“I wasn’t expecting to stay overnight, but turns out I need a bed,” he said.
“It won’t be mine, cowboy.”
“No, that’s not what I meant.” He hoped, but it wasn’t what he’d meant. “Can you recommend somewhere? Are there rooms here? Nice harbour town like this must get a lot of tourists, yeah? So I figure there’s plenty of places to stay.”
“Tourists? Nah, not really. Not the sort of place folks pass through and no one comes to The Gulp for fun.”
“They don’t? Why not?”
She smiled a little crookedly. “They just don’t. Some maps don’t even show us being here.”
“Seems a little weird.”
“The Gulp is a weird place. Blackfellas had the right idea.”
“What?”
“They wouldn’t settle here. One of the few places white settlers really did find empty, but for wildlife.”
“Is that right?”
She tipped her head a little to one side. “You walk down the main street to get here?”
“Yeah, I was delivering to Woollies, but the truck… broke down. So I have to stay till morning.”
“So you walked past the museum?”
“Yeah, I saw that. It was closed.”
“You’re so interested in The Gulp, you should go in.”
Rich nodded. “Okay, I’ll do that.”
“Ocean Blue.”
“What?”
“Motel. Up the top end of Tanning Street. We don’t have much call for accommodation, but there are a couple of motels, and a campsite with a caravan park. All of ’em spend most of their time empty. You could take your pick of any, but Ocean Blue is probably best.”
“Right, okay, thanks. Why that one?”
She shrugged. “Just probably best, that’s all.”
“Do you have a number? Should I ring ahead?”
She barked a laugh. “You’ll probably be the only cunt there. Just show up, Donny’ll give you a room. He’s in the office twenty-four seven. He lives there. Just ring the bell by the door.”
“Okay, great. Tanning Street?” He’d heard that before, when the noseless man had told him about the two pubs.
“When you leave here, turn right out the door. Get to the roundabout, big post office on the corner, turn right again, that’s Tanning. Long walk, it’ll take you probably fifteen minutes, but just keep going. You’ll pass the primary school on your left, then Ocean Blue is a bit further along on the same side. If you reach the servo you missed it.”
“Easy as,” Rich said. “So what do you do when you’re not working here.”
“Fuck’s sake,” she said, and for a moment he thought he’d annoyed her, then realised she was looking over his shoulder.
He glanced around as a crash caught everyone’s attention, glasses shattering on the floor as a table went over. Two men, somewhere in their forties with beer bellies and chequered flannies, pushed and shoved at each other. One swung a fist in a haymaker that only skimmed the other man’s head from luck. That one grunted, staggered two steps sideways, then came right back, dukes up like a mockery of Queensbury Rules. The other one had his elbows out to either side, fists clenched in front of his chest, and they circled each other, work boots crunching on the broken glass.
“Barry, Mark, will you two cut it out!” the bar girl yelled. “Or take it outside, at least.”
They ignored her. The one with his dukes up skipped forward and fired two quick right jabs. The first didn’t reach, but the second caught his opponent by surprise. He cried out as scarlet flooded his face from a busted nose. That one swung haymakers again, from both sides. The rest of the pub had all turned to look. People jeered and cheered, elbowing each other and laughing, like they were making bets, all moving back to give the brawlers room.
The bar girl stood with fists on her hips, scowling. “You’re paying for any damage, fuckers!”
The men closed again, each throwing useless punches, then clinched and stumbled around in a clumsy wrestle. They bumped into the table Rich had been sitting at, and the four rock fishers at the next table jumped up, saving their beers, laughing as they sidled around to keep watching.
“Chrissy?” the big barman asked.
The bar girl shook her head, watching, scowling. Rich assumed she was the manager, given the big man’s deference to her opinion.
The fighting men broke apart and the one with a crushed nose swung another huge haymaker. It missed by half a metre and he spun around a full three-sixty from the momentum. He was only saved from going down by his shoulder crashing into a column holding the roof beams up. A roar of laughter exploded. The other man tried to take advantage, skipping in again and raining rabbit blows all over the bleeding man’s head and shoulders.
“Here she comes!” someone near Rich said, and he turned to see one of the old ladies from the group at the back striding across the pub like a woman half her apparent age. She held a wine bottle like a club, knuckles white around its neck.
Just as Rich started thinking, Surely she isn’t– she did.
The old woman brought the wine bottle around in a wide, flat arc and it rang as it clocked off the side of the man’s head. He’d had his back to her and it came out of nowhere. Amazingly the bottle didn’t break. He staggered sideways, almost falling, but somehow keeping to his feet. The man with the bleeding nose looked up to see where his opponent had gone just as that man turned to face his new attacker.
“Maisie, fuck’s sake!” he said, and the woman stepped up to him and brought the wine bottle down in a massive overhand strike, right between his eyes. This time it did break and the big man dropped to his knees, wailing as blood flooded his face.
“Fucking hell!” Rich said aloud.
Cheers and applause exploded, the man with the bleeding nose joining in.
“Greg, get a mop,” Chrissy said, and the big barman nodded once and moved away.
The one on his knees had both hands to his face, blood streaming out around his palms.
“You started this,” Maisie said to the other combatant. “Put him in your ute and take him to Doc Blaney.”
“Aw, Mum!” the man said.
The woman raised the jagged neck of the wine bottle, all that was left of her weapon. “You want this in your balls?”
Mum? Rich thought, stunned.
“Fucken hell.” Barry or Mark, whichever he was, lifted his recently felled foe with an arm around the back and walked him out of the pub. The hurt man didn’t take his hands from his face the whole time.
He could be lacerated under there, Rich thought to himself. So much blood all down his front, all over the floor. Rich realised he was still holding his second beer, barely touched. He upended it, downing it in one.
Greg appeared with a mop and bucket, started picking up tables and chairs. A couple of people helped by collecting the larger pieces of broken glass. All the other patrons had returned to their drinking and talking like nothing had happened.
“Same again?” Chrissy asked him.
Rich managed a weak laugh. “Nah, thanks. I reckon I’m good.” He checked his phone. Still not a skerrick of signal, and the time showed not even eight o’clock yet. He wanted to keep drinking, now more than ever, but he didn’t feel like staying in Clooney’s, despite the beautiful woman behind the bar. “You do off-sales?” he asked.
“Bottle shop around the back, drive through.” Chrissy pointed.
“Okay, thanks.”
“See you again, hey?”
He smiled at her, felt his lips tremble slightly as he did so. Violence wasn’t something he coped with too well. “Sure. See you again.”
He left the pub, thankful for the fresh air, tangy with salt and seaweed. He walked around the Shellhaven Street side of the pub and found the drive-through bottle shop. He bought a six-pack of One Fifty Lashes pale ale stubbies and a big bag of salt and vinegar chips, then walked back around the pub heading for the post office and Tanning Street. He was looking forward to the long walk to the Ocean Blue motel.