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

over the small paunch of her stomach.
    What you having? she said to him.
    Paul looked for a menu along the counter. He sensed the group become aware of his presence, backing themselves away from the bar to sit upright. They fell silent.
    You look like shit, kiddo, she said to him, grinning. You alright?
    He nodded. Hoping I could still get some food?
    Jules shook her head. Kitchen is shut. Jolix has gone home. Got chips. Burger Rings. That’s it.
    Can I have some Burger Rings? And a bottle of Coke?
    Only cans, darling. Vending machine is behind you. I’ll get your chips. Three bucks.
    She reached up to the shelf of chip packets behind her. Paul looked back across to the group at the bar and saw one of them watching him, gazing blankly through long hair, such an odd, clownish expression that Paul thought for a moment that hewas joking. He looked the youngest of the group. He was the smallest by a long way, and he had a dying man’s skinniness, the skin of his face tight against the skull underneath, squared bones of his elbow and wrist clearly visible. There was no white at all to his eyes, and in the way he stared, hunched low over the bar with his eyes locked on Paul’s, he had all the menace of a dog leering through a gate.
    You want a bowl? Jules said to Paul.
    No thank you, Paul replied.
    He looked back across the bar. The skeleton’s gaze remained on him. His head was drooped forward and his mouth hung in a sort of grin, nostrils flared as though he was trying to smell him.
    I can give you a glass, Jules said. Some ice.
    I’m okay, Paul replied, looking back to her and trying his best to smile.
    Suit yourself. You go have a lie-down somewhere.
    Paul walked to the door and heard the laughter at his back.
    The concrete floor of the phone booth was dusted with white sand. There were names scratched into its Perspex walls and short, hard-won statements that had been etched with the edge of a coin or a knife. The plastic of the phone was cold against his cheek. It smelt of cigarettes and perfume.
    Dad.
    Paul? You calling from a pay phone?
    Yeah. My phone’s not working. You asleep?
    Um, no, his father said softly. Not really. Was watching something. He yawned. Must have gone under. What’s the time?
    Around ten, I think.
    His father yawned again. I should put myself to bed. Everything alright up there?
    Yeah, good, Paul said. Just letting you know I got up here.
    Oh, okay.
    How are you, Dad?
    Tired. Ringo’s been keeping me up. Got that thing with his ears again. Your mum is going to take him to the vet tomorrow, get more of those drops.
    Haven’t heard anything?
    About what?
    Elliot.
    No, his father replied. I have not heard anything.
    What about Elliot’s birthday? Paul said.
    Yes, it is his birthday this month, he said.
    Paul had known the weakness of his question, how it reached for an answer that his father couldn’t provide. His brother’s birthday was in three weeks, but what about it? What would his birthday mean? Could they celebrate it? Would they wait for him to call, on that one day, as if that was what he had been waiting for? It made no sense. The idea seemed laughable, almost cruel. But still Paul could feel a kind of hope in him that he couldn’t control, the belief that maybe Elliot’s birthday might deliver them something. He wondered if his father hoped for that too.
    Anyway, mate, his father said, you should be in bed. Won’t make Jake too happy if you’re late tomorrow.
    Yeah. Okay.
    Goodnight, Paul, his father said.
    Paul hung up the phone and stood listening to the wind, looking through the scarred Perspex to the splintered image of the main street.
    In the hostel lounge Paul went on a computer, lights off around him, enveloped by the light of the screen.
    He searched his brother’s name. He was good at digging through databases. Combing forums and chatrooms. He had been like that for years, long before Elliot went missing. It was just the way he was. It wasn’t something to be proud