Another Night in Mullet Town Read Online Free PDF

to the lake.
    â€˜Shit, Manx! Patrick’s dad
    is on the beach,
    and he’s heading this way.’
    Manx quickly flips the fish onto a sheet of foil,
    and turns off the gas.
    I grab the esky
    and we clamber over the railing down to the garden
    and scamper into a vacant block next door.
    Manx stops near a fallen log.
    I keep looking behind for Mr Lloyd-Davis,
    but Manx sits down, carefully unwraps the fish
    and offers me a fillet.
    â€˜What are you doing?’ I ask, breathing heavily.
    â€˜Enjoying the fish before it gets cold, Jonah.’
    â€˜What if he sees us?’ I ask.
    â€˜We’re having a picnic.’
    â€˜He’ll smell the fish,’ I say.
    Manx shrugs, takes another bite
    and wipes the juice from his lips.
    â€˜So?’
    Mr Lloyd-Davis stands
    looking out across the lake,
    more interested in his mobile phone
    than a feast of mullet.
    The pink house blushes,
    the sea eagle tilts away from the lake
    and Patrick’s dad turns and walks back
    towards his mansion.
    Manx rolls his eyes
    before returning to the deck
    to enjoy the sunset of
    a meal, well earned.

Sharks
    â€˜My dad told me
    when he was my age
    he used to bring his girlfriend
    to a fishing cabin here on the sand
    that most of the kids in town
    thought was haunted.’
    Manx takes a swig of beer.
    â€˜Dad said the girl
    was holding him so tight
    expecting a ghost at every turn.’
    Manx looks around the deck
    at the shiny barbecue,
    the teak furniture
    the plants in terracotta pots.
    â€˜Dad spent most weekends
    dragging a net offshore
    catching mullet with every run.
    The old blokes who lived here
    shared their beer
    if he cooked them fish.’
    I realise Manx is talking to himself
    more than to me.
    â€˜They’re all dead now,
    except old man Beattie.’
    I picture Beattie’s shack
    of rotting timber and corrugated iron
    wedged between these mansions.
    â€˜Dad reckons Lloyd-Davis
    offered Beattie three hundred grand
    and a place in an old people’s home.
    Mr Beattie told him to come back
    with a serious offer,’ Manx says.
    â€˜I wonder how long he’ll last,’ I say.
    Manx sculls his beer
    and tosses the bottle off the deck.
    â€˜Every day he hangs on
    is spitting in the face
    of these rich bastards,’ Manx says.
    â€˜Just ’cause they’re rich doesn’t make—’ I start.
    Manx holds up his hand.
    â€˜Imagine someone let loose a shark in the lake.’
    He sneers. ‘Make that two sharks
    and they start feeding off the mullet.’
    â€˜Everyone’s got to eat,’ I say.
    â€˜But these are ugly bull sharks
    who take more than their share
    and they have baby sharks
    and, pretty soon,
    there’s no food left for anyone.’
    Manx looks at his reflection in the window.
    â€˜And no-one can swim in the lake anymore,’ he says.
    â€˜Sharks are territorial,’ I add.
    Manx grins. ‘So am I.’

Impossible to talk
    Manx picks up the paddle
    and tosses it to me.
    I catch it with one hand
    and look across the lake.
    A wedge of egrets
    battle into the breeze.
    â€˜Your dad doesn’t visit
    our house much anymore,’ Manx says.
    Our families used to get together every Sunday,
    the adults with beer and stories,
    me and Manx promising to catch dinner,
    and Mr Gunn cooking sausages, just in case.
    When Manx’s mum left,
    just Dad and I would visit,
    as if my mum was a reminder
    of what Manx was missing.
    Our dads would get slowly drunk
    and play darts.
    â€˜He’s taking longer hauls,’ I shrug,
    â€˜to pay off the truck.’
    I dig the paddle into the sand,
    and remember Mum standing
    in the kitchen with her bags packed.
    â€˜The Magna is cactus and Mum’s …’
    I can’t bring myself to say it.
    The wind is pushing white horses across the lake
    but neither of us makes a move.
    â€˜You can stay at our place
    whenever you want,’ Manx says.
    He steps into the kayak
    and wedges