The Windy Season by Sam Carmody Read Free Book Online Page A

streetlight near it. There were a few figures at the jetty’s end, rods backlit, legs dangling from the edge. He crossed the road and walked across the small park to the cycle path that fringed the river. In the flat darkness of the path he let out a deliberate sigh and then laughed when the sound startled him. He laughed once more at the sound of his laughter, at how abrasive and mad it seemed in the quiet. Welcome to Stark, he said out loud, the words swallowed by the wind almost before they had left his throat, in an instant leaving him alone.
    The day had collapsed into hazy memory, the long hours of the afternoon merging into a collection of moments. The bucking deck. Sea spray. Diesel fumes. And sleep. A guilty, nervous, claustrophobic sleep. Paul had retched until long after his gut was empty and when the purging subsided and tiredness overtook him he had staggered from the toilet and away from the open deck to the gloom of the cabin. In the dark he drifted off repeatedly, face scratching against the cracked leather of the seats, before the weightlessness of a swell passing beneath the boat would open his eyes and halt his breath. He had watched the droplets gather on the white metal rims of the doorframe. And he had watched the ocean beyond it turning like a green, apocalyptic sky, towering above Michael, who was left to workthe deck alone. In patches of consciousness, Paul watched Michael pull, empty, carry and stack each heavy trap.
    Paul woke at one point to see the deck full, the pots stacked three high and dancing like a miniature wooden cityscape in an earthquake. He had woken again later to see half the traps gone and thought for a moment they had been washed overboard. But he stayed lucid long enough to watch the deckhand carry the fifty or so pots that remained, place shining fillets of bream in the bait baskets, and heave each trap overboard with their coil of rope flicking behind them like tails. Paul watched him repeat the process until the deck was clear. Michael had occasionally glanced towards him, sympathy diminishing with each haul. When the last run was complete the German sat slumped on the gunwale, ocean huge behind him, his hair wet and his face blank with exhaustion.
    They arrived at the inlet sometime mid-afternoon. Once the boat was tethered Jake had cut the engines and in an instant was down the ladder and in the cabin. He put his nose to Paul’s while the German stood quiet behind. In the fog of seasickness the moment had been terrifying and surreal, the skipper’s face weird with anger, shaking, and Paul could smell the meaty, bourbon stink of his breath. He had thought for sure Jake would hit him but he didn’t.
    The tavern car park was almost empty with only a few four-wheel drives parked close to the unlit back steps. Laughter drifted from the doors.
    Inside there was no music playing, just the percussion of loud talk, and the trebly call of dog racing coming from the bar televisions. At a far counter, sitting under the glow of the televisions, there were men who looked scarcely alive. Their skin was a dark, patchy red. Their eyes were red too, and all settled on the woman behind the bar. They hadn’t noticed Paul.
    Jules, said one of the men, I’ve got an itch that needs scratching.
    You better get that looked at, Anvil, the woman said.
    The man grunted, smiled. A couple of the others snickered. He was huge, much bigger than the rest of them.
    You look tired, Jules, he said. Let me take you home. Give you a back rub.
    Christmas is it? I thought that was still a couple weeks away?
    Nah, just your lucky day. We can fuck too, if you want.
    The other men laughed.
    What are you feeding this one, Arthur? she said. He’s got a horrible look in his eye.
    The woman saw Paul and made her way over, collecting empties on the bar. She was pretty, but looked overtired. There were deep creases around her eyes and at the sides of her mouth, puckered like old scars. Her black top was pulled down