The Old School

Extract

Acres of sheep, an arctic wind that barrelled through town, and a colonial red-brick gaol with a reputation to match the mean winters. That pretty much summed up Goulburn as far as the young woman by the jukebox at the rear of the Empire Hotel was concerned. She stared around at what Friday night had to offer: sweat, smoke and sodden beer mats. Any half-decent Sydney pub would have had a Friday the thirteenth theme, bar staff in black at least. But instead of Thai food on King Street and a band at the Brasserie she was stuck in this toilet-break town on the Hume Highway.

All night long, convoys of trucks vibrated through Goulburn's main street, their red running lights reflecting in the windows of the all-night cafés with heart-attack mixed-grill menus. In a month, just in time for Christmas, the new stretch of the Hume would open and turn Goulburn into a bypassed town. No more queues for petrol, pies and a piss at the Big Merino. The gift shop in the giant cement sheep's belly would have to rely on the connoisseurs of kitsch, ticking off stops on their list of the 'big things' that small towns specialised in: the Big Prawn at Ballina, the Big Banana at Coffs, the Big Cheese at Bodalla.

The Empire wasn't big. It was a locals' pub with a dress code of flannelette shirts, dirty jeans and ugg boots. She knew they stood out. Her companion's T-shirt and jeans said surf, not sheep. He was heading back from the bar, drinks in hand, a scotch for her and a beer for him.

She'd have to watch that. Couldn't go drink for drink with those odds.

The pub TV was on mute. Clinton flashed his telegenic smile but no one showed any interest in the new US president, with his Southern drawl and way with women. In the Empire it was Cold Chisel and AC/DC on high rotation on the jukebox and a row of gold coins along the green baize cushion of the pool table pledging challengers to the reigning champ. Between shots and schooners, local eyes slid to the back table.

She ignored them. Let them think they were lovers. She dipped her head to catch the words of the man who sat down opposite her.

'It's good gear, girlie. Jump on it four times.'

'At that price? I want to trampoline on it.'

'Hey – four times your investment, straight up. Can't ask for more. Happy campers, you'll see. You'll be happy, I'll be happy, punters'll be happy.' The man smiled. Tanned skin stretched over sharp cheekbones, knitting up the edges of stark blue eyes.

'So when do I get to see all this happiness?' She drummed her fingers against her cheek, looked bored.

'Money first. Ya know, still can't get me head round it. Little girlie like you, running this all on her own.'

'Been outa the loop, mate. Sisters are doin' it for themselves these days.'

'Not everything, I bet?' His thumb rasped away on his cigarette lighter, leg jiggling against her bar stool in time with the spark and snuff of the flame. 'Just thought your lot were more, ya know, traditional? Bit of badness in you though, eh?'

She drained the last of her scotch, pushed the empty glass towards him. 'We're done.'

'Aw, Lily – don't be like that. Ya know the way things go.'

'I know we're done.'

A sharp ceramic smack signalled a fresh break on the pool table. A couple of balls found pockets and trundled woodenly through endless tunnels.

She flattened her forearms across the table, leant forward, blew her words into his ear. 'We coulda done business, coulda made some money.' She curved closer, forcing small moons to rise beneath her T-shirt. Blue eyes and brown swam out of focus. 'Had some fun. But you don't know enough to recognise a real deal and a real partnership when it's under your nose.'

His ankles, hooked around the legs of the stool, anchored him in place even as he arced towards her. 'Money first. It's not up to me.'

'Well, if it's not up to you, maybe I need to see your boss.'

'Look, just – it's all about trust.' His smile unravelled, features sharpening, a spider web of untanned lines appeared around his eyes. 'Yer not an Islander, are ya? Got a bunch of brick shithouses waiting to jump me outside, eh?'

'Jesus, Sam, give it a rest . . .'

'Nah, nah – not an Islander, more like one of those Hong Kong chicky-babes. Action gal! Good with ya feet, are ya?' Fire darted from his fingers. She closed her hand around his, stilling his fingers, smothering the lighter.

'Why? We dancing?'

'Ya sound like an Aussie. Born here? Lob up in a boat? Boat baby, eh?'

When it came to insults, this bloke was an amateur; she'd heard worse on her way to the bar. 'Sam, you said you had product, but I reckon you're just full of —'

'Lily, I swear it's good, it's great – I swear on, um . . .' He sputtered to a halt. His fingers began ripping a beer coaster to atoms.

Her laugh rumbled in her throat. She swung forward. 'OK, Sam, OK. Bit of trust. I'll get the money here . . .' He nodded enthusiastically until she cupped his chin to stillness in the palm of her hand. 'But just for a look, OK? Touch it, feel it, sniff it, count it – fuck it for all I care. You just can't keep it. It goes away. You get my gear here and it's as bouncy as you say, the money comes back, we all live happily ever after. OK?'

'Lily and Sam.' He reached up, fingers tracing the line of her cheekbone, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. 'I feel like carving it in a tree.'

Carve it in bloody stone, she thought. Won't make it any more real.

She slid off her stool. He scrambled off his and followed her to the back door of the pub. They had to shove through a knot of boots and beer by the cigarette machine. Voices were muffled by Barnsey hammering out 'Khe Sanh', but she still heard them, just like she was meant to.

'Ever humped a wok-jockey? Reckon you're horny again half-hour later.'

Male laughter followed her out into the night.

The car sat at the end of a row of utes and bush-bashed sedans, its unblemished panels and paintwork unique among its neighbours. A man loomed out from the driver's seat and opened the back passenger-side door. No interior light came on. The waning moon, still swollen and slow, had climbed far enough above the tree line to illuminate the sports bag on the back seat. It gaped open, spilling out a dull, grey glow. Sam came closer, drawn in by the metallic sheen of hundred-dollar bills, neatly bound in elastic.

'Get in. Give it a feel. It's all real,' she said, smoothing her arms, soothing the goosebumps.

The moonlight was feeble, accentuated the darkness beyond the space of the car. Mid-November but the Goulburn night still carried the bite of winter. After the smoke of the pub the air tasted almost green – damp and earthy, a feral, animal tang.

'Tell him to piss off.' Sam was shifting from foot to foot. 'I'm not getting in till he's away from the car.'

She shrugged at the driver, who hesitated then stepped back into the shadows.

Trucks slogged down the main street, the deep drawl of their engines only slightly dampened by the pub's bulk. An air horn sounded, brakes compressed abruptly. They leapt at the sound, instinctive, then embarrassed as they identified it, eliminated it – no threat.

Sam slid along the back seat, dipped his hands into the open bag.

'So. We doing business?' She leant in, caught the odour of thousands of sweaty palms rising from the notes flicking through his fingers.

'Why not,' he mumbled, curling over the bag, burying his face in it.

He straightened up, a shaft of moonlight fusing into something solid, metallic, in his hand. A gun. The barrel yawned, a round, black vacuum. Time and light fell into it.

The pale moon waxed yellow, as Lily fell away. The ground fell open beneath her, the moon drenched in red, as she spiralled back, in a swirl of colour and sound, to a flash of light in the dark of night a lifetime ago.

Then the Goulburn night splintered into voices shouting 'Police!', shouting obscenities, shouting her name – her name, not Lily's.

Suspended between the open jaws of the car door, no longer Lily but not yet herself, she hung on, fingers drilling into the roof, finding reality in the pain of her nails snapping against the cold, metal resistance.