Read Online Arms Race by Nic Low - Free Book Online Page A

behind me and put her arms around my waist.
    It’s the only thing they finished, she said wistfully. It’s beautiful. Maybe we could
finish the rest for them.
    It wouldn’t take much, I said. It’s quiet, though. Not too freaky for you?
    No. I wonder why they never finished it?
    Because they were hippies.
    Steven.
    Because things happen, I said. People make plans that don’t work out.
    Christie was quiet. Then she said, Do you think this will work out?
    What, this house?
    No, this. She took my hand and placed it on her belly.
    I thought of all the plans I had made and dropped before Christie was even born.
I thought of her plans to finish her degree and travel, and how readily I had accepted
their abandonment. I thought of my mother, meeting Christie for the first time: how
she’d held her knife and fork like she didn’t know what they were for, and how her
face was confused and brave and shamed, and how her shame at times became my own.
I thought of my father’s joking that he wanted me to father a grandchild, not marry
one. My friends who would not meet my eye, and those too keen to meet Christie’s.
Her own family, somewhere up in the Pilbara, unmet, unknown, never discussed; just
the freight of their history within her youthful frame.
    We had only known each other a year. The pull of that year had been strong. But to
the stones of this house and the shoals of rock that ran beneath, the pull of that
year meant nothing.
    Will it work out?
    Why not, I said. Then, more forcefully, Yes.
    4
    Christie woke me on Saturday with coffee and a week-old newspaper saved from Perth.
The sun was long up. We sat in its heat with our shirts off. I looked to the sweet
curved shadows below Christie’s breasts, and soon was kneeling by her side to lick
at her nipples. I tasted the sharp scent of coffee on my breath and her morning warmth,
and felt her hand in my hair.
    There was a sudden crunching of tyres over gravel. Pete’s ute powered up the drive,
a flash of green. The weight of Christie’s breast was at my lips and then was gone.
She dashed into the house and I lurched to my feet, fumbling for my shirt, working
at buttons.
    Morning, Steve.
    Pete’s voice was breezy. Out of his work clothes he looked even younger. He’d spiked
his hair, and I caught a whiff of something perfumed and chemical.
    I was in the area, he said. Brought you guys some rabbits.
    Thanks, I said. Come in. Coffee?
    Pete put his bundle on the kitchen table. With my back to him I refilled the percolator
and set it on the stove. I tried to be calm.
    Jeez, he said. What are they for?
    I turned. Pete was inspecting the hacksawed nose of one of the bullets.
    That’d make a scene, he said. Roo shooting?
    No, we just found them.
    Pete looked at me, quizzical. The hallway door opened and Christie came in. She’d
changed into a long-sleeved top and jeans, despite the heat. Her cheeks were flushed.
She looked irritable and gorgeous.
    Pete stood up too quickly. Hi, he said. I’m Pete.
    Christie.
    They shook hands, and I saw that they were about the same age.
    So, how you like it out here? Pete’s voice was full of warmth.
    Not bad, Christie said. She looked at the bag of meat on the table and I could see
her clocking why he’d come. I smiled to myself. Smart girl.
    You got uni holidays? Pete asked.
    No. I’m not studying at the moment.
    Yeah, cool. Pete leaned forward, waiting for her to say more, and I had the absurd
feeling that I was intruding. I pretended to look for something in the walk-in pantry.
    So you look more like your mum, hey? I heard Pete say. I just mean, ’cause with your
skin you don’t look so much like—
    I went back out into the kitchen clutching a bag of sugar. Pete tailed off. The coffee
pot began to murmur on the stove.
    So, what’s to do round here on a Saturday? I asked.
    Pete gave a half shrug. Go into town, he said. Do your shopping, go down the pub
for