery. We gave up after an hour and plumped ourselves into a furry hot-pink love seat in an air-conditioned bar where the small space was compressed by too much black carpet and chipped gold paint.
    â€˜We could be anywhere,’ Josie shouted over the thump of 1980s retro pop.
    â€˜Okay,’ I called back, my straining voice breaking mid-word like a pubescent boy’s croak. ‘Let’s have this drink then go to the beach. Maybe the locals are skinny dipping.’
    â€˜Maybe they’re swimming in their pantyhose.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜You can’t swim with bare skin now. The water’s full of stingers. You know, box jellyfish.’
    â€˜We can’t swim? Crap, Josie.