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Authors: Johanna Sinisalo
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can fit a decent-sized one in your jacket pocket. Something bigger than a fist will make a nice dent when it hits the roof or the boot lid. The best is when it falls straight on the windscreen or bounces off the bonnet and back against the windscreen. Ante says he got a bounce once, and the car swerved into the lane of oncoming traffic and the brakes on the bus screeched as it tried to avoid the car, but there wasn’t nothing about it in the paper.
There they are, in a line down below. Like quick, scurrying beetles.
Ante says they never put this sort of thing in the paper. Like they don’t run stories about people that jump off observation towers. You’d just get more people wanting to have ago.
He says he saw the what-the-fuck look on the driver’s face as the glass shattered in front of him. I doubt it. You can’t see people’s expressions at that height or speed. Then there’s all them shards in the way and all.
SOUTH COAST TRACK, TASMANIA
Surprise Bay
Tuesday, March 2007
Jyrki
I wake up to find her prodding me. Her nervous whisper cuts the sticky air like a saw.
It’s impenetrably dark. The rush of the waves forms a thick sonic backdrop to the night.
Then I hear it, too.
A thud. A thump, the sound of something being dragged, then another thump.
Something is moving the dishes in the vestibule of the tent.
We haven’t bothered washing them up, just wiped them with a scrap of tissue paper. They are probably still giving off the strong smell of pumpkin soup. The bag of food is in my rucksack, tied securely behind an array of clips and drawstrings. Nothing should be able to get into that.
I undo the zip on the sleeping-bag. The sounds stop immediately. Someone or something freezes on the spot and listens.
The night air is biting. I reach my hand into the corner pocket inside the tent. The headlamp case is right there. I kneel down and open the case. I fumble with it to make sure it’s the right way round, then place it on my head and switch it on.
The brightness of the LED light feels almost like a slap in the face.
I open up the zips straight away, with both hands, at both sides, the mosquito net, the door.
The pot and the plates are no longer in the vestibule. One of the cups is lying on its side beside our boots and gas cylinder.
Still on my knees, I unzip the vestibule door and shine the beam of light emanating from my forehead out into the thick Tasmanian night. I let out a frightening shout, allowing a mixture of roaring and bellowing to pour out of my throat.
I hear two frenzied rustling sounds, then swooshing, pattering. Footsteps, paws, a tail — or what?
Another snap, further off. Then silence.
The roar of the waves mixes with the rush of blood in my ears.
I crawl outside and stand upright. The LED cuts a slice out of the darkness, leaving everything outside its beam utterly impenetrable. I switch it off. After a moment I begin to make out the swaying boughs of the trees against the slightly lighter sky. I see a couple of stars between the frenzied churning clouds. A dim glow can be seen behind the trees; the moon has risen but is hidden behind the clouds.
I see a lighter patch on the ground. The plastic bag with the dishes. The pot hadn’t been dragged very far; it must have been too heavy. I flick the headlamp back on. Yes, the other cup and both plates are lying on the ground, one of them upside down. I pick up the dishes and put them back in the plastic bag. At least our multipurpose spoon-cum-forks are still at the bottom of the bag.
The beam of light shines in her face as I crawl back into the tent. She turns away, squinting, and raises her hand up to cover her face. I throw the bag of dishes into the corner.
‘Some possum must have taken too many steroids,' I tell her.
And this stillness of life did not in the least resemble a peace. It was the stillness of an implacable force brooding over an inscrutable intention. It looked at you with a
There they are, in a line down below. Like quick, scurrying beetles.
Ante says they never put this sort of thing in the paper. Like they don’t run stories about people that jump off observation towers. You’d just get more people wanting to have ago.
He says he saw the what-the-fuck look on the driver’s face as the glass shattered in front of him. I doubt it. You can’t see people’s expressions at that height or speed. Then there’s all them shards in the way and all.
SOUTH COAST TRACK, TASMANIA
Surprise Bay
Tuesday, March 2007
Jyrki
I wake up to find her prodding me. Her nervous whisper cuts the sticky air like a saw.
It’s impenetrably dark. The rush of the waves forms a thick sonic backdrop to the night.
Then I hear it, too.
A thud. A thump, the sound of something being dragged, then another thump.
Something is moving the dishes in the vestibule of the tent.
We haven’t bothered washing them up, just wiped them with a scrap of tissue paper. They are probably still giving off the strong smell of pumpkin soup. The bag of food is in my rucksack, tied securely behind an array of clips and drawstrings. Nothing should be able to get into that.
I undo the zip on the sleeping-bag. The sounds stop immediately. Someone or something freezes on the spot and listens.
The night air is biting. I reach my hand into the corner pocket inside the tent. The headlamp case is right there. I kneel down and open the case. I fumble with it to make sure it’s the right way round, then place it on my head and switch it on.
The brightness of the LED light feels almost like a slap in the face.
I open up the zips straight away, with both hands, at both sides, the mosquito net, the door.
The pot and the plates are no longer in the vestibule. One of the cups is lying on its side beside our boots and gas cylinder.
Still on my knees, I unzip the vestibule door and shine the beam of light emanating from my forehead out into the thick Tasmanian night. I let out a frightening shout, allowing a mixture of roaring and bellowing to pour out of my throat.
I hear two frenzied rustling sounds, then swooshing, pattering. Footsteps, paws, a tail — or what?
Another snap, further off. Then silence.
The roar of the waves mixes with the rush of blood in my ears.
I crawl outside and stand upright. The LED cuts a slice out of the darkness, leaving everything outside its beam utterly impenetrable. I switch it off. After a moment I begin to make out the swaying boughs of the trees against the slightly lighter sky. I see a couple of stars between the frenzied churning clouds. A dim glow can be seen behind the trees; the moon has risen but is hidden behind the clouds.
I see a lighter patch on the ground. The plastic bag with the dishes. The pot hadn’t been dragged very far; it must have been too heavy. I flick the headlamp back on. Yes, the other cup and both plates are lying on the ground, one of them upside down. I pick up the dishes and put them back in the plastic bag. At least our multipurpose spoon-cum-forks are still at the bottom of the bag.
The beam of light shines in her face as I crawl back into the tent. She turns away, squinting, and raises her hand up to cover her face. I throw the bag of dishes into the corner.
‘Some possum must have taken too many steroids,' I tell her.
And this stillness of life did not in the least resemble a peace. It was the stillness of an implacable force brooding over an inscrutable intention. It looked at you with a
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