longer socialises in town; no longer socialises full stop. He does not want to tell Hegardy this, though doubtless Hegardy has an inkling.
‘We’ll see,’ Bat says.
Tain is inspecting Bat’s arm on her side.
‘This one’s boss,’ she says, dabbing a yellow finger upon Bat’s kraken tattoo, etched in the hollow of his forearm. It depicts a green squidlike monstrosity emerging from a bowl of blue water circumscribed by a fringe of froth, an old-time ship with masts and sails encoiled within the creature’s tentacles, about to be torn apart.
‘Boss,’ Bat says.
‘Yeah,’ Tain says. She traces a circle in the crook of his arm, and Bat feels a pinch as she nips with her fingers at his flesh.
‘Ow.’
‘You got good veins, Bat,’ she says, then holds out her own arms for display. ‘Big hardy cables of motherfuckers. You can’t barely even see mine.’
Bat hesitates, leans in for a look. The down on Tain’s arms glints in the morning light. Her skin is smooth and pale. Tain’s right—her veins are barely there, detectable only as buried, granular traces of blue in the solid white of her flesh. There’s a whiff of spearmint coming up out of her sleeve. Bat tries to ignore it.
‘Why’s that?’ Bat says.
‘Tain must have a condition,’ Heg caws.
Tain ignores the sally.
‘Look. Your veins are blue or green, whatever. But why’s that, when your blood is red?’ she says.
Bat thinks about this. ‘That must be because of the lining or something. The veins’ linings are blue and the blood runs red inside.’
‘Blood ain’t red,’ Tain says. ‘It turns red when it hits air, oxygenates. You know what colour it actually is?’
Bat shrugs. ‘I’d be guessing, Tain,’ he says.
‘Bat’s blood runs one shade,’ Heg intones in a gravelly, film-trailer voice.
Bat looks from Tain to Heg and back.
‘Black as night,’ Tain growls in her version of the film-trailer voice.
Heg takes a final drag of the joint, drops it and sweeps it with his foot into a sewer grille, eliminating whatever tiny chance there might have been that Dungan would happen upon the incriminating butt and work out what it is they get up to out here—though that haggard bitch, as Tain refers to him, is nobody’s idea of a deductive savant. Bat nods appreciatively. Heg is a thorough lad, cautious. Maybe he is not up to anything with Tain.
‘Let’s get back,’ Heg says to Tain.
‘Fucksake,’ she mutters and pops herself off the skip. She heads in and Heg follows, turning at the last to catch Bat’s eye.
‘No, but come. It won’t be the same otherwise.’
Dinner is boiled spuds, beans and frozen fish. Bat bolts his supper from a sideboard in the kitchen under the solemn surveillance of two bullet-headed eight-year-old boys. The boys are seated side by side by the opened back door, the old dear looming above them, wielding an electric razor and comb; the old dear cuts hair on the side, a home operation job, her clientele comprised mainly of the youngest offspring of her extended family.
Tonight’s customers have the wide-spaced eyes and aggrieved, jutting mouths hereditary to the Minions. The Minions are cousins from the passed father’s side, a clan notorious locally for its compulsive run-ins with the law and general ingenuity for petty civil dissension. Bad seeds, though Bat suspects the old dear is perversely proud of the association.
The old dear is shearing the boys simultaneously, in stages, not one after the other; she does the left side of one lad’s head, then the other lad’s left, then right/right, top/top and finally back/back. Kitchen towels are draped across the boys’ shoulders and a tawny moat of chopped hair encircles their chairlegs. The back door is open so the old dear can smoke as she works, the draught escorting the smoke of her rollie out into the evening, away from the boys’ lungs.
Above Bat’s head a wall-mounted TV plays the Aussie soap Home and Away , but the boys’ eyes do
‘We’ll see,’ Bat says.
Tain is inspecting Bat’s arm on her side.
‘This one’s boss,’ she says, dabbing a yellow finger upon Bat’s kraken tattoo, etched in the hollow of his forearm. It depicts a green squidlike monstrosity emerging from a bowl of blue water circumscribed by a fringe of froth, an old-time ship with masts and sails encoiled within the creature’s tentacles, about to be torn apart.
‘Boss,’ Bat says.
‘Yeah,’ Tain says. She traces a circle in the crook of his arm, and Bat feels a pinch as she nips with her fingers at his flesh.
‘Ow.’
‘You got good veins, Bat,’ she says, then holds out her own arms for display. ‘Big hardy cables of motherfuckers. You can’t barely even see mine.’
Bat hesitates, leans in for a look. The down on Tain’s arms glints in the morning light. Her skin is smooth and pale. Tain’s right—her veins are barely there, detectable only as buried, granular traces of blue in the solid white of her flesh. There’s a whiff of spearmint coming up out of her sleeve. Bat tries to ignore it.
‘Why’s that?’ Bat says.
‘Tain must have a condition,’ Heg caws.
Tain ignores the sally.
‘Look. Your veins are blue or green, whatever. But why’s that, when your blood is red?’ she says.
Bat thinks about this. ‘That must be because of the lining or something. The veins’ linings are blue and the blood runs red inside.’
‘Blood ain’t red,’ Tain says. ‘It turns red when it hits air, oxygenates. You know what colour it actually is?’
Bat shrugs. ‘I’d be guessing, Tain,’ he says.
‘Bat’s blood runs one shade,’ Heg intones in a gravelly, film-trailer voice.
Bat looks from Tain to Heg and back.
‘Black as night,’ Tain growls in her version of the film-trailer voice.
Heg takes a final drag of the joint, drops it and sweeps it with his foot into a sewer grille, eliminating whatever tiny chance there might have been that Dungan would happen upon the incriminating butt and work out what it is they get up to out here—though that haggard bitch, as Tain refers to him, is nobody’s idea of a deductive savant. Bat nods appreciatively. Heg is a thorough lad, cautious. Maybe he is not up to anything with Tain.
‘Let’s get back,’ Heg says to Tain.
‘Fucksake,’ she mutters and pops herself off the skip. She heads in and Heg follows, turning at the last to catch Bat’s eye.
‘No, but come. It won’t be the same otherwise.’
Dinner is boiled spuds, beans and frozen fish. Bat bolts his supper from a sideboard in the kitchen under the solemn surveillance of two bullet-headed eight-year-old boys. The boys are seated side by side by the opened back door, the old dear looming above them, wielding an electric razor and comb; the old dear cuts hair on the side, a home operation job, her clientele comprised mainly of the youngest offspring of her extended family.
Tonight’s customers have the wide-spaced eyes and aggrieved, jutting mouths hereditary to the Minions. The Minions are cousins from the passed father’s side, a clan notorious locally for its compulsive run-ins with the law and general ingenuity for petty civil dissension. Bad seeds, though Bat suspects the old dear is perversely proud of the association.
The old dear is shearing the boys simultaneously, in stages, not one after the other; she does the left side of one lad’s head, then the other lad’s left, then right/right, top/top and finally back/back. Kitchen towels are draped across the boys’ shoulders and a tawny moat of chopped hair encircles their chairlegs. The back door is open so the old dear can smoke as she works, the draught escorting the smoke of her rollie out into the evening, away from the boys’ lungs.
Above Bat’s head a wall-mounted TV plays the Aussie soap Home and Away , but the boys’ eyes do
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