The Minnow by Diana Sweeney Read Free Book Online Page B

always unwelcome according to Bill.
    Paul leans forward, draping his arms over the seat between Bill and me. The first and second fingers of his left hand are stained a rusty yellow from years of roll-your-owns. ‘Jacko’s mate,’ he says, hooking his right thumb back at the passenger sitting next to him (in case we’d somehow missed the fact that Jacko’s riding in the twin-cab with us), ‘from out west,’ Paul continues, ‘near Lake what’s-its-name.’
    Paul pauses a moment, but Jacko doesn’t offer up the name of the lake. It’s always like this. If Paul wasn’t with us, the two-hour drive would go by in silence. But Paul’s a talker. Bill says that Paul’s the kind of bloke who sees a gap in the conversation and just has to fill it.
    â€˜You see him, Tom?’ he asks me, when it is obvious that Bill has lost interest.
    I shrug indifference and resume staring out the window. If I wanted, I could tell him that I saw a strange guy loitering around the pie shop. Saturday afternoon, while I was waiting for Jonah. Tall, red hair. Walked like he had ridden a horse all his life. Papa says a horse spoils a man. I’m not sure what that means.
    Instead I say nothing. I like Paul. I’ve known him most of my life. It would be so easy to chat about the new guy; make guesses about what he’s doing in town. But it would only make Bill edgy. Bill likes to be the one in the know. If I piped up, Bill would wonder why I hadn’t told him first. Then he would question me about it; why I had kept it to myself. Stupid, really. Just a stranger standing outside the pie shop. But Bill can make a mountain out of any molehill, no matter how small.
    â€˜Jacko reckons he used to have family. The Fischers would be my guess, if his red hair is anything to go by.’
    Shake Fischer. I think he was in the year below me. I didn’t know him that well, but I’d chat to him every now and then. He had one blue eye and one brown eye. Apparently it ran in his family. That and the red hair. Shake was a nickname. I’ve no idea how he got it.
    â€˜You know the Fischers, Tom?’ asks Paul, tapping my shoulder.
    â€˜I knew them,’ I answer. ‘Their house was in Keen Street, below the marker.’ The flood sign in Keen Street had been incorrectly positioned at the high end of the road. No one had bothered to move it because, back then, it never rained. People thought it was funny.
    â€˜That’s right,’ says Paul, putting two and two together. ‘Poor bastards.’
    â€˜Jesus, Bunter,’ says Bill, ‘could you get any more depressing?’
    â€˜Sorry, mate,’ says Paul to Bill. Then the penny drops. ‘Oh, shit, Tom…’
    â€˜It’s okay,’ I say. But there’s a lump in my throat and suddenly I’m crying.
    â€˜Oh, Christ,’ says Bill.
    I turn my face to the passenger window and watch the view speed past. Paul starts to say something, but thinks better of it and instead gives my shoulder the briefest of squeezes before slumping back in his seat. A minute later, the cabin is filled with cigarette smoke. No one speaks for the rest of the trip.
    Finally we turn onto Minbayon Falls Road. The gravel has recently been graded, promising a smooth, if dusty, ride. Bill tunes the radio and I fall asleep.
    I’m in someone’s house. It is beautifully furnished; everything looks like it belongs in a magazine. I am standing at the door to the lounge room and there is a woman, fast asleep, in bed. The bed is out of place among the sofas and lounge chairs. I wonder if the woman is ill.
    There are two other people in the room; an old woman and a young girl. The old woman is reading and the girl is playing with something on the floor. They ignore me. Maybe I’m invisible. I enter, close the door behind me, walk past the bed and across the room to the windows. Every step I take makes a squelching sound