Chapter 5 #2
I stare hard at the sweating Coke, tightening my grip on my fork at the mention of his name. Chris bloody Cooper. Of course he’s already here, poking his pale fingers around my hometown.
“You know him, Min?”
“No. The Daily’s based out of Sydney. And anyway”—I brush my sweating glass with a thumb—“I doubt I’ll be rubbing shoulders with anyone in that industry again.”
“Good,” Terry says. “And trust me, he won’t be ’round here again, anyway.”
Heath raises an eyebrow. “Whadya do to him?”
“To him?” He grins. “Nothin’.” He licks his bottom lip, excited to deliver the dirty punch line. “ ’Fraid his car won’t be the same, though.”
Heath smiles, raising his beer in a mock toast. Egged on, Terry continues, “And in unrelated news—if anyone’s needin’ four new hubcaps, just sing out.”
Muffled laughter fills the room, and I’m not surprised. When it comes to hard questions, the town has a way of clamming up. Or retaliating by defacing cars.
And worse.
I grip my fork tighter, remembering.
Two locals in the corner shuffle over, beers clutched tight in their hands. The second man is considerably drunker, stumbling into a corner table, swearing as his beer sloshes on the carpet.
“Didn’t catch any fish today,” the first man says darkly. I look up and he explains, “The bloody great whites. They’re scarin’ the fish off.”
“Or eating ’em all up,” the drunk man half yells. “The school sharks, all the baitfish, even.” He frowns into his beer before looking up. “You catch much on the Deep Sea today, mate?”
“Didn’t really get a chance to be honest,” Heath admits, poking at the chicken parma with his fork. He still hasn’t touched his food.
“What ’bout Luke?”
“Not sure…There was—” Heath breaks off, shifts in his seat. “There was an attack tonight.”
I flinch when the drunk man slams a palm on the table. “What?”
“Yeah, I heard,” Terry mutters. “Near the beach-three pier?”
The drunk man lurches forward, eyes glazed and feverish. “Great white?”
“That’s what I heard,” Terry answers for us, and I’m grateful he’s stepped in. “Big one, too.”
“How much do ya reckon you’d get for a great white?”
“Absolutely nothing, since you can’t eat them,” Heath tells the drunk man. “They’re full of mercury.”
“Plus they’re protected,” Terry adds. “The money’s in the mako sharks, boys.”
“Yellowfin’s sellin’ for sixty dollars a kilo at the mo,” Heath says. “Highest it’s been in a decade.”
The drunk man drops his head, contemplates his beer. “Hope the big bastards haven’t eaten ’em all.”
“It’s spawning season,” Heath explains. “The great whites won’t stay around forever. Give it a few months and they’ll move on. They always do.”
“I hate those bastards,” the drunk slurs, nearly toppling over.
Heath stands up, grasps his elbow to steady him. “Might be time to lay off the drink, mate.”
The drunk man pulls away roughly, beer spilling everywhere.
“Easy now!” Terry cautions.
I stand up, anxious. I can’t be around men like these; my throat’s too tight, my skin itches. My dad feels too close, and I need to leave. Heath follows me to the bar, a steadying palm on my shoulder. I reach for my pocket to pay, but he says lightly, “I got this.”
I feel guilty as hell as Heath hands the cash over. Money. Shit. What am I going to do for money now? I’m a journalist but it’s useless in a town like this. Worse than useless. It’s a problem.
A hazard, even.
This town only respects men who are bloody and silent. I respect anyone who ignores the anxious voice that warns: He won’t like it if I speak up. I can’t do this! and listens instead to the smaller, steady voice that whispers, Yes, you can. Because you must.
Journalism: What better way to piss off my father and honor my mother?
But after ten years in the industry, all I’ve done is write thousand-word blog posts about feuding celebrities or the miracle of rose hip oil, and cast my eyes down when Joy belittled me.
Surely my degree is still worth something, even after I threw that mic pack at her head.
Chris…Cooper. Works for the Daily.
You know him, Min?
Of course I know that bastard. There are only two national newspapers in Australia.
An industry so small it’s incestuous. Plus, before he got the big job at the Daily, he was the assistant news editor for the Mill, a tabloid paper in Melbourne.
The same one I interned at. I spent four months smashing out non-stories about D-list celebs while Chris smoked cigarettes with the editor in chief and smugly pointed out a rare spelling mistake.
It’s ‘accidentally’, Melanie. Not ‘accidently’. Make sure to use a spellchecker next time.
After that, I proofread my articles until my eyes burned. By the second month, he had nothing to criticize me for, and he’d sign off my work with a laconic, Good to go.
It was no secret he was gunning for a role at the Daily. I still remember his goodbye email:
All the best, Melanie.
Accidently yours,
Chris.
Dickhead, I thought, deleting his email. I’ve barely spoken to him since, preferring to avoid him at industry gatherings. He always seeks me out, though. Marches up, smooth and confident, shaking hands a bit too aggressively with Oliver.
He rocked up here the other day, askin’ questions.
He has questions. And I have answers…
I’m full to the brim with secrets about this town, which makes me just as complicit as anyone here. Just as dirty.
I did what I had to do to survive this place, I tell myself, hoping it will drown the other word that always follows.
Coward.
Terry chats with Heath and the bartender in their shared language, while I think about meeting up with Chris Cooper. I feel like I’m betraying him. The town. Maybe even me.
Because I have secrets I need to keep, too.
What if I share a secret with Chris? Let him uncover one dark truth about this town? I’ll use his connections to find a job…Heath and the town don’t have to know.
Uneasy, I glance around the pub at these dirty men and their dirtier deeds. I’ve seen what they do to rule breakers. Outsiders have no idea, but I do.
My dad used to say, You’re either the shark or the food.
I stare up at the sharks covering the walls, a fluttery feeling in my stomach.
God, I think, they’re everywhere.