21.
Nichola looked at the big
motoboy. ‘Who do you mean, Chance –’
‘Hush,
now. Story time,’ he said and moved his leg to sit more comfortably, balancing
on a long cattle prod under the table. Helmut blinked
The story was
an old one. Set on the eve of the Great Lilydale Gold Rush and the beginnings
of the Wastes. The bloody end of the Walker and Taylor feud. Their children,
Brayan Walker and Sharmayne Hunter, falling for each other despite the history
of enmity their family names carried. How this set in motion: a simple case of
mistaken identity, leading to secret rendezvous, the back of a Holden, a misplaced
contract, and dramatic unveiling. Then the toll booth dispute and the famous
shootout between Aayden Taylor and Hunter Walker. Both dead at its end. Sharmayne
trying to talk her brother into sense, caught in the crossfire. Blame and fury.
The discovery of gold. The question of Walker or Taylor controlling the roads
for access displaced for rage. Their lost children. And the final showdown
between the two families in the shell of an unfinished Costco. The lost voice
of Brayan trying to argue peace and cooperation. Gunned down accidentally by
his family in a hail of fire trying to hit the Hunter patriarch. The terrible
last stand. The sombre meaninglessness of it all. The rise of the Toll Booth
Gangs and the beginnings of the Wastes.
Helmut
was familiar with the story. A favourite of the storytellers in Melbourne. Some
leaned into the tragedy. Some emphasized the history. Some acted out the
gunplay. All related the same parable. Nothing – not love, fury, tragedy – is
worth the abandonment of reason. At least, that was how Helmut saw it.
The
motoboys still lurked around him and Nichola. The big one watched the
storyteller rapturously. Enthralled. The audience in The Chaddy was
quiet throughout. Sounds of slurping pasta and wet cream. A hushed undertone.
Venturing to the bar on quiet steps. The storytellers voice on the microphone
flowing through the room. Deep and resonant. Talking heads on the TVs
ventriloquising the last pleading speech of Brayan Walker.
When
the storyteller finished, he looked east and sighed. The applause was muted.
Reflective as it always was at the conclusion of this tale. People were close
enough to the Wastes out here to have maybe seen its depravity first hand.
Perhaps paid tithe to one of the closer border gangs crossing over and raiding
the other side of Blackburn Rd. Defiant of Ministry rules and guardianship.
The
Taylors and Walkers had kept the peace. Without their brand of warlord
stewardship, lawlessness ruled the Wastes.
The
usual bustle of the pub returned to volume. Helmut found his plate empty.
Nichola had not touched hers. The chef’s bag was hidden under the table on her
lap. Her jaw was set. Eyes looking for ways past the motoboys. Looking to
Helmut with questions. He didn’t return any answers.
‘Another?’
asked the storyteller. ‘Perhaps, something lighter? Shall we look into the life
of our beloved Premier, Ambrose Quilten?’
Boos
from the crowd.
‘And
how he was once fooled by a particularly clever yowie into a night of rapturous
coitous? Who pinched all his cash and ideas in a throe of hyponotic pillow
talk?’
A
raucous cheer now.
‘I
thought so. Well, that story begins when young Ambrose was still a freshly
minted Member of Ministry. The smell of Xavier College’s green fields still
about him. The words of Public Good his political tutors had gifted him at
Victoria University buzzing on his lips. And we all know how yowies are drawn
to those spritely little private school boys and their blazers don’t we? How
they adore a little bit of yummy leftmiddleright ideology? The scent of money
and entitlement secreting from their glands?’
The
storyteller was playing a dangerous game, now. They weren’t that far from the
city. From the densest set of Ministry eyes and ears. Helmut looked around.
Wanted a smoke.
‘Let’s
go,’ said the big motoboy. ‘This is a funny one, but ol Chance, he’s waiting
for you now, Nicky.’
‘How
do you know who I am?’
The
motoboys all stood up. Helmut and Nichola followed. She clutched the knife bag.
‘Give
em that, Nicky,’ said the big one, resting one hand on Helmut’s shoulder. The
other on the cattle prod.
‘It’s
mine,’ she said.
‘You’ll
be gettin it back now, don’t ya worry that face of yours over such things.’
She
refused. The other two motoboys held onto Nichola’s arms. Their fists closed
around her black sweater. One of them reached to rip the bag away from her. She
went to kick him. Swinging her leg around. They were quick and swung her around
away from them. Pulled the bag free. Nichola toppled to her hands and knees on
dirty pub carpet.
‘Be
quittin that,’ said the big motoboy. ‘Let’s go. No business now that I haven’t
said yes to. They know us at this pub. Done them a bunch of deliveries.’ He
waved at a security guard near the entrance.
‘You
right, Bohner?’ asked the security guard to the big motoboy.
‘Yeah,
mate. Dandy,’ he said. ‘See?’
Helmut
and Nichola complied. Walking out with the motoboys. The patrons ignored them.
Caught up in the exploits of a clever yowie and a daft Ministry man swindled
for all his gold and secrets.
‘That
story, bout them Walkers and Taylors out east. What’re reckon it means, hey?’
asked Bohner. He looked at Helmut. They exited The Chaddy Tavern. It was
frosty. Car windows in the parking lot were crusted with dew. The Toyota panel
van was where he left it. Now surrounded by three dirt bikes.
‘I
think its all about love and hate – that they isn’t all that different,’ said
Bohner, directing Helmut and Nichola to the van. The other two motoboys were on
their toes. Wary. Watching the coreners. ‘At the end of the day, right, one
gets caught up in the other. Each starts and ends, but like a circle. Never
quite sure how they start and finish, see. Them Walkers and Taylors they loved to hate each
other. Kept em going. All like this perfect balance. Round and round. Then
their kids get that real, storybook-type love goin. And its sweet like a donut
eatin itself. Surviving on itself - reckless, like. Cos eating nothin but
donuts isn’t much good for ya. Even though it don't need no hate sprinkled on
it for extra flavour. But it’s still out there. Hate don’t just disappear,
yeah. So, what do you do with hate then? What do you do with this hate that led
to love that led to hate that led to these two families never havin the testes
to do each other in? Hate has nowhere to go, so it ends up eating love. That’s
the best part, really. And when all that love is gone, what does hate do?
Destroys itself till there’s nothing left. Cos hate isn't no donut. It's a
black hole. They can’t live apart from each other. They can hardly live with each
other. That’s the real love story.’
Bohner
thought for a moment. They reached the van. Helmut felt his skin grow tight in
the cold. He pulled a pre-rolled cigarette from his pocket. Straightened it
‘I
fucking love that tale,’ said Bohner. ‘It’s me life, man. Now, get in the van.
Off to ol' Chance in Collingwood.’
No comments:
Post a Comment