Another Night in Mullet Town Read Online Free PDF Page A

baby-poo highlight.’
    â€˜I’m not sure I could front a hardware
    and ask for ten litres of erect nipple.’
    Manx licks his lips and repeats,
    â€˜They’re vacant … now.’

Fish guts
    All of a sudden,
    Manx’s reel squeals
    and the floater ducks under the water.
    The rod bends wildly in his hands.
    Manx widens his stance,
    grits his teeth and says,
    â€˜Fish fillets here we come.’
    â€˜Biggest pile of seaweed you’ve ever caught, Manx.’
    â€˜It’s a mullet,’ Manx yells
    as he reels slowly, the line tensing.
    â€˜Seaweed’s fine, Manx. The Japanese eat it.’
    Manx is about to respond
    when the fish breaks the surface,
    twisting and squirming on the line.
    â€˜Seaweed, my arse,’ yells Manx
    as he flicks the rod.
    The mullet sails overhead
    landing in the kidney weed on the bank.
    Manx grips the fish tightly in one big hand
    and carries it to a boulder.
    Then he smacks its head hard on the rock.
    â€˜Here, mullet king,’ I say,
    tossing a knife
    onto the sand near the boulder.
    Manx scrapes the scales from head to tail,
    wipes the blade on his shorts
    then inserts it into the vent
    and cuts along the belly of the fish,
    all the way to the lower jaw
    before reaching in and removing the guts.
    He turns to me, holding them in his hand.
    â€˜Don’t you dare!’ I yell,
    leaping to my feet.
    â€˜Jonah, trust me,’ says Manx.
    He flings the guts into the lake.
    A flock of gulls descend,
    flapping and squawking,
    arguing over the feast.
    Manx washes the fish in the cool lake water.
    â€˜We’ve got the mullet.’
    He looks across the lake to Tipping Point.
    â€˜Now all we need is a barbecue.’

Stepping into a catalogue
    Our kayak glides onto the sand
    at the far reach of Tipping Point.
    Manx bows elaborately.
    â€˜You may step ashore, King Jonah.’
    The bottles of beer clink in the esky
    as we drag the kayak up onto the sand.
    I look across the lake to Manx’s house
    and I notice the surface of the water
    creasing in the wind.
    â€˜If the southerly builds,
    we’ll be walking the long way home,’ I say.
    Manx pats me on the back.
    â€˜After a feed of fish and a few beers,
    you’ll be able to paddle into a cyclone, Jonah.’
    He lugs the esky along the beach.
    I follow, watching for movement
    in any of the houses.
    The sand is blinding white
    all the way to the point
    where the cliff of sand-blasted rock
    shines rust red in the afternoon light.
    A sea eagle floats on the breeze.
    Twenty metres from the pink house,
    Manx stops to survey the scene.
    A grassy lawn leads up from the sand
    to palm trees lining the east fence.
    A newly built wooden pagoda
    with a hammock strung between two palms
    entices us forward.
    Hardwood stairs lead up to a deck covered by
    a shade cloth, like a gull’s wing
    shielding a shiny silver barbecue
    and a teak dining table with eight chairs.
    Leading from the deck
    are glass double doors, heavy pink curtains
    with blue seashell patterns
    and, when my shoe touches the bottom step,
    it’s like walking into a rich man’s catalogue.

A meal, well earned
    Manx strolls across the deck
    and puts his arm around my shoulder.
    â€˜Does the banker wanker
    ever sit here and enjoy the view?’ he asks.
    â€˜Nah, he’s too busy making deals,’ I say.
    â€˜Here’s a deal.
    This place for my crappy bedroom.’
    Manx slaps the mullet on the grill
    and opens a beer, offering it to me,
    before taking his bottle to a chair
    under the shade cloth.
    He flops down, puts his feet up on the table
    and snaps a selfie.
    â€˜Maybe I’ll post it on Instagram.’
    â€˜Exhibit one in a court case for trespassing,’ I reply.
    â€˜We could invite Rachel around,’ suggests Manx.
    â€˜Tell her not to knock at the front door,’ I say.
    â€˜It’s a deck party, Jonah.
    All the rage among the rich.’
    I take a swig of beer
    and look out